Research in Social Movements 23

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POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, AND DEMOCRATIZATION
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RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE

Series Editors: Patrick G. Coy and Isidor Wallimann
Most recently published volumes: Volumes 1921: Edited by Michael Dobkowski and Isidor Wallimann Volume 22: Edited by Patrick G. Coy
Introduction
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RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE VOLUME 23
POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, AND DEMOCRATIZATION

EDITED BY
PATRICK G. COY
Center for Applied Conict Management, Kent State University, Ohio, USA
2001
JAI An Imprint of Elsevier Science

Amsterdam London New York Oxford Paris Shannon Tokyo
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ELSEVIER SCIENCE Ltd The Boulevard, Langford Lane Kidlington, Oxford OX5 1GB, UK 2001 Elsevier Science Ltd. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright by Elsevier Science, and the following terms and conditions apply to its use: Photocopying Single photocopies of single chapters may be made for personal use as allowed by national copyright laws. Permission of the Publisher and payment of a fee is required for all other photocopying, including multiple or systematic copying, copying for advertising or promotional purposes, resale, and all forms of document delivery. Special rates are available for educational institutions that wish to make photocopies for non-prot educational classroom use. Permissions may be sought directly from Elsevier Science Global Rights Department, PO Box 800, Oxford OX5 1DX, UK; phone: (+44) 1865 843830, fax: (+44) 1865 853333, e-mail: permissions@elsevier.co.uk. You may also contact Global Rights directly through Elseviers home page (http://www.elsevier.nl), by selecting Obtaining Permissions. In the USA, users may clear permissions and make payments through the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, USA; phone: (+1) (978) 7508400, fax: (+1) (978) 7504744, and in the UK through the Copyright Licensing Agency Rapid Clearance Service (CLARCS), 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP, UK; phone: (+44) 207 631 5555; fax: (+44) 207 631 5500. Other countries may have a local reprographic rights agency for payments. Derivative Works Tables of contents may be reproduced for internal circulation, but permission of Elsevier Science is required for external resale or distribution of such material. Permission of the Publisher is required for all other derivative works, including compilations and translations. Electronic Storage or Usage Permission of the Publisher is required to store or use electronically any material contained in this work, including any chapter or part of a chapter. Except as outlined above, no part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the Publisher. Address permissions requests to: Elsevier Science Global Rights Department, at the mail, fax and e-mail addresses noted above. Notice No responsibility is assumed by the Publisher for any injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or operation of any methods, products, instructions or ideas contained in the material herein. Because of rapid advances in the medical sciences, in particular, independent verication of diagnoses and drug dosages should be made. First edition 2001 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Political opportunities, social movements and democratization/edited by Patrick G. Coy. p. cm. (Research in social movements, conicts and change. Supplement; v. 23) ISBN 0-7623-0786-2 1. Social movements. 2. Democratization. I. Coy, Patrick G. II. Series. HN15.5.P629 2001 303.48'4dc21 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record from the British Library has been applied for. ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2 ISSN: 0163-786x (Series) The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). Printed in The Netherlands. 2001041347
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CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION Patrick G. Coy PART I: POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURES, IDENTITY, AND SOCIAL MOVEMENTS CULTURE AND POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY: RASTAFARIAN LINKS TO THE JAMAICAN POOR A. E. Gordon Buffonge COMPROMISE IN SOUTH AFRICA: CLASS RELATIONS, POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, AND THE CONTEXTUALIZED RIPE MOMENT FOR RESOLUTION Kristin Marsh EXPANDING POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES AND CHANGING COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES IN THE COMPLEMENTARY AND ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE MOVEMENT Melinda Goldner RIVAL TRANSNATIONAL NETWORKS AND INDIGENOUS RIGHTS: THE SAN BLAS KUNA IN PANAMA AND THE YANOMAMI IN BRAZIL Gregory M. Maney THE ORIGINS OF THE PROTEST MOVEMENT AGAINST NUCLEAR POWER Stephen Adair
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INACTION, INDIVIDUAL ACTION AND COLLECTIVE ACTION AS RESPONSES TO HOUSING DISSATISFACTION: A COMPARATIVE STUDY OF BUDAPEST AND MOSCOW Chris Pickvance PROTESTER/TARGET INTERACTIONS: A MICROSOCIOLOGICAL APPROACH TO STUDYING MOVEMENT OUTCOMES Rachel L. Einwohner PART II: DEMOCRATIZATION AND DISORDERS AS POLITICAL CHANGE MECHANISMS WELSH NATIONALISM AND THE CHALLENGE OF INCLUSIVE POLITICS Paul Chaney and Ralph Fevre A DIFFICULT BIRTH: DISSENT, OPPOSITION, AND MURDER IN THE RISE OF MEXICOS PARTIDO DE LA N DEMOCRA TICA REVOLUCIO Sara Schatz CAMPUS RACIAL DISORDERS AND COMMUNITY TIES, 19671969 Daniel J. Myers and Alexander J. Buoye ABOUTH THE EDITOR/AUTHORS
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INTRODUCTION: POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, AND DEMOCRATIZATION

Patrick G. Coy
For well over a decade now many research projects on social movements have been organized around a trinity of issues: political opportunities, mobilizing structures and various kinds of framing processes. Some of the more interesting research projects have focused not on simply one or the other of these aspects, but on all three and on their relationships to each other. Not surprisingly, research focused on all three has also tended to contribute the most to the development of social movement theory. However, disentangling how these three factors interact with each other and thereby inuence not only the emergence, but also the growth and eventual decline of social movements has been far from easy. This is the task that A. E. Buffonge ably takes on in his analysis of the Rastafari movements ideological challenge to the Jamaican government. Buffonges research demonstrates the critical role that Rastafari cultural framing processes had in developing a credible challenging movement and maintaining it over time. He also shows, through a detailed analysis of Rastafarian reggae music, how mobilizing structures helped build the movement for change. Research on political opportunity structures has often focused simply on the effects that changing political opportunity structures have on movements. Although it has been much too infrequently studied, we also know that there is, in fact, another side to this cause and effect coin: social movements themselves contribute to changing political opportunity structures. The two-way interaction in this case between the Rastafari movement and the political structures of Jamaica receives careful analytical attention in Buffonges paper, including through his treatment of the interrelationship between culture and structure.
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Kristen Marshs paper on political compromise in South Africa continues our focus in section one of this volume on social movements and political opportunity structures. But Marsh also effectively bridges the multiple foci of this series by expanding her theoretical treatment of the struggle against apartheid to include an analysis of it as an example of compromised revolution. In South Africa, the compromise was partly the result of shifting class relations, nancial and political instability, effective non-violent action, and a military and political hurting stalemate. Marsh usefully combines stalemate theory from conict resolution literature with the political opportunities research in social movement theory to understand the broader lessons embedded in the South African situation. She also identies three necessary factors that converge to shape state recognition of a hurting stalemate and of negotiations as a preferable and viable alternative to continued conict. Social movements are often engaged in conict with power-holders and other status quo representatives. As such, movements develop collective identities as part of their origin activities, as part of their complex self-denition processes as challenging groups, and even through their waging of conict to bring about social change. In her paper on the complementary and alternative medicine movement, Melinda Goldner moves both social movement theory and identity theory forward with a detailed, careful analysis of the intersections between expanding political opportunities and changing collective identities. Based on social observation and interviews with complementary and alternative medicine activists in the San Francisco Bay area of California, Goldners interesting case study addresses the important question of what happens to a movements collective identity when the political climate shifts and becomes more favorable to the challenging movement and its goals. In his comparative analysis of the San Blas Kuna of Panama and the Yanomami of Brazil, Gregory Maney rejects the social movements interpretive framework in favor of a more specic issue networks perspective. Like Goldners work on the alternative medicine movement, Maneys research also examines the multiple roles that collective identity constructions play in social movements and issue networks. He argues that collective identity concerns combine with ideology and strategic considerations to inuence the selection of collective action frames. His research shows that the status of indigenous rights in the two cases studied is the product of contention between rival networks of organizations. This ambitious paper successfully argues that the degree of pressure generated by each network depended upon variables that are now familiar to social movement theorists: resources and organizational capacities, inter-organizational dynamics, political opportunities, collective identities and collective action
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frames, and the forms of contention chosen. While familiar in one sense, what is distinctive about Maneys work is his consideration of all these factors and his creative use of them in a comparative way across transnational networks. In so doing, he makes a number of important contributions to theory-building. Careful readers of this volume will quickly discern that all is not quiet on the fronts of political process theory and political opportunities theory. This is as it should be, and is nowhere more apparent than in Stephen Adairs study of the origins of the anti-nuclear power movement in the United States. Relying on diverse and rich data sources, Adair argues convincingly that political opportunity theory is inadequate to explain the emergence in the 1970s of the movement against nuclear power in the United States. Although that in itself is a useful theoretical contribution, Adair goes on to advance a counter argument that features a critical theory of power, and a concept that he terms political condensation. When paired together, this allows him to account for the fact that some of the strongest mobilizations against the nuclear power industry did not occur where the industry was the weakest (as political opportunity theory would suggest). Using Seabrook and the Clamshell Alliance as a paradigmatic case, Adair argues that signicant citizen mobilizations occurred at those nuclear power sites where the alliance between the state and the nuclear industry was the strongest, the most visible, and where both entities committed substantial political and economic resources to save the nuclear plant. This joint mobilization and power condensation by the state and industry created a simultaneous collective perception of injustice among potential activists, leading to movement emergence and sustained activism. Scholarship on social movements is, by denition, concerned primarily with collective action. But when confronted with injustices, and before the choice to engage in collective action is made, individual citizens consider multiple options. As Christopher Pickvance demonstrates in his article comparing responses to housing dissatisfaction in Budapest and Moscow, the arena of choice includes inaction, individual action and collective action. Pickvance advances a model in which the choice between these three modes depends upon the political opportunity structure, the ease of resource mobilization, the degree of structured inequality, the nature of the issue domain, and the results of the individual calculus regarding collective action. His model attempts to theorize inaction, individual action and collective action together rather than separately, as is more often done. Over the last few years many social movement scholars have increasingly turned their attention to the thorny problems associated with conducting research that attempts to measure the outcomes of social movement activity. Even while acknowledging how difcult it is to measure movement outcomes with
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accuracy, it still seems fair to argue that this turn in the research road is overdue, that social movement scholars have long taken too much for granted in ascribing discrete, or even general, effects to social movement actions. Given the relative newness of this development, it is not overly surprising that one broad pattern in the movement outcomes research focuses on the theoretical and methodological difculties associated with studying outcomes in meaningful ways, as opposed to carrying out detailed case studies that attempt to measure actual outcomes. The paper by Rachel L. Einwohner is part of this tradition. She argues for a micro-sociological approach to outcomes research, one focused on face-to-face interactions between movement activists and their targets. Illustrating her theoretical claims with examples drawn from her own research of animal rights demonstrations and from earlier published studies of protester/target interactions, Einwohner suggests that such an approach contributes positively to being able to make causal claims about the immediate outcomes of protest activity. A shorter, but no less important section on democratization closes this volume, and takes up another historic focus of this research series in the process: social and political change. Paul Chaney and Ralph Fevre contribute an empirically rich paper on democratization developments in Wales in the late 1990s. They focus on the challenges that the inclusive politics approach of the period created for the nationalist, and exclusivist political party, Plaid Cymru, the Party of Wales. Based on 280 interviews conducted in 1999 and 2000, Fevre and Chaney document and explain Plaid Cymrus civic nationalism and their dramatic electoral breakthrough into the political mainstream as the party gradually moved from espousing an exclusive nationalist ideology to a more inclusive one. This fascinating paper is not only important for its useful explanations of the growing nationalist social movement in Wales, but for the insights and lessons it contains for scholars and policy makers attempting to understand other nationalist movements in Quebec, Basque Country, Scotland, and elsewhere. The authors test Plaid Cymrus claims to inclusiveness against the partys record of engagement with traditionally marginalized sectors of the Welsh polity. The paper on democratization in Wales provides a stark contrast with, while also complementing an equally strong case study of the use of political violence in Mexico during the 1990s as the dominant PRI party faced effective electoral challenges from the left. Sara Schatz demonstrates that political violence, particularly in the form of what she calls political homicide has increased substantially over the past decade, and has played a key role in the difcult relations between the formerly dominant political party and the left wing PRD. Considering but eventually rejecting other hypothesis for explaining the reasons
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behind the use of political homicide, Schatzs careful analysis concludes that this tactic was adopted as a control mechanism with a dual purpose: to protect existing political and economic structural arrangements, and to marginalize and minimize any threats to the same. Given the broad institutionalization of political violence by states and para-state organizations in Sri Lanka, Colombia, the Great Lakes region of Africa, and elsewhere, Schatzs empirical study and structural analysis of its use in Mexico takes on added theoretical signicance. We close this section and the volume itself with a paper by Daniel J. Myers and Alexander J. Buoye on the 1960s campus racial disorders in the United States and their social and economic ties to the local community in which they occurred. The authors set out to correct a glaring problem with previous research into the racial disorders that rocked the United States during this period, namely, the elimination of campus-based disorders from the data sets used to understand the racial riots and disturbances of the period. The campus events were often set aside on the assumption that urban collective violence was related to local economic and social conditions while the campus-based disorders were not. Buoye and Myers demonstrate the falsity of that assumption; in fact, the research they present here shows a strong connection between campus racial disorders and their local economic and political conditions. This is the second volume under my editorship, and like the previous one, the contents of this volume reect the multiple themes around which this series has been historically oriented. The papers included here contribute to theorybuilding in a number of theoretical literatures which, while they are in fact interrelated, are too often developed in isolation. The case studies in this volume contribute to theories of conict resolution, collective identity, social movements, issue networks, democratization, collective action, and especially to the robust literature on political process and opportunities. This kind of cross-fertilization was the vision of Louis Kriesberg when he founded this series over twenty years ago; I am pleased that we are able to maintain that vision, thereby advancing multi-disciplinary scholarship across multiple literatures. I extend my gratitude to Jennifer Barress, my research assistant, whose able and gracious work on this volume contributed to its completion.
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Culture and Political Opportunity
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PART I: POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURES, IDENTITY, AND SOCIAL MOVEMENTS
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CULTURE AND POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY: RASTAFARIAN LINKS TO THE JAMAICAN POOR

A. E. Gordon Buffonge
ABSTRACT
This paper asserts that the Rastafarian movements ideological challenge to the Jamaican democracy became meaningful to the Afro-Jamaican poor and political elites for three reasons. First, given their origins among the Afro-Jamaican poor, the Rastafarians were able to construct resonant challenging frames out of a shared history and experience. The Rastafari were able to construct frames that were built upon the experiences and narratives of their target group. These frames tapped pre-existing pan-African visions such as Marcus Garveys, the grinding poverty faced by many urban and rural Jamaicans, and beneted from the presence of actual African retentions such as the Revival religion. These emphases made the frames empirically credible and therefore particularly resonant to the Jamaican poor. Second, changing political opportunities, including changes in the political structure and the elevated prestige of the Rastafarian movement led some political elites to use Rastafarian frames to mobilize support among the poor, and helped shift Rastafarian frames from the periphery to the political mainstage. Third, certain mobilizing structures, including the popularity of Rastafarian reggae, augmented the dissemination of Rastafarian precepts. The paper highlights the
Political Opportunities, Social Movements, and Democratization, Volume 23, pages 335. 2001 by Elsevier Science Ltd. ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2
A. E. GORDON BUFFONGE
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interrelationship between culture and structure in a movements emergence and success. Structure constrains movement possibilities, but the framing capablilities of movement actors help create maneuverability for the movement.
INTRODUCTION
This paper focuses on how the Rastafarian movement, which emerged in communities of desperately poor and uneducated Afro-Jamaicans, managed to have important political consequences for the Jamaican capitalist democracy. The Rastafarians based their ideological challenge of Jamaican political elite preferences upon perceived abuses of the Afro-Jamaican poor by the wider society, and became important articulators of the needs of the poor. A cursory glance at the Jamaican economy and politics from the time of the movements emergence in 1930 through the 1960s and 1970s very clearly places the Afro-Jamaican poor at the bottom of both arenas (Bell, 1964; Stephens & Stephens, 1986). This structural location suggests that the Afro-Jamaican poor should have been peripheral to Jamaican politics and unable to inuence national political discourse around issues such as state legitimacy and national identity or have a broader impact upon political culture. Indeed a number of Jamaican political scientists have argued quite convincingly that inasmuch as the Jamaican poor have participated in politics, that participation was mainly in the form of political clientelism (Buchanan, 1992; Edie, 1991; Stone, 1980). Nonetheless, the Rastafarians were able to make the concerns of the poor more central to Jamaican politics of the 1960s and 1970s.1 Other inquiries which are focused on the Rastafari address the movements origins, development, worldview, and some of its consequences. The now classic studies by M. G. Smith, Roy Augier, and Rex Nettleford (1960), Leonard E. Barrett, Sr. (1977, 1988), Joseph Owens (1976) and George Eaton Simpson (1955) all seek to explain these aspects of the Rastafarian movement. More recent scholarship, by Barry Chevannes (1994, 1995a, b, c) has sought to situate the cultural origins of, and explain the Rastafarian worldview. However, these studies did not examine the Rastafari, their ideology, and their encounter and confrontation with the Jamaican state and political representation system.2 Consequently, the question of how the Rastafarian ideological challenge was politically meaningful has only been answered in part. I have argued elsewhere that the Rastafarians launched their ideological and framing challenge against political elites who argued for the legitimacy of the state and for a particular denition of the Jamaican national identity (Buffonge, 1998). Jamaican political elites based their notions of the states legitimacy
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upon full political independence and the Westminster model of parliamentary democracy. They argued that the national identity should be multi-racial and race neutral in its projections, exemplied by the national motto, Out of many, one. The Rastafari built their challenge to these positions in part around the states origins in colonialism and slavery and upon the persistent devaluation of most African products within Jamaican society. Certainly the Rastafarians had their successes. They accomplished what Sydney Tarrow (1994, 182) calls changes in signication, as some politicians began referring to the poor as sufferers and increasing numbers of Jamaicans called their capitalist democracy the Babylon system. In fact, the Rasta frame of Babylon system became a master frame through which a number of subsequent actors and the Black Power movement examined the Jamaican condition. The purpose of the current paper is not to argue that Rastafarian frames and ideology were effective in completely generating the kinds of change sought by the Rastafari in political life, but to demonstrate how the overall challenge was meaningful to Jamaican citizens. With that in mind, I will examine how the Rastafarians managed to negotiate the Jamaican cultural and structural landscape. How did the Rastafarians move from peripheral afterthoughts to an ideologically important force? How and why were the Rastafarian frames resonant?
THE RASTAFARIANS
The Rastafarians have been the longest-lasting and most consistent challengers to the Jamaican state. Their political/ideological challenge, with its religious and cultural roots, was rst marshaled against the British colonial incarnation of the state and then adapted after full independence to an attack on the parliamentary democratic state. Throughout its duration, the Rastafarian challenge exhibited shifting degrees of effectiveness, due in part to variations in both the cultural and structural environments in which it unfolded. Quite naturally, the Rastafarian challenge was least effective at the beginning of the movement because this was the moment when its adherents were most peripheral and its claims seemed most preposterous. The Rastafarian movement began in Jamaica shortly after the coronation of the Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia in November of 1930. The event was featured on the front page of the main Jamaican daily newspaper, The Daily Gleaner, in the November 11th, 1930 issue (Smith et al., 1960). The Emperors ofcial titles, some of which were listed in the Bible as those of the Messiah, were King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, Elect of God and Light of the World (Chevannes, 1994, p. 42). Subsequent
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to the newspapers publication, a number of individuals in Jamaica began to preach that the Emperor was the Living God. Five men are credited with preaching the new religion. They were Leonard Howell, Joseph Hibbert, Archibald Dunkley, Robert Hinds, and Altamont Reid (Chevannes, 1994). Howell is generally considered the rst to preach the doctrine (Smith et al., 1960). These men built up their congregations in the poor black communities of Kingston and in Port Morant of the Parish of St. Thomas. From this beginning the movement has grown in size and reach so that there are Rastafarians as far away as Africa, Europe, Japan, Australia and North America. Rastafarians and other individuals sporting dreadlocks abound in Jamaica and throughout the world today. Membership in the movement is for the most part informal and hinges on the adoption of certain core beliefs and practices. The movement is therefore comprised of a variety of formal, semi-formal, and informal organizations, as well as unafliated individuals. Since the 1950s three sects are noteworthy within the overall movement in that, although they do not constitute the majority of the Rastafari, they offer the only examples of centralized and hierarchical organizations among the Rastafari. These are the Bobo led by Prince Emmanuel Edwards;3 Claudius Henry and the African Reform Church; and the Twelve Tribes of Israel led by Vernon Carrington also known as the Prophet Gad (Chevannes, 1995b). In addition, the majority of the Rastafari are members of an overarching quasi-organization called the House of Nyabinghi. Membership and participation in terms of time and money is left to the individual Rasta to decide (Chevannes, 1995b). The actual population numbers of the Rastafarian movement are difcult to pin down. The House of Nyabinghi was not so formal as to have these numbers available; it did not during the period of study (19301981) seek to record its numbers. One researcher however puts the movement and its sympathizers at around 300,000 in 1977 out of a population of around 2 million (Barrett, Sr. 1988, 2). An optimistic and inuential Rasta leader in the same period felt that 60% of Jamaicans were Rastas or Rasta sympathizers.4 More important to our study than the actual population numbers of the movement is where they were inuential. Carl Stone in a 1971 poll of the Kingston-St. Andrew Corporate Area found less than 10% support for the Rastafari among the business and professional classes, but as much as 30% of the lower class (marginals)5 supported the movement (Stephens & Stephens, 1986, 37). The inuence of the movement is not restricted to its number of adherents, for as argued by Stone (1973, 156), [w]hile the proportion of the marginal population which practices Rastafari in its orthodox form . . . is certainly smaller, acceptance of the general interpretation of history and social reality offered by
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the Rastafarians . . . is even greater. The decision of both the Peoples National Party (PNP) and the Jamaica Labor Party (JLP) to employ Rastafarian representations and language in their political campaigns particularly in the 1970s underlines how widespread and inuential the Rastafarian framings had become (Waters, 1985). The reach of the movement is greatest among Jamaicas poor. Given the movements ideology, this is not surprising. The majority of blacks in Jamaica are poor, and the majority of the Jamaican poor are black (Bell, 1964, 10). Additionally, although Jamaica experienced rapid economic growth in the 1950s and 1960s, most of the growth was in the capital-intensive sectors and only served to exacerbate the unequal distribution of income (Stephens & Stephens, 1986, 25). Thus the movement existed in communities whose relative wealth was declining. The structural location of the descendants of slaves at the bottom of the economic, social, and political ladders makes sense given the history of slavery. The movement sought to counter that sense of inadequacy by offering an ennobling explanation of the poverty of Afro-Jamaicans. They emphasize the history of enslavement, and placed the modern Afro-Jamaicans, the descendants of slaves, within the biblical context of the chosen people oppressed by their enemies.
THE ROLE OF POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY AND CULTURAL CONTEXT IN THE RASTAFARIAN IDEOLOGICAL CHALLENGE
To examine how the Rastafari managed to mount a meaningful ideological challenge to the Jamaican democracy, we must uncover what made the challenge possible and the ideology compelling. We must address not only how the movement emerged, but also how its political signicance increased. Additionally, we must investigate why Rastafarian frames resonated with Jamaican citizens. Students of social movements argue that it is political opportunities, coupled with sufcient mobilizing structures, and successful framing processes, which make movement emergence possible (McAdam, McCarthy & Zald, 1996, 36). As noted above, the Rastafarian movement began rather peripherally in 1930. However, by examining the role each of the preceding factors has played in the movements emergence and development, we will discover how the Rastafarians challenged the Jamaican democracy. A couple of points are worth mentioning. First, given the rather unusual length of time between the emergence of this social movement in 1930 and its period of highest inuence in the 1960s and 1970s, the kinds of political opportunities and mobilizing
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structures which became available to the Rastafari varied. Second, the success of the Rastafari framing processes, as with all successful framings, depended upon a mastery of their cultural environment. Political Opportunities In investigating the political opportunities which facilitated the Rastafarian movements emergence, this project utilizes Sidney Tarrows recent formulation of the term. Tarrow refers to political opportunities, or rather to the political opportunity structure as consistent but not necessarily formal, permanent, or national signals to social or political actors which either encourage or discourage them to use their internal resources to form social movements (Tarrow, 1996, 54). Four broad dimensions of political opportunity structures have recently been delineated in the literature and each helps explain why the Rastafarians emerged when they did. They are: (1) The relative openness or closure of the institutionalized political system; (2) The stability of that broad set of elite alignments that typically undergird a polity; (3) The presence of elite allies; (4) The states capacity and propensity for repression (McAdam et al., 1996, 10). The author uses these dimensions of political opportunity structure primarily to examine social movement formation. Examining these dimensions in the Jamaican context however will not only reveal conditions that allowed the Rastafarian movement to form, but also the conditions which allowed the Rastafarian ideological challenge to grow. At the time of the Rastafarian movements emergence in the early 1930s, Jamaica was still under Crown Colony rule by the British. Therefore the political system was closed and did not offer the Afro-Jamaican poor an avenue for representation. The worker rebellions in 1938 ultimately led to limited self-government and universal suffrage for Jamaica in 1944 and then to full independence in 1962. Therefore as a result of this transition from Crown Colony government to internal self-rule, elective political representation was open to the Afro-Jamaican poor. However, the underlying poverty that was a part of these communities remained in place throughout this period, with the income disparity between rich and poor increasing across the years (Stephens & Stephens, 1986, 25). Because of this increasing income discrepancy, and despite the change in the voting status of citizens, Afro-Jamaicans might still argue that the difcult economic circumstances that led to the 1930s rebellions remained in place.
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The Rastafarian movement emerged in these difcult economic circumstances, survived, and eventually began to ourish. Initially, the Colonial state did repress the movement by arresting a number of its leaders. Many of the movements early leaders including Leonard Howell, Robert Hinds, Archibald Dunkley, and Joseph Hibbert were arrested and convicted of sedition in the 1930s (Barrett, Sr., 1988, 86). However, the repression brought against the movement by the state was insufcient to eradicate it. The movement, perhaps because it possessed the fervor/devotion of religion, continued to survive on the periphery. Upon his release from prison, in an effort to avoid harassment from police, Leonard Howell established a Rastafarian commune in the rural hills near Sligoville called Pinnacle. Pinnacle was raided by the police; the Rastafarians were arrested in 1941 and again in 1954 (Barrett, Sr., 1988, 8688). In the 1954 arrests the Rastafarians were acquitted as nuisances, but the Pinnacle commune was destroyed by the police; these Rastafarians then settled in the slums of Kingston.6 The eradication of the Pinnacle settlement forced the Rastas into close proximity with the urban poor. Since the central Rastafarian method of ideological dissemination and religious conversion involves face to face sessions with others, the government unwittingly increased the Rastafarian likelihood of success. The Afro-Jamaican poor were, after all, the group most susceptible to Rasta philosophy. Although by 1944 the political process was open to the Afro-Jamaican poor, the political system remained completely closed to the Rastafari until the University Report of 1960. Up through the 1950s, Jamaican society had its own denite opinions about Rastas, considering them to be psychopaths, criminals, and undesirables (Chevannes, 1977, 242). Ironically, a series of actions in the 1950s involving some Rastafarians in part conrmed some of societys opinions of the brethren, but at the same time created an opportunity for society to get a more accurate reading of the movement as a whole. In 1958 Prince Emmanuel Edwards called a Rastafarian convention, at the end of which there was to be repatriation to Africa. A year later, Claudius Henry made a similar claim. Both bids at repatriation failed, but they did constitute the beginning of both Claudius Henrys and Prince Emmanuels respective organizations. On the heels of this failure with repatriation, the Jamaican security forces uncovered weapons at Henrys headquarters in Kingston, and Henrys son was captured with a small band of guerrillas in the Red Hills above Kingston. The capture of the young Henry and the other guerrillas in training took several days; it cost the lives of two British soldiers of the West India Regiment and Royal Hampshires (Lacey, 1977, 83). This action startled Jamaican society; Jamaican citizens had not taken up arms against the state since Paul Bogles uprising in 1865. With the popular mood increasingly concerned with the
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dangers presented by the Rastafarians, a number of elder brethren approached the University Chancellor and asked him to commission a study on the movement in order to correct the misperceptions about the Rastafari. The Rastafarian movement had no signicant elite allies until 1960. The University report changed this. The Rastafari were interested in giving the public an accurate view of the movement, with a special interest in the publics awareness of the movements non-violence. Three university scholars conducted the study, which looked into the doctrines and social conditions of the movement. The Report on the Rastafari Movement in Kingston, Jamaica was submitted to, and accepted by, Premier Norman Manley. The Report urged the police to leave the innocent Ras Tafari brethren alone, stop cutting off their hair, stop moving them on, stop arresting them on minor pretexts, and stop beating them up. (Smith et al., 1960, 36) The Report also made a series of recommendations designed to address the living conditions and goals of the Rastafarian movement. The Report legitimated the Rastafarians as members of Jamaican society. Despite opposition from other elites, Premier Manley took a number of these recommendations seriously. Premier Manleys acceptance of the University Report and implementation of some of its recommendations improved the movements image in Jamaica. By carrying out the Reports recommendation of a mission to Africa, which included some Rastafari in the mission, Manley had given the movement some national credibility. The visit of Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie in 1966, and his wild reception among the Afro-Jamaican poor also served to highlight and justify the movements African focus. The Rastafari and the Afro-Jamaican poor overran the airport and welcoming ceremony with cries of This is our day! This is our God! It is him we come to see! It is we who welcome him (Barrett, Sr. 1988, 159)! Other cries included, The day has come. God is with us. Let me touch the hem of his garment (Owens, 1976, 250252). The reception for the Emperor at Kings House included Rastafarians, wealthy Jamaicans, and poor Jamaicans as well (Owens, 1976). While this social mix did not play at future functions throughout the island, a barrier had been breached. The Rastafarians were being included in Jamaican society in a way they had not been before. The visit increased the movements social prestige and at the same time served to underline the Rastafarian movement as the premier indigenous Afro-centrists. What had begun as a fringe group of imagined lunatics and criminals now began to gain a greater measure of support in the wider society. The international reputation of the Rastafarians was helped, or rather to a large extent cultivated, by the success of a number of Rastafarian reggae musicians. Men like Bob Marley and Peter Tosh were able to take the
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Rastafarian worldview to the world community. Their music was well received and respected in international circles. This reception in turn, served to elevate perceptions of the music and the Rastas at home, many Jamaicans long having looked to the West for political and cultural guidance. The Rodney Riot of October 1968 was also important in outlining new opportunities and allies for the Rastafari. Walter Rodney, a Lecturer in History at the University of West Indies, and also the instigator of the Black Power Movement in Jamaica (Chevannes, 1977, 249), was not allowed to re-enter the country after a conference in Canada. The JLP government of Prime Minister Hugh Shearer considered Rodney a sufcient threat, accusing him of being a communist who had visited three communist countries in 1962 alone and of being actively engaged in organizing groups of semi-illiterates and unemployed for avowed revolutionary purposes (Keith & Keith, 1992, 192). The Prime Minister clearly overstated the Rodney threat. However, Rodney did lecture on African History and Black Power among the students at the University of the West Indies campus, among the urban poor, among the middle class clubs, and among the Rastafari. He argued that intellectuals and these other groups of individuals should be allied in the struggle for Black Power. The Rodney exclusion from Jamaica resulted in a student march into the capital, which escalated into a riot of some elements of the urban poor in Kingston (Girvan, 1967, 5961). Rodneys argument about how to develop Black Power and deal with the racial problems in Jamaica was built in part upon Rastafarian analyses. However, his philosophy also constituted an opportunity for the movement to expand its inuence. Rodney posed the question, How do we break out of this Babylonian Captivity? (Girvan, 1967, 62). He suggested that the black academic must attach himself to the activity of the black masses (Girvan, 1967, 63). Rodney himself demonstrated this approach in his discussions with the Rastafari brethren in impoverished sections of Kingston. Rodney states that I have sat on a little oil drum, rusty and in the midst of garbage, and some Black Brothers7 and I have grounded8 together (Girvan, 1967, 64). Despite his exclusion from Jamaica, Rodneys desire and example that the Rastafarians be included in a movement with the intelligentsia came to fruition with the Abeng9 group. Building on Rodneys suggestion of creating links with the poor as a way to advance the cause of Black Power, the weekly Abeng was rst published in February of 1969. It promoted themes of black nationalism and linked Rastafari doctrine and reggae music with issues of racial and class conict (Waters, 1985, p. 96). Abeng ended publication in October of 1969 when the printery was destroyed in a suspicious re (Waters, 1985, 97). It had a total national circulation of 20,000 (Waters, 1985, 9798).
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The impact of the Abeng group on other groups in Jamaican society is revealed by its members joining a variety of organizations. Some members formed Marxist-Leninist groups, such as the Workers Liberation League, the Communist Party of Jamaica, and the Independent Trade Unions Advisory Council (Gray, 1991, 188). Another group of members formed the PNP Youth Organization and the Youth Forces for National Liberation. Rastafarians in the Abeng group joined the Rastafarian group Twelve Tribes. D. K. Duncan and Arnold Bertram, prominent members of the Abeng group joined the Peoples National Party (PNP) (Gray, 1991, 218). Thus the Rasta-inuenced politics of the Abeng group spilled over into a number of political organizations, including the PNP. The Rastafarian movement also became important in the PNP campaign for ofce against the JLP government. The PNP and Jamaica Labor Party (JLP) attempts during electoral contests to cash in on the Rastafarian links to the Afro-Jamaican poor presented an opportunity for movement growth. As early as the 1967 election two JLP candidates, one of them the future Prime Minister Edward Seaga, were employing Rastafarian symbols as part of their political campaigns (Waters, 1985, 83). By the 1972 election, Rastafarian symbolism and reggae music were in heavy use by the opposition PNP. Opposition leader Michael Manley had visited the Emperor Haile Selassie and returned with a walking stick which he called the Rod of Correction10 and at the same time, had assumed the biblical appellation, Joshua. Prime Minister Hugh Shearer of the JLP would on occasion speak in the adjusted terms of the Rastafari (Waters, 1985, 123). Both parties used the language and symbols of the Rastafarian movement and reggae music as part of their campaigns from the 1972 elections through to 1980 (Waters, 1985, 291296). The PNP, which had by this time cast itself as the party of the poor, was the more vigorous in its use of Rastafarian tools. The use of Rastafarian symbols and language by political elites in the 1970s served to legitimate some aspects of the Rastafarian ideology in mainstream Jamaican society. Because of the movements solid identication with the Jamaican poor, the PNP, particularly in its 1972 electoral challenge, successfully employed Rastafarian frames to win a larger section of the popular vote.11 However, to achieve this, the PNP had to project Rastafarian language throughout a national campaign. The party therefore became, in part, a transmitter of some aspect of the Rastafarian message. The movement began in obscurity without allies. However, over the decades, allies became available. While the Rastafari were not uniformly supported by elites, particular elites began to see either the merits of the Rastafarian positions or the usefulness of the Rasta presence. Partly because of these new
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perceptions of the Rastafarians, the state reduced its repressive actions against the Rastafari. Thus, a variety of political opportunities allowed for the emergence and survival of the Rastafarian movement. Additionally, political opportunities provided the ideological space for the Rastafarian challenge. What began in the 1930s as a minor poor peoples movement also found a number of international aids for a rise in its prestige (Haile Selassies visit, and Bob Marleys international success) and local actors within the political mainstream who added credibility to some of the Rastafarian positions. Together, these factors served to elevate the Rastafarian ideological challenge. Mobilizing Structures The Rastafarian movement and its mobilizing structures were never particularly suited to a classical political challenge. This was in part due to the movements religious origins, and their perception of the political structure as derived from Babylonian evil. The perceived origins of the Jamaican state left most Rastafarians unwilling to participate in its activities in any formal sense. There was never any canvassing of homes for votes on candidates or issues or any action of that nature. Despite the non-traditional and religious nature of the challenge, the Rastas still managed to impact the political system. Ironically the Rastafarian challenge was political because of the nature of their religion. Their notion of a black God and chosen people was the starting point of a race-based critique and challenge to the socio-political orthodoxy. Their mobilizing structures were therefore built upon the exposition of this worldview. These collective vehicles, informal as well as formal, through which [the Rastafarians] mobilize[d] and engage[d] in collective action (McAdam et al., 1996, 3) included face to face proselytization in communities of the urban and rural poor, the performance of reggae music and public drummings, and the wearing of dreadlocks and other African-derived forms of style. While information from the 1930s through the 1950s was transmitted primarily in face to face reasoning sessions, and in conversations with neighbors and acquaintances throughout communities of the poor, Rastafarian musicians have more recently been able to transmit their message through many kinds of media. Consequently, the Rastafarian message which in earlier times was not only hampered by the seeming ridiculousness of their claims in the pre-1960s cultural climate, but also by the limited availability of their worldview to a wide audience, gained greater acceptance after 1960. Subsequent to the University report, the Rastafari were able to piggyback their message on the work of some
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academics. Additionally, the work of the Black Power movement, the Abeng group, and the political parties, served to help disseminate the Rastafarian truths. Thus an improvement in the availability of more varied and farreaching mobilizing structures also contributed to the success of the movements challenge. Culture, Framing, and the Rastafarian Movement The mobilizational capacity and resonance of the Rastafarian ideological challenge is to a great extent dependent on the meanings Rastafarian frames have for Jamaican citizens, particularly the Afro-Jamaican poor. To understand the movement it must be placed in its particular cultural context, for it is the cultural environment which determines each frames meanings. Frames constitute a manipulation of the broader elements of culture by a social movement in order to project to the wider populace a particular ideology or worldview. Whether these frames will be effective depends upon how adept social movement actors are at frame construction. Frames Building on the work of Erving Goffman (1974), David Snow and his colleagues developed the use of the term frame for social movement scholars who sought to analyze movement ideologies. Elaborating on their earlier work with their collaborators (Snow, Rochford, Jr., Worden & Benford, 1986, 464), Snow and Benford (1992, 133155) outline three characteristic features of collective action frames. The rst listed is punctuation where the frame underscore[s] or embellish[es] the seriousness and injustice of a social condition or redene[s] as unjust and immoral what was previously seen as unfortunate but perhaps tolerable. The second characteristic feature is attribution. It is either diagnostic in that the frame identies a problem, or prognostic in that it provides a solution to a problem. The nal feature listed is articulation through which the frame can align seemingly unrelated events and experiences so that they hang together in a relatively unied and meaningful fashion. Snow and Benford also offer methods for examining the resonance of master frames. Their approach is similarly useful for examining the resonance of non-master frames as well. The following questions, if answered in the afrmative, point to the resonance of a particular frame. Is the frame, or rather the frames diagnosis, empirically credible to the targets of its mobilization efforts? (Snow & Benford, 1992, 140). Are the problems framed commensurable with the experiences of those targeted for mobilization? (Snow & Benford, 1992, 141). And nally does the frame possess an ideational centrality or a narrative
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delity with the extant beliefs, myths, folktales, and the like that exist in the targeted groups lives? (Snow & Benford, 1992, 141). While the Rastafari engage in a variety of framings about life in Jamaica, there are a few central frames which remain at the heart of their ideology. There are two frames in particular, both emerging out of Old Testament roots, which emerge as potential master frames12 and are useful for our discussion. First is the Rastafari observation that modern Jamaica and the West, with its history of slavery, colonialism, the impoverishment of people of African origin, is Babylon or the Babylon system. Second is their argument that people of African origin are the true Israelites, the actual chosen people of God, and are victims of an overall Western project which obfuscates and devalues Africans and their true history. Both the Babylon system and the chosenness frames are interrelated and emerge out of the Rastafarian reading of the Bible (King James Version). Having read the Emperor Haile Selassie I, a black African, as the Messiah of the Revelation of St. John the Divine (and as such God), the Rastafarians deduce that if God is black then the chosen people must be black. In the Rastafarian reading, Africans replace modern Jews and Israelis as the true descendants of the Israelites of the Old Testament. These children of Ras Tafari become the progeny of David and Solomon. If, as the Rastafarians argue, people of African origin are the chosen, then they have been imprisoned during their past by the Egyptians and Babylonians. Consequently, through the process of articulation this biblical history of exploitation is married to the history of modern AfroJamaicans in order to construct the Babylon system frame. From this kernel of interpretation springs a whole network of meanings. The modern exile of Africans in the New World parallels the Old Testament enslavement of the Israelites in Babylon and Egypt. The colonial state, the Jamaican democratic state, England, the United States, the West in general are all incarnations of Babylon. Roman Catholicism is damned many times over having been related to the Roman dispersal of the Jews from the Promised Land in 73 A.D., the crucixion of Christ, and to the denial of the African heritage of the chosen people. The Babylon system frame becomes the lens through which the Rastafari examine their experiences. They view the modern world as a series of interlocking practices which oppress people of African origin and deny the truth of their origins. In the Rastafarian view, the religious, educational, and political systems as they exist in the contemporary period are implicated in the enslavement and oppression of black people. Christian religions for example, either ignore the blackness of God, or project an image of God as white. The educational and political systems reinforce and perpetuate the disadvantages borne by Afro-Jamaicans.
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Thus the Babylon system frame punctuates the persistent poverty of AfroJamaicans and demonstrates that of all Jamaicans, it is the people of African origin who are disproportionately impoverished. Bearing in mind that the Rastafari emerged in a climate where domestic and international political elites argued that hard work and equal opportunity would garner benets for the poor, there was an ongoing perception that the failure of individuals to succeed was related to their own limited intellects and low levels of motivation. The process of punctuation therefore, highlighted both the material and ideological disadvantages borne by Afro-Jamaicans. Working within their Babylon system frame, the Rastafari were able to employ its attributional elements to offer an opposing explanation which blamed the failures of the impoverished on a history of exploitation that was broad-based and ongoing. In the Rastafarian view, the suffering of AfroJamaicans in the economic arena could not be divorced from a wider network of oppressive practices which included religion, politics, and education. In addition, the contemporary difculties of Jamaicans of African origin could not be disconnected from the suffering of any African/Israelite people in any epoch. Additionally, the Rastafarian diagnosis of the problems facing the Afro-Jamaicans included the process of articulation. The Babylon system frame clearly revealed myriad difculties in contemporary Jamaican society. The Rastafarians chose to address the problem of living in Jamaica in a number of ways. The Rastafari expected adherents, much in the style of the Old Testament prophets, to vocalize their displeasure with the Jamaican society and expose its shortcomings for all to see and hear. Certainly the work of reggae musicians such as Bob Marley and Peter Tosh was one way in which the message was disseminated. In fact Bob Marley in his song Babylon System calls upon Afro-Jamaicans to rebel.13 The development and use of the chosenness frame was one way the Rastafarians attacked the Babylon systems devaluation of Africans. The suffering of the AfroJamaican poor was already punctuated by the Babylon system frame, but through articulation the chosenness frame linked that suffering with the burdens borne by the ancient Israelites and New World slaves. In fact, building upon that linkage, the Rastafarians used the attributional elements of the frame to diagnose contemporary oppression as the expected hardship of the chosen, with eventual deliverance from that oppression possible and even inevitable, provided the chosen followed the precepts of Jah, Ras Tafari. In the Rastafarian view, Jah had delivered them before as a people and as individuals. While Moses leading the children of Israel out of Egypt remains the preeminent example, the lesser examples of Daniel surviving the lions den and Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego unharmed by re are similarly instructive of Jahs relationship with his people.
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The evaluation of the resonance of Rastafarian framing in part involves the subsequent discussion of the Rastafarian relationship to their cultural environment. However, in a more immediate sense, the Babylon system frame certainly possessed both empirical credibility and experiential commensurability. The targets of the frame did indeed live in great poverty and comparative disadvantage in Jamaica. The Rastafarian description of the Babylon system and its Eurocentric components was quite simply an explanation of life in Jamaica as it existed for the Afro-Jamaican poor. Both the Babylon system and chosenness frames resonate with Jamaicans because of the role that Christianity and the Bible play in Jamaican society. There are however a greater number of cultural elements which impact frame construction and frame resonance. Culture and Frames Explaining how the Rastafarian framing challenge was meaningful must involve the examination of the tools employed by Jamaicans in making sense of those frames. This necessarily entails an investigation of the broader Jamaican cultural practices upon which the Rastafarians may have intentionally and unintentionally built their frames. In examining the wider culture, the Rastafarian prociency or good fortune as manipulators and interpreters of the culture of the Jamaican poor will be evaluated. For the purposes of this investigation, I am interested in two levels of cultural analysis. First, I wish to examine the ways in which the larger cultural context within Jamaica constrained or facilitated the effectiveness of Rastafarian frames and attempts at mobilization. The larger culture produces the conditions and circumstances in which the meanings of particular frames take hold. Thus, by examining aspects of Jamaicas cultural past, we can uncover the cultural climate in which certain meanings develop and resonate. Through this approach, I seek to uncover what culture means to the individuals who live it, and to reveal what practices are acceptable or possible within a given cultural environment. Second, I am interested in how the Rastafarian movement employs the larger culture to create their own meanings. Culture is the tool kit from which the Rastafarian movement and other social actors may construct strategies of action (Swidler, 1986, 276) and their own movement subculture. It is from this tool kit that the Rastafarian movement must construct the frames and ideology to mobilize opposition to the Jamaican democratic state. In constructing frames, movements adapt, change, reconstruct, and reinterpret the cultural artifacts to their purposes. To investigate culture on this level, the project examines the development of the frames of the Rastafarian movement, and how
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they are constructed in opposition to the Jamaican state and political representation system. It also examines how these frames mobilize citizens by tapping culturally seductive issues, employing culturally enticing objects, and promoting culturally resonant actions. Culture as the Larger Context I turn now to examine some of the ways that the larger culture facilitated or constrained the effectiveness of Rastafarian frames. There are certain key features of the larger cultural context that this project considers. I examine the African religious tradition of the Jamaican peasantry, the role of Marcus Garvey among the Jamaican poor, the King James Bible, the memory of slavery, and the role of popular music in Jamaica and the anglophone Caribbean. Among the factors of greatest importance to the explanation of the larger cultural context are the traditions and practices of Jamaican slave/peasant religions which preceded the Rastafarian movements emergence and some of which continue to exist today. Barry Chevannes argues convincingly that the Rastafarian movement is in part a new departure from, but also a continuity with, what he terms the Revival14 worldview (Chevannes, 1995b, 3839). This worldview, and the Revival religion itself, grew out of the merging of African-derived and Christianity-derived religious practices15 and religions among Jamaican slaves, and subsequently, the Jamaican peasantry. While certain features of the Revival religion remain tangential to the project at hand, an explicitly political discussion of the process which led to the development of Revival and Rastafarianism is important for our reading of the Rastafarian movement. Revival, with its African retentions and its leaders who made political claims against the Colonial state, primed the Jamaican peasantry and urban poor for the Rastafarian message. Revival grew out of Myal and adapted Christianity. Myal was a Pan-African religion which developed in Jamaica some time before 1760. Monica Schuler (1979) claims that it was instrumental in the planning and execution of the 1760 slave rebellion, also known as the Taki rebellion, which was the rst to include multiple tribal groups.16 On the other hand, the inuence of Christianity on the Jamaican slave population was negligible until the arrival in the late 18th century of Baptist preachers who were American slaves, and had been brought to Jamaica by Loyalists eeing the American Revolution (Chevannes, 1995a, 7). By incorporating Christianity into the Myal framework, the Africans created the Native Baptist Movement. Chevannes delineates three reasons for the success of the Native Baptist movement. First, it allowed for the relative autonomy and charismatic authority of the catechists or class leaders on the fringe of the orthodox Protestantism
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(Chevannes, 1995a, 8). Sam Sharpe, one of these types of religious gures, led the Great Rebellion of 18311832 which is considered by some to be the impetus in 1834 for the abolition of slavery in the British Caribbean. Second, it allowed for the emergence of dual membership. Some Jamaicans were able to maintain membership in the orthodox Baptist church and an independently functioning post-Myal group (Chevannes, 1995a). The third reason was the Great Revival of 1860, which had begun in Ireland and ultimately spread to Jamaica. The Revival greatly increased all Christian congregations, but with the rising numbers, came African religious practices such as convulsions and other elements of spirit possession. These elements were denounced as the work of the devil, and these practices found a home outside of the formal churches giving rise to Zion Revival in 1860 and Pukumina in 1861, two variants of modern day Revival (Chevannes, 1995a). Modern day Revival enjoyed its heyday from its inception up until 1920. Its decline coincided with the arrest and institutionalization of one of its leaders Alexander Bedward17 in 1921. Bedward, a successful and popular Revival prophet, had been arrested in 1895 for preaching that blacks should overthrow their white Oppressors, referring to Afro-Jamaicans as the black wall who must rise up and destroy the white wall that surrounded them (Chevannes, 1994, 39), and who prophesied the end of the world in 1920. Thus we see in Bedward a Revival leader who offers a call to action that is similar to the challenge brought by the Rastafari in more recent times. The preceding discussion of Revival is important in a number of ways. First, we see an unwillingness of the Jamaican peasantry to completely divorce itself from African practices. Like the Rastafari, they have been willing to incorporate elements from Christianity into their religious practices, but it is Christianity or partly Christianity on their terms. A second important feature of our discussion is that religion in these communities seemed to provide an important starting point for rebellion. In Takis rebellion of 1760, which lasted from April to September of that year (Patterson, 1967), according to Schuler, Myal provided an opportunity for separate tribal groups to unite in a common cause. The Sam Sharpe Rebellion which lasted two weeks from 18311832, was led by the Baptist catechist, and planned within the framework of the Native Baptist Movement. Paul Bogle, leader of the 1865 Morant Bay peasant rebellion, was himself a Baptist preacher. Thus, while religion may be the opiate of the masses for Marx, it has a long tradition of providing a structure for resistance and rebellion in Jamaica.18 A third element, which may be taken from the review of Revival, is the tradition of leaders speaking in prophetic and racial terms. The example that has been raised so far is that of Alexander Bedward, but Marcus Garvey was
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to have an even more direct effect on the emergence of the Rastafarian movement. Garvey is reported to have prepared the way for the subsequent interpretations of the Emperor Haile Selassie as the Messiah by saying to his followers that they should Look to Africa, when a black king shall be crowned, for the day of deliverance is near (Smith et al., 1960, 5). Still the popularity of Bedward portends the arrival and resonance of the Rastafari, with the biblically-based pronouncements of the divinity of Haile Selassie, the righteousness of black people, and the need to ght White domination. A nal feature of consequence concerns the traditions of the Jamaican peasantry and their migration to Kingston. The presence of Revival among communities of the Afro-Jamaican poor suggests that the Jamaican peasantry was accustomed to an ongoing religious and ideological conversation which was outside of middle and upper class discussions. The examples of religious leaders such as Sam Sharpe and Paul Bogle who led rebellions against the socio-political order suggests that this peasant religious and ideological discourse had a logic and life of its own, which ran parallel to a counterpart elite discourse which was much more European derived. These conversations and traditions came to the urban areas, particularly Kingston, with the migration of the most destitute elements of the peasantry to the cities. The size of Kingston doubled from 1921 to 1943, and grew by 86 per cent from 1943 to 1960.19 Early adherents of the Rastafarian movement came from this segment of the Jamaican population. In fact, a Rastafarian sect founded in 1949 called Youth Black Faith broke from early Rastafarian leaders like Joseph Hibbert because they employed Revival practices such as attempts to burn candles20 for individuals (Chevannes, 1995c, 7981). It is important to note that the Rastafarians as a whole have come to reject practices such as Revival and Pukumina in much the same way that they reject broader elements of Christianity. It is ironic that a movement so rooted in its affection for Africa, dismisses actual African retentions. This is in part possible because the Rastafarian movement is not African. It is instead a Jamaican construction and product with an African focus. Despite the Rastafarian disapproval of these religious practices, their underlying commitment to Africa in general does in the end elevate all things and practices that are African. The Afro-Jamaican experience with Revival and Pukumina, indeed the larger commitment to religions that are at least in part African, not only paves the way for the Rastafarian movement, but also for the resonance of the movements frames. Rastafarian frames in reaching toward both Christianity and Africa are able to build their narrative delity upon beliefs, myths and folktales developed by the forbears of modern day Jamaicans. Additionally, the example of Youth Black Faith does suggests that the emphasis of Rastafarian
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frames upon an African focal point was commensurate with the pre-existing experiences and practices of a number of Jamaicans. I have shown some of the ways in which the general Jamaican peasantry and the urban poor had been prepared for the Rastafarian message through the presence of Revivalism in Jamaican society. They were certainly accustomed to an African focus and particular African-derived practices. However, outside of the existence and memory of slavery itself, no single force more properly paved the path of the Rastafari than Marcus Mosiah Garvey. Garvey, who had been born in Jamaica in 1887, founded the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA) and the African Communities League (ACL) in 1914. Having traveled through Europe and been inspired by the nationalisms that eventually led to World War One, Garvey formed these organizations in Jamaica. He had not attracted much notice until the end of the war when he had already migrated to the United States. At the vanguard of the New Negro Movement in the Interwar Period, Garvey pursued the racial emancipation of blacks and the political redemption of Africa.21 Garvey promoted racial pride by presenting the historical accomplishments of Africans, promoting entrepreneurship, and building an impressive organization for the dissemination and implementation of his programs. Garvey was imprisoned for fraud in the United States in 1925, and later was granted clemency by President Calvin Coolidge and deported to Jamaica in 1927 (Hill, 1992, xixxx). On his return to Jamaica, however, Garvey continued his activities. He held a UNIA convention in Jamaica for the rst time in March of 1929. Chevannes argues that Garvey planted four broad themes in Jamaican society (Chevannes, 1995, 9598). The rst was Africa for Africans at home and abroad. Within this claim, Garvey argued for the return of self-rule to Africa and the end of the European colonial presence there. The racial dignity and worth of Africans everywhere was tied to the notion that they had a land to call their own. Garveys second theme was racial unity and his third was self-reliance, but not so much personal self-reliance as racial group self-reliance. Educated blacks, for example, should educate other blacks. The fourth and nal theme concerns individual deportment before whites. In this instance, he tried to encourage blacks not to lower their heads and eyes in the presence of whites and mulattos, his argument being that it was appropriate to respect these individuals but that respect should be reciprocal. The Rastafarian worldview mirrors these maxims of Garvey. A nal point from Chevannes is useful here. In this community of Jamaicans, historical knowledge is transmitted more often orally than in written form. In such a society, Chevannes argues that myth plays a signicant role in the development of a national consciousness (Chevannes, 1995b, 99) and the national
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memory. He discovers that a number of myths (Chevannes, 1995b, 100110) have developed around the memory of Garvey, these in particular among the Rastafari, but no doubt circulating in the wider communities that the Rastafari inhabit. The rst of these is that Garvey is divine. Another myth is that Garvey is John the Baptist, having foretold that Haile Selassie is the messiah. The Rastafarians claim that Garvey prophesied look to Africa for the crowning of a king to know that your redemption is nigh (Chevannes, 1995a, 10). Two other myths speak of Garveys gifts of prophecy and his ability to administer curses. Garveys role in Jamaican history then, is also crucial to the resonance of Rastafarian framings. The myths of Garvey, as John the Baptist and as divine, are very much bound within the chosenness frame and the Haile Selassie as the Christ returned frame. Marcus Garvey is an essential portion of the ideational elements of Rastafarian frames. Clearly then, both Marcus Garvey and Revival were important in preparing a cultural landscape that made the emergence and development of the Rastafarian movement possible. Both also contributed to an arena in which the Rastafarian afrocentric focus could ourish. The Rastafari themselves acknowledge these broader cultural links. In So Much Things to Say Marley (1977) states:
. . . Ill never forget no way they crucied Jesus Christ Ill never forget no way they sold Marcus Garvey for rice Ill never forget no way they turned their backs on Paul Bogle So dont you forget no youths who you are and where you stand in the struggle.
There are however other factors which make the Rastafarian frames compelling. The Bible has long held a central role in the lives of the Jamaican poor. It is important to the Christians, the Revivalists, and the Garveyites in Jamaica. It is also essential to the Rastafari. It is, after all, from this source22 that they divined that the race of God is black, and that the chosen people are likewise black. In Redemption Song Marley (1979) asks [h]ow long shall they kill our prophets while we stand aside and look and answers that some say its just a part of it, weve got to fulll the book. The Bible inspires such Marley titles as Exodus, Chant Down Babylon, The Heathen, and Give Thanks and Praises.23
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The memory of slavery in Jamaica is also important to the wider cultural context of Rastafarian frames. As such, it shows up repeatedly in Rastafarian framings. It is, of course, in part the parallel of their modern enslavement that links Africans in the New World to the plight of the biblical Israelites. Redemption Song offers a harrowing description and memory of capture and the middle passage in its opening lines:
Old Pirates, yes, they rob I Sold I to the merchant ships Minutes after they took I From the bottomless pit . . .
Buffalo Soldier (Marley, 1983) speaks of being stolen from Africa and brought to America. Finally, in examining the larger cultural context it is useful to note the significant role of popular music in Caribbean societies. Since the end of slavery in the Caribbean, and perhaps before, popular music has been a means to comment on social and political life. Thus there is a tradition of listening to popular music for serious political commentary. Whether it is the calypsonians, the Mighty Sparrow of Trinidad, in Ah Diggin Horrors24 singing that cost of living strangling everybody, no food in we house to feed we family or Arrow of Montserrat in Wind of Change asking Which change coming? Is it communism? Which change coming, is it socialism? Its difcult to say but change is on its way! Bob Marley and other Rastafarian performers continued this tradition in such songs as Johnny Was (Marley, 1976) which comments on a senseless act of violence in Kingston with the words Woman hold her head and cry, cause her son has been shot down in the street and died from a stray bullet. Thus Caribbean popular musicians have demonstrated an ability to critique their societies over time. Bob Marley is aware that his music fullls this role. He demonstrates this awareness in his song Chant Down Babylon (Marley, 1983). Marley argues in the song that reggae music [will help he and his listeners to] chant down Babylon. He takes the position that music youre the key . . . Bring the voice of the Rastaman/Communicating to everyone. Reggae music then for Marley is a key tool for bringing the ideological challenge to Babylon. I have covered a number of aspects of the larger culture which were important in shaping the environment in which the Rastafarian challenge emerged. The presence of Revival among communities of the Afro-Jamaican poor shows a continuing link to African-derived practices in their lives. It therefore suggests that the Afro-centric emphasis of the Rastafari would have a particular resonance among these individuals. Additionally, the examples of Sam Sharpe
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and Paul Bogle reveal that there was a tradition of resistance emerging out of lower-class religious groupings in Jamaica. Therefore, in that sense, the idea of a Rastafarian challenge from below was not particularly novel, religion long being a source of criticism of the society. The presence of Marcus Garvey as a precursor to the Rastafari also prepared the way for Rastafarian criticisms of the Jamaican state and society. Garvey, of course, promoted the worth of Africa and the self-worth of people of African origin, trying to instill in Afro-Jamaicans a sense of pride. Garvey also pointed to those who enslaved Africans and colonized Africa as a main source of the difculties Afro-Jamaicans faced in his time. Thus, the ideological landscape among communities of the Afro-Jamaican poor had already been prepared for the types of criticisms the Rastafarian movement was to bring against the Jamaican state. The Rastafarian use of the Bible as the source of their arguments was also helpful for conveying their message. The stories of the Bible were transmitted to Jamaicans in churches and schools through anecdotes and expressions. Therefore, the biblically-rooted language of Rastafarian arguments had a certain familiarity for Afro-Jamaicans. Finally, the fact that music was a familiar way of conveying information and arguments throughout the Caribbean proved helpful to the movements transmission of its ideology. Rastafarian musicians such as Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, and Bunny Wailer were able to disseminate Rastafarian positions in the local dancehalls, over the local airwaves, as well as internationally. Stephens and Stephens observe that [r]eggae . . . did . . . become the dominant form of music on the air (in Jamaica) and Marley became a national cultural hero revered by Jamaicans of all parties and classes (Stephens & Stephens, 1986, 55). Therefore, all of these features of the larger culture served to make the Rastafarian challenge possible and their frames resonant. In fact the wider resonance of Rastafarian frames, and in particular of the Babylon system and chosenness frames, becomes apparent in light of the preceding discussion on the larger culture. By employing these frames the Rastafari tap into a long tradition of religiously rooted opposition and a long history of the oppression of Africans. The chosenness frame articulates the same sense of the special-ness that is apparent in Garveys work. Additionally, much of the narrative of Rastafarian framing was based on their readings of the Bible. This linked Rasta frames to broader ongoing narratives within the communities of the Jamaican poor. Similarly, the Rastafarian use of music as an avenue of frame promotion was consistent with the manner in which music was experienced in wider Caribbean society. Consequently, Rastafarian framings were particularly resonant for the Jamaican poor.
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Culture as a Tool Kit Just as culture plays the role described above, it also serves as a tool kit from which the Rastafari assemble their own meanings. Among the tools that the Rastafari employ are the King James Bible, local metaphors, manipulations of the English language, the wearing of dreadlocks, and lessons from everyday life. As we will see from the analysis of Bob Marleys songs, many of these tools are used together. This Rastafarian approach to frame construction which employs indigenous narratives and experiences serves to cement the resonance of their frames. Much of the framing is in fact empirically rooted in the lives of the Afro-Jamaican poor. Our discussion of the Bible thus far certainly denotes it as a likely tool of the Rastafari. Bits and pieces of biblical passages and phrasings are employed to convey the weight of a particular point. This is apparent in Marleys (1977) Guiltiness:
Guiltiness, rest on their conscience, oh yeah And they lead a life of false pretense, each and every day. These are the big sh, who always try to eat down the small sh the small sh They would do anything to materialize their every wish But wait! Woe to the downpressor, theyll eat the bread of sorrow Woe to the downpressor, theyll eat the bread of sad tomorrow . . .
Marleys language here feels very much like the admonitions of Old Testament prophets, such as Jeremiah. In his words we see hope given to the oppressed today of an ultimate retribution for the powerful in the future. The preceding lyrics of Guiltiness also point to additional tools manipulated by Marley and the Rastafari. The use of the words these are the big sh, who always try to eat down the small sh builds upon metaphors in play in local conversations. Other metaphors in Small Axe (Marley, 1973) warn the evil men that if you are the big tree, we are the small axe sharpened to cut you down or whosoever diggeth a pit, shall fall in it. Another feature which appears in Guiltiness is the manipulation of the English language to subvert the deceit and confusion of the colonizers tongue.25 The Rastafari use of language also becomes important because they assign a
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divine power to words. One Rastafarian claims that the Word is God, because the greatest weapon is the creation of words (Owens, 1976, 179). Because the word is God the use of words is vitally important to the Rastafari. Thus the word oppressor becomes downpressor in the song. Understanding becomes overstanding in Rastafarian discourse. Perhaps most importantly, the Rastafari do not believe in the divinity of Haile Selassie, they know that Selassie is God. Belief, to the Rastas, implies doubt. Another aspect of the manipulation of language which appears in Marleys lyrics is the particular use of the word I. The Rastafari emphasize the I as a link to their God, Haile Selassie I. It is also a way for the brethren to avoid the use of the servile me (Owens, 1976, 65) and to establish each individual Rastafarian as a separate individual who has discovered through his own study who God is. This special individualism is reected in the term I and I which the Rastafarians use in place of we or as a reference to the movement as a whole. This emphasis on I is also reected in other words. In So Jah Seh, Marley (1974) pleads Inite oneself and love Imanity which means unite yourselves and love humanity. Thus from English and Jamaican creole the Rastafari try to carve a separate language niche for themselves. Marley also employed the lessons of real life to convey the power of his message. The situation and words of Johnny Was is a case in point:
Woman hold her head and cry Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died From a stray bullet. Woman hold her head and cry Explaining to her was a passerby Who saw the woman cry How can she work it out? Now she knows that the wages of sin is death Gift of Jah is life . . . Johnny was a good man . . . never did a thing wrong
The image of a woman holding her kerchiefed head seems archetypal in our observations of suffering around the world. Thus, immediately there is a familiarity with her story. Marley uses this compelling personal story to convey the difculty of life in Kingston in the 1960s and 1970s. Another song, Talkin Blues, underlines once again the hardships of ghetto life to the Jamaican poor. Marley sings that Cold ground was [his] my bed last night and rock was my pillow too/Im saying talking blues, talking blues/They say your feet is just too
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big for your shoes. In Ambush in the Night, Marley comments on the difculties brought on by patron-clientelism in the ghetto. Marley argues that the politicians through political strategy/They keep us hungry, and when you gonna get some food/Your brother got to be your enemy. Johnny Was, Ambush in the Night, and Talkin Blues emphasize the difculties of life in the Kingston ghetto. Marleys ability and willingness to speak about the specic conditions of the lives of the poor places him in an effective position to recommend solutions for their difculties. The Rastafari also demonstrate a willingness to be creative with language to convey their own particular meanings, and demonstrate their own linguistic separation from the language of the oppressor. Naturally, since a form of English is the primary language they speak, they are incapable of a complete linguistic separation. However, the gesture remains important. Given their linguistic limitations (that is, their reliance on the English language), they use this bit of culture or language as a part of their methods of resistance. Their creativity with the tools that life presents them is again reected in their wearing of dreadlocks. It demonstrates a separation of these locksmen from the modes of dress and behavior of other Jamaicans. Their self-presentation becomes a representation of their link with Africa and their ongoing struggle against the Babylon system. The Rastafari initially wore their dreadlocks as a way to distinguish themselves as Rastafarians and present themselves for derision from the wider society (Chevannes, 1995c). The rst Rastafarians were known as Beardsmen because some of the brethren wore beards like the Emperor Haile Selassie. The Youth Black Faith of young Rastafarians began wearing locks as a way of throwing off the compromising attitude of older members of the movement (Chevannes, 1995c, 87). According to Chevannes, matted hair had been worn before traditionally by derelicts. Thus, the members of Youth Black Faith borrowed this aspect of the derelicts appearance to present an image of themselves as shocking, uncompromising, and outside traditional Jamaican society. From this beginning, the Rastafari have managed to imbue themselves and their mission with an heroic component and a sense of noble purpose. In Ride Natty Ride, Marley (1979) sings [d]ready got a job to do and hes got to fulll his mission . . . no matter what they do, Natty keep on coming through . . . Natty Dread rides again. The Rastafarian frames are compelling because they use elements of the immediate cultural environment to construct their arguments against the Babylon system and the methods of action they take against it. They employ passages from the Bible, or local anecdotes and metaphors to convey a particular point. These cultural products are bits of language or styles of presentation with which the Afro-Jamaican poor would already be familiar. In fact the appropriation of
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another Babylon frame and sense of chosenness was already in operation as Psalms 137 had long been adapted and performed in slave communities as the song, By the Rivers of Babylon. The resonance of their frames is also reected in their readiness to link the experiences suffered by the Afro-Jamaican poor in their everyday lives within the overall framework of their critique of the Jamaican democratic state. The tools of the Rastafarian challenge to the Jamaican democracy are crafted from materials familiar to the Afro-Jamaican poor. Social movements exist in the context of a specic society and must be analyzed contextually. It is within the context of the culture of that society that citizens come to assign and understand the interpretation of the world they live in. The Rastafarian movement, particularly in its targeting of the Afro-Jamaican poor to rise up and challenge the Jamaican democratic state, drew upon preexisting cultural symbols and traditions to mobilize this group into action.
CONCLUSION: CULTURE, STRUCTURE, AND THE RASTAFARIAN MOVEMENT

In discussing how the Rastafarians have moved from peripheral actors on the Jamaican political stage to more inuential roles, we have been forced to examine the interrelationship between culture and structure. Whether we are evaluating the political opportunities, mobilizing structures, or framing processes which contributed to the rise of the movement, both cultural and structural components are apparent. At rst glance, one may be tempted to dene the movements success as a feature of the resonance of their frames, but clearly certain structural conditions made it possible for the Rastafarian voices to be heard. The explosion of the Jamaican music industry on the international stage certainly provided a venue for the articulation of the Rasta worldview; however it was the talent of the individual artists, the seductiveness of the music, and the compelling elements of the Rastafarian argument which made reggae such an effective vehicle of proselytization. Moreover, the Jamaican states unwillingness and inability to repress or eradicate the Rastafarians was both structural and cultural. It was structural in that the constitutional forms of the Jamaican democracy did not allow the physical elimination of citizens, neither did the Jamaican state possess the institutional apparatus (e.g. a pre-existing secret police) necessary for the execution of such a task. It was cultural because the Rastafarian challenge, seen through the lens of the prevailing elite worldview (Liberalism and Christianity), seemed far-fetched and unthreatening. Certain cultural features of Jamaican society made the emergence of the Rastafarian movement possible. Among those elements was the emergence of
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a challenge to the prevailing order by non-elites and the beginnings of an articulation of a counterclaim based on religious beliefs and practices. The earliest example of this kind of challenge was Takis rebellion. Additionally, the slave rebellion led by Native Baptist Sam Sharpe, and the peasant rebellion led by Paul Bogle both fall within this category. Alexander Bedward and of course Marcus Garvey led two of the most signicant recent examples of attacks against sitting Jamaican governments. The Rastafarians retained some of the characteristics from these earlier challenges, building their critique upon religion and race. In fact, the duration of the Rastafarian challenge was in large part due to its religious underpinning. While the Rastafari attempt to articulate their positions as a logical form of argumentation, their attachment to its precepts go beyond an intellectual commitment. Their logical deductions may be the beginning of their religious knowledge, but the knowledge is deeply linked to religious faith. The individual Rastafarians affection for the precepts of his faith is beyond the reach of argumentation, making it difcult for the Jamaican state to eradicate either the movement or their beliefs. Thus the Rastafarian critique lay dormant in Jamaican society until that time when the broader culture and political structure became more receptive to it. This religious foundation does suggest that the Rastafarian challenge will endure. The Rastafarians also moved beyond the models that history had given them. While maintaining the unifying qualities of religion, the Rastafarians for example, attempted to shift away from individual leadership of the movement to more individuated responsibilities for the articulation of the overall movement vision. All individual Rastafarians were expected to project their versions of the Rastafarian worldview. The acephalous nature of the Rastafarian movement both hindered and aided the movements success and longevity. On one hand, there was never a tightly articulated and systematic strategy by which the movement outlined and pursued its goals. Therefore the primary ambitions of Rastafarian individuals and sub-groups often varied and progress on particular projects was often fragmented and limited. Consequently, it was not always apparent that the movement was achieving its objectives. On the other hand, each group of Rastafarians maintained their commitment to Rastafarianism beyond the ebb and ow of the movements broader appeal. The absence of a central leadership meant the state was never able to target a set of movement elites in order to eradicate the movement. The broad-based nature of Rastafarian goals allowed for some successes, such as a more Africanist orientation in Jamaican public life, and setbacks such as a no full scale Rastafarian repatriation to Africa, without the collapse of the movements
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challenge. The numerous and varied cells of Rastafari suggest that the movements critique will persist. In structural terms, people of African origin have remained at the bottom of Jamaican society. Certainly, between the time of the movements emergence in the early 1930s and the 1960s and 1970s, the lot of Afro-Jamaicans had improved. However, as a group they remained largely poor and disadvantaged relative to other social groups. Thus the Rastafarian articulation of the burdens of the Afro-Jamaican poor remained accurate and resonated with many Jamaicans. From within the cultural arena, Rastafarian frames punctuated the structural disadvantages faced by the Afro-Jamaican poor. This was possible because Rasta frames emerged out of the experiences and day to day lives of the Jamaican poor. Certainly there were metaphorical components based in biblical history and part of ongoing and pre-existing frames in communities of the poor. However, Rasta frames were largely about people and situations known to this set of Jamaicans. In many instances, the Rastafarian audience knew the whole or real story that gave rise to the frame. This link was at the heart of the resonance of Rasta frames in urban and rural Jamaica. Some political elite articulations of what was transpiring and would transpire in Jamaica differed from the Rastafarian vision. Indigenous democratic political elites argued that the difculties of the poor would be addressed once Jamaica was rid of the Colonial government and pursued some version of liberalism and capitalism. By the mid-1960s, however, some political elites and other social movements began to seek alternative approaches to the problems which confronted Jamaica. They did not have far to look as the Rastafarian critique represented the longest lasting, most far-reaching indigenous ideology available. The resonance of the Rasta ideology among the poor led political elites and other social movements to employ elements of the Rastafarian critique as they sought Jamaican answers and support for ongoing Jamaican social and economic problems. Additionally, due to among other things, the University Report, the visit of the Emperor Haile Selassie and the teachings of Walter Rodney, the public perception of the movement improved dramatically from 1930s to the 1970s. Thus the persistence of structural hardships for the poor along with changes in the movements prestige eventually helped create the elite allies who would aid the Rastafarian challenge. In the study of a movements emergence and success, it is difcult if not impossible to separate the role of the cultural and structural components. In fact, political opportunities for challenge emerge in both the cultural and structural arenas. The success of mobilizing structures depends a great deal on both their cultural resonance and their exploitation of structural realities. Successful
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frames are often based on their ability to highlight structural unfairness in ways that are culturally meaningful. However, if movement actors continue to seek particular outcomes, they will need to master their cultural universe if they are to become attractive to potential allies, build an effective organization, and negotiate the structural labyrinth in which they are embedded.
NOTES
1. I have spoken about the nature and effectiveness of the Rastafarian ideological challenge elsewhere, see Buffonge (1998). 2. I borrow the term from Jenkins and Klandermans (1995, 5, 15). The authors dene the political representation system as the institutionalized set of organizations that claim to represent and aggregate the interests of various social interests. This places political parties, interest associations, and various social institutions claiming to represent broad constituencies at the center of the interface between the state and civil society. 3. The Prince has been called Prince Edward C. Edwards and Edward Emmanuel in different sources. 4. Ras Sam Brown in Barrett (1988, 2). 5. This collection of marginally employed and unemployed account for 3437% of the population. In Stephens and Stephens (1986, 37). 6. There were already Rastafarians living in Kingston, however the inhabitants of Pinnacle certainly represented a new inux of Rastafarians who were used to engaging the state, see Barrett, Sr. (1988, 8688). 7. Black brothers is one of Rodneys terms for the Rastafari, see Girvan (1976, 67). 8. Grounding is a Rastafarian term meaning to discuss. 9. The Abeng group, a collection of Black Power advocates, Marxist-Leninists, and Rastafarians produced a weekly paper, also called Abeng, which addressed the issues of the Afro-Jamaican poor. 10. During the campaign, after burglars broke into Manleys house, there was some concern for the Rods whereabouts. The next day Seaga claimed to have found the Rod, arguing that without it Manley had lost his power. A few days later, Manley held a meeting to produce, before the cheering crowd, the true Rod, see Waters (1985, 111112). 11. Carl Stone nds that the vote of the Rastafari-inuenced youth proved decisive in Michael Manleys victory in the 1972 election, see Chevannes (1995a, 14). 12. . . . [M]aster frames perform the same function in collective action as movement-specic collective action frames, but they do so on a larger scale, in Snow and Benford (1992, 138). 13. The majority of the Rastafari profess non-violence and Marleys call to rebellion must be read with that precept in mind. 14. Revival takes its name from the Great Revival. This was a Christian movement which began in Ireland and spread to Jamaica in 1860, see Chevannes (1995a, 8). 15. Chevannes makes these arguments in Chevannes (1994) and (1995a). 16. Most of the subsequent discussion of the development of Revival is taken from Chevannes (1995a, 6). 31
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17. In 1921 Bedward was arrested and placed in a mental institution where he died. 18. The fact that religion is used in this way, is not exceptional for Africans in the New World. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and the Reverend Jesse Jackson, all provide American examples of the same. The work of Diane Austin-Broos (1997) on Pentecostalism in Jamaica bears out this observation. 19. Chevannes (1994, 16) is citing Clarke (1975). 20. To burn candles for someone means to be willing to employ the services of an obeahman who uses a variety of fetishes to adversely impact the life of that individual. This is part of the Revival tradition, see Chevannes (1995c, 80). 21. The preceding discussion of Garveys life is based on Hill (1992). 22. Song of Solomon 1:56 (King James Version.). I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look not upon me because I am black . . . The Rastafari use passages such as this to determine that King Solomon, and consequently, the children of Israel, were black. 23. Bob Marley, Exodus and The Heathen from the Exodus album in 1977, and Give Thanks and Praises and Chant Down Babylon from the posthumous Confrontation in 1983. 24. In the Caribbean of the late 1970s ah diggin horrors was a way to say I am enduring hard times. 25. For a more in depth discussion of Rastafarian language see the work of Pollard (1985), Alleyne (1988), and Homiak (1995).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to Nancy Bermeo and Kathryn Oleson for their comments and suggestions on the various drafts of the manuscript. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the sixth annual conference of Socialism, Capitalism, and Democracy of the International Political Science Association. I would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers who commented upon the paper. I thank Research in Social Movements, Conicts and Change editor Patrick Coy for his assistance.
REFERENCES
Alleyne, M. (1988). Roots of Jamaican culture. London: Pluto. Austin-Broos, D. J. (1997). Jamaica genesis: Religion and the politics of moral orders. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Barrett, Sr., L. E. (1977, 1988). The Rastafarians. Boston: Beacon Press. The Holy Bible, King James version. Bell, W. (1964). Jamaican leaders: Political attitudes in a new nation. Berkeley: University of California Press. Benford, R. D. (1997). An insiders critique of the social movement framing perspective. Sociological Inquiry, 67, 409430. Buchanan, P. L. (1992). Community development in the ranking economy: A socio-economic study of the Jamaican ghetto. Kingston, Jamaica: College of Arts, Science and Technology.
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Buffonge, A. E. G. (1998). Babylon besieged: the rastafarian challenge to Jamaican democracy. Unpublished doctoral. dissertation. Princeton University. Campbell, H. (1987). Rasta and resistance: From Marcus Garvey to Walter Rodney. Trenton, New Jersey: Africa World Press. Chevannes, B. (1977). The literature of rastafari. Social and Economic Studies, 26(1), 239262. Chevannes, B. (1994). Rastafari: Roots and ideology. Syracuse, New York: Syracuse University Press. Chevannes, B. (1995a). Introducing the native religions of Jamaica. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.), Rastafari and Other African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 119). London: Macmillan Press, Ltd. Chevannes, B. (1995b). New approach to the rastafari. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.), Rastafari and Other African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 2042). London: Macmillan Press, Ltd. Chevannes, B. (1995c). The origin of the dreadlocks. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.), Rastafari and Other African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 7796). London: Macmillan Press, Ltd. Clarke, C. (1975). Kingston, Jamaica: Urban development and social change, 16921962. Berkeley: University of California Press. Edie, C. J. (1991). Democracy by default: Dependency and clientelism in Jamaica. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame analysis. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Girvan, N. (1967). After Rodney the politics of student protest in Jamaica. New World Quarterly, 4, 3, 5968. Gray, O. (1991). Radicalism and social change in Jamaica, 19601972. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Hill, R. A. (1992). Introduction. In: A. Jacques-Garvey (Ed.), Philosophy and Opinions of Marcus Garvey. New York: Atheneum. Homiak, J. (1995). Dub history: Soundings on rastafari livity and language. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.), Rastafari and Other African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 127181). London: Macmillan Press, Ltd. Jenkins, J. C. (1995). Social movements, political representation, and the state: An agenda and comparative framework. In: J. C. Jenkins & B. Klandermans (Eds), The Politics of Social Protest: Comparative Perspectives on States and Social Movements (pp. 1435). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Jenkins, J. C., & Klandermans, B. (Eds) (1995). The Politics of Social Protest: Comparative Perspectives on States and Social Movements. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Jenkins, J. C., & Klandermans, B. (1995). The politics of social protest. In: J. C. Jenkins & B. Klandermans (Eds), The Politics of Social Protest: Comparative Perspectives on States and Social Movements (pp. 313). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Keith, N. W., & Keith, N. Z. (1992). The social origins of democratic socialism in Jamaica. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Klandermans, B. (1988). The formation and mobilization of consensus. In: B. Klandermans, H. Kriesi & S. Tarrow (Eds), From Structure to Action: Comparing Movement Participation across Cultures, 1 (pp. 173196). Greenwich, Conn.: International Social Movement Research, JAI Press. Lacey, T. (1977). Violence and politics in Jamaica, 19601970: Internal security in a developing country. Totowa, NJ.: Frank Cass and Company. McAdam, D., McCarthy, J. D., & Zald, M. N. (1996). Introduction. In: D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy & M. N. Zald (Eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements: Political Opportunities, Mobilizing Structures, and Cultural Framings (pp. 120). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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Owens, J. (1976). Dread: The rastafarians of Jamaica. Kingston: Sangster. Patterson, O. (1967). The sociology of slavery: An analysis of the origins, development and structure of negro slave society in Jamaica. Rutherford, NJ: Farleigh Dickinson University Press. Pollard, V. (1985). Dread talk The speech of the rastafarian in Jamaica. Caribbean Quarterly Monograph, 3241. Schuler, M. (1979). Myalism and the african religious tradition in Jamaica. In: M. Crahan & F. W. Knight (Eds), Africa and the Caribbean: The Legacies of Link. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Simpson, G. E. (1955). Political cultism in West Kingston, Jamaica. Social and Economic Studies, 4(2), 321442. Small, R. (1971). Introduction. In: W. Rodney. (Ed.), The Groundings with my Brothers. London: The Bogle-LOuverture Publications. Smith, M. G., Augier, R., & Nettleford, R. (1960). Report on the rastafari movement in Kingston, Jamaica. Kingston, Jamaica: Institute of Social and Economic Research. Snow, D. A., & Benford, R. D. (1992) Master frames and cycles of protest. In: A. D. Morris & C. M. Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory. New Haven: Yale University Press. Snow, D. A., Rochford, Jr., E. B., Worden, S. K., & Benford, R. D. (1986). Frame alignment processes, micromobilization, and movement participation. American Sociological Review, 51, 464481. Stephens, E. H., & Stephens, J. D. (1986). Democratic socialism in Jamaica: The political movement and social transformation in dependent capitalism. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Stone, C. (1973). Class, race and political behavior in urban Jamaica. Mona, Jamaica: Institute of Social and Economic Research, University of the West Indies. Stone, C. (1980). Democracy and clientelism in Jamaica. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, Inc. Swidler, A. (1986). Culture in action: Symbols and strategies. American Sociological Review, 51, 273286. Tarrow, S. (1994). Power in movement: Social movements, collective action and politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tarrow, S. (1996). States and opportunities: The political structuring of social movements. In: D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy & M. N. Zald (Eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements: Political Opportunities, Mobilizing Structures, and Cultural Framings (pp. 4161). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Waters, A. M. (1985). Race, class, and political symbols: Rastafari and reggae in Jamaican politics. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books. White, T. (1991). Catch a re: The life of Bob Marley. London: Omnibus Press. Zald, M. N. (1996). Culture, ideology, and strategic framing. In: D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy & M. N. Zald (Eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements: Political Opportunities, Mobilizing Structures, and Cultural Framings (pp. 261274) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Musical Recordings of Bob Marley

Marley, Marley, Marley, Marley, B. B. B. B. (1973). (1983). (1977). (1974). Burnin. United Kingdom: Island. Confrontation. United Kingdom: Island. Exodus. United Kingdom: Island. Natty Dread. United Kingdom: Island.
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Marley, B. (1976). Rastaman Vibration. United Kingdom: Island. Marley, B. (1992). Songs of Freedom. Jamaica: Tuff Gong. Marley, B. (1979). Survival. United Kingdom: Island.
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COMPROMISE IN SOUTH AFRICA: CLASS RELATIONS, POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, AND THE CONTEXTUALIZED RIPE MOMENT FOR RESOLUTION
Kristin Marsh
ABSTRACT
South Africas struggle against apartheid illustrates a theory of compromised revolution. Compromise is associated with three levels of analysis: the immediate level of bargaining conditions; the structural level of political opportunities; and the societal level of class relations. By the late 1980s in South Africa, all parties were increasingly aware of an emergent military stalemate, and both sides saw negotiation as the only way out of indenite war. Beyond this proximate level of analysis, shifting class interests and political instability during heightened nancial crisis shaped cost assessments and political realignments within the National Party government. Movement and government efcacy uctuated in response to one another during the 1980s, effecting a shift in the balance of power that increasingly favored the opposition and opened the possibility of negotiations. Attention to the interplay between class relations and political alignments in shaping the ripe moment for resolution highlights
Political Opportunities, Social Movements, and Democratization, Volume 23, pages 3768. 2001 by Elsevier Science Ltd. ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2
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the usefulness of a multi-dimensional explanation of negotiation, thereby contributing to a more comprehensive understanding of the structures and dynamics of conict and compromise.
INTRODUCTION
To study the development of capitalism is thus the best way to study race inequality, for to do so places socio-economic relationships at the heart of the problem, and shows how underdevelopment and racial inequalities developed together . . . The seemingly autonomous existence of racism today does not lessen the fact that it was initiated by the needs of capitalist development or that these needs remain the dominant factor in racist societies. Mugabane, 1990, p. 3.
South Africas transition to majority rule is both one of the most familiar contemporary examples of the black struggle against white domination and one of the most paradoxical cases of compromise. The South African government faced mounting internal and external pressure, including various forms of sanctions, against its racist apartheid policies. Well before the conict escalated sharply in the 1980s, the South African black majority was strengthened by a growing transnational struggle against racism. The South African struggle, like other internal struggles during the late twentieth century, was simultaneously about socio-economic relations and political democratization. Costly to both the government and insurgents, the protracted struggle culminated in military stalemate. The government sought to alleviate pressure through partial political and economic liberalization, but the crisis escalated sharply in the 1980s, a period of both reform and unprecedented repression. Although the issues appeared intractable and both sides were initially unwilling to negotiate with one another, the conict did end in compromise, thereby averting full-scale revolution. Further, the settlement clearly represented a process of compromise on both sides. Nelson Mandela and the African National Congress (ANC) held fast to their demand for majority rule, but this was reconciled with National Party (NP) concern that the white minority not be subjected to complete domination by the newly enfranchised black majority. The two sides structured a stable power sharing arrangement into the peace agreement and the constitution. Although an important and fascinating story in itself, can the South African experience help us explain negotiation toward a compromised settlement to civil war? The historical evidence from one successful case of compromised revolution is useful for social scientists and policy makers alike in building a better understanding of the circumstances shaping compromise as a viable choice for the leadership of all parties. The South African conict can help us
Compromise in South Africa
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identify the convergence of factors that allows committed adversaries, embroiled in conict, to nally agree to sit down at the bargaining table and attempt to resolve their differences. In this paper, I analyze South Africas struggle over apartheid using an integrated theory of compromised revolution. In the rst section, I introduce the case of negotiated settlement in South Africa and explain the moment of negotiation in terms of proximate level factors, or bargaining conditions, such as the ripe moment for negotiation and the availability of a third-party mediator. While the proximate level understanding makes sense in the South African case, and usefully describes the conditions prevailing at the point of negotiations, this level of analysis is inadequate toward a complete understanding of conict and compromise. In the second section, I specify and apply the second and third theoretical dimensions political opportunities and class relations to the historical case of South Africa, assessing the t between theoretical expectations and historical evidence. At the level of political opportunities, state and society resources shape the balance of power between the regime and the opposition. A strong regime and successful state policy work in favor of the state. On the other hand, any success on the part of the opposition toward standing up to state repression and/or resisting co-optation can upset the power balance, further motivating and mobilizing the populace and opposition. At the level of class relations and economic development, focus shifts to the broader structures and processes of conict and compromise, and the ways that potential outcomes are subject to changing interests and relations of economic and political actors. Both political opportunities and class relations provide the broader political context within which the ripe moment for resolution emerges. In the nal section of the paper, I conclude by reiterating important ndings from the South African case, and I assess the t between theoretical expectations and the experience of conict and compromise in South Africa. The South African struggle for majority rule illustrates the usefulness of a multi-dimensional view of political conict that incorporates both structurally shaped possibilities and dynamic historical trajectories in the search for peaceful resolution.
NEGOTIATED SETTLEMENT IN SOUTH AFRICA: BARGAINING CONDITIONS AND THE PROXIMATE LEVEL OF ANALYSIS
In the mid-1980s, the contradictions of the apartheid system were increasingly visible in the violence-ridden, economically strained, and internationally isolated country. South Africa badly needed a resolution to the conict, but neither
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Nelson Mandela, leader of the ANC, nor State President P. W. Botha appeared willing to bargain. While Mandela had recognized the need for reconciliation by this point, he rejected Bothas offer of freedom in exchange for his renunciation of violent resistance. At the same time, Botha refused to entertain any discussion of majority rule (Thompson, 1995). Compromise seemed a distant possibility at best; revolution seemed near at hand. In reality, however, the next decade would bring all-party negotiations, eventual settlement, and an amazingly successful, inclusive election. While violence was by no means averted (16,000 deaths were attributed to the conict between 1983 and 1994), the escalation of rebellion, retaliation, and factional strife seen in the 1980s represented only a portion of the destruction that could have materialized.1 Furthermore, the South African settlement clearly resulted from bargaining, rather than from military victory and defeat. From prison in 1989, Mandela foresaw the need for real compromise on the terms of settlement:
. . . I now consider it necessary in the national interest for the African National Congress and the government to meet urgently to negotiate an effective political settlement. Two central issues will have to be addressed at such a meeting: rstly, the demand for majority rule in a unitary state; secondly, the concern of white South Africa over this demand, as well as the insistence of whites on structural guarantees that majority rule will not mean domination of the white minority by blacks. The most crucial task which will face the government and the ANC will be to reconcile these two positions (Mandela, 1989, as quoted in Welsh, 1999).
It was at the point of President de Klerks 1990 announcement that we began to see that the government, as well, had determined to compromise. In addressing Parliament in 1990, de Klerk announced the lifting of bans on the ANC and South African Communist Party; the release of Nelson Mandela; and the lifting of the state of emergency. These pivotal measures took even de Klerks most extreme opponents by surprise. How do we explain the willingness to compromise demonstrated by the three major parties and their representatives: Nelson Mandela (ANC), President de Klerk (NP), and Chief Buthelesi (Inkatha Freedom Party)? From the perspective of political scientists and bargaining theorists who have become increasingly concerned with the process of bringing about peaceful resolution of protracted internal conict, negotiation is predicted when the cost-benet analysis favors settlement, or when the issues at stake are divisible, such as territory in secessionist conicts (Ayres, 1997; Boasson, 1991; Burton, 1990; Hampson, 1996; Kressel et al., 1989; Kriesberg, 1992; Licklider, 1993; Rabie, 1994; Stedman, 1988; Walter, 1997; Zartman, 1995a). Bargaining conditions refer to the immediate, or proximate, factors corresponding with the potential for compromise at each point in the conict. These factors include the ripe
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moment for negotiation and a mediator who can navigate communication between adversaries, thereby facilitating the peace process (Zartman, 1995a, 1985; Hampson, 1996; Princen, 1992). Zartmans ripe moment for negotiation depends on the convergence of three factors: (1) the conict must reach mutually hurting stalemate, conceptualized as a perceived no-win situation of depleting resources for both sides; (2) each party to the conict must have an identiable legitimate authority or spokesperson; and (3) a potential alternative to the conict must exist a viable exit that saves face for both sides (Zartman, 1995a). At any point in the conict, the potential gain to each party through negotiation can be contrasted with the cost of conict, as indicated by the hurting stalemate. Ripe moments occur when the potential gain appears great enough and the risks are few enough, relative to continued conict, to warrant negotiation. A stalemate in the conict presupposes both sides perception that winning is unlikely or impossible (Zartman, 1995a). A protracted civil war is a possible indicator that a stalemate has been reached. First, the absence of early decisive military victory prolongs conict and indicates relatively symmetrical power relations between the government and insurgents the longer the conict continues, the less likely either party will triumph. Second, the stalemate and conict are costly. A high loss of lives over a lengthy conict period depletes human resources and morale, so that, empirically, both longer and more deadly civil wars are more likely to end in successful compromise than are shorter or less deadly wars (Walter, 1997). In addition, the diplomacy of an external mediator can help the parties identify, take advantage of, and shape the ripe moment (Hampson, 1996). Different types of mediators are likely to facilitate the peace process in different ways and at different points in the conict (Boasson, 1991; Kressel et al., 1989; Kriesberg, 1998, 1996; Wehr & Lederach, 1996). As an added party, mediators add complexity to the relationship between adversaries. The level of interest a mediator has in a conict affects its acceptability to both sides. On the one hand, the more neutral a third party, the more readily it can be viewed as objective in facilitating negotiations. On the other hand, Wehr and Lederach (1996) point out that neutral mediators who are called in from outside the conict (external-neutrals) lack the trust that is rooted in connectedness to the adversaries and to the conict situation. In contrast, insider-partials are domestic parties who have a vested interest in long-term conict management. Further, external neutrals are less able to inuence intransigent parties, particularly if they do not carry the authority of state power. Nor are they likely to inuence parties that may be tempted to break a settlement once it has been brokered and implementation is under way. Rather than applying indiscriminately one model of mediation in all cases, Lederach (1995)
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encourages a contextualized understanding of conict and strategies for reconciliation, and suggests that both external-neutrals and insider-partials have complementary roles to play at different stages of the resolution process (Wehr & Lederach, 1996). Kriesberg (1996, 1998) similarly suggests that the varieties of mediating activities and stages of the conict correspond with the complementary functions of both mediators (whether individuals, non-governmental organizations, or inter-governmental organizations) and quasi-mediators (associated with one side of the conict, who may mediate between their superiors and the opposition). Mutually Hurting Stalemate All three elements to Zartmans ripe moment were present in South Africa by the late 1980s, and Zartman (1995b) locates the potential for negotiation in South Africa in the mutual recognition of stalemate: After the mid-1980s the perception of asymmetry was slowly replaced by the realization of symmetry and the understanding that the white minority government could not control the black majority at acceptable cost just as the black majority could not overthrow the white government at acceptable cost (p. 148). Hyslop (1992) characterizes the situation as one of deadlock, in which the mass popularity of the insurgency denied the government legitimate control, while the powerful security apparatus of the state curtailed organizational effectiveness of the opposition. Over the long term, both sides realized that military victory was out of reach, and that the situation would have to be resolved by means other than continued violence (Murray, 1994; Thompson, 1995). The Afrikaner-based NP was increasingly aware that the institutional structure of apartheid, as an end and a means to a white dominated system of governance, could not be upheld without undue costs. The white death toll was on the rise and the military option was becoming both more costly and less effective (Landsberg, 1994). In 1990, de Klerk expressed the ascendant view that continuation on the present course posed greater risk than would negotiation:
[W]e must also create a South Africa that enjoys the loyalty of the majority of its people. Unless we achieve this, the future will not be safe. Unless we achieve this there is no hope for our children and grandchildren . . . Do we want them to inherit a stagnant situation that has made no progress toward solution, where revolution continues to brew and bubble under the surface? Do we want them to inherit new sanctions and boycotts? (de Klerk, as quoted in Price, 1991, 278).
For the ANCs part, Zunes (1999) argues that by the early 1980s the ANC fully recognized the odds against successful armed struggle, determining that non-violent strategies provided the only means of weakening state capacity without deligitimizing the movement. Armed struggle was never abandoned
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completely, retaining a supportive role to a general strategy of popular noncooperation. In addition, the Soviet Union recognized the need for peaceful resolution, and regional non-interference agreements served to further weaken the ANCs external support base (Price, 1991). The ANC was not strong enough to seize power by force, and to attempt military victory would result either in prolonged deadlock or in extensive destruction and an escalated death toll. In the immediate aftermath of Mandelas release from prison, the ANC executive agreed to end the armed struggle which by then was so feeble as to be hardly detectable (Welsh, 1999, 505). The mutual recognition of a hurting stalemate was more than a concession of failed armed struggle, however. In the context of South Africa, it represented a stalemate between the regimes military strength and the oppositions combined strategy of non-violent resistance and selective guerrilla attacks. Legitimate Spokespersons In spite of the complexity of social relations in South Africa, and in spite of the resulting factional divisions on both sides of the conict, by the end of the decade three clear leaders had emerged as identiable and legitimate spokespersons for the conicting parties. Welsh (1999) argues that by imprisoning Nelson Mandela and removing him from the conict and from ANC activity, the NP government inadvertently safeguarded him from any possible criticism that might be attached to the ANC leadership. Although the ANC had met with some scandal, and no small degree of uncontrolled violence and brutality had been attributed to ANC followers, Mandela could not be faulted. In addition, Mandela had been strengthened personally by his 26-year imprisonment (Welsh, 1999). The white government would probably have preferred to negotiate with Chief Buthelezi, leader of the Inkatha Freedom Party. Buthelezi had considerable support in KwaZulu, and he consistently demonstrated his willingness to accommodate government policy. Buthelezi resisted Mandela and the ANC as representatives of the opposition, and so remained involved in the reconciliation process. However, he did not have broad support, whereas Mandela could step back into the leadership as a worldacclaimed spokesperson of black South Africans. On the government side, P.W. Botha (NP leader and State President from 19791989) had the legitimacy of his position behind him. His support was waning by the end of his tenure, but this was partly due to the increasing pressure for action that he faced from both the Right and Left camps of the white electorate. Although Botha had initiated extensive reform throughout his tenure in South Africa, it is unlikely that he would have ever been able to bring himself to negotiate with the ANC (Welsh, 1999). As it turned out, failing health forced his resignation as NP leader early in 1989, but support for the NP and the
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hardline position was clearly waning. By the time of the elections, the NP was able to garner only a slim parliamentary majority and Bothas successor, F. W. de Klerk, only had the clear support of a minority of the electorate. Yet his election was seen as a turning point. He had the determination to negotiate what turned out to be the end of his own presidency, and could do so even without the clear electoral support of white South Africans because he had the legitimacy of position behind him and because, as well see later, a large enough segment of the white electorate had been pushing for more extensive change than the moderate NP had come to represent. Potential Alternative to Existing Conict In 1988, the ANC took the rst step toward compromise by softening its vision. With the Constitutional Guidelines for a Democratic Society, the ANC adopted the principles of multi-party democracy and a mixed economy (Welsh, 1999). This demonstrated the ANCs willingness to compromise, but as long as it rested on straight majority rule, multi-party democracy would provide inadequate protection to the white minority and the government, and thus would not sufce as a model for political settlement. The Zimbabwean settlement of two decades before, however, did provide such a model. What was needed was a multi-racial constitution based on universal suffrage, but through which minority rights could be guaranteed via reserved representation in parliament and in the cabinet (Welsh, 1999). The Zimbabwean-style political model, coupled with the ANCs softening of its socialist stance on the economy, provided enough of a conceptual blueprint for both sides to envision their role in the post-civil war society and to accept negotiations toward that society. The two sides had accomplished much in the course of the informal, semi-secret discussions leading up to the Convention for a Democratic South Africa. There remained the question of the degree of state centralization, but disagreement was most pronounced at the margins.2 By the time formal negotiations began in 1991, the ANC and NP shared a broad image of the new constitution as requiring a Bill of Rights, a unitary state, reincorporation of the homelands, a degree of decentralization of power, and a mixed economy (Murray, 1994). Mediation No high prole, mutually acceptable, external party lled the mediator role in the period leading to negotiations and the signing of the National Peace Accord in 1991.3 Instead, there was considerable dialogue involving innumerable interested third parties going on continuously. From the inception in 1985 of the progressive trek to Lusaka by various political, professional, and business representatives to discuss the conict with the ANC elite (Price, 1991; Welsh,
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1999; Zartman, 1995b), it was clear that powerful elements on both sides were already talking. Added to these informal talks were the eventually pivotal roles of: (1) South African churches, particularly through the South African Council of Churches;4 and (2) South African business interests, represented in the Consultative Business Movement (Gastrow, 1995; Thompson, 1995). Formal negotiation was still a long way off, but these domestic insider-partial channels accomplished preliminary mediation. The central importance of an acceptable mediator is illustrated in President de Klerks attempt to convene the peace process in May 1991. After he asserted that it was the governments role to keep talks going, and that he was in touch with all relevant parties, the ANC and other opposition parties declined to attend, forcing de Klerk to downplay the conference as the beginning of the peace process, rather than an end in itself (Gastrow, 1995). Facilitation by business and church interests also carried problems of legitimacy (Gastrow, 1995). Taken separately, these two interests were considered too partisan by one or the other side of the conict. Together, however, they carried the legitimacy of relative balance. It was due to the active involvement of civil groups in South Africa that domestic mediators were successful in facilitating the National Peace Accord (NPA), and it was the NPA that brought the adversarial leaders together rst to sign the peace agreement, but also to initiate negotiations for constitutional reform (Gastrow, 1995). The central role of domestic civil groups in the period leading up to negotiations does not mean that external parties did not play an inuential role, or that changing international relations did not have a role in shaping the hurting stalemate. By 1986, bi-polar Cold War tensions were on the decline, and U.S.-Soviet relations regarding southern Africa, particularly Namibia, were increasingly cooperative. Waning Soviet interest in South Africa meant a severe loss of military support for the ANC. At the same time, U.S. pressure on the government to resolve the conict increased. Simultaneously, the collapse of the Soviet Union deprived the ANC of its main sources of support, and . . . made nonsense of the NPs claim to be protecting South Africa from a communist onslaught (Thompson, 1995, 243). Landsberg (1994) warns against attributing too much causal inuence to either external actors or the end of the Cold War. International inuence was supplementary, but once the parties decided to compromise, international players were able to facilitate the negotiations through increasing positive inuence (in place of the previous isolationist pressure). Once the state agreed to negotiate, its relationship with the rest of the world was immediately improved, and external inuence became as important as domestic opinion in shaping the pace and content of the settlement. U.N. presence in South Africa followed the break45
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down of the Convention, but the U.N. role was limited to that of observer. In addition, the U.S., Britain, and Germany contributed important security guarantees, insisting that all parties adhere to the agreement, and thus alleviating concerns that the ANC would disregard agreements once in power. Finally, in the nal days leading up to the election, former U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger and former British foreign secretary Lord Peter Carrington were brought in as leaders of a mediating team whose role was more of arbitrator rather than mediator (Landsberg, 1994). This effort failed, leaving a vacuum that was quickly lled with the Kenyan, Washington Okumu; Colin Coleman of the CMB; and Michael Spicer of Anglo American. Their success in bringing Buthelezi and the Inkatha Freedom Party back into the election process illustrated that the decision to compromise had to be made by the parties involved (Landsberg, 1994). Usefulness of Bargaining Conditions Clearly, the ripe moment and mediator are useful conceptual tools, highlighting the factors that, when present, contribute to an overall political climate conducive to bringing the parties together at the bargaining table. Each factor in the ripe moment the hurting stalemate, legitimate spokesperson, and viable alternative represents a necessary condition at the proximate point of negotiations. In the South African case, we can understand why the adversaries, particularly the ANC and NP government, agreed to talk when they did. Both sides had come to recognize the weighty costs of the stalemated situation, and the potential for the stalemate to persist indenitely. Both sides by 1990 had a leading representative who could not only legitimately speak for his constituency, but who was willing to lead that constituency into a settlement that would include difcult compromises. Further, both sides had already worked signicantly toward recognition that there was, indeed, a viable constitutional solution offering greater benets to both sides than the continuing conict. These bargaining conditions, and the proximate level of analysis at which they occur, explain why the negotiations in South Africa happened when they did, rather than one, ve, or ten years earlier. However, knowledge that the ripe moment must be present in order for negotiations to take place begs a larger question. How do we know ahead of time which conict situations are headed toward a ripe moment, and which are destined for military escalation? We are still left without a theoretical understanding of why the South African conict resulted in negotiations rather than escalating into revolution. In the next section, I argue that we must step back from the proximate level of analysis to understand the broader social context within which the bargaining
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conditions emerge. The second and third theoretical dimensions political opportunities and class relations, respectively include, rst, background structural factors that shape the reason for the conict in the rst place; and, second, changes to those factors that contribute to a more complete understanding of the historical trajectory shaping the ripe moment and leading to compromised revolution.
POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, CLASS RELATIONS, AND THE CONTEXT OF CONFLICT AND COMPROMISE IN SOUTH AFRICA
Theoretical Contributions of Political Opportunities and Class Relations Political opportunities and class relations direct analysis toward the state structure and larger socio-economic context of conict. At the level of political opportunities, relative strength, or the balance of power between the state and opposition, affects the strategic options open to both sides. As long as a balance of power is maintained, neither side is able to bring the conict to decisive conclusion militarily and a stalemate results. However, the stalemated conict may be maintained at a low enough level of intensity that the costs are not great enough to warrant the risks of negotiation for either side, and it takes a moderate shift in the balance of power to give the opposition sufcient bargaining strength to lure them (and force the government) to the bargaining table. This shift in the balance of power, coupled with the heightened costs of continued engagement, allows both sides to recognize the hurting stalemate. In explaining rebellion, the likelihood of movement mobilization is related to regime repressiveness, the potential for non-violent expression of grievances, and the perceived efcacy of movement participants and leaders (Muller, 1985; Tilly, 1978; Tarrow, 1994; McAdam, 1982; Colburn, 1994). On the side of the opposition, popular support can expand and be further mobilized in response to several factors affecting perceived efcacy. Partial successes such as concessions to labor strike demands or the relaxation of certain political restrictions, or even the experience of mass mobilization or community-level organizing can demonstrate to the population that the states power is not limitless and there is, indeed, strength in numbers. On the side of the state, the potential for successful revolutionary overthrow depends on regime structure and regime strength (Skocpol, 1979; Wickham-Crowley, 1992). If the ruling party is unable to govern effectively as evidenced by a prolonged security state, extensive human rights violations, or a loss of internal order external supporters and the business elite begin to question continued support for the regime. Coupled with partial liberalization of the political system, breakdown
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of the ruling elite coalition presents the crucial political opportunity shaping political party realignments, leadership transitions, shifts in ofcial policy, and nally ofcial commitment to real reform, reconciliation, and even legitimation of the opposition through negotiations. Changes in political opportunities, and shifts in political relations among elite segments, also correspond to changes in the economic structure and class relations. The complex relationships between class, ethnicity, and economic grievances shape revolutionary potential, and help explain the emergence of oppositional movements from below (Boswell & Dixon, 1993; Gurr, 1993; Muller & Seligson, 1987; Paige, 1975; Schock, 1996). In addition, class analyses can be extended to predict the potential for compromise of conict situations. For example, while Paige (1997) focuses on shifting ideologies among the elite in Central America, his analysis also demonstrates the process by which insurgency from below forces a split between segments of the elite classes. Capitalist development loosens the historical interdependence between elites, thereby allowing moderate segments to ally with the rebels in favor of political reform, at the expense of the traditional elite and intransigent members of the government. Class compromise between moderate elites and the rebels is forged on the promise of stability and potential for future growth. The extent to which splits among the elite sectors effectively shape the ripe moment and the potential for compromise depends on the make-up of the governments constituency. Further, the correspondence between class interests and ethnicity uctuates over time, so ethnicity may or may not correspond with class position, and it thereby plays a meaningful role in rening and shaping the relationship between economy and polity. Finally, elite class interests are variously sensitive to international pressures, depending on the extent of the states reliance on external military support, sensitivity to uctuations in global economic relations, and therefore vulnerability to private and state-sponsored sanctions. This third set of factors the societal-level factors of economic grievances, domestic and international class relations, and correspondence between class and ethnic relations do not directly impact the decision to negotiate. Rather, they shape the potential for compromise indirectly, through the political structure and opportunities provided by shifting governmental alliances and constraints to evolving policies. Finally, both societal level factors and changing political opportunities form the context for the rst level of proximate causes, providing available insider-partial mediators from the moderate elite segments, and allowing both sides to recognize a mutually hurting stalemate and take advantage of the ripe moment for resolution. How well do the second and third theoretical dimensions explain the ripe moment and the potential for compromise in the South African struggle for
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majority rule? In the remainder of this section, I consider the t between the trajectory of events leading to the dismantling of apartheid and the second and third theoretical dimensions political opportunities and class relations. Throughout the discussion, I highlight the link between the broader socio-political context, the hurting stalemate, and the ripe moment. I argue that three critical factors developed during the course of conict that eventually led both sides to acknowledge the shift in the balance of power, and to therefore accept the situation as ripe for compromise. First, the South African state faced increasing pressure from within. Initially, the state was successful in repressing and demobilizing the opposition. Over the course of the 1980s, however, the mobilizing potential and salience of the mass-based opposition was increasingly effective against state legitimacy. Second, a consequential split developed among the political elite regarding state policy. Initial ethnic divisions between Afrikaner and British elite segments had softened over the course of development as greater numbers of Afrikaners joined the ranks of business. As a result, moderate segments of the elite became available to open dialogue with the ANC, and party and electoral splits on both the left and right eventually undermined NP cohesion regarding apartheid policy. Third, the South African state, already highly vulnerable to world economic uctuations, came under heightened economic strain due to growing international commitment to sanctions and divestment. Taken separately, these factors (internal opposition from below; split elite; and economic strain) provided insufcient pressure on the state, causing no more than partial reforms and tightened repression changes within the system. When they converged in the mid-1980s, however, these factors reinforced one another. Repression and partial reforms were clearly providing only temporary xes to a long term and increasingly costly problem. Structuring Class Relations Along Ethnic Lines The early history of South Africa highlights the correspondence of race and class in structuring social power. White racial domination emerged with colonial settlement, continued through the establishment of the Union in 1910, and was fully institutionalized in the aftermath of the 1948 electoral victory of the Afrikaner-based National Party (NP).5 The governing elite enjoyed a high degree of consensus and group cohesion, and Afrikaner ideology and apartheid state policy developed hand in hand during the fteen-year period following the 1948 elections. Apartheid policies included strict residential and social segregation of the races, as well as political and economic exclusion of Black, Coloured, and Indian South Africans. Through state policy, whites limited the supply of black labor, the level of black residency in the townships, and the organizational capacity of blacks, thereby coercively excluding blacks from both
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the labor and consumer markets (Seidman, 1994; Price, 1991; Gelb, 1991). Theoretically, this sharp racial division, and the strong correspondence between race and class, forewarns of revolutionary potential. In addition, while the conict in South Africa was principally between an excluded black majority and dominant white minority, ethnic cleavages between Afrikaner and British whites further delineated the relationship between class and politics. Among whites, NP policy privileged Afrikaner over British interests.6 While the British owned 94% of the manufacturing sector, British capital was relatively powerless in Parliament. Favoring white agriculture (predominantly Afrikaner) and white labor (also Afrikaner), the NP government promised to strengthen the color bar in labor. This policy of restricting blacks to unskilled labor beneted both agriculture and white labor, to the detriment of business interests and black workers. The state also facilitated Afrikaner access to business, awarding government contracts to Afrikaner rms, creating parastatal rms, and hiring only Afrikaans speakers in nationalized industries. British business complained, but business was not yet strong enough or unied enough to attempt to force a reversal of these policies. Although they did not always agree with government policy, and were generally opposed to what they saw as a dangerously inefcient system of labor segmentation, white business leaders usually opted to work for change within the system rather than align with relatively radical political parties (Kobach, 1990). Class and race in general, and class and ethnicity within the white population, reected one another during the early years of apartheid, so that the structuring of conict in South Africa initially owed from racial and ethnic divisions, as well as from class relations. As we will see below, however, the correspondence between class interests and ethnic cleavages uctuated over time, complicating predicted political alignments and the likely outcome of conict. Capitalist Development: Blurring Ethnic Alignments within the White Electorate During the 1960s, the state increasingly centered domestic policy on the principle of separate development through decolonization. However, quality of life in the homelands worsened (including a shortage of housing, general overcrowding, declining health care, and a decline in education), so while the policy was popular among the Afrikaner electorate, it garnered little support in other circles (Southall, 1983). In the economy, this period was marked by several trends, including a decade of unprecedented growth, shifting relations among the economic elite, and dramatic changes in the organization of production. First, as is indicated in Table 1, growth in GDP averaged 7.07% between 1961
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and 1965 and 5.48% between 1966 and 1970. Second, both mining and manufacturing were characterized by increasing capital concentration and technological development. For capital, this meant a greater need for skilled labor at a time when the color bar was strictly enforced and skilled white labor was increasingly scarce (due to upward mobility into civil service jobs). Third, Afrikaners began to own a larger share of the non-agricultural private sector, and manufacturing was accounting for an increasing share of GDP while the importance of agriculture continued to decline. From this period forward, white interests would no longer be segmented along strict ethnic lines; rather, a divergence emerged between liberal Afrikaner (big business) interests which generally corresponded with British capital, and conservative Afrikaner (small business, worker, and white collar) interests (Kobach, 1990). Although business was generally opposed to the governments policy of separate development (as well as the accompanying mandate for geographical decentralization of industry), the stability and remarkable economic growth of the period kept business leaders from voicing strong opposition. Nevertheless, these various changes to the economy and class/ethnic relations foreshadowed important future shifts in political alliances. It was during this period of growth and stability that changes to the organization of production caused shifts within economic elite that had consequential, longterm political effects. In particular, the Afrikaner elite increasingly independent of state patronage and control was free to express its new economic interests (now aligned with British capital) in the political sphere. Throughout society, the rewards of a strong economy continued to accrue to the minority white population. Two pivotal causal elements of conict and compromise are therefore present in South Africa even before the outbreak of violent political protest and insurrection. Widening black/white racial cleavages
Table 1. Growth of GDP, Constant Prices, 19611990.

Years 19611965 19661970 19711975 19761980 19811985 19861990 % change, GDP 7.07 5.48 4.16 2.75 1.17 1.81
Source: 1999 World Development Indicators CD-ROM. Washington, D.C.: The International Bank for Reconstruction and Development/The World Bank.
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ensured the eventual outbreak of insurrection; at the same time, interest realignments within the Afrikaner elite allowed for this segments eventual support for compromise. From Protest to Rebellion: Sustaining Mass Resistance The state did not implement its restrictive policies free of resistance. The African National Congress (ANC), established in 1912 to represent black and Coloured middle class interests, initially worked to reform the South African legal order (ghting, for example, to extend the Cape franchise to other provinces). The African Political Organization, the South African Indian Congress, and the Industrial and Commercial Workers Union (ICU) provided alternative representation for non-white South Africans. By the 1940s, the ANC had broadened its constituency and radicalized both its strategies and goals. Cooperation between segments of the ANC and the South African Communist Party corresponded with the increasing frequency of various forms of non-violent mass action, including worker strikes, consumer boycotts, and acts of resistance against restrictive legal policies. In 1952 the Congress of the People, a mass convention of opposition groups, adopted the Freedom Charter denying government authority over unrepresented peoples.7 Seven years later, after the formation of the Pan-Africanist Congress, thousands of activists boycotted the pass laws by showing up at police stations without them. At Sharpeville, in 1960, one such gathering was violently repressed, with the police killing at least 67 and wounding 180 when they red on the crowd. In protest, thousands of workers went on strike, leading the government to mobilize the army, outlaw all opposition, and arrest thousands. The effect of the governments relentless repression on the non-white population was devastating. The ANC and Pan-Africanist Congress were banned, effectively driven into exile, and the South African Council of Trade Unions disintegrated. The states brutal response, successful muting of the opposition, and swiftness in returning the country to stability was impressive. At this point, the ANC turned (temporarily) to more violent means of resistance, including sabotage and guerrilla warfare, organized from exile. Meanwhile, the effect on the mobilizing potential of the workers and the population was fatal, bringing a defeatist outlook to the majority of black South Africans that could only be altered through time and the dedication of a new generation. As Zunes (1999) argues, the organized opposition recognized by the early 1980s that conditions were not conducive to a successful violent revolutionary campaign. The ANC had access to only limited resources, while the South African state had considerable capacity to sustain a prolonged campaign. Coupled with selective violent attacks, the opposition shifted to a largely non-
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violent strategy of non-cooperation. Initially, community organizations and trade unions mobilized in response to localized, specic grievances (e.g. wage and working conditions, educational reforms, rent hikes, and community councils). When grievances went unresolved the links between generalized reformist policies and local issues became undeniable. Community groups increasingly pursued political issues, culminating in the founding of the United Democratic Front (UDF) in 1983. By this time, workers and students were mobilizing in concert: When the Lekoa Town Council refused to scrap the rent increases, the Vaal Civic Association called for a general strike of workers and students in the townships of the East Rand. An estimated 60% of the areas workers and 93,000 students heeded the call (Price, 1991, 184). The ensuing battle lasted a month locally, but spread throughout South African townships over the next two years. In response to the insurgency, business politicization reached a new peak (Kobach, 1990). More and more business leaders were calling for an end to apartheid, although a smaller conservative, increasingly reactionary, segment demanded decisive control of the insurgency and a retraction of reforms. Positions were hardening, and crisis was imminent. South Africa and the International Economy: External Inuence through Sanctions and Divestment Increasingly over the latter years of apartheid and in the period leading up to negotiations, external players attempted to shape the political situation in South Africa through various forms of sanctions. The threat of sanctions (military and economic; governmental and private) was a concern for the state as early as 1960, when the U.N. General Assembly passed its resolution against apartheid. The U.N., British Commonwealth, and Organization of African Unity (OAU) were the international governmental organizations most concerned with South Africa (Klotz, 1995). In 1962 the U.N. General Assembly asked for an arms embargo, economic sanctions, and diplomatic sanctions, and the U.N. Security Council adopted an arms embargo in 1976 but never passed economic sanctions. The Commonwealth passed the Declaration of Commonwealth Principles in 1971, committing to intolerance of racist policies, but it was not until the mid-1980s that the Commonwealth implemented restrictions on loans and military assistance. In contrast, the Organization of African Unity (OAU) presented a unied front against apartheid, particularly through efforts of the Front-line States (FLS) (Klotz, 1995; Legum, 1982). Private divestment led federal economic sanctions in the U.S. and internationally. When the U.N. Security Council and the U.S. government proved reluctant to impose economic sanctions against the South African state, student, consumer, and community groups targeted private investment and protested
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against private banks, individual corporations, and institutional investors, including universities and local and state governments (Davis, 1996). U.S.-based multi-national corporations, nancial institutions, and even local and state governments were increasingly proactive and attuned to public sentiment (Hufbauer et al., 1990). Initially, the U.S. tacitly supported the NP government, but by the mid-1980s, ofcial U.S. policy changed to reect public opinion and international norms. The visibility and broad-based appeal of the U.S. anti-apartheid movement helped change the political mood in Washington (Davis, 1996; Price, 1982; Thompson, 1995; Culverson, 1999). In 1986, the U.S. Congress passed the Comprehensive Anti-Apartheid Act over President Reagans veto. Between 1985 and 1989, nancial outows from South Africa approached $10.8 billion, including debt repayments and capital ight. In addition, between January 1984 and mid-1987, 99 U.S. companies had completely withdrawn from South Africa, accepting drastically discounted prices. Driven by risk assessment, only 136 of between 300 and 400 U.S. companies remained in South Africa in mid-1988 (Hufbauer et al., 1990). International sanctions played a critical role in conjunction with other factors shaping prolonged economic crisis in South Africa. Sanctions coincided with non-violent methods of domestic resistance, including labor militancy and consumer boycotts, in accumulating economic and political strain. Moreover, the unique character of the South African economy and its particular role in the international division of labor shaped the emergent nancial crisis from the early 1970s as a convergence of contradictory needs: the need to sustain capital inows, the need to offset capital account decits with current account surpluses, and the growth needed to generate employment (Kahn, 1991). South Africas position in the international economy was shaped by the predominance of the primary export sector (particularly gold), the increasing capital intensity of manufacturing (coupled with a stagnating capital goods sector), and a growing dependence on loan capital as compared with direct and indirect investment (Freund, 1991; Kaplan, 1991; Padayachee, 1991). Table 2 reports the contributions of mining, agriculture, and manufacturing to total exports between 1968 and 1987. Overall, mining constituted the largest sector of the economy throughout this period, accounting for between 44.3% and 62% of exports. Golds dominance within mining, coupled with the particularly volatile nature of the gold price, created volatility in the current account as a whole. The inverse relationship between the strength of the U.S. economy and the gold price has generally put South Africas business cycles out of phase with the core, generating problems for export expansion during domestic upswings (Kahn, 1991). Further, while mining was the predominant export
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Table 2. Export Contributions by Major Sector, 19681987.

Year 1968 1972 1976 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 Gold % 33.7 34.3 32.4 50.9 45.8 45.0 48.2 44.6 42.3 39.8 41.2 Total Mining % 46.7 44.3 46.4 63.3 59.6 60.6 62.0 60.1 60.5 57.1 57.0 Agriculture % 19.3 11.8 8.4 5.2 6.4 6.0 4.0 2.9 2.9 3.2 3.6 Manufacturing % 37.3 37.2 35.2 28.4 29.7 29.0 31.1 33.8 33.1 37.4 37.2
Source: Adapted from Kahn, B. (1991). The Crisis and South Africas Balance of Payments. In: S Gelb (Ed.) South Africas Economic Crisis (pp. 175197). Cape Town: David Philip (Table 5, p. 73).
sector, manufacturing accounted for the vast majority of imports and growth in import value between 1968 and 1987 (Kahn, 1991). Since 1970, foreign capital investment and the emergence of a private international credit market worked to nance current account decits and the gradual accumulation of debt in South Africa. Whereas political uncertainty in South Africa during the late 1970s led to a temporary slow-down in direct investment, both the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and private banks generally showed considerable exibility in granting requested loans and debt rescheduling in South Africa. During the 1970s, IMF borrowing was used to buffer the net effect on the current account of a falling gold price (exports) and rising capital goods prices (imports). In 1979, the gold price experienced a brief boom, but this boom had reversed by 1982. Dependence on the international credit market rendered South Africa particularly vulnerable to nancial sanctions. A 1982 loan request to the IMF for $1.1 billion proved highly controversial. International outcry did not stop this loan from passing, but in its immediate aftermath the U.S. and the IMF reversed their standing on future South African requests. After this point, South Africa was forced to rely on short-term private nancing. On the surface, the state initially claimed resistance to real change, responding to external pressures and internal solidarity with defensive policies meant to sustain the countrys economy and polity until international pressures waned (Klotz, 1995). The government mixed modest domestic reforms with regional dtente to partially appease labor and community groups, minimize the costs of sanctions, and strengthen the case that South Africa was serious about reform.
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However, non-violent resistance grew in visibility and effectiveness during the 1980s, coupling increasing frequency and duration of labor action with community support via consumer boycotts (Zunes, 1999). Price (1991) identies 1988 as a transition year in business perception of the costs of sanctions. The expansion of inward industrialization had coincided with a small economic boom in 1986 and 1987, which temporarily bolstered domestic businesss condence in the economys ability to survive in isolation. Growth was modest (see Table 2), and there were opportunity costs, but it appeared that the government would regain internal stability and hold out economically (Gelb, 1991). However, the mini-boom collapsed in 1987: Economic expansion in the sanctions environment meant a short period of growth, followed by a balance-of-payments crisis, followed by decline (Price, 1991, 275). Between 1986 and the end of 1988, imports had increased 60%, and foreign borrowing (with which import substitution is usually nanced) was unavailable under sanctions. To business in 1988, the prognosis was clear: economic survival depended on reintegration into the international economy, which meant much more than partial reforms at home. The specic political steps that would have to be taken for sanctions to be lifted included both political liberalization and the release of political prisoners, in addition to all-party constitutional negotiations. From this vantage point, the escalated economic crisis of 1988, in combination with continued domestic instability, caused business elites to call for the normalization of relations both regionally and at home, thereby leading to an emergent debate among the governing party elite. The Convergence of Mass Mobilization, Economic Strain, and Elite Dissensus The states immediate response to the Vaal Triangle strike and the spread of urban insurrection was not one of heightened repression, but of stepped up reform. Whereas reform had previously been gradual and modest, reforms implemented after 1984 included the abolition of pass laws and inux controls, as well as essential business, residential, employment, and segregation reforms. All points of contention at the turn of the decade, these reforms were not actually implemented until the height of insurgency. The government inadvertently acknowledged the legitimacy of the grievances, transforming them into real points of contention. Instead of quelling black anger, they only fuelled mobilization. When reform failed, Botha declared the 1985 state of emergency, intending to destroy the opposition. Police and army troops, sent into the townships to restore order, arrested and killed thousands of Africans, with media coverage banned in order to minimize publicity of the attacks. However, the state continued to perceive its hands to be tied regarding the use of repression, so
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that efforts were defensive and limited to ad hoc police attempts to prevent large public manifestations of mass mobilization (Price, 1991, 252). At rst, the state of emergency appeared to bring the situation under control, and the initial return to stability aligned liberal business behind the NP once again. Although the extension of the state of emergency in 1986 did not receive unanimous business support, the NP again won an overwhelming victory in the 1987 parliamentary elections. While temporarily demobilizing domestic opposition, however, it contradicted both Bothas reformist rhetoric and his co-optive strategy, which had the effect of heightening international criticism, bringing the call for sanctions to a new consensus, and further radicalizing the black opposition. South Africans seemed to be headed for large-scale, violent revolutionary insurrection. By the time of the second state of emergency, the state had begun to reevaluate strategy. Sanctions seemed a foregone conclusion, and the survival of the regime increasingly depended on a successful counter-revolutionary effort. However, the regime in the post-1986 period was no better equipped to improve socio-economic conditions than it had been initially. Under conditions of inward industrialization and a stagnating economy, the government had little room to maneuver infrastructure reforms or create employment. Finally, the governments efforts to co-opt political linkages at the community level seem to have failed miserably. Price (1991) reports continued overwhelming (90%) support for local UDF organizations, in contrast with meager (3%) support for local counter-organizations. The NP governments response to increasing strike activity and political protest beginning in the mid-1980s differed from managements response. Within the context of the second state of emergency, the Minister of Manpower reversed earlier reforms by outlawing all industrial strike activity in 1987. In contrast, by this time labor and management seemed headed toward cooperation (Bennett, 1990). With the inclusion of black African workers in collective bargaining in 1979 and growth of the black African labor force, the organizational strength of the Congress of South African Trade Unions expanded rapidly, and strike activity escalated over the 1980s. Large scale strike activity resulted in substantial losses in both wages and production, leading to tactical conciliation between labor and management. By 1988, the number of strikes remained high, but individual strikes were more limited and less costly to both labor and management. Many unions and employers were beginning to channel their industrial conict through the collective bargaining process (Bennett, 1990). As a whole, events of the mid-1980s had a powerful and liberating effect on black South Africans. First, community groups began to provide services where the government failed to do so. Communities set up alternative school systems,
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providing education to students who had long refused to attend the increasingly under-funded, overcrowded, and ineffective system of Bantustan education run by the state. An emergent dual sovereignty clearly indicated to black South Africans that where the state was failing, the community could succeed. Further, the sheer magnitude of the Vaal strikes, the ensuing insurrection, and the failure of the state of emergency to completely control the situation, symbolized to many that the balance of power between the state and the opponents of apartheid had permanently shifted. This recognition of the increased power within the opposition had the effect of sustaining a continued level of mobilization at the community level, where local residents retaliated against local government representatives, perceived state supporters, white businesses, and state/paramilitary troops. Finally, paramilitary bands at the community level were ensuring that a state of emergency would fail to fully re-establish peace and security for white South Africans. Split Elite and the Electoral Politicization of Capital While apartheid had successfully structured a formal system within which Afrikaner whites established their upwardly mobile economic status, the contradictions inherent in that system were increasingly apparent, and they eventually came to threaten the transcendent principle of white supremacy. As Prime Minister Vorster had recognized, considerable reform within the system of apartheid was necessary if it was to remain viable. Prime Minister Botha, appointed after Vorsters resignation in 1978, took the idea of reform one step further. He argued that apartheid would have to be dismantled if whites were to continue to enjoy their expected economic privilege, political power, and physical security. It was this strategy shift that allowed the rst split within the ruling elite (Welsh, 1999; Price, 1991). Within the NP, a signicant segment adamantly opposed change, and this rightist element eventually split from the NP to form the Conservative Party in 1982. By 1987, the Conservative Party posed enough of a threat to NP hegemony to garner 45% of the Afrikaner vote, thus limiting NP leverage in reforming apartheid. Nevertheless, as consequential as the Conservative split was to NP leverage in dictating policy, it never posed a threat to the overarching commitment to continued white political dominance. In contrast to the split among conservatives, the necessary split for the potential for compromise would have to come from within the moderate elements of the party. The rst indication of an emergent moderate split came in September 1985, with the rst trek to Lusaka, when several of the most prominent South African manufacturing executives met in Zambia with members of the ANCs National Executive Committee (Price, 1991, p. 238). This was the rst of several amicable meetings between elite members of business, clerical, academic, political, and other South African communities. The central
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government opposed these visits but was unable to stop them. The emerging split to the left became gradually more consequential for the NP as previously vocal supporters of the NP one by one denounced ofcial policy and publicly questioned Party reformist intentions in 1987. In 1989 the split was formalized with the formation of the Democratic Party, a coalition formed from the Progressive Federal Party and other small dissident-NP parties. The Democratic Party favored majority rule and proportional representation, which would ensure continued political voice for the white minority population. As Price points out, however, these splits within the NP represented a new pluralism within the white polity, not a new consensus.8 This signicant difference was reected in the 1989 general election results, whereby both the Democratic Party and the Conservative Party siphoned votes from the National Party center. In effect, the left split contributed to the weakening of central party cohesion, not a consensus for compromise, and certainly not acceptance of one-person, one-vote elections. Nevertheless, this split introduced a new potential for dialogue, particularly as the manufacturing elite was heavily represented in the Democratic Party. It was this segment that had its interests most heavily represented in negotiation. This new pluralism found its nal manifestation in the debate at the center of the NP, between previously dominant securocrats and the newly emergent internationalist reformers. While the securocrats maintained that any move away from the state of emergency would pose too great a risk to the security regime, the internationalist reformers had come to recognize the status quo mix of international isolation and domestic conict as much too costly. In addition, internationalist reformers saw that: (1) regional dtente would be useless toward the international relaxation of sanctions without considerable domestic improvements, and (2) the domestic situation could not be resolved without inclusion of the ANC and UDF in negotiations. The nal political opportunity that resulted from this split in the party was represented in F. W. de Klerks successful bid for the NP leadership and the Presidency. De Klerk, a leading adherent of the internationalist reformer perspective, represented a major turn in governmental policy (Price, 1991; Murray, 1994; Thompson, 1995). Whereas signicant segments of the business elite had long given priority to ameliorating the economic deterioration and spiraling socio-economic manifestations (and had thus been increasingly open to negotiations with the opposition), de Klerks presidency represented the rst time that government and business were aligned in support of real political change. And de Klerk wasted no time. In addressing the parliament in 1990, de Klerk announced: (1) the lifting of bans on the ANC and Communist Party; (2) the release of Nelson Mandela; and (3) the lifting of the state of emergency. Through
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these pivotal measures, which took even his most extreme opponents by surprise, de Klerk had simultaneously taken the necessary steps that would open the way for real negotiations to take place and the majority of international sanctions to be lifted. This left split within the NP reects the theoretical point that the symbiotic interdependence between the state and business elite holding under normal conditions becomes increasingly tenuous during periods of political conict. While the state and particular sectors of business may or may not hold similar positions on policy issues, the two do share a division of labor regarding the societal goals of economic prosperity and social stability. In general, the states role is to maintain social stability, while capital drives economic prosperity. Although the NP played an unusually signicant role in shaping economic policy in South Africa, business leaders generally attempted to stay out of policy questions even when they disagreed with them. During the escalation of civil war, however, business became increasingly willing to speak out on political issues, to participate in certain low-intensity acts of protest and non-compliance, and to organize politically in opposition to state policy (Kobach, 1990). In sum, the situation by the late 1980s had reached the point of prolonged inability of the government to suppress the opposition. The political opportunity structure looked much different during the late 1980s than it had twenty, fteen, and even ten years earlier. The balance of power had shifted, and it was not within the governments reach to reverse that shift. If repression could not stop the insurgency, and partial reforms were not enough to co-opt the opposition, then how would the economic and political contradictions, and the resulting civil war, be resolved? This would be the topic of debate within the NP for the remainder of the 1980s. Whereas capital had recognized the need to negotiate an end to apartheid as early as 1985, viable resolution through compromise depended on dramatic shifts in ofcial state policy and political ideology. The opposition had successfully maintained a sufcient level of social unrest to alarm business and the white population, and the state continued to lose external legitimacy and economic viability, as well. The shift in the balance of power was visible to all, and its effect was to heighten the perceived long-term costs of conict. It is at this point that the consequences of changing class alignments and political opportunities begin to converge to shape the hurting stalemate and ripe socio-political context for negotiations. The NPA as Compromise The National Peace Accord represented the culmination of the coordinated efforts of key persons within South African civil society. As Gastrows (1995) analysis makes clear, however, in many ways it also signied a pivotal set of political
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opportunities. First, the signing of the NPA was a symbolically signicant moment, as it was the rst time the opposing leaders had appeared together in public. Second, during the design process, the architects of the NPA established their own working relationships, building networks and trust among negotiators. These same leaders would be involved in the constitutional negotiations, so much of the necessary bases of trust were in place. Finally, the NPA provided a preliminary set of agreements regarding fundamental rights and freedoms that structurally opened the way for multi-party constitutional negotiations, begun in December, 1991. The NPA represented major agreement on preliminary issues of peacekeeping and provided for institutional structures that would function, independent of the NP and the ANC, during negotiations as well as during the transition period. Institutional structures included national codes of conduct for political organizations and security forces, established to ensure principles of political tolerance and civil rights. The NPA also established the National Peace Committee (including representatives who had brokered the NPA to begin with), the National Peace Secretariat (NPS), Regional and Local Dispute Resolution Committees, the Commission of Inquiry Regarding the Prevention of Public Violence and Intimidation, and the Police Board. In addition, the Accord attempted to address needs for socio-economic development.9
CONCLUSION
The political-economic model described above is useful in understanding compromise in South Africa. The conict clearly reached a ripe moment for negotiations by 1989: mutually hurting stalemate, acceptable mediators, and legitimate spokespersons characterized the conict at the point when negotiations became a rational decision for both sides. These bargaining conditions are useful in understanding why negotiations in South Africa occurred when they did. The second and third levels of analysis, however, help explain which conict situations hold the potential for the ripe moment and negotiations. Stepping back from the moment of resolution allows us to make sense of the relationships between political and social conict, economic development, and the complex historical trajectory that South Africa followed to nally arrive at the point of the ripe moment and negotiations. Both the structural level of political opportunities and the background level of social structure and economic growth highlight the interplay in South Africa between domestic policy, social unrest, international pressures, and compromise. In effect the ripe moment represents more than the combination of a hurting stalemate, legitimate spokespersons, effective mediator, and viable alternative these factors more accurately describe the ripe moment than explain its emergence. In addition, explanation requires identifying the necessary and
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sufcient causes that converge to allow the ripe moment to emerge and fully develop. Just as rebellion and political conict is best viewed within the context of political opportunities and economic relations, so too can a political economic perspective enhance our understanding of the potential for compromise experienced in the ripe moment. In South Africa, the ripe moment represented a convergence of three pivotal political and economic factors: (1) increasingly effective mobilization from below corresponded with (2) shifts in elite alignments, and (3) heightened economic pressure and international isolation. The result of this convergence was a crucial undermining of consensus within the state regarding apartheid policy, an opening of dialogue regarding the appropriate course of action, and long-awaited consideration of the alternatives to apartheid, the relative benets of compromise, and the growing costs of continued conict. Class Relations South Africa represents a striking case of ethnic conict between, principally, an excluded black majority and dominant white minority, yet the two parties were able to work out a viable alternative to the conict. This was possible because, while South Africa exemplies ethnic divisiveness on many levels, much of the conict eventually manifested in the economic and political realms. The conict was not solely about ethnic identity, but also about the essential contradictions inherent in a capitalist economy structured to exclude the vast majority of its population. South Africa is a highly unequal society: the Gini coefcient in 1975 was 0.68, with 5% of the population owning 88% of personal wealth (Bethlehem, 1992). In addition, the rigidly exclusionary system of apartheid structured widespread economic deprivation among black South Africans. By the mid1980s, for example, the correspondence between racial status and quality of life meant that black per capita income equaled less than 10% of white income, black infant mortality was seven times that of white infant mortality, literacy rates for blacks were one-third the literacy rates of whites, and state spending per black pupil was one-fth that for white pupils (Segal, 1991). In turn, political exclusion and economic deprivation fuelled long-term majority opposition. The insurgents goals centered upon de-racialization of the political and economic systems, as well as in education, housing, and health care. When considering the role of class relations in shaping political alignments and state policy, two lessons emerge from South Africa. First, the relationship between ethnicity, class, and political constituency is changeable, so that the interests and alignments of class actors remain contingent on historical circumstance. In South Africa, the NP government remained in control of the state thanks, predominantly, to a relatively cohesive Afrikaner constituency that
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blurred class divisions. Afrikaner farmers, civil servants, workers, and small business owners supported a government whose policies ensured Afrikaner dominance and privilege. However, these same state policies also inadvertently undermined Afrikaner ethnic cohesion among the business class. By privileging Afrikaner-owned enterprise, the state facilitated that groups inclusion among the growing class of large business conglomerates. Over time, Afrikaner big business tended to share the views of British business on political matters, and ethnic divisions were blurred within common class position. Loss of this small but signicant segment of Afrikaner conservatism did not directly translate into loss of NP support. Rather, it represented the beginning of a liberal shift within the party and within the growing debate over apartheid. Second, the politicization of capital is never directly determined by class alignments, but depends on the particular convergence of extreme social instability and economic stagnation (Kobach, 1990). As Kobach (1990) illustrates, business leaders in South Africa generally refrained from making strong political statements even when the apartheid strictures clearly contradicted their interests, and even during periods of economic downturn. Rather, capital intervention has depended on extreme political instability, which causes an immediate loss of business condence. In South Africa, the Sharpeville massacre, Durban strikes, Soweto uprising, and continuation of unrest after the Vaal Triangle strikes all corresponded with economic downturn and the call for specic state policy changes by the business elite. However, it was not until the fall-out from the last of these political crises (the continuation of unrest following the Vaal Triangle strikes) that the state recognized the situation as a hurting stalemate. Political Opportunities What happened between the Sharpeville massacre of 1960 and the Vaal Triangle strikes of 1984 that caused such different outcomes to the public expression of grievances? In the case of Sharpeville, the government responded with swift and decisive repression, effectively muting the opposition for a full decade. By 1984, however, options open to the state had diminished as a result of increasing international pressure, the expense of regional interference, increasing domestic economic instability, and general failure to co-opt important moderate segments of the business elite and non-white population. Stepped-up reforms in 1984 served as a barometer: The state was visibly weakened, and the opposition responded to the opportunity with insurrection. The balance of power between the state and opposition, and thus the political opportunities open to each, had undergone a dramatic shift. At this point of heightened state vulnerability, domestic and international mobilization against apartheid was most effective. Community based insurgency
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within South Africa maintained instability through all but the most severe repression coupled with international opposition, the unfavorable business climate enhanced international commitment to sanctions against the apartheid state. Reforms had failed to quell the opposition, and the new level of repression reached after 1984 could only be seen as a temporary measure. Many segments of business and the state recognized that long-term solution depended on apartheids demise. In sum, the trajectory of events in South Africa supports the usefulness of the political economic model of compromise introduced in this paper. In South Africa, insurgency from below created and eventually sustained a prolonged period of instability that undermined the daily security and quality of life of white South Africans. That instability, in turn, undermined business condence, which caused the politicization of domestic capital, the ight of international capital, and an eventual realignment within the political system and the National Party. By the mid-1980s, the balance of power had shifted in South Africa to the extent that the government could no longer control the insurgency and the popular opposition recognized its own strength and ability to force change. Yet neither side had both the military power and political leverage to win the conict outright, and compromise presented the only available option. It was this shift in the balance of power, therefore, that allowed for the emergent ripe moment. The socio-political context of the latter 1980s was conducive to negotiations, and it was at this point that the various bargaining conditions began to converge. Domestic mediators, hurting stalemate, legitimate spokespersons, and a viable alternative to the conict nally allowed all parties to see their way to the bargaining table, forced them to make difcult compromises, and importantly averted nal escalation from insurrection to revolution. What can the case of South Africa tell us about conict and compromise more generally? In the end, any emergent theoretical model is strengthened not only by elegance and simplicity, but also by explanatory power, scope, and comprehensiveness. South Africa illustrates the theory of compromised revolution as a whole, but one case cannot decisively identify the combination of necessary and sufcient factors explaining compromise more generally. This study, and its case-specic conclusions, point to the need for further study: individual analyses and carefully chosen comparisons, as well as cross-national statistical analyses of the population of cases of post-World War II civil war.
NOTES
1. Consider, for example, the scale of death elsewhere in southern Africa in this period: Mozambique (1,050,000 between 1981 and 1994, attributed to civil war and famine); Angola (750,000 between 1975 and 1995).
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2. Conservative political organizations, on the one hand, and Black Consciousness and socialist factions, on the other, contended that their constituents were being sold out by the conciliatory stance of the NP and ANC leadership, respectively (Murray, 1994). 3. In 1986, Commonwealth members attempted to mediate, but the delegation acted more to pressure the state into a particular course of action. Two months later, the government attacked ANC bases in neighboring Commonwealth countries, demonstrating unwillingness to compromise. The mediation ended immediately, but a general model for compromise had been introduced. Later, Britain and the U.S. attempted mediation between the ANC and NP, but their efforts were seen as disingenuous (Landsberg, 1994; Thompson, 1995). 4. Not all South African churches supported reforms or the negotiation process. By 1986, however, even the Dutch Reformed Church (NGK), had publicly rejected apartheid, a major shift in policy that led to the establishment of new, splinter churches still willing to uphold the system (Welsh, 1999). See Kuperus (1999) for analysis of the largely symbiotic, if complex, relationship between the NGK and the NP government. 5. The system of apartheid in South Africa was based on race and class relations rooted in European colonization and competition (Mugabane, 1990). See Thompson (1995), Welsh (1999), and Wilson and Thompson (Eds) (19681971) for comprehensive historical analyses of South Africa. For a broader treatment of the southern Africa region, as a whole, see Omer-Cooper (1994). 6. Afrikaner and British rivalry was rooted in early competition over the Cape Colony, culminating in Britains victory over the Boer Army in the South African War (18991902). During the post-war period of reconstruction, emergent patterns of social, political, and economic relations included Afrikaner dominance in politics (to the exclusion of black Africans), English economic dominance (in the newly rationalized gold and diamond mining industries), and heightened levels of social conict and white (Afrikaner) worker resistance. 7. Marx (1992) presents a rened analysis of the development and interrelations of major opposition movements and movement organizations in South Africa throughout the apartheid period. Jukes (1995) highlights the opposition leadership roles of Mandela, Biko, and Matthews. See also Holland (1989) for a history of the ANC, Ellis and Sechaba (1992) for the ANCs relationship with the Communist Party. 8. Debate within the white electorate, of course, had been ongoing and included white opposition to apartheid as represented in the South African Communist Party and the Liberal Party. See Vigne (1997) for a history of the Liberal Party. Krger (1960) and Kotz and Greyling (1991) provide details on party politics and political organizations throughout South Africas history. 9. See Gastrow (1995) for a reprint of the content of the NPA, as well as a concise discussion of its implementation, including successes and weaknesses.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Southern Sociological Society Meetings, New Orleans, April 2000. Bill Winders, John Boli, Richard Rubinson, Terry Boswell, Mamadi Matlhako, Richard A. Garnett, E. C. Ejiogu,
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Edwin H. Rhyne and Donald N. Rallis were especially generous with their time and ideas. In addition, graduate student and faculty participants in the Sociology Department Seminar at Emory University provided helpful comments on an early version of this research. Finally, the editor and two anonymous reviewers for Research in Social Movements, Conicts and Change provided insightful suggestions, helping shape its current form. I am grateful to all of these individuals.
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EXPANDING POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES AND CHANGING COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES IN THE COMPLEMENTARY AND ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE MOVEMENT
Melinda Goldner
ABSTRACT
This study examines how collective identities change when the political opportunity structure becomes more favorable to a social movement. Activists within the complementary and alternative medicine (CAM) movement in the San Francisco, California Bay area have traditionally competed with physicians by criticizing Western medicine and providing an alternative medical model for consumers. Physicians are increasingly interested in CAM given nancial changes within Western medicine, and increased consumer interest and governmental recognition of CAM. Activists in the Bay area are beginning to form networks with physicians to develop an integrative model of medicine, which combines Western and alternative approaches. Consequently, some activists are changing their collective identity now that they are advocating an integrative, rather than
Political Opportunities, Social Movements, and Democratization, Volume 23, pages 69102. Copyright 2001 by Elsevier Science Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved. ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2
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alternative, model of medicine. Activists within any social movement do not always agree on goals and strategies, however. The aim of this research is to contrast the collective identity of alternative and integrative activists, and to show that the latter identity is gaining prominence as political opportunities become available to the movement. This research contributes to the work of contemporary social movement theorists who are examining the relationship between the political opportunity structure and collective identities.
INTRODUCTION
This study examines how collective identities change when the political opportunity structure becomes more favorable to a social movement. I argue that San Francisco, California Bay area activists within the complementary and alternative medicine (CAM) movement have traditionally competed with physicians by criticizing Western medicine and providing an alternative medical model for consumers. The collective identity of many activists within the movement, both as practitioners and clients, has in the past reected their status as outsiders to Western medicine. They have achieved success with this strategy, especially since physicians and consumers are increasingly frustrated by their lack of choices and control under managed care. As an increasing number of consumers have tried CAM, the federal government has begun to support research on these techniques. Financial changes, increased consumer interest and governmental recognition have led to political opportunities for the movement. Activists in the Bay Area are beginning to form networks with physicians and develop an integrative model of medicine. Integrative medicine combines Western and alternative approaches. Consequently, some activists are changing their collective identity now that they are advocating an integrative, rather than alternative, model of medicine. I use the word changing, rather than changed, for two reasons. First, integrative medicine is an emerging trend so most activists are just beginning to change their collective identity. Second, I attempt to answer Meluccis (1995) call to examine collective identity as a processual, rather than reied part of movements. Activists within any social movement do not always agree on goals and strategies. Some activists will always advocate an alternative medical model despite increasing opportunities, while others have always desired integration with Western medicine despite long-existing barriers. The aim of this research is to describe two identities that exist within the CAM movement in the Bay area, a collective identity for alternative activists and one for integrative activists. More importantly, I argue
Complementary and Alternative Medicine Movement
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that the collective identity of integrative activists is gaining prominence as political opportunities become available. This research contributes to the work of contemporary social movement theorists who are examining the relationship between the political opportunity structure and collective identities.
THE LINK BETWEEN THE POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURE AND COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES WITHIN THE CAM MOVEMENT
Social movement theorists have increasingly understood that we must simultaneously study cultural elements such as collective identities and structural elements such as political opportunities (Taylor & Whittier, 1995). Tarrow (1994) denes the political opportunity structure as consistent but not necessarily formal, permanent or national dimensions of the political environment which either encourage or discourage people from using collective action (18). Factors external to social movements, such as support from the government and political elites, comprise the political opportunity structure. Activists develop collective identities within this broader system of opportunities and constraints (Melucci, 1995, 47). Social movement theorists have examined how activists change their collective identity when the political opportunity structure is more hostile to a movement (Gamson, 1995; Taylor, 1989; Whittier, 1995). This study adds to this literature by describing how activists alter their collective identity as the political opportunity structure becomes more favorable to the CAM movement. Collective identities transform individuals into political actors and unite activists within a movement. Taylor and Whittier (1992) dene collective identity as the shared denition of a group that derives from members common interests, experiences and solidarity (105). Collective identities enable participants to turn their sense of who they are into a sense of we tied into a movement aimed at social change (Billig, 1995; Gamson, 1992; Klandermans, 1992; Taylor & Whittier, 1992). This transformation from individual to political actor takes place within social movement communities, which are informal networks of politicized participants who are active in promoting the goals of a social movement outside the boundaries of formal movement organizations (Buechler, 1990, 61). Activists construct collective identities within these communities by dening boundaries to differentiate challengers from groups in power, developing political consciousness to dene their shared discontent and interests, and creating strategies to politicize everyday life (Taylor & Whittier, 1992, 111). Researchers linking the political opportunity structure with collective identities examine whether activists open or close their boundaries during hostile
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political climates. Joshua Gamson (1995) argues that theorists need to question under what political conditions social movements need a stable collective identity. He suggests that closing group boundaries, one element of collective identities, is a necessary survival strategy. Taylor (1989) argues that social movement organizations can act as abeyance structures sustaining a movement during a non-receptive political environment (761). Though the movement operates on a smaller scale, activists sustain a collective identity that gives them a sense of purpose. Activists focus on maintaining their commitment, rather than recruiting new participants. Taylors research illustrates how feminists in the National Womans Party survived the hostile period between the 1920s and the 1960s by closing the boundaries of their collective identity. Whittier (1995), on the other hand, shows that feminist boundaries became more permeable during the abeyance period in the 1980s and 1990s. On the contrary, this study examines what happens to activists collective identity when the political opportunity structure becomes more favorable. Political opportunities arise when inuential allies, such as physicians, make themselves available to activists or when cleavages are created among elites (Tarrow, 1994).1 Physicians are making themselves available to activists within the CAM movement. This is due to the growing dissatisfaction that physicians have with structural changes within medicine, the increasing interest their patients have in CAM, and the escalating attention paid to CAM by the federal government. First, nancial and organizational changes in Western medicine, such as the development of managed care, frustrate consumers and physicians alike. As medicine becomes a for-prot enterprise, nancial managers assume power at the expense of physicians (Gray, 1986, 172). Some physicians become frustrated by their loss of authority; whereas, some consumers become frustrated by their lack of choices in this type of business arrangement. I have argued elsewhere that this has led to a small, but increasing number of physicians who are beginning to search for alternative ways to practice medicine, as well as alternative means to retain frustrated consumers. Second, there are a variety of reasons, extending well beyond frustration with managed care, as to why consumers try CAM. For example, some consumers believe that CAM is more effective than Western medicine for chronic conditions such as back pain or arthritis (Eisenberg et al., 1993; Mattson, 1982). Two important points are that the number of consumers trying CAM is substantial and growing (Eisenberg et al., 1998), and that physicians are increasingly exploring these techniques due to consumer interest and demand for CAM. Finally, government sponsored research on CAM has made physician interest more acceptable. The federal government established the National Center for Complementary and Alternative Medicine as part of the National Institutes of Health in 1992 (formerly the Ofce of Alternative Medicine). More physicians are
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willing to discuss CAM as scientic research on the efcacy and safety of specic techniques becomes available (Greene, 2000). Changes in the political opportunity structure help us explain why activists have been able to change their strategy from providing an alternative model of medicine to creating an integrative model that combines Western and alternative medicine. Physicians are increasingly interested in CAM given the changes just described. Yet, most physicians do not abandon their Western training or techniques to practice CAM. Rather, they nd ways to incorporate CAM into their Western practice. These physicians are assisting activists with an integrative model of medicine, rather than an alternative system. This is the explicit aim of organizations such as the American Holistic Medical Association (Goldstein et al., 1987; Wolpe, 1990). As physicians advocate CAM, the hospitals where they work have begun to incorporate some of these techniques, as well. For example, patients can learn yoga and meditation at the University of Massachusetts Medical Center in Worcester or the Deaconess Hospital in Boston (Barasch, 1992, 89). As activists begin to see opportunities to inuence Western medicine, some shift their boundaries and political consciousness to reect their new goal.
METHODOLOGY
I studied the CAM movement in the San Francisco, California Bay area. Researchers and participants identied this location as an early and continued arena of activism within this movement (Baer et al., 1998; Berliner & Salmon, 1979). From 1996 to 1998 I conducted interviews, observed various organizations and analyzed secondary materials (Van Maanen, 1982). First, I interviewed forty individuals. Of the forty respondents, thirty (75%) were practitioners who used a variety of alternative techniques, such as acupuncture, massage, Traditional Chinese Medicine, homeopathy, chiropractic, Reiki, Qigong and Rolng. Though at the time of the study the remaining ten respondents were clients of alternative techniques only (25%), two of these individuals were training to become alternative practitioners, but had not nished. Overall,2 respondents were overwhelmingly female (73%) and Caucasian (97%), and ranged in age from 35 to 63 (mean age = 47). All respondents had taken some college courses, and 71% nished some graduate work or earned graduate degrees. Religious or spiritual afliation varied greatly, though 26% said they had no afliation whatsoever. Forty percent of respondents are currently married, though an additional 33% were previously married. Finally, respondents did not report their incomes accurately enough to ascertain a reliable range or mean.
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After I completed the majority of the interviews, the second part of my research entailed clinical observations of a womens clinic, a solo practitioner sharing ofce space with other alternative practitioners, and an integrative clinic that combines Western and alternative medicine. First, the womens clinic offers a variety of gynecological services, both Western and alternative. Second, the solo practitioner is an acupuncturist who rents ofce space to other bodyworkers who each have an independent business. Third, the integrative clinic brings together a variety of practitioners, such as an acupuncturist, massage therapist, chiropractor, physician and nurse. Staff members work together as a team to integrate Western and alternative medicine on a case by case basis, rather than just refer clients back and forth as is the case with the solo practitioners. Patients may use Western or alternative medicine exclusively or integrate both types of treatment modalities. Observations in the three clinics varied depending on the type of access I was allowed and the number of interviews I was able to conduct. In one clinic I interviewed staff members and informally observed the setting and interactions while waiting for these appointments. In the other two clinics I interviewed practitioners, observed in the waiting room and interviewed clients before or after their appointments. In addition to the three clinics, I observed a professional association, with nearly 200 members, that is exploring integrative medicine. One newsletter said the group consisted of over 60 physicians, various alternative practitioners such as chiropractors, acupuncturists, naturopaths, bodyworkers, and a small number of lay people. Members educate each other about complementary and alternative techniques and discuss ways to integrate Western and alternative medicine. In addition to observing and interviewing members, I analyzed videotapes of eight monthly meetings and a professional symposium members had organized (Jorgensen, 1989, 22; Van Maanen, 1982, 103). Finally, I analyzed secondary materials such as newspaper and magazine articles, activist newsletters, event announcements, position papers and clinic handouts (Jorgensen, 1989, 22). I did not limit these sources to published material, because I was also interested in literature that activists would give to clients of alternative clinics or members of alternative organizations. This was not a random sample, nor were these documents representative of the movement as a whole. Rather, they helped me understand what was occurring within the movement in the San Francisco, California Bay area. Schneirov and Geczik (1996) argue that the larger CAM movement operates on two levels simultaneously. First, it acts as an interest group through lobbying groups such as the Nutrition Health Alliance and professional associations such as the American Holistic Medical Association, an organization comprised of approximately 350 physicians and osteopaths (Goldstein et al., 1987; Wolpe, 1990).
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Interest groups try to mobilize support through advocating legislative reform, educating the general public, acquiring resources, and developing coalitions (Schneirov & Geczik, 1996, 630631). Second, the movement operates in submerged networks of social movement communities (Buechler, 1990). Activists attempt to create and sustain an alternative way of life through sharing information (Schneirov & Geczik, 1996, 631). Submerged networks have played a larger role within the CAM movement than formal organizations such as lobbying groups. Building on their work, my data provide further information on both interest groups and submerged networks. I rst describe the collective identity of activists advocating alternative medicine within submerged networks so that the transition to the newer collective identity of integrative medicine is clear.
COLLECTIVE IDENTITY OF ALTERNATIVE ACTIVISTS

Alternative activists began by creating an alternative model of medicine intending to challenge Western medicine and inuence individuals. These activists created boundaries that positioned themselves as an alternative to Western medicine. Alternative practitioners and their patients developed a political consciousness as they learned that others had the same frustrations and experiences with Western medicine. Their personal troubles became public issues that required collective, structural solutions (Mills, 1959). Activists turned their practice and use of CAM into a form of activism that politicized everyday life in order to improve upon Western medicine and support alternative beliefs. This collective identity, though retained by some activists today, was more prevalent at the beginning of the movement. Activists were trying to justify their place, however narrow, within the health care system. English-Lueck (1990) points out that this strategy was also advantageous because any alternative system must dene itself as narrowly as possible outside orthodox medicine. In the beginning, this [was] a wise strategy orthodox medicine was unmoved by the intrusion of an upstart fad (150). Boundaries Activists create collective identities that clarify their opposition to dominant representations, beliefs and discourse. Developing this collective or oppositional identity requires that activists establish boundaries that dene who is inside or outside the movement (Taylor & Whittier, 1992). First, Schneirov and Geczik (1996) argue that activists construct a moral boundary between alternative health and the outside world by differentiating themselves from larger society,
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which they describe as overly consumerist, undisciplined and passive (638). Second, activists dene their interests in opposition to dominant groups since they draw a boundary between themselves and Western medicine. EnglishLueck (1990) positions CAM as part of a larger social movement, introducing countercultural values and rejecting the dominant views of orthodox medicine and traditional authority (2). In the beginning of a movement, activists need to assert their differences with existing models in order to convince the public that they provide a better alternative. An activist in my study explains that in the early phase of social movements you have to justify yourself, and you put someone down to do that. This means that alternative activists were competing with physicians (Rosch & Kearney, 1985). As English-Lueck (1990) explains:
holistic health, despite individual allies within the orthodox medical world, is not part of the elite. In fact, for its own initial survival, it needed to compete with that elite . . . Each needed to dene itself more clearly to exclude the other . . . (150).
Activists identied as alternative both out of desire and necessity. On the one hand, they desire to stay outside the system (English-Lueck, 1990, 155). For example, Kleinman (1996) examines a holistic health center where the practitioners and staff identied as alternative actors within an alternative organization. One member asked, if we arent on the edge, who will be (48)? On the other hand, activists are excluded by Western medicine given the competitive stance they had taken towards physicians. Gevitz (1988) says that unorthodox practitioners only share alienation from the dominant medical profession (2). Or as one activist in this study put it, both sides are weary of the other. In my research, the womens clinic best exemplies the boundaries drawn by an alternative identity. The director clearly states their position in relation to Western medicine in the following quotation:
I think we were a decade ahead of what everyone else was doing. That was part of our problem. We were so sophisticated and so simple in what we were doing that it [was] difcult to be recognized by insurance, back-up doctors, hospitals [and] traditional medicine. So you [had] to work within that battle. It [was a battle], because in that model we [were] being an anarchist to the system [emphasis added].
Political Consciousness Just as boundaries are oppositional, activists develop a political consciousness that is based on opposition to existing frameworks and understandings (Coy & Woehrle, 1996). Political consciousness involves interpretive frameworks that emerge out of a challenging groups struggle to dene and realize its interests
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(Taylor & Whittier, 1992, 114). Individuals begin to evaluate and critique Western medicine as they interact with activists in social movement communities. Activists do more than introduce participants to specic ways of believing and acting. Social movements need to enable individuals to blame their grievances on a structural rather than personal cause in order to develop an oppositional or political consciousness (Feree & Miller, 1985). So activists enable participants to blame the structure of Western medicine for their discontent, not their individual relationships with Western providers.3 Their critique revolves around Western techniques such as drugs and the way physicians practice Western medicine. I limit the discussion here to activists critique of Western techniques, because this is what differentiates alternative and integrative activists. I discuss activists critique of physicians practices under integrative medicine, because the newer identity shares this critique. Alternative activists believe that Western medicine is ineffective given its limited set of techniques. An acupuncturist notes that, Western medicine has nothing to offer or what they have to offer is dangerous. One chiropractor adds that Western medicine is black and white. Take these drugs or have this surgery or thats it. Theres nothing in between. [There are] not enough options. Similar to Lowenbergs (1989) ndings, alternative activists in my research were particularly frustrated that physicians rely upon drugs that are ineffective at treating the underlying condition. A nurse says physicians overuse prescription drugs because they have lost touch with any other way to cure people. I dont think they know how to do anything but write prescriptions. I think its pretty sad. A homeopath says that parents have seen their child [receive a] fth course of antibiotics, and [their child] still [has] an earache. One holistic nurse explained that the largest growth in her practice was from parents seeking alternatives to Western drugs for their children. In particular, activists believe that drugs simply mask symptoms. In contrast, activists believe that alternative medicine treats the source of the illness rather than the symptoms. One activist adds that in alternative medicine the:
healing process [is] different. They actually feel better from the inside and its a unique experience not what you get from a drug they are restored to a state of health you are supposed to have which is different from a drug thats masking symptoms.
Specically, many clients of alternative medicine have chronic or terminal diseases, as opposed to acute conditions. Respondents believe alternative medicine is better for chronic ailments such as arthritis, because it can improve their quality of life; whereas, Western medicine does not have much to offer. A respondent says:
My own doctor says the hardest thing as a doctor is to have this revolving door [for] a number of patients [where all she] can do is give painkillers or some kind of maintenance
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drug. For example, people with backaches are constantly with doctors and very often they can do very little about it, or they can help the patient get over this bout of back pain and its back in six months again. Many of the alternatives help people to deal with that and get rid of that on a permanent basis.
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Likewise, a woman studying Qigong suggests that most of the ones who have conditions like cancer are the ones [where the] Western medicine profession says we cant do anything else. Unwilling to give up, they turn to alternative practitioners. A clinic director explains that there are the truly desperate people. Theyve done everything. They are very sick. They dont have options so they gure I dont care if its the voodoo man, Im going to try something. As a chiropractor puts it, some are fearful. They dont know quite what to expect. They could be [thinking] I dont think its going to work, but Ill try it because what have I got to lose. Activists see that Western medicine as a whole, not just their individual physician, has problems curing many illnesses and overusing drugs. Some activists gain this perspective as practitioners. To illustrate, a physicians assistant said he grew frustrated with the lack of results in Western medicine since he worked in hospitals and labs specically, and he didnt see people getting better. I kept seeing the same people coming back over and over again. Others developed a critique of Western medicine when they learned that others shared their experiences as patients. Members share information and stories within social movement communities. One woman who organizes support groups says:
There are people who come to the [support] groups who are very cynical about the whole medical profession. Theyve been put through the ringer some of them. Its just a ghastly experience. Sometimes its been a year and nally the diagnosis is made and if theyd gotten it a year ago they would have been so much better off. So they come bruised, beaten down, very discouraged and very angry. They come here for healing. Thats what we are all looking for.
Members develop a political consciousness through exchanging stories and nding that they are not the only ones with this type of negative experience. This organizer goes on to say that people learn through these groups that we are all in the same boat. To illustrate, each week group members tell the others how they are feeling, and what is going on with their medical condition. Other members then get to:
respond to one another because most of the people understand what the persons talking about. [They] have experienced something very similar or exactly the same thing. We do not give advice. [Instead] they are sharing [to] afrm one another.
These stories also provide members with an alternative approach to health care. They help individuals who are sick nd someone who has lived another way (Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen, book promotion, Mill Valley, California, 10/8/96).
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Activists must also begin to identify with alternative beliefs and practices in order to acquire a political consciousness. Core beliefs include dening health as well-being, not the absence of disease, stressing individual responsibility for health, advocating health education, controlling social and environmental determinants of health, and using natural therapeutic techniques (Kopelman & Moskop, 1981). Activists in my study advocate all of these beliefs. In particular, many individuals begin to realize that they are personally responsible for their health. Alternative practitioners offer clients more involvement in their health care. One client says, I think part of it is just observing, and then becoming curious enough or taking some responsibility and realizing that thoughts are creating our picture of health, our attitudes [and] our reality. Another client says she self-monitored [my Graves disease]. I guess most people think its risky, but I think I can monitor my body. An acupuncturist adds that when they see results they know they have a part in that. The womens clinic provides an ideal illustration, because clients refer to it as an oasis for self healing. The practitioners role is to educate and guide clients in developing their self-healing life-force energies (yer). The director remembers coming to this clinic as a client when it rst opened. She had a chronic condition that physicians kept telling her was a medical problem. When she told the Nurse Practitioner that she thought it was not a problem but her normal physical condition, the Nurse Practitioner agreed. She recalls how powerful it was to have a nurse tell her she was correct about her own body. After that, she never had a physical problem with the condition again. She does not believe that her body changed. Rather, this experience with the Nurse Practitioner changed her knowledge and condence. One client agrees with the director that this clinic is different because the practitioners listen and believe clients know their own bodies. She says that there is more communication with the practitioners at this clinic. She feels they really listen to her, and respect me for being an intelligent person who knows my body. Activists may have tried alternative medicine in response to their frustrations with Western medicine, but they stay with alternative practices because they believe that the techniques work and the beliefs resonate. If people werent getting results, they wouldnt continue, explains one respondent. A hypnotherapist said that one of the other practitioners she works with had back pain that Western medicine could not help. Within a week of various alternative therapies he was up and about. When that happens it does make a really profound difference in your life. You see that theres something else out there. Most importantly, these experiences have a transformative effect because participants turn their use or practice of alternative medicine into identication
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with the CAM movement. A client says she is active in the movement, because alternative medicine has changed my life. Polizticizing Everyday Life Some of the rst studies of the CAM movement noted that alternative activists were more focused on changing individuals than existing institutions (Alster, 1989; Berliner & Salmon, 1979; Mattson, 1982). They epitomized what Guseld (1994) describes in the following quotation:
Many health movements, such as holistic health care . . . [are] not directed at changing the state or an institution. Holistic health movements will have little impact on the state, nor do they seek it. They are dissenting movements within medicine, but do little to change professional medicine, develop new state laws, or protest current medical or hospital practices. They become arenas of action with little direct conict with institutions. They are alternatives to professional medicine; they are not movements to change the medical institutions. In a sense, then [sic] bypass rather than change institutions (6566).
Similar to other social movements, alternative activists have employed what Lichterman (1995) calls personalized political strategies (Echols, 1989; Taylor, 1996; Taylor & Rupp, 1993; Taylor & Whittier, 1992; Whittier, 1995). Activists engage in personalized political strategies in their everyday life, not through their participation in social movement organizations (Lichterman, 1995). Following the work of Guseld (1994), as well as Schneirov and Geczik (1996), my study nds that the CAM movement is embedded in everyday actions and interactions in addition to organized and directed action. Some participants dene their lifestyle changes as a form of activism, because they put their ideology into practice. These are action[s] taken with the recognition that it is not isolated and individualistic (Guseld, 1994, 66). Membership is uid in this type of social movement, meaning that movements can have consequences and inuence behavior without the kind of commitment or ideological agreement that is often posited for them (Guseld, 1994, 70). Many participants perceive their actions as activism that is connected to something much larger. In my study, activists engage in personalized political strategies when they choose alternative medicine as consumers. In contrast, practitioners deliver services, empower people and transform the workplace as Hoffman (1989) found with activists in other health movements. Clients believe that using alternative medicine is a form of activism, because their choices have political consequences. One respondent says she is active in the movement in so far as I boycott Western medicine as much as I can. Another client says that part of his activism is letting people know what has worked for me. Id be happy to give them my acupuncturists phone number.
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[I try to] get people to move on things. He adds that everybody who knows me is much more open about acupuncture because of my experiences. A number of people have tried it because of that. Using alternative medicine and sharing ones experiences are both personalized political strategies. Activists empower themselves and others in order to make social changes. A volunteer at an alternative clinic says:
I think change starts from within yourself, so thats what Im focusing on right now. Then [I will] empower individuals. I think working with individuals, the word will spread, not just words, but feelings and thoughts. So theyre more empowered because of their health. Whether it be political change or social change, theyll be able to be more focused and more sensitive . . . Thats really powerful, I think, to let other people realize they have this unlimited power thats inside.
He goes on to say that protesting and boycotting [are] all good, but I just know theres other ways of having your voice heard, and other ways of making change than [the] traditional marching in. Those [methods] are good. There are just other ways. A homeopath adds, I think the world will change more when people change rather than holding a sign. Thats holistic too to have the whole person involved, not just what they say or do. The relationships practitioners develop with their clients are deliberate strategies that address patients concerns with Western medicine and provide an alternative model of medicine. These relationships are the critical variable differentiating alternative and Western medicine (Lowenberg, 1989), and form the basis of the personalized political strategies that practitioners use. For example, practitioners transform the workplace into an arena for empowering individuals. Practitioners include clients in medical decisions based on the core belief that individuals must take responsibility for their health (Kopelman & Moskop, 1981). The director of the womens clinic says that:
instead of this person [physician] having all the information and know[ing] whats best for you at all times . . . there is an exchange of information, communication and education that enables the person to heal [him or herself].
Practitioners and clients both see these personalized political strategies as activism since empowered individuals can eventually inuence others and society. Similar to clients, a homeopath sees activism as healing and teaching work activating people from the inside out by practicing and teaching homeopathy. Joining a [professional homeopathic] organization is more outer preparation. Individuals create oppositional identities through these interactions (Schneirov & Geczik, 1996; Taylor & Whittier, 1992). Social movement communities allow individuals to experiment with new authority patterns, new forms of organization, and new ideas (Schneirov & Geczik, 1996, 638).
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Participants are also able to share stories and provide alternatives to dominant cultural codes about professional medicine within these social movement communities (Fine, 1995; Lichterman, 1996; Melucci, 1985). As the political opportunity structure becomes more favorable to the movement some activists will retain the collective identity just described; however, others will change their collective identity given their increased involvement with Western medicine and a desire to gain even more access. English-Lueck (1990) argues that movements organize on four levels; the individual, the group, the network and the community at large. Describing the CAM movement, she adds:
The individual level is more important at one phase of the movement, the group in another, and so forth. As critical crossroads are reached within the movement, some practitioners will opt to stay with the stage emphasizing the individual, for that is why they joined (110).
In my research I nd that some activists are beginning to identify differently, though, given that their position in relation to Western medicine has changed. This formerly narrow collective identity becomes less necessary and advantageous.
COLLECTIVE IDENTITY OF INTEGRATIVE ACTIVISTS

The newer collective identity behind integrative medicine broadens activists boundaries, political consciousness and strategies. Examining transformations in collective identities can help us understand how social movements change over time since identities are not static (Coy & Woehrle, 1996; Melucci, 1995; Whittier, 1995). Whittier (1995) argues that even a few years can make a signicant difference in an identity since attitudes, information and the oppositions position change rapidly. Whittier explores how the collective identity of feminist changed as new cohorts entered the womens movement. Following Whittiers framework, I outline how some Bay area activists are beginning to change their collective identity from alternative to integrative. Activists change their boundaries, political consciousness and strategies as political opportunities arise. In terms of boundaries, some activists in this study have expanded their denition of we to include physicians. Physicians bring legitimacy and resources to the movement so this group of Bay area activists embrace their increasing involvement, even though they must make adjustments. For example, activists are very concerned with appearing professional since physicians are garnering more media exposure for the movement and activists are wanting to emulate physicians. Integrative activists are still critical of the way physicians practice Western medicine, especially their objectication of
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patients and over-reliance on technology and physical processes; however, activists are less openly critical of Western techniques such as drugs and surgery. This reects a signicant change in their political consciousness. Finally, activists have developed a range of strategies to gain access to mainstream institutions such as hospitals. Attempting to inuence existing institutions is allowing activists to extend beyond the personalized political strategies they were employing to change individuals. Activists are now seeking support from businesses and insurance companies. Opening Boundaries Boundaries identify individuals as members of a group, because they establish differences between themselves and those outside the group (Taylor & Whittier, 1992). In this way collective identities regulate membership and distinguish activists (Melucci, 1995). These boundaries make participants aware of their similarities with other activists, as well as differences from outsiders. Given changes in physicians attitudes toward CAM and the resources they can garner, some activists in the Bay area now welcome physicians into the movement. Activists alter their denition of outsider as physicians move from adversary to possible ally. Rather than staying on the fringe of Western medicine, these activists are trying to bridge the gap between Western and alternative medicine as one respondent said. Physician involvement has changed interactions within the movement. Activists try to mimic physicians professional norms, especially since physicians bring a heightened level of exposure to the movement. Imitating the professional trappings of orthodox health practices can be seen as one practical solution for gaining legitimacy (English-Lueck, 1990, 154). Activists begin to change their collective identity as more physicians join their organizations and practices. A practitioner involved with an integrative practice says, I just see that theres interest in alternative medicine. For a while it didnt include many physicians, and now that seems to be one of the groups leading the way. A physician is on staff at the integrative clinic. Physicians established the professional association, and one acts as the director. The latest gures for this organizations membership show that more than 60 of the 200 current members are physicians. This study cannot determine the extent to which physicians simply advocate CAM or actually identify with the CAM movement. Yet, as more physicians explore CAM, whether they identify or not, activists begin to change their collective identity. Activists now call their work complementary or integrative, rather than alternative. A dance therapist says she views her work as complementary. Clients would agree with that. A few people wouldnt want to see a physician, but the majority combine modalities.
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Activists are willing to open the movement to physicians because they are noticing changes in physicians attitudes toward CAM. A Rolfer says she noticed a change in physicians reactions. [Physicians] have heard of Dr. Bernie Siegel.4 There is more popular awareness [among physicians] that alternative medicine can work in some cases, and that nothing works universally. Another practitioner says she sees a lot of AMA types reaching out for holistic healing. A client even says she has been moving back into including Western medicine, because it seems a little more open than it was. In particular, activists recognize vast changes in the medical training that physicians receive. A practitioner says that:
medical schools are starting to offer strong options for nutrition, acupuncture and homeopathy. Its not enough yet, and its still offered on an elective basis as far as my understanding goes, but I think thats where the changes are going to occur. [Medical schools] already are shifting so radically.
Seventy-ve medical schools are now offering courses on CAM, including Yale, Johns Hopkins, Stanford, Mount Sinai, Harvard and Columbia (Conan, 2000; Phalen, 1998). Activists hope that this education will lead to acceptance. A client explains:
I have seen much greater acceptance within the Western medical community. There will be some level of openness as more doctors in training hit the streets. They were weaned on the idea that the Western scientic method gives us good medicine, but has its own biases and limitations. I know someone going to medical school and hell be open. He may be concerned with the amount of money being spent by the client, but not since he wants it. He wont be inherently threatened. He wont be trained in the I am God series.
Activists are also embracing physician support because of the resources that they bring to the movement, such as increased media exposure and public support. The media have certainly covered CAM more in the past several years. Due to their credentials and respectability, physician interest in CAM is responsible for much of this media attention. Dr. Andrew Weil and Dr. Deepak Chopra are particularly visible.5 In part, activists open their boundaries to physicians for the resources, such as media attention, they provide. Activists want to appear credible to these physicians and to be worthy of their participation. However, these activists also recognize that the movement receives more public exposure and support given physician involvement. As Lowenberg (1989) argues, once a group of physicians started advocating these themes [of holistic health], the public listened. When less powerful groups such as nursing and public health had represented the same themes, they did not have the equivalent impact on public perceptions (91). Activists are even willing to make signicant changes to their collective identity given the power physicians continue to hold in our society.
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Allowing physicians into the movement changes interactions between activists and physicians. One respondent calls herself an evolutionist not an activist, because of her desire to work with physicians. She rarely attends conferences solely for alternative practitioners, nor does she join alternative organizations, because she wants to maintain her legitimacy with people in the system. Activists who are working directly with physicians are also concerned with appearing professional. To illustrate, the professional association organized a symposium to educate practitioners about alternative techniques and explore ways to integrate Western and alternative medicine. Speakers explained a range of techniques, such as homeopathy and acupuncture, and audience members asked questions as to how to incorporate these techniques into their work. Members discussed professionalism throughout the organizing stages, especially since they wanted favorable media coverage. They had a strict dress code for speakers that included specic information on how to look best on camera. A professional meeting planner asked each speaker to prepare a one minute sound bite on their presentations in order to increase the chances that the local news stations would cover their symposium. One member said:
they were concerned that [the symposium] came off looking professional, and I think they achieved that. It was not a scientic conference. It was more of a program that was orchestrated. I knew that going in. As long as you dont masquerade as one thing and do another, [it is okay to do this].
This group had been interested in their public image long before the symposium. They have a public relations committee focused on maintaining our public image. These examples illustrate how members are aware of how they need to portray themselves professionally if they want favorable media coverage. Yet, members concern for professionalism is also tied to the fact that physicians were involved. One member said:
[Physicians] are taking a risk [by exploring integrative medicine], and with good justication. Its not just paranoia.6 They know the power of the state board and what it can do to you . . . And they see security in numbers. If they get a movement going thats large, and therefore has political strength, they will be less susceptible to divide and conquer tactics. So they want [the symposium] to look good (emphasis added).
Activists use professionalism as a way to appear legitimate before the larger public and physicians within their movement. Activists believe it is advantageous to bring physicians into the CAM movement despite any changes they may need to make. Social movement theorists argue that collective identities can be disembedded from the context of their creation so they are recognizable by outsiders and widely available for adoption (Taylor & Whittier, 1995). Friedman and McAdam (1992) warn
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against this. They argue that social movements should restrict access to their collective identity, because activists can then control it as a selective incentive or enticement to participate (165). If activists do not restrict access, individuals may continue adopting the collective identity without participating in the social movement. Their very success in disseminating the collective identity undercuts their basis of existence, and the movement will die for lack of participation (Friedman & McAdam, 1992, 169). For example, women may still identify as feminist, but not participate in the womens movement. Feminism may fade because the movement loses activists. On the contrary, I believe that opening access to the collective identity to new participants, even physicians, during more favorable political climates, gives the movement access to a variety of resources and level of success previously unimagined. Changing Political Consciousness As activists open their boundaries to physicians they begin to modify their political consciousness. I already explained that alternative activists are critical of how physicians practice Western medicine. For example, activists believe that physicians are too rushed and impersonal so patients end up feeling alienated and disempowered. Integrative activists retain this critique of physicians practices, even though activists now work more closely with physicians. What is different is that whereas alternative activists also critique Western techniques such as drugs and surgery, integrative activists are more vocal about the need to retain these techniques in some circumstances. For example, a YOGA teacher says thats not to say there is not a time for the scalpel, antibiotics or an anti-inammatory. There certainly is, of course. Everything has a time and place. An acupuncturist adds that he would never omit all of the Western technological help thats available. Participants are willing to discuss the value of Western techniques now that they believe it is no longer a question of alternative or Western medicine, but how to use both. Even though integrative activists nd value in Western techniques, integrative activists blame medical training for the weaknesses in the way physicians practice these techniques. They criticize physicians for being emotionally distant, impersonal and rushed (Langone, 1996, 43). Western medical schools often stress detachment, or the impression that the medical doctor is personally disinterested. Hafferty (1991) argues that when faculty and students ridicule physicians who display emotion and question their abilities as physicians they reinforce this message of detachment (4849, 76). Jaffe et al. (1986) suggest that medical trainers assume that detachment helps a physician survive in a stressful job. One client said, Western medical doctors are trained to not get
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involved, not be too warm or connected . . . There is no time, and theyd burn out if they tried to connect to that many people. One female client adds that:
a lot of physicians dont receive training in what is traditionally called bedside manner. Theyre not trained to empathize with the person. [Rather] theyre trained to look at this person to gure out whats wrong with them, and give them something to make them better.
The result, activists argue, is that patients feel alienated and objectied. One client nds she has very little personal interaction with physicians. Activists suggest that CAM provides a better model. As stated before, proponents of holistic ideology believe that individuals are responsible for their health (Alster, 1989, 184). Consequently, alternative practitioners say they offer clients more involvement and control in their health care. An acupuncturist says she thinks holistic health care is more personal. Rather than presenting yourself to the doctor and saying x me, Im broken, they can do something about it. Activists also argue that CAM allows for an emotional connection between practitioners and their patients. It is more of an emotional involvement in holistic health care than regular medicine, because alternative practitioners typically ask about the clients emotional and mental well-being, as well as physical health. Another respondent argues that its more empowering to go to holistic practitioners . . . It tends to be more personal. You can feel their caring more. Its not so distant, and you are not objectied. Activists criticize physicians for more than being rushed and impersonal. When asked to dene CAM, respondents were most likely to say that health entails wellbeing, rather than simply the absence of disease. To be well or healthy, one must have physical, emotional, mental and spiritual balance. To help individuals attain well-being, alternative practitioners address all of these aspects of a clients life. They do not just focus on the diseased part of the client or the clients physical health. As a practitioner says, CAM look[s] at peoples health as not so much whats wrong, but really how to make the most of life. Activists argue that this belief, and subsequent clinical practice, runs counter to Western medicines focus on eliminating illness and physical symptoms. One acupuncturist says that CAM looks at the true complexity thats going on with each individual . . . Lets not pretend its just about a lesion or a bug. Thats naive. People are more than that. Activists continue to critique the way that physicians practice Western medicine and believe they offer a better alternative; however, activists are more vocal about the need to retain Western medicine, especially for diagnosis and crisis care. Several respondents said they would see a physician if they were in a car accident, or hit by a truck. One client says, dont get me wrong theres a place for crisis care, like with broken bones. A hypnotherapist says that when clients come in:
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we always recommend that they see a physician, because there are things, like setting a broken bone, that doctors do and we dont . . . I have nothing against conventional medicine. I know that in some cases it hasnt worked well for me, and some it has. So when I get something, which I dont very often, I go see the doctor. I go for check-ups and all those things you are supposed to do. Its just that I would like to see a little bit more choice for a client.
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Activists also believe Western drugs are useful for certain infections. Western medicine has its strengths. As my acupuncturist has reminded me, dont come to me if you have pneumonia. There is nothing I can do for you. A male client says that sometimes a physician is important to give a shot or pills to ght infection. A female client said she saw a physician to make sure I wasnt being foolish and ignoring a symptom that should be treated by Western medicine. There are times when I feel like attack is the best solution and go for the drugs. Many of these activists do not discount Western medicine, because we take our miracles where we can get them, as one woman put it. Activists believe physicians should use Western and alternative techniques within the framework of holistic ideology. Chow (with McGee, 1995), an acupuncturist and Qigong teacher, says she:
considered the positives and negatives of both Western medicine and Traditional Chinese Medicine. I decided to take the best of both approaches and blend them together to form a better system in terms of both cost and effectiveness . . . [She has] a very high regard for Western medicine, but strongly believes that if the impersonal high technology of modern Western medicine were combined with ancient Eastern concepts and practices, mankind would be better served (3132).
A massage therapist adds that doctors should be more tuned in to the holistic way of thinking. Activists believe that integrating Western and alternative techniques without adhering to these beliefs wont get results. Many feel that the worst case scenario is that physicians would co-opt alternative techniques such as acupuncture and homeopathy. Physicians would take over these techniques, and not use them in accordance with holistic principles. As activists develop integrative medicine, the extent to which activists will retain a commitment to holistic ideology remains to be seen. This study already found variation in how much alternative practitioners discuss the ideology behind their practices.7 Co-optation becomes a concern as activists expand their strategies to include engaging existing institutions more directly. Expanding Strategies Activists frequently base their strategies on the political environment, which consists of both resources and constraints (Freeman, 1979; Gamson, 1990, 1975; McAdam, 1983; Morris, 1984).8 For example, integrative activists retain the
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same personalized political strategies integral to the collective identity of alternative activists. Activists continue to deliver services and transform the workplace into an arena that challenges the practice of Western medicine and empowers clients. One activist says the movement is very grassroots . . . but at the same time I think you do need someone looking nationally, or at least statewide, to work with the insurance companies, to work with [medical] education. Consequently, activists have expanded their strategies to include seeking support from hospitals, businesses and insurance companies. Jenson (1995) argues that social movements seek recognition of their collective identity by institutions, even if this means making some concessions to gain entree. Activists now desire integration into mainstream organizations in addition to the personal changes in individuals they have always advocated. Activists still encourage consumers to use CAM, because these individual actions have political consequences. In part, physicians are interested in CAM because of increased consumer interest in these techniques (Eisenberg et al., 1998; Goldner, 1999). Activists are now extending beyond personalized political strategies, because they are hoping to inuence existing institutions, as well. Some activists are hoping to inuence Western medicine by working inside hospitals (Barasch, 1992). For example, yoga instructors work at some Kaiser Permanente hospitals in California, the Stress Reduction Clinic at the University of Massachusetts Medical Center in Worcester and Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City (Wolf, 1997). Activists also expand their strategies to inuence insurance companies since they have a great deal of power. One rolfer said, we are aware of the political side . . . We need to inuence the powers that be. For example, we need to show the insurance companies that they will better their bottom line with integrative medicine. He continues, right now some [potential patients] call me up and ask if Rolng will be covered, and when I say no, they dont come in. So we need to push to get this changed. Activists use several tactics to achieve this recognition by insurance companies. First, the professional association is providing care to a few individuals in order to develop a database on the cost effectiveness of integrative medicine. They hope that insurance companies will be convinced of the nancial savings from these data. Second, several practitioners in my study encouraged their patients to write their insurance company and legislators when their services were not covered. Finally, the integrative clinic was devising a strategy for obtaining clients through businesses and insurance companies. Some individuals were unable to pay for CAM. The director realized that insurance companies and businesses often have more power in making these decisions than individual consumers. For example, employers often pay for an employees insurance, thus determine the range of options available.
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Practitioners within the integrative clinic have emphasized cost-savings, and de-emphasized holistic ideology in order to obtain clients through insurance companies and businesses. Most of their iers say they provide effective, efcient and affordable care. By emphasizing results and cost-savings, this clinic is trying to work within the existing cultural framework and speak the language of businesses. They do not discuss their ideology, because they do not want employers or clients to think that they need to believe in holistic principles to get results. Therefore, the director said he would approach companies by saying forget all of the philosophy. We can help your employees stay healthier . . . He continues on to say, Im very careful about talking about this in general. When I speak in public its more about building bridges with the mainstream, [and] trying to be very, very inoffensive without compromising [the] basic principles. Hunt et al. (1994) explain that when movements interact with mainstream institutions, activists try to talk their language. Activists may examine audience identities to determine how to obtain their support. For example, a member of Nebraskans for Peace says that their organization realizes that elected ofcials face nancial constraints so activists emphasize the nancial bottom line when they discuss movement issues with these politicians (200). Hunt et al. (1994) argue that we have to examine the collective identity of the antagonist and audience, not just the protagonists, since identities are social constructions (192). Similarly, Coy and Woehrle (1996) argue that activists shaped their oppositional voices so they could be heard and accepted by specic audiences (287). Integrative activists want to change more than individuals. They want their ideas and techniques to transform Western medicine and nancial organizations. Activists open their boundaries to physicians because they bring increased exposure, legitimacy and allies to the movement. This means they must moderate their political consciousness so as not to exclude physicians or their techniques. As activists open their boundaries and modify their political consciousness, physicians and their patients become potential recruits. The extent to which physicians have actually joined the CAM movement, rather than simply supporting its goals, cannot be answered from this study. Yet, activists have new opportunities to inuence Western medicine, insurance companies and the society at large through their associations with physicians, whether they are activists within the movement or not. Activists are willing to forge new relationships with their former opposition, since physicians can help the movement achieve even greater success. Not every activist will change his or her collective identity as the political opportunity structure becomes more favorable, so multiple identities now exist within the CAM movement. Some activists will resist integration with Western
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medicine, because they fear co-optation. Other activists have always advocated integration, but have been unsuccessful with this goal until recently. Yet, I have shown that many activists in the Bay area acquire this newer collective identity of integrative medicine as opportunities have expanded for the movement. Considerably more activists advocated integrative medicine as opposed to alternative medicine. Integrative activists included those respondents afliated with the integrative clinic and professional association. This variation in identities best reects an activists degree of contact with Western medicine, as English-Lueck (1990) found. For example, practitioners within the integrative clinic were more aligned with the collective identity of integrative medicine than the womens clinic. This was due to the fact that they worked with Western medical providers and institutions more directly, as I just described. Physicians attitudes toward specic forms of CAM will inuence the amount and type of contact that activists can have with Western medicine. One activist explains that marginalized alternative practitioners will be more likely to advocate alternative medicine; whereas, alternative practitioners, whose techniques are more accepted by physicians, will be more likely to pursue integrative medicine. I discuss later how physicians feel about specic alternative techniques. What is important here is that variation in identities cannot be explained by which form of CAM activists used or practiced. For example, two respondents, both involved with Qigong, nonetheless identied differently. The same was true for two respondents both afliated with homeopathy. There are limitations with these data since I conducted a small, non-representative study of activists in one area, and not every respondent spoke to this issue directly since this research was exploratory. We need more data to clarify how signicant this change is, and what factors can explain why activists choose one identity over the other. The question becomes how will this newer collective identity affect the larger CAM movement and the level of success activists can achieve? To what extent will the movement begin to advocate integrative, rather than alternative, medicine? Other researchers have suggested that more activists prefer the goal of integrative medicine (Goldstein, 1999; Sharma, 1992). For example, Goldstein (1999) argues that most alternative practitioners and advocates see this process of assimilation as a good thing (226) (emphasis added). However, the debate over whether to institutionalize may lead to divisions within the movement (Reinelt, 1995; Spalter-Roth & Schreiber, 1995), possibly diminishing the level of success or leading to the demise of one faction. Differing perceptions of appropriate identities and strategies could also divide activists into two separate, but co-existing social movements: an alternative and an integrative medicine movement. Integrative medicine could remain as a new
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collective identity or emerge into a new social movement. Another possible outcome is that integrative medicine becomes co-opted. I explore this next.
CONCLUSION
New political opportunities are allowing activists in the Bay area to work more closely with physicians, thereby changing their collective identity. The increased complexity and scale of the medical eld have led to new nancial arrangements within Western medicine. Medicine has been transformed into a health care industry where prot, efciency, nancial managers and consumers take center stage. One physician suggested that people in his profession are now outsiders due to changes in medical reimbursement. Given the resulting dissatisfaction, some physicians are turning to complementary and alternative medicine for a solution. Other physicians are examining these techniques given increased consumer interest and governmental research. Activists see this opening in the political opportunity structure as an opportunity to work with physicians to integrate Western and alternative medicine. This study shows how some activists change their collective identity as a result. However, the outcome of this new strategy is far from clear. Following the work of recent social movement theorists, my study examines how activists transform their collective identity when they take advantage of expanding political opportunities. Physicians bring signicant resources to the movement. For example, their power and legitimacy can inuence insurance companies and businesses to support alternative techniques. Consequently, some activists willingly open their boundaries to physicians and change their political consciousness for both ideological and practical reasons. Holistic ideology states that practitioners need to use multiple therapies since they address more than physical symptoms; rather, practitioners need to examine how illness can result from emotional, spiritual and social problems, as well (Alster, 1989, 61). Activists have an expanded selection of tools for helping patients when they work with physicians (newsletter of the professional association). Practically, activists realize that the movement gains potential patients if they moderate their stance to advocate alternative techniques as a complement to, rather than replacement for, Western medicine. Fewer individuals are willing to use CAM if it means abandoning Western practices. Some activists alter their collective identity to bring increased resources to the movement. On a strategic level, alternative practitioners know they will gain legitimacy and possibly insurance reimbursement if they work with recognized medical professionals with more power and authority in our society. Activists within the CAM movement have started to advocate integrative medicine as a practical strategy to ensure their
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survival in a political climate that is more favorable, but still volatile and unpredictable. This strategy of integration is not without drawbacks. Most importantly, co-optation is always possible once activists achieve some success and interact more closely with established actors. The social movement literature has increasingly examined how institutional actors co-opt activists leading the movement to de-radicalize over time. Gamson (1975/1990) was one of the rst social movement theorists to dene co-optation, and others have built upon his work (Amenta et al., 1992; Cress & Snow 2000). He identies four possible outcomes based upon whether activists receive new advantages and gain acceptance as a spokesperson with legitimate interests; co-optation, full response, preemption and collapse. Co-optation means that activists win full acceptance, but no new advantages for the movement. The CAM movement could be co-opted in several ways. One possible scenario is where physicians increasingly accept CAM. Yet, physicians practice these techniques themselves, without proper training and without the corresponding holistic ideology. This means the CAM movement gains acceptance, but no new advantages. Physicians have already begun to co-opt alternative techniques. In their review of the literature, Astin et al. (1998) found that, on average, 19% of physicians practiced massage and chiropractic, 17% offered acupuncture, and 16% used herbal therapy in their medical practices (2305). One respondent in my research noted that, some [physicians] want to collaborate in group practices with a nutritionist, chiropractor, body worker, and use their knowledge. Some are doing that, but others may say I need to learn more about nutrition so I can prescribe it. Given the diversity of techniques and practices included under CAM, physicians are more likely to co-opt some techniques than others. To illustrate, Mattson (1982) argues that techniques for stress management, such as meditation, would be the easiest to integrate into Western medicine; whereas, any form of CAM that includes a spiritual principle or practice would be much harder to incorporate. Baer et al. (1997), also examining the CAM movement in the Bay area, discuss the possibility of physicians co-opting acupuncture not so much for philosophical reasons as scal ones (536). Wardwell (1994), as well as Goldstein et al. (1985) and Wolpe (1985), go further to suggest that acupuncture has already been co-opted to the point where it is rarely considered alternative. Much like what happened to the medical accommodation of alternative birth centers, physicians could co-opt these practices based upon the need for medical supervision (DeVries, 1984, 89, 97). Activists try to achieve legitimacy by asserting their credentials, as Coy and Woehrle (1996) explain. Yet, physicians have more prestige in our society given the credentials they establish through extended medical education (Starr, 1982). This type of
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co-optation, where physicians usurp alternative practitioners techniques, is particularly difcult. As my respondents noted, it connes many activists to a bitter role since they arent part of it when Western medicine and CAM merge. Physicians and insurance companies get all the glory and control (and nancial compensation) even though activists have done all the work. In short, the opposition receives credit for the movements ideas at the same time that they exclude activists from the process of change. Activists are especially concerned that physicians are not adequately trained in these techniques, and that physicians will use these alternative techniques without the corresponding holistic principles. I will use acupuncture and herbs to illustrate these forms of co-optation. First, an acupuncturist without a medical degree needs 2,400 hours of clinical training and experience for a license to practice acupuncture; whereas, a physician needs only 200 hours for certication (Phalen, 1998, 38). One acupuncturist said that you simply cannot learn the theory behind these practices in such a short time period. He adds that they wouldnt let me do needle biopsy after simply reading a book on the subject. Thus, he says that MDs can practice acupuncture legally, but not well. The resulting patient dissatisfaction, which acupuncturists in this study feel is inevitable, may reect negatively on acupuncturists as a whole, however. Second, a physician may practice acupuncture, but not stress the connections between the mind and the body. By doing this, the physician is separating the technique of acupuncture from the alternative beliefs underlying this practice. This is especially likely among physicians who are motivated by nancial gain, because it is time consuming (thus costly) for them to practice these techniques within the context of alternative beliefs. For example, it takes more time for an acupuncturist to ask a patient about his or her well-being and teach this patient about lifestyle changes, than it is simply to insert acupuncture needles. One respondent knew of an acupuncturist who stopped training someone for this reason. This student was abbreviating his training to incorporate it into an HMO, which accepts anything as reasonable as long as you can see six clients in an hour. Thats where it goes awry. Another example he provided is that physicians may simply use herbs like prescription drugs. They will be ineffective if they are used in this way, though, because he believes that herbs are only effective if used in accordance with alternative principles such as lifestyle changes. Activists are hopeful that physicians learn that integrative medicine requires the expertise of alternative practitioners given the time and effort involved in learning new techniques and altering their practices. One respondent says, theres a certain amount of fear by alternative practitioners that MDs will co-opt what they have, since MDs already have the credibility and following.
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I think its very possible. But they dont have time to learn all these things. An acupuncturist adds that when physicians see the amount of training needed for alternative techniques . . . they will know they cant retrain in these techniques given their full workload. Another practitioner adds that he does not think co-optation will occur, because:
no one can become an expert in everything. No one can know everything there is to know. No doctor is going to have the skill I have [as a Rolfer] . . . none of us can be experts in all these things. MDs realize its better to have skilled people that can give a total approach to each individual. It is important to look at the outcome of other social movements to see if activists optimism is warranted.
Two studies on co-optation of the hospice movement provide parallels to what could happen to the CAM movement. Osterweis and Champagne (1979) examined the hospice movement in the United States. In the late 1970s, the movement focused on grassroots activism to provide an alternative form of care (496). The authors argued that activists needed to maintain programmatic integrity as they began to integrate hospice into the health care system (494). I believe this is akin to the need for CAM movement activists to avoid separating CAM techniques from holistic ideology as I have discussed. Osterweis and Champagne thought it would be better for the movement if hospice remained as freestanding facilities, and assumed a cooperative rather than competitive stance. They also discussed the need for standards, licensure and stable reimbursement mechanisms. For the latter, the authors thought it was advisable to emphasize the cost-savings hospice could deliver to insurance companies and the government. Yet, they suggested that activists needed to emphasize other benets the movement could bring beyond nancial savings. Abel (1986), writing seven years later, shows how the hospice movement became more fully incorporated into the health care system. Activists initially remained separate from Western medicine both due to desire and necessity, as was the case with the CAM movement.
Although [activists in the hospice movement] originally sought to provide alternatives to the established order, they were forced to rely on mainstream institutions for resources, political acceptance, and personnel. Integration, in turn, compelled them to modify their practices and goals (Abel, 1986, 71).
For example, activists within the hospice movement had to soften their critique of Western medicine since they now relied upon physicians for referrals. State accreditation and licensing forced them to restrict the experimental aspects of hospice that made them innovative. Most telling, Abel (1986) argues that as the ideas of the hospice movement have been diffused, they have also been diluted and defused (82). These are all issues the CAM movement needs to
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consider as they advocate integration with Western medicine. Most importantly, activists cannot underestimate how difcult it will be to advocate holistic ideology, not simply alternative techniques. Complementing Western medicine by expanding your selection of medical techniques is one thing. Transforming Western medicine in the way activists envision is quite another. Several players inuence the eventual outcome of integrative medicine to varying degrees. I limit the discussion here to three inuential groups. First, physicians retain a great deal of power to determine whether, and how, CAM merges with Western medicine. Burstein et al. (1995) use a bargaining perspective to argue that the more dependent the target is on the SMO (Social Movement Organisation), the more power the SMO has over the target, and the more likely it is to succeed (293). As of now, Western medicine retains the upper hand. As one acupuncturist in my study says, this could easily be squashed. The AMA is very powerful, and they may just decide [they] dont like this. Second, insurance companies play a large role. One alternative practitioner said that:
there is a push now with doctors trying to keep control. Its economic. Those doctors arent a part of this group [the professional association]. So we need to go outside of that to the insurance companies and government. In California people have a choice. Its the law. If they get in a car accident they can come see me without an MDs referral. So I dont think its something MDs will have complete control over. Insurance will play a role.
Third, activists also have some degree of control depending upon which strategy they emphasize. I have shown that alternative and integrative medicine are very different. Speaking of the CAM movement, Schneirov and Geczik (1996) argue that the extent to which it has solid roots in the lifeworld (submerged networks) affects activists ability to resist co-optation. Alternative medicine keeps activists further away from mainstream institutions and possible co-optation, because they remain primarily within submerged networks. On the other hand, integrative medicine requires a more fundamental change in Western medicine. Integrative medicine requires the use of Western and alternative techniques within the framework of holistic ideology. As I have discussed, physicians would have to do more than simply provide more personal care. They would have to radically restructure their practices. It will probably take years to determine the level of success that the CAM movement achieves with integrative medicine, because this medical model is so new. Not every activist will embrace the newer collective identity or strategy of integrative medicine; rather, some activists will hold on to the older collective identity of alternative medicine. Whether multiple identities lead to divisions or separate movements, as well as what level of success this newer strategy brings, remains to be seen. What is clear is that physicians remain powerful
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despite their loss of autonomy and authority. Moreover, not withstanding the recent successes of the movement, most physicians are not open to integrative medicine as activists conceive of it. Whether physicians begin to identify with the CAM movement is an empirical question unanswered in this study. Yet, changing collective identities among Bay area activists within the CAM movement may simply be the precursor to signicant changes in medicine. As Phalen (1998) notes:
The birth of integrative medicine will force the medical establishment to form previously unheard of alliances with practitioners once shunned by Western medicine. Transforming the course of our nations curative path, our sick care system will become obsolete. New strategies, blending the spiritual, emotional, and natural with high-tech procedures, will evolve. Although it may seem overwhelming, this change is close at hand (13).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank Craig Jenkins, Bob Kaufman and especially Verta Taylor for their insight and patience throughout my graduate career. I am grateful to the people who allowed me to interview and observe them. They were always generous with their time, and their perspective forced me to rethink many of my ideas. I want to thank Jeff who was a patient editor and sounding board for my research. Finally, Patrick Coy and three anonymous reviewers really enabled me to tighten my argument through their comments and questions. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the American Sociological Association Meetings in 1999.
NOTES
1. Some resource mobilization theorists explain that social movements arise and decline depending on the political opportunity structure (Jenkins & Perrow, 1977; McAdam, 1982; Tarrow, 1994; Tilly, 1978). For example, the civil rights movement emerged after African Americans migrated north and registered to vote in large numbers (McAdam, 1982). These changes made the political system more vulnerable. At the same time, the Democratic partys rise to power made the political system more receptive to the movements goals and claims. The second wave of the womens movement emerged, in part, from former President Kennedys creation of the Commission on the Status of Women (Rupp & Taylor, 1987). The women involved in this commission developed leadership skills and communication networks, and their grievances gained legitimacy. Likewise, coalition support from liberal organizations, along with divisions within the government, aided the farm workers movement (Jenkins & Perrow, 1977). 2. These percentages do not always represent all 40 respondents, because some did not respond to every question. 3. Even consumers who are satised with their relationship with a physician can develop a structural critique. Dr. Anderson (1993) sees many patients who may like 97
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their individual doctors, but dont like organized medicine (33). Likewise, Starr (1982) points out that individual consumers may be satised with their physicians, but we are not condent about physicians as a group. For example, consumers are questioning whether Western medicine has made any difference in their overall health (Starr, 1982, 408). Many turn to alternative medicine and develop a structural critique of Western medicine since they are dissatised with Western medicine. 4. Dr. Siegel advocates CAM through books such as Love, Medicine & Miracles. 5. Of course, it is unrealistic to conclude that all media coverage on alternative medicine is now favorable given the voices of a few select physicians. Many articles continue to warn readers about unscientic practices. For example, one article in the San Francisco Chronicle says take care not to get burned by alternative treatments (December 9, 1996, C1, 2, 8). Hall, the author, goes on to warn that individuals or companies with commercial interests provide much of our information on alternative medicine. Yet, more media sources are covering alternative medicine, especially those praising its benets. 6. Some physicians are concerned about the legal implications of discussing or practicing CAM. Referring to the latter, Michael Weintraub (1999) concludes that professional liability law regarding complementary and alternative medicine is still an emerging eld that presents medical and legal challenges. A great deal of uncertainty still exists (1698). 7. On one extreme there is an acupuncturist who says it is not vital to share holistic ideology with patients, because non-believers are healed. At the other extreme are the practitioners who believe it is their responsibility to share the ideology even when clients are not receptive. Practitioners in the middle of these extremes assess the openness of their clients before discussing the ideology behind their work. A chiropractor asks key questions, such as whether they have tried other alternative techniques, before he discusses these beliefs. 8. Freeman (1979) adds that the structure of social movement organizations, values, ideologies and expectations about potential targets also inuence strategies.
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Berliner, H. S., & Salmon, J. W. (1979). The Holistic Health Movement and Scientic Medicine: The Naked and the Dead. Socialist Review, 9, 3152. Billig, M. (1995). Rhetorical Psychology, Ideological Thinking, and Imagining Nationhood. In: H. Johnson & B. Klandermans (Eds), Social Movements and Culture (pp. 6484). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Buechler, S. M. (1990). Womens Movements in the United States. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers. Burstein, P., Einwohner, R. L., & Hollander, J. A. (1995). The Success of Political Movements: A Bargaining Perspective. In: J. C. Jenkins & B. Klandermans (Eds), The Politics of Social Protest (pp. 27595). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Conan, N. (2000). Weekly Edition: The Best of NPR News. National Public Radio, February 12. Coy, P. G., & Woehrle, L. M. (1996). Constructing Identity and Oppositional Knowledge: The Framing Practices of Peace Movement Organizations During the Persian Gulf War. Sociological Spectrum, 16, 287327. Cress, D. M., & Snow, D. A. (2000). The outcomes of homeless mobilization: The inuence of organization, disruption, political mediation and framing. The American Journal of Sociology, 105, 10631104. DeVries, R. G. (1984). Humanizing Childbirth: The Discovery and Implementation of Bonding Theory. International Journal of Health Services, 14, 89104. Echols, A. (1989). Daring to Be Bad: Radical Feminism in America 19671975. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Eisenberg, D. M., Davis, R. B., Ettner, S. L., Appel, S., Wilkey, S., Van Rompay, M., & Kessler, R. C. (1998). Trends in Alternative Medicine Use in the United States, 19901997: Results of a Follow-up National Survey. The Journal of the American Medical Association, 280, 15691575. Eisenberg, D. M., Kessler, R. C., Foster, C., Norlock, F. E., Calkins, D. R., & Delbanco, T. L. (1993) Unconventional Medicine in the United States: Prevalence, Costs and Patterns of Use. New England Journal of Medicine, 328, 246252. English-Lueck, J. A. (1990). Health in the New Age: A Study in California Holistic Practices. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Ferree, M. M., & Miller, F. D. (1985). Mobilization and Meaning: Some Social-Psychological Contributions to the Resource Mobilization Perspective on Social Movements. Sociological Inquiry, 55, 3861. Fine, G. A. (1995). Public Narration and Group Culture: Discerning Discourse in Social Movements. In: H. Johnston & B. Klandermans (Eds), Social Movements and Culture (pp. 127143). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Freeman, J. (1979). Resource Mobilization and Strategy: A Model for Analyzing Social Movement Organization Actions. In: M. Zald & J. McCarthy (Eds), The Dynamics of Social Movements (pp. 844). Cambridge, MA: Winthrop. Friedman, D., & McAdam, D. (1992). Collective Identity and Activism: Networks, Choices, and the Life of a Social Movement. In: A. Morris & C. M. Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 156173). New Haven: Yale University Press. Gamson, J. (1995). Must Identity Movements Self Destruct?: A Queer Dilemma. Social Problems 42, 390407. Gamson, W. (1992). The Social Psychology of Collective Action. In: A. Morris & C. M. Mueller (Ed.), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 5376). New Haven: Yale University Press. Gamson, W. (1990/1975). The Strategy of Social Protest (2nd ed.). Homewood, IL: Dorsey. Gevitz, N. (1988). Three Perspectives on Unorthodox Medicine. In: N. Gevitz (Ed.), Other Healers: Unorthodox Medicine in America (pp. 128). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University.
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RIVAL TRANSNATIONAL NETWORKS AND INDIGENOUS RIGHTS: THE SAN BLAS KUNA IN PANAMA AND THE YANOMAMI IN BRAZIL
Gregory M. Maney
ABSTRACT
Why do some indigenous rights campaigns succeed while others fail? I explain the contrasting outcomes of two campaigns in terms of contention between rival transnational issue networks. Because of its considerable resources, organizational strength, positive member dynamics, salient indigenous identity, persuasive framing and effective tactics, the network supporting the San Blas Kuna in Panama readily took advantage of emerging political opportunities to secure the creation of a national park. The park has protected Kunan lands from further encroachments. With limited resources, weak organizational capacities, paternalistic dynamics, multiple indigenous identities, a narrow frame and ill-advised tactics, the network supporting the Yanomami in the Brazilian Amazon struggled in the face of both a strong, savvy, well-coordinated opposition and a more slowly opening, often uctuating structure of political opportunity. The network tentatively secured an Indian reserve only after a considerable loss of indigenous lives, environmental destruction and cultural disruption. The ndings underscore the need to account for organized opposition as
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well as for transnational and local processes when explaining the policy consequences of indigenous rights movements.
Please do not let this happen. Please do not let our land be reduced. Speak to your authorities so that they can speak to the Brazilian government. The situation is very dangerous. The government and other people know that they can earn a lot of money from the riches but all they want to do is kill. Kill the land, kill the sh, kill the Indians. - Davi Kopenawa, Yanomami spokesperson quoted in Rafferty (1999, 8). There is too much land for the Indians, and the devastated economy of the state will make it inevitable that hungry colonisers will want to move in on the indigenous reserves. Neldo Campos, Governor of Roraima quoted in Gamini (1998, 1).
INTRODUCTION
With the colonization, cultivation and mineral extraction of rain forests over the last four decades, an increasing number of indigenous peoples have mobilized to defend their ways of life if not their very lives. The outcomes of their struggles have varied as exemplied by the two cases presented here. One case, involving the San Blas Kuna on the eastern coast of Panama (see Appendix A), entailed a fairly swift and effective defense of indigenous land rights, political sovereignty and cultural identity. In the other case, involving the Yanomami1 in the Brazilian Amazon (see Appendix B), indigenous land rights have received only tenuous legal recognition. Over the course of three decades of struggle, over a quarter of the Yanomami have died. Outsiders have committed massacres and spread diseases that have wiped out entire villages. Mercury has polluted once pristine waters. Noise from mining, roads and airstrips has chased away game depended upon by the Yanomami for sustenance. Yanomami women have been forced into prostitution. State agencies, corporations, prospectors and settlers continue to appropriate ever-larger tracts of lands for roads, airstrips, military bases, mining, logging, ranching and farming. What explains the different fates of the Kuna and the Yanomami? This article conceptualizes the status of indigenous rights as the product of contention between rival networks of organizations. One network promotes policies supportive of indigenous rights while its rival seeks to open up indigenous lands for non-indigenous use. In the two cases examined, the issue network placing higher levels of pressure upon state actors secured policy changes more in line with its objectives. The degree of pressure generated by each network depended upon factors widely recognized as important bases for mobilization: (1) its resources and organizational capacities; (2) its inter-organizational dynamics; (3) its structure of political opportunity; (4) its collective identities and collective action frames; and (5) its forms of contention.
Rival Transnational Networks and Indigenous Rights
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In both cases, international non-governmental organizations (INGOs) and international governmental organizations (IGOs) played key roles in contention. In particular, by manipulating transnational dependencies, external organizations placed considerable pressure upon both the Panamanian and Brazilian governments to alter their policies regarding indigenous land use. The presence of external allies alone, however, did not guarantee the timely attainment of indigenous rights objectives. Because the San Blas Kuna possessed considerably more resources, stronger organizational capacities, a more highly developed collective identity and more strategic savvy than the Yanomami, their support network more readily and fully took advantage of emerging political opportunities. The ndings suggest that conventional social movements concepts, with renements emphasizing oppositional mobilization, can be fruitfully applied to explain the outcomes of issue contention in cases beyond Europe and North America. Moreover, just as increased international trade, nance and investment threaten indigenous sovereignty, they also present opportunities for successful resistance against assimilation and destruction. And while the long tentacles of globalization mandate attention to transnational dimensions of protest, the policy outcomes of social movements cannot be fully understood without reference to local factors.
THEORY
Rival Transnational Issue Networks The distribution of rights and resources within and across societies is the unfolding product of contention between rival transnational issue networks. I dene rival transnational issue networks as coalitions of non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and governmental organizations (GOs) that are based in more than one society and engage in activities, through some degree of cross-societal communication and exchange, that promote a common explicit objective on an issue of mutual concern.2 While certainly existing prior to World War II, transnational issue networks have ourished in the post-war era. Networks have formed around a variety of issues, including the status of indigenous peoples. Research has emphasized the positive contributions of international involvement to campaigns demanding the redistribution of social rewards and the promotion of human rights within a given society (Keohane & Nye, 1977; Sikkink, 1993; Pagnucco & Atwood, 1994; Risse-Kappen, 1995; Smith, 1995; Brysk, 1996; Coy, 1997; Schulz, 1998). Nonetheless, networks of insurgents and their allies do not always achieve their objectives.
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Dening Outcomes The potential consequences of issue network contention are as numerous and diffuse as they are difcult to demonstrate. Social movement researchers have noted the impacts of mobilization upon the identities of participants (McAdam, 1989, 1999; Melucci, 1989), political discourses (Coy & Woehrle, 1996), access to the polity (Gamson, 1975) and government policy (Meyer & Marullo, 1992). For the purposes of this article, I limit my focus to the impact of issue network contention upon the issue-specic policies of targeted actors. Issue networks are most successful when they rapidly achieve, at minimal cost to their participants and constituencies, major, lasting and desired changes in the policies of their targets. Given that this denition contains several dimensions of success (the rapidity of change, the cost of change, the scope of change, the permanence of change and the direction of change), success should be viewed as continuous rather than discrete. For example, an issue network achieving minor policy changes after years of contestation during which its members incur signicant costs is better regarded as moderately successful than as a complete failure.3 Factors in the Outcome of Issue Contention Traditionally, researchers have focused upon social movements their characteristics and the structures of political opportunity facing them when explaining the political outcomes of mobilization (e.g. Gamson, 1975; Tarrow, 1994). However, demands for state policies to protect or augment the rights and resources of a specic social grouping generally encounter substantial resistance from a range of state agencies and private organizations favoring either the status quo or policies with opposite distributive effects (Meyer & Staggenborg, 1996). Policy formation, therefore, entails a process of contention between two networks of organizations with competing agendas. As a result, the characteristics, structures of opportunity and activities of both issue networks gure signicantly in the ability of either to achieve its policy objectives. More specically, the degree to which rival transnational issue networks attain their contrasting objectives depends primarily upon the relative levels of pressure they place upon a target (e.g. a state agency or multinational corporation) as well as upon each other.4 I dene pressure as the extent to which an action promotes or jeopardizes a goal highly valued by the target. For instance, state ofcials often value a positive institutional public image (i.e. legitimacy) and public order (i.e. stability). When the actions of an issue network threaten to diminish or actually diminish the level of attainment of these values, they generate signicant pressure for change.
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Figure 1 provides a hypothetical scenario of contention between rival transnational networks mobilized around the use of lands inhabited by indigenous peoples. As is often the case, the rival networks target a complex institutional actor such as a state. In Fig. 1, one agency in the targeted state supports the policy demand of the indigenous rights network (e.g. advocates outlawing logging on lands inhabited by indigenous peoples). Because of conicting organizational imperatives or contrasting ideologies, another agency, however, opposes the demand. Still another agency partly responsible for formulating or implementing related policies has yet to take a position on the issue. In cases where a target is divided, neutral, or receptive, the issue network that places greater pressure upon the target as a whole will be more likely to obtain an outcome in line with its objectives. Thus when an indigenous rights network either jeopardizes or promotes, to a greater extent than its rival, goals valued more highly than those advanced by blocking the policy changes sought (e.g. legitimacy and stability), the target will make concessions to indigenous
Fig. 1.
The Status of Indigenous Rights as the Product of Rival Network Contention. 107
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demands. On the other hand, if the developmental network endangers or facilitates, to a greater extent than its rival, the attainment of goals more highly valued by the target than goals advanced by granting indigenous demands, then concessions to developmental demands will be forthcoming. Lastly, in cases where neither network can jeopardize or promote goals more highly valued by the target than their issue-specic agendas, a stalemate ensues. Drawing upon the insights of resource mobilization, political process and new social movement theories, the framework identies ve sets of factors that contribute to the ability of issue networks to generate pressure: (1) resources and organizational capacities; (2) inter-organizational dynamics; (3) structures of political opportunity; (4) collective identities and collective action frames; and (5) forms of contention. I now review the theoretical and empirical basis for the selection of these factors as sources of pressure, highlighting the need to account for the dyadic and dynamic nature of issue contention. Resources and Organizational Capacities Resource mobilization theorists have long asserted the importance of resources to the origins of social movements (Oberschall, 1973; McCarthy & Zald, 1977; Jenkins, 1983). Recruitment and logistics for collective action require substantial amounts of time, money and skilled effort. Several different types of resources are utilized such as nancial, technological, information and human resources. The logic of resource mobilization also helps to explain the outcomes of issue contention. The levels and types of resources possessed not only by a network, but also by its rival are signicant. By mobilizing more widely and intensively for longer periods of time, the rival transnational issue network that more effectively allocates higher levels of resources to pursuing an objective will generate greater pressure on behalf of its demands.5 Given the tendency of indigenous peoples to comprise the poorest of the poor (Brysk & Wise, 199, 77), non-indigenous organizations can serve as important sources of resources in the pursuit of indigenous rights (see also Yashar, 1997). In addition, resource mobilization studies emphasize how organizational factors shape the scope, intensity, duration and form of mobilization. High levels of pre-existing organization allow for effective planning and the marshaling of resources (Jenkins & Perrow, 1977; Morris, 1984; Rupp & Taylor, 1987). An issue network with strong organizational capacities, therefore, can readily engage in activities that jeopardize or promote a targets highly valued goals. Conversely, a sparse organizational eld characterized by groups lacking established operating procedures, membership communication and committed staffs with clearly dened roles limits the ability of a network to conduct widespread, intensive mobilization. Recent indigenous rights campaigns have experienced greater
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success in countries with historically strong indigenous organizational elds such as Bolivia and Columbia than in countries with weak elds such as Peru (Brysk & Wise, 1997; Van Cott, 2000). As with resources, the organizational capacities of the rival issue network also need to be considered. In Bolivia, for instance, the weakness of the national judiciary has minimized external interference in the local administration of justice in indigenous areas (Van Cott, 2000). Inter-Organizational Dynamics The combined resources and capacities of organizations comprising rival transnational networks tell only part of the story. Organizations within an issue network can greatly enhance their individual and collective capacities by exchanging resources, coordinating collective action and creating political opportunities for one another. Conversely, a network can languish or even self-destruct when its members refuse to share resources, link efforts, or exercise inuence on one anothers behalf (McCarthy & Zald, 1977). Often organizations in divided issue networks devote more time to competing with one another than to pressuring a common target. A transnational issue network with positive dynamics will engage in higher levels of cooperation to jeopardize or promote a targets highly valued goals than a rival beset with internal differences. What promotes positive dynamics in issue networks? Most research on the topic has emphasized network density. Dense networks have frequent and balanced interaction between participating organizations. Such interaction generates the trust, common collective identity and commitment necessary for sustained cooperation (Powell, 1990; Carley, 1991; Smith, 1995; Keck & Sikkink, 1998). It follows that organizations with weak, unbalanced ties operate less effectively than organizations with strong, balanced ties (Maney, 2000). In addition, relationships of dependency and power within an issue network greatly affect the level and utilization of its capacities. Dependency is dened here as a characteristic of a social relationship where the attainment of a highly desired goal requires, or is perceived to require, the help or consent of a specic and limited set of others.6 The possession of considerable resources, capacities and institutional access by external, non-indigenous organizations make their presence indispensable to the achievement of indigenous goals. Brysk (1996, 56) notes the potentially problematic consequences of these asymmetrical relationships:
As governments, funders, and international organizations increasingly turn to indigenist organizations and other international allies instead of Indians themselves, the internationalization of Indian rights becomes fraught with the potential for a new, postmodern form of dependency.
The power of resulting from dependency encourages unilateral decision making, since weaker participants are seen as having little to contribute and fear risking
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the departure of their more inuential allies by advocating alternative courses of action. As a result, issue networks with skewed distributions of dependency often fail to fully utilize their collective resources. Vital information and creative ideas possessed by marginalized organizations often go unnoticed or unheeded. Opportunities to strengthen other members and the network as a whole are missed. Conversely, networks characterized by interdependence where the presence of each member is perceived as being indispensable to the attainment of a common objective are more likely to exhibit higher levels of cooperation (Powell, 1990). Brysk (1996), for instance, nds that transnational networks making concerted efforts to draw upon indigenous groups local knowledge have more successfully opposed multilateral development bank policies. Structures of Political Opportunity More resources, higher levels of organization and positive inter-organizational dynamics do not guarantee that an issue network will achieve its policy objectives. The broader political context must also be considered. Tarrow (1994,171) writes:
Success is the outcome of a parallelogram of forces from which even a weak challenger may emerge in a better position than a strong one when the former is well placed to take advantage of political opportunities. The political process is not quite a lottery, but it actively intervenes between the resources and goals of a movement and its success or failure.
Political process theory examines structures of political opportunity the vulnerability or receptivity of elites to challenges from those excluded from the polity (Eisinger, 1973; Tilly, 1978). Political opportunities spark mobilization by reducing the anticipated costs of participation while increasing its expected benets. While political process theorists have used precipitous shifts in structures of political opportunity to explain the origins of social movements, the concept can also be logically extended to explain their outcomes (Kriesi et al., 1995). Political opportunities serve as pressure points for issue networks. Openings in an exclusive political system, unstable political alignments, factionalism and diminished repressive capacities make it difcult for elites to ignore or suppress threats to economic growth, social stability and retaining political power. At the same time, these conditions encourage some elites to forge alliances with issue networks in the hopes of achieving objectives similar to those being threatened. In Columbia, threats posed by guerillas and drug-trafckers in peripheral areas along with a decline in regime legitimacy made the state more receptive to indigenous rights demands (Van Cott, 1996). Two adjustments to the concept of political opportunity structures increase its usefulness in explaining the outcome of contention between rival transnational issue networks. First, rival issue networks face distinct structures
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of political opportunity. Networks challenging the status quo benet from institutional openings, splits and shifting coalitions among elites and the presence of inuential allies and support groups (Tarrow, 1994). Similarly, for a network opposing such a challenge, factionalism within the challenger network, the emergence of inuential allies and support groups and a decline in public sympathy for the insurgents constitute important political opportunities. With this adjustment in hand, it is claimed that the transnational issue network with the more advantageous constellation of political opportunities over the course of contention will be more likely to secure its policy objectives. Second, structures of political opportunity must be situated within a transnational context. Outcomes of movements have been seen as the product of the structural political setting of a given country (Kriesi et al., 1995, 213). Yet national-level political opportunities partly depend upon transnational patterns of political and economic interaction (Maney, 2001). Shifts in these patterns can create or expose the vulnerabilities of targets. For instance, instability in political alignments resulting from the international debt crisis of the 1980s encouraged the Bolivian government to forge alliances with indigenous peoples (Brysk & Wise, 1997).7 Moreover, as shall be seen below, by increasing transnational dependencies, globalization processes have created important opportunities to bring external pressure to bear upon targeted states (Van Cott, 1996; Smith et al., 1997; Keck & Sikkink, 1998). Intersecting Dependencies Intersecting dependencies occur among three or more actors. In the scenario depicted by Fig. 2, Actor Zs dependency upon Actor Y intersects with Actor Ys dependency upon Actor X. By manipulating this intersection of dependencies, Actor X can indirectly exert power over Actor Z. Unless Actor X demands that Actor Z provide something more valuable than what Actor Y provides to Actor Z, Actor Z will, if acting rationally, concede to Actor Xs demands. There exist numerous forms of economic and political dependency of Third World states on multinational corporations, international private banks, the states of advanced industrialized countries and multilateral lending agencies (e.g. Boswell & Dixon, 1990; Jenkins & Schock, 1992). Economic dependencies include heavy, concentrated reliance upon externally provided markets, loans, investment, advanced technologies, marketing and distribution and intermediate capital inputs. Political dependencies include reliance upon other states for military capacities, food and other forms of humanitarian aid. When external actors upon whom Third World states depend are vulnerable to pressure by NGOs, a condition of intersecting dependencies exists. The utilization of these pressure points improves the chances that an indigenous rights network will
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Fig. 2.
Intersecting Dependencies: Conceptual Diagram.
win concessions if not its primary demands in their entirety. Considerable evidence points towards the importance of intersecting dependencies to the outcome of issue contention.8 For instance, networks supporting indigenous rights, rubber tappers and peoples threatened by hydro-electric dam projects have successfully pressured the World Bank to suspend loans to the Brazilian government (Conklin & Graham, 1995; Rothman & Oliver, 1999). Collective Identities and Collective Action Frames While largely overlooked by scholars until the 1980s, cultural factors such as collective identities and collective action frames signicantly affect participation in social movements.9 These factors also affect the ability of issue networks to place pressure upon their targets. A strong sense of shared fate promotes willingness among organizations to cooperate and make sacrices on behalf of common objectives (Melucci, 1989; Gamson, 1992). Moreover, widely and deeply revered collective identities can elicit greater public sympathy for the networks members and their cause (e.g. Navarro, 1989; Escobar & Alvarez, 1992). An issue network characterized by highly developed and integrated collective identities with broad public appeal will be more successful at achieving its policy demands than a comparably positioned issue network with multiple and fragmented identities formed in direct opposition to the target.10
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Like collective identities, collective action frames that resonate with widely and deeply held beliefs increase participation in an issue network and, therefore, levels of resources and organizational capacities at its disposal (Snow & Benford, 1992).11 Moreover, resonant frames generate considerable symbolic pressure upon targeted actors. Failure to grant the reasonable demands of the network framing the issue raises concerns about hypocrisy and immorality in the minds of the general public and the target. By jeopardizing personal identities and by challenging social norms, opposition to demands linked to widely and deeply resonating frames carries signicant costs. The issue network deploying collective action frames that more deeply resonate with the target and the general public will be more likely to experience success than will its rival. For example, by linking indigenous rights to tolerance, reconciliation and participatory democracy, indigenous delegates elected to Columbias National Constitutional Assembly garnered sympathetic media coverage and a positive response from President Gaviria (Van Cott, 1996). Both developments greatly assisted the delegates in pursuing their proposals. The adoption of collective action frames by issue networks generally requires extensive discussions among its members; discussions underpinned by strategic, identity and ideological considerations (Coy & Woehrle, 1996; Van Cott, 2000). Over time, networks often change frames, adjusting to shifting political circumstances (Rothman & Oliver, 1999). In recent years, frames linking indigenous and ecological concerns have garnered international sympathy and concerted action on behalf of the goals of indigenous rights networks (Conklin & Graham, 1995).12 Although indigenous ecology frames appeal to a Western audience, indigenous organizations generally play active roles in their construction (Brosius, 1997). Developmental networks opposing indigenous rights demands also deploy a variety of collective action frames in the pursuit of their agendas. These networks use different types of frames depending upon whether the goal is to mobilize domestic support or to diffuse international support for their rivals. Frames linking nationalist and modernization discourses appeal to large segments of public opinion in peripheral and semiperipheral countries.13 To the extent that an indigenous ecology frame secures international intervention, it heightens the salience of accusations that foreign states wish to block the development of the country in question or to exploit its resources for their own benet (Conklin & Graham, 1995). In this way, indigenous ecology frames generate sources of pressure not only for the indigenous rights network, but also for its rival. National development frames, on the other hand, produce domestic support while increasing international opposition. Recognizing this, strategically savvy developmental networks have altered their rhetoric in international forums. By adopting the
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terminology of the indigenous-ecology frame, developmental networks steal the thunder of their rivals by appearing to share their concerns. Frame co-optation can create confusion among the general public while lessening a sense of urgency among members of indigenous rights networks. Forms of Contention Tactical interplay between rival networks and their targets over time can critically affect the relative ability of the rival networks to mount pressure. As Fig. 1 suggests, tactics can increase participation in one issue network while triggering exits and defections from another. These changes, in turn, signicantly affect other sources of pressure and, therefore, the extent and direction of policy changes. By deploying forms of contention that augment sources of pressure, an issue network increases the likelihood of achieving its goals. In a comparative study of three indigenous rights campaigns in Taiwan, Chi (1998) found that major differences in the media and organizational strategies of the campaigns as well as government responses to these strategies resulted in contrasting levels of success. Once again, the tactical efcacy of not only the indigenous rights network, but also its organized opponents and targets must be considered. While violence or threats of violence by indigenous peoples may produce concessions, such acts may also provide excuses for an escalation of violence by opponents who often possess greater coercive capacities. The stereotype of the erce savage is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the stereotype can lend credibility to threats of violence by indigenous groups. An emphasis upon conict and sensation by the media also ensures coverage of protests staged by indigenous participants wearing body paint and carrying weapons (Turner, 1992). On the other hand, the stereotype can encourage violence against indigenous peoples by dehumanizing them and raising fears among the non-indigenous population. Targeted states (particularly those dominated by agencies opposing indigenous rights demands) frequently engage in repression against indigenous rights network members in efforts to reduce the pressure placed upon them. For instance, after international media coverage waned, Mexican federal troops intensied their activities against the Zapatistas (Nash, 1997). Targeted states have also engaged in Trojan horse tactics where apparent concessions to indigenous rights demands actually serve to undermine indigenous rights. In the early 1990s, the Colombian government responded to pressure by creating Indigenous Territorial Entities (ETIs) out of the Vaupes resguardo a vast expanse of land inhabited by indigenous peoples. The government controlled the form, function and personnel of the new political administrative units. Rather than providing autonomy, the ITEs undermined indigenous political independence (Jackson, 1996).
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METHOD
Case Selection and Overview I selected the cases of the San Blas Kuna and the Yanomami on the basis of both key similarities and differences. In terms of commonalities, both indigenous rights campaigns explicitly sought the creation of national parks that would recognize and protect territories traditionally inhabited by indigenous peoples. These common policy demands make it easier to compare the outcomes of the cases.14 Both cases also involved organized contention. Opposition came from groups advocating the use of indigenous lands for resource extraction and settlements of non-indigenous peoples. As the institutional actor with authority over indigenous lands, national states were targeted for pressure by the indigenous rights and developmental networks. Both the Panamanian and Brazilian states had military agencies with modernizing or developmental ideologies. The readily identiable presence in both cases of organized opponents and targets facilitates the application of the rival transnational issue network framework. The cases also have important differences that make their comparison useful. The San Blas Kuna and their allies secured the establishment of a National Park more readily, more decisively and at a lesser cost to the indigenous population than their Yanomami counterparts. Variations in all the hypothesized determinants of pressure (resources and organizational capacities, inter-organizational dynamics, etc.) enable a full assessment of the ability of the rival transnational issue network framework to explain these contrasting policy outcomes. Other potentially signicant differences include geographic location, natural resources and state capacities. Comparative historical studies have identied these factors as relevant to macro-level economic and political transformations (e.g. Stepan, 1985; ODonnell & Schmitter, 1986). The article explores whether these factors are also helpful in understanding the status of indigenous peoples. The cases also differ in terms of the levels of indigenous contact with the outside world. The Kuna have interacted with outsiders more extensively than the Yanomami. This difference allows me to address whether external interaction invariably facilitates the assimilation or annihilation of indigenous peoples or, under certain circumstances, impedes either process. Data: Sources and Uses Drawing from anthropological, activist and newspaper sources, I created two les on organizations involved in issue contention as well as detailed historical chronologies. The organizational les provide details on the specic groups
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involved, their resources, their organizational capacities and the interorganizational dynamics prevailing within the respective issue networks. The historical chronologies served two purposes. Lists of events during the periods of contention assisted in the identication of the temporal relationship between the emergence of political opportunities and issue-specic policies in the two cases. In addition, longer historical overviews of the Kuna and Yanomami enabled an assessment of their prior interactions with external actors. Insufcient data existed to always make intra-case comparisons between the rival transnational issue networks. In certain instances, therefore, I have relied upon comparisons across cases to examine hypothesized sources of pressure. For example, evidence that the less successful indigenous rights network (i.e. the Yanomami network) had fewer resources and organizational capacities than its more successful counterpart (i.e. the Kuna network) provides a degree of support for the importance of resources and organizational capacities as sources of pressure. Nonetheless, the Kuna rights network could have faced a developmental network with greater resources than its own. Additional evidence that the Brazilian developmental network possessed greater resources and organizational capacities than its Panamanian counterpart, therefore, provides greater assurance that these factors are, in fact, relevant to the policy outcomes of contention over indigenous lands. Difculty in defending causal claims and non-spuriousness has impeded research on the outcomes of social movements (Earl, 2000). That neither the Panamanian or Brazilian states had plans to create Kuna or Yanomami reserves prior to the formation of issue networks demanding and obtaining their creation (albeit belatedly and precariously in the Yanomami case) provides prima facie evidence of the efcacy of indigenous rights mobilization. Nonetheless, I address the challenge of establishing causality in three ways. First, where possible, I describe how hypothesized sources of pressure directly or indirectly affected issue-specic policy-making. Second, for each hypothesized source of pressure, I show that variations between the two cases coincided in expected ways with contrasting policy outcomes. Third, I document how changes in certain hypothesized sources of pressure such as shifts in structures of political opportunity immediately preceded or coincided with policy changes.
RESULTS
Factors in the Outcome of Issue Contention A comparative historical analysis of the contrasting outcomes of contention over San Blas Kuna and Yanomami lands supports the signicance of each
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expected source of pressure identied above. I now consider each source in turn. Resources and Organizational Capacities There existed a far greater gap between the resources and organizational capacities of the rival issue networks contending Yanomami lands than in the Kuna case. This wider disparity contributed to the longer period of time it took the Yanomami rights network to effectively secure its demands for a National Park. Comparing the strengths of the issue networks across cases makes the sources of these disparities clearer. For three reasons, the developmental network in the Panamanian case possessed fewer resources and organizational capacities than its Brazilian counterpart. First, the non-arability of land on the frontier of the Kunas territory combined with a lack of valuable mineral deposits minimized corporate, prospector and settler involvement in the Panamanian developmental network. External support came primarily from the U.S. Armed Forces and, for a time, from two U.S. bilateral lending agencies (see Appendix C). These organizations assisted the Panamanian government in building highways that encroached upon indigenous lands. In contrast, U.S. government-aided mineral exploration in the mid-1970s led to the discovery of uranium, gold, titanium and other valuable minerals on Yanomami lands. Along with state incentives for inward foreign direct investment, these discoveries contributed to multinational corporations participating in the developmental network. News of gold also led to thousands of landless peasants and urban poor rushing on to Yanomami lands. Despite their occasional expulsion by federal police, by the late 1980s, gold seekers, known as garimpeiros, outnumbered the Brazilian Yanomami by four to one. Along with timber merchants they became the dominant political force in the State of Roraima where the Yanomamis territory is mainly located. Second, whereas no nation states bordered the San Blas rainforest, six straddle the Brazilian Amazon. The vastly larger size of the Amazon has resulted in the area serving as a safe-haven for guerillas and drug trafckers. Yanomami territory, therefore, presents greater strategic concerns for Brazilian military agencies than Kuna territory does for their Panamanian counterparts. Third, not only did the Panamanian state have less at stake, it could do less to achieve its agenda. Whereas the military coup in Panama in 1968 only began to establish modern bureaucratic administrative capacities, the Brazilian state had already established a highly developed administration. Stronger state capacities made the attainment of legal recognition of Yanomami land rights more difcult. While the Brazilian developmental network was stronger than its Panamanian counterpart, the opposite situation prevailed with the indigenous rights networks.
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While both networks received considerable support from external NGOs, signicant disparities existed in the resources and levels of organization possessed by the two indigenous peoples. The nding underscores that, even in an era of globalization, local factors still critically affect the status of indigenous peoples. The San Blas Kuna rank among the wealthiest and best-organized indigenous peoples in the Americas (Helms, 1988; Langebaek, 1991). Revenues from molas (traditional womens dress), tourism and savings from migrant Kunans working in the Canal Zone provide the Kuna with steady and sizable sources of income. By largely retaining control over ownership, marketing and distribution, a signicant percentage of the wealth accruing from the production and exchange of goods and services remains in Kunan hands (Stephen, 1991). Moreover, a large part of these revenues goes towards funding community institutions. The Kunas self-managed production and afuence relative to other indigenous peoples reects centuries of prosperous international and regional trade and successful resistance to colonization. As a result of their substantial nancial resources, the Kuna put up $150,000 of their own money in 1983 to help nance the Udirbi National Park (Chapin, 1985). In addition, due to a longstanding tradition of educating tribal elites in Panama City and abroad, the Kuna have a large professional class providing information, technical and legal assistance for dealings with outsiders (Breslin & Chapin, 1988). For example, in the course of airplane rides to and from Panama City during the early 1970s, Kuna passengers noticed the advancement of deforestation towards their territory as a result of the slash and burn agriculture of land-starved peasants and cattle ranchers. Also aware of government plans to build a road from El Lano to San Blas, the Kuna developed a strategy to build a buffer at the point on the perimeter of their territory where the impending land invasion would most likely begin. The Kuna also possess strong organizational capacities. There exist longstanding, sophisticated and representative forms of political organization as well as extensive and enduring informal social networks between villages. On the village level, regular night-time gatherings of village leaders, elders and activists allow for community-wide discussions on matters of common concern as well as for the planning of village-wide events. Through rituals, chants and storytelling, the gatherings also provide shared cultural experiences that solidify collective identity (Howe, 1986). In times of crisis, the gathering unies the community in the face of external threats (Chapin, 1985). Secretaries keep attendance lists to ensure participation. On a territory-wide basis, the General Congress serves a function similar to the gathering communication, coordination and solidarity. The Congress is legally recognized by the Panamanian state as the government for the Kuna
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reservation. The Congress consists of the three caciques or leaders from every village across the reserve. The caciques who most often serve as the Kunas representatives in negotiations with the Panamanian government are held strictly accountable to the Congress and its wishes. The Congress invites representatives from Panamanian state agencies and allied organizations to receive and offer information regarding Kunan needs and concerns. By generating consensus among village leaders on goals and strategies, the Congress ensures that the Kuna are united and prepared for challenges that arise.15 In contrast, the Yanomami lack the resources and organizational capacities possessed by the Kuna. Even in recent years, the Yanomami have yet to collectively hold moneys for nancing their activities. No professional class experienced with the Brazilian political and legal system exists. With limited information regarding events outside their own territory, the Yanomami were unprepared to take advantage of political opportunities initially presenting themselves. Since 1984, however, participation in the Union of Indigenous Nations (UNI) regional conference in Roraima has encouraged a strategic disposition through examples offered by more experienced delegates (Fuerst, 1985). In terms of organizational capacities, despite decades of attempts to create a representative political body, the Yanomami have little comparable to the gathering or the Kuna General Congress. No formal governmental structure exists either at or beyond the village level (Salamone, 1997). At the village level, decisions are mostly made by consensus, with the village leader informally consulting the rest of the adult villagers. Stable political authority is the exception rather than the norm. Political power derives principally, though by no means exclusively, from paternal lineage with large, long-standing families holding considerable inuence (Ramos, 1995). Because of the tendency for Yanomami kin to dissipate, the size and inuence of different families within a community uctuates rapidly. Without a formal process of succession, the death of a village leader can precipitate a power struggle that leads to large numbers of residents departing, either to start their own villages or to join other villages already in existence (Ramos, 1995). At the inter-village level, feasts involving villages with trade and marital ties provide opportunities for collective decision making. Frequent shifts in the alliances and conicts between villages as well as uncoordinated patterns of migration, however, have prevented the formation of stable, durable inter-village networks that could serve as a solid foundation for a pan-Yanomami representative body.16 Commercial activities on Yanomami lands have introduced further obstacles to political unity. Before the development onslaught in the 1960s and 1970s, trails and streams served as conveyor belts carrying
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the social impulses that keep alive the great chain of relationships between communities and render isolation and atomization of the local groups virtually impossible (Ramos, 1991, 15). Mining quarries, airstrips and clearings have thrown several wrenches into these conveyor belts, impeding cross-village communication and mobilization. Moreover, non-indigenous individuals and organizations have waged massacres, armed one village against another and introduced diseases. By wiping out entire communities, these activities have further destabilized the inter-village political system (Ferguson, 1995a). With minimal resources or organizational capacities, the Yanomami have responded to threats to their well being mainly on the village level and in an ad hoc manner. Interaction with external political elites has required extensive facilitation by non-indigenous organizations. As will be seen in the next section, this reliance upon outsiders has limited the ability of the network to defend the rights of the Yanomami. Inter-Organizational Dynamics High levels of cooperation among its members helped the Kuna rights network to place signicant pressure upon the Panamanian government to create a national park. In the case of the Yanomami, however, an internally divided indigenous rights network along with a well-coordinated opposition meant that, in many instances, the developmental network generated greater pressure upon Brazilian state agencies. Comparisons of the two indigenous rights networks as well as of the rival networks in the Brazilian case reveal the reasons for these contrasting dynamics. Indigenous and non-indigenous members of the Kuna rights network regularly interacted with one another. The very idea of the Udirbi National Park resulted from consultations between members of the Kuna agricultural colony at Udirbi, representatives from the Kuna General Congress and a NGO based in Costa Rica, the Center for the Teaching and Investigation of Tropical Agriculture (Chapin, 1985). CATIE worked intensively with the Kuna to create a grant proposal for the park. The Kunas insistence upon technical training translated into daily contact among network members. Along with CATIE, the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute and the Human Ecology Center trained the Kuna to manage the wildlife reserve. The groups maintain a permanent presence in the park. In contrast, external allies had less frequent and balanced contact with the Yanomami, leading to lower levels of cooperation. Both in 1976 and 1987, the Brazilian government forbade foreign researchers, missionaries and medical personnel from entering Yanomami territory. Imposed by a military-dominated National Indian Foundation (FUNAI), the 1987 ban lasted until late 1990 when pressure from the United Nations and Organization of American States resulted
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in its lifting (Ramos, 1995). While aimed at preventing INGOs from generating negative international publicity, the ban also largely severed communication between the Yanomami and their allies. In so doing, the development faction within the Brazilian state alleviated pressure placed upon it by the Yanomami rights network. Unlike the Yanomami network, high levels of contact and cooperation have characterized the Brazilian developmental network. State owned mining companies, foreign capital and local capital all participate in joint mining ventures (Davis, 1977). Allied Amazonian governors and members of Federal Congress frequently meet with the garimpeiros union that they depend upon for political support. The common pursuit of wealth may also facilitate cooperation. Allegedly, the military police and FUNAI staff regularly receive bribes from garimpeiros (Ramos, 1995). Through high levels of cooperation, the developmental network has postponed a resolution of the land dispute favorable to the Yanomami. In late 1989, deciding upon a case brought before it by international and national NGOs, a Brazilian Federal Court Judge ordered the removal of 42,000 garimpeiros from Yanomami territory. In an effort to shift blame for the plight of the Yanomami, the miners along with airplane owners and merchants brought sick Indians to hospitals and a FUNAI hostel in Boa Vista, Roraima. At the same time, 10,000 protested the courts decision and called upon the President to reverse it. The Governor of Roraima, Members of Congress and military ofcials expressed support for the demonstrators. The Minister of Justice responded to these activities by agreeing not to enforce the court order if the garimpeiros voluntarily refrained from using mercury in the river and possessing rearms (Allen, 1992). Before stepping down, the military-backed President issued three decrees allowing garimpeiros to occupy 9.5 million hectares of indigenous lands (Ramos, 1995). Frequent and balanced interaction within the developmental network enabled a rapid, coordinated and effective series of responses to a judicial setback. In addition to the frequency of inter-organizational contact, another important network characteristic proved to be the direction of inuence within the indigenous rights networks. In the Kuna case, external allies only provided help specically requested by the Kuna General Congress. The Congress sought external help with an eye towards making it unnecessary in the future. With reference to the creation of Udirbi Park, Chapin (1985, 48) states of the Kuna: while they fully realize that much of the technological assistance must be imported, they have no intention of allowing outsiders to dominate the project. In fact, every phase of design and implementation involved Kunan representatives. Unwanted development aid was rmly rejected. Plans by the Panamanian Tourist Institute to build a luxury tourist hotel on the reserve met
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with the threat of violence against anyone conducting a feasibility study. Most Kuna bristle at even the thought of paternalism.17 As a result of the partnership that emerged between the Kuna and their allies, the network not only made efcient use of the resources and expertise of all actors involved, but also strengthened itself by increasing the technical and administrative skills of the Kuna. The same, however, cannot be said for the Yanomami rights network. With minimal indigenous resources or organizational capacities available to mobilize resistance to grave threats to the Yanomami starting in the mid-1960s, both international and Brazilian organizations felt compelled to act as guardians. While the impetus is understandable, such stewardship has reinforced relationships of dependency within the network. In 1992, a founding member of the Commission for the Creation of the Yanomami Park, Claudia Andujar, noted:
. . . the Yanomami will have to understand their constitutional rights and learn to negotiate with the outside world, but for this they need time (quoted in Aparicio, 1992, 29). The Yanomami have yet to meaningfully participate in the implementation, let alone the design, of campaigns on their behalf.18
This lopsided dynamic has negatively affected the defense of Yanomami lands in three ways. First, allies have committed tactical errors that could have been avoided with greater indigenous involvement. Upon issuing its call for the creation of a National Park, the CCPY underestimated the size of the territory traditionally utilized by the Yanomami (Aparicio, 1992). It took until 1985 before a joint study with FUNAI corrected the error. Indigenous participation in demarcation probably would have prevented under-estimation while providing an opportunity to link the Yanomami together on a territory-wide basis. Second, the absence of representative political bodies among the Yamomami has called into question the credibility of Yanomami spokespersons and, therefore, the indigenous rights network as a whole. Even some allies have suggested that non-indigenous NGOs have scripted the statements of high prole indigenous leaders such as Davi Kopenawa (Salamone, 1997). Furthermore, while Davi Kopenawa links protection of Yanomami land rights and culture with environmental protection and sustainable development, a Venezuelan Yanomami spokesperson has advocated mining concessions on tribal lands. Whether these individuals are pawns of NGOs or garimpeiros unions remains in dispute. Some Yanomami have forcibly resisted gold miners while others have begun to engage in mining themselves (Ramos, 1995). What is certain is that, in the absence of formal indigenous political institutions, the appearance of manipulation has undermined the legitimacy of the Yanomami rights network both within Brazil and beyond its borders. Third, whereas INGOs working with the Kuna generally cooperated with one another, an absence of a comparably organized Yanomami political leadership
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has resulted in external allies spending considerable time, money and effort attempting to discredit one another. Differences of opinion have emerged regarding who speaks on behalf of the Yanomami and what is in their best interest. Salamone (1997, 7) writes:
Clashes with outsiders have led to noisy arguments within anthropology in particular and in development circles in general regarding the best ways in which to safeguard the Yanomami. At times, it appeared that the interests or desires of the Yanomami themselves were being overlooked as one faction or another attacked the position of their opponents. Each faction purported to speak for the Yanomami.
Feuding between anthropologists and missionaries has prevented the network from taking full advantage of important opportunities to strengthen Yanomami rights. For instance, the massacre of over a dozen Yanomami villagers by Brazilian garimpeiros received extensive international media coverage. The massacre occurred in 1993 the United Nations Year of Indigenous Rights. As such, it presented an excellent chance to pressure the Brazilian government to expel the miners from Yanomami lands by appealing to international public opinon. Two presidential commissions were appointed to investigate the incident. An American anthropologist, Napolean Chagnon, headed one commission while a Bishop afliated with Salesian missionaries headed the other. While both Chagnon and the Salesians had actively worked to promote the rights of the Yanomami, a turf-war ensued. The Bishops commission allegedly secured an order to expel Chagnon from the area under their investigation. Chagnon responded by writing an editorial in the New York Times accusing the Salesians of contributing to Yanomami starvation, disease, warfare and cultural assimilation. Soon, the war of words escalated. The Salesians mailed and distributed materials critical of Chagnons research to members of the American Anthropological Association. Without the Yanomami possessing the resources, organization and experience necessary to designate specic roles for external allies, disputes between their allies have depleted the networks resources, reduced levels of interorganizational cooperation and resulted in missed opportunities for advancing a common cause.19 As a result, a coordinated, united rival has been able to block and even reverse policy changes favoring the Yanomami. Structures of Political Opportunity In both cases, indigenous rights victories followed shifts in political opportunities favoring the indigenous rights network. In the early stages of mobilization during the mid-1970s, the Kuna rights network faced a largely closed structure of political opportunities. With the coup detat in 1968, the Panamanian political system became even more exclusive. Other events favored the developmental network. A new constitution enacted in 1972 eliminated legal protection of the
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Kunas political and economic autonomy. Whereas previous laws prohibited the ownership of Kunan lands by non-Kunans, the new constitution guaranteed only to reserve for indigenous peoples land that the Panamanian government felt was necessary for their well being (Wali, 1984). The state had closed off previously available legal avenues for defending Kuna tenure. By the early 1980s, however, things shifted decisively in favor of the Kuna rights network. In the late 1970s, the Kuna gained seats in the Panamanian National Assembly. The representation offered a high prole public forum for airing grievances as well as a chance to forge alliances with Panamanian political elites. In 1981 General Omar Torrijos stepped down as President, leading to squabbles among ofcers competing for higher positions in the new regime. By making it more difcult to ignore or suppress the activities of the Kuna rights network, these developments increased the pressure upon the state to grant the national park demanded. A similar reversal of fortunes took place in the struggle over Yanomami lands, only over a far longer period of time. Initially, political conditions favored the developmental network. Upon overthrowing a democratically elected leftist government in 1964, the Brazilian military under the leadership of President (General) Castello Branco immediately launched a campaign to exploit the vast natural resources of the Amazon. Both internal and external elites united around the goal of developing the Amazon. By the mid-1980s, however, things shifted dramatically in favor of the Yanomami rights networks. The democracy movement in Brazil took advantage of deep splits among elites produced by the debt crisis and structural adjustment (ODonnell & Schmitter, 1986). By opening up the political system, the movement created new allies and opportunities for indigenous rights networks.20 In large part because of lobbying by these networks, the new constitution enacted in 1988 contained clauses such as Article 231, providing indigenous peoples with exclusive control over traditionally inhabited lands. Yanomami supporters used this provision to secure a Federal Court order to evacuate garimpeiros from Yanomami territory. The rst direct elections since the coup scheduled for 1990 stimulated competition among elites for the votes of those supporting environmental and indigenous protection. With the election to President of a candidate who had courted the environmentalist vote (Fernando Collor), the network gained powerful allies in the state. Shortly after Collors inauguration, police removed over forty thousand garimpeiros from Yanomami lands (Ramos, 1995).21 Thus electoral competition enabled indigenous rights networks to use their potential support at the polls to secure pledges to recognize and protect indigenous lands. In addition to creating more powerful allies in the state such as the Secretariat for the Environment and the Attorney Generals Ofce, the opening of the
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political system also stimulated considerable growth in the numbers and activities of indigenous rights NGOs in Brazil (Conklin & Graham, 1995). In this way, one source of pressure (political opportunities) augmented another source of pressure (resources and organizational capacities). Nonetheless, further political changes have jeopardized the fate of the Yanomami. The 1993 impeachment of President Collor, his replacement by Itamar Franco and the subsequent election of Fernando Henrique Cardoso have shifted political opportunities back towards the developmental network. In the face of deepening economic crisis and mobilization by the developmental network, Cardoso and his ministers have increasingly made statements supportive of mining, logging and agribusiness. In 1996 Cardoso signed decree 1775, permitting legal challenge to FUNAI demarcations of indigenous territories (Turner, 1996). The next year, Cardoso announced a seven-million acre settlement program in Roraima (Bellos, 1998). Not surprisingly, garimpeiros and settlers have returned to Yanomami lands en masse. In 1999, bowing to pressure from the developmental network, Cardoso substantially reduced the area of the Makuxi reserve that borders the Yanomami Reserve (Rocha, 1999). In this way, shifts in the structure of political opportunity favorable to the developmental network have contributed to signicant changes in the status of indigenous rights. In addition to these national-level political opportunities, transnational dependencies have had important policy consequences in both cases. Intersecting Dependencies The manipulation of intersecting dependencies by both indigenous rights networks resulted in the targeted states granting their primary demands (albeit more precariously and at a far later stage of contention in the case of the Yanomami). While their contributions have varied, without the help of external NGOs, it is unlikely that either the Brazilian or Panamanian state would have recognized and protected indigenous lands. In the early 1980s, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) provided the majority of funding for the building of the El Lano-Carti road. The road threatened to bring a wave of peasants and small merchants to Kuna territory. The Kuna had failed in acting alone to try and thwart land encroachments.22 The identication of the Panamanian states dependence on USAID funding, however, enabled the Kuna rights network to apply pressure on the military regime to not only recognize a Udirbi National Park, but to nancially support its creation (see Fig. 3). Through intense scrutiny and negative publicity generated mainly by North American and Western European environmental and indigenous rights activists, the agency began in the late 1970s to take steps to reduce the devastation wrought by its projects.
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Fig. 3.
Intersecting Dependencies: The Kuna Case.
A study on the effects of the El Lano-Carti road brought the Kunas concerns to the agencys attention. After being told of the Kunas attempt to create an agricultural colony, the agency introduced Kuna representatives to CATIE. Soon afterwards, USAID as well as the Inter-American Foundation endorsed and agreed to help fund the Park. In this way, pressure by the Kunas external allies resulted in USAIDs defection from the developmental network. From its inception, the Panamanian state had a high degree of economic and political dependence upon the U.S. government. With a specic dependency exposed, the developmental forces within the state faced a hard choice. On the one hand, legal recognition of an Udirbi National Park would forfeit a large tract of virgin rainforest that could generate export revenue for the state and economy. On the other hand, refusal to support the park would result in the suspension of both USAID loans and road construction, undermining development projects throughout the eastern region. High levels of international debt precluded alternative sources of funding. With a highly valued road project jeopardized, the military regime agreed to the main demand of the Kuna rights network. Similarly, intersecting dependencies enabled the Yanomami rights network to score an important policy victory (see Fig. 4). Seizing upon international press build-up to the United Nations Conference on the Environment and Development in 1992, NGOs both within and outside of Brazil highlighted the plight of the Yanomami. The resulting negative international publicity increased the pressure upon foreign states to withhold assistance from the Brazilian state.
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Fig. 4.
Intersecting dependencies: the Yanomami Case.
With high levels of foreign debt and an export-oriented economy, the withholding of trade, investment, or loans would stall the militarys development initiatives, jeopardize loan payment schedules and undermine political stability. Faced with these potential costs, developmental forces within the state temporarily lost the policy battle. In May of 1992, President Collor decreed the Yanomami Territorial Reserve that NGOs had demanded for well over a decade. Collective Identities and Collective Action Frames The Kuna possess a more salient collective identity than the Yanomami. In the face of centuries of attempted enslavement, forced labor and assimilation, rigid identity boundaries have formed, generating an acute sense of distinctiveness. Wali (1984, 258) states that from Ministry ofcials on down, they constantly remarked on the Kunas refusal to assimilate into the larger society and their determination to stick to the old way of life . . . The salience of the Kunas collective identity convinced the Panamanian state that efforts to incorporate the Kuna and their lands into Panamanian society would encounter substantial resistance. In contrast, a pan-Yanomami identity has only recently begun to surface. Intervillage warfare among the Yanomami is not unknown. According to Henley (1995, 14), among the Yanomam in Brazil, more than one in four men may die in inter-community raids.23 Deaths due to illness are attributed to spells cast by shamans from other villages. The souls of the departed cannot leave this world
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until their deaths are revenged either by casting an evil spell on the alleged culprits or by an inter-village raid. Such activities have not promoted a sense of oneness. On the brink of extinction, however, the Yanomami have started to unite against outsiders bringing disease, pollution and famine.24 On the whole, the collective action frames used by the Kuna rights network resonated more widely and deeply with both their targets and public opinion than the frames used by the Yanomami rights network. From the beginning of their campaign for a National Park, the Kuna framed their policy demands in terms appealing to the military regime in Panama. During a meeting with General Torrijos, Kuna leader Rafael Harris explained why the Kuna needed rainforest areas protected from mining or clearing:
If I go to Panama City and stand in front of a pharmacy and because I need medicine, pick up a rock and break a window, you would take me away and put me in jail. For me, the forest is my pharmacy . . . (Breslin & Chapin, 1988, 77).
Torrijos responded to this comment by embracing Harris. The military regime frequently spoke of respect for property, lawfulness and national healing. By aligning ecological conservation and indigenous rights with these concerns, Harris made a strong impression on those who most threatened Kuna sovereignty. Because of their relative isolation from the outside world, most Yanomami have lacked the ability to argue persuasively using the terminology of their opponents.25 Moreover, until the mid-1980s, allies of the Yanomami spoke mostly about indigenous rights exclusive of environmental concerns. By switching to an indigenous ecology frame, the network increased the participation of environmental organizations. As such, the network put itself in a better position to manipulate intersecting dependencies during the Earth Summit in Rio in 1992. In addition, the Yanomami faced a more cunning rival than did the Kuna. By appropriating the indigenous ecology frame, pro-developmental Brazilian state agencies have managed to deect challenges to their legitimacy without substantively changing their policies. Albert (1992, 46) notes a switch in the late 1980s:
Indeed it was with the intention of greening the expropriation of most Yanomami lands that Directive 250 dressed its rhetoric with such environmental concerns as the need to preserve the head-water ecosystems of west Roraima and the need for ecological buffer zones (green belts) to protect the habitat of the Indians.
While appeasing international opinion, the Secretariat for National Defense (SADEN) proceeded with the Calha Norte (North Channels) Project a secret plan to establish infrastructure, mining, military bases and settlements in areas of the Amazon bordering neighbor states (Allen, 1992).
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Forms of Contention The tactics deployed by the Kuna rights network helped ensure fairly rapid policy success while the savvy of the Brazilian developmental network continues to place the rights of the Yanomami in jeopardy. Differences in the historical experiences of the Kuna and the Yanomami enabled the Kuna to more readily take advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves. Although facing an authoritarian military government determined to conquer their lands, the Kuna managed to avoid repression. The General Congress kept lines of communication open with the military regime. Furthermore, while the junta had increased the states repressive capacity, the historically credible threat of violent reprisals gave the Kuna the space to openly protest government policies. Kuna history offers lessons on recognizing and seizing political opportunities. From the seventeenth through the eighteenth century, the Kuna formed alliances with weaker colonial powers (Scotland, France and England successively) to successfully prevent full Spanish conquest of their territory (Langebaek, 1991). With the help of an American by the name of Richard Marsh, in 1925, the Kuna tried to play the U.S. government off the Panamanian regime by conducting an armed rebellion, issuing a declaration of independence and requesting U.S. protectorate status (Chardkoff, 1970). A U.S. government brokered agreement between the Panamanian state and the Kuna resulted in substantial political autonomy, the legal prohibition against the owning of Kunan land by non-Kunans and the legal recognition of the Kunas unique culture and institutions. Such experiences have taught the Kuna that foreign actors can be used as a counterbalance against the most threatening foreign actor whether it be Spanish conquistadors or the Panamanian government. Not surprisingly, when their land was threatened by approaching peasants, cattle ranchers and government development schemes, the Kuna General Congress readily worked with foreign scientists, recognizing a mutual interest in forest conservation and the protection of Kuna territory. On the other hand, with limited contact with outsiders prior to the 1950s, the Yanomami were initially ill-prepared to take advantage of political opportunities presenting themselves. Consequently, allied NGOs were primarily relied upon to identify and mobilize to exploit emerging advantages. Participation in the Union of Indigenous Nations (UNI) regional conference in Roraima since 1984 has encouraged more of a strategic disposition through the example of other more experienced delegates (Fuerst, 1985). For the time being, what could become tactical assets remains liabilities for the Yanomami. For instance, with the assistance of a U.S. anthropologist, the Kayapo in Brazil have cultivated and appropriated their reputation of erceness to win concessions often dressing up in war paint and regalia to pressure
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government ofcials through well organized, highly publicized largely symbolic confrontations (Posey, 1989). With the Yanomami lacking the savvy and organizational capacities of the Kayapo, the warrior stereotype has been used primarily by the opposing network to diminish public sympathy (Henley, 1995). Brazilian media accounts of the conict frequently portray the Yanomami as a bloodthirsty people (Salamone, 1997). As a result, massacres of villagers have failed to produce a groundswell of domestic support for the Yanomami. While garimpeiros violence has provoked an international outcry, military agencies and the media have often interpreted and dismissed this criticism as the malevolent interloping of foreigners (Albert, 1992; Ramos, 1995). With sporadic and half-hearted government efforts to remove garimpeiros from indigenous lands, mining, massacres and diseases continue to signicantly drain the already weak resources and organizational capacities of the Yanomami. When pressure generated by the Yanomami rights network has forced the state to make policy changes, state agencies belonging to the developmental network have ensured that the concessions actually further erode indigenous sovereignty. For instance, in 1988 the Inter-American Development Bank (IDB) planned to supply the Brazilian government with a $146.7 million loan to build a highway from Vieho to Rio Branco. The road would cut through a substantial portion of Yanomami territory (see Appendix B). Similar efforts in the past had resulted in rapid Yanomami depopulation, with construction workers spreading diseases and disrupting traditional modes of sustenance (Ramos, 1995). Under pressure from NGOs, the IDB suspended the loan until the Brazilian government took concrete steps to protect the environment and the rights of indigenous peoples. The state responded in the Fall of 1988 with two SADEN-inspired directives disguising commercial expropriation of Yanomami lands as reform.26 The directives created two national forests, a wildlife refuge and indigenous areas. The nineteen indigenous areas were to be small, discontinuous parcels of land sandwiched by non-indigenous settlements (Ramos, 1995). Moreover, the national forests were to be open to mining, logging and ranching while mining reserves were to be created within indigenous areas (Albert, 1992; Allen, 1992). While CCPY and other activists tried to point out the negative ramications, the IDB renewed the loan. In this way, the sophisticated tactics of Brazilian state agencies advanced the agenda of the developmental network in the face of considerable opposition.
CONCLUSION
The two cases examined here suggest that the process of political change can be fruitfully conceptualized as the unfolding product of contention between rival
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transnational issue networks. The San Blas Kuna swiftly and effectively defended their lands because the transnational network supporting their cause possessed attributes conducive to placing high levels of pressure upon the Panamanian state. Both indigenous and non-indigenous members had ample resources and organizational capacities to facilitate mobilization. As a result, the strength of the network compared favorably to that of a developmental network lacking signicant corporate or prospector involvement. Frequent interorganizational contact and an equitable distribution of power between indigenous and non-indigenous organizations resulted in a well-coordinated campaign to protect Kunan lands from further encroachment. The campaign received a boost by splits emerging within the military regime as well as the identication of the regimes nancial dependence upon USAID. With a strong collective identity and a history of strategically using foreign states as counterbalances against impending aggression, the Kuna readily seized the opportunity and, together with supportive INGOs, manipulated this dependency to ensure Panamanian state capitulation. By using a collective action frame that resonated with military ideology as well as deploying historically credible threats of force, the Kuna placed further pressure upon the state to abandon its plans to conquer the rainforests of the Atlantic coast. In contrast, the resources and organizational capacities available to the Yanomami paled in comparison to those possessed by its developmental rival. The discovery of sizeable mineral deposits led to substantial corporate and prospector presence in the developmental network. Security concerns also led to more strident intervention by military agencies. Frequent interaction and common interests promoted high levels of cooperation within the developmental network. Limited resources, weak organizational capacities, paternalistic dynamics, the absence of a pan-ethnic identity, a narrowly constructed and highly contentious collective action frame and retaliatory violence by the Yanomami hampered the efforts of the indigenous rights network. The balance of political opportunities did not shift in favor of the Yanomami until nearly two decades into the contention process. The Earth Summit in Rio in 1992 enabled the network to take advantage of the Brazilian states international political and economic dependency. Prior attempts to manipulate intersecting dependencies largely failed because of the deective tactics of state agencies with developmentalist agendas. Shifts in the structure of political opportunities since the Rio Summit have jeopardized the substantive policy gains made by the Yanomami rights network. The ndings suggest that the rival transnational network framework holds three advantages over existing approaches in social movements research. First,
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the concept of contention between rival transnational issue networks acknowledges the importance of organizations opposing demands for policy changes. Focusing solely upon a challenger movement its attributes and structure of political opportunity is a bit like predicting an outcome of a ght between two boxers when only the capabilities and circumstances surrounding one ghter are known. Subsequent efforts to explain policy changes should analytically decenter social movements by giving equal attention to other actors participating in issue contention. Second, by examining both transnational and national processes, the analysis recognizes the relevance of factors that studies conned to either level would ignore. While external organizations played critical roles in taking advantage of transnational dependencies, the strength of indigenous organization also factored considerably into the contrasting outcomes of the two cases. Coinciding shifts in structures of political opportunity at the national and transnational levels were crucial to the policy successes achieved by both indigenous rights networks. Any account omitting either internal or external factors would fail to unearth such linkages. Third, by emphasizing that networks of organizations consciously promote explicit political objectives, the approach injects agency back into explanations of social change. Undoubtedly, patterns of economic and political relations signicantly shaped structures of political opportunity. But to these structural effects must be added the role of deliberate action not mandated by structure. The different responses of the Panamanian and Brazilian states to the manipulation of their international dependencies by indigenous rights networks help to explain the contrasting statuses of the Kuna and the Yanomami today. The ndings also offer insights for indigenous rights campaigns. First, transnational dependencies provide opportunities to pressure those threatening indigenous rights. Second, indigenous populations with long histories of constructively interacting with outsiders are better able to take advantage of these dependencies than their more isolated counterparts. Proactive, non-destructive exposure to other societies facilitates the defense of indigenous lands, identities and traditions. Third, non-indigenous allies serve a more useful role by building indigenous capacities rather than acting as their guardians. Fourth, by appropriating indigenous ecology frames as well as by making concessions that, in reality, concede little, state agencies targeted by activists can diffuse international pressure to end development projects that threaten indigenous peoples. To counteract such tactics, indigenous rights activists must educate reference publics about gaps between rhetoric and reality. Since this article constitutes an initial foray into the macro-social consequences of political mobilization, further exploration and renements are
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needed. But if the struggles over Yanomami and Kuna lands are any indication, the explanatory power of the concepts developed here hold signicant promise.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
An earlier draft was presented at the 2000 American Sociological Association Annual Meeting in Washington D.C. Thanks to Jody Cardinal, Gerald Marwell, Russell Middleton, Pamela Oliver, Frank Rothman and the reviewers at RSMCC for their helpful comments.
NOTES
1. The Yanomami consist of the Sanuma, the Yanomam, the Yanomamo and the Yanam. The four sub-groups reside in a contiguous area of the Amazon in Brazil and Venezuela. While differing in language and custom, enough similarities exist for anthropologists to generally categorize them as one ethnic group (Ramos, 1995). Because of the complex interaction between local, national and international structures of opportunity, I have chosen to focus upon the Yanomami located in the Brazilian part of the Amazon. 2. I use the concept of issue networks instead of social movements. As generally dened, social movements are limited to NGOs. Yet often contention over issues involves alliances of public and private organizations (Fisher, 1993; Sikkink, 1993; Smith, 1995). Moreover, social movements often include organizations active on related but different issues. Consequently, the term is too broad for an analysis of relationships among organizations pursuing policy objectives on a single issue. 3. Some might argue that a resource-deprived issue network surmounting a hostile political environment to affect small policy changes is more successful than a well-endowed issue network that in fortuitous circumstances scores major policy victories. Such an argument, however, denes success in terms of factors affecting efcacy (e.g. resource levels and structures of political opportunity). In the process, independent and dependent variables are conated, making concise analysis of the sources of success difcult. 4. As used here, a target or a targeted actor refers to an individual, organization, or set of organizations perceived by a network as having the ability to meet its demands. A targeted actor may or may not be opposed to the objectives of the network pressuring it and, therefore, may or may not be a member of the rival issue network. 5. As the phrase effectively allocates indicates, the composition of resources possessed by organizations comprising the network facilitates the ability to conduct certain kinds of actions while constraining others (Oliver & Marwell, 1992). If the tactics chosen by organizations do not t with their resource bases, success is unlikely. 6. Given the limitations of denitions of dependency offered by dependency theorists (e.g. Dos Santos, 1971; Cardoso quoted in Palma, 1978), I chose to draw upon Blaus (1964) conception of the term. The denition is consistent with but more exacting than those offered by dependency theorists. 133
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7. Other states, such as in Peru, however, responded to the debt crisis by closing the polity and increasing repression. The effects of shifts in transnational processes upon structures of political opportunity depend upon the articulation of these processes with national-level factors that vary across countries. 8. Keck and Sikkink (1998, 1213) use the term the boomerang pattern to describe this process. By specifying relationships of dependency and power, the concept of manipulating intersecting dependencies describes more precisely how issue networks secure external interventions and why these interventions sometimes produce sought-after policy changes. 9. Taylor and Whittier (1992, 105) dene collective identity as the shared denition of a group that derives from members common interests, experiences and solidarity. 10. Collective identities that promote broad public support of policy demands may also decrease participation in collective action on behalf of these demands (Friedman & McAdam, 1992). To increase resources and organizational capacities while mounting symbolic pressure upon targets, issue networks, therefore, may need to hold internal collective identities that differ from their cultivated public personas (Coy & Woehrle, 1996). 11. Snow, Rochford, Jr., Worden and Benford (1986, 464) dene frames as schemata of interpretation that enable individuals to locate, perceive, identify and label occurrences within their life space and the world at large. 12. Indigenous ecology frames assert that indigenous peoples co-exist harmoniously with fragile ecosystems. Non-indigenous states and multinational corporations, on the other hand, destroy these ecosystems. Rainforests must be preserved because of their ability to absorb air pollutants while generating oxygen, the intrinsic worth of their biological and cultural diversity and the medicinal benets of their bio-diversity. The preservation of rainforests, therefore, depends upon the protection of indigenous peoples and their ways of life. See Conklin and Graham (1995). 13. National development frames assert that rainforests constitute parts of the territories of larger nation-states. Given that these areas are often geographically remote, establishing a military presence is critical to protecting a states sovereignty. Establishing a nonindigenous civilian presence strengthens the nation by promoting a common culture and civilization among all of its inhabitants. Extracting resources from rainforests promotes industrialization and prosperity. Limiting non-indigenous access to and use of rainforests, therefore, constitutes a threat to national security and an impediment to progress. See Allen (1992). 14. To avoid difculties in dening and operationalizing successful outcomes of social movements (see Earl, 2000), I have conned my examination of political change to the explicit policy objectives of indigenous rights campaigns. 15. Because of their high population density relative to other indigenous peoples, the Kuna also have strong personal networks across villages. As of 1988, 30,000 Kuna lived in 60 villages within an area of 4,000 sq. km (Breslin & Chapin, 1988). In contrast, during roughly the same period, 9,000 Yanomami in Brazil resided in 150 villages covering an area of about 96,000 square miles (Albert, 1992). 16. Rapidly declining fertility of the fragile Amazonian topsoil leads to the resettlement of Yanomami communities every seven to ten years. While this frequency of migration prevents ecological damage, high levels of transience create problems for networking not experienced with more stable agricultural systems. 17. Beauclerk, Narby and Townsend (1988, 39) relate the following reaction to the suggestion that Peace Corps volunteers introduced sewing machines and taught Kunas
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how to make molas a traditional womens dress and a powerful symbol of ethnic distinction and independence: At rst they thought it amusing, because they had sewing machines long before they had Peace Corps volunteers; later, they became angry at the idea that they would do as they were told in such a eld and wrote to the New York Times, one source of the original rumor. 18. Anthropologist Napoleon Chagnon stated his belief that it would be a very long time . . . before the Yanomami can, in fact, democratically speak for themselves (quoted in Salamone, 1996, 35). 19. The Brazilian state responded to the massacre by creating the Ministry of Amazonia and the Environment and by ring the President of FUNAI for overestimating the number of Yanomami murdered. The former decision continues a strategy of cosmetic reform to appease international opinion while the latter decision indicates ongoing splits among state agencies over questions of indigenous rights. Over the years, FUNAI has vascillated between supporting and opposing commercial activities, military bases and settlements on indigenous lands. 20. By encouraging political liberalization, pro-democracy movements also contributed, in multiple and contradictory ways, to indigenous mobilization in several other Latin American countries during the 1980s (Yashar, 1997). The Yanomami case and similar ndings regarding Columbia (Van Cott, 1996) suggest that indigenous rights movements mobilizing during a cycle of protest are more likely to secure their objectives than during the doldrums (Rupp & Taylor, 1987). Nonetheless, the Kuna achieved their goals in the absence of heightened levels of protest in Panama as a whole. 21. The civilian administration still had to contend with SADENs ongoing opposition to giving the Yanomami full control over their land in its entirety. 22. In 1975 the Kuna attempted to establish an agricultural colony at Udirbi where a new extension of the Pan-American Highway entered their territory. The buffer colony collapsed in 1981 because of its inability to grow crops or raise livestock in the area. 23. Considerable debate has taken place over the extent of warfare among the Yanomamo. For a fairly blood-thirsty portrait see Chagnon (1988). For an opposing view, see Ferguson (1995a). 24. As the following quote makes clear, the violence and degradation experienced at the hands of garimpeiros have generated the us/them distinction that serves as the foundation for a strong collective identity: We dont have poor people. Every one of us can use the land, can clear a garden, can hunt, sh. An Indian, when he needs to eat, kills just one or two tapirs. He only cuts down a few trees to make his garden. He doesnt annihilate the animals and the forest. The whites do this . . . Davi Kopenawa, Yanomami spokesperson quoted in Henley (1995, 56). 25. Ferguson (1995b) asserts that the Yanomami have interacted with outsiders since the 17th century. Nonetheless, historically, levels of contact with outsiders have been low when compared with the Kuna. Most of the interaction that has occurred has taken place within rather than outside of Yanomami territory. Rather than expanding or even preserving indigenous resources and organizational capacities, external contact has weakened the Yanomami. 26. In addition, to comply with IDB requirements, SADEN set forth a broader set of policies known as the Project to Protect the Environment and Indigenous Communities (PMACI). Like Directives 160 and 250, the policies advanced the commercial expropriation of indigenous lands under the guise of protecting the environment and indigenous rights. See Albert (1992). 135
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Escobar, A., & Alvarez, S. E. (1992). The Making of Social Movements in Latin America: Identity, Strategy and Democracy. Boulder CO: Westview Press. Ferguson, B. (1995a). A Reputation for War. Natural History, April, 6263. Ferguson, B. (1995b). Yanomami Warfare: A Political History. Santa Fe NM: SAR Press. Fisher, J. (1993). The Road from Rio: Sustainable Development and the Nongovernmental Movement in the Third World. Westport CT: Praeger. Friedman, D., & McAdam, D. (1992). Collective Identity and Activism: Networks, Choices and the Life of a Social Movement. In: A. D. Morris & C. McClurg-Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 156173). New Haven CT: Yale University Press. Fuerst, R. (1985). Indigenous Peoples Situation the Case of the Yanomami, Makuxi and Indians of Roraima in General. IWGIA Newsletter, 42, 1934. Gamini, G. (1998). Invaders Blight Yanomami Haven. The Times, April 13, 1. Gamson, W. A. (1975). The Strategy of Social Protest. Homewood, IL: Dorsey Press. Gamson, W. A. (1992). The Social Psychology of Collective Action. In: A. D. Morris & C. McClurg-Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 5376). New Haven CT: Yale University Press.. Helms, M. W. (1988). Ulysses Sail: An Ethnographic Survey of Power, Knowledge and Geographic Distance. Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press. Henley, P. (1995). Yanomami: Masters of the Spirit World. San Francisco: Chronicle Books. Howe, J. (1986). The Kuna Gathering: Contemporary Village Politics in Panama. Austin: University of Texas Press. Jackson, J. (1996). The Impact of Recent National Legislation in the Vaupes Region of Colombia. Journal of Latin American Anthropology, 1, 120151. Jenkins, J. C. (1983). Resource Mobilization Theory and the Study of Social Movements. Annual Review of Sociology, 9, 527553. Jenkins, J. C., & Perrow, C. (1977). Insurgency of the Powerless: Farm Workers Movements, 1946 1972. American Sociological Review, 51, 81229. Jenkins, J. C., & Schock, K. (1992). Global Structures and Political Processes in the Study of Domestic Political Conict. Annual Review of Sociology, 18, 161185. Keck, M., & Sikkink, K. (1998). Activists Beyond Borders: Advocacy Networks in International Politics. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press. Keohane, R. O., & J. S. Nye. (1977). Power and Interdependence: World Politics in Transition. Boston: Little Brown. Kriesi, H., Koopmans, R., Dyvendak, J. W., & Giugni, M. G. (1995). New Social Movements in Western Europe: A Comparative Analysis. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Langebaek, C. (1991). Cuna Long Distance Journeys: The Result of Colonial Interaction. Ethnology, 30, 371380. Maney, G. (2000). Transnational Mobilization and Civil Rights in Northern Ireland. Social Problems, 47, 153179. Maney, G. (2001). Transnational Structures and Protest: Linking Theories and Assessing Structures and Evidence. Mobilization, 6, 83100 McAdam, D. (1989). The Biographical Consequences of Activism. American Sociological Review, 54, 744760. McAdam, D. (1999). The Biographical Impact of Activism In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), How Social Movements Matter. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. McCarthy, J. D., & Zald, M. N. (1977). Resource Mobilization and Social Movements: A Partial Theory. American Journal of Sociology, 82, 12121241.
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Melucci, A. (1989). Nomads of the Present: Social Movements and Individual Needs in Contemporary Society. Philadelphia PA: Temple University Press. Meyer, D. S., & Marullo, S. (1992). International Change from Below: Activism and the End of the Cold War. Sociological Practice Review, 3, 189202. Meyer, D. S., & Staggenborg, S. (1996). Movements, Countermovements and the Structure of Political Opportunity. American Journal of Sociology, 101, 16281660. Morris, A. (1984). The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement: Black Communities Organizing for Change. New York: Free Press. Nash, J. (1997). Press Reports on the Chiapas Uprising: Towards a Transnationalized Communication. Journal of Latin American Anthropology, 2, 4275. Navarro, M. (1989). The Personal is Political: Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo. In: S. Eckstein (Ed.), Power and Popular Protest: Latin American Social Movements (pp. 241259) Berkeley: University of California Press. Oberschall, A. (1973). Social Conict and Social Movements. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. ODonnell, G. A., & Schmitter, P. (1986). Transition from Authoritarian Rule: Tentative Conclusions About Uncertain Democracies. Baltimore MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Oliver, P. E., & Marwell, G. (1992). Mobilizing Technologies for Collective Action. In: A. D. Morris & C. McClurg-Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 251272). New Haven CT: Yale University Press. Pagnucco, R., & Atwood, D. (1994). Global Strategies for Justice and Peace. Peace Review, 6, 411418. Posey, D. (1989). From Warclubs to Words. NACLA Report on the Americas, May, 1318. Powell, W. W. (1990). Neither Market nor Hierarchy: Network Forms of Organization. In: B. M. Staw & L. L. Cummings (Eds), Research in Organizational Behavior (pp. 295336). Greenwich CT: JAI Press. Rafferty, N. (1999). Tribal Leader Asks Greens for Help. The Scotsman, June 19, 8. Ramos, A. R. (1991). Yanomami: A Homeland Undermined. IWGIA Newsletter, July/August, 1320. Ramos, A. R. (1995). Sanuma Memories: Yanomami Ethnography in Times of Crisis. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. RisseKappen, T. (1995). Bringing Transnational Relations Back In: Non-State Actors, Domestic Structures and International Institutions. New York: Cambridge University Press. Rocha, J. (1999). Land Rights: Bill of Wrongs. The Guardian, June 23, 4. Rothman, F. D., & Oliver, P. E. (1999). From Local to Global: The Anti-Dam Movement in Southern Brazil, 19791992. Mobilization, 4, 4158. Rupp, L. J., & Taylor, V. (1987). Survival in the Doldrums: The American Womens Rights Movement, 1945 to the 1960s. New York: Oxford University Press. Salamone, F. A. (1996). Transcript of Remarks at AAA Session on Anthropology and Theology: The Condition of Venezuela Indians. Studies in Third World Societies, 57, 3370. Salamone, F. A. (1997). The Yanomami and Their Interpreters: Fierce People or Fierce Interpreters? Lanham MD: University Press of America. Schulz, M. S. (1998). Collective Action across Borders: Opportunity Structures, Network Capacities and Communicative Praxis in the Age of Advanced Globalization. Sociological Perspectives, 41, 587616. Sikkink, K. (1993). Human Rights, Principled Issue-Networks and Sovereignty in Latin America. International Organization, 47, 411441. Smith, J. (1995). Transnational Political Processes and the Human Rights Movement. Research in Social Movements, Conict and Change, 18, 185219.
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Smith, J., Pagnucco, R., & Chateld, C. (1997). Social Movements and World Politics: A Theoretical Framework. In: J. Smith, C. Chateld & R. Pagnucco (Eds), Transnational Social Movements and Global Politics: Solidarity Beyond the State (pp. 5977). Syracuse NY: Syracuse University Press. Snow, D. A., Rochford, E. B. Jr., Worden, S. K., & Benford, R. D. (1986). Frame Alignment Processes, Micromobilization and Movement Participation. American Sociological Review, 51, 464481. Snow, D. A., & Benford, R. (1992). Master Frames and Cycles of Protest. In A. D. Morris & C. McClurg-Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 133155). New Haven CT: Yale University Press. Stepan, A. (1985). State Power and the Strength of Civil Society in the Southern Cone of Latin America. In: P. Evans, D. Rueschemeyer, & T. Skocpol (Eds), Bringing the State Back In. New York: Cambridge University Press. Tarrow, S. (1994). Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, V., & Whittier, N. (1992). Collective Identity in Social Movement Communities: Lesbian Feminist Mobilization. In: A. D. Morris & C. McClurg-Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 104129). New Haven CT: Yale University Press. Tilly, C. (1978). From Mobilization to Revolution. Reading: Addison-Wesley. Turner, T. (1992). Deant Images: The Kayapo Appropriation of Video. Anthropology Today, 8, 516. Turner, T. (1996). Indigenous Rights vs Neoliberalism. Dissent, 43, 6769. Van Cott, D. L. (1996). Unity through Diversity: Ethnic Politics and Democratic Deepening in Columbia. Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 2, 523549. Van Cott, D. L. (2000). A Political Analysis of Legal Pluralism in Bolivia and Colombia. Journal of Latin American Studies, 32, 207234. Wali, A. (1984). Kilowatts and Crisis Among the Kuna, Choco and Colonos: National and Regional Consequences of the Bayano Hydroelectric Complex in Eastern Panama. Unpublished Dissertation. Columbia University, New York. Yashar, D. J. (1997). Indigenous Politics and Democracy: Contesting Citizenship in Latin America. Working Paper No.238. Notre Dame IN: Kellogg Institute.
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APPENDIX A
Organizations Contending Issue of San Blas Kuna Land Rights
International NGOs CATIE Center for the Investigation & Teaching of Tropical Agriculture (Costa Rica) CHE Center for Human Ecology (U.S.) TSC Tropical Science Center (Costa Rica) WWF World Wildlife Federation (U.S.) Panamanian NGOs STRI Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (Panama City) Indigenous NGOs AIP Association of Panamanian Indians KGC San Blas Kunan General Congress UTK Union of Kunan Workers (Panama City) International GOs UNWGIP United Nations Working Group for Indigenous Peoples Foreign State Agencies IAF Inter-American Foundation (U.S.) U.S.AF United States Armed Forces U.S.AID United States Agency for International Development Panamanian State Agencies MP Panamanian Armed Forces PAT Panamanian Tourist Institute OIA Ofce of Indian Affairs RENARE Panamanian Agency of Renewable Natural Resources Panamanian National Assembly National Capital Agribusiness (cattle ranches and plantations near Kuna reserve) and timber companies. Settlers Colonos Migrating peasants
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APPENDIX B
Organizations Contending Issue of Yanomami Land Rights
International NGOs APS Aborigines Protection Society London, England ARC Anthropology Resource Center Boston, MA, USA CAPTE Coalition for Amazonian Peoples and Their Environment Washington D.C. USA CS Cultural Survival Cambridge MA, USA DICIAAR Documentation & Information Center for Indigenous Affairs in the Amazon Region Geneva, Switzerland EDF Environmental Defense Fund Washington D.C. USA IFRSDC French Scientic Research Institute for Cooperative Development Paris, France ILRC Indian Law Resource Center Washington D.C. USA IWGIA International Working Group for Indigenous Affairs Copenhagen, Denmark MDM World Doctors Paris, France OXFAM-U.K. Oxfam Oxford, England SI Survival International London, England Brazilian NGOs AAB Brazilian Anthropological Association ANAI National Association of Indian Supporters CCPY Commission for the Creation of the Yanomami Park CEDI Ecumenical Center for Documentation and Information CIR Roraima Indigenous Council CIMI Indigenous Missionary Council (Catholic Church) CPI Pro-Indigenous Committee MEVA Evangelical Mission Society of Amazonia Indigenous NGOs APIR Association of Indigenous Peoples of Roraima COAIB Coordination of Indigenous Organizations of the Brazilian Amazon UNI Union of Indigenous Nations International GOs EU European Union OAS Organization of American States UNCHR United Nations Commission for Human Rights UNEP United Nations Environment Program UNWGIP United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Peoples Foreign State Agencies IDB Inter-American Development Bank (U.S.) ODB Overseas Development Agency (U.K.) U.S.AID United States Agency for International Development
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U.S.GS
Brazilian State Agencies CDN National Defense Council (formerly CSN) CMA High Command of the Military Area of Amazonia COMARA Airport Commission for the Amazon Region CONAMA National Council of the Environment CPRM Mineral Resources Research Company CSN National Security Council DNPM National Department of Mineral Production ESG High War College FNS National Health Foundation FUNAI National Indian Foundation IBAMA Brazilian Institute for Environmental Affairs (formerly IBDF) IBDF Brazilian Institute of Forestry Development INCRA National Institute for Colonization and Agrarian Reform ITAMARTY Ministry of Foreign Affairs MEAF Ministry of Land Affairs (formerly INCRA) MEC Ministry of Education and Culture MINTER Ministry of Home Affairs MIRAD Ministry of Agrarian Reform and Development (formerly MEAF) MJ Ministry of Justice MSP Ministry of Public Health Nuclebrs State-owned company promoting nuclear research PF Federal Police PGR Attorney Generals Ofce SADEN Secretariat for National Defense (formerly Secretariat0-General of CSN) SAE Secretariat for Strategic Affairs (formerly SADEN) SEPLAN Secretariat for the Planning of the Presidency of the Republic SMA Secretariat for the Environment SOEs State owned mining companies such as Companahia Vale do Rio Doce and Mineraao Rio do Norte SUDAM Secretariat for Amazonian Development and Planning TF Federal Courts State Governors, Members of Federal Congress and political parties Foreign Capital MNCs Multinational Corporations with investments in or near Yanomami territory.
National Capital National privately owned mining companies such as the Brazilian Paranapanema, agribusiness (cattle ranches, plantations) and timber companies with investments in or near Yanomami territory Garimpeiros USAGAL Prospectors Union of Legal Amazonia
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APPENDIX C
Map of Panama and San Blas Kuna Territory.

Source: Chapin (1985).
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APPENDIX D
Map of Brazil and Yanomami Territory.

Source: Ramos (1995).
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THE ORIGINS OF THE PROTEST MOVEMENT AGAINST NUCLEAR POWER

Stephen Adair
ABSTRACT
The protest movement against nuclear power in the U.S. emerged as a consequence of the initial decline of the nuclear-power industry. Changes in nancial and energy markets in the early 1970s threatened the industry, and in response, nuclear proponents and political elites initiated a political defense of the nuclear industry that exposed institutionalized relations of power, dened a visible target, and generated a simultaneous, collective perception of injustice, which led to the protest movement against nuclear power. The opposition to the Seabrook plant and the formation of the Clamshell Alliance represent a paradigmatic case, because at Seabrook the defense of the industry took its most visible form and because the Clamshell initiated the protest movement. This analysis presents a modied version of political-process theory by advancing a critical theory of power and developing the concept of a political condensation in contrast to political opportunity to explain the origins of the protest movement against nuclear power.
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INTRODUCTION
In the immediate aftermath of World War II in the United States, the military and the state promoted the peaceful uses of the atom in an ideological effort to prepare the citizenry for the atomic age (Boyer, 1985; Clarke, 1985). For a time, the nexus of nuclear weapons and nuclear energy constituted the foundation of state power, while embodying both the hopes and dangers of the new technocratic world. The atom provided the big stick in international relations and served as a primary medium through which the state monitored the relations between capital, the military, and the scientic community. At the same time, carefully crafted images of nuclear-powered automobiles and promises of electricity too cheap to meter offered a bright hope and an emotional counterweight to . . . nuclear destruction (Wohlstetter, 1968). This has now changed. The nuclear-power industry has completely collapsed and the end to the Cold War has diminished our preoccupation with the bomb. The decline in the American nuclear state had to be realized and publicly identied, but the enormous institutional resources employed to control the atom made it unlikely that the announcement would develop from inside the state. In the late 1970s, the protest movement against nuclear energy emerged to generate the necessary critique and to document the problems that became visible over the course of the decline. The argument that the decline in the nuclear industry led to the protest movement seemingly reverses the conventional wisdom that the antinuclear movement brought down the industry. Both nuclear supporters and opponents have fostered this wisdom supporters to blame an irrational, meddling public for their problems (cf. Barrett, 1980; Cohen, 1983; Inglehart, 1984), and opponents to claim the effectiveness of collective action. Wasserman (1996, 3), a leading activist and long-standing critic of nuclear power, has even claimed that the no nukes movement was the most successful social movement in modern times. Measuring this success, however, is difcult because the industry was signicantly troubled before the protest movement emerged and because we are unable to determine if the industrys problems would have resulted in a total collapse without the protest movement. Others have certainly argued that the collapse of the nuclear industry was not primarily a consequence of the movement (Nichols, 1987; Campbell, 1988; Jasper, 1990; Joppke, 1993), but this paper reverses the causal argument and describes how the initial difculties within the industry led, in a complex and mediated way, to the practical, local emergence of the protest movement. It links an institutional decline with the formation of social protest.
Antinuclear Movement
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The explanation for the rise of the antinuclear movement that is most consistent with current social movement theory is that the emergent weaknesses within the industry opened new political opportunities that were then exploited by movement activists. Indeed, legal challenges to the nuclear industry at both the local and the national level intensied in the early 1970s when the structural weaknesses were becoming evident. Antinuclear protests, civil disobedience and extra-legal challenges, however, did not occur around the nuclear plant sites where the industry was most vulnerable or where opponents had the greatest opportunities for success. Rather protests originated at those sites were the alliance between the state and the nuclear industry became most visible, and where the greatest volume of institutionalized forces were deployed to save nuclear projects.1 At these locations, the joint mobilization by the state and industry exposed institutionalized relations of power, which created a simultaneous, collective perception of injustice among potential activists. These conditions, which I describe as a political condensation, established a social context where the protest movement formed and mobilized. In short, the political defense of the declining industry produced its own gravediggers. This argument challenges the utilitarian assumptions embedded in the concept of political opportunity, and which lie at the core of resource mobilization and political-process theories. In place of these assumptions, I modify politicalprocess theory by grounding it in a critical theory of power. Following a theoretical discussion, the analysis proceeds in two parts. In the rst, the structural conditions that weakened the nuclear industry are outlined to demonstrate that the initial decline of the industry preceded the rise of the protest movement. The second describes how this structural weakness and the corresponding elite intransigence led to the practical and local emergence of the protest movement by considering, as a paradigmatic case, the rise of the Clamshell Alliance and the opposition to the Seabrook nuclear plant in New Hampshire. The emergence of the Clamshell is important because, by all accounts, it initiated the wave of civil disobedience and direct action against nuclear power plants in the U.S. (Gyorgy, 1979; Barkan, 1979; Wasserman, 1979; Mitchell, 1981; Downey, 1986; Price, 1990; Epstein, 1991; Joppke, 1993; Adair, 1996). It has also served as a type of touchstone both within social movement literature and among social activists. The groups emphasis on direct action and its technique of consensus decision making established a new radical and egalitarian vision that inspired subsequent social movements (Epstein, 1991; Sturgeon, 1995; Wasserman, 1996; Wolff, 1996). In rethinking the origins of the protest movement against nuclear power, my intention is not to rob activists of their agency, but to identify the structural contributions to the localized social energy and vigor that made the protest movement possible.
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SOCIAL MOVEMENT THEORY

Recent research from the resource mobilization and political process perspectives has emphasized the importance of the political opportunity structure, and argued that movements are more likely to emerge when discontented groups gain political resources or have improved chances for success. In dening the perspective, McCarthy and Zald (1997, 151) assumed that there is always enough discontent in any society to supply the grass-roots support for a movement if the movement is effectively organized and has at its disposal the power and resources of some established elite group. This utilitarian assumption results in a tendency within resource mobilization and political process theories to gloss issues associated with injustice, structural inequities, and activists efforts to develop and articulate an oppositional consciousness. Indeed, these theories have been more or less nettled by such criticisms, and, at least in part, the development of new social movement theory and work on the framing practices of movements have emerged through efforts to address these shortcomings (see Snow, Rochford, Worden & Benford, 1986; Melucci, 1989; Gamson, 1992; Laraa, Johnston & Guseld, 1994). Here, I take a different track, and modify political-process theory by shifting the theoretical grounds from rational-choice theory to a critical theory of power. Political Opportunity Structures According to McAdam (1995, 221) expanding political opportunities are clearly the analytic key to understanding movement formation (see also Tilly, 1978; McAdam, 1982; Tarrow, 1994; McAdam, McCarthy & Zald, 1996). New political opportunities have been associated with a number of differing factors including electoral realignments, divisions among elites, new openings into the polity for a disaffected group, and the emergence of inuential allies (Tarrow, 1994, 8589). The uidity in the concept is both its strength and its weakness because after a movement has emerged researchers can take a retrospective view, identify a conducive social condition, and label it a new opportunity.2 Moreover, identifying new political opportunities likely depends on movement activity itself because without mobilizing activity, the new opportunities could not be identied (Goodwin & Jasper, 1999). Researchers may therefore risk mistaking the consequence of a movement for its cause, because a movement may generate what appear to be its own opportunities by trying new tactics, establishing new alliances, or altering political and cultural sensibilities. As Gamson and Meyer (1996, 275) argue, the concept of political opportunity
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structure threatens to become an all-encompassing fudge factory for all the conditions and circumstances that form the context for collective action. Used to explain so much, it may ultimately explain nothing at all. Despite this shortcoming, the concept of political opportunity remains compelling because it builds on the strengths of resource mobilization (RM) theory. RM theorists view social movements as the rational and strategic outcomes of pre-existing social networks that become organized when a discontented group gains resources (McCarthy & Zald, 1977; Jenkins, 1983). The perspective is informed by rational-choice theory, and analyzes why actors participate in collective action and how networks promote involvement (Olson, 1965; Tilly, 1985; Klandermans, 1988; Friedman & McAdam, 1992). Zald (1992, 334) claims that it is in understanding micromobilization that RM theory has made the most progress, and this has been accomplished by detailing free-rider effects and arguing about the role of solidarity and selective incentives offered by entrepreneurs in overcoming any free-rider problems. Political-process theory was explicitly intended to counter this micro-tendency in RM theory by situating social movements in the interaction between society and the state (Tilly, 1978; McAdam, 1982). It views the scale of mobilization, movement tactics, and organizational structures as contingent on broad shifts in state power structures. Much of the work done from this perspective, however, continues to draw from the assumptions of RM theory, and associates political opportunities with a decrease in the cost of mobilizing, an increase in the likelihood of success, and a greater volume of selective incentives for activists. These utilitarian assumptions, however, lead to an analytic problem: if movements develop in conjunction with new opportunities, then social movements should develop as state repression declines, and conversely, states should be able to increase repressive forces with impunity. Although support can arguably be found for the former, the latter is clearly not so. State repression at least risks a radicalization of an opposition and the delegitimation of institutional structures. Skocpol (1979) demonstrates that in the face of state crises, elite intransigence precipitated political revolutions by radicalizing peasant revolts. One might argue that repression provides opportunities for mobilization, but this requires abandoning utilitarian assumptions and seriously stretches the meaning of opportunity. Some have argued that closing political opportunity structures increases the use of confrontational and illegal tactics by movement activists (Kitschelt, 1986; della Porta, 1995), but in this usage, the concept of political opportunity explains the tactical expression of a movement while leaving unexamined the process of movement formation.
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Political Opportunities And The Antinuclear Movement Due to the inconsistent use of the concept of political opportunity, researchers have had difculty explaining the origins of the antinuclear protest movement in the United States. In an inuential article that compared the antinuclear movements in France, West Germany, Sweden and the United States, Kitschelt (1986) argued that the form of the political opportunity structure shaped movements strategies. Since the U.S. represented a relatively weak state with open political input structures, Kitschelt maintained that the antinuclear movement adopted assimilative strategies, that relied on legal means to thwart the implementation of a state nuclear policy. In contrast, the movements in France and Germany used confrontational strategies because the political input structures were closed (cf. Rucht, 1990). Whether or not the U.S. antinuclear movement was less confrontational than the French or German case is actually far from clear. The U.S. antinuclear movement included the use of civil disobedience, protest and violent confrontations between activists and state police. To account for these, Kitschelt (1986, 72) maintained that the American antinuclear movement staged its rst large-scale demonstration only in 1978, and that such demonstrations must be viewed as temporary aberrations, which were . . . imported from Western Europe. In this dismissal of contrary evidence, Kitschelt ignored perhaps as many as 120 demonstrations, rallies and other forms of protest activity that had occurred by the fall of 1977 (Mitchell, 1981, 82). Recognizing Kitschelts oversights, Joppke (1993, 78) wrote according to an overly state-centered political process theory, direct action should not have appeared at all in the relatively open American polity. Joppke (1993, 78) developed a multifactorial approach that combined the emphasis on political opportunities with a more actor-centered explanation, based on the particular traits of the underlying activist subculture. He (1993, 7782) argued that for groups associated with the New Left, nuclear power became a substitute rallying point after the withdrawal of troops from Vietnam. The activist subculture was important, but Joppke (1993, 78) privileged the concept of political opportunity structure and resorted to the actor-centered explanation only because the direct-action movement dees any rationalistic explanation in terms of interests and opportunities [and] . . . does not t the economic model of means-end rationality as postulated by resource mobilization theory. Like Kitschelt, Joppke (1993, 93) contrasted the American case with West Germany, where [b]y lightly dismissing the legitimacy of opposing the nuclear project, even through legal means, the state ensured that the resort to direct action was the only possible response left. In West Germany, he argued, the intransigent state produced its own opposition. Joppke specically discounted this as an
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explanation for the American antinuclear movement because he retained the open characterization of the U.S. political structure. Joppke, thus, adopts his action-centered approach because he presumes a rational-actor explanation for movement formation in the context of an open political structure, even though he provides no explanation for how movements form within a closed political opportunity structure. A Critical Theory Of Power To develop a political-process theory of social movements that adequately conceptualizes the interaction between the society and the state, the complex political issues of legitimacy, power and social control cannot be simply reduced to the utilitarian assumptions implied by the concept of political opportunity. Much of this work has already been done and simply needs to be viewed in conjunction with movement mobilization. For more than a century, critical social theorists have maintained that dissent is constrained or precluded by the capacity of dominant groups to exercise control over consciousness and public discourse. This fundamental assumption, however, has only been occasionally addressed in sociological analysis of protest movements (e.g. Piven & Cloward, 1977; Gaventa, 1980; Morris, 1992). Block (1987, 23) once argued that both the form and effectiveness of power is determined by peoples relative awareness of it, such that due to the strength of justifying ideologies prevailing institutionalized relations of power tend to become visible only when they weaken. This argument implies a hierarchy in the effectiveness of power that is reminiscent of the three-dimensional view of power offered by Lukes (1974) and Gaventa (1980). Briey, the rst dimension involves an open and observable struggle between competing parties who mobilize resources to realize their interests. The second dimension is associated with a mobilization of bias, where a dominant party controls access to public arenas to mute the challenge of contending groups. The third dimension involves control over consciousness such that subordinates either accept the status quo or cannot recognize any realistic possibility for change. In the third dimension, power is fully hegemonic and reproduced through the maintenance of routine. This typology in the form of power can be made more dynamic by considering the three dimensions as points on a continuum that are contingent on a political process, in which struggles over legitimacy are privileged. The third dimension of power can only be fully identied in retrospect (by researchers and the public); after people have effectively named, challenged, and exposed a previously concealed condition.3 For example, in the Civil Rights Movement, the explicit intent of the freedom rides and the sit-ins was to expose the injustices
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of segregation, and thereby challenge the legitimacy of the Southern caste system. In recent years, the womens movement, the gay rights movement, and the environmental movement have had at least moderate success in identifying previously concealed institutionalized relations. Much of the effectiveness of contemporary social movements depends on the relative ability of activists to open for public review those interests that lay behind institutionalized practices (cf. Melucci, 1989, 76). Regardless of whether this new uncovering is considered to be delusional or the foundation for a vanguard (this might only depend on who gets to write the history), a movements justication depends on identifying the particular institutionalized injustices that generate a mobilization of bias. When challenged, either by an externally induced crisis or by some initial movement activity, those who occupy institutionalized positions of power can be expected to try to reassert their control. Some movement success is likely to disrupt elite complacency, such that they summon political and economic resources and engage in more self-conscious political acts to make their particular interest appear as a general interest. These efforts may convince some, whereas for others, it may lend greater credence to a movements claims. That is, in the face of a countermovement, movement participants may gain a greater strength and urgency by being able to identify specic targets and practices that are intended to thwart its aims. Such tactics constitute the political process. A dynamic shift in the form of power occurs when there is a joint mobilization between a movement and a countermovement such that competing political actors and organizations become more conscious of institutionalized relations. This shift can be described as a political condensation. The term condensation is used because it refers not simply to a concentration of activity, but a quantitative accumulation of latent elements that produces a qualitative change that renders the elements manifest.4 The opposing process, in which a movement is demobilized and institutionalized practices (either the same ones or in an altered form) are secured, can be described as a process of political dissipation. Movement along the continuum is represented by the two key political skills: making a particular interest appear as a general interest so as to reduce conict and mobilizations (dissipation); and building coalitions to challenge institutionalized forms of power (condensation). In a large number of cases, the items usually associated with the opening of new political opportunities electoral realignments, divisions among elites, the emergence of inuential allies will also be associated with the greater visibility of previously hegemonic conditions, and a movement along the continuum toward the rst dimension. Nevertheless, the conceptual change from political opportunity to political condensation involves more than just a new label for the same class of phenomena because it alters the underlying theoretical logic.
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political condensation ---------->----------->----------->----------->----------->----------->-----------> Third Dimension Second Dimension First Dimension Hegemonic Control Mobilization of Bias Open conict No Mobilization Social Movements present The revolutionary movement <-----------<-----------<-----------<-----------<-----------<-----------<----------political dissipation By privileging issues associated with power, legitimacy, and perceptions of injustice, the term condensation avoids the utilitarian assumption that social movements are opportunistic expressions of discontent. It provides a logical basis for understanding why increases in state or elite repression may intensify a movement's mobilization. It opens for reconsideration issues of spontaneity in social movements and the linkage between social movements and other less strategic and organized forms of collective action, such as riots (a linkage which RM theory sought to sever), because a particular incident or an emergent crisis might rapidly expose previously concealed relations. This does not imply that social activists are irrational, nor does it mean that activists ought not to try to organize, but it does mean that social movements cannot be created simply by harnessing resources or getting the marketing right. Following a brief history of the protest movement, this paper outlines the decline of the nuclear industry and the early antinuclear opposition. I then present the Seabrook case to show how this institutional decline was accompanied by a vigorous political defense by the utility industry and the state, which exposed power relations and created the conditions in which a radical protest movement could form.
A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ANTINUCLEAR PROTEST MOVEMENT

Beginning in 1976 with the formation of the Clamshell Alliance, a widespread, radical movement used protest and civil disobedience to stop the construction of nuclear power plants. By early 1978, more than 30 groups had emerged, many of which adopted the Clamshell's tactics and organizational structure. A partial list of the most well known Alliances include the Abalone (California), Crabshell (Washington), Cactus (Southwest), Lone Star (Texas), Bailly (Illinois), Paddlewheel (Kentucky), Palmetto (Carolinas), Catsh (Florida), and the SHAD (New York). By 1978, more than half of the nations nuclear plants had been subjected to protests.
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This direct-action movement qualitatively transformed the meaning of the struggle and promised a resurgence of the radical politics of the New Left. Many of the alliances were organized as collectives, without an internal hierarchy or a division of labor. They engaged in what Breines (1989, 6) referred to as a pregurative politics, which consisted of the task of creating and sustaining within the practice of the movement, relationships and political forms that pregured and embodied the desired society. The alliances challenged the nuclear industry not only on environmental grounds, but also as an ugly manifestation of an undue concentration of political and economic power. They drove the limits to growth debate by raising the ominous possibility that nuclear power would prove to be the means through which Nature would exact its revenge. In the call for No Nukes the antinuclear movement was part of the effort, often associated with new social movements generally, to reclaim local autonomy from an increasingly intrusive link between private capital and the state. In addition to the number of protests, there were several other ancillary indicators of the movements growth. The rst national, antinuclear public interest group formed in 1974, with a group led by Ralph Nader, Critical Mass. Public opinion polls offer an oblique measure of movement activity at best, but they reveal a modest but consistent growth in antinuclear sentiments after 1975 (Nealy, Melber & Rankin, 1983). Media coverage also increased through the late 1970s. The Media Institute (1979) found that there was three times as much coverage of nuclear power in 1975 as the year before. Coverage doubled again in 1976, and with exception of a small decline in 1978, increased steadily up to the Three-Mile Island (TMI) accident in March of 1979. The increase in media coverage was also tied to a change in the presentation of nuclear power. Gamson and Modigliani (1989) demonstrated that the association of nuclear power with technological progress completely dominated media discourse into the early 1970s. This image was initially challenged in the mid-1970s by a soft paths argument split wood, not atoms and shortly thereafter was supplemented by depictions of nuclear power as a runaway technology that had been unduly promoted by greedy, unaccountable utilities. Between 1975 and 1979, then, direct action groups initiated widespread acts of civil disobedience, national antinuclear public-interest groups formed, public opinion turned against the industry, media coverage increased, and major media outlets no longer presented nuclear power as an unqualied demonstration of technological progress. The period of contentious politics was short-lived as many of the alliances collapsed by 1981 (at several nuclear sites, local resistance continued, and public opinion continued to grow more opposed to nuclear power through the early
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1980s).5 Importantly, this period of protest directly followed a contraction in nancial and energy markets and the maturation of festering problems within the nuclear power industry.
THE DECLINE OF THE NUCLEAR POWER INDUSTRY

The U.S. nuclear power industry entered the 1970s with plans of having 1000 operating reactors by the end of the century. Ten years later, this dream had vanished and the industry had collapsed. Nearly half (122 of 249) of all nuclear reactors ordered by the U.S. were canceled (DOE, 1991). All 41 plants ordered since 1974 and 100 of the 120 nuclear plants ordered since 1972 were canceled. No reactors have been ordered since 1978 (see Fig. 1). The cancellations provide a dramatic contrast to the bullish market evident at the start of the decade. The eight-year period between 1966 and 1974 accounted for 87% of all nuclear plants ordered in the United States, which represented a majority of the new generating capacity ordered by utilities (Nichols, 1987). Philip Sporn, former president of the American Electric Power Company, referred to this buying spree as the Great Bandwagon Years. Throughout this period, few plants were operating relative to the number being proposed. In 1972, for example, fewer than 20 plants were operating, more than 100 were under construction, and 35 of the 38 plants ordered in that year were larger than any that were currently operating (DOE, 1991). Despite abundant claims to the contrary, nuclear power proved not to be economically competitive with other energy options (Ford, 1982; DOE, 1983). With only a handful of exceptions, actual construction costs of nuclear power plants exceeded initial estimates, often by hundreds of millions of dollars. The rise in costs (and the corresponding collapse of the industry) is partly explained by the long delays between construction and power generation. Utilities usually estimated four to seven years between the initial proposal and operation of a plant, yet it took roughly twice that to get most plants on line (DOE, 1988, 1991). The delays were indicative of both managerial and engineering problems in the nuclear sector that were exacerbated by the relative lack of experience in reactor construction and the extraordinary nancial commitment that nuclear plants required (Komanoff, 1981; Hertsgaard, 1983; Campbell, 1988; Jasper, 1990). The long lead times imposed a heavy nancial burden on utilities that were paying interest on construction loans. Importantly, the end to the buying spree in 1974 occurred when the bulk of the plants proposed between 1966 to 1968 were coming on-line with total construction costs that were often exceeding $1 billion per reactor. This increasingly evident nancial problem coincided with a dramatic drop in energy consumption in the mid-1970s.
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Fig. 1. U.S. Nuclear Reactor Units Ordered and Number of Antinuclear Protests Reported in the New York Times, 19601990.
* 1960 includes all plants to that date Source: DOE, 1991, 105110, The New York Times Index.
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The OPEC oil embargo nearly quadrupled oil prices between 1973 and 1974, which, perhaps counter-intuitively, adversely affected the nuclear power industry. Over the previous decade, growth in the consumption of electricity averaged 7% annually, which required doubling capacity every 10 years. In the bandwagon years, nuclear power had been the energy of choice to meet the anticipated demand. After the embargo, growth fell to 2.5%, which would require a doubling of capacity in 30 years (DOE, 1983). Some proposed coal-red plants were abandoned, but all of the nuclear projects still in the planning stage would eventually be either canceled or indenitely deferred. The large capital requirements for nuclear projects made them the most susceptible to the budgetary axe (DOE, 1983). Financial markets compounded the problem because as utilities pulled back from their commitments, and as debt grew in relation to assets, bond ratings and stock prices fell. From 1970 to 1982, utilities with bond ratings of BBB or worse grew from 8% to 37%, and those with ratings of AA or better shrank from 61% to 24% (OTA, 1984). For utilities that attempted to hang on to nuclear projects under construction, the economic consequences were staggering. The recession in the early 1980s pushed the prime rate over 13% and by then, additional safety, environmental and engineering standards (arguably due to the political challenges) lengthened lead times and greatly increased the cost of construction. A new wave of cancellations followed with total abandonment costs in the tens of billions of dollars. For the 102 plants operating in the late 1980s, the total cost overrun was $112 billion. Although a fraction was due to ination, this gure does not include the tens of billions lost from the 122 canceled nuclear projects, those shutdown due to accidents or other problems, those not operating by 1988, nor losses stemming from inadequate performance. Cook (1985, cover) referred to the U.S. nuclear power industry as the largest managerial disaster in business history, a disaster on a monumental scale. Readily apparent in retrospect, the economic disaster was not so obvious a decade earlier, but there were visible signs. Saunders Miller (1976, 36), an investment analyst for utilities, declared that from an economic standpoint alone, to rely upon nuclear ssion as the primary source of our stationary energy supplies will constitute economic lunacy on a scale unparalleled in recorded history. Yet the tremendous political and economic momentum necessary to achieve those 1000 operating reactors by the end of the century blinded many to the visible signs. In the critical historical period between 1974 and 1976, the industrys prospects were inversely proportional to the political, economic and social efforts of its advocates. Beginning in 1974 and then increasing several-fold through the rest of the decade, the nuclear industry tried to bolster its prospects by increasing its investment in public relations (Campbell, 1989).
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The move itself represented a self-conscious response by the industry to protect its dwindling hold over public acceptance (Balogh, 1991). The defense of the industry would grow more rigorous and more visible in the face of its insurmountable structural weakness and the emerging antinuclear opposition.
THE EARLY OPPOSITION TO NUCLEAR POWER

Into the late 1960s, the effort to promote nuclear power as a peaceful use of the atom was largely successful. The media almost exclusively presented nuclear power as an example of technological progress (Gamson & Modigliani, 1989). Nevertheless, when electrical utilities and reactor manufacturers began in earnest to build nuclear power plants in the late 1960s and early 1970s, a small opposition, initially cultivated by a pool of physical scientists and local environmental and conservation groups, grew along with it (Nelkin, 1971; Lewis 1972). The early coordination between scientists and local citizens is well documented by Nelkin (1971), who observed the controversy that surrounded plans for a plant at Cayuga Lake, New York, where differences among scientists became amplied by the political contentions within the local communities. Lewis (1972) also chronicled several early efforts of local citizens to stop construction at several proposed sites and to force industry-wide design changes to lessen the effects of thermal pollution. With increasing frequency, local citizen groups adopted an intervenor role, by using legal or regulatory challenges to prevent construction.6 Between 1962 and 1966, local citizens or regulatory intervenors contested 12% of nuclear power plant construction permits; between 1967 and 1972, 32% of proposed plants were contested and after 1972, it was 100% (Rolph, 1979). Despite its relative infrequency, the earlier opposition was more often successful. Plans for plants in several locations, including Cayuga Lake and Queens, New York and Malibu and Bodega Head, California, were stopped by local opposition. Importantly, the data indicate that as the frequency of the local opposition increased, the ability to stop construction declined. Rolph argued that this was because utilities were willing to abandon sites to avoid controversy when alternative locations were readily available, but as the frequency of opposition increased, utilities could no longer expect to diffuse the controversy by changing sites (cf. Jasper, 1990, 109; Jasper & Poulson, 1993, 644). This hypothesis implies that local opposition groups grew less effective because nuclear proponents grew more intransigent and that the degree of opposition was inversely proportional to the likelihood of success. The intransigence of the nuclear industry and the state played a similar role in the emergence of the scientic discord over nuclear energy. Many of the most forthright of the early critics of the nuclear industry came from inside the Atomic
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Energy Commission (AEC) itself (see, e.g. Lilienthal, 1963). Perhaps the most important case in the scientic controversy involved Ernest Sternglass, an engineering physicist at Westinghouse, who reacted publicly against Project Plowshare beating swords into plowshares an initiative by the AEC to use atomic bombs for nuclear excavation to create underground cavities for natural gas and to dig a new and deeper Panama Canal. Sternglass (1969a, b) publicly challenged the wisdom of Project Plowshare by publishing his estimate that 400,000 children had died as a result of fallout from nuclear testing. In response, the AEC commissioned research by Arthur Tamplin and John Gofman, who estimated that 4,000 not 400,000 children had died from exposure to fallout. The AEC wanted the number deleted in an apparent effort to avoid quantifying the effects, but Tamplin and Gofman interpreted this as an abridgement of their scientic responsibility and subsequently published conclusions that greatly altered the scientic perception about the biological hazards of radiation exposure (Gofman & Tamplin, 1971). Their ndings led to a Congressional investigation and a hundred-fold reduction for allowable radiation exposure around nuclear power plants. Gofman and Tamplin were deeply politicized by this process and their efforts contributed to the scientic discord over nuclear power. Gofman has remained one of the most well known and outspoken critics of nuclear power. The Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS) formed in 1969 in a similar process. Scientists working for the AEC came to perceive that their technical criticisms of reactor design were not being addressed by the agency (Ford, 1982). The UCS documented several safety problems in reactor design that had been intentionally concealed by the agency and contributed to the claims of censorship by the AEC. Their efforts were augmented by the Federation of American Scientists and the Committee for Nuclear Responsibility organizations whose membership also consisted of scientists who had been previously employed by the AEC, but had grown disillusioned with its practices (see Ford, 1982; Price, 1990). The scientic critiques all but ended the ideological appeal to nuclear power as an emotional counterweight to nuclear weapons. In addition, it seriously challenged the AECs credibility by revealing the conict of interest within the agency. The AEC was formed by Congress to both promote and regulate nuclear energy (Clarke, 1985). In 1974, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission replaced the AEC and the reorganization separated these functions by formally limiting the NRCs role to regulation (The reorganization was intended to dissipate the charges of the nuclear critics, but the claims of an undue bias by regulators in favor of nuclear power persisted). From a RM perspective, this scientic discord a division among elites was a new political opportunity that could be exploited by movement activists. This
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conceptualization, however, glosses over the political process that led to the discord. The scientic criticism of the AEC did not arise from movement organizations, but developed from nearly simultaneous perceptions of injustice among scientists. The AECs efforts to retain a monopoly over nuclear knowledge and to contain criticism of its practices required that it exercise its authority to such an extent that its political intentions became visible. In other words, power condensed such that many insiders perceived a mobilization of bias and institutionalized injustices. The formation of oppositional scientic groups followed as insiders spoke out and came to identify their mutual distrust of the AEC. The scientic criticisms, the local interventions, the declining appeal of nuclear power and the AECs legitimation problems arguably disturbed the great political and economic investment in nuclear energy, but it barely dampened the enthusiasm within the nuclear sector. Orders for new reactors temporally declined in 1969,7 yet reached record levels in 1972 and 1973 as the bandwagon market continued (see Fig. 1). In retrospect, the early opposition only anticipated the much larger, more visible and more public opposition that emerged just a few years later. The deep structural crisis that followed the OPEC oil embargo and the coming of age of the technological and managerial problems within the nuclear sector would lead to a much more widespread and profound condensation of power.
SEABROOK AS A PARADIGMATIC CASE

Between 1976 and 1979, more than 50 nuclear sites were subject to some form of protest (Mitchell, 1981). Although large demonstrations in New York in 1979 and Washington in 1980 were aimed at a national audience, the protest movement primarily consisted of a series of local struggles to stop the construction or licensing of particular nuclear projects. The serial quality to the movement suggests either a diffusion of tactics and objectives across locations or the independent emergence of similar political action at different sites. As a practical matter, the degree of diffusion within a social movement likely depends on the presence of similar conditions. When local conditions are dissimilar, movement organizations will have to expend considerable resources and offer attractive incentives to cajole even modest levels of support. Under other conditions, insurgencies develop so rapidly that the volume of activity exceeds the organizational capacity of movement groups (cf. Piven & Cloward, 1977). Social movement activity often consists of the efforts to promote diffusion as similar forms of collective action emerge nearly simultaneously in different locations. If so, structural determinations of a movement and free acts of agency are deeply intertwined and analytically inseparable.
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When the Clamshell Alliance formed in the summer of 1976, the initial organizers sought to gain supporters for civil disobedience and other political activities to protest and to stop the construction of Seabrook. Its activities were conned to the local scene and the Clamshell faced considerable difculty trying to organize and contain the Seabrook opposition as its numbers rapidly grew (Barkan, 1979, Downey, 1986, Epstein, 1991). The Clamshell may have inspired the dozens of alliances that emerged across the country by 1978, but the groups were neither a product of its organizational efforts, nor a local extension of a national organization. Ethnographic research on the Abalone and SHAD Alliances describe the local activities that led to direct action in New York and California (Epstein, 1991; Joppke, 1993; Eckstein, 1997). Even if some of the alliances would not have been as rigorous without the Clamshells example (or more rigorous without the Clamshells precedent), it seems likely that if the Seabrook plant had never been proposed, the protest movement would have been initiated elsewhere.8 The importance of the Seabrook opposition as a paradigmatic case is not that others followed its lead, but that it represents the most visible and exaggerated form of serially produced conditions. If variations in the political opportunity structure determined the amount of movement activity, then at Seabrook activists should have had a greater number of opportunities, an increased likelihood of success, or more access into the polity. If so, Seabrook should have been among the large majority of plants proposed in the early 70s that were canceled, but in the face of the general collapse of the industry, Seabrook became the recipient of substantial resources by the nuclear industry and the state. This political and economic investment resulted in a political condensation that exposed institutionalized relations of power, dened a visible target and generated a simultaneous, collective perception of injustice. At the risk of overstating the argument, Seabrook was contested because activists perceived they had lost access to the polity, had the greatest array of forces allied against them and had less of a chance of achieving success. At the same time, Seabrook became the object of the industrys defense partly to insure that the antinuclear movement would not achieve a tangible victory. In a complex and mediated political process, both sides became manifest by responding to the other. This political condensation can be partially illustrated through a brief review of the legal efforts to stop Seabrook.
LEGAL OPPOSITION TO SEABROOK

In the early 1970s, local groups opposed many of the proposed nuclear plants in the U.S. At Seabrook, several groups used legal means to challenge construction, including the local branch of the national Audubon Society; The Society for the
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Protection of New Hampshire Forests (SPNHF), a century-old conservation group and one of the largest landholders in the state; The Seacoast Anti-Pollution League (SAPL), a group of local housewives and middle-class professionals, many of whom had worked a few years earlier to prevent an oil renery on the seacoast; and The New England Coalition on Nuclear Pollution (NECNP), a Vermont-based group that had developed a network of scientic experts and legal counsel. These groups challenged the owning utilities on their nancial qualication, the proximity of the plant to high population areas and on ecological issues.9 Their intervention points to a legal and regulatory labyrinth that I can only briey sketch here, yet the details are important because they constitute the moments in which systemic forms of power were made visible. The intervenors exposed institutionalized relations of power such that their efforts came to appear to many as insufcient to counter the force arrayed against them. Finances Public Service Company of New Hampshire (PSNH), lead owner of the Seabrook plant, was a small utility that embarked on a large nuclear project. When PSNH announced plans to build two 1150-megawatt generators in 1972, it anticipated both reactors to be on-line by 1981 at a total cost of $973 million. By 1974, two years before construction began, PSNHs bond rating was reduced and it was selling stock at 50% of book value (Bedford, 1990, 96). Meanwhile, projected costs escalated; by 1976 it was $2 billion. In 1975, David Lessels, a member of New Hampshires Public Utility Commission (PUC), reported that PSNHs then projected cost of $1.6 billion was about a billion short and that PSNH had overestimated the need for new generation. Utility rates, Lessels concluded, would need to rise substantially to pay for this unneeded facility. Governor Meldrim Thomson of New Hampshire, an unequivocal Seabrook advocate, had the PUC scuttle the report and proposed a gag order to prevent state employees from speaking out against the project. Thomson eventually removed Lessels from the commission (Stever, 1980, 118119). Efforts by the intervenors were no more effective. NRC safety regulations required utilities to be nancially qualied before receiving a construction permit on the grounds that a utility short on funds might forego quality assurances or use shoddy materials. After a series of rulings from 1975 through 1978, the NRC nally decided not to undertake any further examination of the extent of the relationship between nancial qualication and safety. Recent experience . . . does not suggest that a utility short of funds will cut corners on safety (NRC, 1978). This precedent eliminated nancial qualication as a safety issue.
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Population Density The site posed additional problems for the utilities. The Seabrook plant was located two miles from one of the most densely populated beach front resort communities in New England: Hampton Beach. Effective evacuation from the area was a dubious prospect because of the geography of the region, the population density and the road network. The population density in the vicinity of a nuclear plant has an obvious impact on the relative risk to the public and, since its inception, the AEC encouraged utilities to site plants in remote areas. The regulation is complicated and ambiguous, but established three zones: an exclusion area, a low population zone and a population center distance. PSNH originally designated its population center as Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a small city 12 miles to the north. The New England Coalition on Nuclear Pollution (NECNP, 1976, 28) and other intervenors argued that Seabrook is located within two miles of the single largest concentration of population in New Hampshire Hampton/Seabrook Beach and sought to identify Hampton Beach as the population center. They also argued population growth through 1980 meant that Seabrook was sited in the middle of a population center. After a series of hearings between 1973 and 1977, the Atomic Safety and Licensing Board (ASLB) came to the following conclusions: First, they assumed no population growth after 1980. Second, to address the size of the population in the communities directly around the plant, the ASLB, in a novel interpretation, argued that if an accident occurred, a radioactive plume would rise, travel with the prevailing wind at the time, disperse as it moved away from the plant and thereby mark-out a pie-shaped region. The vectors determining the plumes path were assumed to be at 22.5 degrees (ASLB, 1975, 11). With the exception of the beach area, the population that fell inside any two vectors did not exceed 25,000 people, thus Seabrook was not located inside a population center (Stever, 1980, 6269). The ASLB all but ignored the beach, arguing that beach-goers were transients and suggested they be counted as a twelfth of a person (ASLB, 1976, 45). The Atomic Licensing Appeal Board (ALAB) ruled a few months later, in a decision that made the vector argument superuous, that the beach areas should be considered as though they did constitute a population center, without actually designating it as one (ALAB, 1977a, 33). Whether or not these rulings remained within the criteria dened by the regulation is debatable, but the rulings did establish new precedents that for most intents and purposes eliminated population density in determining the suitability of a site.
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Environmental Issues The challenge on environmental grounds was by far the most complicated. It involved all of the intervening groups, several governmental agencies and resulted in the suspension of Seabrooks construction permit on three occasions. The site was located on a salt marsh in a fertile clamming and shing region and the original design of the plant required the dumping of some 600,000 gallons per minute of thermal efuent into a tidal estuary. The ensuing controversy resulted in a re-evaluation by PSNH, which then proposed building underground tunnels two miles offshore. The director of New Hampshires Fish and Game Department, Bernard Buck Corson still believed this plan would not adequately protect the local sea life. The department had authority to establish water pollution standards and could prevent PSNH from obtaining a necessary water permit. Corsons conclusions caught the ire of Governor Thomson, who vowed to cripple its shery programs and get rid of Corson. Attorney General Warren Rudman apparently convinced Corson to soften his objections, with the expectations that PSNH would provide a more comprehensive assessment of the biological impact (Stever, 1980, 1621). The ensuing approval by the state siting committee only pregured the battle that followed in the federal regulatory agencies. The evaluation of the cooling-system fell to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), which from 1975 to 1978, would change its decision regarding the cooling system three times (rst denied, then approved, then challenged in court and approved again). By the time of this nal ruling, substantial political pressure had been leveraged. Long-time congressman, James Cleveland (R-NH), for example, urged the General Accounting Ofce to look into the delays at the EPA. During this on-again off-again battle over the construction permit, the utilities poured capital into the project. The EPAs and the NRCs evaluations of the site were based on cost-benet calculations that included sunk costs, so that substantial sunk costs would determine the conclusions. Repeated efforts by intervenors to stay the construction permit while alternative sites were evaluated were denied. Aside from engineering and technical reviews of reactor design, which are legally exempt from public intervention, the environmental impact, the population density and the nancial stability of the owning utilities were central criteria in the NRCs licensing of nuclear power plants. In each area, new precedents were promulgated to meet the challenges brought by the intervenors. The legal, political and regulatory decisions were justied through the required bureaucratic channels and based on the codied regulations; but, for many interested observers, the decisions revealed a mobilization of bias leveraged by powerful political and economic interests arrayed to rescue the plant.
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The political risks for the nuclear industry and the regulatory agencies in protecting Seabrook must be considered in the context of the nuclear industrys decline. If in the mid-1970s the industry had still been growing, then the cost of rejecting a single applicant would have been comparatively minor and thus the industrys legitimacy would not likely have been jeopardized by issuing so many new precedents in the defense of a single plant. The growing number of cancellations and the end of new orders, however, concentrated resources and raised the political value of each plant. At Seabrook, the enormity of the institutional force that built the nuclear state became exposed.
THE ORIGINS OF THE CLAMSHELL ALLIANCE10

The concept of political condensation and the critical theory of power (in contrast to the concept of political opportunity and rational-choice theory) imply that power relations often operate invisibly and that the revealing of power relations can contribute to the formation of a movement. The presence of a powerful, structural reality behind appearances challenges empirical demonstration not only because of the continuing efforts to conceal the underlying power relations, but also because movement mobilization occurs in a rapidly changing context. Nevertheless, activists accounts of the building of the Clamshell Alliance and the rapid building of solidarity despite the differences among the groups members are indicative of a political condensation. Although the sine qua non in the study of social movements is to explain movement formation, most of the considerable scholarly work on the Clamshell Alliance has not addressed its origins, but instead examined the practical and strategic limits of its method of consensus decision making (cf. Barkan, 1979; Downey, 1979; Gyorgy, 1979; Wasserman, 1979; Epstein, 1991). Summary accounts of the Clamshells formation within this literature typically identify some of the activist roots among the initial organizers. Those with previous movement experience include veterans of the antiwar movement who were living in an organic farm collective in Montague, Massachusetts, where in 1974 Sam Lovejoy toppled a weather-monitoring tower at a proposed nuclear plant site and turned himself over to the police. In the subsequent trial, he was acquitted on a technicality, while successfully turning the proceedings into a debate on the merits of nuclear power (which included testimony from Howard Zinn on civil disobedience and John Gofman on radiation poisoning). He and other members of the group, Harvey Wasserman and Anna Gyorgy in particular, played important roles in the Clamshell. Members of the Greenleaf Harvesters Guild, a Ware, New Hampshire farming collective devoted to Gandhian principles, also participated in its formation. And Elizabeth Boardman, who was
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a member of the Boston branch of the American Friends Service Committee, a Quaker organization that had organized protests in the 60s, provided training in non-violence and consensus decision making. These connections made the Clamshell Alliance and antinuclear activism generally appear as an extension of the New Left, nested in the whole wave of protest initiated in the 1960s. The connections lend credence to Joppkes (1993) subculture hypothesis. Accounts of earlier movement experience, however, neither explain why the direct action movement began at Seabrook in 1976, nor how the different groups that made up the Clamshell were able to form an alliance. If direct action had emerged elsewhere, then researchers would likely be able to consider its history and identify sources of earlier movement experience. Throughout the Clamshells history, an important source of tension developed between the native, seacoast activists, who tended to favor less confrontational tactics and activists who came distances because they saw the struggle as a vehicle for radical action (see Barkan, 1979; Epstein, 1991; Adair, 1996) The communities near the New Hampshire seacoast were not centers for political radicals. Montague is about 120 miles west of Seabrook and other nuclear plants in Connecticut, New York, Massachusetts and Vermont were closer and offered other potential sites of resistance. The activist subculture, then, contributed in important ways to the protest moment, but the contributions alone do not explain why it began at this particular place and time. Even among some of the initial activists in the Clamshell, accounts of the groups origins recede into different groups and activities. Guy Chichester initiated some of the connections between the seacoast intervenors and other movement networks.11 Chichester was elected president of the Seacoast Anti-Pollution League in 1975 and tried to develop lines of communication and coordination with other antinuclear groups for political action. Some of the members of SAPL thought his actions did not represent their interests and feared that his political efforts would endanger their no-tax status, weaken their credibility and diminish their ability to gather legal resources for intervention. Within a year, Chichester resigned and/or was forced out of SAPL, yet he continued to work with others to build an alliance for direct action. Another group, calling themselves the Concerned Citizens of Seabrook had organized a (non-binding) local, referendum vote on whether the plant should be built. The utilities took the vote seriously as they lobbied to persuade the town citizens with promises of jobs, tax dollars and new businesses. In March 1976, the town voted 768 to 632 against the construction of the plant. Within a few days, it became clear that the utilities would ignore the local vote. Several members of Concerned Citizens assisted in the founding of the Clamshell, as the participants struggled to identify the tactical choices that remained.
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Rennie Cushing had been a member of SAPL since the early 1970s when he was a student at the University of New Hampshire (about 15 miles north of Seabrook), because it was down by the place in Seabrook where I used to go clamming . . . Although I didnt know anything about the technology then, I heard about the plans to dig trenches across the marsh for the circulating system and I was concerned about what would happen to that little harbor (Cushing interview, April 1990). Cushing grew frustrated with intervention, because it did not seem to matter what we said. When Seabrook received its construction permit from the NRC on July 7 1976, Cushing recalled his reaction, I just knew that was one of those things that was going to change your life. He was instrumental in bringing together several recent UNH graduates into the formation of the Clamshell. Although legal intervention and the scientic controversy over nuclear power had identied signicant problems in the nuclear sector, in 1976, there was a realization among many differently situated groups that the powerful political and economic interests that had built the industry had not yet been sufciently identied, exposed and challenged. The rapidity of the nuclear industrys demise surpassed the making of a popular critique and the mobilization by the state and the industry to protect its investment made the articulation of that critique seem necessary and important. Through the legal intervention, common expectations of legitimate practice were exceeded and as a consequence, the political consciousness of many was changed, a different network of activists became mobilized and vestiges of the New Left were rekindled. Scott Schmidt, a Clamshell member, argued that people came into the group for a variety of reasons, but always because they were disenfranchised from their own political options (interview, June, 1990). While built from the hard work of activists, the Clamshell Alliance represented the rush to articulate a critique of the nuclear state as many came to the simultaneous realization of a deep injustice. The legal intervenors presumed the legitimacy of rational decision-making procedures, but the Clamshell strove to challenge the political economy of the nuclear state. An original member explained,
The early objective was about the environmental threat that Seabrook posed and it still presents itself that way. But I think more than that it has come to refer to how we are represented by our government and the right to personal liberty. It reveals how government exercises decisions on our behalf by elected and appointed ofcials. That to me means more than the other issues (Barry Connell interview, May, 1990).
Many were drawn to direct action because they came to the conclusion that legal and regulatory decisions were rigged. Cathy Wolff (1979, 292), who became a Clamshell organizer, for example, thanked the intervenors for
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documenting the pronuclear bias of regulatory agencies, but then noted that legal intervention is time consuming, complex . . . and an exasperating process, usually undertaken before a stacked jury of nuclear advocates. Another Clamshell participant explained that the utilities and the NRC
should tell the truth about the plant, what it is capable of doing to the public and what they are capable of doing to protect the public . . . [But] the more you scratched the surface, the more you realized there were no truthful answers to be had . . . because the truth is they did not want the public to know about a whole gamut of things. So we realized that the whole thing was just a sham (condential interview, August, 1989).
The perception that systemic efforts at concealment contributed to the development of a political consciousness was widespread:
Ive always said that you go through stages of involvement with Seabrook and Ive seen it happen with others. You rst become aware that there is something wrong here and then you become informed and then you come to another level, when you really realize that there is something wrong with this whole thing (condential interview, August, 1989).
People felt that some illusionary facade had fallen away and left behind a deeper insight into a concealed reality. Within a month of Seabrook receiving its construction permit, the newly formed Clamshell Alliance staged its rst action. On August 1, 1976, a few hundred rallied, while 18 New Hampshire residents marched on the site to be arrested. Over the next two years, the Clamshell grew a hundred-fold and mobilized thousands in an organization based on consensus decision making with little division of labor. While efforts were made to recruit new members, the Clamshell grew so rapidly that it strained coordinating efforts. At the rst action, Cushing proposed that each collective action be ten times larger than the one preceded it, which proved remarkably close to the reality (Cushing interview, 1990). In late August, 180 were arrested in the second occupation. And on the rst weekend in May of 1977, 2,000 Clams set up camp on Seabrook property and stayed for more than 24 hours. Most of the 1,414 who were arrested that weekend were held for two weeks in makeshift jails in ve national-guard armories. Governor Thomson pressured the courts so that protesters would not be released on their own recognizance and most opted not to post bail. Thomsons intransigence proved to be a political blunder. The political standoff drew national media attention and enhanced the Clamshells reputation and membership (Gamson & Modigliani, 1989). As the organization grew, efforts to maintain its participatory style of decision making grew frustrating.12 Plans for a fourth major occupation were made and scuttled and made and scuttled again. A legal rally and alternative energy fair brought nearly 20,000 people in June 1978, which was the largest antinuclear
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gathering in the U.S., but the group was deeply divided. A more militant faction, Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook staged two efforts in 1979 and 1980 to occupy the Seabrook site that resulted in violent clashes with the state police, who used water cannons, dogs and ve-foot wooden staves to prevent occupation of the plants grounds. Divisiveness is a common feature of social movements. Given the differences between some of the local organizers and those with a longer history of radical activism, several tactical questions were especially difcult to resolve.13 Nevertheless, in the initial months of the Clamshell, participants often describe an intense, transformative experience. One described the process of consensus decision making as magic and said, I listened to other people speak and it was like they were speaking my own thoughts (condential interview, December, 1990). Another said, I dont know what it was, but something happened and I grew closer to those people than I think I ever will with anybody again (condential interview, May, 1990). The solidarity was not grounded in common beliefs, or an ideology in the ordinary sense of the term. The group was a loose confederation of differing groups and interests. One member suggested that it represented a nexus of the peace and environmental movements and for a lack of a better term, the movement for community control, which was about challenging powerful political and economic interests (condential interview, April, 1990). To be sure, a number of rationales justied direct action. The groups founding statement maintained that nuclear power poses a mortal threat to people and the environment and argued that energy should not be abused for private prot and people should not be exploited for private prot (CA, 1976). Thermal pollution meant that the shing industries of Maine, New Hampshire and Mass. are thus threatened (CA, 1977a). The plant would also destroy salt marshes which are invaluable breeding and nesting grounds for sh and birds (CA, 1997a). In the groups Declaration of Nuclear Resistance, it was argued that nuclear power is dangerous to all living creatures and their natural environment and that an unholy alliance has existed between development of the so-called peaceful atom and the proliferation of nuclear weaponry (CA, 1977b). These rationales no doubt operated as points of agreement for many participants and helped lay a foundation for a new critique of nuclear power and a new environmental ethic. Nevertheless, they were uid arguments that emerged over the course of the mobilization. Indeed, the basis for the solidarity and the identity of the Clamshell that is how people came to link their actions to the collective cause can not be easily represented because it is does not appear to be based in a specic content. Instead, the magic and the intense solidarity, especially in the initial days of the movement, followed from the
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collective realization of injustice and a deeper structure of power. The mobilization of so many with such modest incentives and recruitment efforts is suggestive of the critical gap the protest movement lled in the critique of nuclear power. Many simultaneously had come to the same conclusion regarding the necessity of direct action before a radical critique of nuclear power had been popularized. The mutual recognitions and discoveries contributed to the groups solidarity.
AFTERWORD
After the split with Coalition for Direct Action in 1979, the Clamshell Alliance was temporarily reduced to a mailing address and a skeleton staff. In the aftermath of the Three-Mile Island accident in 1979, Congress mandated that evacuation plans for citizens within a 10-mile radius of a plant must be in place prior to licensing. The political contentions that surrounded evacuation planning contributed to a new wave of protest and civil disobedience in the mid-1980s, which reanimated the Clamshell. For the owning utilities, more political and economic resources were also forthcoming. In 1984, Reagan administration ofcials organized a nancial plan to use a federally supported electrical co-operative to guarantee junk bonds for PSNH. Four years later, PSNH became the rst public utility since the Depression to declare bankruptcy and three of the other owning utilities subsequently followed suit. Just after the November 1988 elections, Reagan issued an executive order to allow federal agencies to assist in evacuation planning and circumvent uncooperative state and local governments. The executive order looked like a delayed gift to New Hampshire Governor Sununu (who became Bushs chief of staff) and a slap at Massachusetts Governor Dukakis, Bushs Presidential opponent, whose refusal to approve evacuation plans stymied Seabrooks licensing. Despite its vulnerabilities, Seabrook became a Pyrrhic victory for the utilities when it received an operating license in 1990. At a cost of $6.5 billion for unit I (unit II was canceled in 1984), the owning utilities have continued to endure considerable distress and New Hampshire residents suffer some of the highest electricity rates in the country. A plausible explanation for this volume of political and economic resources is that Seabrook had become the site that the nuclear industry refused to lose because it did not want to provide a tangible victory to the antinuclear movement. Although the political and economic resources used to save Seabrook through the 1980s can not explain the origins of the protest movement in 1976, the resources are indicative of the general political condensation that made manifest the power of the industry and elements of a radical culture.
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DISCUSSION
In presenting the struggle over Seabrook as a paradigmatic case, I have likely exaggerated its importance. Protracted and signicant confrontations took place at dozens of other sites, especially at Diablo Canyon, California; at Shoreham, New York; and at Three-Mile Island. The particular qualities associated with each site undoubtedly have their own idiosyncrasies, yet the simple fact that the protest movement spread so quickly that a national antinuclear opposition had clearly emerged by 1977 suggests that if the protest movement had not rst developed at the Seabrook site, then it would have developed elsewhere. Consequently, the features of the Seabrook case and the radical egalitarianism of the Clamshell represent a particular manifestation of a more general set of conditions. These conditions developed in response to the initial decline of the industry a decline that may have been amplied by the OPEC oil embargo, but was likely inevitable given the technological enthusiasm and the massive commitment to nuclear power evident at the beginning of the decade. I focused on the Seabrook case to identify the social forces that linked the decline with the generation of the protest movement because it represents this linkage in its most exaggerated and manifest form. It bears emphasizing that in locating the emergence of the antinuclear movement in the wake of the industrys initial decline, I have not implied that the movement was politically unimportant. In 1976 and 1977, no one could have known that the nuclear industry was to collapse completely and the industry may have been able to overcome its difculties if the movement had not intensied political and regulatory pressure and turned public opinion against it. Indeed, I have argued that the nuclear industrys own institutional momentum and its accompanying political defense led, in a complicated and mediated way, to the production of its own gravediggers. In addition, the antinuclear movement played a key role in articulating and popularizing an environmental ethic and initiated an on-going cultural re-evaluation of the relations between capital, technology and the environment. In contemporary social movement theory, the origins of social movements are often associated with the opening of new political opportunities and the resulting increases in the likelihood of success that such opportunities offer. The origin of the protest movement against nuclear power is not consistent with this logic. Although the industrys decline certainly led to vulnerabilities that an opposition attempted to exploit, such weaknesses were hardly foremost in the minds of the activists who built the Clamshell or the protest movement more generally. Instead, the foundation for the Clamshells critique was a response to the social force exercised by the industry, regulatory agencies and political elites in defense of
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Seabrook and the dying industry. Elite intransigence is hardly a political opportunity, even though it too represents a shift in political structures, which in this case and likely in others, facilitated movement formation. I have tried to link the local emergence of the movement with the industrys decline by using a critical theory of power. Since Marx, critical theorists have often argued that meaning and culture are heavily inuenced by structural and class conditions that preclude activism and prevent insight into the real conditions of existence. Remarkably, social movement research rarely considers this argument. Yet if political quiescence is taken as an expression of ideological control, then political activism necessarily represents an absence of such control. I have described the transformation associated with these points of contrast as a political condensation. Such a transformation occurs when power relations intensify to the point where underlying and previously concealed arrangements more clearly emerge. Under such conditions, a social movement represents a public effort to identify and challenge previously concealed conditions. Social movements, therefore, may develop after the institutional conditions that are being challenged have already started to erode, not necessarily because the erosion creates new opportunities, but because elite mobilization to summon resources to secure its crumbling base reveals a previously hegemonic condition. Recently, social movement research has returned to issues of political culture and consciousness after a prolonged focus on political opportunities and organizational structures (Goodwin & Jasper, 1999). Much of this recent effort is grounded in a social constructionist perspective that assumes that meaning and culture are contingent and determined through purposive action. Although activists unquestionably struggle to dene themselves and develop effective strategies, the critical features associated with their identity and purpose can not always be simply regarded as deliberate accomplishments or cultural constructions. Instead, social movements may arise through a structural transformation of power relations that create the possibility for a collective to name the system.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people have offered comments on drafts of this paper to whom I am grateful. I especially wish to thank Wini Breines, Cliff Brown, Michael Blim, Michael Brown, Lynn Stephen, Victor DeMunck, Bill Gamson and anonymous reviewers.
NOTES
1. All but 15 of the 249 nuclear reactors ordered in the U.S. were either operating or had been canceled by the end of 1985 and only a handful of these would eventually
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come on-line. This latter group includes the Seabrook plant (Unit 1), the two reactors at Diablo Canyon and the plant at Comanche Peak, Texas, which were among the most contested sites in the U.S. The exception that conrms the rule is the Shoreham plant on Long Island. Shoreham was among those plants that survived through 1985, was heavily contested, but became the clearest victory for the antinuclear movement when the $5.5 billion plant was sold to the state of New York for $1 in 1990 (see Eckstein (1997) for a discussion of how this victory ought to be qualied). If protest movements emerge at the times and places where activists have the most opportunities or the greatest chance for success, then why did the most contested plants survive through the collapse of the industry? 2. Eisinger (1973, 28) argued that protest is a sign that the opportunity structure is exible and vulnerable to the political assaults of excluded groups. If this is so, then it is tautological to hypothesize that new political opportunities explain the origins of protests. 3. This argument is consistent with Eyerman and Jamisons (1991) claim that movements generate a new cognitive praxis by providing new ways of thinking, new issues for the historical agenda and new denitions of problems. Eyerman and Jamisons emphasis implies a political process centered on struggles over legitimacy and which does not conceptualize movement activists as opportunists. 4 Mertons (1957) famous essay concluded with a (largely unheeded) call for research on the processes and consequences of making latent functions manifest. From a different perspective, the whole complex historical process of transforming a class-initself into a class-for-itself could be described as a process of political condensation an accumulation of latent elements that is qualitatively changed due to a collective realization. 5. The TMI accident in 1979 certainly invigorated the movement in the short-term, but the long-term effect is difcult to assess. Although the movement may have faded even more quickly without the accident, the accident legitimated an antinuclear discourse, which may have resulted in the protest movement losing ownership of the issue. 6. Intervenor is a legal term for parties that gain recognition in the legal and regulatory proceedings between utilities and state and federal agencies. 7. Legal challenges to the Calvert Cliffs plant in Maryland resulted in a court decision that required that an environmental impact assessment (largely to address problems of thermal pollution) be completed prior to the granting of a construction permit by the AEC. This decision resulted in a temporary moratorium of new permits, which accounts for the dip in orders in 1969 and 1970 (Cook, 1981). 8. The movement was causally over-determined in that it would still have occurred even if some of the contributing conditions were not present. Conceptually, overdetermination and condensation bear a family resemblance (cf. Freud, 1902/1965). Since a condensation occurs with an accumulation of latent elements, it is possible that a change in form could take place without some elements present. 9. Obtaining a construction permit is a complicated, multi-stage bureaucratic process. To submit an application for a construction permit to the NRC, a utility must receive approval by a state siting committee and the state public utility commission (PUC). The former, at least as designated in New Hampshire, reviews all matters deemed to be in the public interest in determining the suitability of a site. The latter reviews matters associated with nancial and energy markets to determine if the new generation is needed and if the cost will be competitive. The application then goes to the NRC. Initial reviews 173
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move through a number of bureaucratic steps before a decision is reached by the Atomic Safety Licensing Board (ASLB). This decision is then reviewed by the Commissioners (there are ve) of the NRC before a permit (or later an operating license) is issued. An Atomic Licensing Appeals Board (ALAB) may also review and challenge the decision of the ASLB or lesser boards. Ofcial documents on the legal and regulatory history of Seabrook Station are located in the Exeter Public Library, Exeter, New Hampshire (where they were reviewed) and the public documents room of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission in Washington D.C. 10. The data presented on the Seabrook case and the Clamshell were collected as part of a larger research project. Movement literature on the Clamshell Alliance is located in a special collection in the university library at the University of New Hampshire. The quotes from movement activists are drawn from 28 extensive, unstructured interviews I conducted between 1989 and 1991. For activists who played prominent, public roles in the Clamshell, real names are used; for others, I protect anonymity. 11. The discussion here is taken from Chichester interview, November 1990. 12. Several years later, a court suit brought against the Clamshell for the law enforcement costs incurred by the state of New Hampshire resulted in a dismissal because of revelations that the Clamshell had been inltrated by undercover state police, one of whom was named as a defendant in the suit. Among other activities, the undercover agents had intentionally worked to prevent consensus and to frustrate the decision-making process. 13. The reasons for the split and the difculties of consensus decision making raise interesting and important questions, which have already been well explored elsewhere (Barkan, 1979; Downey, 1986; Epstein, 1991; Adair, 1996).
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Price, J. (1990). The anti-nuclear movement. (Rev. ed.) Boston: Twayne Publishers. Rolph, E. (1979). Nuclear power and public safety: A study in regulation. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books. Rucht, D. (1990). Campaigns, skirmishes and battles: Anti-nuclear movements in the USA, France and West Germany. Industrial Crisis Quarterly, 4, 193222. Skocpol, T. (1979). States and social revolutions: A comparative analysis of France, Russia and China. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Snow, D., Rochford Jr., E. B., Worden, S., & Benford, R. (1986). Frame alignment processes, micromobilization and movement participation. American Sociological Review, 51, 464481. Sternglass, E. (September, 1969a). The death of all children. Esquire. Sternglass, E. (June, 1969b). Can the infants survive? Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. Stever, D. (1980). Seabrook and the nuclear regulatory commission: The licensing of a nuclear power plant. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England. Sturgeon, N. (1995). Theorizing movements: Direct action and direct theory. In: M. Darnovsky, B. Epstein, & R. Flacks, (Eds), Cultural Politics and Social Movements (pp. 3551). Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Tarrow, S. (1994). Power in movement. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tilly, C. (1978). From Mobilization to Revolution, Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Tilly, C. (1985). Models and realities of popular collective action. Social Research, 52, 717747. United States, Department of Energy (DOE), Energy Information Administration (1983). Nuclear power plant cancellations: Causes, costs and consequences. Washington. D. C.: Government Printing Ofce. United States, Department of Energy (DOE), Energy Information Administration (1988). Nuclear power plant construction activity. Washington D.C.: Government Printing Ofce. United States, Department of Energy (DOE), Energy Information Administration (1991). Commercial nuclear power: Prospects for the United States and the world. Washington D.C.: Government Printing Ofce. United States Ofce of Technology Assessment (OTA) (1984). Nuclear power in an age of uncertainty. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Ofce. Wasserman, H. (1979). Energy war: Reports from the front. Westport, CT: Lawrence Hill and Co. Wasserman, H. (1996 July/August). From Seabrook to Chernobyl: No nukeswork in progress, Peacework, 34, Cambridge, MA: American Friends Service Committee. Wohlstetter, A. (April, 1968). Perspectives on nuclear energy. Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, 23. Wolff, C. (1979). Roots of the Antinuclear Movement. In: Environmental Action Foundation Accidents Will Happen: The Case Against Nuclear Power (pp. 290298). New York: Harper Row. Wolff, C. (July/August, 1996). Media madness and the myth of the mollusk. Peacework, 89, Cambridge, MA: American Friends Service Committee. Zald, M. (1992). Looking backward to look forward: Reections on the past and future of the resource mobilization research program. In: A. Morris & C. Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (pp. 326348). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
Archival Sources
All of the sources below can be found in the Applicants Correspondence le issued In the Matter of Public Service Company of New Hampshire located in the public documents room in the Exeter Public Library, Exeter, New Hampshire and in the documents room at the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, Washington, D.C.
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Atomic Licensing Appeal Board (ALAB) (July 26, 1977a). Transcript 422. Atomic Licensing Appeal Board (ALAB) (January 21, 1977b). Transcript 366. Atomic Safety and Licensing Board (ASLB) (1975, May 19). Testimony of Brain Grimes hearing transcript. Atomic Safety and Licensing Board (ASLB) (June 29, 1976). Construction permit. Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC). (January 6, 1978). Memorandum and order: Opinion of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.
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INACTION, INDIVIDUAL ACTION AND COLLECTIVE ACTION AS RESPONSES TO HOUSING DISSATISFACTION: A COMPARATIVE STUDY OF BUDAPEST AND MOSCOW
Chris Pickvance
ABSTRACT
Responses to dissatisfaction can take the form of inaction, individual action or collective action (e.g. protest). The aim of the present article is threefold: to put forward a model which treats these responses as a linked set of objects of analysis (rather than marginalizing the former two as in the literature on social movements), to emphasize the importance of social structure and the institutional context for all three responses (contrary to Hirschmans exit, voice and loyalty model) and to throw light on responses to housing dissatisfaction in two former state socialist capital cities, Budapest and Moscow. It is shown that: (a) inaction in the housing sphere is concentrated among those in the weakest social structural position and that attempts to represent this as due to their loyalty are quite mistaken; (b) that individual action is the dominant response to housing dissatisfaction (an effect of issue domain) and is most common among those in middling or strong social positions; and (c) that although
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respondents did not consider collective action as a way of dealing with their housing dissatisfaction, such action does exist especially in Moscow where it was due to strong motivation in the face of an unfavourable political and resource context.
INTRODUCTION
Writers on social movements have developed sophisticated analyses of collective action as a response to dissatisfaction. However, inaction and individual action, the majority responses to dissatisfaction, have received less attention and analytical models remain poorly developed. The aim of the present article is threefold: to develop a model which treats inaction, individual and collective action together, to show the importance of contextual inuences in understanding the rst two as well as the third response to dissatisfaction and to throw light on responses to housing dissatisfaction in two former state socialist capital cities, Budapest and Moscow. The article is divided into three parts. We start by considering the existing literature on responses to dissatisfaction; we then sketch in the economic, political and housing context in the two cities; and nally we present an analysis based on research in Budapest and Moscow carried out in 1993.
I. RESPONSES TO DISSATISFACTION: ANALYTICAL MODELS

The main types of response to dissatisfaction are inaction, individual action and collective action. The relative frequency of these responses is likely to vary by issue area. For example in the case of dissatisfaction with the environment or nuclear policy the scope for individual action is less than in the case of dissatisfaction with housing and the incentives for collective action are greater. Research in any one issue area will therefore reect an issue-based inuence. In the case of housing which is the focus of this article examples of these responses are: (1) Inaction. The household makes no response. It stays in the same dwelling and does not attempt to improve its satisfaction. (2) Individual action. This refers to actions taken within the dwelling and those taken outside. The former include do-it-yourself repairs, or taking in lodgers. The latter includes actions involving the use of administrative channels (in the case of obtaining state housing, or exchanging or privatizing an existing state at) and market processes (when buying).
Responses to Housing Dissatisfaction in Moscow and Budapest
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(3) Collective action. This refers to the formation of protest groups over rents, tenants or owners rights, etc. While the literature on social movements has focused on collective action, individual action when analysed has been treated separately. Inaction has also been examined in occasional studies of non-participation (which assume that collective action is the normal response to dissatisfaction). In this section we review some of the relevant literature. It will be shown that the dominant models of individual action are individualist, while both individualist and meso and macro structural models occur in studies of collective action. It will be argued that structural factors need to be extended to individual action too. The most inuential individualist model is that of public choice. It starts from the idea that human action can be understood in terms of cost-benet calculation and goes on to explain the choice between responses to dissatisfaction in terms of the relative costs and benets of each. This is a powerful model and was used by Olson (1965) to argue that the rational individual would not participate in collective action if he or she could obtain the benets by inaction. As an example he argued that if trade union action leads to a wage rise which goes to all workers irrespective of whether they belong to the union or not it was rational for the individual to be a free-rider, obtaining the benet without the costs of union membership or industrial action. As a corollary he suggested that groups would offer selective benets (i.e. benets available to members only) in order to encourage their participation. Clearly this model depends on certain assumptions: that human action is indeed rational in the sense dened; and that it is possible for costs and benets to be measured so that the validity of the explanation can be tested. The counter-arguments to these assumptions are that: human action is morally motivated as when participation is inspired by the expression of solidarity or identity; the measurement of costs and benets is impossible. Public choice theorists acknowledge the different types of benet, e.g. material and non-material (or social and economic), but cannot dene what range of objects will be regarded as costs and benets or explain how certain processes or objects are constructed as benets and others as costs. For example costs of participation such as spending a lot of time in collective action may be redened as benets (i.e. as a source of gratication) even if the movement fails to secure its goals; that group-level logic or processes exist which can change individual behaviour.
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Hence the danger is that human action becomes dened as rational by assumption, costs and benets are imputed and the model is preserved from test. My own view is that moral and symbolic motivation is as important as the maximization of the benet-cost gap, that group-level processes exist which may over-ride individual decision making and that structural forces affect the denition of costs and benets. Hence the search for costs and benets to justify the public choice model in all cases is chimerical. Individualist models are taken further in the inuential work of Hirschman (1970, 1974) who combines them with strong claims about the functionality of responses to dissatisfaction in terms of general economic and social welfare. Hirschmans focus is on the three responses to dissatisfaction with private or public goods and services exit, voice and loyalty and he adopts a cost-benet approach to the choices made. The best example of exit on its own is the behaviour of a consumer dissatised with a private good or service who switches to an alternative product. This switching process is an intrinsic part of the conventional picture of the market economy in which consumers signal their preferences to producers by their choices of product and producers adjust the range and price of products they offer to meet consumer demand. According to this picture the consumer has what is almost a duty (if efciency is to be achieved in resource allocation) to register his or her dissatisfaction actively. This model has no space for the consumer who is dissatised but fails to switch to a more satisfactory affordable product: a failure to exit would be evidence that the consumer was not really dissatised. However Hirschman notes that if consumers are too responsive to a decline in quality a drastic fall in demand could jeopardise the existence of the rm and so a combination of alert and inert consumers is optimal if exit is to be an effective feedback mechanism. For his example of voice Hirschman turns to political science which treats voting or demand-making as the quintessential way of expressing dissatisfaction with government policy and services. His proposition is that voice can act like exit, providing feedback between citizens and governments and enabling the latter to meet the preferences of the former. Again he notes the paradox that the existence of apathetic citizens may lead voice to be a more stable feedback mechanism. Finally Hirschman considers loyalty as a deterrent to exit or to voice, since it makes it less likely that either of them will be chosen by the dissatised person. (Strictly speaking it is not a mutually exclusive choice with exit and voice.) Hirschman models the choice between exit, voice and loyalty in terms of individual costs and benets. Hence where exit is possible, voice will be less likely but may still occur depending on the relative costs and benets (e.g. perceived efcacy) of each response. Conversely, in the extreme case where
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exit is impossible, conditions will favour voice. In this way the existence of each option affects the possibility and effectiveness of the others. How useful is this approach? Firstly it has the advantage of taking an integrated approach to inaction, individual action and collective action. Secondly, Hirschman takes a step beyond earlier writers by recognizing the existence of those who are dissatised but silent, whom he refers to as showing loyalty. However it has two weaknesses. Firstly it is part of a functionalist general model which assumes: (a) that dissatisfaction leads to an active response; (b) that the voter, citizen, or consumer is sovereign; and hence that (c) economic and political institutions respond to but do not seek to shape the citizen preferences. There seems no reason to accept this: models of society with conict and inequality do not assume this matching of institutional performance and individual preference and even Hirschman acknowledges that economic and political institutions do not always behave according to his model. Secondly his analysis of inaction is unconvincing. His choice of the positive term loyalty for those who take no action in response to dissatisfaction follows from his attachment to the functionalist model. To have used the labels fatalistic, resigned or trapped instead would have hinted at a stratum of people whose negative feedback was not being heeded. (See also Bajoit, 1988 who proposes apathy as a fourth response category). My own view is that these weaknesses can be overcome by using a model: (a) which allows for structured inequality; (b) in which macro and meso institutional structures can be unresponsive to `feedback as well as actively shaping preferences; and (c) where responses to dissatisfaction are not purely individually decided.1 In particular, attention is necessary to the way contexts and institutions affect individual or collective action. Their inuence is concealed in the notion of costs and benets to the individual: for example a hostile authority would be seen a source of increased costs and decreased potential benets to the individual contemplating joining collective action. The model proposed below makes good this gap while retaining the combined focus on inaction, individual action and collective action. It is worth mentioning one study which explicitly addresses the question of non-participation. Klandermans and Oegema (1987) show that non-participants in a peace demonstration either: (a) lacked sympathy with the aims, or (b) if they supported it had not been targets of mobilization efforts, occupied a peripheral position in the movement, or faced practical obstacles to participation. This study stresses the primarily ideological motivation of participants and its stepped approach towards identifying characteristics of non-participants and participants is a sensible one.
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When individualist models are applied to collective action, they focus on the question of why people participate, as though this was the fundamental question since without participants there could be no movement. However the literature on social movements addresses many other questions beyond that of individual participation. They include the structural origins of the issues around which social movements mobilize, their construction of grievances, their modes of action, the interaction between movements and other actors (media, political parties, governmental units and especially the strategies of the latter towards protest action) and their short and long-term effects on ideas and policies. These questions are largely beyond the scope of individualist models since they go beyond individual action. They thus open the way to meso- and macrostructural models. Here we pay special attention to political opportunity structure and resource mobilization theories which address these issues. The majority of social movement research has taken place in North American and Western European societies where a democratic political framework could be taken for granted. A major theme in this work has been the way that the political opportunity structure of a society affects how people respond to dissatisfaction. This term draws attention to the political context in which people act. It has three main components, which are stressed to different extents by different writers: state structure, party structure and state policy see Kitschelt (1986), Kriesi et al. (1995). State structure concerns the openness of (central and local) state institutions to citizen pressure, the degree of centralization of the state and the capacity of state institutions to develop policy in response to citizen pressure. The underlying assumption is that the state can act to obstruct or encourage protest by how it handles inputs, by its institutional structure and by its ability to deliver new policy outputs. However these are separate dimensions and a state which is receptive to pressure, may be ineffective in responding to it due to its fragmented structure and weak policy capacity. The second component concerns the existence of political parties and their effectiveness in expressing citizen preferences. The hypothesis here is that when parties are effective channels of participation and are willing to take new issues on board it is more difcult for social movements to develop this can explain why issues such as peace, the environment and animal rights which cut across conventional party agendas are most likely to be expressed in movement form. The nal component is state policy towards social movements, which can vary from encouraging to co-optive and repressive (Schumaker, 1975). Another aspect of the socio-political context which has received attention in studies of social movements in capitalist democracies is the process of resource mobilization (Jenkins, 1983; Lipsky; 1968, Morris & Mueller, 1995; Zald & McCarthy, 1979). This starts from the observation that there are many more
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grievances than movements and hypothesises that the mobilization of resources is the key to the taking up of grievances by movement organizations, their survival and success. Resource availability depends both on initial distribution and on the ability to mobilize additional resources from the state, from private and charitable sources and from the public, through interpersonal networks, professional fund-raising, etc. This suggests that those with more resources are more likely to mobilize than those with less. The role of the media has also been shown to have a considerable impact on mobilization. In addition to the importance of meso-level contextual factors studied mostly by sociologists, macro political structures are also signicant. Political scientists have shown that different political regimes accord citizens different rights, such as freedom of speech, the right of association, or the right of political parties to compete in elections and that these structures affect how people respond to dissatisfaction. It follows that a change in regime can create signicant changes in the channels open to people to express their views. Authoritarian regimes are by denition the most restrictive type but they do not necessarily repress all expressions of dissatisfaction (Linz & Stepan, 1996). Gradual change within authoritarian regimes is often observed. For example the cases of Spain, Brazil and Hong Kong all show urban protest being tolerated before the right to form opposition political parties was granted see Pickvance, C. G., 1999). Thus it is not so much the content of the law which indicates the scope for expressing dissatisfaction, but the willingness to enforce it which declines as authoritarian regimes lose strength. The implications of these theories for state socialist and post-socialist societies will be discussed in the next section. Having discussed the macro, meso and micro levels of inuence on responses to dissatisfaction, we need nally to discuss the inuence of the fact that we are concerned here with housing as an issue, rather than say environment. Compared with environmental threats such as noise, or air pollution which are essentially collective, housing issues at rst sight seem entirely individualized: each household lives in a particular dwelling and is concerned about its cost, state of repair, etc. and about its chances of improving its own situation by moving or by in-situ changes. However the difference is better seen as one of degree. Just as most environmental issues have an individual aspect since they affect particular households, so most aspects of housing have a collective element since costs may depend on rents set by local governments, repairs may be carried out by a public agency, at dwellers are dependent on lifts, refuse collection, security and other collective facilities, etc. Thus housing dissatisfaction provides grounds for collective interests as well as individual interests. Hence it is suggested that housing will generate a mix of individual and collective responses to dissatisfaction because of its nature, other things
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being equal, but that the mix will be closer to the individual end of the spectrum than in the case of the environment. From the above discussion a model can be advanced in which the choice between inaction, individual action and collective action will depend on: (a) the societal context and especially political opportunity structure, ease of resource mobilization and structured inequality; (b) the issue domain and in particular the operation of institutions in that domain and hence the scope for individual action; and (c) (to the extent that individual action is chosen) the results of the individual calculus regarding action. This model aims to: (a) try and theorise inaction, individual action and collective responses to dissatisfaction together, rather than separately; and (b) show the relevance of contextual inuences, both societal and issue specic, in the choice of all three types of response. Before outlining the hypotheses to be examined we need to present some data on the context of the study. As the study was conducted in the early 1990s the focus is on the situation at that time.
II. CONTEXT AND HYPOTHESES

In this section we sketch a picture of the socio-political context and housing system in Hungary and Russia in order to put some esh on the skeletal model just outlined and set out some hypotheses about responses to housing dissatisfaction. Although both Hungary and Russia can be said to be experiencing a transition from state socialism a concept which is deliberately vague about the destination this simple phrase hides the fact that each started from a different point and that this has conditioned their subsequent development. The Soviet Union was a purer example of state socialism than Hungary. The Hungarian economy was never as socialized as the Soviet economy. From the late 1960s central planning was loosened and the private sector was encouraged so that by the mid-1980s this second (i.e. non-state) economy contributed one third of all wage-type incomes on the basis of one quarter of working hours far higher than in the Soviet Union. This toleration of the second economy was partly due to the Hungarian leaderships desire to avoid a repetition of the 1956 uprising. Hence the argument that in Hungary the transition from a centrally planned economy goes back two decades. In terms of political participation, state socialism in both countries encouraged public involvement in ofcial mass organisations (peace, youth, womens, etc.). However letters to newspapers and contacting ofcials and politicians were also accepted since they implied that grievances were due to defective individual
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decisions rather than to systemic causes. They were not regarded as threatening and had the effect of keeping opposition fragmented. Organized public opposition was repressed, but dissident activity, restricted to intellectuals, was to varying extents tolerated. The Hungarian regime was less rigid than the Soviet one and by the 1970s was relatively tolerant of small localized protests or of dissident intellectuals. By the mid-1980s local protests occurred outside ofcial channels without repression in both countries. The protest repertoire widened and Solidarity provided a model for widely-based social movement activity under state socialism. The Danube Circle which started in Hungary in 1984 and grew into a major social movement had nothing like the scale of Solidarity. But as well as attracting environmentalists opposed to the Danube dam plan, it acted as a channel for anti-regime protest (Fleischer, 1993; Szirmai, 1997). At the same time in both countries there was a mushrooming of small protest groups as the regimes weakened and became divided (Pickvance, C. G., 1995, 1996). The Hungarian Law on Association was not passed until 1989 and ratied what was already tolerated. In the Soviet Union collective action was more localized and small scale but as in Hungary it grew sharply in the period before the change of regime (Pickvance, C. G., 1996). Environmental protest was tolerated by the authorities but collective housing protest was almost non-existent. Gorbachevs reform attempts led to the communist party hesitating between its traditional role as manager of public participation and recognition that this role was no longer successful and that social forces had escaped its control. The changes in the tolerance of protest under state socialism show that too much should not be read off from the name of the regime. Turning to the post-socialist period, the creation of political parties in Hungary in the late 1980s provided a stable framework for the 1990 general elections that brought in a conservative-nationalist government and the same parties have continued to compete at elections since then. The dismantling of the Soviet Union and the failure of parties to crystallise there meant that the political framework for the Russian transition has been very unfavourable. Election candidates stand under party labels but these refer to ephemeral cliques rather than stable parties. The political context in Moscow today is less democratic and more authoritarian than in Budapest (Fish, 1995; Pickvance, K., 1998). Economically too, the Hungarian economy has had a smoother passage than the Russian. By 1995 Hungarian GDP was 86% of its 1989 level whereas Russias was 55%. Hungarys stable institutional framework and past experience of private enterprise has made it attractive to foreign investment. Between 1989 and 1995 it received $1113 per capita, compared with $21 per capita in Russia.
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Both countries have experienced ination and unemployment but in Russia the rate of ination was over 2000% in 1992 which effectively wiped out all savings held in roubles. In Hungary it has never exceeded 35%. Lastly, income distribution has remained relatively stable in Hungary whereas it has become more unequal in Russia. (All data are from EBRD, 1996). The implications of this for the collective expression of dissatisfaction are as follows. In Moscow the political context has been very unfavourable to social movement formation. Power has remained highly centralized, elected politicians have little inuence over ofcials, authorities are not responsive to citizen organizations which they treat as troublemakers, the media are strictly controlled and are unsympathetic to protest groups, resource availability is low and economic survival is the top priority for much of the population. It is true that political parties do not offer a stable alternative channel of participation, but this is an isolated feature which does not relieve the bleak landscape. In Budapest, there has been a decentralization of power to local governments, elected politicians have real inuence, authorities are mostly responsive to pressure, the media are largely free and sympathetic to citizen group stories, resource availability is greater and economic constraints are not so pressing as in Russia. Political parties are a stable channel for political activity but constitute the only discouraging factor in what is a very favourable political context for citizen groups. Finally, since as indicated earlier the scope for individual and collective action is not determined by the political context but also depends on the issue concerned, a brief outline of the housing sphere is presented. This will show how housing institutions work, what issues give rise to dissatisfaction and what scope there is for individual action. Under state socialism both Hungary and the Soviet Union always had extensive private housing in rural areas, but in urban areas it was in a minority and state housing was the norm. In Moscow this was under the control of councils and enterprises with the latter refusing to transfer their housing stock to councils. In Budapest administrations and enterprises also had a role but councils played the largest role. State housing was allocated administratively but in Moscow it has been suggested that 49% went to ofcials who by-passed the waiting list (Kalinina, 1992). In Budapest there is evidence that in the 1960s state housing was allocated to those with the highest status positions and of a positive association between quality of at and social status (Szelenyi, 1983; Bodnar, 1996). In Budapest private housing was encouraged by subsidies from the 1970s and this sector has been attractive to some state at tenants; meanwhile from the 1970s poorer families were given greater priority in state at allocation (Hegedus & Tosics, 1983). Nevertheless in both Moscow and Budapest state ats were synonymous with a long waiting period and young couples would typically share a
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at with their parents. In Moscow this was particularly true. In both countries it should be pointed out that state tenants had strong de facto rights since they could and did exchange ats with each other often with side payments and in Budapest could sell the tenancy itself thereby providing back door access to state ats (see French, 1995, 140; Douglas, 1997, 61). Traditionally state housing was seen as a gift and rent levels were very low. This is still true in Moscow (our survey showed people paying under 1% of their income on rents), but in Budapest since the late 1980s there has been a sharp increase in rent levels (e.g. from 3 to 15% of incomes). Housing maintenance has been neglected in both cities and the agencies charged with this function are widely criticised as slow and inefcient. The main change in the housing eld in the early 1990s was housing privatization. In Hungary this policy had been introduced in 1969 but only took off when the conditions were eased with the regime change in 1990. Tenants were offered ownership of their ats at a large discount and further discounts were given to those who could pay cash. Tenants responses depended on the quality, location, price and state of repair of the at and their own income or wealth (Hegedus et al., 1996; Bodnar, 1996). The effect was that that the better ats were privatised by those with higher incomes, while the worse quality ats remained in the state rented sector occupied by poorer households a residualization process not unlike that experienced in the sale of U.K. public housing (Forrest & Murie, 1988). The proportion of the January 1990 stock of state ats in Budapest which were sold rose from 20% (January, 1992) to 35% in June 1993. In 1993, in advance of the general election, an easing of nancial conditions facing tenants was announced, together with a promise to transform the councils right to sell into a tenants right to buy (Douglas, 1997, 75). By January 1995, 56% of the stock had been sold (Hegedus et al., 1996, 118).2 In the Soviet Union, housing privatization was allowed from mid-1990. In Moscow a policy of free privatization was adopted: tenants could become owners of their at without charge. As in Budapest, councils could keep property out of the privatization process. This could occur if a building was in poor condition, was suitable for renewal, or was a historic building. Shops and other commercial spaces were also excluded. Initially there was little interest in housing privatization in Moscow. But there was a dramatic change in 1992 and by mid-1993 35% of state ats there had been transferred to their tenants. The slow initial response seems to have been due to the unstable economic, political and legal context, fears of a reversal of the policy and to uncertainty over the rights of owners (e.g. their right to sell, or to pass on the at to their children) and about their liabilities (e.g. to pay property taxes) these last were linked partly with the relative unfamiliarity of the notion of private housing. What
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appears to have made housing privatization attractive is: (a) the emergence of a private housing market which revealed that state ats could be valuable assets; (b) the December 1992 law which reduced public uncertainty about government commitment to the policy; (c) political reassurances about the rights and obligations of owners; and (d) the experience of hyper-ination in 19921993 which meant the rouble ceased to be a credible store of value. Finally whereas environmental protest started in both Hungary and the Soviet Union in the 1970s, housing protest developed only in the late 1980s over issues such as at allocation, housing repairs, homelessness and housing privatization. While the former two issues were old, the latter two issues were related to the wider economic and social changes occurring. The two main housing movements in Budapest in the period concerned were a lobby for the homeless mainly concentrated among intellectuals and a tenants association with a branch structure which advised tenants on privatization. It was a service-providing organization which made service recipients members for a nominal payment. It therefore seems debatable whether this counts as collective action. Beyond housing however there was a higher level of citizen group activity, e.g. there were some 300 environmental groups nationally. In Moscow by contrast there were 500 housing partnerships and 250 neighbourhood self-management committees (Pickvance, C. G., 1996; Shomina, 1997). The former were based in buildings reserved by local governments for renewal and hence excluded from privatization. The tenants sought to benet from renewal by receiving a share of the commercial rents charged for ofce or retail space but the local governments refused these demands. Nevertheless the high potential economic gains motivated the movements. The neighbourhood self-management committees had neighbourhood as well as housing objectives: they ranged from making weak demands for better facilities to strong demands against eviction and for a share in the prots of renewal. The combination of repressive local authorities and unsympathetic media meant that these groups though existing were not widely known about. What are the implications of these contexts for responses to housing dissatisfaction? We would put forward the following hypotheses: 1. Hypotheses Regarding Individual Action The scope for individual action depends on: the scope for movement into and within the state housing sector, which depends on its scale relative to need and the scope it allows for exchanges within it. (Privatization reduces the scale of the sector and takes out the best housing.) the scope for moving within the private sector which depends on its scale and the affordability of units within it, and
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the scope for privatization. (This has a dual effect, reducing the size of the state sector and increasing the size of the private sector, but for the tenant it is an opportunity for improvement). Unfortunately the complexity of these arguments makes it difcult to formulate clear hypotheses about the relative extent of individual moves in the two cities. 2. Hypotheses Regarding Collective Action It has been argued that collective action depends on political opportunity structure, resource mobilization and motivation. The scope for collective action is greater the more open the political opportunity structure (media sympathy, responsive ofcials) the greater the availability of resources to movement actors In both respects Budapest shows the more favourable context and on this basis only we would predict greater collective action. On the other hand there are counter-tendencies: the more developed are political parties as a form of political participation the less the monopolistic situation of social movements and hence the less the expected collective action the greater the individual motivation to form protest groups the more likely collective action is to occur. In both respects the Moscow situation favours collective action more. Hence the hypotheses regarding collective action point in conicting directions, i.e. there are counteracting tendencies. Given the evidence cited above on the incidence of housing groups in the two cities we would suggest that the positive inuence on housing movement organizations exerted by the political opportunity structure and resource availability in Budapest is outweighed by the stronger motivation to protest in Moscow. 3. Hypotheses Regarding Interaction Between Individual and Collective Action It might be deduced from Hirschman that if macro and meso political structures make collective action more difcult (i.e. raise its costs), they make individual action relatively more likely. However this is not so. The scope for individual action is not simply a consequence of the scope for collective action, but is equally inuenced by the barriers or lack of barriers to individual action created by housing provision, management and nance institutions. There is nothing to exclude the possibility that there are obstacles to both individual and collective action at least for some social groups, something we shall return to below.
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4. Hypotheses Regarding Inactions The theoretical arguments regarding inaction are less developed than for individual and collective action. However it is hypothesized that inaction is greater the less the volume of individual and collective action (by denition) the greater the proportion of households in poverty. Income data suggest inaction for the second reason should be greater in Moscow than Budapest.
III. HOUSING SATISFACTION AND RESPONSES TO IT IN BUDAPEST AND MOSCOW

In this section we examine the extent of satisfaction with housing in Budapest and Moscow in the early 1990s and peoples responses to it. Before describing the levels of housing satisfaction of the samples of households in Moscow and Budapest, it is necessary to recognise the limitations of satisfaction studies. Three can be distinguished. Firstly as a subjective concept, satisfaction is judged by people according to their expectations. If these are higher in one country than another, levels of satisfaction there will be lower, other things being equal.3 Secondly it can only be an assumption that measures of satisfaction with an object (say size of at) refer to that object and are unaffected by more generalized dissatisfaction. This can seriously affect measures of general satisfaction, but specic satisfaction (i.e. satisfaction with different objects) is less likely to be affected. Thirdly it is often objected that measures of satisfaction tell us about attitudes rather than action. This is quite correct, but is only an objection if it is assumed that action can be read off from attitudes. With these reservations in mind, we now examine housing satisfaction in Budapest and Moscow. The data consist of interviews with 200 adults in Budapest and 750 in Moscow in early 1993 drawn by two-stage random sampling as part of the Economic and Social Research Council project Environmental and housing movements in Hungary, Estonia and Russia. The different sample sizes mean that the gures for Moscow are more accurate than for Budapest and that correlations in the Moscow data are more likely to be statistically signicant. Ideally much larger samples would have been used and more reliable conclusions drawn. However given the limited amount of research in this eld, let alone research which is both large scale and comparative, the results below are presented without any claim to high precision but as a useful baseline for subsequent studies.
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i. General and Specic Housing Satisfaction We gathered data on housing satisfaction in two ways: rstly by asking a question about respondents general satisfaction with their housing and secondly by asking about their satisfaction with specic aspects of housing. For both types of question we recorded responses on a ve-point scale from least satised to most satised. In terms of the general satisfaction question, households in Budapest were more satised with their housing than households in Moscow. In Budapest 53% placed themselves in the top two categories compared with 43% in Moscow; conversely 18% placed themselves in the lowest two categories compared with 31% in Moscow. This difference was real but not huge. (Bater et al., 1995, 678 report similar levels of housing satisfaction in their 1993 Moscow study.) We now examine the aspects of housing which gave rise to most dissatisfaction, which were very different in the two cases, as Table 1 shows. Firstly the most basic aspects of housing, such as not being able to form an independent household (sharing with parents), size and number of rooms, were the most frequently chosen sources of dissatisfaction in Moscow. This relates to objective differences between housing in the two cities: there is a greater shortage of housing in Moscow, e.g. housing space in Moscow (median 44 sq. m., mode 40 sq. m. in our survey and in Budapest, median 56 sq. m., mode 57 sq. m). Secondly, levels of rents and bills were far less unpopular in Moscow
Table 1. Aspects of Housing Placed in the Two Lowest Categories of Dissatisfaction on a Five Point Scale.
Budapest Bills Maintenance Location Size Rent Number of rooms Layout Floor Sharing with parents* Amenities 42 40 35 30 29 24 20 19 19 6 Moscow Sharing with parents* Size Number of rooms Layout Maintenance Amenities Floor Bills Rents Location 38 36 36 34 33 22 19 16 15 10
N.B. On all items, don't knows, no information, etc. are excluded from the base. *In this case the base is those who were sharing.
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than Budapest. This can be related to the actual level of housing costs in the two cities. In Moscow the median and modal ratios of housing cost/income in our survey were both 1%; while in Budapest the median ratio was 17% and there were two modal ratios (10% and 20%). Finally there was a sharp difference in the level of dissatisfaction with location which was considered unsatisfactory by only 10% of Muscovites compared with 35% of Budapest dwellers. Location is an ambiguous concept. Assuming that it was understood as position in the whole city there are two complementary explanations. The rst is that to the extent that having ones own accommodation, or accommodation of a reasonable size is the priority in Moscow, it is not surprising that location has low priority. The second is to do with the degree of residential social segregation. In Budapest there is greater residential social segregation because of: (a) the encouragement of private housebuilding; and (b) the extensiveness of quasi-market processes in the state sector (i.e. exchanges and sales of tenancies) in the last two decades (Ladanyi, 1989). Hence location is a greater source of differentiation and has greater signicance as a housing priority. In Moscow these processes and the consequent residential segregation have been much weaker though French (1995, 50) suggests that in recent decades residential social segregation by area has increased, whereas previously it was by building. To explore peoples perceptions of housing further, we asked respondents whether they wanted to improve their housing conditions and if so in what way. In Budapest 50% said yes, compared with 71% in Moscow, a difference which is consistent with the contrast in general dissatisfaction. When we asked those who said yes what changes they sought, in Budapest a better location (77%) and a larger at (65%) came rst. In Moscow all amenities (89%), self-contained accommodation (87%), a bigger at (80%) and a better layout (73%) were more popular and a different location was least popular. These preferences were broadly in line with the specic dissatisfactions reported in Table 1. There was also a group who when asked whether they expected to realise the improvements in housing conditions they wanted, said they had no hope. This group amounted to 22% of the total Budapest sample but 32% of the Moscow sample. We shall return to it below. In sum it can be seen that Budapest households are better housed in terms of space than Muscovite households and are more generally satised with their housing. However there are similar ranges of dissatisfaction about specic items in both cities (from 1040%), though the objects of dissatisfaction are very different. Sharing and space cause more dissatisfaction in Moscow while cost and location cause more dissatisfaction in Budapest. In both cities there was a sizeable minority who felt they had no hope of change.
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ii. Satisfaction and Social Structure So far we have explored housing satisfaction for the whole samples in each city. We now explore the extent to which general housing satisfaction is socially structured. The widely accepted picture of housing distribution under state socialism is that, contrary to the prevailing ideology, it enabled the highest status groups to obtain the best housing and that processes since 19891990 such as housing privatization and the expansion of the private sector have enabled these groups to reinforce their housing position (Szelenyi, 1983; Bodnar, 1996). However this does not lead to a set of specic hypotheses about general housing satisfaction since the latter may be poorly correlated with housing situation. It would therefore be surprising to nd strong correlations between general housing satisfaction and social structural variables and in fact such correlations were all weak and even in unexpected directions: Income. In Moscow there was a slight tendency for the lowest income groups to be more satised (Cramers V = 0.13).4 In Budapest there was no statistically signicant correlation between general housing satisfaction and income. Education. Likewise in Moscow there was a slight tendency for the less educated to be more satised (V = 0.11) but no correlation between education and general housing satisfaction in Budapest. Age. In both cities the young were more dissatised than the old (B(udapest) V = 0.24; M(oscow) V = 0.17). Gender. Women were slightly more likely to be generally satised with their housing but this was not statistically signicant. Tenure. In Moscow there was a weak relationship (V = 0.16) between tenure and general satisfaction showing those living in state ats to be less satised and those who had privatized their at or were in co-op ats to be more satised. In Budapest those who had privatized their at were most satised and those who were in a state at or a co-op at were least satised but V was not statistically signicant. (Both ndings suggest that general housing satisfaction depends partly on objective features of housing and that a residualization process is occurring in state housing).5 Overall then, the relationships between social structural variables and general housing satisfaction were weak: age was most strongly related to general housing satisfaction (in both cities) (the old being more satised), while low income and low education groups were slightly more satised in Moscow. There
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was a suggestion in both cities that those who had privatized their at were more satised than those still living in state ats. iii. Responses to Dissatisfaction In Section I we identied three types of response to dissatisfaction and argued that inaction could not be equated with loyalty. We now explore these responses. a. Individual Action Firstly, we examine responses to the questions would you like to improve your housing conditions? and (for those who said yes) how do you expect to improve your housing conditions? In both Moscow and Budapest, we found extremely strong correlations between being dissatised with housing conditions and wanting to improve them (V = 0.60 B; V = 0.61 M). Although this suggests that general dissatisfaction with housing strongly conditions desire for improvement, the correlation is not perfect since even some of those in the highest categories of housing satisfaction (4 and 5) want to improve their housing, (see Table 2). Secondly we go on to explore whether, in response to dissatisfaction, households actually expected to improve their housing situation. By asking whether respondents expected to improve their situation we wanted to introduce the constraints of reality on aspirations. Respondents were offered a range of options and asked to choose one. They are listed in Table 3. Referring back to the earlier classication, the rst response refers to inaction and all the remainder refer to various forms of individual action (all external to the household with the exception of repair). We consider in turn those who expected improvement and those who did not. Table 3 shows that over half of the respondents who wanted to improve their situation expected to do so by the individual modes of action listed (57% in Budapest; 54% in Moscow see nal column, adding all rows after the rst): the most popular channel was exchange, but purchasing, building and using the Table 2. Proportion at Each Level of General Housing Satisfaction Wanting to Improve their Housing in Each City.
Level of general satisfaction with housing Lowest 1 100 98 2 90 96 3 76 88 4 29 57 Highest 5 13 22 Overall
Budapest Moscow
52 71
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Table 3. Proportions Expecting to Improve their Housing Situation in Specic ways (or none) by Current Housing Situation, in Budapest (B) and Moscow (M), early 1993 (vertical percentages).
Ways of improving situation B None/no hope Enterprise Council Inherit Exchange Co-op Buy Build Repair Other N 42 Current housing situation State Flat Bought from council B 54 M 46 1 4 10 17 2 11 2 1 6 74 Co-op at M 57 0 2 10 12 6 10 2 2 0 47 Old private B 56 B 43 All
M 45 9 9 5 14 5 6 0 1 5 379
M 46 8 8 6 14 4 7 1 1 5 518
3 36 12 3 0 3 33
0 21 25 0 0 0 24
0 19 6 13 6 0 16
2 24 17 8 1 6 101
N.B. The base consists of those who said they wanted to improve their housing conditions; it therefore excludes those who did not want to improve their housing situation, don't knows, etc. Tenure categories where n was less than 10 are included in the All column only this explains the absence of separate columns for co-op at and old private in Budapest and Moscow respectively.
council or enterprise were also mentioned. No respondents mentioned collective action in the Other category. The lack of differences in the totals reects the fact that individual action is possible in various tenure categories. The differences between the two cities in the role of exchanges, purchases, building, council and enterprise housing reect the different housing situation in the two cities. A subsequent question revealed that these respondents had mostly taken steps to improve their housing situation: in Budapest this was true of all those who said they expected to buy and 60% of those who said they would build or exchange; in Moscow it was true of all those who said they would exchange, 80% of those who said they expected to obtain council or co-op housing or buy a house, but among under 10% of those who expected to do repairs. It is therefore reasonable to categorize those who expected to improve their housing as mostly active in pursuit of their desire to improve. This table also shows the association between four current tenure categories and expected methods of individual action to improve their housing. The resulting correlation coefcients are statistically signicant (V = 0.36 B;
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V = 0.17 M). In Budapest state tenants are more likely to expect to use exchange and ex-state tenants are more likely to expect to buy; in Moscow ex-state tenants and co-op at dwellers resemble each other in their rejection of council and enterprise housing and preferences for private housing, while state tenants show the opposite pattern. b. Inaction We now turn to those who wanted to improve their housing situation but did not expect to do so (Table 3, rst row). What is striking is that these groups amount to nearly half (43% in Budapest, 46% in Moscow) of those wanting improvement. (As proportions of the whole sample in the two cities they represent 22% and 32%.) This means that there is a sizeable minority in both cities who appear trapped in their housing situation. Hirschman would describe them as showing loyalty but this label seems quite inappropriate. Cross-tabulation showed that this no hope group was made up of relatively deprived households. Compared with the other households who wanted to improve their housing, this group were more likely to have the following features: low income (B); low and medium income (M*) (N.B.* = statistically signicant correlation. See footnote 4.) primary education (B, M*) older age (B, M*) women (B, M*) housing tenure type (B*, M*): being in old private housing (B), in housing bought from the council (B), or in a co-op at (M). The rst four characteristics suggest that we are dealing with a group experiencing across-the-board underprivilege: having no hope of better housing is additional to scoring low on income and education, being older and female. (The tenure correlations are complex to interpret. One possibility is that privatizing ones at leaves size and location unchanged and for older households it may be a matter of achieving limited control over living conditions but without further prospect of improvement.) This leads to the further question of whether this groups belief that no improvement in their housing is likely is linked to a lack of action in pursuit of better housing. Unfortunately we assumed that the no hope group had not taken any steps towards improving their housing, rather than asking them. However we did ask them whether in the past they had made contact with politicians or ofcials about their housing problems. This revealed that the no hope group was less likely to have used such contacts and that the correlations were substantively
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(as well as statistically) signicant in both cities but particularly in Budapest (see Table 4). It also revealed that Budapest ofcials were perceived as being more approachable than those in Moscow conrming our earlier comments on contrasts in meso institutional structure. There is a limit to the extent to which we can interpret this evidence in the absence of over-time data. However it is compatible with either of the following hypotheses which are familiar to students of ghettos: (a) the culture of poverty hypothesis that a belief that improved housing is unlikely leads to low activity in pursuit of improved housing and failure to escape from a weak structural situation, or (b) the structuralist hypothesis that low activity and expressing no hope are part of a syndrome of features which have developed due to the weak structural situation of the group. It is possible that having used contacts in dealing with housing problems makes people more hopeful of achieving an improvement. Against this, the proportions with contacts were minorities in each city (see Table 4). It is more likely that using contacts in resolving housing problems is part of a syndrome in which those with greater material and cultural resources (income, education) have greater knowledge about how to work the system and greater coping ability. To sum up, it has been argued rstly that among those seeking improvement in their housing the vast majority use individual action rather than collective action and secondly that there is a sharp difference between those who do not expect any improvement (the no hope group who can be treated as showing inaction) and those who do and this is reected both in the contrasting structural positions of the two categories and in their (past) levels of individual activity in pursuit of better housing. This difference was all the more striking because general (dis)satisfaction with housing itself was weakly correlated with any social structural variable. This implies that social structural inuences affect Table 4. Proportion of Each Group using Contacts with Politicians and Ofcials in Connection with past Housing Problems, According to Expectation of Improvement, by City.
Budapest politicians No hope group Those expecting Improvement V 5% 19% 0.36* ofcials 9% 37% 0.51* Moscow politicians ofcials 9% 15% 0.20* 14% 20% 0.19*
N.B. The base is all households wanting improvement.
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how people respond to housing dissatisfaction more than they affect their level of satisfaction or desire for improvement. However the reason why those with no hope of housing improvement are structurally disadvantaged is not due to their characteristics as such but to the way housing institutions respond to those characteristics. c. Collective Action Finally we turn to collective action as a response to housing dissatisfaction. We asked a specic question to establish what proportion of the total sample in each city were or had been members or occasional participants in housing movement organizations. The answer was 2% in Moscow and 4% in Budapest. (The comparable gures for environmental movement organizations were 4% and 10%). This makes sense in terms of the relative recency of housing protest and shows that collective action in the housing sphere is a rare phenomenon. However if these proportions are translated into numbers, they imply 110,000 individuals have been participants in Moscow and 50,000 in Budapest. Since, as mentioned earlier, none of the respondents who wanted to improve their housing situation expected to do so by collective action, the discussion here concerns stated reasons for not participating in housing movement organizations based on the whole sample. These are presented in Table 5. The headings A to E in Table 5 are an attempt to group the reasons into meaningful categories. However they are somewhat arbitrary and other groupings can be imagined. Obviously, stated reasons may be inaccurate but until further studies are available it is not possible to explore this. In interpreting this table, for the reasons mentioned earlier, no attention is paid to small differences. We start by examining those reasons given for not taking collective action which are roughly common across the two cities (A, C, D) and then examine the responses which show considerable differences (namely opportunity and benet-related responses, B and E). Responses A which indicated housing was not a problem (not interested in housing issues and no housing problem) are not of interest since by denition those without a housing problem would not be expected to take part in collective action. Responses C (time constraint) and D (perceptions of alternative responses) have in common that they imply that people do have a housing dissatisfaction to which they wish to respond and that they do not take part in collective action for a specic reason. No time to participate (C) is a very common response and corresponds to households facing economic pressure and trying to make ends meet. The type D responses seem to be made up of three frequent responses. Prefer individual solutions, the most frequent response (5465%), is a striking result. It supports the hypothesis that collective action
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Table 5.
Reasons Given for Non-Participation in Housing Movements.

Budapest Moscow 22 29 68 65 47 65 61 47 34 25 19 5 3
A. Relevance Not interested in housing issues No housing problem B. Opportunity No chance to join Not aware of any such groups C. Constraint No time to participate D. Perception of alternative responses Prefer individual solutions No need to participate as long as others do Dislike political involvement Do not believe they can be successful Dont trust organisers Disapprove of methods used E. Benets No personal material benets No personal political benets N.B. More than one reason could be given.
14 24 25 35 54 54 48 52 39 31 21 31 19
is less likely when individual action is viable, as is clearly the case in the housing eld as seen in Table 3.6 The other responses in the C and D categories seem to fall into two groups: a general antipathy to collective action shared by about half the respondents (the Olson-inspired no need to participate as long as others do and dislike political involvement) and a negative judgement about housing movement organizations (disbelief in their success, disapproval of their methods, distrust of their organisers) held by 2040%. Thus the dominant common themes in the two cities in peoples stated reasons for non-involvement in collective action over housing problems (ignoring those who do not have such problems) are that they lack time or prefer individual solutions (around half), or that they do not like collective action (a minority to half). Turning now to the responses where there were very sharp differences between the two cities; these occurred in four cases, all in the opportunities and benets categories, B and E. Firstly, Moscow respondents were 23 times more likely than Budapest respondents to mention unawareness of opportunities to join housing movement organizations or having no chance to join them as reasons for non-participation in them. This is probably because although, as shown earlier, housingrelated groups are more numerous in Moscow these groups receive less attention
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in the media and in the case of housing partnerships are concentrated in blocks excluded from housing privatization and so are not real alternatives for the large majority who do not live in such blocks. The second nding, that Muscovites were 56 times less likely than Budapest residents to give the lack of personal benets from housing movement organization participation as a reason for non-participation, is probably also due to Muscovites limited knowledge of them (and their consequent over-estimation of their potential success). The higher responses by Budapest respondents imply greater knowledge or awareness of collective action which has not brought them personal benets. This is a surprising response since housing movement organizations have not been repressed or hindered in Budapest. However they have often been co-opted and this may explain the more negative view of the benets likely to be obtained through them in Budapest (Gyori, 1997; Pickvance, C. G., 1994). Taken together, these ndings conrm: (a) the viability of individual action as a response to dissatisfaction in the housing sphere in both cities; and (b) the irrelevance (and among some, distrust) of collective action in overcoming housing dissatisfaction. As we saw earlier although Budapest offered the more favourable context for collective action, there were actually more housing movements in Moscow due to the motivational factor operating on those ghting (in vain) to have their blocks privatized. However it was the lack of publicity given to this action due to an unsympathetic media and its irrelevance to the vast majority of households who did not live in buildings excluded from privatization which explain peoples low awareness and unrealistic expectations of it. Thus an adequate explanation needs to take into account the issue domain, the viability of individual action and the contextual inuences on the possibility of individual and collective action.
IV. CONCLUSION
One reason for writing this article was in response to the literature on social movements which essentially studies the tip of the iceberg of responses to dissatisfaction. Moreover it is a tip which has the advantage of being interesting to study. The social movements studied by most scholars are socially progressive from a left point of view and scholars are likely to sympathise with the goals being pursued. (This is not because non-progressive social movements do not exist: anti-abortion, anti-tax and racist movements exist and are studied but far less often than new social movements. Some writers even exclude non-progressive movements from the denition of social movements see Eder, 1993.) The danger with such writing is that it creates a division between the study of those issues whose pursuit takes place mainly in the political arena
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and those which are pursued mainly through individual action. This leads to the marginalization of non-public responses and to a failure to theorise the choice between or mix of individual and collective action used in particular cases. This in turn leads to the inadequate development of theory regarding them, as illustrated by Hirschmans work with its individualism and functionalist assumptions about how institutions operate. The aim of this article has been to put forward a model which treats inaction, individual action and collective action as a linked set of objects of analysis, which emphasizes the importance of social structure and the institutional context and which recognizes the impact of the issue domain. Firstly it has been argued that inaction in the housing sphere is concentrated among those in the weakest social structural position and that attempts to represent this as due to their loyalty are quite mistaken. To disentangle the causal relations behind the correlation between inaction and weak social structural position is difcult. We showed that general housing dissatisfaction was only weakly correlated with social structural characteristics. In other words those in the weakest positions were scarcely more likely to be dissatised with their housing than those in stronger positions but they were more likely to be inactive. Inaction partly reects the policies and practices of state and private housing market institutions, but may also be more directly due to social structure, e.g. a poor educational background making people less persistent in dealing with such institutions. Secondly it has been argued that individual action is the dominant response to housing dissatisfaction and that it is more common among those in middling or strong social positions. This is partly because state and private institutions provide opportunities for individual action by such groups to be effective. The high preference for individual solutions is an effect of issue domain. Thirdly we have shown that although the respondents in our survey did not consider collective action as a way of dealing with their housing dissatisfaction such action did exist especially in Moscow. Since Moscow was the city where the political opportunity structure and resource situation was less favourable to collective action, we interpreted this nding as showing that motivation could overcome an unfavourable context and lead to collective action in the housing sphere. What it could not do however, given the hostility of local governments in Moscow, was to lead to successful collective action.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Earlier versions of this article were presented at the European Science Foundation conference on the Future of European Cities at Acquafredda di Maratea, Italy, a
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seminar at the University of Kent at Canterbury and the European Sociological Association in Amsterdam, September 1999. I would like to thank the participants on all these occasions for their suggestions and especially Dieter Rucht for his helpful written comments which led to a major revision. The project on which the article is based was carried out by Nick Manning, Katy Pickvance, Sveta Klimova and the author at the University of Kent from 19911994. Details of available project publications can be found on the webpage www.ukc.ac.uk/DSPP/URSU. I would also like to thank ESRC for funding the research and my colleagues for their stimulation and Katy Pickvance for computing help.
NOTES
1. For elaborations of Hirschmans model which broadly accept his approach but multiply the number of possible responses, see Barry (1974), Birch (1975), Cox (1978) and Bajoit (1988). 2. This is because the housing problem dened by policy-makers was the fact of state ownership. Other housing problems such as falling levels of new building, decreasing affordability and the inequitable distribution of subsidies have not been dened as problems see Hegedus et al. (1996) on the Hungarian case. 3. Ideally one could explore what these expectations are. But this is unlikely to be satisfactory since expectations themselves are another soft category with people referring variously to realistic and ideal states. It probably has to be accepted that satisfaction and expectations are part of a bundle which cannot be broken down. 4. Cramers V is a chi squared based measure ranging between 0 and 1 which is independent of the number of rows and columns in the tables being compared. Given the larger sample in Moscow and hence increased chance of correlations being statistically signicant, too much weight should not be given to contrasts in statistical signicance between the two cities. 5. Our study showed no statistically signicant correlations between household location (when measured on a four-point scale of distance from the centre) and household age, income, education or tenure. We take this to indicate that residential social segregation in the two cities operates at smaller scales than these four categories, e.g. there will be better and worse areas within each concentric ring. 6. We also asked a question about reasons for non-participation in environmental movement organizations and the gures were much lower: 39% said prefer individual solutions in Budapest and 42% in Moscow. This is consistent with our view that individual action is less feasible (but not impossible) in the case of environmental issues than on housing issues.
REFERENCES
Bajoit, G. (1988). Exit, voice and loyalty . . . and apathy: les reactions individuelles au mecontentement. Revue Francaise de Sociologie, 29, 325345. Barry, B. (1974). Review article: Exit, voice and loyalty. British Journal of Political Science, 4, 79107.
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Bater, J. H., Degytarev, A. A., & Amelin, V. N. (1995). Politics in Moscow: local issues, areas and governance. Political Geography, 14, 665687. Birch, A. H. (1975). Economic models in political science: the case of Exit, voice and loyalty. British Journal of Political Science, 15, 6982. Bodnar, J. (1996). He that hath, to him shall be given: the logic of housing privatization after state socialism. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 20, 616636. Cox, K. R. (1978). Local interests and urban political processes in market societies. In: K. Cox (Ed.), Urbanization and Conict in Market Societies. Chicago: Maaroufa. Douglas, M. J. (1997). A Change of System: Housing System Transformation and Neighbourhood Change in Budapest. Utrecht: Urban Research Centre, Utrecht University. EBRD (1996). Transition Report 1996. London: European Bank for Reconstruction and Development. Eder, K. (1993). The New Politics of Class. London: Sage. Fish, M. S. (1995). Democracy from Scratch: opposition and regime in the new Russian revolution. Princeton, NJ.: Princeton University Press. Fleischer, T. (1993). Jaws on the Danube: water management, regime change and the movement against the Middle Danube hydro-electric dam. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 17, 429443. Forrest, R., & Murie, A. (1988). Selling the Welfare State. London: Routledge. French, R.A. (1985). Plans, Pragmatism and People. London: UCL Press. Gyori, P. (1997). Housing movements in Budapest. In: K. Lang-Pickvance, N. Manning & C. G. Pickvance (Eds), Environmental and Housing Movements: Grassroots Experience in Hungary, Estonia and Russia. Aldershot: Avebury. Hegedus, J., & Tosics, I. (1983). Housing classes and housing policy: some changes in the Budapest housing market. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 7, 467493. Hegedus, J., Mark, K., & Tosics, I. (1996). Uncharted territory: Hungarian housing in transition. In: R. J.Struyk (Ed.), Economic Restructuring of the Former Soviet Bloc: the Case of Housing. Aldershot: Avebury. Hirschman, A. O. (1970). Exit, Voice and Loyalty. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Hirschman, A. O. (1974). Exit, voice and loyalty: further reections. Social Science Information, 13, 726. Jenkins, J. C. (1983). Resource mobilization theory and the study of social movements. Annual Review of Sociology, 9, 527553. Kalinina, N. (1992). Housing and housing policy in the USSR. In: B. Turner, J. Hegedus & I. Tosics (Eds), The Reform of Housing in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. London: Routledge. Kitschelt, H. (1986). Political opportunity structures and political protest: anti-nuclear movements in four democracies. British Journal of Political Science, 16, 5785. Klandermans, B., & Oegema, D. (1987). Potentials, networks, motivations and barriers: steps towards participation in social movements. American Sociological Review, 52, 519531. Kriesi, H., Koopmans, R., Dyvendak, J. W., & Giugni, M. G. (1995). New Social Movements in Western Europe. London: UCL Press. Ladanyi, J. (1989). Changing patterns of residential segregation in Budapest. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 13, 555570. Linz, J. J., & Stepan, A. (1996). Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Lipsky, M. (1968). Protest as a political resource. American Political Science Review, 62: 11441158 Morris, A. D., & Mueller, C. M. (Eds) (1992). Frontiers in Social Movement Theory. New Haven: Yale University Press.
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Olson, M. (1965). The Logic of Collective Action. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Pickvance, C. G. (1994). Housing privatization and housing protest in the transition from state socialism: a comparative study of Budapest and Moscow. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 18, 433450 Pickvance, C. G. (1995). Social movements in the transition from state socialism: convergence or divergence? In: L. Maheu (Ed.), Social Movements and Social Classes: the Future of Collective Action. London: Sage. Pickvance, C. G. (1996). Environmental and housing movements in cities after socialism: the cases of Budapest and Moscow. In: G. Andrusz, M. Harloe & I. Szelenyi (Eds), Cities after Socialism. Oxford: Blackwell. Pickvance, C. G. (1999). Democratization and the decline of social movements: the effects of regime change on collective action in Eastern Europe, Southern Europe and Latin America. Sociology, 33, 353372 Pickvance, K. (1997). Social movements in Hungary and Russia: the case of environmental movements. European Sociological Review, 13, 3554 Pickvance, K. (1998). Democracy and opposition at grassroots level in Eastern Europe: Hungary and Russia compared. Sociological Review, 46, 187207. Schumaker, P. D. (1975). Policy responsiveness to protest-group demands. Journal of Politics, 37, 488521. Shomina, Y. (1997). Housing movements in Russia, In: K. Lang-Pickvance, N. Manning & C. G. Pickvance (Eds), Environmental and Housing Movements: Grassroots Experience in Hungary, Estonia and Russia. Aldershot: Avebury. Szelenyi, I. (1983). Urban Inequalities under State Socialism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Szirmai, V. (1997). Protection of the environment and the position of green movements in Hungary. In: K. Lang-Pickvance, N. Manning & C. G. Pickvance (Eds), Environmental and Housing Movements: Grassroots Experience in Hungary, Estonia and Russia. Aldershot: Avebury. Zald, M. N., & McCarthy, J. D. (1979). The Dynamics of Social Movements. Cambridge, Mass.: Winthrop.
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PROTESTER/TARGET INTERACTIONS: A MICROSOCIOLOGICAL APPROACH TO STUDYING MOVEMENT OUTCOMES

Rachel L. Einwohner
ABSTRACT
Despite the recent increase in scholarly work on movement outcomes, researchers have identied a number of areas that still deserve attention. Many of these criticisms have focused on the conceptual and methodological challenges that movement outcomes research presents. This paper contributes to these on-going discussions by arguing for a microsociological approach to the study of movement outcomes, one that makes face-to-face interactions between protesters and their targets the focus of inquiry. Taking this approach helps address two methodological challenges in the study of movement outcomes: identifying intended as well as unintended consequences of movement activity and establishing causality. Paying attention to what transpires during these interactions can shed light as well on the broader, more macro impacts in which most scholars are interested. Although useful for illuminating the immediate outcomes of protest activity, this approach is still intended to complement
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rather than refute existing strategies. I illustrate my argument with examples from extant studies as well as my own eldwork with animal rights activists and their targets.
INTRODUCTION
Between October 1992 and August 1995 I was engaged in the study of four protest campaigns waged by the members of a non-violent animal rights group in Seattle (Einwohner, 1997). During that period I attended monthly activist meetings as well as a variety of protest events, including two demonstrations outside circus performances. These demonstrations, both held in the summer of 1994, were part of the activists campaign against local performances of circuses featuring animals, one of the four campaigns that were the focus of my study. Activists opposed these circuses on several grounds. First, they alleged cruel training practices (e.g. the use of whips, hooks and electric prods) and inadequate housing facilities for the performing animals. In addition, many activists felt that the animals were being exploited for entertainment purposes. By holding demonstrations like these, along with other activities such as writing letters to the editors of local newspapers, activists hoped to convince circus patrons not to attend the performances. The rst demonstration, held on the morning of July 3 at the Seattle Center Arena, was one of four demonstrations scheduled to coincide with circus performances throughout the Fourth of July weekend. Participation was light at all four, but only two activists showed up for the morning demonstration on July 3. Despite the small showing, the two activists who did attend that protest attempted to follow their organizations standard procedure for a circus demonstration. Standing outside the main entrance to the arena, activists held signs with messages such as The Circus: The Cruelest Show on Earth and End Circus Cruelty, and occasionally made remarks like Circuses are cruel, folks and Your ticket promotes cruelty to the patrons. In addition, activists distributed leaets that explained their position against the circus. These materials decried the manner in which circus animals are housed and trained, claiming these treatments to be both inappropriate and cruel. One such leaet, titled The Greatest Creatures on Earth, alleged that circus elephants are chained in place at all times except when they are performing; another featured text from a letter written by a Florida policeman who had to shoot and kill an elephant that had gone beserk during a performance. With only two participants, the demonstration was a fairly quiet affair. The activists, one man and one woman, apparently did not expect to be the only participants; they brought a number of protest signs with them, many more than
Protestor/Target Interactions and Movement Outcomes
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they could hold and display by themselves. They therefore propped a few signs against a post (in the clear view of patrons entering the arena) and, holding one sign each, distributed their literature to those patrons who would accept it. These activities proceeded without much incident; while some patrons refused the literature and others threw it away soon after receiving it, there were no altercations with the activists. In addition, although one police ofcer was on hand, no law enforcement ofcials or circus representatives questioned the activists or attempted to curtail their activities in any manner. Once all the patrons had entered the building (after about an hour), the two activists left and the demonstration was over. A very different scenario unfolded at another circus demonstration later that summer. This second demonstration, held on September 17, took place outside a circus performance at the Tacoma Dome in Tacoma, Washington, a city thirty miles south of Seattle. Like the demonstration on July 3, this second demonstration also lasted around an hour, ending soon after all the patrons entered the venue and the performance began. Unlike that earlier demonstration, however, there were many more protesters on hand, with forty-ve individuals participating. While this second demonstration featured some of the same sorts of activities as the July 3 protest and even used the same signs and yers, the larger number of participants made it louder and more visible. Perhaps because of their greater numbers, activists were also a little more creative in their presentation. For example, one donned a bear suit and a pair of rollerblades and skated around while holding a protest sign. Participants in this second demonstration also used a newly constructed protest accessory that was not available for the July protests: Janet, a nearly life-sized paper-mach elephant brandishing a chain, was transported from Seattle in the back of an activists truck and displayed at the site. Unlike the earlier demonstration, the September protest received attention from the local media, with two television stations sending reporters and camera crews to the scene. The protest attracted attention from circus ofcials as well. Security guards approached the activists several times during the demonstration and asked them to stay on the public sidewalk and away from the walkways into the venue. As another example of the attention that the activists attracted, circus ofcials made an announcement about the activists before the performance began. Danielle,1 a circus patron in attendance that day, described that announcement:
They said . . . , There may be somebody in here whos an activist wanting to say something or do something. . . . [Then] they said, So, if [you] want to say something, if [you] want to do something, we need to have you do it now, before anybody gets on stage. We will give you time to say what you want to say.
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Since this announcement was read over the public address system to the seated audience, however, activists protesting outside the building did not hear it and therefore were not able to take advantage of the opportunity they were given. Without knowing about this opportunity for more contact with their targeted audience, the activists ended their demonstration soon after all the patrons entered the building. The two demonstrations differed in both the number of participants and the types of reactions they elicited from their targets. As an observer, I noticed very little negativity from the patrons at the rst demonstration. While some patrons accepted the activists literature, others simply walked past them; however, most did so without visibly displaying anger, fear, or contempt. In fact, I only saw one patron react in a way that could be described as negative; when an activist approached him with a leaet, he said, Get a life! before walking away. In contrast, a much different dynamic was apparent at the larger demonstration, where patrons seemed more threatened and outraged by the protest activity. Many patrons either challenged the activists or went out of their way to avoid them. One patron, a woman accompanied by two little girls, passed by a protester who called something out to her. Although I could not hear exactly what he said, it was obviously distressing in some manner; the woman said aloud, That guy was obnoxious! and took the girls by the hands quickly, pulling them closer to her before they all hurried away. In another instance, a patron yelled at an activist, You care about animals, but what are you doing about abortion? A third man passing by an activist screamed angrily, Thousands of people are dying in Rwanda and you care about f---ing BEARS?!!! I was able to conduct interviews with a handful of circus patrons who witnessed the demonstrations (ve from the rst demonstration and two from the second) and these individuals also suggested that the patrons at the larger demonstration felt more threatened by the protesters than did those at the rst. None of the ve interviewees who witnessed the smaller demonstration indicated that they were afraid of or felt intimidated by the protesters. As one of those patrons, Lisa, said, The only thing I noticed going to the circus was that they [the protesters] were very low-key. Very low-key. In contrast, both of the patrons I interviewed from the larger demonstration had some reservations about the activists. One, a woman named Penny, said,
My gut reaction I guess was that I grew a little nervous. And I really did not make eye contact with anybody in that group . . . Walking into that [demonstration], it is intimidating and like I said I felt my guard go up. And you just always hear those stories about the extremists. And Im thinking, Well, Ive got my two little kids here, you know, two three year olds.
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The other patron, Danielle, made a similar comment:

We noticed them setting up an elephant. We noticed that they were there. And so because of that we chose to stay away from them, because we have our children. We didnt know what avenue they would use to get our attention and so we just stayed away. If our children had been in junior high maybe we would have welcomed a chance to talk to them, just to nd out what their point was . . . But at this age, seven and ve, you dont need confrontation of any sort.
What transpired at these two demonstrations is perhaps not surprising; patrons appeared unfazed by what was essentially a leaeting session by two activists, but reacted much more strongly against larger, more dramatic protest activities. Given the limited data that I was able to collect from circus patrons in follow-up interviews,2 it is not clear exactly what it was about these two demonstrations that provoked the different reactions; for instance, it is possible, but not certain, that the larger demonstration was more threatening because parents feared what the activists might do to their children, as Penny and Danielle suggested. Moreover, it is not clear which demonstration brought the activists closer to their goals of reducing attendance at circus performances.3 These important questions aside, what is useful about these two demonstrations is that they illustrate some of what can transpire when protesters meet their targets face to face. Such interactions are the point of departure for this paper. In what follows, I argue for greater attention to the dynamics of protester/target interaction because of what these dynamics can reveal about protest outcomes. My intent is to promote the study of protester/target interactions as a methodological and conceptual approach to the study of movement outcomes, one that can complement and enhance existing approaches. I begin with a brief review of the methodological problems that plague movement outcomes research. As other scholars have noted, these challenges include identifying a broad range of outcomes and establishing a causal link between protest activity and some outcome of interest. I then argue that detailed examinations of the dynamics of face-to-face interactions between protesters and their targets are well equipped to both uncover a wide range of possible outcomes and make causal claims about the immediate impact of protest activity. In doing so, I limit my discussion to the immediate effects of protest on those who witness it. However, I conclude by addressing the relevance of this approach to the study of the broader political and cultural changes that are the focus of much movement outcomes research; there, I suggest that paying more attention to the dynamics of protester/target interaction can shed light not only on interactional dynamics in a local setting, but can also help explain more enduring impacts at the macro level. Throughout, I draw on the two animal rights demonstrations described above, as well as other case studies, to illustrate my argument.
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STUDYING MOVEMENT OUTCOMES: METHODOLOGICAL CHALLENGES

One challenge that movement outcomes research faces is the problem of identifying all the outcomes that can occur as a result of protest activity, including unintended as well as intended outcomes (Earl, 2000; Giugni, 1998, 1999; Rucht, 1999). Protest can have myriad results, including broad legal, social, economic and cultural changes as well as changes in the lives of individuals (see Giugni et al., 1998, 1999). Recognizing the enormity of this challenge, many researchers make their analyses more manageable by limiting the range of outcomes that they study. Gamsons (1990) well-known study of the results of 53 different challenging groups considered only two general types of outcomes: acceptance from antagonists and new advantages for movement participants or beneciaries. Other researchers focus on specic outcomes, such as public policy (Amenta et al., 1992; Burstein, 1979, 1985, 1999; Costain & Majstorovic, 1994; Huberts, 1989; Jenkins & Brents, 1989; Kriesi & Wisler, 1999; Meyer, 1999; Tarrow, 1998), institutional change (Moore, 1999) or biographical consequences for participants (Fendrich, 1977, 1993; McAdam, 1989, 1999; Sherkat & Blocker, 1997). Additional studies allow for a wider range of outcomes, but limit their inquiries to the attainment of activists stated goals (Barkan, 1984; Burstein et al., 1995; Morris, 1993). While understandable, however, these strategies are problematic in that they require researchers to specify beforehand what outcomes are likely to result from protest and can therefore preclude the examination of a wider variety of unanticipated effects. A related problem has to do with determinations of success and failure. Since it is difcult to determine the entire set of outcomes that result from protest, it is usually unclear whether activists have been successful overall. Moreover, determining which of the identied outcomes are advantageous to movements is also problematic, as different actors (including activists as well as opponents and third parties) may have different views regarding the outcomes benet (Gamson, 1990; Giugni, 1999). Finally, even when protest activities fail to achieve their desired results, the outcomes of those activities may end up being benecial to movements in unanticipated ways (Amenta & Young, 1999; Rucht, 1999). Problems such as these have encouraged some researchers to dispense with the concept of success altogether, focusing instead on target responsiveness (Burstein et al., 1995; Schumaker, 1975) or movement impacts (Amenta & Young, 1999) as a way of clarifying outcomes. Establishing causality is a second task that is particularly challenging for movement outcomes research. Demonstrating that a given outcome resulted
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from protest activity requires that all other possible causes be ruled out (Amenta & Young, 1999; Earl, 2000; Giugni, 1999; Tilly, 1999). Typically, however, researchers are not able to collect data on or even identify all the potential causes of a given outcome. Complicating matters even further are situations where social movements have their effects by accelerating social changes that were taking place anyway (Burstein, 1979). One strategy for making stronger causal claims is to identify situations where an outcome happened in the presence of a movement as well as situations where the outcome did not happen in the absence of a movement (Amenta & Young, 1999; Earl, 2000; Giugni, 1999; Meyer, 1999). However, due to the limitations of the case-based research predominant in social movement research, it is not always possible to nd and analyze such cases. In the next section, I argue that focusing on face-to-face interactions between protesters and their targets helps address the challenges outlined above. My emphasis on the micro outcomes of protest (i.e. targets immediate reactions to protest activity in the context of face-to-face interactions) is quite different from other scholars methodological recommendations for conducting movement outcomes research. For example, Amenta and Young (1999) suggest using the collective good criterion, or operationalizing movement outcomes (they prefer the term impacts) in terms of whether protesters achieve some collective good for their constituency. As such, they concern themselves primarily with dening outcomes, but also suggest the use of standard statistical and comparative methods for establishing causality. Similarly, both Earl (2000) and Tilly (1999) argue for the use of social movement theory in both operationalizing movement outcomes and assessing causal claims; like Amenta and Young (1999), Earl also points to the utility of standard social science techniques for examining causal claims empirically. As I explain more below, the approach that I outline here is intended to complement rather than refute these scholars suggestions.
STUDYING PROTESTER/TARGET INTERACTIONS: METHODOLOGICAL ADVANTAGES

Identifying a Broad Range of Outcomes Studying movement outcomes by examining face-to-face interactions helps address the problem of underspecied outcomes and unintended consequences. In the two animal rights demonstrations described at the beginning of this paper, the patrons at the second demonstration were visibly angry and defensive, while those at the rst were relatively calm. These two sets of reactions patron responses that resulted from witnessing the activists protest activity were
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immediate outcomes of the demonstrations. Other responses could have occurred; for example, patrons at one or both demonstrations could have cheered and joined the activists, or grabbed the protest signs and torn them in half, or acted in other ways. Moreover, the activists may or may not have intended to provoke the responses that they got from their targets. The advantage of observing interactions like these is that such observations can be used to record whatever visible outcomes result from the contact between protesters and their targets; follow-up interviews can also identify additional micro outcomes that might escape the observers attention. This strategy can therefore uncover the intended as well as unintended micro outcomes of protest; further, observers need not distinguish between intended and unintended outcomes in order to record and analyze them. A number of other studies of interactions between protesters and their targets provide additional illustrations of the utility of this approach for identifying a broad range of outcomes that result from protest activity. For example, examining face-to-face interactions can uncover outcomes in the form of emotions, a relatively neglected aspect of protest dynamics (Jasper, 1998). Groves (1997) examination of animal rights activists and animal experimenters in a university town emphasizes the emotional outcomes of the interchanges between the two groups; he shows that these interactions resulted in feelings of pride, anger and shame which perpetuated the conict by locking both sides into feeling traps that precluded a compromise or resolution. For example, he quotes one researcher whose suggestion for a compromise in a conict over pound seizure (i.e. the practice of using pound animals for laboratory research) was rejected by the activists:
It made me EXTREMELY mad. Because Im willing to talk to people. If they want to protest us doing something, Im willing to discuss how we do it. And if theyve got a constructive suggestion for another way to do it, well listen. But theyre totally abolitionist, without admitting it (1997, 194; emphasis in original).
In this case, although emotional outcomes were not necessarily sought by the activists, a close examination of interactions between the two sides brings these outcomes to light. Ginsburgs (1989) study of activists on both sides of the abortion conict in Fargo, North Dakota during the 1980s also illustrates an unintended consequence of protest activity that could only be uncovered through examinations of interactions between both sides. Ironically, repeated interaction between pro-life activists staging activity outside an abortion clinic and pro-choice activists accompanying clients into the clinic resulted in a recognition of the commonalities across both groups of activists. In fact, some individuals even participated in a brief-lived discussion group called Pro-Dialogue that was intended to bring both sides together to direct our energies toward reducing
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as much as possible the need for abortion (1989, 224). Repeated interaction and a recognition of common viewpoints across both sides also resulted in an identity shift for some activists; the minutes from one meeting read, Were still Radicals, but now we are Pro-Dialogue Radicals. (1989, 225). Again, while studies that focus only on activists intended goals (e.g. the closing of an abortion clinic or passing ordinances to protect the rights of clinic workers and/or protesters) can obscure a broader variety of outcomes, a range of outcomes especially outcomes in the form of emotion and identity can be identied through an examination of protester/target interaction. Establishing Causality Making face-to-face interactions between activists and their targets the focus of data collection and analysis also helps researchers make causal claims about specic protest outcomes. Face-to-face interactions are ground zero for movement outcomes; they represent the point of direct contact between activists and their targets. Target reactions which may include verbal responses as well as non-verbal responses ranging from cheering and giving activists the thumbs up sign to engaging in sticuffs provide information on the direct effects of protest. Thus, whereas it can be difcult to trace broader outcomes such as policy or public opinion changes directly to protest activity, examining protester/target interactions provides a much clearer view of the immediate impacts of protest activity. In the case of the two animal rights demonstrations that I observed, the patrons responses were causally linked to the protest activity; clearly, no one would have yelled at or avoided activists if there had been no activists present. Similarly, the emotional reactions and identity shifts identied by Groves (1997) and Ginsburg (1989) are unmistakably a direct result of protest activity (see also Arluke, 1990; and Luker, 1984 for additional examples). Other studies that examine the interchanges between protesters and targets are also well suited for making causal claims about the effects of protest activity. In a study of the tactical innovations that resulted from the chess match between civil rights protesters and agents of social control in the South, McAdam (1983) shows how protesters had to create new tactical forms in order to maintain their activism against authorities who eventually adapted to the protesters tactics (see also Barkan, 1984; and Morris, 1984, for additional discussions of authorities responses to civil rights protest activity). Similarly, Jasper and Poulsens (1993) examination of three anti-experimentation campaigns by animal rights activists in New York identied target blunders, or tactical mistakes made in response to protest activity that came after face-to-face
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interaction with activists. Finally, in some situations a lack of response to a confrontation by protesters can indicate the causal impact of protest activity as well. For example, Neuhousers (1995) study of gendered mobilization in an urban squatter settlement in Recife, Brazil describes a confrontation between a woman who had illegally built a home along a public canal and ofcials who were sent to tear the house down. In an attempt to save her house, the woman placed her young children inside; as a result, the ofcials reluctantly let the house stand. Each of these studies illustrates some of the direct and immediate effects of protest, in the form of tactical and behavioral responses by the targets.
BROADER CONCERNS: FROM MICRO TO MACRO OUTCOMES

Although focusing on the micro, interactional outcomes of protest activity helps avoid some of the pitfalls of movement outcomes research, the immediate outcomes of face-to-face interactions can be quite different from political and institutional changes that unfold over a longer period of time. A microsociological approach might therefore seem at odds with research on social movement outcomes and even with movement research as a whole which is often motivated by some assumption or interest in the large-scale social and political effects of protest (Burstein et al., 1995; McAdam et al., 1988). However, I suggest that paying attention to the interactional dynamics between protesters and their targets can shed light on these broader changes as well. In this section I discuss the potential of a microsociological approach for understanding the more macro outcomes of protest activity. Advocating a version of the Think Globally, Act Locally approach, many of the animal rights activists with whom I did my eldwork felt that their actions could transform society as a whole, one individual target at a time. For instance, one of the two activists who participated in the July 3 circus demonstration told me, Even if we only convince one person [not to go to the circus], thats one more person that might be out with us here next year. Such optimism may actually be more indicative of a strategy for maintaining activists commitment than it is an accurate depiction of the societally transformative powers of local protest efforts (Einwohner, 2000). Still, whether or not micro interactions such as those between animal rights activists and circus patrons have cumulative effects on societal views and behaviors, some theory and research suggests that the micro outcomes of protester/target interaction can help explain broader outcomes as well. Although the eld lacks a specic theory of movement outcomes, two recent developments suggest that the dynamics of protester/target interaction can help
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explain a host of movement outcomes, including political and institutional changes. In a review of research on the outcomes of political movements (i.e. those attempting to inuence government institutions in some way), Burstein et al. (1995) suggest that a bargaining perspective helps explain movement success (see also Lipsky, 1968; Wilson, 1961). Conceptualizing movement activity as a bargaining session between protesters and their targets, they view movement outcomes
not simply as the product of movement characteristics and activities, but as the result of interactions among movement organizations, the organizations whose behavior they are trying to change and relevant actors in the broader environment, all struggling to acquire resources and use them to their best advantage vis--vis others (1995, 227).
Similarly, Tilly (1999) argues that the development of a theory of movement impacts rests on the dynamics of interaction between protesters and their targets. He suggests that when interacting with their targets, protesters attempt to display their WUNC (worthiness, unity, numbers and commitment) as a way of establishing their strength and ability to be disruptive if their concessions are not granted. These authors therefore imply that the most important aspects of movement activity are found in protester/target interaction and that the dynamics of these interactions are crucial to understanding broader movement impacts. Other research also suggests that what transpires during protester/target confrontation can lead to broader outcomes. Violence is a micro outcome that has particular relevance for broader impacts and a number of studies have examined the consequences of violent encounters between protesters and their targets (Colby, 1985; Gamson, 1990; Mirowsky & Ross, 1981; Mueller, 1978; Piven & Cloward, 1977; Steedly & Foley, 1979). Since violent interchanges between protesters and their targets are more likely to receive media attention than non-violent interactions (Snyder & Kelly, 1981), this particular micro outcome can have far-reaching effects beyond the immediate exchange. For example, Barkans (1984) analysis of civil rights protest activity in ve Southern cities shows that, with the exception of the Montgomery bus boycott, campaigns in cities where protesters received legal responses from agents of social control (in the form of arrests, nes and so on) did not achieve their policy goals, whereas campaigns in cities where protesters were beaten by police were more successful. Barkan argues that violent responses to non-violent civil rights protesters were seen by the rest of the nation as illegitimate, provoking a national outcry that eventually led to the intervention of the federal government and policy successes for the protesters (although see Morris, 1993 for an alternative explanation for the success of the campaign in Birmingham, one of Barkans cases). Given the importance of media attention and its potential to fuel broader cultural and political changes (Gamson, 1998), understanding the conditions
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under which protest receives media coverage would seem to be crucial for the study of movement outcomes. Again, the dynamics of protester/target interaction are relevant here, as particularly dramatic outcomes or an expectation of such can create a newsworthy situation. Certain non-violent micro outcomes may attract media coverage as well. For example, Oberschall (1989) argues that a stalemate between protesters and their targets can produce a tense situation that can attract the attention of the media; he suggests that stalemates between college students and owners of lunch counters generated the media attention that helped spread the sit-in movement throughout the South in the early 1960s. Similarly, although they do not identify it as a blunder, Jasper & Poulsen (1993) suggest that the refusal by ofcials with the New York American Museum of Natural History to meet with activists protesting the animal experiments that were being conducted at the museum helped draw the attention of New York media and politicians, which eventually led to the cancellation of the experiments. Finally, gaining media attention is an important outcome in itself, one that has the potential to create further cultural change by changing the public discourse on certain topics (Gamson, 1998). Taken together, these studies suggest that the dynamics of protester/target interaction and the immediate outcomes that ensue, such as violence or stalemates have the potential to attract attention to the activists cause, which can, in turn, produce broader political and social outcomes.
CONCLUSIONS
Within the eld of social movements, arguably the most problematic area of inquiry is social movement outcomes. Researchers studying movement outcomes, especially extra-movement outcomes (Earl, 2000), face a number of methodological and conceptual challenges, including assessing unintended as well as intended consequences, dening success and failure, and establishing causality (Amenta & Young, 1999; Burstein et al., 1995; Earl, 2000; Giugni, 1998, 1999; Tilly, 1999). It is perhaps because of these difculties that movement outcomes are relatively understudied (McAdam et al., 1988; Tarrow, 1998), although recent scholarship (e.g. Giugni et al., 1998, 1999) suggests that scholars are approaching the subject matter fruitfully.4 My goal in this paper has been to contribute to the growing literature on social movement outcomes. Specically, I have sought to complement recent methodological discussions on movement outcomes by suggesting that studies of movement outcomes begin by examining face-to-face interactions between protesters and their targets. In some situations those featuring violence, for example the immediate outcomes of these exchanges are readily apparent,
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whereas more subtle changes in emotion or identity might need to be examined through follow-up interviews with those who witnessed the protest. The advantage of taking this approach is that by doing so, researchers are better able to uncover a variety of effects that result directly from protest activity. Studying micro interactions therefore helps address two methodological problems identifying intended as well as unintended consequences and establishing causality that are common to movement outcomes research. Analyzing targets reactions to protest activity without having to make a priori assumptions about what those reactions might entail allows for the examination of intended as well as unintended consequences; furthermore, the targets responses to protesters, while in their presence, can be causally linked to the protest activity rather easily. Finally, the particular dynamics of these interchanges can have implications for broader effects, including target concessions (e.g. in the form of policy change) and media coverage of the protest issue. While there are methodological advantages to focusing on protester/target interactions, however, this approach does have limitations. Certainly, targets immediate responses are not the only possible outcomes of protest activity. Moreover, protest activity is not limited to face-to-face interactions; protesters attempt to achieve social change through a variety of means and media and need not interact with their targets personally in order to achieve some result. Finally, movement outcomes are not driven solely by protester/target interaction; as Burstein et al. (1995) note, outcomes are also shaped by the features of the environment in which protest takes place. A microsociological approach to studying movement outcomes should therefore be used in conjunction with the recommendations made by other scholars (e.g. Amenta & Young, 1999; Earl, 2000; Tilly, 1999). Thus, once the immediate outcomes of protest activity are determined by focusing on face-to-face interactions, standard social scientic methods of analysis (e.g. the use of comparison and hypothesis testing) should be used to examine whether or not these interactional outcomes (e.g. violence, emotions, or changes in strategy) can explain further outcomes such as media attention and cultural change. In sum, by presenting this microsociological approach, I advocate detailed examinations of protest activity at the local level, or looking at narrow slices of protest activity in order to study their outcomes. While this approach takes an admittedly narrow view, limiting outcomes to what transpires during protester/target interaction, it is intended as a rst step toward studying more complex, indirect outcomes as well. As Oliver (1989, 5) notes, protest can be thought of as a stone thrown in a pond, creating sets of concentric circles. The circle that is closest to the stone itself appears rst and is created directly by
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the stones hitting the water; those further away are also created by the impact of the stone, but take longer to appear and are harder to see clearly. Thus, examining protester/target interactions can give us a relatively clear picture of the immediate impacts of protest activity, but other strategies may be needed to examine the ripple effect by which other outcomes ensue. Together, a diverse set of strategies will help researchers continue to examine the complexities of social movement outcomes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A much earlier version of this paper was presented at the 1999 American Sociological Association Meetings in Chicago, IL. Various drafts of this paper since then have been strengthened by helpful comments from Jennifer Earl, Doug McAdam, Kelly Moore, John Noakes, Toska Olson, Felicia Roberts, Debra Street, Jeff Ulmer, the RSMCC editor and several anonymous reviewers.
NOTES
1. I use psuedonyms when referring to individuals in the text of this paper. 2. I had a particularly difcult time nding patrons from the second demonstration who were willing to be interviewed. I attribute this difculty to the general fear and mistrust that the patrons displayed toward the activists. When I approached this second set of patrons many tried to avoid me and some asked if I was one of the activists. It is worth noting that no patrons asked me this same question at the rst demonstration. 3. According to the activists, the goal of the demonstrations was to convince circus patrons either to avoid the circus on that day or to refrain from attending shows in the future. Activists realized that the latter objective was more realistic, however. As one of the groups leaders explained, We dont do this with the hopes that people turn around and leave, because theyre already there and with their kids. That would be too much to expect. What we hope is that they read our literature, or take it home and read it later and think about things differently and decide not to go again. 4. Research on social movement outcomes is not necessarily new; for instance, Gamsons The Strategy of Social Protest, one of the most inuential pieces of research in the area, was rst published in 1975. However, Giugni et al.s edited volumes mark the rst collections devoted to the challenges of studying social movement outcomes.
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Jasper, J. M., & J. D. Poulsen. (1993). Fighting Back: Vulnerabilities, Blunders and Countermobilization by the Targets in Three Animal Rights Campaigns. Sociological Forum, 8, 639657. Jenkins, J. C., & Brents, B. (1989). Social Protest, Hegemonic Competition and Social Reform: A Political Struggle Interpretation of the Origins of the American Welfare State. American Sociological Review, 54, 891909. Kriesi, H., & Wisler, D. (1999). The Impact of Social Movements on Political Institutions: A Comparison of the Introduction of Direct Legislation in Switzerland and the United States. In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), How Social Movements Matter (pp. 4265). Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press. Lipsky, M. (1968). Protest as a Resource. American Political Science Review, 62, 11441158. Luker, K. (1984). Abortion and the politics of motherhood. Berkeley CA: University of California Press. McAdam, D. (1999). The Biographical Impact of Activism. In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam, & C. Tilly (Eds), How Social Movements Matter (pp. 119146). Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press. McAdam, D. (1989). The Biographical Consequences of Activism. American Sociological Review, 54, 744760. McAdam, D. (1983). Tactical Innovation and the Pace of Insurgency. American Sociological Review, 48, 735754. McAdam, D., McCarthy, J. D., & Zald, M. N. (1988). Social Movements. In: N. J. Smelser (Ed.), Handbook of Sociology (pp. 695737). Beverly Hills CA: Sage. Meyer, D. S. (1999). How the Cold War Was Really Won: The Effects of the Antinuclear Movements of the 1980s. In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), How Social Movements Matter (pp. 182203). Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press. Moore, K. (1999). Political Protest and Institutional Change:Anti-Vietnam War Movement and American Science. In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), How Social Movements Matter (pp. 97-118). Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press. Mirowsky, J., & Ross, C. (1981). Protest Group Success: The Impact of Group Characteristics, Social Control and Context. Sociological Focus, 14, 177192. Morris, A. D. (1993). Birmingham Confrontation Reconsidered: An Analysis of the Dynamics and Tactics of Mobilization. American Sociological Review, 58, 621626. Morris, A. D. (1984). The origins of the civil rights movement. New York: The Free Press. Mueller, C. M. (1978). Riot Violence and Protest Outcomes. Journal of Political and Military Sociology, 6, 4963. Neuhouser, K. (1995). Worse Than Men: Gendered Mobilization in an Urban Brazilian Squatter Settlement, 19711991. Gender & Society, 9, 3859. Oberschall, A. (1989). The 1960 Sit-ins: Protest Diffusion and Movement Take-Off. Research in Social Movements, Conicts and Change, 11, 3153. Oliver, P. E. (1989). Bringing the Crowd Back In: The Non-Organizational Elements of Social Movements. Research in Social Movements, Conicts and Change, 11, 130. Piven, F. F., & Cloward, R. A. (1977). Poor peoples movements: Why they succeed, how they fail. New York: Vintage. Rucht, D. (1999). The Impact of Environmental Movements in Western Societies. In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), How Social Movements Matter (pp. 204224). Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press. Schumaker, P. D. (1975). Policy Responsiveness to Protest Group Demands. Journal of Politics, 37, 488521.
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Sherkat, D. E., & Blocker, T. J. (1997). Explaining the Political and Personal Consequences of Protest. Social Forces, 75, 10491076. Snyder, D., & Kelly, W. R. (1977). Conict Intensity, Media Sensitivity and the Validity of Newspaper Data. American Sociological Review, 42, 105123. Steedly, H. R., & Foley, J. W. (1979). The Success of Protest Groups: Multivariate Analyses. Social Science Research, 8, 115. Tarrow, S. (1998). Social Protest and Policy Reform: May 1968 and the Loi dOrientation in France. In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), From Contention to Democracy (pp. 3156). Lanham MD: Rowman & Littleeld Publishers, Inc. Tilly, C. (1999). From Interactions to Outcomes in Social Movements. In: M. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), How Social Movements Matter (pp. 253270). Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press. Wilson, J. Q. (1961). The Strategy of Protest: Problems of Negro Civic Action. Journal of Conict Resolution, 5, 291303.
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PART II: DEMOCRATIZATION AND DISORDERS AS POLITICAL CHANGE MECHANISMS
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Chapter Title
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WELSH NATIONALISM AND THE CHALLENGE OF INCLUSIVE POLITICS

Paul Chaney and Ralph Fevre
ABSTRACT
Here we examine some of the contemporary challenges facing Plaid Cymru the Party of Wales, the principal nationalist political party and one of the mainstays of the nationalist movement in Wales. Against the backdrop of the establishment of the rst directly-elected national government forum in Wales for 600 years, we present new research and explore how the partys response to the inclusive politics of the mid-1990s was central to Plaid Cymrus recent dramatic electoral breakthrough into the political mainstream and how it will be crucial to hopes for its future advancement. We contextualise this as part of this nationalist partys overall transformation during the last 75 years. This has been a journey from espousing an exclusive to purportedly inclusive nationalist ideology. Such development has been shaped along a number of non-discrete axes that include: the geographical spread of the partys organisational structures and electoral support, its readiness to embark upon co-working with other parties and groups, its evolving policy agenda, its stance on the Welsh language and, latterly, its response to inclusive politics and constitutional reform. We test what Plaids former leader has described as, the inclusive philosophy underpinning Plaid Cymrus civic nationalism
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against the partys record of engagement with some of the most marginalised groups in Welsh society: women, disabled people and people from an ethnic minority. These groups must be engaged if Plaids claims of inclusiveness are to be meaningful and its growing inuence in Welsh, U.K. and European politics consolidated. We base our discussion and ndings on the analysis of published interviews and documents together with transcriptions of 280 semi-structured interviews undertaken between May 1999 and September 2000. We have interviewed over a third of the Assembly Members of the National Assembly for Wales, key ofcials, members of Plaid Cymru, managers of ninety membership organisations and over 150 key individuals and practitioners associated with the marginalised groups under study.
INTRODUCTION
Welsh nationalism has been described as a trichotomous concept comprising, an ideology that maintains that a nation has an inalienable right to self government; a social movement that aims to promote solidarity amongst the Welsh people and support for national demands; and a group consciousness that extends far beyond the political horizon into the general social and cultural attitudes of the population (Butt Philip, 1975, 316). Elsewhere, others have used the term movement to describe the various elements in this (re-)assertion of national identity (cf. Comb, 1977, 36; McAllister, 1995, 18; McAdam, 1996, 35) such as the campaign for wider access to Welsh-medium education (e.g. Mudiad Ysgolion Meithrin), the League of Welsh Youth (Yr Urdd Gobaith Cymru) and the Welsh Language Society (Cymdeithas yr Iaith Gymraeg). Here we examine the contemporary challenges facing Plaid Cymru the Party of Wales, the principal nationalist political party. This organisation has been central to the nationalist movement in Wales since the founding of the party in 1925. Its response to the political opportunities presented by the inclusive politics that accompanied the establishment of the rst directly elected national government forum in Wales for 600 years will be explored in this paper. Our research ndings show how this response was a crucial factor in Plaid Cymrus recent dramatic breakthrough into the political mainstream and one that will shape the extent of future progress made by the party and impact upon the trajectory of the nationalist movement as a whole. Plaid Cymru is one example of the uncompromising nationalism of European movements (G. A. Williams, 1992, 14) that emerged in the rst half of the twentieth century in response to the ebb and ow of imperial and centralising inuences. Plaid still assert their place within the wider European tradition,
Welsh Nationalism and the Challenge of Inclusive Politics
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although, as the following discussion reveals, their ideology had moved on: . . . the increased power of the European Community has been balanced everywhere by the devolution of power to small nations and historic regions everywhere except in the U.K. Local parliaments have been established in Euzkadi and Catalunya, in Sardegna and Corsica, in Vlaanderen and Wallonie, to join the long-established Lander parliaments of Bayern and BadenWurttemberg . . . Plaid Cymru have a clear policy for Europe, a confederal Europe with Wales taking full part (P. Williams, 1992, 3). As McAllister (1995, ibid.) observes these movements are virtually dened by their heterogeneity, nationalist parties in Europe have varied both in ideological stance and in organisational set-up. If one extends this analysis to include the plethora of regionalist movements in Europe, it will become evident that there is no single style or philosophy that can consistently be applied to nationalist parties and movements (McAllister, 1995, 20). In the Welsh case, vectors of activism have included language, religion, agrarian discontent and cultural expression, each of which has commanded varying levels of popular support. Our ndings chart the latest stage in the transformation of Plaid Cymru from its earlier position as a fringe party espousing an exclusive utterly intransigent nationalism (G. A. Williams, 1985, 279) one that embraced the non-Welsh speaking majority of the country with extreme reluctance (G. A. Williams, ibid, 1992, 15) to a party advancing an inclusive philosophy (Wigley, 1997). This shift has culminated in the party gaining mass popular support in the Welsh National Assembly elections of 1999. It has also seen the creation of new radical nationalist parties intent on occupying some of the political ground previously held by the Plaid Cymru of old.1 Plaid now has government within its grasp as it prepares for the elections of 2003. Ill health has forced the party president that oversaw recent successes to step down; as a consequence Plaid has a new leader, one described as gifted, thoughtful, [and] a person of substance, a gure that may have already been instrumental in dragging the Party machinery into the twenty-rst century, someone with a great deal to offer Plaid Cymru and Welsh politics in general (R. Wyn Jones, 2000a, 9).
METHOD
In the following four sections we: outline the political and social context of recent constitutional change and the development of inclusive politics in Wales; explore the steady transformation of Plaid Cymrus policies, structures and support; present our ndings on the way in which participants perceive Plaids response to inclusive politics and test Plaids stated aim of inclusive governance against their record of engagement with some of the most marginalised
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groups in society women, disabled people2 and people from an ethnic minority.3 We conclude by highlighting salient issues that Plaid, as one of the principal elements in the nationalist movement, must address if they are to capitalise on the political opportunities afforded by limited self government for Wales and consolidate their burgeoning support and new status in the devolved polity. Our discussion is based on analysis of published interviews and documents together with transcriptions of 280 semi-structured interviews undertaken between May 1999 and September 2000. We have interviewed over a third of the Assembly Members of the National Assembly, key ofcials, members of Plaid Cymru, or y Blaid4 as its members and supporters have traditionally referred to the Welsh nationalist party, managers of thirty membership organisations in each minority sector and key individuals and practitioners working within these groupings. The organisations that have co-operated with our research range from umbrella bodies representing sectoral interests such as a disability organisation with a membership of approximately 370 constituent organisations, to larger individual membership organisations such as one representing 41,000 women in Wales, through to small locally based organisations with less than fty members. In this way we have developed a theoretical sample covering the full range of organisations as dened by size, resources, inuence and geographical location. These are key groups in civil society that Plaid Cymru must engage if its claims of inclusiveness are to be meaningful and its growing inuence in Welsh, U.K. and European politics consolidated.
THE ARRIVAL OF DEVOLVED GOVERNANCE IN WALES: 19972000

In 1997 the British Labour Party was elected on a ticket of a long-term programme of reform (Blair, 1998, 4). It embarked on a process that sought to increase the democratic legitimacy of the state (Jacobs, 1999, 5) by modernising the form and functioning of government (Cabinet Ofce, 1999, 1999a). In 1999 this included the creation of government bodies for Wales and Scotland in what had hitherto been described as a highly centralised [British] state with few checks on the executive (Hirst & Barnett, 1993, 6). In the same election Plaid Cymru secured 9.9% of the Welsh vote, a gain of 1.0% on 1992. As ever, Plaids core support was located in the more sparsely populated and less urbanised north and west of Wales where typically two-thirds to three-quarters of the population speak Welsh.5 It is here that they won three of their four parliamentary seats. Plaids subsequent success in the rst Welsh Assembly elections in May 1999 astounded many and could accurately be called a revolution in Welsh politics
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(Jones & Trystan, 1999). The party leader called it a daeargryn tawel (a quiet earthquake). Plaid polled just 4.9% less than the winning party, won a total of 30.6% of the vote and formed the ofcial opposition to the Wales Labour Party (WLP) in the National Assembly. Increased support from voters outside the partys traditional north-west heartland was central to this success.6 This sea change in Welsh and indeed British, politics would not appear to be an aberrant electoral result but part of a trend, for similar results were recorded in both the local government and European elections of the same year. As Trystan and Wyn Jones (1999, 27) noted, patterns of political allegiance . . . appear to be shifting in response to the new context of post-devolution politics. Some of the greatest gains were made in the predominantly Englishspeaking valleys in the south-east of the country. Here Plaid had registered some notable electoral results in the 1960s and 1970s. However, the party had failed to consolidate and build upon this progress for, despite having the highest percentage of Welsh-born inhabitants,7 the local population remained suspicious of Plaid Cymrus close associations with the Welsh language. Things were different in May 1999 when swings of over 30% from the Wales Labour Party to the nationalist party were typical. The Partys success was not restricted to these areas, however and similar huge gains were evident in other, hitherto unlikely, constituencies (notably the Vale of Glamorgan and Preseli-Pembroke, both over 30%). Recent opinion polls suggest that this level of support was maintained throughout the rst year of the new Assembly (Balsom, 2000). Plaid now has considerable inuence over politics in Wales. It is true that it beneted from the introduction of an element of proportional representation into the new electoral arrangements for the Assembly but the current high level of popular support remains unprecedented. Plaid thus gained seventeen (out of sixty) seats in the Assembly and, exercising its new inuence, was able to precipitate the resignation of the First Secretary. It is not inconceivable that it may well participate in some form of coalition government before the Assemblys rst term is over. This situation may well serve as a springboard for Plaid to overtake the Wales Labour Party as the majority party after the next election in 2003. Party ofcials certainly believe so: Wales needs a Plaid Cymru government in our National Assembly. We can achieve that in three years time . . . 8 The National Assembly for Wales was founded upon inclusiveness or inclusive politics, a concept promoted by the Secretary of State for Wales in the mid-1990s as a way of overcoming the traditional ssiparousness of Welsh society by encouraging cross-party working and the development of consensus (Chaney & Fevre, 2001). It is predicated on both participation in the political process and policy outcomes. Ron Davies the leading architect of Welsh
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devolution, described this new approach as an essential foundation stone of the whole project to devolve government in Wales and dened it as a willingness to share ideas, talk to others, to include those with common objectives in the pursuit and exercise of power, where others may be dened by ethnicity, language, politics, religion or whatever (R. Davies, 1999, 7). Indeed the aim of creating a new, more inclusive and participative democracy in Britain was given legal force, written into the preliminary legislation (Great Britain, 1998, 15) and enshrined in the Parliamentary Act which brought the Assembly into being. Clauses 48 and 120 of the Government of Wales Act state, inter alia, that the Assembly functions should conform to the principle of equality of opportunity for all (Great Britain, 1998a, 32, v, 120, i). This is a legal duty binding on the entire 60-member government body and one that is the specic remit of the pioneering 11-strong standing Committee on Equality of Opportunity that ensures the mainstreaming of equality into all the executives policies.9 At rst glance the attempt to create a new inclusive form of governance and politics in Wales (cf. Chaney et al., 2001) would seem to pose a signicant and very specic, challenge to a party born of a social movement which has had the reputation for being exclusive (Hobsbawm, 1990, 136). Indeed the raison dtre of that social movement often appeared to be the vehement defence of a language group and its culture and it might be difcult to imagine how such a movement could respond positively to the idea of inclusiveness. However as one commentator observed, Plaid have shifted their ground away from the staunchly nationalistic, home-rule advocating, radical grouping who operated on the periphery . . . and have metamorphosed into . . . the all-inclusive and socially conscious Party of Wales (Sandry, 1999, 15). We now consider how this change has occurred.
FROM Y BLAID TO THE PARTY OF WALES

A full account of Plaid Cymrus development is to found elsewhere (see Butt-Philip, 1975; Hywel-Davies, 1983; McAllister, 1995, 2001, forthcoming; J. Davies, 1997, 2002, forthcoming; R. Wyn Jones, 2001b, forthcoming). However, the basis of Plaids transformation over the last 75 years has been shaped along a number of non-discrete axes that have underpinned its recent success. These include: the geographical spread of its organisational structures and support, its readiness to embark upon co-working with other parties and groups, its evolving policy agenda and its stance on the Welsh language. These steps are the necessary precursors to their electoral successes in 1999 and not only explain how the Party was so well-placed to respond to the inclusive politics of constitutional reform but how it was instrumental in creating the social and
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political context that gave rise to this historic change. Thus Plaid has both shaped (Evans & Trystan, 1999, 113) and exploited political opportunity structures associated with devolution; something acknowledged by the WLP architect of constitutional reform in Wales who alluded to the intellectual and organisational support that Plaid Cymru lent to this process (R. Davies, 1999, 12). The party was founded by the poet and playwright Saunders Lewis in 1925 and during its early years it was primarily a social movement concerned with the defence of the Welsh language (Fisher, 1996, 125). However, amidst the bilingual reality of a rapidly changing Welsh society in the post-war period, Plaid broadened its aims in pursuit of national self determination and saw its rst MP elected in 1966 when it received 4.3% of the popular vote. Grifths (1996) illustrates the way that this rise in minority nationalism in Britain the 1960s has been analysed in three ways: as a manifestation of contemporaneous processes (e.g. Bogdanor, 1979), the result of historical trends (e.g. Rokkan & Urwin, 1984) and within the context of the actions and interests of the state in mediating territorial and ethnic tensions within a polity (e.g. Rhodes & Wright, 1987). Electoral support had grown steadily over the intervening period and had almost doubled to 8.1% by 1979. Over recent years a variety of theoretical positions (cf. Combs, 1978; Corrado, 1975) have been used to analyse the type of nationalism advocated by Plaid. These include Gramscian notions suggesting that the partys aim of national liberation is both a class and a cultural struggle (McAllister, ibid, 1995), Weberian theory relating to the nexus of class, status and party (Fevre et al., 1997) and theories of class and partisan dealignment (Adamson, 1991). In their respective ways these analyses highlight the change from what the partys leader once called the earlier clichs of ultra-cultural nationalism (Wigley, cited in J. Davies, 1997, 5) to the non-specic ideology of civic nationalism (cf. Greenfeld, 1992). In what Davies refers to as the considerable abandonment of the ideological purity of the founding fathers (J. Davies, ibid, 1997, 2) outmoded stances on agrarianism, restoration of links with the church in Rome,10 independence within Europe (cf. Glyn-Jones, 1983, 33), agitation for the English language to be deleted from the land called Wales and the preaching of the European fascism of General Franco in 1930s (G. A.Williams, ibid., 1992, 16) were replaced by socialist policies to secure social and economic development. In stark contrast to the Partys early position, leading gures now assert, I hope we will never see a situation where the language is a political matter (Elis Thomas quoted in Clark, 1998). Further evidence of the ideological distance that the party has travelled was provided by recent denials, in contrast to evidence to the contrary11 that Plaid had ever sought political independence from the U.K.12 an area where the partys policies on the constitutional position of Wales remain ambiguous
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(R. Wyn Jones, 2000b). Over the decades Plaid has been highly skilled in the use of ambiguity to achieve its apparent transformation. Indeed some of the shifts in the position of leading gures have been memorably described as an extraordinary intellectual odyssey (R. Wyn Jones, 1996, 59). Christiansen (1995, 56) notes the Partys ability . . . to give up key parts of its programme and strategy in order to reform while appearing not to have given anything up, elsewhere McAllister (ibid, 1995, 312) refers to the partys essential uidity. These shifts in the partys ideological position cannot be divorced from its changing organisational structure. The steady geographical spread in Plaids support over the years extended its inuence beyond its north-west heartland and is in part a result of the development of its local branch structure. Between 1938 and 1969 the proportion of senior Plaid branches located in NW Wales decreased from 41 to 22% whilst that in south Wales more than doubled from 17 to 35% (Butt Philip, ibid, 1975, 162). This development of the Partys organisational infrastructure is central to its recent electoral breakthrough. A string of unsustained strong electoral performances in constituencies located in the south Wales valleys between 1960 and 1979 enabled Plaid to wrest important concessions from the socialist governments of the period in what has been described by a leading participant as difcult and frustrating period which saw the transition from marginal group to a political force (P. Williams, 1981, 133). This area of industrialised Wales is one that has been largely unaffected by the major cross-border migratory ows (Carter, 1999) that have resulted in an inux of non-Welsh identifying inmigrants. Accordingly it is a region that has long been a target for the partys campaigning and the development of its local networks (cf. Wigley, 1992). In recent years Plaid Cymru has sought to work with other political parties and groups. It has issued several joint publications and one of its MPs was elected on a joint ticket with the Green Party. Recent work (R. Davies, 1999; Morgan & Mungham, 2000) shows how, following its earlier rejection by a referendum in 1979, devolution resurfaced as a serious political issue in 1987, a time that intersected with the period 19841991, when the Plaid leadership sought to create bridges between Welsh nationalism and a wide range of movements, including those of trade unionists, feminists, anti-nuclear campaigners, liberation theologists, ecologists, anti-racists and the advocates of the validity of an Englishlanguage Welsh culture (J. Davies, ibid., 1997, 1112). This approach built upon the practice developed over the past 25 years when Plaid has consistently worked with individuals and groups to advance the rights of disabled people (cf. Wigley, 1990; 1995). Such co-working has paved the way for the close co-operation between Plaid and the Wales Labour Party governing administration in the establishment of the new government forum in Wales (R. Morgan, 2000).
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Despite these moves to engage with a wider section of the Welsh electorate the decision as to whether Plaid Cymru should join the inclusive politics of a cross-party campaign to persuade the electorate to back the governments devolution proposals was not a foregone conclusion and exposed generational tensions within the party. Many older members had bitter memories of the cross-party campaigning in the failed 1979 referendum and the partys leadership feared that a further rejection of devolution by the electorate could be seriously damaging, even terminal, to Plaid (Andrews, 1999, 115). Following an intense debate within the Party, Plaid eventually joined the campaign in July 1997, just three months ahead of the devolution referendum vote. Initial fears were allayed when voters backed the devolution proposals (albeit by a narrow margin) but the fact that most Welsh-speakers voted for devolution, while most English-speakers did not (Wyn-Jones & Trystan, 1999, 79), starkly underlined the future electoral challenge for Plaid Cymru. English monoglots and particularly English-born residents of Wales who make up nearly one in ve of the population, were unenthused by, or indeed hostile to, the idea of devolution (Evans & Trystan, 1999; Fevre, et al, 1999). For Plaid the advent of inclusive politics was timely in that it allowed the leadership to back a much weaker form of devolution than the Party had previously advocated and it provided an opportunity to restate its pre-existing strategy of embracing all citizens of Wales. The Partys leader outlined this position in the following terms: when I say as a people, I mean all the people of Wales. We regard all the people who live in Wales as citizens of Wales and all are equal irrespective of race, creed, colour or language. Plaid Cymru is a national party, but our nationalism is a civic nationalism. It is an inclusive philosophy and we welcome the inclusive nature of the [Parliamentary Devolution] Bill (Wigley, 1997). Plaids commitment to an inclusive approach was formalised by their co-operation with the National Assembly Advisory Group (NAAG), a diverse body convened to advise the Secretary of State and to produce recommendations on which consensus has been established and which contribute to the establishment of an Assembly (NAAG, 1998, 4). Working in co-operation with other groups, Plaids input to these consultations resulted in the unique legal duty placed on the Assembly to promote equality of opportunity in all its work. Plaids Spokesperson on Social Inclusion and Equality of Opportunity (Helen Mary Jones13) noted our National Assembly is the rst elected body in Europe that has a statutory duty to promote equality of opportunity and I have to say as an individual it is very odd to see ones words appearing in a . . . statute, but I did draft that clause.14 In a further attempt to reach out to non-Welsh speaking voters and following an intense debate at its annual conference in September 1998, Plaid Cymru voted to
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append an English translation to its name, becoming Plaid Cymru The Party of Wales. As Jenson (1995) has highlighted, although a detail, such symbolic change can signicantly shape the prevailing political opportunity structures open to nationalist movements. Building on this change and the cross party co-operation of the previous year, Plaids election manifesto expressed the Partys aim of achieving a new style of politics and envisioned a new Wales founded on inclusive policies based on notions of citizenship and equality of opportunity. It emphasised the rights of all citizens in Wales . . . [to foster] a people who are alive to their democratic responsibilities and to their rights as individuals and communities (Plaid Cymru, 1999). During the campaign leading gures in the party spoke of making sure that the Assembly is totally inclusive . . . that nobody feels a second class citizen, whether you speak Welsh, whether you speak English, that we should be working together in a spirit of inclusiveness.15 Plaids subscription to the cause of inclusiveness is the latest stage in its transformation from exclusive to inclusive nationalism. It is distinct from the earlier strands in this process of change in that it helped underpin an electoral breakthrough. This was acknowledged by a prominent Party member who noted, for sure . . . we are willing to co-operate to ensure the success of the Assembly. And that is why so many people supported us in this campaign.16 Indeed, the fact that Plaid Cymrus electoral success meant that the Wales Labour Party did not hold an overall majority in the National Assembly was presented as an ideal platform for a new inclusive politics in Wales: these are the sorts of results we would have wished for . . . we must work together from the outset.17 We now turn to our research ndings that explore whether the partys inclusive rhetoric has been translated into active engagement with marginalised social groupings.
PLAID CYMRU AND INCLUSIVE POLITICS

Women, people from an ethnic minority and disabled people have been traditionally amongst the most marginalised groups in Welsh society and they have been under-represented or absent from political decision making. Despite the fact that women comprise a majority of the population, voters in Wales have returned just seven women MPs throughout the history of the British Parliament (Rees, 1999). People from a Black or ethnic minority background comprise just over 1%18 of the three million people resident in Wales and 6.3% of those residing in the capital city (Nyoni, 2000, 17). They and disabled people who are members of 57% of families (John, 1998) and comprise one in six Welsh voters (John, 1999, 11) do not have proportional descriptive representation in national politics. Accordingly, these groups present test cases for Plaid Cymrus self-stated inclusive philosophy (Wigley, ibid, 1997) and aim
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of building an inclusive, outward-looking, condent Wales (I. Wyn-Jones, 2000). If this strategy is to be meaningful the party must engage with these groups. This is important because the extent to which Plaid operationalises its inclusive rhetoric will inuence its success in winning over voters drawn from all sections of Welsh society, people that have hitherto been unwilling to support the party because of their antipathy to the earlier, exclusive nationalism the party extolled. These ndings on Plaids attempts to realise an inclusive agenda therefore contribute both to an understanding of the partys recent success and its prospects of consolidating and developing its support. First we turn to the evidence from within the Party before moving to the view of the marginalised groups themselves. Plaids Membership and Policies The needs of these marginalised groups were high on Plaids list of political priorities in the partys election manifesto (Plaid Cymru, 2000). It spoke of the Assemblys crucial statutory responsibility to promote . . . equal opportunities leading to action in all policy areas. It stated [w]e . . . will prioritise support for . . . equal opportunities and spoke of a multi-pronged approach to job creation, . . . appraised by . . . equal opportunities criteria. Economic development was to be planned by promoting equal opportunities and participation by women, the disabled and ethnic initiatives with specic support to women and ethnic minority entrepreneurs.19 Plaids comprehensive commitment to the needs of disabled people was presaged in a detailed outline of their policies for people with learning difculties20 and fully developed in their Manifesto. At its rst annual conference after the establishment of the National Assembly, the party reafrmed its commitment to social justice and to the promotion of equality of opportunity for every citizen of Wales. However, there is less certainty about the level of acceptance that the inclusive agenda is receiving amongst Plaids rank and le membership. One key woman informant within Plaid Cymru thought that the
constructive drive in policy-making is coming from outside the Plaid heartlands at the moment . . . I do think that as Plaid gains power that people need to . . . be thinking who do they actually represent, what values do they represent? . . . as a Party we are still on a huge learning curve . . . people like Cynog [Das, the Partys Policy Development Ofcer] are taking things like the policy development on board. Now that needs to lter-down to make sure that everybody . . . understands . . . You are bound to have conicts really.
In fact inclusiveness is a contested concept within the party. A number of committed leading gures on the partys National Executive Committee are carrying forward elements of an inclusive agenda based on equality of
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opportunity and citizens rights but, according to the respondent just quoted, it is the constituency party that is the main decision-making body and that sends representatives to the National Council . . . now I think that equal opportunities is very patchy in terms of where it is targeted at the moment. Such issues are seen as central to the future direction of Plaid and their importance is reected in the current review of the partys constitution which follows on from a drive intended to, increase our membership on a very considerable scale . . . [for] we must attract people from all corners of our country and of all kinds of backgrounds, so that we . . . reect fully through our membership the diverse nature of contemporary Wales. We must do that (Das, 1999). The role of women in the party has led to bitter internal debates, threatened resignations and boycotts (McAllister, 1999). The failure of Plaids membership to reect the wider population was acknowledged by the partys leader after it attracted criticism in the Assembly election campaign:
No sadly thats true . . . we regard everybody living in Wales as full and equal citizens whatever their language, creed, colour or place of origin is . . . I think there is a challenge here for us as a party, perhaps, to be more proactive to get more members in from all the ethnic groups, who will then be in a position to put their names forward as candidates. Enough of that hasnt been done in the past. But there is another consideration, that is to make sure that the institution itself does develop in a way that encourages people to want to be there. With regard to women, the hours which the Assembly sits is one thats conducive for women to be there (sic), the facilities such as crches and that sort of thing are available there. The Assembly has a lot of work to do to earn the respect of people in all sorts of minorities and hopefully in four years time well have a very much better balance between all the groups in those standings . . .21
When interviewed, Plaids new Assembly Members pointed to the leaderships initiative in creating a specic shadow cabinet brief for social inclusion and equality of opportunity as evidence of its commitment to inclusiveness. Women AMs spoke of their responsibility [as women] to act as role models and one said I would like women to think, well look, if she can do it and shes ordinary, I can do it. Early in the life of the new governing body there was a feeling that the increased number of elected women in the Party was indeed creating a new style of politics within Plaid and beyond; one based on mutual support and respect. The same AM noted yes, I feel there is a sort of . . . sisterhood thing, denitely. Six of the partys seventeen AMs are women but, in contrast to the formal mechanisms adopted by the Wales Labour Party, this was achieved by a pragmatic approach of placing women in winnable regional list seats selected by proportional representation. Plaids front bench described the situation within the context of past failings:
Plaid Cymru is the only political party in Westminster . . . that does not have a woman MP and it was something that we werent proud of, so we are quite determined when the
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Assembly election came that we wouldnt have an equal number of men and women candidates as such, but we would certainly have an equal number of men and women in winnable seats, so we made it perfectly clear that if there werent sufcient women selected in the rst-past-the-post seats, that wed select women then on the top of the regional lists and what will happen when the elections are held on 6th May, itll be roughly proportional half men half women, not exactly, but probably far more . . . there is certainly a glass ceiling. There are many talented women out there who are not really getting into public life as they should and Plaid Cymru has made a signicant contribution to that in its selections.22
This positive action highlighted the difculties and challenges facing the Party, for the traditionalist patriarchy in rural branches consistently fails to select women candidates.23 As former Plaid candidate McAllister (1999, 15) noted, feminism is, construed as an alien, foreign inuence within many local branches and here some of the more mainstream feminist ideas such as equal representation make little progress (see also C. A. Davies, 1994, 1996, 1999). One woman who was a Plaid AM explained, weve got a membership thats sort of 50 : 50, but its the men that make it . . . oh anyone can apply, but I mean it just does not result in women winning the seats. The key informant already quoted added,
the actual membership is fairly representative of society . . . the actual active membership is a different thing, you know the people that make decisions . . . [theyre] . . . usually councillors and theyre generally men . . . I wouldnt say that its 50 : 50 when it comes to the decision making and the people that participate . . . 75% of those that attend the rhanbarth [regional] meetings, which are the decision-making bodies, are men.
Such problems underpin the recent failure of Plaid, despite strong contenders24 to select women candidates to ght for its four Westminster seats in the British Parliament when dual mandate representatives are obliged to relinquish their London seats. The key informant, a leading woman in the party, noted
one of the things that was used against me was the fact oh shes a feminist and that seemed to have actually scared people, now considering that Plaid, some of the philosophy and principles of Plaid is social justice, I found that incredible that people [within the Party] were threatened by feminism . . . that actually brought home to me the work that needs to be done in terms of political education and thinking of the role of women.
This modest progress compares with the Partys failure to eld any Black or ethnic minority candidates and just two disabled candidates. The absence of a disabled AM in the Assembly was acknowledged as an acute problem and in order to address this failure a Plaid AM felt we really need to listen to disabled people. One of the Partys disabled candidates stated that attention needs to be paid to why so few disabled people join the Party and to understand what the barriers are and ght the institutionalised discrimination that exists within that sort of party political structure. The feeling was that amongst the minority
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groups in Plaid (and the other parties), women had fared rather better than disabled people or the black and ethnic minorities. As the disabled candidate explained, there were traditionalists inside the party who feel that disabled people arent able to take up those sort of places and if they really want to talk about inclusion they will have to look at positive action around race and disability as they have done around gender. One Plaid AM noted the problems in respect of encouraging Black members:
Plaid nds it quite difcult . . . particularly for the people from ethnic communities, Plaid Cymru is not a party they would obviously sort of think of associating themselves with . . . because we are so much a Welsh party . . . [however] in some communities there is the beginning of a response.
Such a view seems to substantiate some of the fears of the black and ethnic minorities about the nature of prevalent constructions of Welshness (C. Williams, 1999). As one interviewee from a minority organisation emphasised, I am a Welsh Black woman. The evidence from Plaids membership might suggest that the party has failed to prioritise an inclusive approach to managing itself. Although gender has widely been regarded as the winner in the equality debate within the party, it has ignored the recommendations of its own Commission on Gender Balance (19931995) and recent calls by senior party gures to have women represent Plaid in Westminster. Charlotte Davies (1999) considered that the failure to sustain progress on gender equality was due to key feminist activists leaving the Party while the women who remained . . . placed their nationalism on a par with, or ahead of, their feminism (C. A. Davies, 1999, 101). It is evident Plaid Cymru is experiencing a period of internal debate in which the relevance and meaning of the concept of inclusiveness is being contested within the Party. For a fuller understanding it is necessary to examine how Plaids efforts in this regard are perceived by the three key minorities groups outside the Party. In the next section it might be useful to bear in mind that these groups are especially interesting in this context because they have such different priorities to those we usually associate with Plaid Cymru. In this section we will begin to gauge the extent to which these groups think Plaid has made progress in adopting these priorities. The Views of Minority Groups Devolution of government to Wales has generally raised expectations amongst disabled people. As one campaigner noted, in the long term they have an incredible opportunity to do some good and create an inclusive society. Such an opportunity is based on the Assembly, hopefully, interpreting disability
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legislation in a more user-friendly way than has been done on a U.K.-wide basis. Disabled peoples groups have responded positively to Plaids approach to disability issues. One manager singled out the comprehensive nature of its policies: Plaid Cymru were the only ones that had a detailed sense of what was needed, which is interesting, because I didnt necessarily see myself as a Plaid Cymru supporter. The party was seen as both proactive and outspoken on disability by one of the leading campaigners for disabled people:
Plaid were the most vociferous in their verbal support and in fact ran a number of days in their [election] campaign on disability issues, [and] concentrated specically on that in their media campaign for whole days,25 which is something the other parties didnt do . . . Plaid is the only party that has invited us back in to work with the Assembly Members theyve got, to develop their own party policies in terms of their activities in the Assembly itself and the subject committees . . . they actually came to us.
Another respondent spoke of the Party being, very interested and keen to pursue work with us and one director told us its very clear that Plaid [of all the Parties] are very tuned in community responsive, very, very clear . . . [they] are different. Disabled peoples groups pointed to the key role of individuals in advancing Plaids disability agenda: its undoubtedly down to personal commitment but what the hell, you know, someones got to open the door and well go in. Local disability groups in both the north and south of Wales highlighted the role of the partys former President, Dafydd Wigley:
disability is one of his major areas of interest so I suppose weve got an open door there really . . . he, we, went through . . . issues . . . like the Assembly adopting a social model of disability . . . and he was very supportive and obviously from his point of view he put us in touch with who, in terms of his own party, who were the relevant people on which committees that we needed to be in contact with and some things that hes offered to takeup, like for example, will there be an appointment of a disability equality ofcer to work alongside the race equality ofcer in the equal opportunities ofce. So things like that he said he would take action on, so we were pleased about that.
Another described Plaids response as

very positive. I was at a meeting regarding an individual the other day and Dafydd [Wigley] was totally spot-on really . . . I certainly know that theyre interested in what were doing . . . I can say that it is positive as far as Dafydd Wigley is concerned.
Another manager listed a number of their recent events that leading gures in Plaid had attended and concluded, weve got very good relationships . . . they always turn up to our functions . . . it really is quite a good relationship . . . they do actually pay attention to us . . . Elsewhere the Partys support for organisations supporting those with learning difculties is evident:
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Mr. Das, Plaid Cymru our local AM, hes very involved with everything that we do, I mean for example he gets a copy of my annual report and we keep him abreast of all the information, I mean like for example, about six months ago the local authority threatened to cut Social Services who were funding a lot of the voluntary sector projects . . . Mr. Das was very supportive and we fought a campaign and we didnt have any trouble at the end of the day, which we were very pleased about.
The role of committed individuals within the Party is seen as the key to disabled peoples rights being advanced and one campaigner pointed out that people are very lucky because of prominent equality campaigners in the Party becoming AMs so that equality wont be allowed to be sidelined at all. Plaid, like the other political parties, face a tough challenge to rebuild the condence of the Black and ethnic minority communities in Wales. One campaigner had concluded that as far as I am concerned the National Assembly for Wales isnt going to be meaningful to Black people at all. Others reected wider anger: its been disillusioning and disappointing, Welsh appears to mean simply middle class white Welsh and if you look at most of the candidates that have come through they seem to t that bill; another added, Its a disgrace, a total disgrace. Another respondent felt that the new political structure gave her no representation, I do not feel that there is anyone within the Assembly at this moment in time, that can represent my views and opinions and understand where I am coming from as a . . . Black person. Plaids failure to eld a single black candidate was extremely damaging to the standing of the party amongst some of the electorate. As one activist noted, from the black and Asian point of view they were not in the frame. The early indications suggest that Plaid failed both before and during the election campaign. Their lack of basic record keeping and recruitment programmes was highlighted: theyre not even aware if they have [Black people] in the membership and that there was no programme to encourage members from the Black and Asian community to come forward. One activist noted the centrality of identity to the problems of perception and communication Plaid face in this respect:
a lot of people from Plaid I cant remember his name but he was insulting. He was and people said at the meeting, Ive never been so insulted by a politician or anyone in my life. He was saying yes, in the future. I mean he showed his lack, his ignorance of different communities, of other people and he didnt say anything positive. He didnt give any indication that they were going to do anything at all, he was saying obviously we want to be inclusive, if you, er, you know, they dened it that if you live in Wales you know, youre a member of the constituency and of the nation and so you know well be happy to have you but, were not going out to do anything.
Such perceptions of Plaid are of course extremely germane to the current discussion since they suggest the party has not always been able to carry through to the point at which it can even begin to discover that the groups it is now
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courting have very different priorities to those we usually associate with Plaid Cymru. After this disastrous start so far as the National Assembly is concerned, there is evidence that Plaid is gradually being considered as a party worthy of future support by some members of the Black and ethnic communities. As the representative of one ethnic minority community organisation explained, I feel that Plaid Cymru is the party that actually gets left out because of the perception of being nationalist, but I personally feel that because they are a party of Wales and they . . . should make a greater inroad into the community [italics added]. There is a suggestion from some of the black and ethnic minority respondents that the term nationalist is a barrier to engagement and that in their view, it is no longer wholly appropriate:
but I know, when Ive spoken to a lot of Black and ethnic minority individuals they are very wary of Plaid Cymru, because Plaid Cymru to a lot of people are seen as being a nationalist party which it is, isnt it? But its, how can I say . . . It was very much a nationalist party perhaps prior to these last elections, thats how it was perceived by a lot of people, I should say . . . and a lot of people from black and ethnic minority communities feel that Plaid, if Plaid was elected to the government so they run Wales, theyll bring a lot of legislation to promote the Welsh language [italics added].
There is an irony here in that the attitude of senior Plaid gures is that language is itself an equal opportunities issue26 yet it is hindering the Partys programme of equality towards ethnic groups. The issue of the Welsh language amongst ethnic communities where English is often the second language, would appear more problematic than amongst other sectors of the Welsh population (see also Gorard, 1997) as the respondent just quoted explained:
but what they feel, is that, maybe, theyll be penalised as a result of not speaking Welsh one. Two, looking, being different by their ethnicity and whether this would have ramications for them in the sense that their marginalisation, might be made greater.
Once again, the personal expertise and commitment of certain Plaid AMs was highlighted as a positive factor by leading campaigners for example, I am hopeful . . . people like Helen [Mary Jones] from Llanelli . . . you know, [who] have worked in the equality eld before and will bring their equality experience to the Welsh Assembly. Other respondents from the Black and ethnic communities pointed to Plaid as a potential platform for those that are disillusioned with the Wales Labour Party:
he invited me to come and meet him in the House of Commons to devise means by which Plaid Cymru could get Black and Asian people to come and join them. But our people are still reluctant you see. Weve got to have support to go . . . that was the only thing that I have been drumming to our people for the last two years, we cannot change anything unless were part of the process. The law allows you to contest elections as an Independent, you
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dont go in the Labour Party, there are other parties representing a very wide share of opinion in Wales. We must encourage our young people to start joining in.
In fact Plaid have initiated a number of meetings with key individuals and racial equality organisations in Wales. A leading gure spoke of being reassured by . . . Dafydd Wigley that they are anxious to ensure that this, er, these issues are addressed. One director noted, weve had reasonable discussions with Plaid Cymru . . . and in all fairness I think that Plaid Cymru have taken up the challenge very seriously. And in this respect the Party of Waless work is ongoing according to one of the key informants best placed to give an overview of a fast-changing situation:
immediately after the elections he wrote to say look, okay this is where were at at the moment. I would like you to meet with Karl Davies [Plaids Chief Executive] to see how we take things forward. So it was on that basis that we pick up the work with Plaid . . . Plaid Cymru that work has already begun, erm, a series of meetings have already been scheduled between ourselves and Plaid. I had a meeting with their Chief Exec. Karl Davies . . . from that meeting we agreed a set of actions and a subsequent meeting has taken place. Now whats going to happen is that theres going to be a planning group pulled together wholl then be able to thrash out the practicalities . . . so its not a question of saying its a good idea lets see what happens, its already started to happen.
The political geography of Wales is against Plaid elding Black candidates, for the majority of the ethnic communities lie in the urban areas where Plaid thus far has had little electoral success. The key informant continued:
this is my, er, disappointment in Wales is that because Black and minority ethnic people are densely populated in the areas of settlement which runs from the south east Newport to the south west Swansea, thats it, that the greatest span of population, that reaches its maximum point in Cardiff, its disappointing because theres not much scope out of that geographical area and I really think that we have to honest with ourselves there isnt . . . So basically, when youre talking about political inclusivity and equality of opportunity, I think that we have to be honest with ourselves and realise that yes there is the opportunity to participate, but within that opportunity to participate, in order to be effective there has to be a zoning of targets to areas.
Plaid currently lacks the local branch infrastructure to support such a targeted approach in ethnic communities. Interestingly, the widespread feelings of betrayal and disillusionment aimed at political parties in the ethnic communities have improved Plaids standing amongst some of our respondents from black and ethnic minority organisations. The key informant explained why this might be the case:
I think that people will tend to see them as a bit more credible and what theyve done to me, by their commitment, is actually theyve been very positive . . . with Plaid, see, their asset is that theyve never engaged with Black and minority ethnic communities or individuals, so that we can take them on board and we can foster and develop good practices, whereas other political parties have had dealings with Black and minority ethnic communities and they have
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had their own ways with dealing and interacting with Black and minority ethnic communities and to me, to a certain extent that is a liability, or a shortfall with them. For the way theyve acted in the past hasnt been successful at all, but with Plaid, theres greater scope because theyre new to the process and hopefully as a result of that we can develop innovative and positive ways forward.
Such views are not expressed amongst respondents in women organisations because in this area Plaid, in common with all the other political parties, has a well-known and sometimes documented, history of neglect. Generally, the view of the womens organisations studied has been positive towards devolution and its potential to address womens issues. Such optimism centred on the opportunity for giving women a sense of empowerment and making them feel that they can be empowered because of the Assembly and another respondent added I have a high expectation that it could drive the agenda in a very positive way . . . The prevailing view was typied by one manager: my own attitude is one of high hopes, that we have a chance to make a difference to some of the things that need to be addressed in Wales, I think that so many groups have high hopes . . . Indeed, there is a widespread feeling that, of the three minority groups, women were least convinced that Plaid have fully addressed their marginalization. Once again, Plaids commitment to the Welsh language emerges as a barrier. The prioritisation of the language and the struggle for greater levels of self-government was seen as limiting progress:
I dunno . . . theyre diverted by the language issues arent they? And the power in Wales sort of issues and so on and the broader issue I suppose they cant, I dunno, its er, . . . Im a little uneasy about that, I feel that, um, you know, its difcult for them to try to maintain their prole of being a leading party in Wales and to try to increase their representation, but, er, these other issues I think for some of them are secondary.
The recent failure of the Party to select a particular women candidate for Westminster elections also worried another: . . . that was a big disappointment . . . I think they would have done themselves no harm whatsoever by er, you know, supporting her candidacy, because you know its forward thinking, progressive, its a new fresh image. This respondent went on to describe how the lack of progress is believed to be a consequence of the traditionalist culture of the Plaid heartland:
. . . theyre rather more, you know, they take a rather more stereotypical type view of um, life in Wales, society and the economy et cetera . . . I mean I think with Plaid, um, you know youve got to look at the man at the top really. Dafydd Wigley is a traditionalist . . . thats his background, his generation, partly the area he comes from, you know, its um, its a different ball game up here in north west Wales.
Such a view was also expressed in south east Wales where a female Plaid activist ascribed the partys recent electoral success to, amongst other things,
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its image as a male dominated organisation in the largely patriarchal society of the Valleys, and Plaid is [male dominated]. Maybe its why it won over so many votes at the moment because it still is, I think, very male dominated. This failing was the cause of worries about the potential of Plaid to undo progress made towards greater equality that it is felt has come with devolution:
I mean my I suppose, yknow my only concern really is that in the long term is that if this Party [Wales Labour Party] doesnt get in next time and I think that it is by no means certain that they will, um, if Plaid [Cymru] get in Im not sure that we are going to see, yknow, the same level of support for these sorts of issues.
These views may be seen within the context of a male-dominated party machine. As Davies concludes, men who belong to ethnic nationalist movements may see feminist demands as an undesirable complication in their movements for national autonomy (C. A. Davies, 1999, 107), but others see evidence of change. Another manager with a womens organisation highlighted language and gender issues as the principal challenges for Plaid and felt that women tended to vote on the basis of levels of female representation in parties and policy issues rather than longstanding ties of party loyalty exhibited by men. Here, she felt, was an opportunity for Plaid, I think that its a really serious issue for Plaid Cymru this, you know, of getting women on board and winning some support from women. The women members of the Party interviewed referred to the convening of branch meetings at times that excluded people with childcare responsibilities. One recalled the experience of attending a branch meeting:
the rst meeting I went to was quite I wasnt intimidated as such because I was ready for it. But you know its not nice sitting there on your own. Um and they are discussing something and you think, hang on! You need to talk about this and they kind of, without even thinking and I dont think that its a malicious thing, I just think that, you know, they have been conditioned into ignoring you, ignoring that single voice. And I think that the more women that come on board. I mean the more the maximum number of women that have been in a meeting with me is, like, two other women which is quite pathetic.
One manager of a Womens organisation referred to the Partys expedient use of the list seats to secure the election of women AMs: I think that was extremely helpful and I think that that denitely signals something. Speaking from the perspective of women in business, another was encouraged, particularly with Plaid Cymru . . . having more women actually being [Assembly] members now . . . who are more likely to pursue womens issues. Another manager in one of Waless major employers spoke of her very positive reaction to Plaid Cymru talking around childcare arrangements and things like that, suddenly . . . [these] become more important [in the political agenda]. Referring to the expertise of a leading Plaid AM on equality issues she added I know some individuals who have been successful [in becoming AMs] extremely well,
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I know where their values lie and I know that its not just glibly said, it is something that they work hard to promote and [they] do actively provide that role model. A policy ofcer of a womens organisation explained that
we are starting to develop very good relationships, kind of mutual relations, very supportive of [name of a leading womens organisation] and thats, yknow, really good . . . Plaid Cymru, Id say Plaid Cymru we have far more support [from them] not being, kind of swayed in any way, but Plaid Cymru Dafydd Wigley has always supported us I mean they were just brilliant about that and they did come back and say this is really interesting, this is really good . . .
Another respondent from a womans organisation said that Plaid AMs were her initial point of contact with the Assembly. Elsewhere the Partys role in the Assembly was seen as a model by new womens groups, . . . for example Plaid Cymru I thought were very heartening and if we could do something similar for women and you know have the odd chair of the odd committee that would be a very good start. Others have faith in Plaid and other AMs based on close co-operation during both the NAAG and referendum collaborations:
a lot of those women [AMs] are women that I have worked with in different capacities over many years and I know that they are the type of people that will inuence, will make change, will give us transparency. I feel condent that thats going to happen. I think, you know, that it cant do anything but happen, you know, because you can only look at what they are.
Another added, Im sure theyre going to be very good champions for . . . equality in general within the Assembly.
CONCLUSION
Our ndings revealed that those in the marginalised groups generally acknowledge the bona de attempt by the principal nationalist party in Wales to achieve a constructive form of engagement. However, despite encouraging signs, our analysis shows that Plaid Cymru has a long way to go in its attempts to fully reconcile itself to the concept of inclusiveness. As many AMs, party strategists and the party leadership are concerned, Plaid is now strongly committed to a concern for the rights of all the citizens of Wales underpinned by notions of equality. Examination of its membership, particularly its elected representatives, shows that variable progress has been made on the ground. Positive action in candidate selection for seats elected by proportional representation has resulted in greater numbers of women candidates. In the case of ethnic minorities and disabled people there is evidence of a concerted attempt to address the earlier failings of the party. Ironically, however, whilst women have made the most
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progress amongst elected representatives, many in the party feel that much work is still to be done to overcome prejudice against women holding ofce in the party. When interviewed one candidate felt that her gender did not make a difference one way or the other to her prospects of securing the leadership (H. M. Jones quoted in Powys, 2000, 18). Yet the combined total of just 11% of the vote polled by the two women leadership candidates suggests otherwise. Our ndings also suggest that the genuine commitment to inclusiveness within Plaid is uneven, even amongst the lite. Several respondents from the minority organisations dealing with Plaid thought that the evidence of such a transformation was the work of a handful of individuals and often just of two or three politicians at the very top of the party. Beneath the overlay of positive comment and encouragement it is easy to detect anxieties about the reaction of the traditional core support of Plaid Cymru to this mooted transformation. Some of our respondents appeared to suggest that the grass roots of the party had not yet become fully aware of it, while others were aware of the new criteria of inclusiveness and were dragging their heels, even engaging in a rear-guard action. As other of our respondents said, such conicts were perhaps inevitable but the most interesting may yet be to come. Thus far, resistance to change within Plaid Cymru has been motivated by a wish to conserve the partys traditional aims. There has not yet been a major set piece conict between the modernisers and the traditionalists yet fracture lines are detectable. The Presiding Ofcer of the new Assembly, Dafydd Elis-Thomas, himself a Plaid AM, has recently questioned the need to publish a bilingual version of the Assemblys proceedings. As Rhys (2000, 8) observes, if Dafydd Elis-Thomas makes an attempt to get rid of Welsh in the Ofcial Record, he will face opposition from Plaid Cymru, the party he was originally elected to represent. Having already placed on record her disappointment at the inadequate amount of Welsh spoken by colleagues in the course of Assembly business,27 Elin Jones the Partys culture spokesperson asserted that a bilingual version of the Ofcial Record is totally essential (Rhys, ibid., 2000, 8). Devolution poses new problems for Plaid as well as constituting their greatest ever opportunity to become the party of government in Wales. It does this because if they are to grasp the opportunity, Plaid must also forge ahead with its long-established process of radical self-transformation. The idea of inclusiveness was promoted for various reasons by the architects of devolution and indeed one of these reasons might well have been to challenge Plaid in this way. If so, the transformation of Plaid Cymru might be counted as one of the success stories of devolution, but Plaid Cymru have reached a pivotal point in the partys history. Growing electoral support and the challenges that this brings see the Party pursuing programmes to make its membership more
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representative and its constitution more suited to the further challenges ahead. The key test for the Party in a complex and rapidly evolving system of governance is whether the implementation of a new inclusive agenda can continue to underpin a dramatic rise in electoral support in a country where contested notions of national identity have undermined attempts at securing self-government for centuries. There is no obvious reason why Cymdeithas Yr Iaith Gymraeg or the smaller organisations in the nationalist movement should need to dilute their message (cf. CyIG, 1998, 1999, 2000) to appeal in the South and East. They do not depend on votes and, although they now have the Assembly to focus on, there is no clear reason why devolution should change their style of single-issue lobbying, activism and direct action. If Plaids new leader carries out what he sees as his clear mandate to start the job of modernising the party from top to bottom (I. Wyn-Jones, 2000, 1) by focusing on policies and structure Plaid Cymru may nd that, like many a political force before it, it will become at least semi-detached from the social movement that formed it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The authors acknowledge the support of the University of Wales Board of Celtic Studies in funding this research.
NOTES
1. BBC Mae plaid wleidyddol newydd Cymru Unedig wedi cael ei lansio mewn tafarn yng Nghaernarfon [New political party launched in Caernarfon pub] BBC Arlein/BBC Online: NEWYDDION | 11/01/00 19: 22:11 GMT. BBC BBC News Online | NEWYDDION | Sefydlu plaid newydd arall Ffurwyd Cymru Annibynnol gan tua 30 o gefnogwyr yn Senedd-dy Glyndwr ym Machynlleth ddydd Sadwrn. 30/01/00 18:34:51 GMT. See also Speed, N., Plaid Dismisses Rival Nationalists, Western Mail, 07.01.2000. 2. The word disability encompasses a great variety of conditions, relating to restricted mobility, sensory impairment and learning difculties. In some cases these problems will be openly acknowledged, in some cases hidden. A more formal denition is presented in the Disability Discrimination Act (1995) Disability: when a person has a disability for the purposes of this Act if he (sic) has a physical or mental impairment which has a substantial and long-term adverse effect on his (sic) ability to carry out normal day to day activities see also ODempsey, D. and Short, A. (1996). 3. Here we follow the denition of ethnic minority used by the Ofce for National Statistics cf. ONS (1996). 4. y Blaid is simply Welsh for the party 249
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5. The 1991 Census records the following percentage of persons aged 3 years and over speaking Welsh in Plaid's NW heartlands: Afron 76.6%, Dwyfor 71.5%, Meirionydd 75,4%, Ynys Mn 67.7%. (OPCS, 1993 1991 County Report Gwynedd Part One. table M, p.26.). 6. See the Centre for Research in to Elections and Social Trends (CREST) Welsh Election Study Data held at Oxford University, http://www.crest.ox.ac.uk 7. Percentage of residents born in Wales: Cynon Valley 91%, Merthyr Tydl 92%, Ogwr 84.8, Rhondda 93.8%, Rhymney Valley 90%and Taff-Ely 87.7%. (OPCS, 1993 1991 County Report Mid Glamorgan Part One. Table M, p.26.). By way of contrast the gures for NW Wales were: Dwyfor 71.5%, Meirionydd 64.3% and Ynys Mn 67.7% (OPCS, 1993 1991 County Report Gwynedd Part One. Table M, p. 26). 8. Plaid Cymru (2000) Saint Davids Day Appeal Letter to Members. 9. For further details on inclusive governance and politics see Chaney and Fevre (forthcoming, 2001) which also discusses the relationship of this new political concept to existing ideas like the Third Way, Associative and Deliberative Democracy and Neo-Corporatism. 10. G. A. Williams (1985, 279281) describes how Saunders Lewis, the Partys founder, recast the whole shape of Welsh history in Idealist terms around a concept of Christendom, Latin culture, an aristocratic tradition and an organic community . . . the Ten Points that Lewis got the party to adopt as its social policy in 1934 reected Catholic thinking and anticipated the practices of European Christian Democracy. 11. cf. Plaid Cymru asserts that an independent Welsh state would shoulder its responsibilities. . . Plaid Cymru supports the right of every nation to enjoy independence. Plaid Cymru (1983, 12). 12. Dafydd Wigley, Waterfront, Harlech Television Wales, 2.05.99. See also, Wigley, D. Talk of Independence is Misleading, The Western Mail, 22.04.1999, p. 9. 13. Herself the former deputy director of the Equal Opportunities Commision, Wales. Together with the party leader, Dafydd Wigley, Helen Mary Jones has been a key gure in the Plaid responses to inclusiveness. 14. Helen Mary Jones, Plaid Cymru Annual Conference, 24th September 1999. 15. Dafydd Wigley, Election Call, BBC Wales. 30.04.1999. 16. Ieuan Wyn Jones, Vote 99 The Debate, BBC Wales, 20.04.1999. 17. Dafydd Iwan, Etholiad 99, Sianel Pedwar Cymru [S4C], 7.05.99. 18. 0.16% Chinese Welsh; Indian and Pakistani Welsh 0.4% (Betts, 1994, 25), the Irish comprise 0.73% of the south Wales valleys (Rees, 1999, 23). 19. cf. Plaid Cymru, 2000, section 6.7, unpaginated.. 20. See SCOVO (1999) The Assembly, The Strategy, The Future, Llais, 52, 38. 21. Dafydd Wigley, Vote 99, BBC Wales, 05.05.1999. 22. Ieuan Wyn Jones, Vote 99 The Debate, BBC Wales, 20.04.99. 23. See for example, Etholiadaur Ganrif: Welsh Elections 18851997, Beti Jones, Y Lolfa. 24. See for example, BBC Online, Tuesday, 7 December, 1999, 14, 23 GMT Plaid picks Wigleys successor. Also; Speed, N., Westminster beckons New Women, Western Mail, 6th November 1999, p. 9. 25. For example 27th April 1999. 26. Dafydd Elis Thomas, a dwn gobeithio fyddwn nin gweld y pwynt yn glyn a rhwyng Cymraeg a Saesneg fel cwestiwn cye cyfartal [and Im hopeful that we will see the situation with regard to speaking English and Welsh like an equal opportunities issue] Etholiad 99, S4C, 19.04.99.
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27. Elin Jones AM, Plaid Cymru Ceredigion, Cwmni Hon, Siannel Pedwar Cymru, S4C, 28th February 2000.
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Williams, G. A. (1985). When was Wales: A History of the Welsh. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Williams, G. A. (1992). Writing on the Line. London: Channel Four Television. Williams, P. (1981). Plaid Cymru ar Dyfodol, In: J. Davies (Ed.), Cymrun Deffro (pp. 121159). Talybont: Y Lolfa. Williams, P. (1992). Dros Gymrun Gwlad Rhagarweiniad/ Vote for Wales Introduction, Tuag at 2000: Rhaglen Plaid Cymru ar gyfer Cymru yn Ewrop/ Towards 2000: Plaid Cymrus Programme for Wales in Europe. Cardiff: Plaid Cymru. Wyn Jones, I. (1999a). Vote 99 The Debate. BBC Wales TV, 20.04. 1999. Wyn Jones, I. (1999b). Vote 99 The Debate, BBC Wales TV, 20.04. 99. Wyn Jones, I. (2000). Her ein Llwydd Newydd. Cymru, Autumn 2000, 1. Wyn Jones, R. (1996). From Community Socialism to Quango Wales. Planet The Welsh Internationalist, 118, 5972. Wyn Jones, R. (2000a). OI Wobr at ei Waith. Barn, 452, 89. Wyn Jones, R. (2001b, forthcoming). Plaid Cymru: The History of the Welsh Nationalist Party, 19251998. Cardiff: Welsh Academic Press. Wyn Jones, R. (2000b). Pen Blwydd Hapus. Barn, 450/1, 89. Wyn Jones, R., & Trystan, D. (1999). The Welsh Referendum Vote. In: B. Taylor & K. Thomson (Eds), Scotland and Wales: Nations Again? Cardiff: University of Wales Press.
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A DIFFICULT BIRTH: DISSENT, OPPOSITION, AND MURDER IN THE RISE OF MEXICOS PARTIDO DE LA N DEMOCRA TICA (PRD) REVOLUCIO
Sara Schatz
ABSTRACT
This essay studies the social causes of political and electoral homicide in Mexicos democratization in the 19882000 period. Three main plausible hypotheses are tested with a qualitative and quantitative data set as potential explanations for these political-electoral homicides: (1) the peasant-landlord conict thesis which explains this violence against peasants as a manifestation of underlying agrarian struggles over land and wages; (2) the violence as a political strategy thesis which assumes political-electoral homicide is the unfortunate response of the authorities to the violent party tactics of an opposition political party; and (3) the rise of a leftist opposition thesis which explains political-electoral homicide as the result of social disruption caused by the PRI-regimes loss of its traditional populist social base. The results suggest that the rise of an organized leftist opposition was perceived as a threat to certain agrarian interests, and to local PRI political, police and electoral control over the municipalities in question. The relatively high incidence of paid
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political contract killings, and/or killings by anonymous assailants against individuals engaged in everyday social activities at the time of their death points toward the use of homicide as a control mechanism to protect, maintain and to minimize threats and resistance to existing political and economic group interests.
1. THE PARTICULAR PROBLEM OF POLITICAL-ELECTORAL VIOLENCE IN MEXICOS DEMOCRATIZATION

My aim in this article is to study the causes of political homicide in Mexicos democratization in the 19882000 period. Mexicos democratization has entailed a little known, but highly signicant cost of human lives in pre- and postelection violence: Over 600 opposition political party members have fallen as victims of homicides in the 19882000 period (PRD Commission on Human Rights 1994 [herewith CHR, 1994]; Global Exchange, 2000). Many of these politically-related homicides occurred while a party member was engaged in a legal activity organizing a political meeting, attending an electoral fraud protest, guarding the security ofces of a political party, or conducting get out the vote pre-election campaign propaganda (CHR, 1994). Other homicides took place when a party militant was engaged in extra-legal activities. These could include peasant-based land invasions, the possession of municipal ofces and the destruction of municipal property that occurred in the context of disputed election outcomes (Schatz, 1998; Aguas Blancas, 1997). The striking aspect of Mexicos high level of political homicides is precisely that it is a type of violence that is generally associated with a non-violent, legal process; that is to say, with voting, the exercise of political rights of peaceful association and with alternation in power. This raises the interesting research question of why the act of voting and the transfer of power have caused such a high fatality rate in Mexico where semi-competitive turned competitive elections have been permitted since 1939? It also raises a counterfactual theoretical proposition Why did one of the worlds most successful co-optive authoritarian regimes in the 1960s, 1970s and early 1980s (Cornelius, Gentleman & Smith, 1989, 1) need to resort to the homicide of many members of its weakest political opponent? Some comparative gures drawn from the literature on recent democratization illustrate the depth of the Mexican problem of political-electoral violence. In the Portuguese revolution of the carnations (1975), the Czechoslovakian velvet revolution (19891990), and in the Hungarian, and Polish transitions to democracy, no major state-led episodes of violence occurred (Maxwell, 1986;
Dissent, Opposition, and Murder in the Rise of Mexicos PRD
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Rosenfeld, 1994). In the height of violence in Spains democratization (19751977), only two students, ve communist lawyers and ve policemen were murdered (Maravall & Santamara, 1986, 84). Even in Uruguay during the phase of the harshest military repression (19731984), the total number of deaths from state-led violence was estimated at 36 (King, 1989). Therefore, the number of political-electoral homicides in Mexico democratization in the post1988 period is surpassed only in Latin America in the late twentieth century by the death tolls resulting from the civil wars in Central America (Nicaragua, Guatemala, El Salvador) and by the deaths from state-terrorism in Argentina and Chile during the period of the dirty wars (10,000 deaths estimated in the 19761983 period for Argentina and 4,000 deaths for Chile in the 19731977 period) (King, 1989; Loveman, 1999).
2. PRD HOMICIDES AS A PROBLEM OF STATE VIOLENCE

The investigation of the causes of political-electoral violence links the study of violence with the study of the evolution of the rule of law and democratization. Quite recently, after 71 years of political rule by one dominant political party the PRI (Party of the Institutionalized Revolution), one of the two of Mexicos major political opposition parties won the presidency. On July 2, 2000, the PAN or the rightist Partido de Accin Nacional became the rst political party to control the presidency, thereby breaking the PRIs lockhold on political power. Mexicos other major opposition political party the PRD Partido de la Revolucin Democrtica remains the third most powerful political force, trailing the PRI in terms of municipal electoral position, and federal house and senate seats. Ultimately, the problem of political-electoral violence and its amelioration in Mexico is linked to the broader project of democratization, the separation of powers, and a thorough going respect for law (Warner, 1994, 26). The rise of the rule of law, and the greater accountability of politicians to the public and the importance of respect for legality to ensuring the consolidation of democracy and democratic institutions is an emergent eld of study (ODonnell, 1996; Stokes, Manin & Przeworksi, 1998). Previous research on Mexicos transition to democracy has begun to link the literature on the rise of the rule of law with the literature on democratization (Schatz, 1998, 1999, 2000a; Eisenstadt, 1999, 2001; Aguilar & Trejo, 1999). Yet, the study of the causes of political violence in Mexicos democratization raises the following paradox: On the one hand, the best way to ameliorate political-electoral violence is through the creation of a democratic state because
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democratic states are much less likely than authoritarian states to commit violence against their populations. In 1990, for example, authoritarian states committed approximately 3550% more summary executions, disappearances, massacres and torture than democratic states (Sorenson, 1993, 88). On the other hand, the act of creating a multi-party democratic party system can also trigger greater short-term political violence as the dominant party resists electoral challenges to its previously hegemonic authority. This essay treats homicides related to electoral-political conict that emerged when the PRD arose onto the national electoral arena in 19881989. State violence in Mexico has a long history that reaches back well before the formal birth of the PRD.1 Yet in the late 1980s, analysts typically focused on the vertical structures of the PRI and its capacity to co-opt (not repress) actual, and potential, dissenters as one key reason for the success, longevity and moderation of a formerly dominant party. For example, in 1989, Cornelius, Gentleman and Smith argued that since 1940 Mexico has had a pragmatic and moderate authoritarian regime, not the zealously repressive kind that emerged in the southern cone in the 1960s and 70s; an inclusionary system, given to co-optation and incorporation rather than exclusion or annihilation; an institutional system, not a personalistic instrument; and a civilian-dominated government, not a military government (1989, 8). Yet, as Faucher and Fitzgibbons (1989, 142) note, with co-optation comes the iron rule of conformity. For the excluded, marginality is associated with social annihilation (the rights associated with citizenship are negated), resulting in dissent and, all too often, violence. The process of democratization can increase the likelihood of state sanctioned violence. Democratization often entails the emergence of new actors, enlarged participation and new associations that are perceived as a threat to the system of domination (Rouqui, 1987, 123). Associative horizontal groupings modify the power structure and can pose a direct threat to the existing balance of political power. Indeed, numerous analysts have noted that the rise of the PRD onto the national stage resulted in bitter conicts between PRD militants and PRI caciques (local power-brokers). By 1996, Cornelius (1996, 75) argued that the behavior of the PRI-government apparatus in several key elections held during the Salinas sexenio [19881994] signaled that it would never allow a PRD government to come to power at the state level anywhere in the country. Gmez-Tagle (1994, 89) wrote of the barbarity of priista repression toward the PRD, which was justied by oblique references to the PRDs primitive, populist and personalistic tendencies. Astorga argued that when the PRD rst formed, president Carlos Salinas and the Mexican government overtly persecuted its members. It was a very hostile time (quoted in Maulen, 2000, 2). Clearly, the birth of the PRD during a time of the intensication of Mexicos
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democratization2 unleashed a wave of political and electoral violence against PRD members, a majority of whom were engaged in a legal, electoral struggle for power. Biographical accounts of the initial wave of 250 homicides in the 19881994 period place the majority of the blame on the murders on Mexicos formerly dominant party on members of the old PRI, on members of the state public security service or on hired guns of local PRI power-brokers (CHR, 1994, Appendix). The high incidence of state ofcials, or individuals contracted by members of the formerly dominant party killing individuals engaged in legally sanctioned behavior justies conceiving of the PRD homicides as a problem of state violence. The lack of legal attention to resolving these homicides is also a striking aspect of the Mexican case. In 1994, a full 73% of these homicides remained unresolved (CHR, 1994, Appendix). In other words, no person had been charged with the crime and/or no investigation of it had occurred. Furthermore, the number of deaths by 2000 was an estimated 700 persons (both PRD and PRI members) killed in political-electoral violence.3 Two examples well illustrate the complex causes of political-electoral violence in Mexicos democratization. A rst example reveals the centering of violence around electoral competition. In Mexico City in 1988, four days before the most contested presidential election in Mexicos history, two high-ranking members of PRD president Cuauhtmoc Crdenas opposition front were assassinated in a blind alley in Mexico City (CHR, 1994, 57). The assassins apparently called the police immediately afterward to report the crime. Since Crdenas was widely rumored to be able to win the 1988 presidential election and because the two men murdered were precisely those in charge of the electoral system of information, analysts from Crdenas political organization argued that the crime was clearly a political assassination (CHR, 1994, 58). An ofcial report of the Federal Justice Ministry appointed to investigate the homicides implicated the state attorney general and state Supreme Court president of Michoacn where the PRD had the rst and strongest electoral victories in the early 1990s (CHR, 1994, 58). The state Attorney General was serving a jail sentence in 1994. Another example, the homicide of opposition party leader Sebastin Prez Nez reveals the intertwined nature of political violence with agrarian-based, rural conicts. Prez Nez had previously been a peasant leader of Mexicos ex-dominant party-state the PRI (CHR, 1994, 35). After switching political parties and becoming a member of the opposition left political party (the PRD) and becoming a leader of an independent peasant organization, he was jailed for participating in agrarian struggles. Although he was offered liberty if he rejoined the PRI, Mr. Nez refused to do so and began to receive death threats
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on his life. He was gunned down in cold-blooded murder in front of his wife and two eyewitnesses at a gas station by a regional power broker (a cacique) in 1988. Although this regional power-broker (an in-law of the governor) eventually turned himself in and was condemned to a thirty year prison sentence, he was in jail for only 11 months and was allowed liberty on the grounds of insufcient proof (CHR, 1994, 35). A nal example gives a more typical portrait of a political homicide victim. Carlos vila Luna died as the result of a beating he received from members of the local PRI in a post-electoral ght over election results on July 21, 1989 in a small municipality in the Northern state of Durango. The ght broke out when vila Luna and other PRD members contested the PRI vote count at the municipal government ofce. Although some eyewitnesses did identify the men who beat vila Luna, no arrests, investigation or prosecution of the crime was conducted (CHR, 1994, 71). Clearly, Mexicos political and electoral homicides have been strongly associated with a more general problem of state violence and with violence that occurs because of the lack of legal certainty associated with election outcomes. Research on political resisters has dealt with the extent and nature of differences between resisters and non-resisters, and much less, among various kinds of resisters including revolutionaries, Jacobins, Bolsheviks and Puritans (Brinton, 1965; Strauss, 1973; Mueller, 1973). Some attention has been given to connecting kinds of people to kinds of resistance but very little to relating either kinds of people or kinds of resistance to forms or degrees of political criminalization (Turk, 1982, 82). This essay makes a contribution to the literature on political criminality by focusing on empirical case accounts of individual victims and gunmen in different types of political action, dissent and resistance.
3. THREE PLAUSIBLE HYPOTHESES OF THE CAUSES OF MEXICAN POLITICAL-ELECTORAL HOMICIDE

Three main plausible hypotheses are tested with the data set as potential explanations for these political-electoral homicides: (1) the peasant-landlord conict thesis which explains this type of violence against peasants as a manifestation of underlying agrarian struggles over land and wages; (2) the violence as a political strategy thesis which assumes political-electoral homicide is the unfortunate response of the authorities to the violent party tactics of an opposition political party; and (3) the rise of a leftist opposition thesis which explains political-electoral homicide as the result of social disruption caused by the PRI-regimes loss of its traditional populist social base. Each of these competing accounts of the causes of political-electoral homicide in Mexico will be examined in this article.
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3.1 The Peasant-Landlord Conict Thesis A very high number of PRD homicides happen to individuals who presently are, or have been, leaders of independent peasant organizations, especially in the rural states of Chiapas, Guerrero, Oaxaca, Michoacn, Puebla and Morelos. Indeed, one estimate suggests that about 13% of all the PRD homicides can be directly attributed to the question of agrarian struggles over land rights, access to disputed land, and land-takeovers (CHR, 1994, 19). Furthermore, the CHR biographies show homicide rates that are clearly much higher in rural areas than in urban areas in Mexico. Since landlords in Mexico tend to be highly over-represented politically by the formerly dominant party PRI (Fox & Gordillo, 1989, 136), one plausible explanation of the causes of political-electoral homicide in Mexico is that it is a manifestation of peasant-landlord conict. The peasant-landlord conict hypothesis is the thesis that organized peasants will struggle to retain as much access as possible to the product of their holdings and to gain as much access as possible to common woods, pastures and sheries especially under conditions of scarcity. Furthermore, peasants may resort to extra-legal, violent political tactics if necessary to achieve their goals. The Marxist thesis that peasant violence occurs when solidaristic, organized peasants resist landowners inuence and exploitation for rent, duties, nes, and excessive taxation is an old one. It has been applied to seigniorial-peasant struggles in medieval Europe (Brenner, 1976; Wunder, 1990; Hilton, 1990, 128), and to more modern 19th and 20th century peasant-landlord struggles over access to land and wages in Central America (Paige, 1975; 1987). Mexican agrarian conict occurs in a variety of states including importantly Veracruz, Guerrero, Oaxaca and Chiapas. Agrarian conicts in Mexico over access to land, i.e. cattle ranchers seeking to expand their access to communal ejidal peasant lands,4 peasants seeking to expand onto private or state-owned forest lands, and/or peasant occupations of private lands have been common in Mexican history (17501940) (Tutino, 1986). Yet, Otero (1989) describes a recent process of depeasantization that has occurred in Mexico since at least the mid-1970s as ejidal peasants were given poorer land, as government investment in agriculture favored the private-sector and production for export over the provision of ample foodstuffs for the domestic market (Sanderson, 1981, 145). The process of depeasantization among ejidal peasants, according to Otero (1989, 282), occurs when producers become separated from their means of production regardless of the land-tenure and have to rely on other economic activities such as wage labor to supplement their incomes. According to Paige (1975, 26), it is precisely when wages in cash or
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in kind increase in importance over land as a source of income for cultivators, that there emerges a greater receptivity by peasants to revolutionary appeals. The example of Chiapas in the mid-1990s demonstrates the interconnection between agrarian conict and political violence. The Chiapas uprising of January 1994 and its attendant violence brought agrarian conict into the national and international spotlight (Nash 1995). After the January 1, 1994 uprising, peasant groups in Chiapas became more active and denounced PRI local government ofcials for corruption in municipalities in Chiapas (Deniability, 1997, 33). For example, by May 1994 newly mobilized peasants had occupied or blockaded the municipal presidents building in at least 19 municipalities in Chiapas (La Jornada, May 30, 1995). Land occupations also accelerated during this time: by mid-1994, more than 300400 farms had been invaded (Harvey 1998, 76), but by mid-1996, ranchers in Chiapas claimed that this gure had jumped to 800 farms (Deniability, 1997, 33). In turn, rancher defense organizations the White Guards resurged during this period.5 Numerous violent episodes and stand-offs between peasants and these pro-rancher vigilante groups occurred in the mid-to-late 1990s (Knight, 1999, 114115; Deniability, 1997, 34). The PRD reported 100 victims of politically related assassination in Chiapas in the March 1994 to March 8, 1996 period alone (CIACH, 1997, 108). The rst hypothesis is thus one which explains homicide against PRD peasants as a manifestation of underlying agrarian struggles over land and wages. I will examine the data in light of the peasant-landlord conict thesis. Positive support for the peasant-landlord thesis would be a high incidence of political homicide in rural (versus urban) areas and a high percentage of the victims who are peasants and particularly leaders of peasant organizations. Further, I hypothesize that a higher concentration of communal (ejidal) peasants on the land can be plausibly linked to the higher likelihood of political homicide. Ejido farmers are among the poorest in the nation (Otero, 1989, 290; Cornelius & Myhre, 1998, 8).6 Thus, I also examine whether the concentration of ejido property is positively associated with high rates of political homicide. Although I expect to nd substantial support for the peasant-landlord conict thesis, Warner (1994) contends that at least 45% of the cases of political-electoral homicide are caused by the exercise of political rights of association not all of which involve peasants (CHR, 1994, Appendix). Therefore, a complete explanation of the causes of political homicide in Mexico must also examine additional hypotheses. 3.2 Violence as a Political Strategy Thesis Members of the formerly dominant party, particularly in the pre-1997 period, often indirectly alluded to the opinion that PRD militants have a higher homicide
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rate because they are more sympathetic to violence as a political strategy. For example, in the 1994 presidential election, the PRD was more likely to be portrayed on the government-controlled television as dangerous and violent than was the governing party (PRI) or the rightist opposition party (PAN) (Acosta & Rosales, 1995). Images of PRD activists burning municipal ofces in postelectoral fraud protest demonstrations were not infrequent in PRI campaign television commercials in 1994. Indeed, the PRD was not really able to present a positive image of itself in the mass media until the party received federal money for campaign advertising in 1997 (Lawson, 1998, 14). The thesis that a higher rate of PRD homicide results from PRD militants adopting violence as a political strategy to combat electoral fraud has some face-value plausibility. Opposition militants of the rightist opposition PAN rarely occupied municipal buildings in protests over electoral fraud in the 19882000 period. Furthermore, sometimes PRD militants do engage in violent tactics on July 3, 2000 a group of over 100 PRD activists took over the ofces of the local district 18 City Council in Hopelchn, Campeche, beat up the ofce personnel there, destroyed equipment pertaining to the federal governments rapid count electoral program and destroyed electoral documents (La Jornada, July 7, 2000).7 The immediate problem with the violence as political strategy thesis is that it may confound cause and effect. It may be that all party militants (including PRD militants) are quite similar to the general population in their rejection of political violence as a political strategy. However, PRD militants may face greater state resistance when their candidates try to take ofce after an election. Hence, their higher homicide rates may not be due to their attitudes but to their weaker political position. As Eisenstadt (1999, 272) notes of the 19881994 period, the formerly dominant party PRI was willing to horsetrade electoral victories to the PAN in exchange for the partys support of PRI initiatives, such as constitutional amendments on land reform and Church-state relations and for PAN certication of President Zedillos victory in 1994. The PRD, on the other hand, is a weaker, very loosely organized political party which lacks the discipline to deliver on quid-pro-quo promises to the federal PRI-government in exchange for local post-electoral concessions and had less to offer the PRI federal government (Eisenstadt, 1999, 272273). Furthermore, when PAN activists have engaged in post-election protest rallies, their militants have also been killed (U.S. Department of State, 2000, 4). Therefore, the greater rate of political violence and homicide of PRD militants than of PAN militants may be caused by greater state resistance to PRD victories rather than by a greater sympathy toward violence in the beliefs of its party militants. By testing my biographical homicide sample against my
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larger survey sample, I can investigate whether or not PRD party militants are, in general, more favorably disposed toward the use of violence as a political strategy than the general population. 3.3 The Rise of a Leftist Opposition Thesis A third hypothesis explains higher PRD homicide rates in terms of political resistance associated with the rise of a leftist opposition in non-Leninist single-party systems. Non-Leninist single-party regimes like the Mexican, Tunisian, Malaysian and others8 are regimes which avoid communist or military dictatorship but also embrace leftist ideologies and some left-wing goals as part of their legitimating formula (Lipset, 1959, 101; Gilly, 1994). In Mexico, the PRI-regimes original ideological commitment (19391982) to revolutionary nationalism well expresses this left-leaning orientation through the idea of nationalism and state-ownership as a tool for limiting ownership of land, control of national resources and capital concentration (Bartra, 1989). Early on in the consolidation of the Mexican revolution this left-leaning ideology of revolutionary nationalism was translated into such social policies as the expropriation of the U.S.-owned oil industry in 1938, and the expropriation of private lands followed by their redistribution to peasants (the ejido system). State-control of the oil industry and legal restrictions on foreign investment initiated under Mexican President Lzaro Crdenas (19341940) also further reected the left-oriented revolutionary nationalism of early regime elites. Finally, the consolidation of the state in a corporate apparatus that would link the state and the party to both peasants and the working classes such that the state would represent their interests also reects, to some extent, the adaptation of social corporatist ideas borrowed from French and Italian socialism, Soviet Communism and Latin American populism to the Mexican dynamic of the late 1920s1930s.9 Yet, despite their left-leaning ideologies and some social policies, rulers in non-Leninist regimes (unlike those in the Leninist regimes) did not abolish the private capitalist ownership of property in the consolidation of their regimes (Hamilton, 1982). Instead, as in the Mexican case, those on the ideological right who objected to the statist, populist economic policies of Lzaro Crdenas opted to peacefully challenge the corporate consolidation of the Mexican Revolution by the formation, in 1939, of the Party of National Action (PAN). By tolerating this right-wing opposition party throughout the twentieth-century, Mexican rulers regimes allowed for some limited electoral competition within a limited range of the political spectrum as a desirable alternative to strict hegemonic rule (Linz, 1978, 61). Also, the introduction of semicompetitiveness in
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elections with minor opposition parties helps such regimes gain international legitimacy. Because the rightist political party PAN in Mexico (until the mid1990s) never captured more than 1020% of the national vote with its narrow, urban platform, it was not perceived as a strong electoral or ideological threat. Despite this, when rulers introduce semicompetitiveness into elections, it is always possible that uncertainty and opportunities for losses to opposition parties become possible. In other words, semicompetitive elections can become a route to electoral democracy (Linz, 1978, 61). And indeed, the consolidation of the Mexican left into a single electoral front in the 1988 Presidential elections was perceived by PRI-regime elites as a significant ideological and electoral threat to the regime. The rise of an electoral opposition left began in 1977 with a political pact with the PRI-regime in which the non-violent left agreed to pursue the electoral route to power as an alternative to armed struggle (Middlebrook, 1986). In the late 1960s and 1970s, a number of left-wing guerrilla movements had emerged to challenge the legitimacy of the Mexican state and to demand greater equity for peasants, social-justice and the redistribution of social resources to the rural and urban poor (Casteada, 1994). Numerous persons either actually tied to armed guerrilla groups, or alleged by regime elites to be tied to armed guerrilla groups, were disappeared (approximately 500 persons) in counter-insurgency operations (Committee, 1987). By the late 1970s, the incorporation into the party system of semi-competitive elections was perceived by Mexican PRI-regime elites as way of pacifying, and channeling (co-opting) many on the left ideological end of the political spectrum (Horcasitas, 1989, 274). However, the unication of the seven splintered leftist parties resulting from the 1977 pact into a single, united leftist front able to eld a single populist candidate represented a strong challenge to the electoral hegemony of the PRI-regime in the highly contested 1988 Presidential elections. Because two of the central founding leaders of the 1988 Leftist Front were both high ranking, left-wing PRI politicians (Cuauhtmoc Crdenas and who had left the ofcial party (PRI), a dissident faction Porrio Munoz-Ledo) of the PRI had the option of separating from the PRI and competing in elections for the rst time since 1953 (Horcasitas, 1989, 285). The 1988 emergence of the united, populist Leftist Front (Frente Democrtico Nacional FDN) thus threatened the partys monopoly claim to a revolutionary heritage and brought it into direct conict with the PRI. Indeed, so threatening was the electoral challenge posed by the 1988 FDN that the rst political homicide victims assassinated on July 2, 1998 (as discussed above) were Crdenas top campaign manager and his assistant in charge of the ow of electoral information that was to operate on election day, July 6, 1988 (CHR, 1994, 5758). The FDN
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won an ofcial 31.06% of the national vote in the 1988 presidential election, although Crdenas charged that the presidency had been stolen and claimed victory with a plurality of 4142% of the vote (Barbern et al., 1988, 128147).10 Thus, the third thesis postulated in this essay to explain the high PRD homicide rates begins with the 19881989 emergence of the PRD the new leftist party onto the national political scene and the disruptions and political dislocations its birth implied. The violent, homicidal wave of social action that would follow was foreshadowed as early as February 1988, ve months before the July 1988 presidential elections. PRI presidential candidate Salinas warned that those who might resort to civil disobedience over electoral results would face unpleasant consequences (Horcasitas, 1989, 286). High-ranking PRI ofcials noted that it is better to commit an injustice than to tolerate disorder (Horcasitas, 1989, 286). Salinas also warned that in politics, alliances are valid. Those that ally themselves with my party will earn a tangible political response. Those that form alliances against my party will have to suffer the consequences. That is the way politics works (La Jornada, February 20, 1988). Warner (1994, 24) contends that a large part of the anti-PRD homicide in the 19881994 period derives from the threat posed by the political party to the previously near absolute political control and impunity that local PRIcaciques have exercised over their populations. Social disruption stemming from political competition was also found to be a major variable explaining postelection violence in Mexican indigenous communities in the 1990s. Trejo and Rivera (2000, 15) found that where traditional PRI-held communities were subject to the inuence of multiple ethnic groups and new political parties (including the PRD), post-election violence, including homicides, were more likely to occur. Gledhills (1995) case study of Michoacn (the state with the highest number of PRD homicides in the 19881994 period) explains this social disruption stemming from political competition in structural terms. In the rural municipal economies of Michoacn, the key economic prize has always been control over the municipal committees because it gave access to resource acquisition and possibilities for mobilizing clienteles. Connections with the PRI or direct PRI governance brought direct economic advantage. For example, previous to the PRD election to municipal government in Los Reyes, Michoacn, the wealthiest citizens of the town had been absolved from their liabilities to local business taxation under PRI rule (Gledhill, 1995, 66). In the mill town of Santa Clara, Michoacn, the general secretary of the PRI-afliated CTM union was able to exploit the restructuring process associated with privatization to his personal advantage, by conspiring with management to lay off younger employees in
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place of the more experienced workers formally included in the redundancy package, pocketing the surplus from the redundancy payments paid by the company (Gledhill, 1995, 6667). In the PRI-controlled town of Villamar, Michoacn in 1991, administrators of a rural credit program (PRONASOL) misappropriated funds with the full cooperation of the municipal authorities; wealthier farmers used front-men (landless workers) to get credit, then used the money for purposes other than cultivating maize and failed to repay the loans (Gledhill, 1991, 375). In contrast, in the PAN-controlled municipality of Sahuayo, Michoacn, the mayor denounced abuse of the rural credit program and suspended further disbursement of the funds and forced PRONASOL ofcials to conduct an ofcial audit, although there was no action taken to castigate those responsible (Gledhill, 1995, 51). Thus, opposition victories can disrupt previous clientelistic economic networks and cut off local elites from state controlled resources. Political competition can also be understood as socially disruptive when opposition leaders try and by-pass local PRI elites or even try and claim political credit for successful economic development projects in municipalities. In the very small town of Cerrito Cotijarn, Michoacn which had voted solidly for the PRD in 1988 and 1989, PRD leaders had successfully negotiated with PRONASOL to drill a new well for drinking water, paid for largely by local residents, in time for the August 1991 elections (Gledhill, 1995, 51). Yet, PRI afliated municipal authorities and state-level ofcials ordered the engineers to seal the well with concrete until the community had recorded a unanimous vote for the PRI. Many people in Cotijarn expressed anger at their treatment and the exploitation of a basic resources they had paid for. The national PRD leaderships position in the 19881994 period was that there would be no negotiation with illegitimate authorities (Gledhill, 1995, 76). In a case such as Cerrito Cotijarn, Michoacn where PRD leaders had independent success in gaining popular support, the capacity of PRI leaders to use carrot-and-stick tactics such as exchange of election victories for opposition silence, and/or the bribery of individual leaders in exchange for desisting in oppositional political activism was signicantly reduced. In contrast, the post1988 formerly dominant partys ability to convince many in the PAN to adopt a policy of silence by concessions in exchange for selective PAN victories and thus access to patronage networks was successful in tampering those panista activists who were willing to engage in anti-election fraud mobilizations and civil disobedience (Eisenstadt, 2001, 45). The comparative examples from different municipalities in Michoacn suggest that it is not the pure number of potential opposition votes per se that is the only factor turning political competition into social disruption for the
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PRI. The small town of Cerrito Cotijarn, Michoacn was signicantly less important electorally in terms of pure numbers for the PRI than its electoral losses to the PAN controlled municipality of Sahuayo, Michoacn,11 Yet, the drinking well was sealed in Cotijarn, but Gledhill (1995, 51) reports no punitive reprisals against the larger PAN Sahuayo mayor who stopped abuse of the rural credit program and suspended further disbursement of the PRONASOL funds. In the case of Cerrito Cotijarn, Michoacn, political competition became socially disruptive because it involved a loss of control by state and federal formerly dominant party elites of their traditional strategies employed to control the opposition.12 It is this loss of its traditional strategies of social control by local, state and federal PRI elites over the PRD, particularly in the face of successful, antiregime PRD leadership, that turned political competition into social disruption. The rise of a leftist opposition thesis predicts that PRD leaders, especially those immune to bribery attempts, those who refuse to desist in their political activism after receiving death threats, those individuals perceived of as successful and/or central to the functioning of the party have a higher likelihood of becoming victims of political assassination than either rank-and-le members or those engaged in anti-fraud protests. Such individuals include PRD presidents, urban movement leaders, widely known party activists, urban movement leaders, election information managers, human rights activists, general secretaries, regents, treasurers, among others.
4. DATA, VARIABLES AND METHODS

Both qualitative and quantitative data are employed in this article and include individual-level biographical accounts of homicide victims, mass survey data on general attitudes toward political violence and municipal level data on social conditions in all municipalities where PRD homicides occurred. The biographical, survey and municipal data are used to examine the three theses about the causes of political homicide in Mexicos democratization in the 19882000 period. My use of both qualitative case study methods combined with quantitative statistical analysis follows a recent trend advocating the utilization of both approaches in comparative historical research (Rueschmeyer & Stephens, 1997; Goldthorpe, 1997; Hanson, 2000; Halfpenny, 1997; Ragin, 1998). (a) The individual-level biographical accounts. The biographical data includes information about the circumstances of the only publicly available records on PRD (or PRI) political-electoral homicides. These are the 250 PRD politicalelectoral homicides published in the PRDs Human Rights Commission
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1994 book (Comisin de Derechos Humanos [CHR], 1994). Although the included information varies per account, it generally includes the following data: Was the alleged PRD victim a member or leader of an independent peasant, union, neighborhood or other type of movement? Was the alleged perpetrator of the crime a cacique (regional PRI power broker), a hired gun of a cacique or landlord, and/or were the police involved? Did the homicide occur as the result of a ght over an uncertain election outcome, or was the victim engaged in a normal everyday social activity such as campaigning for ofce, working in the elds or driving on the highway? Such data are relevant for assessing whether most electoral homicides are, in fact, the result of peasant-landlord conict, post-election violence and/or whether the homicide victims were engaged in non-conictual activities and were targeted for assassination.13 (b) Mass survey data on political attitudes. The survey data on political attitudes is taken from a large-scale data set of 6,900 individuals conducted on a probability sample in Mexico City in 1991 (CIDE, 1991). First, my data set contains a relevant question for measuring how respondents view political violence as a tactic for conict resolution. I compare the general citizen preferences of PRD political party activists versus non-activists toward these different strategies of political action. Second, I also examine whether differences in concerns over fraud, poverty or political violence explain differences in political party support for the PRI or PRD. This set of questions will measure whether any real differences exist between political party militants and nonmilitants in terms of their preferences for or against the use of political violence as a political strategy. (c) Municipal-level data. Data was collected on the social and political conditions of residents in all of the municipalities where PRD homicides occurred. These data were assembled to test whether social marginality were signicantly associated with PRD homicides. The municipal level data used for the independent variables was drawn from the 1991 Mexican Census (INEGI, 1991). I operationalized the concept of social marginality with the following variables. First, I measured agrarian conict by the concentration of communal (ejido) peasant property in each of the municipalities studied by an index of land concentration (% rural arable land under ejidal ownership in the municipality in 1991) (INEGI, 1991). Second, I operationalized social marginality through the standard sociological indices: literacy (% literate in the municipality), wealth (average rates of municipal economic growth in %); and urban status (% of localities with 2,500 or more inhabitants) (INEGI, 1991). Since indigenous Mexican have traditionally not enjoyed the same social rights as other Mexicans (National Indigenous Institute, 1995), I added an index of
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indigenous ethnicity (% of those over 5 years old who speak an Indian language) (INEGI, 1991). The dependent variable used in the OLS equation was all municipalities where killings of PRD activists occurred, or 120 municipalities in the 19881994 period. OLS regression models were employed to estimate the change in the dependent variable by using the xed value of the independent variables. This was done to nd out how the average dependent variable changes as caused by the change of one unit of the independent variable when controlling for all other independent variables. Because the number of homicides was a continuous variable (it varied from municipality to municipality), I used the explanatory variable of ratio level to estimate the effect of change in one unit of the independent variable, given the mean value of the other independent variables. Unlike the INEGIs marginalisation index which covers all Mexican municipalities and gives a geographic distribution of marginality throughout Mexico (Trejo & Rivera, 2000), I sought to isolate those social characteristics specic to municipalities where political homicides occurred. The complex set of social relations, social actors and social forces characteristic of municipalities where PRD homicides occurred (indigenous citizens, ejidatarios, various levels of wealth, and both rural and urban status) required a model that examined the factors that were associated with homicides in the municipalities where they occurred.
5. RESULTS
Political-electoral homicide was found to be the result of social disruption caused by the PRI-regimes loss of its traditional populist social base and hence, its source of local power and control. The PRD has made signicant inroads in its electoral competition with the PRI for the vote among the non-privileged sectors which include both the rural and the urban poor and the lesser educated in the 19902000 period (Lawson, 1998; Magaloni, 1998; Poir, 1998; Schatz, 2000a, b). This popular mobilization of the rural-urban poor by the PRD has thus involved the direct encroachment onto the social bases of the PRIs electorate. The OLS regression results from the municipal level data reect the underlying conditions of social marginality associated with the rural and urban non-privileged PRD base. PRD homicides were found to occur in municipalities in which lower rates of literacy prevailed (Appendix I). Yet, the ofcial average illiteracy rate in Mexico (19931999) was only 9% (World Bank, 2000). Despite this, illiteracy was the only single positive ecological predictor of political homicides to the exclusion of status-based variables (ethnicity),
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occupational-based variables (ejidatarios) and other measures of socio-economic status (urban status, municipal levels of wealth). The OLS data highlight the fact that it is municipalities which are marginal to, and excluded from, the national trend toward increasing levels of literacy where homicides occurred. Lower levels of literacy are characteristic of Mexican rural and urban poor municipalities excluded from a major mechanisms of social ascension (formal education). These data also accurately reect the PRDs core support which has consistency come from the subaltern classes, a category that can include a complex mix of indigenous Mexicans, peasants, and the urban poor.14 That PRD homicides occurred in municipalities characterized by relatively high levels of social marginality (but not necessarily purely rural municipalities, those with the greatest ejido concentration, or those with purely indigenous communities)15 points to the intimate relationship between political violence and the socio-economic exclusion of many PRD voters. Faucher and Fitzgibbons (1989, 141) argue that an exclusionist political system is a breeding ground of dissent because traditionally vertical means of political domination (repression, paternalism and political monopoly) by the dominant party disarticulates social agents. Classes are not in a position to function directly as political actors where there is no link between the mode of production and social development (Faucher & Fitzgibbons, 1989, 141142). The rise of the PRD began to close this gap by giving an alternative political voice to some rural and urban poor; the PRIs traditional electoral constituency (Gibson, 1997). Because the level of political violence is directly related to the challenge experienced or anticipated to the traditional (vertical) relations of social domination (Faucher & Fitzgibbons, 1989, 140), the rise of the PRD with its roots in the subaltern classes constituted a direct challenge to the PRIs populist base. Secondly, and as predicted, the survey data do not show support for the idea that PRD activists have a more favorable attitude toward political violence as an acceptable method for resolving political conicts. The results from the survey data show an equal number of PRD party militants (97.0%) rejected violence as an appropriate method for resolving political differences as members of the general survey population (96.82%) (N = 6,900) (CIDE, 1991).16 I also examined the further possibility that PRD voters might somehow differ from PRI voters in their attitude toward political violence. The logit regression results on PRI and PRD voter attitudes (Appendix II) do show some distinctions between the two groups: PRD voters were more concerned about the social problem of fraud and poverty (0.0000***) while PRI supporters were more concerned about the problem of political violence and poverty (0.0002***).17 Taken together, however, the results from the survey data do not give strong
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support to the proposition that a higher rate of PRD homicides issues from a more sympathetic attitude toward violence as a strategy for resolving political conict either by PRD militants or by PRD voters. The survey data do, however, highlight important differences between the PAN and the PRD voters in terms of their relative prioritization of political concerns. Higher levels of education and concern with corruption (0.0000***) positively predict a vote for the PAN. In contrast, poverty and concern about fraud (0.0000***) predict PRD voter support. Although corruption and fraud are a closely related phenomenon, the survey results reect the distinctive concerns of PAN versus PRD voters and further explain the PRD rankand-les willingness to participate in anti-fraud protest tactics. Corruption generally refers to the trading of economic for political rewards in that a public ofcial provides some political favor in return for a money payment (Smelser, 1971, 17). Anti-corruption measures have long been a central component of panista ideology, municipal governance and recently, national PAN governance and are often associated with the concerns of the middle-classes (La Jornada, 2001; Steffens, 1968). Fraud tends to more involve deliberate deception practiced with the view of gaining an unlawful or unfair advantage (Thatcher & McQueen, 1980). The numerous anti-fraud post-election protest rallies by the PRD rank-and-le, and at least one instance where armed PRD militants appeared willing to violently confront PRI members over the fraudulent imposition of a PRI candidate on their town (Gledhill, 1993) reect their willingness to protest and resist those political practices seen as deliberately deceptive, unlawful and/or giving the PRI an unfair advantage. The results from the biographical case studies are also important to understanding political violence. The case vignettes on PRD homicide victims reveal multiple levels of socio-political conict that were unleashed with the rise of the PRD in the 19881994 period. These include conicts between PRD peasant leaders and local economic elites, between rural and urban PRD party members and local PRI caciques, between policemen associated with the PRI municipal government against those municipal police associated with the PRD local government, between in-coming and out-going municipal PRI versus PRD mayoral candidates, between PRD and PRI members over election results, and between PRD members and the police in skirmishes taking place at anti-fraud protest rallies (CHR, 1994). My analysis of the 250 case studies also reveals a general pattern of three main types of PRD homicides: (a) the homicide of PRD leaders engaged in everyday social activities (62%), (b) homicides resulting from anti-fraud protest rallies (27%), and (c) homicides against peasant leaders engaged in collective peasant defense (11%). The case accounts identify four basic
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categories of assassins: (1) local, state and judicial police (26.8%), (2) hired guns generally linked to a local PRI leader (28.4%), (3) actual known PRI members (33.2%), and (4) unknown assailants (11.2%). In very few cases (6.8%) was the perpetrator found, tried and/or imprisoned for the crime by state authorities (CHR 1994, Appendix). I will discuss each of the sub-types of homicides in turn and I will include National Human Rights Commission recommendations in the discussion of the case accounts when they exist. The National Human Rights Commission (Comisin de Derechos Humanos [CNDH]) founded under President Carlos Salinas de Gortari in 1991, is a federal commission set up to investigate complaints of abuse and to make recommendations to the Mexican Government. However, the CNDH does not have the legal authority and/or control over police and administrative ofces to prosecute or sanction abusers (U.S. Department of State, 1999, 2). 5.1 The Homicide of PRD Leaders Engaged in Everyday Social Activities The majority of PRD homicide victims were political leaders who were shot to death while engaging in everyday social activities. The types of PRD leaders targeted for homicide largely included PRD candidates running for mayor and regent local government posts, already elected PRD presidents, mayors, regents, treasurers, human rights secretaries, general secretaries, and ex-PRD mayors and ex-PRD federal deputy candidates. A lesser number of homicide victims included PRD local presidents, urban movement leaders, union leaders, widely known party activists, sympathetic reporters, and PRD-afliated personnel in charge of the municipal security of PRD ofces (policemen and security guards). The most striking dimension of the accounts of the homicides of PRD leaders (unlike the homicide that occurred in post-electoral violence discussed below) is that the victim was generally shot outright while engaged in a normal, everyday social activity. Among the general categories of everyday social activities that the victim was engaged in at the time of the homicide include: driving home on the highway, attending a daughters wedding, walking down the street, walking to work, driving to work, boarding a bus, drinking a Coke on the street, laboring in the elds, using the bathroom, sleeping at home, sitting in the patio of ones home, sitting in an automobile, getting into an automobile, attending a party, having an argument while leaving a dance, driving a taxi, sitting in a park, nishing a shift as a night watch guard at the PRD municipal ofces, conducting a post-campaign celebration party, sitting in a PRD municipal ofce, leaving the PRD municipal ofces, working at ones shop, stepping off a fertilizer truck on the way to work, eating at a restaurant,
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collecting wood, entering a store, playing basketball, playing pool, walking in the public plaza, and going to Church (CHR, 1994). The everyday social activities in which individuals were engaged at the time of their death foreshadows the contract or (quasi-) professional, often anonymous, status of the assailant to his victim typical of this group of PRD homicide victims. Thus, the rst pattern of the homicide of PRD leaders that emerges is one in which the victim is generally unaware or does not anticipate that the social activity or social engagement in which they are participating is about to terminate their lives. This may be because, in some cases, especially when the assailant is alleged to be a hired gun (pistolero), the intent of the stranger is not known to them. In addition, in cases when the aggressor is the police, the victim does not anticipate being shot or beaten.18 In the case of PRD municipal president Adrin Soria Lara, who was talking with friends at a park, the gunman approached him and asked What party are you from? to which Soria Lara responded that he was from the PRD. When the gunman said Well, I am from the PRI, Soria Lara responded that he was free to vote as he wanted and that had already happened. The gunman then shot and killed him before eeing, and although found guilty of the crime of homicide, his apprehension order was not carried out (CHR, 1994, 164165).19 In the case of Manuel Vzquez Saavedra, an active party member, he was pulled out of the bathroom along with his son while attending a pre-election meeting in Lzaro Crdenas, Michoacn on March 27, 1989. Severely pistol-whipped and beaten by two local policeman, Saavedra died of his wounds. The National Human Rights Commission issued a statement on March 3, 1993 stating that those responsible were evading justice, and recommended apprehension and investigation of why the apprehension orders had not been carried out. In the illustrative case of the second-in-command of the municipal police and noted PRD member Aniceto Garca, he was shot to death while milking his cows at his ranch on December 8, 1990 in Turicato, Michoacn. Despite eyewitnesses to the crime, including his wife, who alleged that the assassins were two hired guns belonging to the Cuamacuaro group, the homicide remains unresolved. The National Human Rights Commission on May 10, 1994 stated that it could not locate any record of the assassination after searching the Turicato Public Defenders Ofce Records (CHR, 1994, 162). Another category of victims are PRD leaders who had previously received death threats warning them that if they did not discontinue their political activities, they would be killed. In one sense then the crime was less unexpected, but the victims were nevertheless still engaged in normal, everyday social activities at the time of their murder. One example is Gustavo Loya Loya
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who had received repeated death threats for his activities as Secretary of Agrarian Affairs of the State Executive Committee of the PRD, the Press Secretary of the Democratic Peasants Union, Honorary Inspector of the municipal police and principal PRD promotor in the region. The tension had increased around his April 13, 1991 death as the PRD won the local elections. He was murdered in his elds in front of his family who identied the assassins as members of the local PRI cacique family. The National Human Rights Commission declared the case resolved locally on January 31, 1992 (CHR, 1994, 163) despite any legal action against the assassins. In other cases, the level of perceived lack of threat and the security exercised on the part of the assassins is revealed in alleged statements that occurred at the time of the homicide. PRD activist Emiliano Glvez Regino was shot four times but escaped 500 meters to ask for help before dying (CHR 1994, 100101). He was the second PRD victim in the area allegedly killed by PRI caciques. Before dying, he identied the aggressors as pistoleros and family of the local cacique. Four days after his death, his family received a note apparently signed by the local cacique which read, Now there are two (dead) of those who participated in the (anti-fraud) march and we will go on eliminating you one by one so that you realize we have power and that there are those here who support us (CHR, 1994, 100101). The alleged note also made it clear that those killed were shot because they had been PRD members, saying Leave that political party and come with us or we will keep f--king you. We want you all to apologize. 20 Often the bodies of those PRD victims engaged in everyday social activities were found with signs of torture and/or dumped in a common grave (CHR 1994, 7374; 9697). In the cases of unknown assailants, especially victims stopped on the highway, PRD leaders would often be found tortured and shot but not robbed of their possessions. One PRD municipal presidential candidate in Veracruz was dragged from his house in the middle of the night by unknown young armed assailants whose faces were masked with bandanas, tied to a tree and shot (CHR, 1994, 303).21 5.2 Homicides at Anti-Fraud Protest Rallies, Marches and Parallel Municipal Administrations A PRD strategy of participation in anti-fraud protest rallies, and protest rallies against PRI governors, mayors and municipal presidents proved costly in terms of human lives in the municipalities under study. A majority of deaths in this sub-category occurred as the result of beatings from police, being shot by pistoleros, and/or being sprayed by police gunre (sometimes stray gunre)
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while engaged in anti-fraud protest rallies and marches after elections (CHR, 1994, 53, 81, 86, 137).22 At a post-election, anti-fraud rally in Tejuplico, Mexico (1990), PRD activist Ramn Aguilar lost his life when state and municipal police began to re on the crowd from inside the municipal palace (CHR, 1994, 138). The rally then became so chaotic that two policemen also lost their lives one from stray police bullets and the other caused by the misring of his gun. At times, the anti-fraud rallies led to violent stand-offs between PRD and PRI supporters. The death of Martn Aceves Gonzlez (Iguala, Guerrero, 1993) after a confrontation at the municipal palace illustrates the complex dynamic. PRD activists planned a rally to call for the removal of PRI governor Rubn Figueroa Alcocer when many PRI supporters of the governor staged a rally there at the municipal palace instead at the same time (CHR, 1994, 104105). 100 PRD activists were kept at bay from the municipal plaza by the police but after an older PRD activist was hit with a stone, the confrontation generalized with both sides throwing stones, mangos, oranges, etc. Both PRI23 and PRD members were wounded and treated by the Red Cross. The police retreated to buses with the PRI activists (CHR, 1994, 105). Aceves Gonzlez, a PRD urban leader who attended and was wounded at the rally, was shot three hours later by pistoleros upon leaving the hospital. The State Attorney General was investigating three suspects of the homicide (CHR, 1994, 107). In another incident, a PRD activist was also shot in a stand-off in a remote eld in which police would not enter because of darkness and its remote location (CHR, 1997, 107). Some PRD homicides also occurred when police attempted to remove parallel, popular municipal administrations set up by PRD members because they refused to grant credibility to PRI municipal electoral victories. In the popular municipality of Cruz Grande, Guerrero (1990), a PRD vendor was killed while asleep in his kiosk and two policemen died from stray bullets when a police contingent opened re in their attempt to remove PRD members from the municipal government building (CHR, 1994, 88). The situation of terror that ensued in the population was so severe that a group of women from the town asked the police commander to stop the gunre, which he did. The CNDH recommended further investigation and the sanctioning of those authorities responsible. Other PRD homicides occurred in apparent retaliation for the PRD revenge-kidnaping of PRI leaders in Jungapeo, Michoacn (1990), after PRD activists took over a tourist site in Juquila, Oaxaca (1993) in retaliation for PRD killings in previous municipal elections; and after the PRD takeover of the San Andrs Cholula, Puebla municipal palace (CHR, 1994, 115, 250, 272). Finally, in a few cases, legally elected PRD ofcials were not permitted to take ofce and died from gunshot wounds in conicts with priistas and pistoleros in incidents occurring on the day they were to take ofce.
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5.3 Homicides against Peasant Leaders Engaged in Collective Peasant Defense Independent peasant leaders were found to be over-represented among PRD homicide victims, giving some support to the thesis that violence against peasants is also a manifestation of underlying agrarian struggles over land and wages. A full 11% of the 250 PRD homicide victims were peasant leaders, a large over-representation given that most organized peasants and their leaders remain members of ofcial federations (Fox & Gordillo, 1989, 158). The December 25, 1993 assassination of peasant leader Limberth Hernndez Torres by the nephew of the ex-President of the Rural Association of Collective Fine Hardwoods represents one prototypical example. Hernndez Torres had been the organizational secretary of the municipal PRD in the village of Escarcega, Campeche as well as the leader of a peasant organization representing some 300 families who had invaded various forest lands in the region (CHR, 1994, 3031). He had also accused Ruiz Gmez (the exPresident of the Rural Association of Collective Fine Hardwoods) of corruption and of skimming off the associations public monies. According to the account, Ruiz Gmez tried to bribe PRD leader Torres to abandon his support for the peasant movement by offering him a truck and a house. After his refusal to accept the offer, Hernndez Torres received various death threats and was eventually assassinated by Ruiz Gmez nephew (Francisco Javier Daz Hernndez), who confessed to the crime and used his uncles gun to commit the murder but suggested it occurred after a verbal dispute (CHR, 1994, 3031). Various types of direct and indirect evidence linked Francisco Javier Daz Hernndez to the crime including the nephews confession of the murder, the use of the relatives gun, a political history of interaction between peasant leader victim and the uncle of the assailant involving allegations of bribes and death threats, and eyewitness testimony that no verbal exchange occurred between Torres and Daz-Hernndez but rather that the latter found Torres, identied him and shot him. Despite this evidence, state authorities argued in Daz-Hernndez favor that the crime was of a personal nature. No legal action against Daz-Hernndez was reported. The remaining case accounts document the homicide of PRD peasant leaders engaged in various collective peasant defense activities around or at the actual time of their murder. These include the organization of a protest against the sale of peasant lands for an airport expansion (Mexico State, 1992), an occasion of organized resistance to the sale of collective peasant (ejido) lands by the government (Mexico State, 1990), the organization of a protest against the exclusion of an independent peasants association from postulating candidates for local governing bodies (Chiapas, 1991), a peasant leader about to success277
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fully receive a judgement of restitution of communal peasants lands (Mexico, 1992), the murder of a peasant leader who had been active in the movement against the imposition of the PRI municipal mayoral candidate and who had promoted elections to remove the then current President of the Ranchers Union (Guerrero, 1990). Other murdered peasant leaders included one who had changed political afliation from being the head of a PRI peasant association to being a leader of the PRD peasant association and who received various death threats unless he renounced his PRD new leadership post (Chiapas, 1988). Yet another peasant leader was assassinated after making allegations of corruption against state ofcials (Durango, 1990).24
6. DISCUSSION
Mexican political-electoral homicides fall into two main patterns. First, the homicide of PRD activists (and sometimes of the police) are associated with the chaotic legal, and political environments that develop in the course of these socio-political activities. These included homicides at election PRI-PRD standoffs, at PRD anti-fraud protest rallies, marches and during the dismantlement of parallel PRD municipal administrations and occurred mainly as the result of police gunre. Revenge killings by pistoleros, beating and deaths during the ghts of PRD members with PRI members were also causes of PRD death. The often chaotic legal environment characteristic of the organized struggle for power and the deadly conicts that ensued in these municipalities was severe and prolonged. Nevertheless, many are not unlike that pattern found in extreme instances of protest situations in the U.S. (i.e. the Kent State incident), in which protest rallies end in violence when a severe, even extralegal reaction is adopted by the authorities (Turk, 1982, 108). Second, and more numerically important, however, were the majority of PRD homicides directed at the political (and peasant/political) leadership. A relatively high incidence of paid political contract killings, and/or killings by anonymous assailants against individuals engaged in everyday social activities at the time of their death was found. This nding points toward the use of homicide as a control mechanism to try and protect and maintain existing political and economic group interests and to minimize threats and resistance (Howard, 1977). The killing of PRD leaders is a response to their real and perceived political power by those with a stake in the previous existing distribution of political, economic and property arrangements. The results largely support the thesis that it is the rise of a new leftist opposition, especially in rural areas, perceived to disrupt traditional social and political control of PRI caciques (local leaders), that is the major cause of
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political-electoral homicide of PRD members. Political homicide occurs because the rise of a left opposition party, with its party leaders and party activists are perceived to disrupt the existing balance of PRI power in the states and municipalities under study in this paper. PRD members and leaders threaten certain agrarian interests, and are a threat to local PRI political, police and electoral control over the municipalities in question. The very low levels of accountability associated with these crimes (6.8% resolved) is not only a shocking statistic but one that begs the question of why there are such low levels of prosecution. In fact, the semi-anonymous and semi-clandestine nature of many of these killings in the Mexican case is not unlike the appearance of death squads in the Latin American military regimes. As Faucher and Fitzgibbons (1989, 166) note, clandestine repressive killings are products of situations in which groups within a society feel they are authorized to take justice into their own hands, and are a manifestation of the fundamental cleavage between legal ideology and the social reality. The hiring of pistoleros to assassinate ones political enemies is instrumental in so far as the hired gun serves as a buffer between repression and government responsibility. They perform illegal acts without directly engaging the ofcial responsibility of the state, thus contributing to the conviction that repressive acts are covered by total impunity (Faucher & Fitzgibbons, 1989, 166). Democracy is often perceived as a threat in situations where power structures are traditionally maintained and reproduced through clientelism. This is because the recognition of the right to vote and to participate equally and to form associations modies the power structure and poses a direct threat to the system of domination (Faucher & Fitzgibbons, 1989, 142). The extent to which political opposition will be tolerated when the regime is authoritarian will depend on what the authorities perceive to be the magnitude of the potential threat to their rule (Blondel, 1997, 483). On the national stage, in fact, the rise of the PRD in 19881989 has threatened the electoral base of the populist coalition upon which the stability of the PRI has traditionally rested. For example, in the 1990s in Mexico, the PRD slowly eroded the traditional populist social and electoral base of the PRI by taking away votes from rural peasants and the urban poor (Michoacn, 1991, Mexico, 1993), and from the urban poor (Tabasco, 1994; Schatz, 2000a). The electoral hegemony of the PRI was clearly challenged by the PRD. This is not to say that the PRI did not maintain sectors of its traditional populist social coalition over the 1990s. It did so in Michoacn (1991) among the less highly educated (Magaloni, 1998, 228), among the less highly educated poor in Mexico (1993) (Poir, 1998, 38), and among the rural voters in Tabasco (1994).
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My point is rather that its traditional populist social base was eroded by the PRD over the same period of time. Indeed, preliminary analysis of the social base of the national electorate in the July 2, 2000 Presidential elections continues to show a signicant shift in rural support away from the PRI and toward the PRD (Schatz, 2000b). Peasants continue to be split in their votes for the PRI and for the PRD, thereby further eroding the weakening social base of the PRIs previous populist coalition. Peasants and other non-privileged sector PRD voters are those who also negatively assessed the effects of neoliberal economic policies inaugurated under President Miguel de la Madrid (19821988) and continued under Carlos Salinas de Gortari (19881994) on the Mexican economy. Over the 1990s, whenever peasants and other non-privileged voters were divided, the PRI vote was explained by a positive perception of the effects of neoliberal economic policies on the Mexican economy (Mexico, 1993; Tabasco, 1994; Campeche, 1997), whereas the PRD vote was explained by a negative assessment of neoliberalism (Mexico, 1993; Tabasco, 1994; Campeche, 1997; Schatz, 2000a). The Mexican results strongly suggest that the threat was perceived by PRI party members and leaders as coming from a leftist political party challenging its traditional political, electoral and policing powers over its traditional coalition of peasants, and the uneducated poor. This is, of course, a comparative point. One could plausibly argue counter-factually from the vantage point of the year 2000, that the PRI should have been more threatened over the 1990s by the loss of its electorate to the rightist PAN than to the leftist PRD given the PANs ultimately strong win in 2000 (38.4% of the national electorate to the PRIs 36.3% and to the PRDs 18.8%) (Reforma, September 7, 2000).25 Yet, before the mid-1990s, the PANs electorate has consistency been a narrow one located principally in the cities and among the urban, educated, well-to-do with the PAN never gaining more than 1020% of the electorate (Klesner, 1994; Gibson, 1997; Schatz, 2000a, b). Turk (1982, 109) argues that irrespective of the form and degree of resistance, lower-class resisters are likely to receive more severe treatment than are higher-class resisters. In the Mexican dynamic, the PANs willingness to engage in the negotiation of election outcomes on a case-by-case basis after the election of PRI President Carlos Salinas (19881994) was an important component of the very low rates of political-electoral homicides against the PAN in the early 1990s.26 Yet, the strategy of the PAN leadership to support Salinas economic privatization program in exchange for ofcial recognition of its victories at the state and municipal levels (Crespo, 1996; Pardinas & Amezcua, 1997), also had its own price. It led to the exit of a faction of panistas who perceived this pact as a betrayal of the PANs political autonomy and to their formation into a new party (the neopanistas).
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7. 19942000: A MOVE TOWARD GREATER LEGALITY?

In the Mexican states and municipalities where PRD homicides occurred, the rise of a leftist party in a regime that historically relied on the electoral support for a populist coalition of the urban and rural poor and peasants can be perceived of as a socially, ideologically and electorally disruptive event. This is particularly so when the top political leadership of the reigning dominant party does not set a tone in which the rise of political dissent is seen as favorable to the long-term interests of society. One top PRD ofcial argued that [then President] Salinas de Gortari, saw us [in 1988] not as political rivals, but rather as enemies to be exterminated (La Jornada, October 11, 2000). Nevertheless, there are some recent, early signs that the rise of juridical certainty in recent Mexican elections may result in the conditions that could diminish political homicide and violence. Moreover, the rise of an autonomous federal electoral agency in Mexico, especially since 1997, has also raised the issue of more effective legal strategies of control over political and electoral violence. And, as the result of the 1996 political-legal reforms (Eisenstadt, 1999, 293), the category of electoral crimes was created in 1997 along with a series of new public ofcial crimes.27 A new ofce of the Special Prosecutor for Electoral Crimes (FEPADE) was also created within the Mexican Attorney Generals Ofce (Eisenstadt, 1999, 290). Such legal changes are slowly improving the relative historical lack of attention given to these political-electoral homicides. Other signs of improvement include the fact that the number of accusations of electoral fraud in the 2000 presidential election was down by approximately 90% when compared to the 1994 presidential election (La Jornada, July 18, 2000). The formal juridical path for contesting power decreases the appeal of extra-legal, violent protests over election results. Non-governmental poll watcher organizations note the signicant improvement in the competitiveness, fairness and overall quality of the 2000 elections in comparison with the 1988 and 1994 presidential elections; although they continue to report that respect for the secret ballot was violated in 6.3% of the rural areas (La Jornada, July 7, 2000). Furthermore, rulings by the Federal Electoral Tribunal (TEPJF) regarding incidents that challenge the legitimacy of an election at a particular voting booth or within an electoral district have become increasingly favorable to the PRD. Since 1996, the PRD received more favorable rulings (44%) than any other party (WOLA, 2000, 4). 35% of the PANs challenges and 29% of the PRIs were supported by TEPJF. Nevertheless, one must be cautious and realistic in ones expectations for the efcacy of these new institutions. In the 19971999 period of its initial existence, the Special Prosecutor for Electoral
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Crimes Ofce (FEPADE) registered only one case of vote-buying and coercion despite numerous complaints brought forth by the opposition parties (WOLA, 2000, 2).28 Perhaps the most important change that must come about is a change of attitude by the top PRI leadership toward the legitimacy of the PRD. The 1994 political pact between in-coming President Zedillo and opposition leaders led to the ofcial recognition of the PRD and promised to diminish political violence. Yet, the diminution of political homicide and violence has been a slow process: an estimated 253 more PRD members are listed as killed in political-electoral violence in the 19941996 period (U.S. State Department Human Rights Report, 1997, 5), with a diminution to an estimated 100 PRD victims listed in the 1997 January 1, 2000 period (Global Exchange, 2000, 6). Thus, while the 1990s has seen a slowdown in the homicide rate, it has not seen its nal end.29
8. CONCLUSION
The ndings in this essay contribute to our understanding of how repression and state-sanctioned violence against dissenters results from the rise of a democratizing opposition party in a clientelistic political system (Fitzgibbons & Faucher, 1989; Rouqui, 1987, 123). The rise of the PRD was a threat to clientelism because it disrupted existing political, power, economic and property arrangements (Howard, 1977). PRD leaders were particularly targeted for elimination because many resisted bribes, refused to give up their political activism even in the face of intimidation, organized campaign meetings, and organized peasants in agrarian struggles over land and wages. In the face of organized dissenters not willing to negotiate with regime elites, homicide was used to simultaneously maximize groups interests while minimizing threats or resistance to existing political, power, economic and property arrangements. The Mexican ndings suggests that political homicide represents an overlooked but important formal general control mechanism used to protect, perpetuate or expand existing power arrangements in democratization processes. Although violence and intimidation has been present in contested Latin American elections elsewhere,30 outright homicide has been much rarer. The simultaneous severity of political crime in Mexico, combined with its low rate of prosecution and punishment, points toward a collaboration of police, the local and state judicial system and local political ofcials and a sense of impunity from law violations. Homicide, as a political crime that occurs in the context of electoral competition with a rising opposition utilizing legal means, is then an attempt to turn back the clock that relies on law and the state to maintain the government in power.
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The murder of PRD members largely engaged in legal, electorally-related processes versus the very low level of PAN homicides also substantiates previous observations that irrespective of the form and degree of resistance, lower-class resisters are likely to receive more severe treatment than are higherclass resisters (Turk, 1982, 109). The direct murder of PRD leaders, often in public view and without subsequent criminal punishment, strongly suggests that dispriviledged resisters are more likely to be directly repressed with little or no legalistic ceremony than higher-status resisters. The willingness of the PAN leadership to negotiate post-election victories with the Salinas regime gave rise to a less repressive and negotiated outcome. In contrast, the PRDs organization of civil disobedience, anti-fraud marches and other forms of organized dissent represented open challenges to a regime that perceived widespread social discontent in those states where its repression was most severe. These ndings have theoretical implications for future research on the relationship between dissent, democratization and homicide. Democratization implies change, and, as Simmel (1971, 205) argues, change is marked by social conict. Conict never takes a singular form but varies in intensity, duration and context. Simmel (1971, 95) also suggests that conict and the desire for vengeance is always worse in parties that have previously been similar because the respect for the enemy is absent where the hostility has arisen on the basis of previous solidarity. The historical and ideological specics of the emergence of PRD dissent allow us to predict that ideological similarities between contending parties can lead to severe repression. The PRD developed from an uncomfortable coalition of socialists, social democrats and PRI dissidents (Gledhill, 1995, 75) in the context of a regime originally committed to a left-leaning revolutionary nationalist ideology.31 The decision of many on the Left to adopt the electoral path to democratizing change has had the unintended consequence of leading to a large number of homicides of a specic character.32 For example, the demand by some Mexican caciques and policemen that the PRD victim apologize for participating in anti-fraud marches but, at the same time, the willingness of many to let bribed, and non-bribed, repentant PRD militants back into the folds of the PRI reects a desire for vengeance tinged with ambivalence (CHR, 1994, 3031; 100101, 270). Similarly, it was reported that dying victims were reminded that their killer was actually the one with the power, and dead bodies were tortured, mutilated and left in full public view (CHR, 1994, 7374, 9697, 270). If the purpose was simply to eliminate the PRD militant in question, such practices would be pointless and redundant. Murder associated with the rise of the PRD suggests that this chilling form of political violence is meant to treat the victim as if he/she were somehow
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guilty of defection; a defector whose dead body must be made a public example to dissuade others. Foucault (1995, 3) explains this type of enactment of state power, the atrocity of torture, and the public display of mutilated bodies as acts of revenge meant to send the political message that an attack on the regime has to be attacked in turn. Echoes of this message and the generalized, pervasive, climate of fear associated with PRD membership can be still heard in the voice of one widow of a murdered PRD leader who said in 2000: Its so much easier to be a part of the PRD in Mexico City.33 But once you step outside, youre just marked (Maulen, 2000, 2).34 Future studies of conict in democratization processes would do well to take into account original ideological similarities between the parties because they can transform a difference in convictions into hatred and homicide.
NOTES
* Robert Dahls (1989, 221) well accepted denition of polyarchy with its seven attributes is often used as an ideal-type denition of democracy. Dahls (1989) denition includes the following criterion: (1) elected ofcials, (2) free and fair elections, (3) inclusive suffrage, (4) the right to run for ofce, (5) freedom of expression, (6) alternative information, and (7) associational autonomy. Democratization implies a process whose direction is toward greater adherence of the political system to these criterion (Potter et al., 1995). Scholarly studies typically assess the relative degree to which a nations political system conforms to an ideal-typic denition of democracy using the Freedom House rating system (Bollen, 1980). Freedom House assesses the extent to which political rights are upheld in a nation in actual practice by measuring a degree to which its political system adheres to the following criterion: freedom of expression and belief (free and independent media, freedom of religion), association and organizational rights (freedom to organize political parties, civic organizations, ad hoc issue groups, free trade unions, peasant organizations, etc., effective collective bargaining), rule of law and human rights (an independent judiciary, equal treatment under the law, protection from political terror, unjustied imprisonment, exile or torture, freedom from extreme government indifference and corruption), personal autonomy and economic rights (freedom of private discussion, personal autonomy, property rights, personal social freedoms, equality of opportunity). In part, the torture, arbitrary and false arrest, beatings, kidnappings, death threats, high-speed chases and staged accidents (Reding, 1995, 3637) of the PRD opposition party over the 1990s is one key reason why Freedom House did not dene the Mexican regime as democratic during the 19901997 period. Instead, Freedom House rated Mexico a 45 out of a scale of 6; with the U.S. and Western Europe scoring a 1. In 19972000, the rating improved to a 3.4 after electoral reforms greatly strengthened the autonomy of the electoral administration in Mexico, opposition gains advanced signicantly, and judicial autonomy was enhanced (Freedom House, 2000, 2). Mexicos attainment of more competitive, non-fraudulent elections, the growth in the number of autonomous non-state organizations, and its increasingly independent legislature and judiciary over the 1990s justify its classication as undergoing a process of democratization.
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1. To name only a few examples, over 300 demonstrating students were massacred in 1968 as the result of the armys excessive use of force in a crowd situation (Middlebrook, 1986, 126127). In the 1970s, many associated with guerrilla movements lost their lives. Armed parties battle with the local police and the army for state power after the 1994 Chiapas uprising resulted in violence and loss of life (Stephen, 1995). Although each of these incidents relates to violence emerging from conicts between dissidents and armed forces of the state and is interesting in its own right, their overall treatment is beyond the scope of this paper. For a discussion of other types of homicides and torture by local, state, federal police and/or other citizens that are associated with drug-related crimes, with freedom of the press issues and with labor unions disputes; see: Impunity (1990); for violence associated with intra-PRI political assassinations, see Pansters (1999, 253259). 2. The years of 19881994 form an important moment in Mexicos democratization. Before the 1988 elections, the PRI claimed election victories virtually without fail, never accepted defeat for a Senate seat or a governorship (Gmez-Tagle, 1994, 240242). The 1988 contested presidential election, the 1989 rst opposition governorship and Senate seats, and the dramatic growth in civil society movements in the early 1990s mark the beginning of the intensication of democratization; a process that accelerated even further after the 1994 presidential election (Dresser, 1998, 57). 3. The literature notes that the PRI also suffers from violence in and after elections and estimates of upwards of 100 PRI victims of electoral violence in the 19882000 period have been made (Global Exchange, 2000, 6). Nevertheless, the lack of public records available to researchers of these incidents makes a systematic count difcult. In Chiapas after the January 1994 EZLN uprising, supporters of the PRI were ambushed, killed and expelled from various communities (Deniability, 1997, 7172, 80). In interviews with Human Rights Watch, PRI supporters blamed the PRD, priests and a PRD-afliated group called Night Ant for armed confrontations in Venustiano Carranza and Chiln municipalities. Most recently, in the wake of the July 2, 2000 election which the PRI lost, confrontation within the PRI over a municipal government post in Cuatitln, Mexico caused the death of 15 PRI members, the wounding of 98 with 5 critically wounded (La Jornada, August 19, 2000, 1). 4. Communal peasants or ejidatarios were peasants who received land from the postrevolutionary Mexican government (beginning with the Lzaro Crdenas administration (19341940) and continuing until the 1970s). The maximum total land redistribution as ejido grant in Mexico was 17.9% by 19341940 (Roett, 1995, 42). The ejidatario, or holder of such a land title was not, until the 1992 New Agrarian Law, legally enabled to transfer his/her land title rights to non-heirs (Gutleman, 1974, 501). The de facto renting out of ejidal land was permitted by the 1970s (Otero, 1989, 282). 5. The White Guards are generally recognized to be armed ranch hands employed by ranchers and landowners to maintain order on their estates and in towns. In general, the Mexican government has historically preserved the right of owners to police their own territory. For example, the Chiapas state governor (19521958), introduced a Ranch Auxiliary Police Force to combat cattle rustling and land invasions (Deniability, 1997, 39). In the 1960s, the Livestock Law recognized an Honorary Livestock Police with members appointed by the ranchers associations (Impunity, 1999, 5962). One rancher in Chiapas denied association with the White Guards but did acknowledge that Landowners have had to organize to defend what belongs to them (Deniability, 1997, 34). He argued their armed employees were a response to the fact that because the 285
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EZLN had been focused only toward the indigenous of the region, ranchers had a legitimate need to protect their property. He noted that in the past, it was lack of governmental support for ranchers that forced them to resort to armed conict. 6. Most agricultural experts have concluded that ejidos are as productive as private farms when differences in land quality and access to water, credit and other inputs are taken into account. Yet, very few Mexican ejidos have access to sufcient capital to adopt new technologies or to make major infrastructural investments (Cornelius & Myhre, 1998, 8). 7. Even this account is potentially confounded with the peasant-landlord conict explanation. Federal PRD party members explained that the violent protest movement included collective peasants demanding the immediate government payment for the expropriation of 5,000 acres of communal forest land (La Jornada, July 4, 2000, 2). 8. There exist an array of non-Leninist single-party systems outside of the Soviet orbit including Botswana (regime founded 1966), Ivory Coast (1960), Kenya (1963), Malaysia (1957), Mexico (19292000), Senegal (1960), Singapore (1965), Taiwan (19492000), Tanzania (1964), Tunisia (1957), Zambia (19641991), and Zimbabwe (1979), (Geddes, 1999). See Jowitt (1974) for an analysis of the characteristics that dene the Leninist regimes. 9. I do not want to overdraw this point about the left-leaning orientation of early revolutionary nationalism of PRI regime elites because, in fact, the story is complex. Garrrido (1982, 7273) argues that the corporatist consolidation of the Mexican political system drew from a complex amalgam of European leftist ideas of the time French radicalism, German social democracy, Soviet Communism and Italian fascism (the latter models for their idea of a single-party) along with a strong element of political expediency. Of particular import as a comparative model, was Pers APRA single-party of the 1920s and the idea of a non-communist mass party. Nevertheless, Garrido (1982, 73) notes that the communist, fascist and populist models were often confused between themselves by Mexican leaders. It is noteworthy that Mexican communists in the 1928 were the rst to openly and strongly reject the ideology of new Mexican single-party as reactionary , and an enormous trap to make the masses fall into (Garrido, 1982, 84). Leaders of the more moderate bureaucratic syndicalists, however, resisted much less and came to form a pillar of the Mexican single-party regime. 10. The PAN also accused the PRI and the government of massive fraud. For a review of the disputes surrounding the 1988 Presidential election, see: Cornelius, Gentleman and Smith (1989, 1922). In the subsequent 1994 Presidential election, the PRD won 16.60% of the average national vote share and 18.6% in the 2000 Presidential election (Dresser 1999; La Jornada, September 7, 2000). 11. In Sahuayo, by the 1994 presidential elections, the political competition between the PAN and the PRI was close with the PAN winning by 10,688 votes (51.1%) to the PRIs 10,229 votes (48.9%) (IFE, 1994). The total electorate in Cerrito Cotijarn is approximately less than 2,000. 12. Eisenstadt (2000, 8) touches on one aspect of the PRD-PAN difference. He denes the PRD as largely (although not exclusively) an anti-regime party; that is to say, a hard-line opposition which refuses to even participate in authoritarian institutions and seeks instead to undermine them, usually via protest mobilizations. In ideal-typic terms, the PAN was largely a patronage seeking party or an opposition willing to play by authoritarian rules, with the eventual but distant objective of liberalizing the electoral system, but obtaining ofce, public nancing, and other resources in the
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meantime, in exchange for loyally fronting opposition candidates to make the regime look competitive (Eisenstadt, 2000, 8). Indeed, it was when PRD local leaders tried to obtain access to patronage resources by negotiating with state and federal PRI leaders that factional splits were sometimes triggered within the PRD with accusations that PRD leaders were favoring their own electoral clienteles at the expense of the national unity of the party. Gledhill (1995, 76) notes instances of authoritarian tactics used by the PRD in Michoacn such as ngering candidates to be imposed leaders on local communities and dragging supporters to rallies. He argues such tactics were caused by contradictions faced by the local PRD leadership between trying to get things done and maintaining leverage in the face of a national no negotiation policy with the PRI and the latters exclusionary tactics adopted toward the Left. 13. One aspect of the PRD case study biographical accounts is that their slow rate of processing through the Mexican legal system delays their potential secondary conrmation by ofcial legal sources. To some extent, however, this issue is a circular one since PRD activists point to the local and state police and/or to local PRI leaders or their hired guns as the major perpetrators of the homicides in the 19901994 period. Thus, they claim that the legal system does not adequately function as a neutral arbitrar but rather fails to adequately investigate the circumstances surrounding the homicides in order to protect local or state PRI afliated ofcials. Ultimately, the question of the secondary conrmation of all the complete circumstances of the PRD biographical homicide accounts is part of the legal ambiguity associated with the Mexican democratization process. The National Commission on Human Rights has, however, conrmed ofcial responsibility in 79 out of 90 cases of homicide that the PRD had reported in the July 1988 January 1995 period (Comisin Nacional de Derechos Humanos, 1994). This means almost a 88% conrmation rate by ofcial legal institutions of the PRD homicides processed as of early 1995. As Turk (1982, 147) notes, for ofcial repression even to be subjected to legal review is an accomplishment; and for a regime to punish its own agents for using harsh tactics against its political enemies is unthinkable in many countries. Thus, by the most conservative estimates, more than two thirds of the PRD homicides have been ofcially conrmed as the result of state actions. Ideally, of course, were biographical accounts of the PRI homicides publicly available, one could also examine potential PRD culpability in PRI assassinations. Future studies may be able to investigate the social causes of PRI homicides. 14. Indeed, Glendill (1995, 78) argues that because it was a Center-Left party built on an alliance of segments of different social classes, it has been difcult for the PRD to articulate a traditional class-based perspective. 15. This nding is also consistent with the Trejo and Rivera (2000, 15) nding that it was the presence of multiple ethnic groups in indigenous regions in traditional PRIheld communities that explained post-election violence. 16. The survey question asked was: Of the following options, how should political differences be resolved? (a) by negotiation between political parties, (b) by governing authorities, (c) by violence each asked separately. It is noteworthy that some differences between PRD activists and the general survey population are evident. The PRD activists preferred by 7.8% over the general survey population that political differences be resolved by negotiation between political parties rather than by politicians (CIDE, 1991). The CIDE (1991) survey data were collected by CIDE but the author is solely responsible for their statistical analysis and interpretation. 287
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17. The OLS and survey ndings of the association of illiteracy and poverty with municipalities where PRD homicides occurred and with PRD voters is reected in the poverty of the PRD victims surviving families. A PRD Foundation (Fundacin Ovando y Gil) has been set up to support the many poor widows and the children of the slain activists. They receive about $40 a month to help nance their childrens education and health care (Maulen, 2000). 18. Sometimes, the alleged hired guns made an attempt to correctly identify the victim before shooting him (CHR, 1994, 275), although they were not always successful. Three victims were reported to have been misidentied and shot inadvertently one of the brother of a PRD leader and another the wife of the PRD treasurer caught in the gunre and a 10 year old boy playing basketball (CHR, 1994, 103, 161162, 248). 19. In the case of Inocencio Romero Jurez, the killer feigned being a friendly agent sent from the State Electoral Commission to Jurez house who had some papers that Juarez needed to sign. When Jurez told him to come inside friend, the assassin took out his pistol and shot him pointblank four times in front of his family. Romero Jurez had previous received warnings from the local cacique that he stop his political activity (CHR, 1994, 302). The pistolero remains unapprehended and the crime not claried. The CNDH recommended investigation of the causes why apprehension orders and sanctions against those responsible had not been carried out. 20. When Lorenzo Santiago Torres, PRD presidential candidate in the November 1989 municipal elections was riddled with bullets in front of the municipal palace by ve local policemen, one yelled Here is your father, m--f--ker before beginning to re (CHR, 1994, 270). The National Human Rights Commission recommended further investigation of the crime on March 31, 1993 given that no one had investigated or interviewed the participants involved in the four years since the crime. 21. All of these homicide victims were men with few exceptions of a woman victim, raped, tortured and shot whose father had previously received death threats (CHR, 1994, 98); a woman activist killed along with a group of PRD members in Oaxaca (CHR, 1994, 234) and a woman caught in the cross-re in Michoacn (CHR, 1994, 161). 22. Other homicides occurred during other types of anti-fraud protest rallies included marches in front of the Municipal Electoral Commission (Guerrero, 1989); an anti-fraud march to the airport (Guerrero, 1990); a protest rally against the PRI state governor (Guerrero, 1993); and various rallies at the local municipal palaces (CHR, 1994, 81, 108, 137, 172, 219, 233, 237, 240, 244). The PRD source claims that these were all pacic rallies in which the participants were unarmed. PRD case accounts also note various revenge killings of members a few days after their participation in anti-fraud rallies (CHR, 1994, 249, 292, 303, 313). 23. One can hypothesize that the 100-odd PRI deaths from electoral violence estimated for the 19882000 period probably occurred in the context of electoral stand-offs such as the one described here where ghts with the PRD led to death by beatings or gunre. 24. One PRD leader who represented a shermans cooperative was shot in a restaurant while meeting with a biologist in preparation of a legal case against a local chemical company allegedly polluting local sheries with toxic runoff (CHR, 1994, 63). 25. The Mexican results that political homicide stems from the perceived encroachment of the PRD onto the traditional social-populist electoral and political base of the PRI parallels previous ndings that a higher incidence of political violence is more likely to occur among parties that have a more relative parity. Booth (1972) found in Columbia
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(19481963) that political violence occurred where there was a relative parity of electoral forces between the main political parties the Liberals and the Conservatives. Columbian peasants became engaged in a political conict between the two traditional parties that extended along the geographic distribution of party loyalties between the two hostile camps (Booth, 1972, 68). 26. One PAN militant was killed in Naucalpn, Mexico in June 1999. In this case, a police ofcer was tried and convicted for murder (U.S. State Department, 1999, 4). 27. These included crimes committed by electoral functionaries, crimes committed by public servants in electoral material, crimes involving the attempt to alter the voting system, crimes against the system of popular election, crimes against freedom of meeting and of expression and crimes against the law to prevent and punish torture (SINBAD, 1997). New types of punishments and nes for violations of the secrecy and integrity of the vote (vote buying, intimidation of voters, coercion, stufng ballot boxes, voting more than once) were also signicantly strengthened as the result of new legislation. 28. In December 1999, there was also a back-log of 332 complaints, 272 of which were led in 1999. FEPADE did, however, register 160 cases involving the alteration of the voter registry in the 19971999 period. A limited budget, and thus the inability to establish state-level ofces, and the long travel distances to remote communities by its 170 person staff are also some of the difculties facing the new agency (WOLA, 2000, 2). 29. One Mexican human rights organization said that in 1999, political violence (politically-motivated murders, arbitrary detentions and cases of torture) had soared in the states of Oaxaca and Guerrero (Reuters, 1999). Perhaps in-coming PAN President Vicente Fox, who has called for a truce on all violence in Mexico, might succeed in halting the violence altogether. Other social forces have also strongly inuenced the movement toward lesser impunity including the introduction of the National Human Rights Commission (1991), the rise of the political rights movement out of the human rights movement (1994), and the rise of an independent federal electoral authority (1997). 30. Examples include violence by and against ETA in Spains democratization (19751980) (Clark, 1984, 133); and intimidation and violence of voters by Columbian rebels in local elections, to name a few. 31. Indeed, the partys founders Cuauhtmoc Crdenas and Porrio Muoz-Ledo were left-leaning former PRI polticos: governor of the state of Michoacn (19801986) and party leader of the PRI (19751976), respectively. Muoz-Ledo called the 1987 selection of Carlos Salinas de Gortari for president nothing but a disguised re-election which will perpetuate the rule by a counter-revolutionary clique . . . controlled by international nancial interests (quoted in Centeno, 1994, 1213). 32. Historically, many individuals who were victims of state repression in the 1970s went on to form the ranks of the PRD in 1988 although others adopted a revolutionary path to social change (Proceso, 2001). Jess Zambrano, the 2001 PRD secretary general, had been a leader of the September 23 Communist League in the 1970s and had been jailed for four years for his activism. Yet, other activists from the 1970s movements went on to form the ranks of the EZLN and other more direct action movements. As Zambrano notes, many in the September 23 Communist League rejected taking the electoral path in the late 1970s as a route of protest and dissent because they considered it petty-bourgeoisie (Proceso, 2001, 1). By March 2001, however, members of the EZLN and the PRD at the level of the rank and le are often solidaristic and many PRD activists participated in the Zapatour or the EZLNs march to Mexico City even though 289
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the PRD national leadership requested that its members participate only with a minor prole as a party member (Proceso, 2001, 2). 33. The PRD won the 1997 Mexico City regent race and a supermajoriy in the Mexico City legislature following important electoral reforms that enhanced the competitiveness of Mexicos elections. 34. Indirect evidence also suggests that many of these PRD leaders were likely to have been successful and possibly charismatic leaders. As one widow of a professor and PRD political activist murdered in 1994 noted, I feel like I dont have the power he had to organize people and to protest the atrocities of this government (Maulen, 2000, 1).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to acknowledge the support of Javier Gutirrez-Rexach, Joel Solomon, the anonymous reviewers of Research in Social Movements, Conict and Change, Paul Wahlbeck, and the National Science Foundation (Law and Social Change Program NSF grant, SES-0004402) for their suggestions, assistance and valuable contributions.
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APPENDIX
I. OLS Regression Analysis of Municipal Characteristics on PRD Homicide Victims, 1991.
Variable Literacy Indigenous Urban Wealth Concentration of Ejitarios Constant Standardized Coefcients 0.370 0.236 0.010 0.023 0.094 p-value 0.038*** 0.104 0.534 0.864 0.416 0.006
R2 = 0.075; Adjusted R2 = 0.009; N = 120.
II. Logit Regression Results of Major Social Problems on PRI, PRD and PAN Voters, 1997.
PRI voters Fraud Corruption Political Violence Education Poverty
Constant
2 log likelihood
PRD voters 0.548*** (0.091) 0.155*** (0.046) 0.335*** (0.090) 0.005** (0.010) 0.335*** (0.062)
1.2795 34425.649 89.052 5 1,984
PAN voters 0.027 (0.104) 0.352*** (0.014) 0.180** (0.091) 0.347*** (0.010) 0.459*** (0.066)
2.3545 33908.118 1207.948 5 986
0.544*** (0.105) 0.017** (0.040) 0.480*** (0.070) 0.280*** (0.096) 0.685*** (0.048)
0.0392 40706.771 327.186 5 3,018
X2 df Number of Cases
Note: Logistic regression coefcient with standard errors in parentheses. * p < 0.01; ** p < 0.05; *** p < 0.001. (one-tailed tests for all variables). Bold indicates positive p-value at 0.000 level.
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CAMPUS RACIAL DISORDERS AND COMMUNITY TIES, 19671969

Daniel J. Myers and Alexander J. Buoye
ABSTRACT
A common tactic in the analysis of the racial civil disorders of the 1960s has been to eliminate from data sets those events that occurred on university and college campuses. This procedure assumed a disjuncture between urban and campus collective violence, specically in that the former would be related to local economic and social conditions and the latter would not. As a result, campus racial riots have not been well represented in the research on the rioting of the 1960s and their place in, and contribution to, the riot wave are not well understood. Contrary to earlier assumptions, our analysis shows a strong connection between campuses and their local context. First, campuses having stronger ties to local communities had higher rates of racial disorder during 19671969. Second, economic competition indicators for the local community inuenced campus rioting, just as they inuenced inner-city rioting. We conclude by discussing the implications of omitting campus events from past riot research.
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INTRODUCTION
Racial collective violence has occupied an important place in the sociological literature not only because of its importance to the testing and development of theory in the area of collective behavior and social movements, but also because waves (such as the late 1960s) and even individual incidents of racial rioting (such as the aftermath of the Rodney King incident) bring race relations dramatically to the forefront of public consciousness, re-energizing race as an element of the political agenda. As such, the academic literature surrounding race and rioting is voluminous. Even the subset of studies we are concerned with in the present paper those examining the U.S. civil disorders of the 1960s is extremely large and continues to grow even though the wave of violence ended nearly 30 years ago (some recent examples of work in this area include Myers, 2000; 1997; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Olzak, Shanahan & McEneaney, 1996; Piven & Cloward, 1992; Carter, 1992, 1997; DiPasquale & Glaeser, 1998). The earliest studies of the local determinants of these civil disorders were conducted using a matched pair design in which riot cities were compared to non-riot cities (Lieberson & Silverman, 1965; Lemberg Center, 1968; McElroy & Singell, 1973). As the rioting accelerated, the possibility of nding matched pairs of riot and non-riot cities evaporated and analyses of event frequency and event severity became the standard approaches (Spilerman, 1970; 1971, 1972, 1976; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978a; Morgan & Clark, 1973; Carter, 1983, 1986, 1990). These studies were important in challenging a whole host of theories regarding the propensity for collective violence (see McPhail, 1994; Useem, 1998 for reviews). In particular, Spilermans studies concluded that only two factors were important in determining which cities were most likely to experience civil disorders: the size of the Black population in the city and whether or not it was located in the South. While many scholars had a difcult time accepting these conclusions, later studies that attempted to challenge Spilermans ndings did little more than reinforce them. Studies incorporating additional structural indicators produced only minor gains over Spilermans formulation gains so marginal that they were usually dismissed as statistical artifacts rather than meaningful processes. In the 1990s, the application of new theories and statistical techniques to the disturbance data began to produce a challenge to Spilermans conclusions. The three most important advances were the use of competition theory (Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Myers, 1997; Olzak, Shanahan & McEneaney, 1996), incorporation of diffusion notions (Myers, 1997, 1998, 2000), and the use of
Campus Racial Disorders
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survival time or event history modeling techniques. Re-casting rioting as an outcome of racial competition and desegregation revealed some social and economic effects that had been missed in prior research. Diffusion modeling showed that civil disorders were far from independent from one another and that distance and timing played important roles in determining when and where violent events would break out. Despite these advances, recent and earlier studies share a number of limitations. Beginning with Spilermans (1970) landmark study, analysts homogenized their data by focusing almost wholly on one type of event the spontaneous, extra-institutional civil disorder. While these kinds of events dominated the 1960s wave of disturbances, they were not the only kind that occurred and a consequential number of other kinds of disorders were ignored. After Spilerman made the decision to analyze only spontaneous, extra-institutional events, other analysts followed suit, in part to provide comparability with Spilermans important studies, but also for substantive reasons. For example, Spilerman (1970) eliminated disorders that occurred in institutions (thereby excluding all events that occurred at schools and colleges) reasoning that the structural processes thought to underlie ghetto disorders would not be relevant to campus disorders. Instead, it seemed that campus disturbances would be more likely to arise over an intra-institutional conict, and therefore would be subject to a completely different set of inuences than outbreaks on urban streets. While this view of the campus drove the omission of campus disorders from most studies of the period, some scholars at least asserted a different view. For example, Long and Foster (1970) concluded that while much campus protest dealt with intra-institutional issues, protest involving militant tactics (including race-related rioting) seem more often to be a function of radical ideology among the students rather than any particular pattern of institutional conicts. Despite these different assertions about campus disturbances, no systematic empirical evidence has been brought to bear on this question. At this point in time, we know very little about what role campus collective violence played in the wave of racial civil disorders in the 1960s. What were their causes? Did they reect conditions in the local community? How were they related to the street violence? Our results provide some initial answers to these questions. First, we show that campus disorder is not independent of local economic and social conditions. Second, we nd that there are differences in college disturbance rates that stem from the colleges ties to the local community. These results combined suggest that there is greater continuity between campus and street disorders than previously thought and call for a reconsideration of the role of the campus in the riot wave.
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Campus Populations and Racial Disorders The Higher Education Act of 1965, other federal legislation, and a growing effort by many colleges to recruit disadvantaged Black students led to a transformation of the typical Black collegian in the late 1960s (Long, 1970). Prior to these developments, African-American college students were not typically from the ghetto community. Instead, they were more likely to come from middle-class backgrounds and, as such, were unlikely to be consumed by the conditions of the urban ghetto. The entering disadvantaged students, however, were more in touch with the plight of the urban Blacks. Long (1970) argues that the inux of these disadvantaged students brought a new Black consciousness to American campuses in the late 1960s, helping to drive a protest movement concerned with issues of racial inequality and discrimination. Thus, the Black student presence on American campuses in the late 60s brought a new point of view, one that was considerably more connected to the national consciousness of racial strife and to the race-related conditions of local communities in which college campuses existed. As much as local conditions may have found their way onto campuses and found expression in campus protest, it is not our view that all campuses were equally susceptible to this inuence. In fact, we expect considerable heterogeneity among schools in terms of their responsiveness to local conditions. We expect this responsiveness to directly reect the strength of ties between the student body and the local community. If the university is national in scope and few of its students come from the local community or even from the same state, it is highly unlikely that they will know much about local conditions or be responsive to them. It is this situation that motivated analysts to drop campus events from their studies in the rst place. Consider the likelihood that campus racial disorders at Yale would be reective of unemployment among Blacks in New Haven. The link between these two populations is so weak that it is very difcult to imagine a scenario in which one group would take to the streets in a violent protest of the conditions experienced by the other. On the other hand, if the student body is drawn primarily from the local community or is at least demographically representative of city dwellers who were taking to the streets in their own riotous protests, then we should expect the campus to be considerably more responsive. In essence, the student body that does have strong community ties is partially made up of the same people who riot in the streets. There is no reason we should expect these students to lay down their ideology or grievances at the doorstep to the university. Even if they were not the same people who were rioting in the streets, demographic and socio-economic similarity might increase empathic collective action.
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Consider the case of San Francisco State, the campus that had the most disorders during the period we studied. The student body at San Francisco State was 95% in-state students, 80% commuters, and 30% minority (compared to 9% instate, 0% commuter and 12% minority at Yale). If Blacks in San Francisco were protesting their collective condition via rioting, it seems quite likely that this activity would be brought onto campus as well. A second reason that community ties may increase disorder on campus is the possibility of a diffusion effect. It is now reasonably well established that collective violence and other types of protest behavior are in some sense contagious (Strang & Soule, 1998; Myers, 1997, 2000; Olzak, 1992, 1987; McAdam, 1983; Oberschall, 1980, 1989; Hedstrom, 1994)1 and since many have observed that campus disorder followed urban disorder in sequence (e.g. Baskin et al., 1971; Lieske, 1978b), it seems likely that campus disorder may, in some cases, be responding not only to conditions in the community, but also to events in the community. This possibility of diffusion further implies the importance of community ties since there must be some conduit through which contagious inuence must ow. In other words, socially isolated campuses should experience considerably less civil disorder than campuses with direct community ties, due to their weaker links with urban disorder. Our rst general hypothesis, then, is that campuses with stronger community ties will experience more racial disorders. First, we operationalize the notion of community ties through the percentage of the student body that commutes to the college or university for classes. Although being a commuter student does not necessarily guarantee that the student is highly involved in the local community or even that he or she lives in the local community, commuter student campuses, on the average, should reect local conditions more than residential campuses, and should therefore be more likely to engage in violent protest. Second, we examine the percentage of in-state students as a measure of how national a university or college is. We predict that universities with national draws will have considerably fewer local ties and therefore experience fewer collective violence events. College-Level Control Variables Before reasonable conclusions can be drawn using these indicators of community ties, controls must be entered for the size of the campus minority population and for university prestige. As in Spilermans studies and those that followed, disorder rates during this period are inextricably connected to the population available. Parallel to any phenomenon, the more Black students on campus, the more likely it is that there will be Black-initiated collective violence. Therefore we include the percentage of the student body that is non-White,
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expecting that as it increases, so should disorder. The percent minority not only provides a necessary control for examining the relationship of commuter and in-state population to disorder (given that these may be confounded with high minority populations), but it also provides another operationalization of community ties in that the community ties we are concerned with for the Black civil disorders of the 1960s are ties to the Black community.2 More Black students on campus means not only more people drawn from the aggrieved population, but also more identication among the students with the community and more representation of this communitys concerns on campus. With respect to university prestige, previous research on campus riots has consistently found that student activism, in general, is more prevalent at elite institutions (Bloom, 1987; Feuer, 1969; Lipset, 1971; Orbell, 1971; Soule, 1997; Van Dyke, 1994). Flacks (1970) argues that one source of this effect may be that student activists/protesters tend to be more academic than non-activists and that student activists are disproportionately recruited from high-income, high-education families a student prole more likely to be found at prestigious institutions. Similarly, Lipset (1971) found that the best colleges, as determined by faculty prominence and research, attract a disproportionate number of students who think of themselves as activists. Whether the mechanism driving this pattern is simply a process of self-selection or results from these institutions encouraging student protest activity, the prestige control is necessary since it is likely to be collinear with disorder and community ties. Likewise, we expect that some of the community tie variables are collinear with the status of the college as private or public, and whether or not it has a religious afliation (see Appendix A). We expect private and religious schools to have lower event rates not just because the compositions of their student bodies are, on the average, quite different than public colleges but also because the level of control exerted over the students and their daily lives is much greater in private and religious colleges than in public colleges.3 Structural and Economic Conditions in the Cities If ties between the campus and community are strong, and if community disorders are related to local structural and economic conditions, then we should also expect that campus disturbance rates should also be related to local and structural and economic conditions. We should not be too optimistic about nding such effects, however, because it has been notoriously difcult to locate city structural conditions that have an impact on urban disorder (e.g. Spilerman, 1970, 1971, 1976; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978a; Carter, 1983, 1986; review by McPhail, 1994). Nevertheless, recent analyses using competition theory (see
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especially Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Olzak, Shanahan & McEneaney, 1996; Myers, 1997) have provided promising evidence that population characteristics and economic conditions do predict civil disorder, so the covariates used in those studies provide the most reasonable place to begin examining the effects of local condition on campus disorders. But because there is heterogeneity in the strength of the ties between campuses and cities, the link between structural conditions and campus disturbances will almost necessarily be weaker than the link between structural conditions and city disturbances. Competition theory is driven by the notion that when two or more groups compete for a pool of scarce resources, the result is conict. This conict is exacerbated when either the demand for the resources goes up or the supply goes down (Park, 1950; Lieberson, 1980; Olzak, 1992). Olzaks (1992) variant ties this process of competition to ethnic and racial collective violence via three mechanisms. First, labor market segregation breaks down and introduces new competition in labor market segments that were once separate. Second, immigration increases competition directly by introducing new competitors for jobs. Third, any economic downturn reduces the supply of jobs and increases all competition for employment. When extending Olzaks arguments to racial violence, Myers (1997) suggested that it was not merely increased competition per se that caused disorder, but losing the competition that led people to express their grievances on the street. In other words, analysts needed to employ outcome measures for Blacks in order to link labor market competition losses to rioting. Following Myers lead, we use non-White unemployment as an indicator of increased competition in labor markets that hurt Blacks. Reecting Olzaks immigration argument, we used the percent foreign-born in each city to capture the effects of recent immigration on the labor market. Finally, to represent the general economic conditions in each city, we use the median income for all residents and the overall unemployment rate. City-Level Control Variables If there are any consistent ndings in the literature on the racial collective violence of the 1960s, they are that: (1) the number of Blacks who live in a city strongly predicts the amount of disorder in that city, and (2) the rate of disorder was relatively depressed in the south. These ndings have been robust in study after study (Spilerman, 1970, 1971, 1976; Carter, 1983, 1986; Jiobu, 1971; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Myers, 1997, 1998, 2000;) and therefore they must be incorporated as controls in tests concerned with the disorders of the 1960s. The logic behind the population variable is simply that Black initiated disorders require the
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participation of Black people, and therefore as any population increases, so does the opportunity for it to produce a collective violence event. The source of the negative south effect is somewhat more contentious, but it is usually attributed to either repressive race relations in the south that would dissuade Blacks from taking to the streets (Spilerman, 1970) or the high levels of civil rights protest in the south that would drain protest energy away from the violent events (Oberschall, 1980). Because of the importance of these two variables in past studies of urban collective violence, we examined them in the college context as well.
DATA AND METHODS

Dependent Variable: Campus Racial Disorders Although a number of data sets tabulating racial disorders in the 1960s have been collected (e.g. Spilerman, 1970; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Jiobu, 1971; Carter, 1983, 1986) none of these is adequate for the present purposes because these data sets and others like them purposely eliminated events that occurred in school settings.4 As discussed above, analysts were primarily interested in the effects of community, economic, and structural conditions on the likelihood of disorder, and reasoned that community conditions would not be likely to have much impact on campus disorder. Because they did not collect information on campus disorders, it was necessary to compile new data for the present study. Our tabulation of campus racial disorders is derived from tabulations of racerelated civil disorders compiled by The Lemberg Center for the Study of Violence. The Lemberg Center operated at Brandeis University from 19661974 and conducted a number of different studies of racial violence and race relations in the United States. Among its many efforts, the center systematically collected news clippings that reported racial disorders in the United States. Although the news clippings were collected for the entire period of 19671972, only the disorders from 19671969 were systematically compiled.5 These compilations were published in the centers Riot Data Review (for part of 1968) and as U.S. Race-Related Civil Disorders (for the remainder of 1968 through 1969). The compilations for 1967 were never published, but a microlm record was maintained in the centers archives. Using these compilations, we extracted all those events that occurred on college or university campuses. In total, we identied 149 race-related disorder events on 100 different college campuses. These institutions represent a surprisingly diverse cross-section of schools, ranging widely in size, minority student population, location, and pubic/private status. Appendix B lists the institutions included in the sample.
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In compiling these data, the Lemberg Center dened a civil disorder as an event involving crowd behavior that resulted in either property damage or personal injury, deance of civil authority, or aggressive disruptions which violate civil law, the latter primarily intended to capture building seizures. Race-related civil disorders were further qualied to include aggressive or violent behavior by members of one racial or ethnic group6 against members of another or their symbolic equivalents (Baskin et al., 1971). Studies of collective violence have used differing numbers of participants as criterion for determining that the action was collective. Although it is difcult to unequivocally justify any particular number, the Lemberg Center chose a relatively small number of participants (four) as the criterion for attributing crowd behavior to an incident. This level of participation has been common in prior research on these civil disorders (see for example Lieske, 1978a, 1978b). Examining only the 100 schools that experienced disorders could produce sample selection bias because there would be no comparison with schools that did not experience events. To address this problem, we generated a sample of non-disorder schools and added them to our sample. These schools comprised a simple random sample of all colleges that were operating during the 196768 academic year (Gourman, 1967). Of the 50 selected, 6 had experienced disorders and therefore a total of 44 non-disorder schools were added resulting in a total sample of 144 schools.7 Information regarding college and university characteristics was gathered from The College Handbook (1972), American Universities and Colleges (1968), and The Gourman Report (1967). Independent Variables College-Level Covariates The college characteristics relevant to our hypotheses include the percentage of the student body that comes from within the state, the percentage of the students that are commuters (rather than living in campus housing), and the percentage of the student body that is non-White (minority). The percent minority is an obvious variable for inclusion in the study given that prior studies of civil disorders have found occurrence rates tightly tied to the composition of populations at-risk. The in-state and commuter variables are used to indicate how tightly tied the campus student population is to the local community. The justication for these variables is discussed in more detail above. (Table 1 provides descriptive statistics for each independent variable in the study).8 To indicate the prestige of each college or university, we use the Gourman rank detailed in the Gourman Report. This rating incorporates a large number of factors ranging from faculty qualications, to student services, to administration
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Table 1. City and College Level Descriptive Statistics.

Variable Mean St Dev 212914.7 1.7 4480.4 4.5 3090.8 27.4 34.3 30.5 114.3 0.50 0.43 0.44 124189.4 Minimum 6 1.2 0 0 3025 5 0 1 297 0 0 0 0 Maximum 1803348 11.7 32162 21.6 35630 100 100 100 772 1 1 1 1017776
City Level (N = 122) Non-White Population 64132.9 Unemployment Rate 4.4 Total Blacks Unemployed 1466.7 Percent Foreign-Born 4.6 Median Income 9881.3 College Level (N = 144) Percent In-state 71.5 Percent Commuter 40.9 Percent Minority 26.8 Gourman Rank 416.9 Private (Dummy) 0.51 Religious (Dummy) 0.25 Private, Non-religious (Dummy) 0.26 Endowment (100s of Dollars) 40464.2
and individual department ratings. The schools in our study range from a high Gourman Ranking of 772 (Princeton University) to a low of 297 (shared by several schools including University of Texas at Arlington and Chicago City College). The Gourman ranking has been used in a number of studies as a prestige indicator (e.g. Soule, 1997; Eckberg, 1988). A second prestige-related indicator is the endowment of the university ranging from a low of zero to a high of $101,777,600 (Harvard University). Both of these variables have been found to be related to activism and protest on university campuses. We also categorized each college as either public or private and also whether or not it had a religious afliation. For our analysis, we divided these into three groups: Private religious colleges, private non-religious colleges, and public colleges. Approximately one-half of the colleges in the study were private and about one-half of the private colleges were religious. City-Level Covariates City-level covariates were chosen from prior studies of civil disorder and city-level economic and structural conditions. Although many variables have been examined by prior analysts, few have been found to be signicant predictors of city-level differences in collective violence rates (see Spilerman, 1970, 1976; Myers, 1997; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978a). The six variables we selected specically reect variables that have successfully predicted disorder in prior studies of competition processes and rioting (esp.
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Myers, 1997; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996). Five of these were drawn from census data (non-White population, number of Blacks unemployed, percent foreign born, median income and the overall unemployment rate in the city). The nal variable was a dummy variable indicating whether or not the city was located in the south. We dened the south following Spilerman (1970; see Table 3 for the list of southern states). Estimation Method Cox partial likelihood models were used to obtain estimates in the present study (Cox, 1972) and therefore the dependent variable is formally the hazard rate of event occurrence. Cox regression does not require the analyst to specify the form of the baseline hazard, thereby making the maximization procedure dependent only on the estimated values of the hypothesized covariates.9 The coefcients generated can be interpreted by taking eb, where b is the estimated coefcient. This produces the amount by which the hazard is multiplied for each unit increase in the related independent variable. Time is treated as continuous since events can begin at any point in time and are not necessarily bounded by discrete time intervals.10 The time until the event is measured in days, starting from 1/1/67 with a right-censoring time of 12/31/69. Although event history model estimation techniques effectively address the difculties associated with right censoring, left censoring also exists in this and many other studies that use survival time analysis. The left censoring problem arises whenever we are not certain when each unit rst became at risk for experiencing an event. This is clearly the case in the present study, but as of yet, viable techniques for defeating the left-censoring problem have not been fully developed. The best we can do is to note that few campus events appeared prior to the beginning of 1967, meaning that in large part, campuses were not at risk prior to this time. This pattern is not surprising when one considers campus racial disorder in the context of the Higher Education Act of 1965. Combined with other legislation of the same period, this act began changing the composition of the college student body, but the inux of these presumably more aggrieved Black students did not have much impact on predominantly White institutions until the spring of 1967. Prior to this time, most reforms were aimed exclusively at improving historically Black colleges rather than recruiting disadvantaged Black students for universities in general (Long, 1970).11 Furthermore, many scholars have made the point that disorders in schools (secondary and post-secondary) seemed to have followed in the wake of urban street violence (Lieske, 1978b; Ritterband & Silberstein, 1973; Baskin et al., 1971). Generally speaking, this means that
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campuses became at risk for collective violence relatively late in the event cycle and therefore left-censoring is a somewhat diminished concern. Of the 100 colleges that experienced disorders during the study period, 28 experienced more than one event. The highest number occurred at San Francisco State University where 8 disorders were recorded. To handle these multiple observations on a single unit, we rst created a record for each risk spell. This means that each school contributes risk spells equal to the number of events plus one: Schools experiencing no events have one censored record; schools experiencing one event have two records, one ending when the event occurs and a subsequent right-censored case; schools with two events have two uncensored spells followed by a censored spell, and so forth. Using these data arrangements, time is reset after each event and the entire set of observations is pooled prior to model estimation (Allison, 1984). Because this procedure violates assumptions regarding the independence of observations,12 we corrected standard error estimates by using the robust variance estimation procedure for Cox regression developed by Lin and Wei (1989) to correct for clustering of observations from single units.13
RESULTS
Our results demonstrate a number of relationships between campus characteristics and campus disorders as well as between city characteristics and campus disorders. The results also make it clear that college characteristics are not independent of city characteristics and therefore city characteristics also have indirect effects on campus disorder through college characteristics. These results, in sum, support our view that local conditions had relevance for campus collective violence, just as they did for street disorder, and that ties between the community and the college help to usher collective violence onto college campuses. Campus Characteristics Control Variables Before discussing the results related to the indicators of college-community ties, we will briey discuss the control variables included in the model. In addition to providing important controls for the study, these variables have substantive meaning of their own in terms of their effect on disorder rates. To begin with, it would not be reasonable to conduct any analysis of racial disorder without controlling for the composition of the population at risk for an event. As has been found in many studies, disorders increase as the population of potential
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participants grows (Spilerman, 1970, 1971; Myers, 1997; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978). Therefore, we include the percentage of the student body that is identied as minority and not surprisingly, nd a strong positive relationship with disorder (see Table 2).14 The second set of control variables indicates the college or universitys status as religious, private, or public. Our results indicate that colleges with religious afliations had less than one-half the hazard of disorder than public colleges and universities.15 Private, non-religious schools also appear to have a somewhat lower tendency to experience disorder than public ones (15 to 37% lower hazards across the three models). The difference between privates (religious and non-religious) and publics is diminished by collinearity with the percent-instate when it is added to the models. This is not entirely surprising given that private colleges and universities, by and large, have a greater percentage of out-of-state students than do public schools, but the negative relationship between private status and commuting is not anywhere near as strong (see Appendix A). Thus, one may conclude that the negative effect of private status on the event hazard in Model 1 may be due in part to the higher Table 2. Estimates of the Effects of School Characteristics on the Event Hazard.
Model 1 Percent Instate Percent Commuter Percent Minority Gourman Rank Religious (Dummy) Private, Non-religious (Dummy) Public (omitted) Endowment ( 10-5) Model 2 (df)a 0.00841*** (0.0023) 0.00972*** (0.0025) 0.00414*** (0.00093) 0.998*** (0.21) 0.444** (0.17) 0.0186 (0.042) 65.1(6)*** Model 2 0.0139*** (0.0042) Model 3 0.00910* (0.0040) 0.00641** (0.0023) 0.0104*** (0.0026) 0.00461*** (0.00095) 0.754*** (0.33) 0.239 (0.17) 0.00365 (0.040) 65.6(7)*** Model 4
0.0102*** (0.0025) 0.00428*** (0.00087) 0.729*** (0.22) 0.159 (0.19) 0.00286 (0.044) 61.1(6)***
0.00849*** (0.0023) 0.00968*** (0.0025) 0.00403*** (0.00080) 1.00*** (0.21) 0.462** (0.16)
61.1(5)***
* p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001 (two-tailed tests). Robust SEs in parentheses. a Model 2 represents the results of a Wald test comparing the model with the null model.
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percentage of out-of-state students. This nding also supports our hypothesis regarding community ties and collective violence rates. Using our two indicators of institutional prestige, endowment and Gourman ranking, we nd a positive relationship with disorder. The endowment level does not appear to be a signicant contributor to disorder, although the lack of effect is due mainly to collinearity with the Gourman ranking. If entered into models excluding the Gourman rank, endowment has a small positive effect on the hazard. Because the Gourman rank appears to completely supersede the endowment as a prestige-related predictor, endowment is dropped from further analysis.16 Institutional prestige, therefore, actually increases the event hazard. For each point on the Gourman scale, the hazard increases about 0.4 to 0.5 of a percentage point (over the 4 models presented in Table 2). This amounts to about a 60% increase in the disorder rate over a one standard deviation unit increase in the Gourman rank.17 This nding is consistent with other elements of social movement theory and prior research on the characteristics of rioters (discussed further below). Campus Characteristics Indicating Ties to Local Communities In Models 1, 2, and 3 of Table 2, we see that the percent commuter and the percent in-state both had signicant and positive relationships with the disorder hazard after controlling for the minority population at the school, prestige, and the public/private/religious nature of the school. Although both models support our hypotheses, the percentage of in-state students is necessarily tied to the percent commuter and therefore we expected strong collinearity between the two indicators (see Appendix A). To make their joint and individual contributions to the event hazard clearer, we present models including each variable separately as well as simultaneously. Model 1 presents the results for the commuter variable. The coefcient indicates that for every increase of 1% in the commuter student base, the hazard is multiplied by 0.8%. Over the range of the commuter variable, this amounts to a more than doubling of the disorder rate and more than a 33% increase in the rate from a one standard deviation unit increase in the percent commuter. This nding suggests strongly that community ties did, in fact, play a substantial role in producing campus disorder. Further evidence is provided in Model 2, which substitutes the in-state percentage variable for the commuter student variable. Again, the coefcient is signicant and positive indicating that an increase of one percent in the in-state population increases the hazard by 1.4%. Again, this amounts to a massive increase in disorder over the entire range of the in-state variable (a 375% increase in risk) and a substantial increase over a single standard deviation unit
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increase (a 46% increase). Net of other variables, this means that national universities that draw their students from all over the U.S. (and beyond) experienced less disorder net of the effects of prestige and minority population. This nding is strongly supportive of the notion that a lack of local ties among the student body reduces collective violence. A full model with all college-level covariates is presented as Model 3 of Table 2. The results are generally consistent with prior models with respect to the indicators of community ties. The effects of both the in-state and commuter variables are degraded through their strong collinearity, however, and in fact the percent in-state variable is now only marginally signicant. Given that the improvement in model t of Model 3 over Model 1 is so small (by comparing the model chi-square statistics)18 and because the commuter indicator seems to be a better indicator of local connection, the percent-in-state was dropped from further analyses. Likewise, we drop the endowment variable from the remainder of the analyses given its statistical and conceptual overlap with the Gourman rank. Community Conditions Having established that college campuses that have greater ties to local communities are more likely to experience collective violence, we now turn to the question of conditions in the local community and how they are reected in campus disorder rates. Contrary to the assumptions of prior studies, we nd that the structural and economic conditions of cities do inuence campus disorder, although not in exactly the same ways as for street disorder. We begin in Table 3 by presenting single independent variable Cox models demonstrating the bivariate relationships between the structural and economic indicators and the event hazard. The two baseline indicators that have been so powerful in prior studies, the size of the Black population (proxied by the natural logarithm of the number of non-Whites in each city)19 and a dummy indicator for the South (see Table 3 for the denition of the South), are not particularly strong predictors of campus disorder. The non-White population has a marginally signicant, positive effect on disorder, while the South indicator has no signicant effect. The small effect of the Black population size is not a big surprise because it is the population composition on campus, rather than in the city, that would best reect the demographic opportunity logic that has been tied to this variable. Some effect, however, is expected because the demographics of cities should be reected to some degree on nearby campuses. In fact, we expect that when the city population and the campus population are examined together, we should observe an indirect effect of city non-White population on campus disorder via the
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Table 3.
Bivariate Estimates of the Effects of City Characteristics on the Event Hazard.

Model 1 Model 2 Model 3 Model 4 Model 5 Model 6
Ln Non-White Population
0.161* (0.064) 0.108 (0.180) 0.103*** (0.031) 0.064*** (0.018) 0.00001 (0.00001) 0.0533 (0.048) 6.3(1)* 0.36(1) 11.1(1)*** 13.3(1)*** 0.63(6) 1.2(1)
South (dummy)a Ln No. of Blacks Unemployed Percent Foreign Born Median Income Unemployment Rate Model 2 (df)
* p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001 (two-tailed tests). Robust SEs in parentheses. South = Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, N. Carolina, Oklahoma, S. Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Virginia, and W. Virginia.
campus minority population size (below). The lack of a South effect comes as a greater surprise and its ramications are taken up more fully in the discussion. The remaining variables examined in Table 2 reect the competition arguments of Olzak and others and are directly parallel to those that found support in Myers (1997). First, the logged number of unemployed Blacks is included as a measure of labor market competition that affects Blacks. Our results demonstrate that Black unemployment in the city increases the rate of disorder on college campuses in those cities. Apparently, it is possible for college students to react to conditions in the local environment in some of the same ways that urban dwellers do. The second competition-related variable reects minority group migration that may increase competition in labor market segments traditionally occupied by Blacks. This variable, the percent foreignborn, also has a strong positive effect on disorder, increasing the hazard by 6.6% for every one percentage point increase. Again, competition in the city appears to have ramications for campus disorder just as it does for street events. A nal element of competition theory predicts that general economic contraction will spur competition and lead to increased collective violence. Our
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two indicators of the general economic condition in cities, the median overall income and the overall unemployment rate, do not have signicant relationships with campus event hazards. While it appears that college racial disorder was responsive to city conditions that are related specically to the Black population, more general economic conditions did not play much of a role in campus disorder. The nal analyses, given in Table 4, combine the results of the tests of college covariates with a step-wise combination of signicant variables from the city-level covariates. These models serve to illuminate collinearities between the two sets of variables, thereby allowing us to posit a model of indirect effects among the variables (see Fig. 1). Model 1 includes the size of the Black population in the city, which is strongly collinear with the percent minority at the related college. In fact, neither variable produces a signicant effect when both are entered into the model. We interpret this to mean that the percent minority at many colleges is a direct outcome of the number of minorities in the local community and therefore, that the size of the minority population in the community has an indirect effect on the disorder rate via the campus minority population. Again, this supports our notion that links to the community, and in this case the minority community, are important in determining what happens on campus. Model 2 shows that Black unemployment has a surprisingly strong relationship with the percent commuter. This simply means that colleges with high commuter ratios are likely to be located in areas where there is high Black unemployment. One source of this relationship may be that commuter colleges are located near large Black populations and therefore, by default, are near high numbers of unemployed Blacks. The results of Model 4 do not substantiate such logic, however. When the non-White population is added to the Model 2, there is virtually no change in the effect of either percent commuter or of Black unemployment. These results do imply, however, that Black unemployment has an indirect effect on campus disorder via the percent commuter (see Fig. 1) in addition to its direct effects. Finally, the percent foreign-born is examined in Models 3 and 5 and has a signicant positive effect on disorder. This indicator is also strongly collinear with Black unemployment, which further emphasizes the importance of competition in labor markets for producing collective violence. As Myers (1997) argued, recent immigration provides substantial added competition for Blacks because immigrants disproportionately target labor market niches dominated by Blacks. The additional pressure on these labor market segments increases Black unemployment and builds antipathy between Blacks and recent immigrants, which in turn generates higher rates of collective violence. In other words,
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College Covariates Percent Commuter Percent Minority Gourman Rank Religious (Dummy) Private, Non-religious (Dummy) Public (omitted) City Covariates Ln Non-White Population Ln No. of Blacks Unemployed Percent Foreign Born Model 2 (df)
* p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001 (two-tailed tests). Robust SEs in parentheses.
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Table 4.
Estimates of the Effects of School and City Characteristics.

Model 1 0.00807*** (0.0023) 0.00738 (0.0052) 0.00395*** (0.00080) 0.994*** (0.21) 0.462** (0.16) Model 2 0.00458 (0.0028) 0.00868*** (0.0026) 0.00361*** (0.00077) 1.08*** (0.20) 0.508** (0.17) Model 3 0.00383 (0.0023) 0.0105*** (0.0025) 0.00292*** (0.00074) 1.05*** (0.21) 0.554*** (0.17) Model 4 0.00414 (0.0029) 0.00644 (0.0056) 0.00353*** (0.00077) 1.08*** (0.20) 0.509** (0.17) Model 5 0.00234 (0.0028) 0.0109 (0.0059) 0.00284*** (0.00075) 1.09*** (0.21) 0.573*** (0.17)
0.0712 (0.15) 0.0707* (0.32) 0.046** (0.18) 81.9(6)***
0.0699 (0.16) 0.0706* (0.32)
61.6(6)***
73.9(6)***
74.8(7)***
0.0270 (0.16) 0.0369 (0.34) 0.0413* (0.20) 93.4(8)***
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Fig. 1.
Model of the Determinants of Campus Racial Disorder.
recent immigration has not only a direct effect on violence rates, but also an indirect effect via Black unemployment (see Fig. 1).
DISCUSSION
Contrary to the assumptions made by earlier analyses of civil disorder, our analysis suggests that campus racial disorder was not a completely distinct phenomenon from urban racial disorders during the 1960s. Earlier analysts studying structural and economic contributions to civil disorder believed they could ignore campus events because it seemed unlikely that students on campus would be responding to conditions in the community around them. Campus disorder was seen as a completely different kind of phenomenon one that was focused on institutional problems as opposed to community conditions. Our results, however, call this conjecture into question. In fact, there are several pieces of evidence that conditions in the local environment did contribute to campus disorders. First of all, we found that the covariates predicting campus disorders have important similarities to those that predicted street disorders. For example, there
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is the indefatigable nding that the availability of potential participants is one of the most important predictors of rioting. In prior studies of urban disorder, the demographic presence of Blacks was the single most important predictor of the frequency and severity of collective violence events. This pattern (not surprisingly) holds up strongly in our data as well. Second, there are direct effects of city characteristics on the rate of campus disorder. It is, of course, unlikely that extremely strong ties would exist between local economic and structural conditions and campus violence because these links were not particularly strong even for street violence. But if earlier analysts were correct, we should see weaker ties between local conditions and campus disorder than has been detected between local conditions and street disorder. In opposition to this perspective, we nd substantial links between campus collective violence and local conditions. When we re-examined competition theory arguments, we nd that both Black unemployment and the percent foreign-born predict campus events in much the same way that they predicted urban disorders in Myers (1997) study. On the other hand, campus disorder did not behave exactly like urban disorder because it was not as responsive to local wages or the overall unemployment rate. These results combined mean that campus disorders were most responsive to local conditions that were salient to Blacks and less responsive to the general economic conditions that affected both Blacks and Whites. Given the kinds of relationships that exist between campus collective violence and local conditions, it seems obvious that not all campuses would be equally responsive to these conditions. In fact, if on-campus behavior at all reects local conditions and further reects those conditions that specically affect Blacks, we would expect that campuses with stronger ties to the local community and to the local Black community should experience the most disorder. This is exactly what we demonstrate in the campus portion of our results. Campuses with higher minority populations, higher numbers of commuters, and higher numbers of in-state students all had higher rates of disorder. In essence, there should be a greater reection of community values and actions on these campuses because part of the community has been transplanted onto the campus. In addition, the collinearity that exists between campus and community indicators points out the importance of the indirect effects of city conditions on campus civil disorder and therefore serves to reinforce our view that continuity in political orientation and action exists between local communities and some kinds of college campuses. At this point, it is difcult to maintain the argument that local conditions for Blacks were irrelevant to campus rioters. Our results, of course, do not refute the scenario we described earlier in which it was assumed that if Yale students
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rioted, it would not be in response to conditions in the New Haven area; but an across-the-board application of this kind of reasoning to all college and university racial disorder is not valid. We conclude, therefore, that without understanding the place of the college campus in the 1960s wave of racial civil disorder, the research record is at best incomplete and may even be distorted. Implications for Past Studies Our results present new dilemmas for interpreting disorder research of the past. One possibility is that the kind of disorder observed on campuses was not fundamentally different or distinct from urban civil disorder. If so, the elimination of these events from prior studies may have produced biased results. For example, the effects of variables found to be signicant in the present study and prior studies may have been underestimated in prior studies. For example, Black unemployment was tied to disorder in this study and in Myers (1997), and since campus events were not included in the data Myers used (see Spilerman, 1970 for a description of the data), the effect of Black unemployment may have been underestimated. Other variables that may have achieved signicance with the increased power of a pooled sample (including both campus and urban disorders) may have been discarded along with the theoretical constructs they represented. Concerns are also raised by our failure to nd signicant effects where previous studies have. Consider, for example, our failure to nd a regional effect. Prior studies have consistently noted that racial disturbances during the 1960s occurred at a lower rate and with less intensity in the south than elsewhere in the country (e.g. Spilerman, 1970, 1971, 1976; Carter, 1983, 1986; Myers, 1998, 2000). Because we failed to nd this effect among campus events, it may be that this effect has been over-stated in past studies. Even if the south effect is robust after incorporating campus events into the general analysis of racial rioting, the difference between southern campuses and southern urban areas has substantive implications about the source of regional differences in disturbance rates and implications for theory about protest. One traditional explanation for lower rates of collective violence in the south has been that the culture of race relations in the south repressed rioting through threat of ruthless reprisal (Spilerman, 1970). If this repressive dynamic were operating, it does not appear from our results that it had any affect on college students. Some might argue that because college students are insulated from the local community that these repressive threats had less impact. Our study contradicts this view because if campus insulation were operating, those campuses that were most insulated would be the most likely to experience disorders. We found just the
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opposite: Campuses with the strongest ties to the community and to the Black community were the most likely to experience disorders. A second popular explanation for lower disorder rates in the south has been that non-violent civil rights protest exhausted protest energy that otherwise would have been spent on rioting. Again, the differences between campuses and urban environments in terms of the south effect contradict this notion. If civil rights activism depressed violent protest, it certainly would depress disorder more on campuses than in urban environments the extremely high levels of civil rights activism on campuses and among college students are well documented but, just the opposite pattern is observed in our data. The functioning of regional repression in the violence wave and the relationship between non-violent and violent protest must be re-thought in light of the patterns documented here. As important as all these concerns are for racial disorders that occurred on campuses, they are even more critical when we consider disorder that occurred in secondary schools. In prior studies of civil disorder, school events that were eliminated were not only those that occurred on college campuses, but also those on high school and junior high school grounds. In virtually all cases, local communities are much more tightly tied to secondary schools than they are to colleges. As a result, we would expect to nd even greater connections between secondary school racial disruption and the conditions in the local community. All of our previous concerns about underestimating predictor effects apply doubly so in the case of school events.20 Future Analyses While these ndings shed more light on events during the riot era, they also identify a number of unresolved issues where additional investigation is necessary. First, there is the effect of the size of the commuter student population. While the effect of a larger commuting population is substantial, the mechanism driving this effect is not completely clear. Having more commuter students indicates a stronger link between campus and the local community, but commuter students also tend to be on campus mainly during the day and when classes are in session. As a result, they may often not be present in evening and night-time hours when most riotous violence occurs. Therefore, we do not know at this point if commuter students directly increase disorder by participating in disorders on campus or if the effect comes indirectly, perhaps from commuter students increasing other students consciousness about local race relations, economic conditions, rioting, and rhetoric surrounding local collective violence thereby producing empathic, rather than grievance-driven, protest.
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Second, the effect of institutional prestige (as measured by the Gourman rank), which strongly increases the rate of disorder, is not completely straightforward. According to the community ties argument, we would expect students at highly prestigious universities to have low levels of ties with the local population and therefore to have low levels of disorder. The reasons we would expect this, though, have to do with students being from out-of-state, being non-minority students, or having other differences derived from the schools status as private, religion-afliated, or wealthy. Because all these variables are controlled in the analysis we must decide exactly what the Gourman ranking indicates beyond these factors. If rating systems like Gourmans have any validity, they should in some way tap the quality of education received by students at the school. Obviously, rating systems conate many other issues such as the social and economic backgrounds of students, the relative wealth of the schools and so forth, but when these variables are controlled, the effect of the Gourman ranking should come closer to reecting differences in education or at least the prestige the education carries. Perhaps then, the effects of Gourman ranking in this study reect the dynamic reported in many studies of riot participants; that they, on average, tend to be better educated than those who did not participate (Tomlinson, 1968; Feagin & Hahn, 1973; National Advisory Commission, 1968). Aside from collective violence, other analysts have documented that institutional prestige in colleges and universities predicts levels of protest (e.g. Soule, 1997; Lipset, 1971; Orbell, 1971). Perhaps because highly prestigious schools tend to attract students both with high levels of intellectual orientation, senses of self as activist, and high senses of political self-efcacy (Rotter, 1954; Gore & Rotter, 1963; Mirels, 1970; Paulson, 1991), they are more likely to be activists not only in non-violent protest, but also in rioting and other types of civil disorder. The question remains open at present and is a target for future study. Finally, beyond the relationship of campus disorders and community structural conditions, it is quite likely that campus disorders are related to disorders in nearby communities via a diffusion process. In other words, campus and urban disorders may each have spread violence to the other as information about urban disorders spread to a college campus, that campus disorders may have been exacerbated. Likewise, well-publicized campus disturbance (that were racial in character) likely added further fuel to the re that was burning in the Black ghettos. Recent advances in diffusion analysis would allow examination of campus-to-campus contagion, campus-to-city contagion, and city-to-campus contagion. Such analyses would considerably bolster our understanding of intra-wave dynamics in the riot cycle and may help us to understand the trajectory of other student protest movements in the 1960s and 1970s. Clearly there is more
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work to do before we can understand more completely how campus racial disorders t into the larger puzzle of racial civil disorder during the 1960s.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This research was supported by grant SBR 96-01409 from the National Science Foundation, and by the Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts and the Francis M. Kobayashi Research Travel Program, both at the University of Notre Dame. We thank Michael Davern and Victoria Myers for assistance with data collection, Gregg Carter for providing his riot data, Robin Gratz, A. Ferne Baldwin, Charles Lamb, and Peter Lysy for assistance accessing the archives of the Lemberg Center, and Alexandra Corning for comments on earlier drafts.
NOTES
1. We are not, of course, referring to earlier notions of contagion within crowds such as that forwarded by LeBon (1895). These older notions have been thoroughly debunked and have not occupied a place in serious theorizing about diffusion of collective action for many years (see McPhail, 1991 for a thorough review). 2. Of course, we would prefer to have a more direct indicator such as the number of commuting Black students at each college, but this level of detail is simply not available for most colleges. 3. But also because the level of control exerted over the students and their daily lives is much greater in private and religious colleges than in public colleges. Direct data of the socio-economic backgrounds of students at each college is not available. However, the institutional characteristics we include (private vs. public, institutional prestige, and minority composition) also serve to provide substantial control for socioeconomic background. 4. Secondary schools have received slightly more attention than colleges, but this literature is also underdeveloped. See Lieske (1978b) and Ritterband and Silberstein (1973) for key exemplars. 5. Because our analysis focuses on the peak years of the disorders, our results are not necessarily representative of periods in which action was relatively sparse. 6. Although civil disorders are often characterized by a substantial amount of heterogeneity among participants and their activities, the overwhelming majority of events during this period consisted of African American confrontations with White authorities. This character of the disorders did not, of course, prevent participation in riots by Whites or other racial groups, or in repression attempts by Black police ofcers or university administrators. 7. This procedure creates a disproportionate sample in which riot cities are relatively over-represented compared to non-riot cites. Introducing sample weights into the analysis to correct for the sampling imbalance produces results substantively equivalent to those presented herein. 8. Several cities were home to more than one college which is why the total N differs for college and city characteristics in Table 1.
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9. It is also possible to apply parametric survival time models to this data although the necessary assumption regarding the shape of the baseline hazard seem highly questionable for the present case. Nevertheless, we computed several parametric models and did not nd substantial differences from the Cox models reported herein. 10. It is also possible to construct the analytic task as event count models under Poisson regression (or perhaps more appropriately for the present case, negative binomial regression). We analyzed our data in both of these ways and there were no substantial differences in the results except a loss of statistical power resulting from the inability to use procedures that produce robust standard errors. 11. This focus on historically Black colleges suggests another hypothesis in which these colleges would experience disorders earlier and more frequently. We tested this possibility by including a dummy indicator in our analyses, but the coefcients never approached signicance unless controls for percent minority were removed from the models. 12. Another problem related to unobserved heterogeneity that often causes difculties in survival analysis comes in the form of false duration dependence. This problem results from a change in the set of actors at risk due to some unobserved factor. In other words, the more frail actors are experiencing failures earlier and are no longer at risk. If we have not included the factor that produces this frailty in our model, spurious time dependence will be introduced. In the present case, however, our treatment of repeated events eliminates this problem. The appearance this problem requires that actors exit the population at risk. In our arrangement of risk spells, units (schools) become at risk for another event immediately after the rst one breaks out. This means that the sample of schools at risk cannot differ over time because of some unobserved stratum and because the sample of schools at risk does not differ over time in any respect. 13. We also tested for dependence among repeat cases by taking all schools that experienced at least one event and regressing the duration from the rst to the second event on the duration to the rst event. The results revealed that the duration variable was insignicant in all cases indicating little dependence between subsequent waiting times. 14. The percent minority might also be considered an indicator of community ties. In this case, it is not necessarily the local community that is at issue, but rather the Black community whether it be local or national. If there are strong ties to the Black community via a strong minority student presence, then race-related social issues will be more present in student politics. It is not possible in this analysis, however, to disentangle this kind of community ties effect from the simple demographic dynamic (the more Black students there are at a college, the more likely is Black student disorder). Therefore, we choose to view the minority presence as mainly a control variable and note this alternative interpretation as an agenda item for future research. 15. The decrease in the hazard rate is calculated by taking exp[b] where b is the coefcient calculated by the partial-likelihood estimation. For example, if the religious dummy produced a coefcient of 0.729, raising e to this power yields 0.482, meaning the hazard is multiplied by 0.482 or decreased by about 52%. 16. We also operationalized the prestige variable by creating a dummy code for the Ivy League schools and a dummy code for elite schools (the Ivy League plus Stanford). Neither produced signicant effects when entered with the Gourman Rank. 17. The Gourman rank is also important in the ndings regarding the percent minority. At very high Gourman ranks, there is no effect of the percent minority on the disorder 321
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rates. We attribute this result to the relatively low numbers of Black students at schools with high prestige rankings and the relatively low variability of percent minority at these schools. In the lowest quartile of Gourman rank, the mean percent minority was 41.7 and the standard deviation was 36.5. In the highest Gourman quartile, the mean percent minority was 12.8 with a standard deviation of 7.9. 18. Under the robust estimation procedure we use (Lin & Wei, 1989), a traditional likelihood ratio test is inappropriate because observations are not independent. Instead, for the Model chi-square we compute a Wald statistic comparing the current model with the null model where are coefcients are constrained to be zero (Judge et al., 1985). 19. Although the actual Black population size is available for the time period of this study, we use the non-White population simply to maintain comparability with prior studies. The correlation between Black population and Non-white population is 0.998 for the set of cities used herein. The logged variant is used to reduce skew and because the logged version has been shown to produce much better t in prior research. 20. Preliminary data collection efforts indicate that secondary school racial disorders occurred at approximately twice the rate of the college disorders meaning that the omission of the secondary schools may be even greater cause for concern.
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APPENDIX A. Correlations of College and City Level Covariates.

(1) College Level Covariates (1) Percent In-state (2) Percent Commuter (3) Percent Minority (4) Gourman Rank (5) Private College (6) Religious College (7) Private, non-Religious (8) Endowment City Level Covariates (9) Ln Non-White Poplation (10) Ln Black Unemployed (11) Percent Foreign Born --0.566 0.037 0.451 0.610 0.329 0.364 0.448 0.100 0.102 0.047 (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10)
--0.108 0.360 0.217 0.167 0.097 0.314 0.505 0.500 0.292
--0.338 0.054 0.080 0.026 0.154 0.187 0.149 0.238
--0.109 0.242 0.352 0.659 0.017 0.022 0.352
325
--0.537 0.590 0.281 0.004 0.021 0.083
--0.346 0.138 0.037 0.030 0.161
--0.449 0.023 0.032 0.256
--0.028 0.067 0.285 --0.944 0.463
--0.430
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APPENDIX B.
Colleges and Universities in Sample that Experienced Events.

Ferris State Fisk Fordham Harrisburg Area State Harvard Highland Park Hofstra Houston Howard Illinois, Chicago llinois, UC Indiana Jackson State Kentucky State Knoxville Lamar State Lane Lincoln Long Island Los Angeles City Michigan State Minnesota Mississippi Valley State Moorehead State Mt. San Antonio North Carolina North Carolina A & T Northeastern Illinois State Northern Illinois Oshkosh State Pittsburgh Prairie State Princeton Queens Reed Rochester Roosevelt Rutgers, Camden Rutgers, New Brunswick Rutgers, Newark Saint Louis San Fernando State San Francisco State San Jose State South Carolina South Georgia Southern Southern Illinois Southwest Missouri State Stanford Stillman Swarthmore Texas Southern Texas Woman's Texas, Arlington Trinity Tuskegee Institute Union Theological Seminary Wesleyan West Virginia Wiley Williams Wisconsin, Madison Wisconsin, Whitewater Xavier Yale
Alcorn A & M Allen American Arizona Atlanta Beloit Blueeld State Boston State Bradley Brandeis Brooklyn California State Central Connecticut State Central Missouri State Central State, OH Central State, OK Cheyney State Chicago City Chicago State Cincinnati City College Of New York Clain Claremont Clark Colgate Colorado Columbia Cornell CW Post Delaware Depaul Duke East Carolina State Eastern Michigan
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Colleges and Universities in Sample that did not Experience Events.

Albertus Magnus Alverno Annhurst Blackburn Bloomeld Brigham Young Carleton Catawba Central Central Methodist Coker Colorado State Columbia Union Concordia Drew Eastern Kentucky Gordon Grambling Hope Judson Kent State Lakeland Le Moyne Mankato State Massachusetts Inst. of Technology Misericordia Mississippi Morehouse New Mexico Northwestern Paterson State Saint Norbert Seattle Pacic Southern California Southern Colorado State Stephen F. Austin State Texas A & M Towson State Trinity Upper Iowa Utica Whittier Wilberforce Winthrop
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PATRICK G. COY
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ABOUT THE EDITOR

Patrick G. Coy is an Assistant Professor at the Center for Applied Conict Management and the Department of Political Science at Kent State University. He is co-editor of and a contributor to Social Conicts and Collective Identities, Rowman and Littleeld, 2000, and editor of and contributor to A Revolution of the Heart: Essays on the Catholic Worker, Temple University Press, 1988, 1992. His research on peace movements during the Gulf War has appeared recently in Sociological Spectrum, on the Catholic Worker movement in Peace and Change, and on Peace Brigades International in the Journal of Contemporary Ethnography. He has also recently published two co-authored articles in Mediation Quarterly, one on the community mediation movement and the court system, and another on people with disabilities and mediation.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Stephen Adair is an Associate Professor of Sociology at Central Connecticut State University, where he teaches courses in social movements, social theory and inequality. He has published several articles on collective actions and protests, and is currently working on a study of emerging groups and tactics to challenge information ownership and the new means of capital accumulation. A. E. Gordon Buffonge is Assistant Professor of Political Science in the Hateld School of Government at Portland State University. He received his Ph.D. in 1998 from Princeton University. His research examines social movements and democracy. Alexander J. Buoye is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Sociology at the University of Notre Dame. His research interests include collective violence, social psychology, and the sociology of education. He is currently working as a marketing research project coordinator for Talk City Research Services in Westeld, NJ.
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About the Authors
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Paul Chaney a researcher in the Cardiff University School of Social Sciences. He is currently working on an ESRC-funded project entitled Social Capital and the Participation of Minority Groups in Government. His research interests include public participation and the policy process, and innovations in Governance. He has recently co-edited (with Andrew Pithouse and Tom Hall) a volume entitled New Governance: New Democracy? Studies of Post-Devolution Wales. (University of Wales Press, September 2001, ISBN 0-7083-1678-6). Rachel L. Einwohner is an assistant professor of sociology at Purdue University. Her research interests center on the study of social movements, particularly movement outcomes. She has published recent articles on this topic in Social Problems and Gender & Society. She is currently collecting data for an analysis of the role of perceptions of efcacy in Jewish resistance during the Holocaust. Ralph Fevre is Professor of Social Research in the Cardiff School of Social Sciences. He has published several articles on questions of nation, nationalism and national identity and is co-editor (with Andrew Thompson) of Nation, Identity and Social Theory (University of Wales Press, 1999). Between 1999 and 2001 he directed research into the inclusive politics of the new National Assembly for Wales. He has also published extensively in economic sociology and is the author of The Sociology of Labour Markets (Harvester-Wheatsheaf, 1992). His latest book is The Demoralization of Western Culture: Social Theory and the Dilemmas of Modern Living (Continuum, 2000). Melinda Goldner is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at Union College in Schenectady, New York. She wrote her dissertation on the complementary and alternative medicine (CAM) movement in the San Francisco, California Bay area. She has completed other research projects on the CAM movement, including one on whether hospitals in New York and Massachusetts have incorporated alternative techniques such as acupuncture. Gregory M. Maney is an Assistant Professor in the Sociology Department at Hofstra University. The authors research focuses primarily upon transnational dimensions of protest, ethnic conict and social change. An analysis of the effects of external intervention upon civil rights contention in Northern Ireland appeared last year in Social Problems. In an article in a recent issue of Mobilization, the author theorizes about transnational structural sources of political opportunity and protest.
About the Authors
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Kristin Marsh is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Mary Washington College and a recent graduate from Emory University. Her dissertation, Compromised Revolution: A Political Economic Explanation of Negotiation, provides a crossnational comparison of civil war outcomes in the Post-World War II period. Daniel J. Myers is Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University of Notre Dame and Faculty Fellow of the Joan B. Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies. His recent research includes studies of collective violence, formal models of collective action, game theory, the diffusion of social phenomena, and media coverage of protest and violence. He also recently completed a book, The Governance of Metropolitan America, (with Ralph W. Conant) re-assessing urban development and planning in the U.S. over the past 50 years. Chris Pickvance is Professor of Urban Studies in the School of Social Policy, Sociology and Social Research at the University of Kent, Canterbury. He helped found the International Journal of Urban and Regional Research and co-edits the Blackwell book series Studies in Urban and Social Change. His interests include comparative analysis, urban theory, urban policy and social movements. His books include (with M. Harloe and J. Urry) Place, Policy and Politics: do localities matter? (Unwin Hyman, 1990) and (with E. Preteceille) State restructuring and local power: a comparative perspective (Frances Pinter, 1990). He is currently researching into environmental policy implementation in Hungary. Sara Schatz is currently an assistant professor at the University of Floridas Sociology Department and Latin American Center. She received her MA in Latin American Studies from UC Berkerley and her Ph.D in Sociology from UCLA in 1999. She has published a series of papers on Mexicos long-term social struggle around legal issues, electoral law and citizenship rights in Elites, Masses and the struggle for Democracy in Mexico: A Culturalist Account (Westport: CT, Praeger 2000) and in such journals as the International Journal of Sociology of Law and Studies in Law, Politics and Society.
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E. BURKE. PATRICK ROCHFORD, G. COY JR.
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Research in Social Movements 23

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POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, AND DEMOCRATIZATION

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RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE

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RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE VOLUME 23

POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, AND DEMOCRATIZATION

JAI An Imprint of Elsevier Science

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INTRODUCTION: POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, AND DEMOCRATIZATION

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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PART I: POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURES, IDENTITY, AND SOCIAL MOVEMENTS

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CULTURE AND POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY: RASTAFARIAN LINKS TO THE JAMAICAN POOR

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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Culture and Political Opportunity

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CONCLUSION: CULTURE, STRUCTURE, AND THE RASTAFARIAN MOVEMENT