Brokering Democracy in Africa: The Rise of Clientelist Democracy in Senegal

Brokering Democracy in Africa

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Brok e r i ng D e moc r ac y i n A f r ic a Th e R ise of C l i e n t e l ist De moc r ac y i n Se n eg a l

Linda J. Beck

BROKERING DEMOCRACY IN AFRICA

Copyright © Linda J. Beck, 2008. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. First published in 2008 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™ 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS Companies and representatives throughout the world. PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN-13: 978–0–230–60283–0 ISBN-10: 0–230–60283–5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beck, Linda J. (Linda Jane) Brokering democracy in Africa : the rise of clientelist democracy in Senegal / Linda J. Beck. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–230–60283–5 1. Senegal—Politics and government—1960– 2. Democratization—Senegal. 3. Democracy—Senegal. 4. Patronage, Political—Senegal. 5. Patron and client—Senegal. I. Title. JQ3396.A58B43 2008 320.9663—dc22

2007032626

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: March 2008 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

To Mark Pires and our wonderful daughters, Nicole and Sophia Nob naa leen bu baaxu baax.

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C on t e n t s

List of Figures, Maps, and Tables

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Acknowledgments

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Introduction

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1 Clientelist Democracy in Comparative Perspective

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2

The Rise of Senegal’s Clientelist Democracy

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3

Influential Brokers: The Murid Marabouts of Central Senegal

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4 5 6

Dependent Brokers: Tukulor Nobles in Northern Senegal

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Limited Brokers: Casamançais “Sons of the Soil” in Southern Senegal

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Autonomous Brokers: The Mbëru Gox among the Sénégalais d’Amérique

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7 The Fragility of a Clientelist Democracy Appendix 1 Appendix 2 Appendix 3

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Demographics of Senegal: Ethnicity and Religion (By Region and Department in %)

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Senegalese Presidential Election Results in the Four Case Studies, 1978–2000

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Regional Electoral Support for PS Presidential Candidates, 1978–2000 (in %)

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Notes

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Bibliography

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Index

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Figu r es, M a ps, a n d Ta bl es

Figures I.1 Typology of Local Brokers 3.1 PS Support in the Department of Mbacke: Presidential Elections 1978–2000 4.1 Support for PS Presidential Candidates in Matam and Louga, 1978–2000 5.1 Support for PS Presidential Candidates in Matam and Ziguinchor, 1978–2000 6.1 Support for PS Presidential Candidates in Dakar and the United States

17 70 118 154 198

Maps 1 Administrative Map of Senegal, 1984–2002 xiv 2 Administrative Map of the Diourbel Region 68 3 Administrative Map of the Saint-Louis Region, 1984–2002 116 4 Administrative Map of Kolda and Ziguinchor Regions 152

Tables 1.1 1.2 1.3 4.1 5.1 5.2 6.1

Schedler’s Typology of Regimes Political Authority and Regime Type Revised Typology of Political Regimes Social Stratification in Tukulor Society Wolof Speakers in Regions with a Wolof Minority “Egalitarian” Ethnic Groups in the Ziguinchor Region Responses on the Political Role of Marabouts, First Exit Poll (2000) 6.2 Responses on the Political Role of Marabouts, Second Exit Poll (2000) 7.1 Results from the 2007 Presidential Election

32 41 43 121 160 162 207 207 226

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Ac k now l e dgm e n t s

W

hile the African adage is that it takes a village to raise a child, completion of this book required the support of numerous individuals scattered across our global village in Africa, North America, and Europe. During various research trips to Senegal over the last decade and a half, I benefited from the terranga (hospitality) of countless informants, many of whom have become life-long friends. Although I was often only the latest in a never-ending series of toubabs (foreigners) coming to reveal some “truth” they in all likelihood already knew, these people gave generously of their time, patiently sharing with me their insights and often their food and homes. My research led me to meet with some of the wealthiest politicians and marabouts in Senegal, and some of the country’s poorest farmers, herders, and urban unemployed; invariably, the reception was warm and hospitable. I owe a debt of gratitude to the people of Senegal on both sides of the Atlantic. It is impossible to mention everyone who aided me in my work, but I would like to personally thank the families and individuals who hosted me during my field research: Coly Ndiaye and Anna Kane of Matam; Aziz Makward and Gansire Diop of Mbacke; Mariama Sane and Mogho Traore of Ziguinchor; and Jens Madsen who offered me and my husband respite, good cheer, and good company in Dakar. I must also single out the late Moustapha Kane who provided me with invaluable guidance and incredible hospitality, along with his wife Marième Sarr and his brother Madièye Kane. Critical to this study were my research assistants who not only assisted with collecting data while serving as cultural and linguistic interpreters, but who also provided me with invaluable insights into Senegalese society and politics: Nafi Sow and Moustapha Kane of Matam; Thierno Sow of Touba; and Demba Keita and Noaha Cisse of Ziguinchor. In New York City, Dame Babou, Diomaye Faye, Fallou Guèye, and Mamadou Kane were my “unofficial” research assistants and frequent copyeditors, reading various versions of the chapter on the Sénégalais d’Amérique along with Victoria Ebin who graciously guided and encouraged my

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research in New York. I would also like to thank Ousmane Kane, Gregory Mann, Lori Minnite, and Louis Cristillo with whom I collaborated on Columbia University’s Muslims in New York Project, and Mohammed Mbodj who served as an unofficial encadreur (mentor) during my years in New York. While conducting my dissertation research, the initial basis for this book, Babacar Kante of the Université de Saint-Louis was my official encadreur. True to his Senegalese cosan (roots), he gave generously of his time and offered crucial guidance and innumerable insights. Over the years, I have carried one piece of his wisdom and encouragement in particular: that the combined efforts of African scholars and foreign researchers can provide us all with a greater understanding of the continent. Although I left the University of Wisconsin-Madison many years ago, I remain indebted to Michael Schatzberg whose dry wit and keen analytical mind penetrated even the most convoluted drafts of my dissertation; Ali Tripp, who worked tirelessly reading draft after draft that I would run over to her home in order to meet my submission deadline so I could take my first job at Barnard College as a fullfledged assistant professor; and M. Crawford Young, who remains an inspiration to me as one of those rare scholars who combines the finest qualities of an exceptional researcher, mentor, and human being. A testament to Crawford Young’s superior mentoring over the years was my good fortune to find waiting for me in New York another of his former students, John Harbeson. John read every e-mail and scrap of paper I sent his way, frequently meeting with me in various cafés in Morningside Heights to discuss and encourage the drafting of this book. I also had the good fortune of receiving comments, suggestions, and encouragement from several of the most prominent scholars of Senegalese politics: Momar Coumba Diop, Christian Coulon, Donal Cruise O’Brien, and Gerti Hesseling. Standing in no one’s shadow is Catherine Boone, a role model, inspiration, and good friend rolled into one. Not to be overlooked are Leonard Markowitz, Leonardo Villalòn, and Vincent Foucher, representing three generations of outstanding scholars of Senegalese politics who have advanced my knowledge through our various exchanges as well as their writings. I am indebted to each of them along with many others who have had a hand in seeing this book come to fruition, including helpful comments and constructive criticism from Jonathon Fox, Ira Katznelson, Guillero O’Donnell, and Charles Tilley. Any remaining errors in fact or analysis are of course my own. I also wish to acknowledge Bruce Magnusson and Loretta O’Connor, without whose humor and support I highly doubt I would have ever

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finished graduate school, as well as the Columbia University graduate students who worked as my research assistants over the years, Jeff Krutz, Adrienne LeBas, and Ngoni Munemo, along with Cody LaMontagne who I had the good fortune to come across before she graduated from the University of Maine-Farmington. I must also single out two former colleagues at Barnard College, Richard Pious whose advice I continue to value, and Lisa Tiersten whose support and friendship often led her to go above and beyond the call of duty. As dean of the School of International and Public Affairs, Lisa Anderson also facilitated my finalizing this manuscript through an appointment as a research affiliate of Columbia University. Research and production of this book were made possible by grants from the Fulbright-Hayes Program, the Social Science Research Council, Barnard College, and the University of Maine at Farmington along with a fellowship from the John D. and Katherine T. MacArthur Foundation and funding from the Ford Foundation through Columbia’s Muslims in New York project. I also wish to thank the editorial staff at Palgrave, especially Joanna Mericles, and the Center for Community GIS for producing the maps of Senegal that appear in this book. Finally, I cannot express in words the important role that Mark Pires has played in my professional and personal life or the depth of my gratitude for his tireless support, endless hours of editing, and wonderful companionship, which has made him my most cherished “finding” in Senegal.

M A U R I TA N I A Atlantic Ocean

Senegal

Podor

Dagana

ST. LOUIS Matam

LOUGA

Tivaouane THIES

Mbacke DIOURBEL

S E N E G A L

DAKAR FATICK KAOLACK TAMBACOUNDA THE GAMBIA Bignona

Oussouye

0 0

Map 1

Velingara

KOLDA

N

Sedhiou

ZIGUINCHOR

MALI

W

G U I N E A - B I S S AU 100 KM 100 Miles

Administrative Map of Senegal, 1984–2002

E S

GUINEA National Capital

National Boundary

Regional/Department Capital Department Capital

Regional Boundary Department Boundary

I n t roduc t ion

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ver the last decade, African politics has been marked by the entrenchment of political incumbents, both those who came to power and those who retained it during the flurry of democratic reform in the early 1990s. These dominant party regimes may represent an advancement over the one-party states and military rule that characterized postcolonial politics in Africa, but they are a far cry from the democratic regimes envisioned following the arrival of the “Third Wave” of democratization to African shores. An exception to this political trend was the peaceful transfer of political power following Senegal’s 2000 presidential elections after four decades of rule by the Socialist Party. Ironically, both this historic event and the entrenchment of Africa’s political incumbents can be explained by the complex and varied relationship between clientelism and democracy. Studies from all corners of the world have demonstrated that clientelism serves as a brake on democratic competition and participation. However, the impact of clientelism on democracy and democratization varies dramatically, evident by the wide range of political regimes in which clientelism operates. To analyze the variable impact of clientelism on democratic competition and participation, this book compares the brokering of clientelist relationships between national patrons and client-citizens by local elites in four Senegalese electoral districts. Relatively exceptional in Africa in terms of its early pursuit of political liberalization and protracted democratic transition, Senegal is nevertheless a critical case both within and beyond the Africa region in that it is among a handful of countries worldwide that has demonstrated its ability to democratize despite the persistence of clientelism. While the categorization of Senegal as a democracy is based on a minimalist definition that is not unproblematic, the Senegalese case illustrates the importance of distinguishing clientelist democracies from competitive authoritarian regimes and other forms of semidemocracy. Moreover, persistent problems associated with Senegal’s clientelist democracy demonstrate the limited benefits of democratization

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without significant economic and social reform as well as the considerable obstacles to the consolidation of a clientelist form of democracy. The immediate catalyst for the electoral transfer of power in 2000 was the fracturing of Senegal’s ruling Socialist Party (PS) over the selection of President Abdou Diouf’s dauphin and the unification of the opposition behind a single candidate, Abdoulaye Wade, of the Senegalese Democratic Party (PDS). But although these events are important, they do not fully explain the emergence of competitive electoral politics in Senegal. Leading up to this historic moment in Senegalese history were decades of political reform and the progressive erosion of clientelist support for the ruling party. In addition to a dramatic decline in urban areas, the PS experienced loss in support among its rural political base, although the degree to which this occurred varied dramatically from region to region. Through subnational case studies of Senegalese politics, this book analyzes the factors that led to this variation in order to identify the conditions that are likely to permit the rise of sufficient political competition and participation resulting in a clientelist form of democracy. The exceptionalism of Senegal as well as the dramatic differences in its local politics illustrate the limitations of alternative economic and political explanations for the varying relationship between clientelism and democracy. Although economic factors such as poverty and a state-dominated economy have undoubtedly played a role in sub-Saharan Africa as elsewhere, similarities in the political economy of countries in the region fail to explain variations within the subcontinent. Such differences among African countries with similarly structured economies have been attributed to the relative strength of formal political institutions; however, this institutional argument cannot explain different patterns in political competition and participation within a country. The limited attention given to subnational variations has tended to focus on urban–rural divisions and ethnopolitics. However, neither of these subnational explanations can explain variations in local politics among Senegal’s rural majority, nor why political support for Senegal’s ruling party, dominated by the ethnic majority, was more resilient among ethnic minorities. This book, therefore, focuses instead on the socioeconomic power of local brokers to explain the relative constraints that clientelism places on political competition and participation by examining variations in the social authority and political autonomy of four sets of local brokers: Murid marabouts, Tukulor nobles, Casamançais “sons of the soil,” and the mbëru gox (neighborhood wrestlers) among the Senegalese immigrant community in New York City who have been

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eligible to vote in Senegalese elections since 1993. Offering an explanation for variations in political competition and participation during democratization under the Socialist regime (1975–2000) as well as violent political protest at the local level, this comparative study demonstrates the potential as well as the limits of democratic reform in a country where clientelism remains the basis for political mobilization and accountability.

Clientelism and Democracy In their widely acclaimed book, Democratic Experiments in Africa (1997), Michael Bratton and Nicholas van de Walle set out to explain how democratization in sub-Saharan Africa has varied both among individual countries and from other world regions, thereby challenging the generalizability of prevailing actor-centered theories derived from earlier democratic transitions in southern Europe and Latin America (Bermeo 1990; O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986). While Bratton and van de Walle argue that it is the neo-patrimonial nature of the ancien regime that distinguishes democratization in Africa, variation among African countries is attributed to the relative institutionalization of political competition (contestation) and participation (inclusion) under authoritarian rule. Their book is impressive both in terms of its extensive empirical evidence and its parsimony, permitting them to theorize about democratization in a region that, as Jeffery Herbst (2001: 258) has pointed out, is difficult to analyze let alone categorize. Their analysis of variation among African countries does not, however, consider differences in the nature of neo-patrimonial relations as a possible explanation for variation in levels of political competition and participation, focusing instead on formal institutions that they themselves acknowledge have been primarily political facades in Africa. Nevertheless, Bratton and van de Walle recognize that Africa’s “formal political institutions are thoroughly steeped in, and penetrated by, informal personal networks” (Bratton and van de Walle 1997: 42). But by shifting attention away from social class interests and ethnic identities to political institutions such as elections and parties, they fail to consider how differences in the socioeconomic and consequently political relationships between African patrons and their clients may influence the democratization process. Furthermore, by focusing on the varying impact of institutional legacies on contingent events that led to democratization, their politico-institutional approach cannot explain how predominantly urban political protests gained

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crucial support among Africa’s rural majorities, which characteristically have been more resilient in their support for the ruling elite. Nor can it explain the variations in the level of electoral competition within these rural areas. To do this, we need to undertake a comparative analysis of the socioeconomic as well as political contexts in which African patron–client relations operate. This will permit us to understand the varying impact of clientelism on political competition and participation that has given rise to clientelist democracies in a small but growing number of countries in Africa and elsewhere in the world. The concept of a clientelist democracy is not entirely new. In their discussion of the genesis of sultanism, Juan Linz and H.E. Chehabbi refer offhandedly to the breakdown of “clientelistic democracy” (Chehabbi and Linz 1998: 33). Various other terms have also been coined to describe this phenomenon, including: references by Bratton and van de Walle (1997) to “Big Men democracies” in Africa; the term “patronage democracy” coined by Kanchan Chandra (2004) in her analysis of ethno-politics in India; and a discussion of “delegative democracy” by Guillermo O’Donnell (1994) informed by his work in Latin America. While Herbert Kitschelt (2000) does not refer to a clientelist form of democracy per se, he contrasts clientelism with charismatic and programmatic forms of citizen–politician linkage in affluent industrialized democracies. Each of these analyses suggests the need for a separate concept of clientelist democracy without coming to a consensus on a definition or the impact of clientelism on democratic institutions. Despite the apparent contradictions between clientelism and the political principles of equality, republicanism, and rule of law associated with democracy, clientelist democracy is defined here as a democratic regime infused with clientelist relationships that serve as the basis for political mobilization and accountability. The categorization of clientelist democracy as a subtype rather than a diminished form of democracy is justified by its having met the minimalist requirements of a competitive electoral process and effective protection of political freedoms (Dahl 1971; O’Donnell 2001) in contrast with clientelist forms of semi-democracies or competitive authoritarian regimes (Diamond 1988, 2002). Clientelist democracy exists in a growing number of geographically, economically, and culturally diverse countries such as India, Italy, and Mexico (Chandra 2004; Putnam 1993; Schedler 2005). In Africa, however, clientelist democracy is characteristic of the handful of countries that can claim to be democratic, while representing the most likely trajectory for Africa’s

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competitive authoritarian regimes were they to fulfill the minimal requirements for categorization as a democracy. This is can be explained by the unanticipated persistence of neo-patrimonialism in Africa. Although neo-patrimonialism characterized the authoritarian regimes that dominated Africa’s political landscapes from the 1960s to the early 1990s (Jackson and Rosberg 1982), expectations of the demise of clientelism in Africa were based not only on the introduction of political reforms but also Africa’s chronic economic crisis and the liberal “cure” of structural adjustment, which presumably would severely reduce the patronage resources available to ruling elites through its prescription of reducing the size of the state and its budget (Widner 1994; Wiseman 1995). Bratton and van de Walle (1994) were among the first to recognize the fallacy of the anticipated demise of clientelism. Beyond the inability of the political reform of formal institutions to eliminate the informal institutions of clientelist relations, the persistence of clientelism in Africa is also attributable to the failure of structural adjustment. Admittedly implemented only halfheartedly, structural adjustment did not lead to the predicted development of a vibrant private sector in Africa (Callaghy 1997; van de Walle 2001). Thus, there continues to be a lack of economic alternatives to the clientelist resources in Africa’s weak and persistently statedominated economies. The durability of a political culture based not only on elite privilege but also client expectations has played a fundamental role in the persistence of clientelism in Africa’s democratic and less-than-democratic regimes (Robinson 1994; Schaffer 1998; Schatzberg 2001). Bratton and van de Walle rightly assumed that this persistence of clientelism in Africa would have a dampening effect on political competition and participation, evident in the (re)emergence of dominant-party politics and ethnic favoritism in many of Africa’s fledgling democracies and competitive authoritarian regimes. Within Africa, there is, nevertheless, a small but growing number of countries such as Benin, Ghana, and Senegal in which sufficient political competition has resulted in an electoral transfer of power and political participation that is relatively inclusive despite continuing flaws in their democratic systems (Ayee 2001; Diop et al. 2002; Magnusson 2005). This leaves us with several unanswered questions: Under what conditions can clientelist politics permit a sufficient level of political competition to assure uncertainty in the outcome of the electoral process? Under what conditions can it encourage not only the inclusion of politically salient communal groups but also the participation

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of relatively autonomous citizens as client-voters and as patroncandidates? And finally, how does this enhanced political competition and participation influence the political and regime stability of a clientelist democracy? Different patterns in the democratization process may be associated with a wide variety of factors. Nonetheless, it is argued here that variations in informal patron–client relations are crucial to explaining the position of African countries along the border of the “gray zone” (Carothers 2002) between competitive authoritarian regimes and clientelist forms of democracy because they directly impact the level of political competition and participation. To demonstrate this, a crossnational comparison of the countries that lie along the border of the “gray zone” would be highly instructive; but it would also introduce numerous additional variables, making it difficult to establish causality. In order to hold constant politico-institutional factors as well as other potential intervening variables inherent in comparisons between African countries (e.g., levels of state capacity, ethnic diversity, economic development, and international aid), this book follows the example of earlier research that compared clientelism in different localities within a country (Chubb 1982; Landé 1983; Schmidt 1977), analyzing subnational variations in clientelist relations between not only national politicians and citizen-voters but, more importantly, variations in how these relations are brokered by local elites. Eric Wolf (1965: 97) offers a classic definition of brokers as individuals who “stand guard over the critical junctures and synapses of a relationship which connect the local system to the larger whole.” In the current literature on clientelism that tends to reduce patron–client relations to the highly individualized, materialist exchange of votebuying, there is little call for an analysis of political brokers. Javier Auyero (2001: 213), however, challenges the notion that vote-buying “is at the core of political clientelism [which] does not do justice to the much more complex reality of the enduring and long-lasting relationships, narratives and identities that are constructed within [clientelist] networks.” But even Auyero, who focuses on local brokers in his study of Peronist survival networks in Argentina, emphasizes that “brokers the world over function in essentially the same way, as gobetweens” (83), ignoring the significant regional, national, and subnational variation among brokers. As noted in earlier sociological studies of patron–client relations (Eisenstadt and Roniger 1981; Lemarchand and Legg 1972), the socioeconomic as well as political contexts in which brokers perform their intermediary function dramatically vary, influencing their capacity to

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serve as political intermediaries in terms of mobilization of political support (competition), inclusion in patronage networks that privilege access to political resources (participation), and assurance of the regime’s political legitimacy (stability). Given the highly decentralized nature of political mobilization and accountability in Africa, a subnational study of the intermediary role of local brokers is crucial to our understanding of the prospects for democracy in the region.

Senegal as a Critical Case Relatively exceptional in Africa in terms of its early pursuit of political liberalization, Senegal reintroduced a limited form of multiparty politics in the mid-1970s that was expanded to an unlimited multiparty system in 1981. Arguably, Senegal’s protracted transition to democracy can be dated to the implementation of its first negotiated and unanimously praised electoral code in 1993. It is more commonly associated, however, with the 2000 presidential elections which resulted in Senegal’s first electoral transfer of power since independence in 1960. Senegal is a critical case in that it is among a handful of countries that have demonstrated “that competitive authoritarian regimes can become democracies” (Diamond 2002: 34), notably without eliminating its clientelist basis for political mobilization and accountability. The study of cases like Senegal is, therefore, crucial if we are to avoid fatalistic pessimism about the prospects for democracy in the context of persisting patronage politics in Africa, while forcing us to acknowledge that democratization is a long, complex process with trajectories that may result in something other than liberal democracy. Despite lingering questions about the consolidation and quality of Senegal’s democracy due to various political problems and crises (Coulibaly 2003; Ottoway 2003), Senegal’s recent elections have been highly competitive and their outcomes uncertain and regionally varied. It was this variation in political support for the incumbent party that initially led me to compare clientelist relations in three different electoral districts of Senegal. Despite the common caricature of Senegalese politics as reliant on the economic and social power of the politically privileged marabouts (Sufi Muslim leaders), Senegalese electoral results between 1978 and 2000 reveal the limitations of this quintessential clientelist relationship as political opposition took hold in their religious fiefdoms among the Wolof ethnic majority in central Senegal, including the electoral district of Mbacké where Touba, the holy city of the Muridiyya brotherhood, is located. Meanwhile, the

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resilience of political support for the ruling party among the Pulaarspeaking Tukulor ethnic minority in the northern electoral district of Matam was particularly surprising given that the region had been wracked by chronic drought, failed development projects, and a bloody conflict with ethnic Arabs from neighboring Mauritania in the late 1980s that could have readily turned into an irredentist movement among the Tukulor who live along both sides of the Senegal– Mauritania border. Despite similar attitudes toward the “Wolof state” in Senegal’s peripheral regions, the Tukulor remained the most loyal supporters of the PS regime until its demise in 2000, whereas a rebellion broke out in the early 1980s in the predominantly Jola region of Lower Casamance in southern Senegal. This conflict has unfortunately evolved into West Africa’s longest running civil conflict despite repeated peace agreements, the most recent signed in December 2004. In addition to requiring an explanation for the disparity in the political behavior of these two ethnic minorities that were both well represented in the highly inclusive PS patronage networks, the case of Lower Casamance also introduces a perplexing situation in which the former ruling party was able to maintain electoral majorities up until the 2000 elections despite the political violence and economic hardships associated with the secessionist movement. The opportunity to include a fourth distinctive district arose after 1992 when Senegal became the first African country to permit foreign polling stations. Research on the Senegalese immigrant community in the United States permitted confirmation of the theoretical implications of the findings in the three initially selected electoral districts in Senegal while offering an opportunity to analyze the impact of globalization on the socioeconomic relationships that underpin clientelism in Senegal. The extremely low level of electoral support for the incumbent, despite efforts by the ruling party to replicate its clientelist networks overseas, is indicative of the dramatic socioeconomic and thus political transformations experienced by Senegalese immigrants. Research among the Sénégalais d’Amérique thus permits us to consider how similar changes that are happening in both urban and rural Africa, spurred on in part by transnational networks, may undermine the socioeconomic and thus political significance of clientelism, thereby improving the prospects for “deepening” Senegalese democracy, and democracy in Africa more generally, into a more “advanced” form of democracy. To compare the level of political competition, participation, and stability in the four districts, I analyze the relative support for opposition

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parties, the identity and status of the brokers, and occurrence of political protest and violence aimed against the PS party-state in each electoral district. Although electoral politics serves as a “strategic research site” (Auyero 2001: 28) not the topic of this study, the use of electoral results as an indicator of political opposition is arguably problematic given the historical prevalence of fraud and political intimidation. This was particularly true during the first decade of Senegal’s prolonged transition when the PS-state attempted to appease its domestic and international constituents through a “passive resolution” in which it introduced a controlled, limited form of political liberalization that permitted the ruling party to protect its political tenure (Fatton 1987). There have nevertheless been significant variations in PS electoral support both over time and among electoral districts that reflect the varying capacity of the local brokers to control the political process. In this sense, electoral results are not a precise measurement but an indication of relative support. While the four Senegalese cases challenge a frequently assumed uniformity in the adverse impact of clientelism on democratization, they also contradict explanations in the relative strength of clientelist networks based simply on ethnic affiliation or economic rationality. Both explanations would lead us to believe that the ethnic and religious majority of Wolof Muslims who have dominated the Senegalese state and were the largest recipient of its clientelist resources under the PS ruling party from 1960 to 2000 would have been most resilient in their political support. Nor can these arguments explain the dramatically different responses by ethnic minorities in peripheral regions that have been similarly incorporated into the clientelist networks of the “Islamo-Wolof ” state (O’Brien et al. 2002). Therefore, we need an alternative explanation for the varying degree to which clientelist networks alternatively “dampen” or permit political competition and participation at subnational as well as national levels.

The Political Capacity of Local Brokers Unfortunately, analyses of the impact of subnational politics on democratization are relatively rare. A notable exception is Jonathan Fox’s 1994 article on clientelism in Mexico. While distinguishing between authoritarianism and semi-clientelism, which respectively use sticks and carrots, Fox (1994: 153, 183) argues that clientelist relationships that amount to “political subordination in exchange for material rewards” have resulted in the survival of subnational authoritarian

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regimes. Acknowledging that “classic individualistic ideas of citizenship [as well as clientelism] may be inappropriate for non-Western social actors,” Fox (1994: 151, 159) asserts that “associational autonomy, which allows citizens to organize in defense of their own interests and identities” is a necessary condition for democratization especially among the poorest members of society. His focus on ethnic and community-based groups, however, fails to consider how these groups may themselves be a source of political subordination based on social structures of inequality. The political consequences of social inequality are central to Mahmood Mamdani’s critique of recent efforts at democratization in Africa. In Citizen and Subject (1996), Mamdani argues that the political empowerment of ordinary Africans has been undermined by the failure to address the “despotic” power of rural ethnic and religious leaders (see also Berman 1998). By focusing on the dichotomy created between urban citizens and rural subjects under colonial rule, however, Mamdani ignores variations in the social authority and political power of rural elites in Africa (Beck 2001; O’Laughlin 2000). Consequently, his concept of “decentralized despotism” in rural areas may explain the higher levels of political opposition in urban areas, but not the varying levels of political competition and participation in rural Africa. Catherine Boone, on the other hand, offers an insightful analysis of the variation in rural authority in her comparative study on Political Topographies of the African State (2003). Boone argues that differences in the socioeconomic power of rural elites explain local variations in the relative decentralization in three West African countries including Senegal. The subnational variations Boone identifies as “institutional choices” may, however, be more accurately seen as a reflection of the varying ability of the national leaders to pursue their common political project of centralized control as previously argued by James Wunch and Dele Owolu (1990). Boone nevertheless effectively sets out a matrix that identifies two key variables in African politics at the subnational level: social hierarchy and economic autonomy. As the basis for a typology of the relationship between rural elites and the central state, Boone (2003: 29–33) claims that the presence or absence of social hierarchy determines whether rural elites are strong or weak, while their economic autonomy or dependence on the central state determines if they are rivals or allies, thus giving rise to different “institutional choices” by the leaders of the central state in terms of their level of top–down control. Focusing on varying national responses to local structures rather than varying local responses to

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national politics, Boone offers less evidence of subnational variance in formal institutions than differences in the implementation of national institutions designed to enhance the power of the central state. Furthermore, the dichotomy between allies and rivals ignores the historical incorporation of local brokers as allies from all regions of the country since the inception of a centralized state in Africa under colonial rule. These local brokers then formed the basis for highly inclusive postcolonial clientelist networks within many of Africa’s ruling parties such as Senegal’s Socialist Party. The dichotomous conception of both the authority and autonomy of local elites based on the presence or absence of a single factor clearly enhanced Boone’s ability to operationalize these variables and place them into a highly comprehensible matrix; but it failed to fully capture the continuous and dynamic nature of the authority and autonomy of local leaders as brokers for the central state. To analyze the role of Senegalese political brokers, I have therefore reconceptualized Boone’s variable of social hierarchy as a continuum of “social authority” while replacing economic autonomy with a more complex variable of “political autonomy” that includes political as well as economic factors to capture the relative autonomy of local brokers (“allies”) from national leaders.

The Social Authority of Brokers as Patrons The importance of the social authority of a patron is more commonly associated with “traditional” societies in which the status of patrons and a shared value system with their clients provide political support “at a discount,” as opposed to “modern” forms of patronage such as machine-politics in which the exchange is presumably more immediate, tangible, and individualized (Lemarchand 1988: 151–154; Powel 1970; Roth 1968; Tarrow 1967). In all forms of clientelism, however, both within Africa and more generally, the capacity of patrons to mobilize electoral support and generate political legitimacy may be enhanced by social relationships that generate trust, solidarity, loyalty, and obligation (Gunes-Ayata 1994; Roniger 1990). One of the most prominent non-African examples is the ethnic dimension of U.S. machine-politics in the early twentieth century that underpinned the clientelist networks of American bosses (Crenson and Ginsberg 2002; Ignatiev 1995). The source(s) of a broker’s social authority depends on the specific context; however, we can divide them into two categories of horizontal

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solidarities and hierarchical status similar to those discussed by Boone, although her typology is based only on the presence or absence of social hierarchy. The classic example of a politicized horizontal solidarity is village-based association composed of “sons (and daughters) of the soil” (Weiner 1978) who minimally are from the local community, whether or not that entails living, growing up, and/ or having ancestors from that community. Horizontal solidarities tied to this concept may be based on common kinship, ethnicity, race, and/or religious identity. Whereas horizontal solidarities can enhance the ability of local brokers to mobilize political support beyond their capacity to provide access to patronage resources, presumably hierarchical solidarities are a far greater source of social authority, assuming that it is the patron who is from the upper strata. The degree to which a society is hierarchically structured varies dramatically; but most if not all societies are stratified by at least age and gender. Gender identity as a source of social authority, however, can be categorized as a source of either horizontal solidarity or hierarchical status. The gender of a female patron, for example, may be seen as the basis for horizontal solidarity when it encourages women to support her, whether out of gender loyalty or the perception that her gender will enhance their access as women to patronage resources. Historically, however, gender has been a form of hierarchical status that not only enhanced the social authority of male patrons but also reflected the presumed male gender of a patron, serving as an obstacle to those few women who sought to become a patron. Despite the predominance of male patrons, the number of female political patrons is growing both in Africa and worldwide. Another common basis for social stratification is economic wealth, although the political advantages derived from it are contingent on the economic context and the value that society places on personal wealth. For example, in cultures that value egalitarianism or associate poverty with spiritual purity or morality, personal wealth might not enhance and may even weaken a patron’s capacity to mobilize political support, particularly if the wealth is associated with corruption or exploitation. Personal wealth, however, is more likely to be associated with success and status, the patrons’ own or that of their family or ancestors. It is also likely to be perceived as improving the patrons’ capacity to distribute clientelist resources, whether or not they choose to distribute their own resources in addition to the political resources to which they have access (e.g., party funds and state employment). The personal wealth of a patron may be associated with other sources of hierarchical status. For example, a patron’s level of education can be

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loosely correlated with economic opportunity, although most if not all societies have their examples of un- or under-educated millionaires. Regardless of its correlation with personal wealth, education can provide patrons with social status as elites within a community, indicating their ability to govern and represent local interests as a result of their superior intellect and/or political connections made while attending school with others who now form the political elite. In some societies, the patrons’ education—secular or more likely religious education—may lead to political deference by their clients, while in other societies where anti-intellectualism prevails, education can work against a politician. Academics may bemoan this marginalization of a society’s educated elite in favor of less intelligent or less articulate leaders, but political deference to a politician, whatever its source, arguably poses an even greater potential threat to democratic competition and participation. In analyzing the impact of clientelism on political institutions of democratic representation, the crucial factor in evaluating the social authority enjoyed by a patron is whether the particular form of authority generates respect or deference and, equally important, whether social deference is readily translated into political deference both at the ballot box and in terms of popular attitudes toward the regime. The key difference between respect and political deference is whether clients not only listen to and value the opinions of their patron but are willing to forgo their own preferences and/or interests in deference to those of their patron based on the latter’s social status. Social deference even in nonpolitical domains (e.g., religion, marriage, or other cultural practices) may not ensure a political bloc based on “blind” obedience, but it is more likely to “tip the scales” in favor of the patron’s position than in a social context where the broker is merely a respected member of the community. Although not all sources of social status and few if any horizontal solidarities are likely to lead to political deference, there may be embedded within horizontal solidarities hierarchical structures that create or reproduce deferential relationships. These sorts of deferential relationships found particularly in, though not exclusive to, rural areas in Africa, influence both the capacity of a local patron to mobilize political support (competition) and who can become a patron (participation). Characteristically based on “traditional” social structures of hierarchy dating back to precolonial or colonial Africa, deferential relationships between client and broker are by no means static; rather, they can be transformed by changing socioeconomic and political contexts. But while we should not assume that structures of

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social hierarchy that once translated into political deference will continue to do so ad infinitum, nor have they disappeared as predicted by modernization theory, as the Rudolphs’ (1967) study on “the modernity of tradition” in India so eloquently demonstrated. In addition to sources of social authority, we must acknowledge the possibility of the absence of social authority or even contempt for individual brokers. Unlike Boone’s rural elites who by definition enjoy some level of social authority, political brokers may be local leaders of a political party who have been imposed, or “parachuted” to use the common Senegalese term, by leaders of the national party, or who have used their economic wealth to gain political office despite a lack of social authority. Consequently, both neutral and negative values must be included in a continuum of social authority. To determine the social authority of individual brokers, we must, therefore, ascertain: (1) whether they are considered members of the community; (2) whether they enjoy positions of status in one or more social hierarchy; (3) whether their social status generates deference by members of the community; and (4) whether that social status is associated with political power, that is, the right to hold or distribute it. Each affirmative response reflects a greater level of social authority enjoyed by local brokers, placing them at a higher point along the continuum. The placement of an individual or category of brokers along this continuum is sensitive to both spatial and temporal variations as the definition of who is a member of the community, as well as the relative importance, popular acceptance, and political significance of hierarchical social structures, vary not only between cases but also over time. By influencing the ability of brokers to mobilize political support, their social authority also affects democratic participation and competition in several different ways. In the case of political participation, higher levels of social authority may mitigate both electoral participation and participation in clientelist networks themselves. The ability of clients to challenge or withdraw from a clientelist relationship is not only correlated to their level of poverty, as Fox (1994) suggests, but also the social authority enjoyed by their local patron. Furthermore, to the degree that clientelism substitutes “one man, one vote” for “one man, one bloc,” the level of social authority in a clientelist democracy can also influence political participation in terms of who can be the “one man” or “one broker” who enjoys privileged access to patronage resources. Finally, political competition is also dampened to the degree that brokers with a high level of social authority are concentrated in a single party, specifically the ruling party. This

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concentration is influenced in large part by the relative political autonomy that local elites enjoy from their national patrons.

The Political Autonomy of Brokers as Clients The degree to which local brokers are dependent on their national patrons is reflected first and foremost by the political context. Although by definition clientelist democracies provide political pluralism that permits local brokers to change political parties, the degree to which this represents a political option depends on the ability of opposition parties to win public office. In a dominant party system, for example, the overwhelming advantages of belonging to the ruling party at the national level may undermine the autonomy of local brokers, particularly in Africa’s weak state-dominated economies. Consequently, the willingness of local brokers to forfeit their access to political resources controlled by the ruling party is tied to the degree to which political resources are centralized, a political factor that varies at the national level but is also reflected in the relative economic and social dependence of local politicians on their role as political intermediaries that varies at the local level. Although the economic autonomy of brokers is tied to national factors such as the relative strength and structure of the national economy, it varies at the local level in terms of the economic resources that local brokers control independent of their clientelist relationships and their relative dependence on their positions within a political party or the state to maintain their power and status. In extreme cases, brokers may rely on their access to political resources not only to maintain support among their clients but also for their own personal consumption. Thus their economic autonomy is not only a reflection of the concrete amount of resources at their disposal, but also the availability of alternative sources of wealth other than their clientelist relationship with national politicians, such as the contribution of wealthy disciples to their Murid marabouts in central Senegal (chapter 3). As for the social dimension of brokers’ dependence on national patrons, the social status of local politicians may be highly reliant on their roles as elected and/or party officials. Although this is more commonly associated with brokers who have little or negative social authority, it may also be the case for brokers whose hierarchical status is dependent on their identity as a member of the ruling class. This may be more likely in situations where clientelist networks are

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embedded in caste structures such as those that exist in South Asia and West Africa, as illustrated in the case of Senegal’s Tukulor ethnic minority (chapter 4). The autonomy of local brokers from national politicians must, therefore, be conceptualized as a continuum rather than a dichotomy given the dual dimensions of economic and social autonomy. Brokers at the lower end of the spectrum are both economically and socially dependent. As we move toward the higher end of the spectrum, they enjoy some economic and/or social autonomy, and at the extreme end of the scale, they are neither economically nor socially dependent on their national patrons. To determine the political autonomy of local brokers, we must, therefore, ascertain: (1) whether they have accumulated personal wealth, which may have initially originated from a clientelist relationship but is not dependent on their remaining a dutiful client; (2) whether they have access to alternative sources of wealth other than patronage resources; (3) whether they enjoy a social status independent of their role as local brokers; and (4) whether that social status can be maintained independent of their clientelist relationship with national elites. Once again, with each affirmative response, the political autonomy of local brokers is enhanced, placing them at a higher point along the continuum. The relative autonomy of the brokers influences their ability to break with, threaten to break with, or simply withhold support from national politicians based on their own interests and/or that of their clients. This autonomy can enhance political accountability, while the economic and social dependence of brokers can lead to their concentration in a single party, specifically the ruling party, thereby undermining political competition. Local brokers may, nonetheless, retain some leverage to protect and promote their interests as well as those of their clients if national elites are dependent on them to mobilize political support and legitimacy. Autonomy after all is a two-way street, as is evident in the larger debate over state–society relations (Migdal 1988; Migdal, Kohli and Shue 1994; Tripp 2000). Serving as an intermediary in the delivery of patronage resources would not appear to require special qualifications; but not all politicians can mobilize political support “at a discount” or reinforce the political legitimacy of the regime particularly during periods of political crisis, a crucial role of local brokers that is often overlooked. The two continuums of social authority and political autonomy can now help us better understand how socioeconomic structures and transformations can influence variations between cases and over

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time. Furthermore, these variables also permit us to place front and center the idea that local leaders are intermediaries whose political capacity is based on the nature of their relationship with local clients/ citizens (social authority) as well as national patrons/political elites (political autonomy). The continuous variables of social authority and political autonomy permit us a wider range of options in plotting individual cases as well as representing changes over time. We can also devise a matrix that permits us to create a typology of brokers while acknowledging that there may exist variations within the categories and weak boundaries between them (figure I.1). These two continuums do not, however, neatly correspond to varying levels of political competition and participation but are rather interactive, with inverse values of the two independent variables enhancing the two dependent variables. Thus, whereas a high level of social authority curtails both political competition and participation, both of these components of a democratic regime are enhanced by a higher level of political autonomy. Consequently, the lowest levels of competition and participation are found in the upper left-hand quadrant of figure I.1 (dependent brokers) with increasingly higher levels evident as we move toward the lower right-hand quadrant (autonomous brokers). The dual dimensions of broker capacity also have implications for regime stability in that the lack of political competition and participation in a clientelist system that relies primarily on dependent brokers may lead to the (re)categorization of a clientelist democracy as a High

Dependent broker

Influential broker

Limited broker

Autonomous broker

Social authority of local brokers

Low

High Political autonomy of local brokers

Figure I.1.

Typology of Local Brokers

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competitive authoritarian regime. On the other hand, a clientelist democracy that relies on autonomous brokers may cease to be a clientelist form of democracy as the autonomy of both the brokers and their citizen-clients may result in the rise of programmatic linkages and democratic (electoral) accountability that begin to eclipse clientelism. As long as political mobilization and accountability remain reliant on clientelist networks, however, any decline in patronage resources, as we have witnessed over the last two to three decades in Africa, will pose the greatest threat to political legitimacy and thus stability in regions where brokers have little to no social authority. To illustrate these ideal-types of local brokers and the varying impact on political competition, participation, and stability, this book draws on empirical evidence from the four Senegalese electoral districts outlined above.

Overview of the Chapters The research for this book was based on hundreds of interviews in four electoral districts with national politicians, local brokers, religious figures, other community leaders, and ordinary citizens along with dozens of focus groups and several opinion polls conducted between 1992 and 2003. Before turning to the book’s core chapters on the varying political capacity of local brokers in these districts (chapters 3–6), we must first discuss the apparent contradictions between clientelism and democracy, and consider how a political system in which clientelism remains the basis for political mobilization and accountability can arguably be described as democratic. Although admittedly a weak or shallow version that pales in comparison with a normative ideal of democracy, clientelist democracy must be categorized as a subtype rather than a diminished form of democracy in order to distinguish those regimes that have achieved the minimal requirements for democracy from competitive authoritarian regimes that have not yet completed the transition to democracy. In light of the historical and contemporary flaws in the “quality” of consolidated Western democracies (Linz and Stepan 1996), including periods and/or pockets of clientelist democracy (Crenson and Ginsberg 2002; Piattoni 2001), raising the conceptual bar to exclude clientelist forms of democracy would potentially require the recategorization of dozens of regimes including India, Italy, and perhaps even historically the United States. While this might appropriately contract an overstretched concept, it would also detract from a critique of democratization as a panacea. The need to move beyond the transition paradigm,

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as Thomas Carothers (2002) has wisely recommended, is rooted not only in new political equilibriums that fall short of democracy but also the frequent assumption among politicians, citizens, and international aid agencies that “all good things” come with a democratic transition. Critiques of imperfect democracies as well as competitive authoritarian regimes, rather than endless disputes over their conceptual boundaries, will force us to acknowledge that political reform alone does not guarantee economic or social justice. The importance of this distinction is presented in chapter 1 and then illustrated by an overview of Senegal’s modern political history in chapter 2, which describes the transition from authoritarianism to semi-democracy, and finally clientelist democracy, contextualizing the discussion of local patron–client relations in the subsequent chapters. The subnational analyses begin in chapter 3 with Senegal’s most influential brokers, Wolof marabouts, who historically mobilized large voting blocs for the PS ruling party among the country’s largest ethnic group in central Senegal. Analysis of electoral support in the Murid district of Mbacké illustrates how a high level of social authority (deference) enjoyed by local brokers can dampen political competition and participation despite declining clientelist benefits and an increase in political options following the rise of multiparty politics. The Murid case also illustrates, however, that the economic and social autonomy of powerful marabouts from national patrons can permit them to withdraw support from the ruling party in response to declining benefits and popular pressure, thereby increasing the local level of political competition and to a lesser degree political participation. In chapter 4, the focus shifts to political deference to Tukulor nobles in northern Senegal that similarly undermines political competition and participation in the electoral district of Matam. Unlike the Murid marabouts, however, the dependence of Tukulor nobles on their role as political intermediaries to maintain their economic and social status hampered political competition due to their concentration in the PS ruling party. The political dispersion of these dependent brokers following the 2000 elections illustrates the potential ripple effect of increased political competition or, more accurately, electoral uncertainty at the national level. As a new dominant party becomes established in Senegal, however, the Tukulor nobles as dependent brokers are likely to become once again the strongest supporters of the new PDS ruling party, undermining political competition as well as participation, unless their sociopolitical authority can be effectively challenged by a new elite from a cross-section of castes.

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As an example of limited brokers, the “sons of the soil” in the southern region of Lower Casamance discussed in chapter 5 clearly pose less of an obstacle to political competition and participation than their Wolof and Tukulor counterparts in that their political roles are not ascribed by structures of ethno-religious or caste hierarchy that can generate political or even social deference. The ability of respected “sons of the soil” to assure electoral majorities for the ruling party in Casamance, even after the rise of a secessionist movement, illustrates that limited brokers are capable of mobilizing electoral support though they may be more reliant on the distribution of patronage resources. Their limited social authority nevertheless constrains their ability to legitimize the regime beyond material exchanges, which has prevented the Casamance brokers from avoiding or resolving the ongoing civil conflict. The final case of the Sénégalais d’Amérique presented in chapter 6 not only completes the typology with an example of autonomous brokers but also permits an analysis of the impact of transmigration on socioeconomic relationships that underpin clientelism in Senegal, specifically a decline in religious and caste-based political authority among the Wolof and Tukulor immigrant communities as well as the economic autonomy of brokers and clients alike. The resounding if predictable defeat of the PS at Senegalese polls in the United States indicates the conditions under which clientelism in Senegal and Africa more broadly may be eclipsed by programmatic and/or ideological considerations. What requires explanation is the emphasis that the former ruling party and other politicians placed on an immigrant community that constitutes less than one-tenth of 1 percent of the electorate. To conclude the study of the rise of clientelist democracy in Senegal, chapter 7 considers the four Senegalese cases as illustrations of different potential trajectories within Africa’s democratic and competitive authoritarian regimes. Although dominant party politics may continue to threaten or prevent democratic transitions due to the prevalence of dependent brokers, the autonomy of influential brokers could result in increased political competition despite weak participation by nonelites. Legitimacy crises and consequent political instability, already evident in various African countries, may indicate that the authority of local brokers is limited or has been undermined by various socioeconomic and political processes, while the rise of autonomous “brokers” could signal a fundamental shift away from neo-patrimonial politics and possibly the institutionalization of liberal democracy.

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Admittedly, which trajectory countries or communities within them are likely to take will depend not only on their local socioeconomic structures and prospects for economic development (i.e., alternatives to patronage resources) and social transformation (i.e., an end to “decentralized despotism”), but also national political factors including political institutions and an inclusive form of clientelism that support democratic competition and participation. By utilizing the Senegalese case, however, I have been able to assume that the clientelist system of the ruling party is inclusive and the political institutions are designed to promote a competitive electoral system and protect basic civil liberties in order to focus on the varying impact of clientelism on political competition, participation, and stability. Unfortunately, recent developments in Senegal suggest that these crucial factors at the national level may be eroding. In the concluding chapter, political developments since the historic transfer of power in 2000 are evaluated to determine whether an authoritarian backlash is inevitable given the clientelist nature of Senegal’s democracy. The recategorization of Senegal as a competitive authoritarian regime may become necessary if politicians and citizens are not vigilant in protecting long-cherished political rights such as freedom of the press, and if the current ruling party is permitted to manipulate the country’s political institutions to further concentrate power in the hands of the president and insure its political tenure after his departure, creating a new dominant party system, or worse, a de facto one-party state. The propensity for an authoritarian backlash may be inherent in clientelist democracies, but we must also consider the prospects for and consequences of the disappearance of clientelism from African politics. In the concluding pages of this book, a more nuanced view of the role of clientelism in African politics is presented not only in terms of the conservative value of political stability but more importantly in terms of concerns for the protection and promotion of the interests of nonelites. The assumption that an end to clientelism will be politically, economically, and even socially liberating must be reconsidered in light of the status of subaltern groups in contemporary Western democracies as well as Peter Ekeh’s (1975) conception of the duality of the primordial and civic public in Africa. If the moral imperative of the primordial public, in which local brokers protect their clients and their interests, was to collapse, could the civic public of formal institutions that in Africa has been amoral, detached from society, and highly corrupt assure political access of and accountability

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to nonelites? Or would the end of clientelism ensure the rise of rule of law that will protect and promote the interests of all segments of society? Should socioeconomic and political modernization in the form of democratization strip clients of their customary protections from exploitation without providing alternative means for their survival such as economic development and/or a welfare state, Africans ironically may end up longing for the days of “noblesse oblige” despite the inherent inequalities in a clientelist democracy.

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By the late 1990s, attaching an adjective to democracy had become

something of a cottage industry in political science. David Collier and Steven Levitsky warned that the flourishing of “democracy with adjectives” could lead to “definitional gerrymandering” resulting from the introduction of a new definition every time a scholar encountered a somewhat anomalous case. Collier and Levitsky (1997: 435) were particularly concerned that the creation of these subtypes of democracy could lead to conceptual stretching to cases that are less than democratic in that the application of an adjective has not always been intended to distinguish between different types of democracy but rather different degrees of democracy, as was arguably the case with Fredric Schaffer’s (1998) conception of a Wolof form of demokrasi. In an analysis of African experiences with political liberalization, Jeff Herbst (2001: 357) took this criticism one step further arguing that the “conceptual confusion” and “intellectual messiness” created by “the onslaught of modifiers of democracy . . . is dangerous because it implies that African countries are somehow on the road to democracy and that they have simply been stalled or temporarily delayed.” Similarly, Thomas Carothers (2002: 10) contends that the rampant use of adjectives to qualify democracies in the “gray zone” between democracy and authoritarianism is an attempt by “analysts to apply the transition paradigm to the cases whose political evolution is calling the paradigm into question.” Instead of qualifying democracy, Carothers argues that the transition from a modernization to a democracy paradigm should be abandoned because it has lost its usefulness in explaining the political reality of countries in the gray zone. Why then add to the confusion by proposing the application of yet another adjective of clientelism to democracy? Unlike other examples of democracy with adjectives, clientelist democracy does not apply only to an anomalous case or refer to a

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diminished form of democracy, meeting at least a procedural minimal definition of democracy. Indeed some, though certainly not all, African countries are on the road to democracy, if they are not already there. They are unlikely, however, to resemble a normative form of Western liberal democracy. The concept of clientelist democracy permits us to analyze an alternative form of democracy found not only in Africa but in various regions of the world in which clientelism remains the primary basis for political authority and accountability. Rather than calling for an end to the transition paradigm, clientelist democracy challenges teleological assumptions in the literature on democratic transitions and consolidation by requiring either the categorization of these regimes as democratic or a revision of the current minimal definition of democracy. After confirming the analytical need for clientelist democracy and setting out its analytical boundaries, this chapter focuses on the theoretical dilemmas raised by a clientelist form of democracy before turning to the critical issue of how to operationalize the concept.

The Conceptual Need for Another Adjective In contrast with “classical” subtypes of democracy, such as parliamentary versus presidential democracy, most of the recently created “democracies with adjectives” are missing at least one attribute of a procedural minimal definition of democracy that “presumes fully contested elections with full suffrage and the absence of massive fraud, combined with effective guarantees of civil liberties, including freedom of speech, assembly and association” (Collier and Levitsky 1997: 434). Clientelist democracy, on the other hand, refers to a political regime in which these defining characteristics of democracy are present. In this sense, clientelist democracy is not a diminished form but a subtype of democracy or, more accurately, of “polyarchy” (Dahl 1971) as the achievable form of the political ideal of democracy. It is unlikely that there will ever be a definitive definition of democracy as long as there are political scientists to debate its “true” meaning. Nevertheless, a consensus, at least among American political scientists, has developed around the procedural minimal definition laid out by Robert Dahl (1971) in his classic book Polyarchy, consisting of eight minimal requirements: (1) freedom to form and join organizations; (2) freedom of expression; (3) the right to vote; (4) universal eligibility for public office; (5) the right of political leaders to compete for support; (6) alternative sources of information; (7) free and fair

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elections; and (8) institutions for making government policies that depend on votes and other expressions of political preferences. Others writing on democracy and democratization have attempted to tack on additional requirements to this definition with notably little consensus. As it stands, nothing in this definition indicates that polyarchy cannot coexist with political clientelism, broadly defined here as an informal relationship between patrons and clients in which particularistic resources are provided in exchange for political support. In a departure from other narrower definitions of clientelism, this definition does not assume either inequality or a strictly voluntary, dyadic relationship between patron and client. Nor does it reduce clientelism to vote-buying. Moreover, in contrast with the standardbearing definition of clientelism offered by Eisenstadt and Roniger (1981), I emphasize reciprocity rather than inequality in patron– client relationships in order to encompass clientelist relationships with both resource-poor and resource-rich clients. Even in impoverished urban areas and regions such as Africa that are more commonly associated with high levels of poverty and inequality, it is important to recognize that resources held by clients—both material and nonmaterial—vary dramatically not only among countries but within them as well. This challenges the frequent assumption that clients are uniformly subordinate and exploited—although they often are—not only because the weak are not “weaponless” but not all clients are poor and powerless. Consequently, clientelist democracies may exist at the national level although the relative power of clients at the local level can have a significant impact on varying levels of democratic competition and participation. For example, the economic power of clients or their local brokers can provide them with political autonomy from the ruling party that increases political competition between parties. On the other hand, the social status of local intermediaries, such as a hierarchical relationship between client-brokers and their subclients, may undermine political participation by dictating who are the primary beneficiaries of patronage exchanges, as is the case with the powerful Murid leaders in central Senegal (chapter 3). These local constraints on electoral competition and political participation may perpetuate “decentralized despotism” in terms of political deference to local elites (Mamdani 1996). Nevertheless, this must be distinguished from political coercion of clients through the use and/or threat of physical force that Terry Lynn Karl refers to in her analysis of hybrid regimes in Central America in which democracy and authoritarianism coexist. In these hybrid regimes, bargaining relations based on collective action in one locality within a polity

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coexist with the political subordination of clients through coercion in another (Karl 1995: 73). A coercive form of clientelism, however, challenges most definitions of the concept, including that of Eisenstadt and Roniger (1981), which maintain that all patron–client relations are voluntary. In his discussion of the transition from clientelism to citizenship in Mexico, Jonathan Fox (1994: 157) draws an important distinction between authoritarian clientelism that is reinforced by the threat of coercion and “semi-clientelism” that induces “compliance more by the threat of the withdrawal of carrots than by the use of sticks.” While this distinction leaves unanswered the question of the “voluntary” nature of clientelism where clients depend on the “carrots” (patronage resources) for their economic survival, it is necessary to distinguish between the use of political coercion that involves the explicit infraction of a client’s civil liberties, thereby making clientelism incompatible with democracy, and economic coercion that has more ambiguous implications for clientelist democracy. Moreover, the definition of clientelism used here is more broadly applied in that it refers to political rather than merely electoral support, in contrast to recent studies that take a purely economistic or rational choice approach. Alex Weingrod (1968: 378) was one of the first analysts to distinguish between an anthropological understanding of patronage as “a particular kind of interpersonal relationship” and the political usage of patronage, which he argued refers exclusively to the distribution of “public jobs or special favors in exchange for electoral support.” The reduction of political clientelism to votebuying, however, captures only one dimension of the partisan support generated through clientelist relationships. Beyond winning and retaining political office, clientelism can provide patrons with the more abstract but nevertheless crucial benefit of political authority and legitimacy, evident in the role of broad-based political clientelism in authoritarian as well as democratic regimes, despite the absence of competitive elections (Schatzberg 2001). For example, throughout the period of de facto one-party rule under President Senghor, the ruling party distributed resources not merely to generate support in uncontested, basically symbolic elections, but to maintain its authority in order to implement public policies without relying on coercion. With democratization, of course, the provision of patronage resources to assure electoral support took on greater significance (chapter 2). Nevertheless, PS patrons and their successors in the PDS have not been concerned solely with gaining their clients’ vote, but also with maintaining political support

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beyond the electoral process in order to assure their capacity to govern. In this sense, clientelist democracies are not purely delegative democracies in which the president, once elected, is “entitled to govern as he or she sees fit” (O’Donnell 1994: 60). Whereas the president as the ultimate patron in a clientelist democracy characteristically enjoys a high level of autonomy in formulating and implementing public policy, it is not his election alone that guarantees his extensive authority but the continued distribution of patronage resources, without which he would not only jeopardize his re-election, but would also face high levels of political opposition and instability between elections. Elections, nevertheless, provide a “strategic research site” through which the broader, more complex nature of clientelist relations can be revealed, much as Javier Auyero (2001) relied on political rallies in Peruvian shantytowns to analyze Peronist survival networks. One common denominator between sociological studies of clientelism and more economistic approaches has been their emphasis on the dyadic nature of clientelist exchanges. Economistic approaches, however, tend to exaggerate the role of individual material interests, ignoring the importance of preexisting affective ties between patrons and clients as well as the emotional attachments and identities generated by clientelist relationships, which are included in most sociological studies (Lemarchand 1988; Tarrow 1967). In her more economistic approach to clientelism and democratic representation in Western Europe, Simona Piattoni emphasizes the differences between “traditional” forms of clientelism infused with affective ties, the subject of earlier sociological or “culturalist” approaches, from “modern” forms of clientelism that are “ruled by the pure economic goal of benefit-maximization.” Admittedly, my reservations with her economistic approach may be a product of my work in Senegal where “traditional” forms of clientelism persist as the “modernization” of society has arguably not yet “stripped the clients of . . . customary protections” that temper exploitation by their patron; nor has economic development equipped clients “with the means to restore a certain balance in their relationship with their patron” (Piattoni 2001: 12). But regardless of the level of “customary protections” or economic development in a clientelist polity, this dichotomy of tradition and modernity is problematic, as Lloyd Rudolph and Susanne Hoeber Rudolph (1967) pointed out several decades ago, in that it ignores the important role that group identities continue to play in assuring political loyalty and obligation,

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particularly in a context of limited or declining material benefits and/or increasing political competition. Nevertheless, Kanchan Chandra, in one of the most theoretically sophisticated applications of rational choice theory to political clientelism, has adapted an economistic approach to the Indian context in which affective ties remain clearly salient. In contrast with other economistic approaches, Chandra asserts the importance of group membership and acknowledges the nonmaterial psychic benefit of having co-ethnic elites associated with the state. Her discussion of groups in India’s “patronage democracy” is limited, however, to the voter’s incentive to organize collectively in pursuit of individually distributed goods and the politician’s incentive to target patronage resources toward group members as more cost effective than free floating individuals, while the pursuit of psychic benefits is seen as a product of ethnic politics rather than a possible explanation for it. In order to argue that ethnic-based networks are the outcome rather than the cause of ethnic politics, Chandra denies the relevance of the historical and institutional salience of ethnic/religious groups, claiming that it is limited information about nonethnic identities (e.g., class, profession) and the highly visible nature of ethnic identities (e.g., name, features) that led to the success of ethnic parties in India. In addition to the questionable assumption about voter-clients’ limited access to information about their politician-patrons, Chandra’s (2004: 36) argument leads her to assume that there is “no reason to imagine that the ties which bind together co-members in a trade union should be any less strong than ties which bind co-members in a church or a language association or some other ethnic association.” This effectively denies the “emotional charge” (Epstein 1978) that is distinctive of ethnic identities to which every region of the world, including the Indian subcontinent, is currently witness, often in violent terms. In her brief conceptualization of patronage democracy, Chandra nevertheless assumes that clientelism is not in contradiction with democracy, although it is problematic in that it is prone to ethnic politics and hence instability. Piattoni (2001: 203), on the other hand, notes in passing that “it may be argued that clientelism and liberal democracy, in their idealized forms, represent two opposite forms of interest representation.” Indeed, for many if not most political scientists, clientelist democracy is an oxymoron that flies in the face of much of the literature on democracy and democratization. Bruce Berman (1998: 306), for example, refers to “the evil triumvirate” of patronage, corruption, and tribalism that has undermined current

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efforts at democratization in Africa, and Richard Gunther and his coauthors (1996: 159) describe clientelism as “antithetical to the quality of democracy.” Nevertheless, a growing number of Africa’s neo-patrimonial regimes, including Botswana, Ghana, and Senegal, as well as countries in other regions that are infused with clientelist networks, such as Mexico, South Korea, and Taiwan, have met the procedural definition of democracy without abandoning their clientelist norms and practices, joining other “established” democracies such as Japan, Italy, and India that have been characterized by their clientelist politics (O’Donnell 1996; Pempel 1998; Putnam 1993; Sandbrook and Oelbaum 1997; Solinger 2001). Although no longer semi-democracies, categorizing these countries as formally institutionalized liberal democracies has proven to be problematic, giving rise to debates over democratic consolidation, democratic quality, and, more recently, the applicability of the transition paradigm itself.

The End of the Transition to L IBER A L Democracy For Thomas Carothers and a growing number of other political analysts, the conceptual problem with the recent democratization literature lies with the inappropriate application of the transition paradigm to countries that are neither democratic nor democratizing. Although this may be true in some cases, the two syndromes Carothers offers as conceptual alternatives—both of which aptly describe many if not most clientelist democracies—are by definition either democratic or potentially democratic, that is, not in the heart of the gray zone between authoritarianism and democracy but at the very least along the conceptual border of democracy. Democracy in countries plagued by Carother’s (2002: 10) first syndrome of “feckless pluralism” may be “shallow” due to a lack of political participation beyond voting, but these countries meet a procedural definition of democracy in that they enjoy significant amounts of political freedom, regular elections, and alternation in power. In fact, according to Carother’s definition “consolidated” democracies with growing political apathy could be characterized as examples of feckless pluralism. Without a clear measurement of what constitutes participation that is “too shallow” to categorize a country as democratic, it may be necessary to accept that the level of participation varies among democracies. As long as participation is legally protected and politically guaranteed, a country can be said

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to meet the minimal standard for this critical characteristic of a democracy. There is also some ambiguity surrounding Carothers second syndrome of “dominant power politics” in which opposition parties are permitted though political domination by a single group blurs the line between the ruling party and the state. Problems associated with the categorization of dominant party systems, as this phenomenon is typically referred to, led Adam Przeworski and his colleagues (2000: 29) to differentiate between democratic and nondemocratic versions of this phenomenon by assuming that “[i]f incumbents lose elections at any time in the future, the regime is considered to have been democratic during their entire tenure in office.” This would result, however, in a bizarre retro-recategorization of Ghana, Mexico, Taiwan, Senegal, and South Korea as democracies based on the defeat of their ruling parties in 2000 to some other ambiguous point in time, rather than demarcating these elections as the moment at which their democratic transitions occurred. Admittedly, many of the clientelist democracies, including Senegal, that have been characterized by dominant party politics have experienced alternation too recently to determine whether or not the change in ruling party has put an end to dominant party politics or given rise to a form of serial dominant party politics in which the benefits of incumbency lower the frequency of alternation, in which case they may more accurately be described as competitive authoritarian regimes (Levitsky and Way 2002). Incumbents’ privileged access is not, however, distinctive of authoritarian leaders as is evident in any “old” democracy in the West or elsewhere in the world. Furthermore, clientelist regimes may be more susceptible to dominant party politics, but this would not prevent them from being categorized as democratic so long as the electoral process is not distorted through the manipulation of the electoral code and/or electoral fraud, and civil liberties are both provided for and enforced. While Carothers portrays his two syndromes as alternative outcomes rather than way stations to liberal democracy, he, like most of his supporters and critics, is still operating in a framework that assumes democratization will (or should) lead to a liberal form of democracy. Consequently, these syndromes are normatively viewed as “profound pathologies” instead of alternative outcomes of a democratic transition. Rather than abandon the transition paradigm, however, we need to problematize the implicit teleology that assumes transition to a liberal form of democracy.

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Distinguishing among Electoral, Liberal, and Clientelist Democracies In the mid-1980s, Terry Lynn Karl (1986: 3) rightfully warned us against “‘electoralism’—the faith (widely held by U.S. foreign policymakers) that merely holding elections will channel political action into peaceful contests among elites and accord public legitimacy to the winners in these contests.” Democracy requires not only political competition and participation in the electoral process, but also substantial levels of freedom and pluralism that enable people to form and express their own political preferences, which are often absent from electoral (semi) democracies. By the end of the 1990s, this distinction between liberal democracies and electoral semi-democracies, however, no longer proved sufficient as many newly democratic countries that met both the criteria of political competition and civic freedom still demonstrated serious digressions from a normative model of liberal democracy. In response, political analysts have attempted to distinguish a liberal democracy from a more advanced form of democracy by referring to variance in the quality of democracy. Andreas Schedler (1998) argues that these writings on “deepening democracy” often confuse this process with either issues of democratic transition, such as the transition from an electoral semi-democracy, or democratic consolidation, which he limits to issues of regime survival that may be threatened by either a breakdown or erosion of liberal democracy. According to Schedler, conceptual problems arise when analysts confuse characteristics of a democratic regime with the discussion of subsystem “structural deficits” that can influence the quality of a democracy in terms of their impact on government performance, political institutions, civil society, and/or the political culture. Mirroring democratization literature, Schedler’s evolutionary perspective of regime types, as summarized in table 1.1, would appear to categorize democracies with a “structural deficit,” such as clientelism, as liberal though not yet advanced democracies. Not everyone would agree with this classification. Liberalism, after all, opposes not only political tyranny that infringes on civil liberties, but also political arbitrariness that liberalism attempts to guard against by making a clear distinction between the public and private sphere and by treating all citizens impartially according to an established legal code. This suggests that in addition to competitive elections and protection of civil liberties, there are potentially three other

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Table 1.1 Schedler’s Typology of Regimes Regime Type Authoritarian Rule

Electoral Democracy

Liberal Democracy

Advanced Democracy

No

Yes

Yes

Yes

No

No

Yes

Yes

No

No

No

Yes

Defining Characteristics Free and Fair Elections Protection of Civil Liberties Absence of Structural Deficits

political principles—political equality, republicanism, and rule of law—that are commonly associated with liberalism and thus liberal democracy, which are arguably in inherent contradiction with clientelism.

Political Equality in Theory versus Practice In his eloquent essay on the historical origins of democratic theory, George Sabine (1952) describes liberty and equality as two conflicting traditions of Western democracy as represented in the writings of John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau that serves as “an invitation to paradox” in Western democracies. According to Sabine, Americans privilege liberty over equality as a result of the Lockean AngloAmerican model based on the Puritan revolution and the pursuit of religious freedom and tolerance. Despite the consequent imperfect adherence to the principle of political equality in the United States, a theme that was later developed by various radical and feminist theorists, few would challenge the notion that political equality remains a crucial political ideal in American liberal democracy whether or not it is fully practiced. But the same argument may be applied to clientelist democracies in which informal clientelist relations overshadow though not entirely eclipse formal political institutions. Despite the inequalities stemming from, if not inherent in, most clientelist relations, political equality remains a guiding principle reflected in the constitutions,

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laws, and electoral codes of clientelist democracies. African regimes, for example, have been described as neo-patrimonial precisely because in their contemporary form, the clientelist relationships characteristic of Weber’s classic form of patrimonialism pervade the formal political and administrative system (Bratton and van de Walle 1997; Lemarchand 1988). As these countries have democratized, their political systems may remain rooted in clientelism, but their formal institutions resemble if not imitate Western liberal democracies not only in their structure but also their foundation in the dual democratic principles of liberty and equality. Nevertheless, clientelist democracies arguably differ from liberal democracies in that political inequality is not merely an aberration caused by continuing socioeconomic inequality based on hierarchies of race, gender, class, and/or caste, but is inherent in the political institutions that provide varying levels of political access based on informal clientelist networks. To the degree that socioeconomic inequality is not only reflected in but also reinforced by clientelist relations of inequality, it may be more difficult to promote greater political equality in a clientelist democracy, though not impossible as is evident in the advances made by India’s lower castes (Jaffrelot 2002). The question remains whether clientelist relations that are rooted in social inequality can be the basis for authority in a democratic regime based on political equality. The answer may reflect in part the degree to which clientelism is merely a method of political subordination as opposed to a political strategy that clients can use to ensure greater political access and accountability than they might otherwise expect given preexisting socioeconomic inequalities and/or their status as a political minority. An ethnic or racial minority, for example, may embrace a clientelist system that assures them that the dominant group, whether based on its size, social status, control of the economy, and/or ties to the president, cannot monopolize state resources or dictate public policy. In addition to the case of the Hal-Pulaaren presented here (chapter 5), African Americans are a salient example of a political minority that gained political access and influence through the clientelism of urban party machines in the United States. Though their clientelist benefits were limited, Phillip Thompson (2005) argues that African Americans have experienced an appreciable decline in their political influence and resources with the decline in machine politics. This view of clientelism as a potentially equalizing force presumes, of course, an inclusive system of clientelism that includes all salient socioeconomic categories though not necessarily the inclusion of all individuals or competing political or ideological

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groups. On the other hand, an exclusive system could hardly be considered compatible with democracy, clientelist or otherwise, just as coercive forms of clientelism must be considered out of hand to be incompatible with democracy (Fox 1994; Karl 1995). Over the years, various scholars of clientelism have attempted to identify the key variable aspects of clientelism on which to base a typology of the concept (Eisenstadt and Lemarchand 1981; Kitschelt 2000; Landé 1983; Lemarchand and Legg 1972; Powell 1970). None of them, however, has addressed the conditions under which clientelism and democracy are compatible by distinguishing between repressive and more benign forms of clientelism. Though not directly associating it with regime type, Simona Piattoni maintains that two types of clientelism have existed in Western Europe: a relatively benign British version associated with the distribution of posts and a more repressive Continental/American version associated with the distribution of resources (Piattoni 2001: 4–6). In discussing clientelism’s relationship to equality and its compatibility with democracy more broadly, these factors seem less significant, however, than whether clientelist networks are: 1. a means for political subordination or a political strategy that provides clients with political access to public resources (including posts) and/or influence in public policymaking; 2. exclusive or inclusive of all politically salient socioeconomic categories whose political influence and access may vary but as a reflection of either their relative demographic importance or level of political support; 3. coercive or voluntary, enticing clients by offering them resources without fear of retribution other than a loss of political influence and access; 4. monopolistic or pluralist, permitting competition among political patrons for the loyalty of potential clients. Presented as a dichotomy, each of these four dimensions of clientelism nevertheless reflects a continuum. In most clientelist systems, for example, there is likely to be some combination of political subordination of clients and the use of clientelism as political strategy for empowerment of a minority group. Similarly, there may be competing clientelist networks, but that does not necessarily mean anyone can become a patron given embedded social hierarchies or issues of social class. While the more repressive the form of clientelism the less likely it is compatible with democracy, the difficulty is not only in determining

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when a clientelist system crosses the line, but also how to measure the more abstract dimensions of whether clientelism is a voluntary strategy based on the interests of the clients or merely reflects their “false consciousness.” As most analysts assume that clients who benefit only marginally from these reciprocal relationships are typically duped or manipulated by their patrons, they are likely to emphasize a perspective based on the objective outcomes of clientelist exchanges in terms of the degree to which it reinforces social hierarchies, the uneven distribution of resources, and the power of political elites. However, the clients’ subjective view of the material and symbolic advantages they gain from participating in a clientelist network may better reveal the socioeconomic and political constraints that led them to “voluntarily” choose to use clientelism as a political strategy. As Auyero (2001: 214) concludes in his study of Peronist networks, clients “do not solve [their] pressing problems through material means and symbolic categories of their own choosing.” The assertion that both clients and patrons can benefit from, value, and even demand a clientelist form of democracy should not be interpreted, however, as a normative argument for clientelist democracy. Even if we restrict the concept of clientelist democracy to instances of inclusive, voluntary forms of clientelism where there are only “carrots” and no “sticks,” we cannot ignore the fact that clientelism reinforces and may even create inequality. But nor can we deduce that a clientelist democracy is not democratic because the ideal of equality is not fully practiced if its formal institutions, electoral system, and legal code are based on the principle of political equality, any more than we can challenge the categorization of countries as democracies in racial, patriarchal, and/or capitalists societies that have assured the continued resonance of the concept of polyarchy. What distinguishes clientelist from liberal polyarchies, therefore, is not the presence of inequality but the manner in which it is replicated in and reinforced by political institutions, that is, through clientelist networks.

Republican Virtue: Prioritizing the Public versus Private Spheres In his argument that democracy requires horizontal accountability between political institutions as well as vertical accountability between politicians and citizens, Guillermo O’Donnell (1999: 31) identifies another current in democratic theory, republicanism, which he defines as “the idea that the discharge of public duties is an ennobling activity that demands careful subjection to the law and devoted service to the

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public interest, even at the expense of sacrificing the private interests of the officials.” By including republicanism as one of the normative foundations of democracy, O’Donnell is taking the common assumption in liberal democratic theory of the separation between the public and private spheres one step further in arguing that in a democracy, those operating in the public sphere must adhere to a principle of republican virtue that places public interests above their own private interests. Using Dahlian terminology that permits him to ironically refer to “democracy” as another component of polyarchy along with republicanism and liberalism, O’Donnell argues that republicanism is essential to a polyarchy because of: [the democratic] notion that political authority comes from each and every member of the demos: if this is the case, those citizens who temporarily . . . happen to be in charge of public affairs must make their decisions having in view the good of all . . . [Thus] all decisions must be public in the double sense that the process that leads to them is open to broad participation and that the content of the decisions is made available to everyone. (O’Donnell 1999: 42)

The particularlistic, informal, and private nature of clientelism would clearly appear to violate this principle, suggesting an inherent contradiction in terms within the concept of clientelist democracy. Political authority in a liberal democracy does not, however, come from “each and every member,” but as its critics remind us, from the majority.1 The “tyranny of the majority” critique is particularly apt when the majority becomes ossified and dominated by a particular group. Most democracy theorists, however, assume that the electoral majority shifts among the demos, thereby moderating the majority, an apt counterargument although difficult to substantiate empirically given the persistence of ethnic, racial, and/or other political minorities in most if not all polyarchies. But even when there is a shifting majority, all decisions in a liberal democracy are not and cannot be made in view of “the good of all” given conflicting interests and differing political philosophies and interests among citizens. Furthermore, few would argue that constituency politics such as “pork-barreling” in American politics is in the “public interest.” Leaving aside for the moment the theoretical and potentially ideological question of how to define the “common good” and representation of national versus local interests, in liberal democracies such as the United States there is nevertheless a normative expectation if not always a fulfillment of political representatives adhering to the republican

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virtue of both separating and prioritizing public versus private interests. In a clientelist democracy, the republican virtue of serving the public interest is not completely ignored, particularly when addressing issues of public goods such as national defense and public security. Nevertheless, it is the provision of divisible, more particularistic benefits that is the basis for political legitimacy and accountability and thus preoccupies public officials in a clientelist democracy. This leads to government policies that do not appear to serve and may even be a disservice to “public interest” however ambiguous this term may be. For example, over two decades ago Robert Bates (1981) demonstrated that agricultural policy in Africa’s neo-patrimonial regimes is based on a political logic of clientelism that undermines rather than encourages the “common good” of economic development. But what about those cases where the demos does not expect its elected officials to prioritize public over private interests? As O’Donnell has observed in Latin America, politicians who believe that they should both benefit personally and bestow favors on their family, friends, and political and business associates are supported by these family members, friends, and associates who also assume that officials should behave in this way and would strongly condemn them if they did not (O’Donnell 1999: 38). Similarly, I have observed in Senegal strong normative expectations of clientelist behavior, not only among those who directly benefit from these practices, but also more generally by disinterested parties who understand and support this system of political access and accountability (Beck 1997). Indeed, African oral and written literature is filled with idioms of sharing the “national cake” as Chinua Achebe (1966) describes it in his novel on political corruption and clientelism, A Man of the People. Consequently, what distinguishes a clientelist democracy from a liberal one is not only the prioritizing of private interests, but also a normative acceptance of clientelism that characteristically extends beyond those who receive immediate benefits from it, an obvious obstacle to deepening democracy but not necessarily to defining a regime as democratic. Indeed, differentiating between public and private interests in such contexts may be problematic as illustrated by Peter Ekeh’s conception of two publics in Africa. At the one level is the public realm in which primordial groupings, ties and sentiments influence and determine the individual’s public behavior . . . [This] primordial public is moral and operates on the same moral imperatives as the private realm. On the other hand, there is a

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Ironically in this context it is only when the public sphere is infused with private interests that it is perceived as being moral. While not all forms of clientelism may have a “primordial” component that provides them with a moral imperative, the eradication of clientelist networks that binds politicians to society, whether or not a primordial element is present, could leave these regimes with an amoral civic public that has neither the republican virtues lauded by O’Donnell nor a clientelist basis for political accountability. However, if clientelism were eradicated, as called for by many political reformers both inside and outside of clientelist democracies, this may lead to increasing demands for republican virtue, that is, a transition from clientelist to liberal democracy. The theorizing on this sort of transition is unfortunately as limited as are the empirical examples.2 While it is true that clientelism in the “primordial” public of informal clientelist institutions is often used as an alibi for corruption in the “civic” public of formal political institutions, we must not fall into the trap of treating these concepts as synonomous or viewing clientelism as a form of corruption. Political clientelism, which involves the distribution of resources in exchange for political support, may be and frequently is tied to corruption, which refers to the illicit accumulation of resources for one’s personal benefit, because corruption often provides the resources needed to maintain clientelist networks thereby justifying corruption.3 Many if not most countries— democratic and authoritarian alike—have laws against both corruption and various forms of clientelism (e.g., nepotism); clientelism, however, can be a legitimate basis for authority that is both normatively accepted, as Ekeh’s primordial public suggests, and expected, as both O’Donnell and I have argued. Corruption, on the other hand, is tolerated only to the degree that it is seen as serving clientelist ends, such as the public tolerance of the secret negotiation between the PS ruling party and the PDS as the leading opposition party in the late 1980s. The parties agreed to create a caisse noire (secret fund) that doubled the salaries of deputies from both parties. Senegalese

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informants who had not directly benefited from the secret funds expressed their acceptance of this behavior because they maintained that elected officials “needed” these resources for resdistribution to their clients and they could potentially be among them (Beck 1997). Thus the leadership of the parties, though rebuked by the independent press, was punished neither by their membership nor by the voters for their role in this “scandal.” On the other hand, in a clientelist democracy elected officials who fail to share the wealth may be held accountable through the electoral, political, and/or judicial processes. This is in contrast to other authoritarian or semi-democratic forms of clientelism in which electoral fraud and/or inadequate protection of civil liberties prevents the demos from holding politicians accountable to clientelist political norms, let alone the republican virtue of placing public interests above one’s own private interests. The capacity of clients to hold patrons accountable to clientelist norms is clearly a factor in the continuum between clientelism as a form of political subordination versus a political strategy by a client. Finally, despite the weakness or even the absence of republicanism in clientelist democracies, it is important to note that O’Donnell does not question the categorization of these countries as democracies, but calls for a typology of polyarchies based on the relative weight of the “democratic,” liberal, and republican currents within polyarchic regimes: Democracy (in its equalizing impulses), liberalism (in its commitment to protect freedoms in society), and republicanism (in its severe view of the obligations of those who govern) each in its way supports another fundamental aspect of polyarchy and of the constitutional state that is supposed to coexist within it: the rule of law. (O’Donnell 1999: 32)

Arguably, this typology partially exists already in the contrast between electoral semi-democracies that have only a strong “democratic” current, and liberal democracies that are allegedly strong in all three categories. Therefore, clientelist democracy in which only the republican current remains weak or missing can be seen as completing the typology. The lack or distortion of republicanism is not so much a defining feature of clientelist democracy, however, as it is symptomatic of the relative importance of informal political institutions, that is, clientelist networks as the basis for political authority in clientelist democracies, in contrast to liberal democracies that rely on rule of law in the form of bureaucratic legal-rationalism.

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Rule of Law as a Mechanism for Achieving, Maintaining, or Advancing Democracy? In addition to prioritizing public over private interests, O’Donnell includes a second dimension of republicanism: public officials must subject themselves to the law. The close association between the rule of law and democracy can lead, however, to confusion between what rule of law is—a system “in which the laws are public knowledge, are clear in meaning, and apply equally to everyone” including officials—and what it does, or at least what it is supposed to do, in a democracy—to “enshrine and uphold the political and civil liberties . . . [and to ensure] institutions of the legal system are reasonably fair, competent and efficient . . . [and that] judges are impartial and independent” (Carothers 1998: 96). Although rule of law is increasingly considered a necessary condition of democracy, it is important to note its absence from Dahl’s minimal requirements of polyarchy. Nor is it mentioned as a defining feature of a democratic transition in the more recent literature that followed the “Third Wave” of democratization. Arguably, this may have been an oversight by political analysts who assume constitutionalism and rule of law are the basis for political authority in a democracy. An assumption of rule of law as characteristic of democracy is rooted in both the sequential nature of Max Weber’s ideal types of authority—from a traditional (patrimonial) basis of authority to a modern, legal-rational form of authority, with charismatic authority serving as a catalyst for the transition—and the association of modernization, including legal rationalism, with democracy. In his book on bureaucratic authoritarianism in Latin America, Guillermo O’Donnell (1973) was among the early critics of this inherent teleology in modernization theory, which democratization theory often mirrors, by demonstrating that modernization is not unidirectional as it can lead to the collapse as well as the rise of democratic rule. Bureaucratic authoritarianism provides an important corrective on the relationship between modernization and regime type, but also suggests the need to distinguish between regime type and political authority. In his classic article on personal rulership, Gunther Roth made a similar argument, maintaining that authoritarianism is part of “a continuum of regimes ranging from pluralist democracy to totalitarianism,” whereas patrimonialism “properly belongs to a typology of beliefs and organizational practices” (Roth 1968: 583). In this sense,

C l i e n t e l i s t D e mo c r ac y Table 1.2

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Political Authority and Regime Type Regime Type Authoritarianism

Democracy

Legal-Rationalism (Rule of Law)

Bureaucratic Authoritarianism

Liberal Democracy

Patrimonialism (Clientelism)

Personal Rule

Clientelist Democracy

Political Authority

clientelist democracy can be seen as filling the fourth quadrant in a matrix based on Weber’s typology of political authority and regime type as presented in table 1.2. Since neither political authority nor regime type are dichotomous, as Weber (1968) and Linz (2000) have argued respectively, the intersections of these concepts represent four ideal types, with the possibility of variations along the two continuums. Whether or not it is attributable to the assumed relationship between rule of law and democracy, the discussion of rule of law as a sine qua non does not appear in the literature on democratization until political analysts turned their attention to the challenges of consolidating a democratic transition. In their seminal book on democratic consolidation, Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan (1996) argue that rule of law is one of the five arenas in which consolidation occurs. The Rechtsstaat, which they define as “a state of law, or perhaps more accurately a state subject to law . . . is fundamental in making democratization possible, since without it citizens would not be able to exercise their political rights with full freedom and independence.” The authors maintain that a Rechtsstaat is crucial to the consolidation of democracy because it insures that the “elected government and the state administration are subjected to a network of laws, courts, semiautonomous review and control agencies, and civil society norms that not only check the state’s illegal tendencies but also embed it in an interconnecting web of mechanisms requiring transparence and accountability.” They conclude that “the more that all the institutions of the state function according to the principle of the state of law, the higher the quality of democracy and the better the society” (Linz and Stepan 1996: 19). To include rule of law as a requirement for democratic consolidation, however, would require “stretching” the definition of consolidation

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beyond its initial purpose of analyzing whether a democratic regime will endure or return to authoritarian rule in light of the regime stability of democracies in which rule of law has been flouted if not eclipsed by clientelist politics. This does not negate its importance as a mechanism for protecting democratic principles, but rather asserts that the rule of law is not a democratic principle in and of itself. It is, as Carothers (1998: 100) aptly states, “a nonideological, even technical solution” to problems associated with democracy and democratization. A regime may be less likely to meet a procedural minimal definition of democracy if clientelism is the basis for political authority, and it may be more likely to erode into electoral democracy or even breakdown into authoritarian rule, especially if there is a dramatic decline in the patronage resources available for distribution. But the political consequences of clientelism both in terms of political competition and participation (i.e., the achievement of a democratic transition) and regime stability (i.e., consolidation) are empirical questions that cannot be theoretically predicted based solely on our knowledge that a regime is clientelist even if it is more probable. Although rule of law may not be necessary for the achievement or maintenance of democracy, it would appear nevertheless to be necessary for the advancement of democracy. There is, however, a clear normative dimension to this argument, which is reflected in the recent literature on the quality of democracy. Whether this normative argument reinforces the teleology inherent in much of the democratization literature depends largely on whether the absence of rule of law in a clientelist democracy is viewed as a stage in the “evolution” to liberal (or advanced) democracy, or as an alternative, though presumably suboptimal, outcome of democratization. By analogy, in the debate over presidential versus parliamentary democracy, no one claims that a presidential democracy will necessarily “evolve” into a parliamentary form or vice versa despite arguments that parliamentary democracies are less prone to authoritarian backsliding (Linz and Valenzuela 1994; Stepan and Skach 1993). To illustrate the need to avoid the assumption that a clientelist democracy will ultimately evolve into a liberal form of democracy, clientelist democracy is therefore placed to the right of liberal democracy in my revised typology of political regimes (table 1.3), although on a normative continuum liberal democracy would arguably be placed to the right, further from authoritarian rule and closer to an advanced form of democracy that better approximates the democratic ideal.4 The teleological aspects of democratization as a new form of modernization are further broken down in table 1.3 by acknowledging

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Revised Typology of Political Regimes Regime Type Authoritarian Rule

Electoral Democracy

Liberal Democracy

Clientelist Democracy

No

Yes

Yes

Yes

No

No

Yes

Yes

Varies

Varies

Yes

No

Defining Characteristics Free and Fair Elections Protection of Civil Liberties Political Authority based on Rule of Law

variations in the basis for political authority in authoritarian regimes and electoral democracies, without assuming that the absence or presence of the rule of law in the ancien regime will necessarily determine whether democratization leads to a clientelist or liberal form of democracy. The lack of rule of law in authoritarian regimes based on personal rule may be an important indicator that a democratizing country will become a clientelist democracy, but there are countries that may be categorized as clientelist democracies, such as the Ukraine, although rule of law was highly developed in their ancien regimes. Consequently, to explain the rise of clientelist democracy in countries with distinctly different ancien regimes, we can only claim with certainty that rule of law in clientelist democracies is relatively weak following democratization, in some cases indicating a perpetually weak state and in others reflecting the weakening or even collapse of the state during the democratization process or by the political and economic factors that contributed to democratization. Having demonstrated the need for another category of democracy, we must now consider how to determine which regimes should be categorized as a clientelist democracy. Given that clientelism is present in all political systems, coexisting with or eclipsing rule of law to varying degrees, how do we establish when political authority is based primarily on clientelism rather than a bureaucratic-legal rationale? For an Africanist, this question may seem inconsequential as the clientelist nature of African regimes—democratic, authoritarian, or anywhere in-between—is uncontested. But the conceptual boundary is crucial, otherwise most if not all democracies could be categorized as clientelist democracies as a result of the presence of clientelism, rendering the concept meaningless.

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Operationalizing Clientelist Democracy There are at least three alternative methods for identifying whether clientelism is the basis for political authority in a democracy; these include analysis of: (1) political appeals made by political elites; (2) public requests made by citizens; and (3) the distribution of public resources. Given the informal nature of clientelism, offers of and requests for political patronage are not always public and thus difficult to observe. Consequently, although evidence of clientelist appeals by politician-patrons and/or citizen-voters would suggest that they are operating in a clientelist democracy, the distribution of resources through clientelist channels would confirm, even in the absence of clientelist rhetoric, the categorization of a democracy as clientelist. In terms of the distribution of public resources, clientelism is typically associated with the particularistic provision of private or “club” goods in contrast with the universalistic provision of public or common goods in programmatic politics. In his work on citizen-politician linkages, Kitschelt adds to this dichotomy the third possibility of charismatic linkages, mirroring Weber’s typology of traditional (patrimonial), bureaucratic, and charismatic authority. His conceptualization, however, subsumes constituency politics under programmatic linkages, arguing that political parties that rely on programmatic linkages between citizens and politicians not only supply collective goods but are also “likely to serve rent-seeking special interests.” He maintains that “this does not make them clientelist as long as they disburse rents as a matter of codified, universalistic public policy applying to all members of a constituency, regardless of whether a particular individual supported or opposed the party that pushed for the rent-serving policy” (Kitschelt 2000: 850). The key difference between programmatic and clientelist politics is thus rule of law. Kitschelt’s conception of citizen-political linkages, however, suggests a continuum rather than a dichotomy between the universalistic and particularistic provision of public resources. At one end of the spectrum is programmatic politics, which is universalistic in that all citizens, or at least a broad legally defined category of them, such as students or the unemployed, benefit equally. Toward the middle lies constituency politics, which is universalistic in that all citizens within a district or, once again, at least a broad category of them, benefit equally without partisan distinction. But constituency politics is particularistic in that not all districts benefit from the same access to public goods. This dual nature of constituency

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politics is due to the fact that the rent-seeking special interests to which Kitschelt refers may pursue both a universalistic public policy and particularistic distribution of resources through favorable legislation, while politicians seek to provide their constituents, defined as both their actual and potential supporters, with access to discretionary benefits. Pork-barreling, for example, would clearly fall under this heading. More extreme in its particularism is clientelism, found at the other end of the spectrum, in which access varies both between and within districts based on political affiliation and access. In clientelist politics, political patrons provide resources to supportive districts while targeting their clients or brokers within a given district based largely on electoral results and/or campaign contributions. Although programmatic public policies are associated with liberal democracy, this form of citizen-politician linkage also exists in clientelist democracies, albeit to a lesser extent, characteristically covering fewer policy areas and/or utilizing a smaller percentage of public resources that are reserved for maintaining clientelist ties that are the basis for political authority. The key difference between liberal and clientelist democracies, however, lies in the distribution of divisible resources or discretionary benefits through constituency versus clientelist politics. As Kitschelt notes, codification is an important dimension of the distinction between constituency and clientelist politics, although the distribution of resources may be codified but nevertheless distributed through clientelist networks. This is often evident in the pattern of public sector employment, but is also found in terms of the location of other divisible resources such as goods, services, and infrastructure at the subnational level. In a liberal democracy, the location of public works projects is typically based on geographic distribution or demographic need. For example, the Democratic “blue” states in the United States did not lose access to federal resources when “red” Republicans won control of the presidency and Congress in 2000, although large categories of special interests that supported the Republican Party have benefited from favorable legislation and public policy. On the other hand, in a clientelist democracy, the distribution of public works projects within as well as among districts follows a political logic that reflects clientelist relations among citizens, their brokers, and politician-patrons, with distribution in a clientelist democracy more closely linked to electoral results. Vote-buying is just one example of this type of clientelist support. The distribution of money and

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other material resources, everything from cloth to rice in Africa, to individual voters characteristically plays an important role in a clientelist democracy. This is often difficult to substantiate and measure, however, as it is often based only on the word of those outside the exchange. Moreover, thwarted by the secret ballet, politicians often must rely on electoral results in a polling station to confirm the loyalty of an area toward an individual candidate, though ultimately this may lead to constituency-based politics. The categorization of a democracy as clientelist or liberal, therefore, may be empirically verified by the location of public works projects ranging from public schools and state-funded health facilities to road construction and the placement of millet grinders, as well as the distribution of international aid that is channeled through the state. This pattern of inequitable resource distribution is not only clearly evident in Senegal, but was also the motive for the secessionist movement in the Casamance (chapter 5). Beyond evidence of individual vote-buying, we may therefore, rely on several different measures to categorize clientelist versus liberal democracies: (1) the legislation of and adherence to universalistic public policy both within the polity and its local districts; (2) the degree of codification of the distribution of divisible goods; and (3) the correlation between access to or location of divisible goods and partisan support. Undoubtedly few democracies will fit neatly into one of these ideal types of citizen-politician relations; nevertheless, the differentiation of clientelist democracy from the presence of clientelism in a liberal democracy will provide a better understanding of how the primary basis for political authority may vary among democratic regimes.

Conclusion: Democracy with and without Adjectives Robert Dahl’s definition of polyarchy continues to enjoy consensual acceptance by American political scientists precisely because it is a procedural minimal definition that can accommodate varying forms of democracy. Based on this definition, clientelist democracies that enjoy free and fair elections and the protection of civil liberties must be categorized as polyarchies. Nevertheless, their association with political inequality, corruption, and dominant-party politics may be indicative of either the inadequacy of this minimalist definition or our exaggerated expectations of democracy, a critical issue more fully analyzed in chapter 7. Nevertheless, as long as political scientists

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adhere to a procedural rather than substantive definition of democracy, clientelist democracy must refer to a subtype rather than a diminished form of democracy that is conceptually needed in order to distinguish it from both a Western-style liberal democracy and semidemocracy or competitive authoritarianism. In distinguishing clientelist democracy from a liberal version, the lack or distortion of political equality and republicanism—key political principles associated with liberalism—is not unique to clientelist democracy and should not prevent its categorization as democratic, although clearly this influences the quality of democracy in these countries. Moreover, the lack of these principles is not a defining characteristic of this subtype of “democracy with an adjective,” but is rather symptomatic of the relative importance of informal institutions (i.e., clientelist networks) as the basis for political authority in contrast to reliance on rule of law in liberal democracies. This chapter has set out the conditions under which clientelism may be compatible with democracy, based on whether clientelist networks are: (1) serving as a political strategy for gaining access and not merely as a means for political subordination; (2) inclusive of all politically salient socioeconomic categories; (3) voluntary in terms of enticing clients by offering them resources without fear of retribution should they refuse; and (4) pluralist in that they permit competition among patrons for the political support of potential clients. Chapter 2 applies this conceptualization to the case of Senegal to demonstrate the rise of a clientelist form of democracy following President Leopold Sedar Senghor’s decision to embark on democratization in the mid1970s, requiring the categorization of Senegal as a clientelist democracy once it fulfilled a procedural minimal definition of democracy at the turn of the twenty-first century.

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ccording to the typology of political authority presented by Max Weber in his classic work Economy and Society, the initial basis for “legitimate domination” by a ruler is traditional authority that evolves from a gerontocracy to a patrimonial form of rule based on a mixture of traditional authority and clientelism, and ultimately to a legalrational form of rule that he associated with the rise of Western modernity. Weber recognized, however, that these were theoretical ideal types and that in practice combinations of different bases of authority were likely to arise. In sub-Saharan Africa, this hybrid basis for authority took the form of neo-patrimonialism in which the development of a bureaucratic state, introduced under colonialism, was distorted from legal-rational authority by the continuing reliance of the colonial state and its African successors on clientelism as their basis for political legitimacy.1 As in the rest of Africa, the clientelist nature of the contemporary Senegalese state is arguably rooted in the patrimonial authority of its precolonial societies, a form of clientelism “with a discount” (Lemarchand 1988) that strengthens patron–client relations beyond material interests and instrumentalist strategies. These precolonial structures of authority were of course distorted by the French colonial state to permit it to conquer and then govern this culturally diverse territory. Having inherited a neo-patrimonial political system, political legitimacy in Senegal’s postcolonial state has remained rooted in a clientelist basis for authority and governance that influenced both authoritarian rule under de facto one-party rule following independence and the rise of clientelist democracy at the end of the twentieth century.

Patrimonialism in Precolonial Senegal In comparison to other African states with dozens, even hundreds of ethnic groups, Senegal has a relatively homogeneous society. Based

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on its 1988 census (Republic of Senegal 1990), over 85 percent of its population belongs to five major ethnic groups: Wolof, Pulaar, Jola, Serer, and Mandinka (appendix 1).2 With the notable exception of the Jola and a few other Casamançais ethnic groups (chapter 5), Senegal’s precolonial societies were hierarchically structured and highly patrimonial. In religious terms, almost 95 percent of the population is Muslim, though they are subdivided into various Sufi orders or brotherhoods to which all but a small though growing number of Senegalese Muslims belong. The three major brotherhoods are the Qadiriya, the Tijaniya, and the Muridiya.3 The Qadiriya, the oldest Muslim tariqa (Sufi order), was founded in the twelfth century by Abd alQadir Jilani in Bagdad, spreading across North Africa and then down into contemporary Senegal in the nineteenth century. Adhered to by a minority of Senegalese (10.9 percent) who live primarily in peripheral regions including the Casamance regions of Kolda and Ziguinchor, the Qadiriya historically influenced other Senegalese brotherhoods. Founded in the eighteenth century by Ahmad al-Tijani in Morocco, the Tijaniya has the largest following in Senegal (47.4 percent) though it is split into various branches in Senegal associated with different charismatic religious leaders in different regions of the country,

The annual Murid conference held at the United Nations in New York City on Shaikh Amadou Bamba Day (July 2002).

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including two prominent Wolof marabouts, Ibrahim Niasse of the central Saloum (Kaolack) region, and Malik Sy of the western Cayor (Tivaouane) region; and two Hal-Pulaaren leaders, Umar Tall of the Fuuta Tooro in the northern Senegal River Valley, and Mamadou Saidou Ba of Medina Gounnasse in the southern Casamance (Kolda) region. Finally, the Muridiya is the only tariqa that originated in Senegal, founded at the turn of the twentieth century by a Wolof marabout, Shaikh Amadou Bamba, in the “twin cities” of Touba-Mbacke in central Senegal.4 Although it has gained a following among other ethnic groups, particularly in urban areas, it remains largely associated with the Wolof. As each of these Sufi orders gained a following in Senegal at the turn of the twentieth century, their religious leadership typically became intertwined with the ruling families of the preexisting states, reinforcing the patrimonial basis of precolonial rule.

The Origins of Senegal’s Politique Politicienne under French Colonial Rule As in North Africa, marabouts in the Senegambia region resisted French colonial rule, taking up arms under the leadership of various religious figures often allied with traditional leaders of the precolonial states, most notably Mabba Jaxu Ba, Amadou Bamba, Lat Jor Diop, and Umar Tall. The instability created by colonial conquest was in some areas a catalyst for the spread of Islam. In the face of French military superiority, Sufi leaders either took flight, as in the case of Umar Tall (chapter 4), or ultimately resigned themselves to collaboration with the French colonial administration, most notably the Muridiya leadership (chapter 3).5 Although the British colonial administration is more commonly associated with indirect rule through local African intermediaries, the French adopted a similar politique des races that recognized variations in the preexisting sociopolitical structures of their African subjects and sought to legitimize their colonial state through collaboration if not incorporation of local elites whenever it was deemed feasible (Harrison 1988). To address problems associated with the administration of Islam noir (African Islam), colonial administrators in French West Africa (Afrique Occidentale Française, AOF) developed clientelist relations with Sufi leaders, in particular the more cooperative Wolof marabouts in central Senegal, Tijan and Murid alike. These marabouts became critical political allies and economic partners in the establishment of the colony’s peanut economy.

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In exchange for the compliance and labor of their disciples, the marabouts were assured access to necessary inputs to promote peanut production, including land, seeds, and transportation infrastructure, along with other material benefits such as the financing of the construction of mosques and pilgrimages to Mecca. Moreover, the marabouts received public acknowledgment of their social authority at various ceremonies attended by representatives of the colonial state in exchange for the marabouts’ recognition of the political authority of the colonial state (Behrman 1970; O’Brien 1971). The French politique des races, however, was in apparent contradiction to the rhetoric of the colonial states’ alleged “civilizing mission” of assimilation (Conklin 1997; Crowder 1967). The theory underpinning its assimilation policy was that the French colonial state would turn its African subjects into “Black Frenchmen” through French education, incorporation into the colonial administration, and, at least in the case of Senegal, involvement in French colonial elections and party politics.6 In sub-Saharan Africa, Senegal is distinguished by its long history of electoral politics dating back to 1848 when French citizens of the Four Communes (Dakar, Gorée, Rufisque, and Saint-Louis) along the northern coast of Senegal were first permitted to elect a deputy to the French National Assembly. In addition to native French citizens, those évolués (evolved) Africans born in the Four Communes who were able to pursue higher education and had embraced French culture were granted French citizenship, including voting rights. The remaining majority of the African population in these towns (originaires) were not eligible to vote until 1916 after lobbying by a newly elected deputy, Blaise Diagne, the first African deputy in the French National Assembly. Even prior to Diagne’s election, when French and then Creole politicians dominated electoral politics, various Senegalese citizens and subjects alike were heavily involved in the colony’s electoral politics. For example, Murid leaders, whose rural followers could not vote at the time, financed the electoral campaign of Creole politician François Carpot. After his election to the French National Assembly in 1902, Carpot interceded with the colonial administration to insure the return of the exiled Murid founder, Amadou Bamaba (chapter 3). As suffrage was extended from the urban enclaves to the rural hinterland in 1946, the évolué politician Leopold Sedar Senghor broke away from his political mentor, Lamine Guèye, the local leader of the Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière (SFIO), to form a new party, the Bloc Démocratique Sénégalais (BDS). Following the example of the colonial state, Senghor formed alliances with communal leaders

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in each region to mobilize support among the new rural voters. Despite being a religious and ethnic minority as a Catholic Serer, Senghor was elected to the French National Assembly in 1951, receiving 67.8 percent of the vote with the help of these local intermediaries who became brokers for his party. The 1951 elections reflected the evolution of Senegal’s urban machine politics to a new form of politique politicienne based on the patronage networks of the BDS, which effectively incorporated every region of the colony via local brokers who could deliver blocs of votes to varying degrees in exchange for access to political resources as discussed in the subsequent case studies (chapters 3–6). In addition to its network of local brokers, Senghor’s party pursued a strategy of fusing with other political parties. A champion of the causes of regional associations, the BDS formed alliances with them only to ultimately absorb them, as was the case in 1950 when the Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques de la Casamance (MFDC)—the party from which the current separatist movement in southern Senegal took its name—fused with the BDS along with other regional parties from the Fuuta Tooro. In 1956, the Mouvement Autonome de Casamance, which had split from the MFDC after it joined Senghor’s party, merged with the BDS to form the Bloc Populaire Sénégalais (BPS). Ultimately following the triumph of the BPS in the 1957 territorial elections, even Guèye’s party, renamed the Parti Sénégalais d’Action Socialiste, merged with the BPS to form the Union Progressiste Sénégalaise (UPS). By the time of the 1958 referendum on independence in French Africa, Senghor had become a dominant force in Senegalese politics, having incorporated all major political parties as well as trade union and youth leaders. The only remaining opposition to the UPS were two small parties: the Marxist Parti Africain de l’Indépendence (PAI) founded by Majhemout Diop in 1957, and the Parti de Regroupement Africain-Sénégal (PR A-S) formed in 1958 by a group of radicals who were unified in their support for immediate independence. The PR A-S supported a “no” vote in the 1958 referendum, rejecting President de Gaulle’s offer for greater autonomy within the French colonial system. Senegalese marabouts, on the other hand, supported the referendum as they opposed immediate independence “on the grounds that the radicals could take power and launch a campaign to undermine the marabouts’ authority” (Gellar 1995: 18). Not wishing to upset his marabout clients and concerned about French economic reprisals, Senghor asked the UPS to accept self-government within the framework of the French community. With extensive campaigning by Senghor and his maraboutic allies, the referendum for self-government passed by over 97 percent.

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Nevertheless, Senegal, along with the rest of the AOF and their counterparts in Equatorial Africa, steadily moved toward independence, which initially came for Senegal in the form of a federation with Mali (the French Sudan) in April 1959 (Foltz 1965). The Malian Federation was basically stillborn and quickly dissolved in June 1960 when Senegal became an independent country with President Leopold Senghor and his long-time political ally, Prime Minister Mamadou Dia, firmly at the helm.

One-Party Rule under the Senghorian State Already at independence, the UPS dominated Senegalese politics, having won all the legislative seats in the 1959 elections. Although Sheldon Gellar (1995: 21) describes the initial years of postcolonial rule as a period of “fierce electoral competition,” the most intense political competition in the early 1960s was within the ruling party itself. In 1962, a constitutional crisis arose due to a falling out between President Senghor and Prime Minister Dia that may be largely attributed to Dia’s radical policies, which Senghor once again saw as threatening the ruling party’s clientelist base, specifically support from the marabouts and other landowners who opposed Dia’s agricultural reform. The crisis divided the party into two camps, culminating with a standoff when a motion of censure against the prime minister was introduced in the National Assembly. Dia responded by arresting four of the UPS deputies who led the campaign to oust him. The army stepped in, surrounded the National Assembly, and arrested Dia who was tried for an attempted coup d’état and sentenced to life imprisonment, although he benefited from a general amnesty of political prisoners and was released in 1974. During this crisis, the Murid Khalif-Général provided critical support for Senghor, mobilizing his Murid followers in a show of force for the president. After Dia’s departure, a new constitution was adopted that replaced Senegal’s parliamentary system with a centralized presidential system that eliminated the post of prime minister. Meanwhile, the remaining opposition parties were alternatively co-opted, including the PR A-S, or banned, such as Cheikh Anta Diop’s Bloc des Masses Sénégalais and his successor party the Front National Sénégalais. While theoretically permitting opposition parties, the 1963 constitution created a winner-takes-all electoral regime that institutionalized a de facto one-party state (O’Brien 1967b; Zuccarelli 1988).

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Under the new constitution, decision-making was highly centralized. Ministers basically served as high-level functionaries, deferring to Senghor on anything other than routine matters. The National Assembly, alias chambre d’applaudissement (house of applause), was a rubber stamp for the laws and budgets proposed by the president, though he frequently legislated by decree. Even the judiciary was not immune to Senghor’s influence. Moreover, President Senghor was not only the head of the state and the government, but also the secretary-general of the ruling party, setting a precedent that established the intertwining of the party-state. All government and party officials, whether elected or appointed, were ultimately dependent on Senghor’s patronage, blurring the distinction between legislative, judicial, and administrative functions. As the inherited colonial administrative apparatus swelled, Senegal’s bureaucracy also developed a patrimonial logic, making it more appropriate to speak of “patrimonial bureaucrats” acting on the political interests and loyalties of the party-state, than civil servants implementing public policy (Beck 1997). With state control over all forms of mass media and the only legal trade union subsumed under the ruling party, it appeared that Senghor held a political monopoly. Efforts to centralize political power were, however, incomplete. The Senghorian state remained reliant on local communal leaders as political intermediaries to assure its legitimacy and authority. Rival community leaders became associated with competing factions of the ruling party initially referred to as “clans” although they were not necessarily based on kinship or other cultural cleavages in Senegalese society (Schumacher 1975). Clan rivalries flared up during the formation of the ruling party’s electoral lists for legislative and local offices as well as internal party elections (renouvellements) that determined which clan leader controlled the local party apparatus of the regional and departmental coordinations and its accompanying clientelist resources. As these rivalries often involved a great deal of mud slinging and even violence, the term clan became pejorative, replaced by tendances (factions) that effectively played the same role in the ruling party as well as opposition parties as they began to regain strength in the 1980s and 1990s. Despite the eclipsing of interparty competition during the 1960s and early 1970s, the support of these local leaders remained critical to the legitimacy of Senghor’s party-state and its capacity to govern. As Donal Cruise O’Brien (1975: 176) noted in his book Saints and Politicians, rural communal leaders remained indispensable intermediaries due to inadequate formal institutions at the local level. Thus, Senegal’s authoritarian state relied primarily on clientelism interspersed

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with bouts of repression rather than the inverse found in many African states during this period, particularly those under military rule.

An Early Attempt at Political Reform in Africa: Senegal’s “Passive Revolution” Not all Senegalese readily accepted the contraction of political space under one-party rule, however relatively “benign” and “paternalistic” Senghor’s leadership may have seemed. However, due to his adept balancing of political enticement and repression, only a small fringe of clandestine leftist parties, militant university students, and defiant union activists continued to vociferously oppose the Senghorian state in the 1960s (Ly 1992). Few in numbers, racked with schisms, without resources or a public forum, they posed little threat to the Senghorian state until the late 1960s when deteriorating socioeconomic conditions provided fertile ground for opposition to Senghor’s personal rule. Like many other former colonies in Africa, Senegal was left with the legacy of an export monocrop economy. The peanut economy, which employed over 80 percent of Senegal’s workforce in 1966 (Mbodj 1991), served as an important link in state–marabout collaboration. Peanut production was the primary source of marabout wealth at the time, while providing the state with a tax base for its bloated and expanding administrative apparatus. In 1967, however, Senegal began experiencing severe, recurrent drought. Meanwhile, despite the near doubling of the world price of peanuts between 1968 and 1973, the windfall profits went to the state marketing board initially created under colonial rule rather than the producers. As land became more scarce and peanut production dropped, farmers were increasingly resentful of state mismanagement of the agricultural sector. In response, many evaded the state monopoly by smuggling their harvests to the Gambia, or by withdrawing from peanut cultivation with the approbation of their religious leaders who began to distance themselves from the unpopular regime (chapter 3). At the same time, increasing urban migration resulted in rampant unemployment, which was compounded by a decline in public sector employment due to austerity measures in the late 1960s instituted by the state to free up funds for public investment in industrialization that bore little fruit. A discontented urban workforce demonstrated against unpaid salaries, unemployment, and increases in the price of staple foods. By 1969, the now commonplace strikes were no longer controlled by union leaders who were compelled to distance themselves from the ruling party (Zucarrelli 1988: 117–120).

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Senghor was able to bring the situation under control through combined co-optation, including lower food prices, higher producer prices and salaries, as well as repression involving numerous arrests, police brutality, and imposition of a state of emergency. In 1970, Senghor also responded by initiating a referendum to de-concentrate executive power by reestablishing the post of prime minister, with the appointment of a technocrat from his administration, Abdou Diouf, whose intended function was undoubtedly to serve as a political lightening rod. The explosive events of 1968–1969 nevertheless forced Senghor to reconsider whether relegating political opposition to clandestine activities posed a greater threat to the legitimacy and stability of his regime than competitive party politics. In 1975, the National Assembly passed a second constitutional reform establishing limited multipartyism by authorizing three political parties founded on officially designated ideologies. The UPS was renamed at this time the Parti Socialist (PS) and joined the Socialist International. In addition to the newly reincarnated ruling party, Abdoulaye Wade’s party, the PDS, which was officially recognized in 1974, was obliged to accept the mantle of democratic liberalism, while Majhemout Diop’s PAI was reauthorized as the official MarxistLeninist party. This effectively blocked Senghor’s most formidable opponents, Cheikh Anta Diop and Mamadou Dia, whose political activities remained clandestine. They were passed over once again when a fourth party, the Mouvement Républicain Sénégalais, was recognized under the banner of conservativism shortly after the landslide victory of the PS in the 1978 presidential and legislative elections in which Senghor received 82.3 percent of the vote and the PS took 82 of the 100 seats in the National Assembly. Electoral support for the ruling party undoubtedly reflected its popularity due largely to the continuing strength of its clientelist networks, but also high levels of electoral fraud and intimidation perpetrated by the party-state. As Robert Fatton (1987) explains, Senegal’s return to multipartyism was an example of Antonio Gramsci’s “passive revolution” in which the ruling party introduced a political safety valve to undermine more potentially volatile clandestine opposition while establishing the foundation for a “loyal” opposition, that is, one that agreed to abide by the rules set up by the party-state to protect its political tenure. The fact that political liberalization was imposed from above permitted the party-state to limit the nature, scope, and implementation of the reforms (Beck 1997). The increase in the number of parties did not fundamentally change the relationship between the state and the

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ruling party, or place any checks on presidential power. The PS continued to control the administration, the media, and most importantly, the state coffers. In fact, the exponential growth of parastatals between 1970 and 1975 multiplied the patronage resources of the party-state as it undertook political liberalization (Mamadou Diouf 1992: 258). The PS could consequently rely on its access to public resources, control of government institutions, and the party’s clientelist networks not only to distribute pre-election incentives but also to subvert the integrity of the electoral process through extra-legal administrative practices, such as withholding voter cards, and electoral fraud, such as stuffing the ballot box, both of which were widespread according to the opposition (Zuccarelli 1988: 147–148). Even before the 1978 election, Abdoulaye Wade complained that the minister of the interior, who was responsible for the administration of the elections, sent a memorandum to the head of each electoral district instructing them that the use of a voting booth is optional in flagrant disregard for the constitutional guarantee of the secret ballot. Wade argued that this would lead to infinite possibilities of intimidation and manipulation due to the general assumption that to choose to use a voting booth was in itself evidence of supporting the opposition. Why else would one refuse to cast their vote in full view of local representatives of the party-state who served as polling station officials? Prior to the elections, the Supreme Court declared itself incompetent to adjudicate on a ministerial memorandum. In response to Wade’s attempt to annul the elections on the same grounds, the Court subsequently argued that guaranteeing the possibility of casting a ballot in secret was sufficient protection of this constitutional obligation. The court’s ruling brought into question the independence of the judiciary. To allegedly avoid future confrontations, the offending article of the constitution was subsequently revised by the PS-dominated National Assembly to read that elections must be “secret under conditions to be fixed by the (electoral) law” (Zucarrelli 1988: 148). In his indistinguishable roles as head of state and the ruling party, Senghor thus enjoyed a serious competitive advantage in the 1978 elections. Even before Senghor was reelected, there was also maneuvering to ensure the political tenure of the PS-state after his retirement by enabling him to select his successor. Whereas previously the Senegalese Constitution required a new election if the president left office prematurely, under the newly revised constitution the prime minister would assume the presidency until the end of the term, effectively bypassing the electorate. After President Senghor stepped down in December 1980, this constitutional amendment provided Senghor’s dauphin, Prime Minister Diouf, with

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crucial time to consolidate his leadership position before submitting his presidency to popular approval. Despite this final enhancement of presidential authority and other political maneuvers to guard against a PS electoral defeat, Senegal’s “managed” transition toward multiparty democracy was a significant step away from authoritarian rule under the Senghorian state, and his voluntary departure from office a rare and remarkable event in Africa.

Senegal’s “Semi-Democracy” under Abdou Diouf Within six months of assuming office, President Diouf announced the lifting of constraints on the number and ideology of political parties. Angered by his “constitutional coup d’état,” many of his opponents accused Diouf of introducing unlimited multipartyism to split the opposition. In fact, the number of parties more than tripled by 1982. After the electoral code was unilaterally rewritten by the PS state in preparation for the 1983 national elections, the position of the opposition was further undermined by the banning of electoral coalitions under the pretext that such alliances are “artificial” since they do not last beyond the electoral period (O’Brien 1983: 9). This seriously handicapped recently recognized parties that were required to put together a complete list of 120 candidates for the enlarged National Assembly in less than one year in order to compete in the 1983 legislative elections. Another indication of Senegal’s “semi-democracy,” a term first applied by Christian Coulon (1988), was the transformation of the method for electing deputies under the 1982 electoral code. Rather than strict proportional representation, only half of the deputies were to be elected from the parties’ national lists based on proportional representation, and the remainder were to be elected in a “majoritytakes-all” system at the local level that favored the ruling party. Salifou Sylla (1983–1985: 252) argues that this dual system reflected a compromise within the PS over whether to maintain a proportional system that could erode the party’s wide majority in the Assembly, or to reintroduce the majority-takes-all system that existed under oneparty rule, which would have effectively eliminated the opposition from the Assembly. The two-list compromise protected the PS majority while guaranteeing symbolic representation of the increasingly vocal opposition. For the leading opposition party, this change was not academic in that the PDS would have won more than twice as many seats in 1983, 17 instead of 8. In the 1988 elections, the continued

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use of the dual system meant the difference between a potential 35 seats for the PDS under a system of strictly proportional representation and the 17 seats the party received under the dual-list system (Zucarrelli 1988: 164, 177). There were some minor gains for the opposition under the new electoral code such as access to the state-run radio and television, although there were no requirements for balanced coverage in the state newspaper, Le Soleil, which unabashedly profiled the PS candidates. Furthermore, inequities persisted in the broadcast time allotted to legislative campaigns. Under the new code, the majority party in the Assembly (the PS) received half the airtime (21 minutes daily) with the remainder shared evenly among the seven other parties with legislative candidates. Although the official broadcasts for the presidential candidates were equally divided, the incumbent president used his heavily publicized official visits and inaugural ceremonies to announce what amounted to campaign slogans and promises (Sylla 1983–1985: 244–245). At this time in Senegalese history, no independent broadcasters that could provide more balanced coverage were permitted. Like his predecessor, President Diouf also enjoyed important advantages over the opposition in terms of control over the state apparatus, which determined the rules of the game, as well as access to the state coffers and party clientelist networks to assure dominant party rule by the PS. For example, by erasing agricultural debts and sharply increasing the producer price for peanuts just prior to the elections, Diouf ingratiated himself to the marabouts and their peasantclients in the Peanut Basin (chapter 3). In addition, Diouf opened the doors of the government and the party to young intellectuals in order to construct new patronage networks dependent on his personal authority while assuring foreign donors of the “technocratic” nature of his regime (Diop and Diouf 1990; Mamadou Diouf 1992). As technocrats joined the leadership of the PS state, they were not, however, immune to its patrimonial logic. Rather than replacing the old barons of the party, Diouf ultimately became an arbitrator between them and the young turks, carefully balancing political resources and appointments to appease both his new and inherited patronage networks. As the economic crisis of the 1980s set in, there was nonetheless a great deal of dissatisfaction with the PS-state. Although the Murid and Tijan Khalifs-Général were persuaded to give an ndigel (command) to vote for the PS in the 1983 elections (chapter 3), both leaders thought it necessary to make a public declaration to insure compliance. In the past, marabouts merely let their political preferences be

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known through vague declarations of friendship, instructing their aides de camps to quietly convey their voting instructions to their disciples (Colvin 1983). The power of the ndigels to sway a disciple was also enhanced by the continued absence of rules protecting the secrecy of the voting process. Despite the constitutional requirement, the 1982 electoral code reaffirmed that use of a voting booth was optional. Furthermore, the Supreme Court ruled that photo identity cards were unnecessary to prove the identity of the bearer of an electoral card. PS clients had privileged access to extra electoral cards distributed by representatives of the PS and members of a clearly partisan administration. Accusations that voter intimidation and multiple voting had been commonplace were supported by personal admissions during interviews with local PS leaders and their supporters in the mid-1990s. Although the incumbents won by a decisive majority in 1983, the PS received its smallest margin of victory since independence, indicating that many Senegalese did not defer to the political preference of their communal leaders. For example, Abdoulaye Wade received a higher percentage of votes in Murid areas than he did nation-wide despite the Khalif’s voting instructions to vote for Abdou Diouf (O’Brien 1983; Sylla 1983–1985). As discussed in chapter 3, the political defiance of Murid disciples reflected a general growing dissatisfaction with the PS-state and socioeconomic changes that have weakened political deference to the marabouts. Political ndigels nevertheless remained important because, as several ardent PS supporters explained, these religious commands permitted electoral fraud. No one would stop those acting in “the spirit of an ndigel” by committing fraud to insure the ruling party’s victory; and since the expectation was that Murid disciples would overwhelmingly vote for the PS, the ruling party’s electoral victory in these areas was generally unquestioned. Following the announcement of Diouf’s election and the return of a PS majority to the National Assembly, there were demonstrations by the opposition but little violence. Leaders of the opposition parties focused their wrath on inequities in the rules of the game, demanding that the electoral code be renegotiated prior to the next elections to assure a more level playing field. Nevertheless, the 1982 electoral code remained unchanged and in effect for the 1988 presidential and legislative elections. While the antagonism between the ruling party and the opposition was fomented by the controversy surrounding Diouf’s accession to power and the drafting of the 1982 electoral code, by the 1988 national elections the opposition had become radicalized by its persistent

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inability to assume power through the electoral process. The passive revolution had failed; there was no longer a loyal opposition if there ever had been. Even prior to the 1988 elections, the opposition challenged, though unsuccessfully, aspects of the electoral code through a series of lawsuits (Young and Kante 1991: 63–65). The fact that President Diouf denied requests for international observers during the election only served to heighten tensions. At the same time, popular discontent was mounting after a decade of economic hardships. Throughout the 1980s, Senegalese were wracked by the elimination of government subsidies, growing unemployment, and declining purchasing power. The New Agricultural and Industrial Programs introduced by President Diouf, in response to the enduring economic crisis and international pressure for structural adjustment, increased economic hardship and social malaise. Crawford Young and Babacar Kante (1991: 70) note that “despite this hostile environment, the PS set out to organize the 1988 elections on exactly the same bases as in 1983. It did not foresee that the opposition would escalate the militancy of its challenge of the electoral procedures and results.” Prior to the official declaration by the Supreme Court, partial results of the 1988 elections showing a decisive PS victory were announced by the government. The opposition claimed that this was a ploy to prepare the population to accept yet another fraudulent PS victory. After the results were announced, a wave of violence and vandalism erupted mainly in Dakar, including the burning of buses used for public transportation. The state responded decisively by declaring a state of emergency and arresting the leaders of the opposition parties. Ultimately, the leaders were granted political amnesty and the prices of some staple commodities were reduced to assuage political tensions. Following the social unrest surrounding the 1988 elections, the instability of the Diouf regime was intensified by internal and external conflicts: the creation of Atika, the military wing of the MFDC secessionist movement in southern Casamance (Amnesty International 1991; Evans 2003a; Marut 1994b); a border skirmish with Mauritania that led to rioting and violence with massive human rights violations (Amnesty International 1990b; Parker 1991; Santoir 1990; Senegal 1989); and the collapse of the Senegambian Federation (Faye 1994). In the face of the mounting economic and political crises, a second democratic transition away from Senegal’s “semi-democracy” was attempted through the negotiation of a new electoral code by the contending political parties.

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The Rise of Senegal’s Clientelist Democracy In the absence of a new electoral code, the opposition parties boycotted the 1990 local elections, refusing to participate in what they considered a flawed electoral process. Domestic pressures to review the code were reinforced by the increasing concern of international donors about the influence of governance on economic development. As one World Bank official in Dakar suggested during an interview in June 1993, if Senegal wanted to maintain its “democratic bonus” as a favored aid-recipient, the Senegalese government needed the cachet of “free and fair” elections to keep pace with other African countries that were beginning to make great strides in political liberalization. Besieged by domestic and international criticism, Diouf invited members of the opposition to join a “Government of National Unity” in 1991. A unified opposition initially rejected the offer; however, the PDS and Parti de l’Indépendence et du Travaille (PIT), a small party of Marxist intellectuals led by Amath Dansokho, reversed their decision when the government agreed to open negotiations on greater access to the state media and reform of the electoral code. In fulfillment of the terms of the agreement, the High Council of Radio and Television (HCRT) and a commission to review the electoral code were formed in May 1991. Responsible for greater pluralism and equity in the state broadcast media, the HCRT was nevertheless a presidential creation, unilaterally formed by a presidential decree and its leadership changed after several rulings against the ruling party, allegedly to insure a more malleable council (Beck 1997). Nonetheless, the creation of the HCRT represented a significant breakthrough for the opposition though more attention and significance was given to the negotiation of revisions to the electoral code. The electoral code commission was composed of five jurists and representatives of each legally constituted political party. Although issues such as Diouf’s eligibility to run for a third term and the dual list system were deemed non-negotiable by the PS-state, the code contained several important revisions to assure free and fair elections, including: a ban on the use of state resources by political parties; application of indelible ink to prevent multiple voting; and mandatory voter identification and use of a voting booth. In an attempt to avoid electoral fraud, the new code established bipartisan supervision of the voting process by the ruling and opposition parties, which guaranteed their right to be present during the distribution of voter cards,

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throughout the polling process, and the counting of the ballots right up through the national commission that tabulated the final results. The reforms read like a check list of the complaints lodged by the opposition in the aftermath of the 1988 elections. Despite these advances toward establishing more equitable rules of the game, the intent of the new code—lauded by all parties concerned to be “the most perfect code”—was frequently thwarted at various stages of the 1993 national elections, leading to references to Senegal’s “quasi democracy” (Vengroff and Creevey 1997; Villalòn 1994) as well as “the failure of the Senegalese democratic model” (Diouf 1994). The political playing field was not entirely level in that the PS retained control over the state apparatus that legislated, administered, and adjudicated the electoral process. With “patriomonial bureaucrats” undoubtedly fearful of what the defeat of the PS would mean to them personally, even the “most perfect code” could not assure completely free and fair elections (Beck 1997). Frustrated by the continuing ability of the PS to distort the electoral process despite reform of the electoral code, the opposition attempted to use its new legal rights to prevent another “fraudulent PS victory.” For 21 days following the presidential elections, representatives of the PS and opposition parties to the National Electoral Census Commission (NECC) struggled over the tabulation of the votes, which were then to be submitted to the Constitutional Council for judicial review. Before they could rule, however, the president of the NECC—a Diouf appointee—announced preliminary results indicating President Diouf’s reelection to the infuriation of the opposition. With 58.3 percent of the vote and the newly required support from over 25 percent of the registered voters, President Diouf was reelected without having to face a united opposition in a second round of balloting. Prior to the legislative elections in May 1993, modifications to the code were introduced by Diouf’s administration and passed by the PS legislative majority despite protests by the opposition that any unilateral changes to the code canceled its consensual nature. As Leonardo Villalòn (1994: 187) observed, “the manner of their adoption was reminiscent . . . of the years of unilateral ruling party definition of rules of the game,” though the changes were allegedly intended to address bottlenecks in the electoral process. In the end, the PS retained its majority in the Assembly and formed a new consensus government with several of Senegal’s smaller opposition parties. The PDS was excluded from participating, discredited by its alleged involvement in the assassination of Babacar Seye, the vice president of the Constitutional Court who was slain several days

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before the Court announced the legislative election results. The PDS leaders were eventually acquitted, however, and rejoined Diouf’s government of the “Enlarged Presidential Majority” in 1995.7 Despite the PS victory, the 1993 election results were disappointing for the ruling party. President Diouf’s margin of victory represented a 15 percent drop in support from the previous elections. Moreover, the PS had lost its majority in the capital region of Dakar (appendix 3). Although in the 1996 local elections the PS recaptured Dakar and won majorities in all the recently recreated regional assemblies as well as 300 out of 320 rural councils and 56 of the 60 mayoralties, the ruling party was experiencing its worst rift in its leadership since the 1962 constitutional crisis. Competing national factions blamed each other for slipping support at the polls though the underlying issue behind the factional tensions was who would succeed President Diouf. After the1993 elections, the PS held its renouvellements for local positions in the party. The internal party elections had been delayed until after the national elections out of fear that they would intensify factional disputes that could lead to sanction votes against the PS. In addition to the typical local disputes, some of which turned violent (chapter 4), the 1996 renouvellements took place against the backdrop of an unusually public struggle for power at the national level between the renouveauteurs, led by Minister of the Interior Djibo Leyti Ka, and the refondateurs led by Ousmane Tanor Dieng, who attempted to influence the local party elections through the representatives of the national party sent to arbitrate the renouvellements. At the Sixth Party Congress of the PS in 1996, Dieng was designated the first-secretary of the party, a move believed to have been an effort by President Diouf to empower his dauphin but which only served to further isolate him under new criticism of the lack of democracy within the party. After Ka publicly criticized Diouf’s imposition of Dieng, he and several other leaders of the renouveauteurs were censured by the party in November 1997. With over 300,000 signatures calling for an alternative list of PS candidates in the 1998 legislative elections, the renouveauteurs announced their intention to run against the official PS list and were summarily thrown out of the party. Ka’s newly formed Unoin pour le Renouveau Démocratique (URD) made an impressive showing in the 1998 elections, receiving 11 seats in the Assembly, surpassed only by the PS and PDS (Coulibaly 1999: 208; Diop, Diouf, and Diaw 2002: 163). The PS meanwhile was concerned that it barely received half of the votes (50.4 percent), raising the threat that Diouf might not win the upcoming 2000 presidential elections in the first round. In an attempt to

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avoid the risky scenario of facing a unified opposition in a second round, the PS used the three-fifth majority it was able to retain in the Assembly based on the dual election lists to pass a constitutional reform that eliminated the required support of 25 percent of registered voters to win in the first round. Avoiding a second round seemed increasingly unlikely with the further splintering of the PS when Moustapha Niasse, a former foreign minister, formed the Alliances des Forces de Progrès (AFP) in 1999. As Senegalese scholars Momar Coumba Diop, Mamadou Diouf, and Aminata Diaw (2002: 17) observed: “The dissidence of Ka and Niasse was fatal to the PS.” In an attempt to offset some of its losses from the splintering of the party, the Diouf administration created a Senate, a new political institution with little raison d’être other than the distribution of patronage posts to reinforce dwindling support among its ranks. Meanwhile, one of the largest remaining obstacles to unseating Diouf was removed with the rallying of the Pole de Gauche composed of three small leftist parties—Andd-Jëff, Ligue Démocratique, and the PIT—around the candidacy of Abdoulaye Wade. Even before the first round, most of the other opposition parties had reached an agreement to unite behind whichever opposition candidate made it to the second round (Vengroff and Magala 2001: 139). Political tensions mounted prior to the elections in the shadow of the 1999 coup d’état in the Cote d’Ivoire, which like Senegal was one of the few African countries not to succumb to military rule in the 1960s. Concerns were intensified when it was reported in the independent newspaper Sud Quotiedien (December 31, 1999) that Wade had implicitly called for an uprising if the PS “once again” stole the elections, charging that “the army and youths must assume their responsibilities.” In response to a scandalized public, Wade attempted to temper his statement somewhat, explaining that a coup would be a “personal defeat,” but he would not “let Diouf do as he pleases” (Sud Quotidien, January 24, 2000). Although the publishing of opinion polls remained illegal in Senegal, the independent press, which debuted in the 1980s along with newly authorized private radio stations played a key role in the 2000 elections, provided independent reporting on the campaign and tabulation of the publicly announced electoral results. With journalists no longer beholden to the editorial constraints of the state-controlled media, members of the PS-state charged that these independent newspapers were an “opposition media.”8 Media coverage of the polling and tabulation process undoubtedly enhanced the transparency of the presidential election, which was

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forced into a second round when President Diouf received only a plurality of 41.3 percent of the vote. Had he received the support given to his former PS colleagues, Moustapha Niasse, who received 16.8 percent, and Djibo Ka, who received a disappointing 7.1 percent, Diouf would have handedly won reelection in the first round. Instead, President Diouf was forced into a showdown with the perennial PDS candidate Abdoulaye Wade, who won a slot in the second round with 31.3 percent. Initially, Wade was supported by both Niasse who was promised the post of prime minister, and Ka who was offered an important portfolio in the PDS-led government. Ka, however, defected to the PS when Diouf promised to name him prime minister, a fatal decision that split Ka’s party thus translating into fewer votes for the embattled Diouf in the second round. With President Diouf’s crushing defeat (41.1 percent) by Abdoulaye Wade (58.9 percent), Sopi (political change) had arrived in Senegal and with it democracy. In their analysis of the historic elections, Diop, Diouf, and Diaw (2002: 178) offered a favorable assessment of the impact of the 2000 elections, asserting that “democratization is consolidated and citizenship is under construction” (Diop et al. 2002: 178) while noting that, given the level of poverty in Senegalese society, it is unlikely that clientelism and corruption would disappear. One of the factors that they attribute to the demise of the PS-state is most notably the crumbling of political ndigels (religious commands) by marabouts. Despite the silence of the Khalifs-Générals since the 1988 elections, various “petits marabouts” have given ndigels with varying success. By the 2000 elections, however, it was clear that the marabouts no longer played the same role in Senegalese politics, most evident when Modou Kara Mbacke, the self-proclaimed “marabout des jeunes” (marabout of the young) was booed while trying to speak in support of President Diouf’s candidacy at Dakar’s Demba Diop stadium in December 1999. Although the level of “blind loyalty” among urban disciples has been historically lower than that of rural disciples, the changing role of marabouts in Seneglese politics is undoubtedly critical to understanding regional differences in the declining rural as well as urban support for the PS in the last quarter of the twentieth century. In chapter 3, an analysis of Murid politics in the department of Mbacke sheds light on why support for the PS dramatically declined among these historically quintessential brokers for the state and their clients.

LOUGA THIES

Department of

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FAT I C K National Capital

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Administrative Map of the Diourbel Region

Department Boundary

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enegal’s quintessential political brokers have been the marabouts, Sufi clerics whose religious authority has translated into political influence over their disciples and thus political capital with Senegalese politicians. Historically, Senegalese marabouts have not held leadership positions in political parties or the state, but have served as the grands électeurs (great electors), mobilizing large blocs of votes particularly among the Wolof, Senegal’s largest ethnic group, which has historically occupied central Senegal. Among the Sufi brotherhoods in Senegal, the Muridiya is considered the most powerful although it does not have the largest following (appendix 1). This power is typically attributed to its reputation for subservient taalibe (disciples) who adhere to their marabouts’ advice in political as well as socio-religious matters.1 While many non-Murids have depicted them as “blindly obedient” to the wishes of their marabout, various Murid informants have also proudly described themselves as “fanatique,” although this may be more accurately translated as “fervently devout” rather than “fanatic” since Murids do not associate their “fanaticism” with the negative normative view that this word conjures up in a Western context. Over the last two decades, the political deference that Murid “fanaticism” has generated has been transformed by political liberalization, prolonged economic crisis, and the rise of reformist Islam. In the department of Mbacke, where the Murid holy city of Touba is located, Wolof Murids who represent over 80 percent of the population have been gradually embracing what one local politician described as “modern Muridism” that differentiates between a religious realm in which the authority of the marabouts remains largely indisputable, and a political realm in which disciples may act independently in their own interests without threatening their identity as devout Murids.

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The consequent increase in political competition in the department of Mbacke (appendix 2) reflects a dramatic transformation of taalibe attitudes toward their relationship with the marabouts and the latter’s role as political intermediaries, the most recent example of the ability of Murid marabouts to adapt to their changing socioeconomic and political environment. This chapter challenges the static stereotypes of marabout–taalibe relations and their relationships with Senegalese politicians that have prevented us from understanding the general decline in support for the PS-state within what presumably should have been its strongest base given the ethno-religious makeup of the electorate (figure 3.1). Furthermore, the exceptional support for the PS in the 1988 elections is explained in light of a particularly stringent ndigel (religious command or fatwa) to support President Diouf by Abdou Lahatt Mbacke, the Khalif-Général (the Murid supreme leader) at the time. Although this temporarily reversed the electoral trend, the 1988 ndigel also was a catalyst for debate over the appropriate role of marabouts in Senegalese politics, encouraging the subsequent withdrawal of most prominent Murid marabouts from ndigel politics, including first and foremost the current Khalif-Général, Salilou Mbacke. This in turn gave rise to competing ndigels by lower ranking marabouts, which have enhanced electoral competition and, to a lesser degree, political participation among Murids, without threatening the clientelist access of marabouts who remain politically influential if less omnipotent among their disciples. After briefly reviewing 100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% Mbacke National

Figure 3.1 1978–2000

Mbacke National

1978

1983

1988

1993

2000-1st

2000-2nd

90.1% 82.3%

75.8% 83.6%

95.6% 73.2%

71.9% 58.4%

46.7% 41.3%

36.3% 41.2%

PS Support in the Department of Mbacke: Presidential Elections

Source: Official results obtained from documents provided by the Senegalese Ministry of the Interior (1978, 1983, 2000) and published in the Official State newspaper Le Soleil (1983, 1988, 1993).

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how the religious authority and consequent economic power of Murid marabouts made them historically influential intermediaries with the colonial and later postcolonial state, this chapter analyzes the socioeconomic and political factors that served to undermine the “Golden Age” of state–marabout collaboration that was critical to the rise of Senegal’s clientelist democracy.

The Murid Marabouts as Influential Brokers As discussed in chapter 2, Senegalese marabouts who initially resisted French colonization ultimately played a key role in the administration of the colonial state. This historic alliance has persisted into the postcolonial area. Murid marabouts in particular have been influential brokers due to the distinctive qualities of Muridism, including the legends of the supernatural powers of the founder, Shaikh Amadou Bamba, and his descendents, and the influence of the Baye Fall sect on Murid practices and beliefs. In widely recounted stories and devotional poems, Bamba is credited with miraculous feats during his exile in Gabon (1895–1902). The supernatural powers depicted in these legends are attributed to his grace (baraka), which also empowered him to guarantee the redemption of his disciples. Murids believe that Bamba’s descendants and closest associates inherited his baraka and transmit it to their disciples through prayer and physical contact. Dependent on their marabout to act on their behalf as an intercessor with God, Murid disciples submit (njebbel) to a marabout “body and soul.” Both the mysticism associated with Muridism and the devotion of a disciple to his marabout are prominent themes in its Sufi ideology. Yet while Tijan marabouts serve as religious guides with mystical powers, their disciples are not dependent on their intercession with God. For a Murid, on the other hand, the intercession of his marabout is both necessary for and a guarantee of redemption. As one elderly Murid explained, Murids can only reach paradise through their marabout who will bring them “on his back” to Amadou Bamba, who then takes them to the Prophet, and thus they may join God in paradise.2 Among these exceptionally devout Murids, the Baye Fall are a veritable cult inspired by one of Bamba’s most illustrious followers, Ibra Fall. Exonerated from Islamic obligations such as prayer and fasting through his hard work and subservience to Bamba, Fall influenced initial Murid dogma and contributed to a Murid work ethic as an expression of religious devotion and the belief that absolute

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submission was necessary for a marabout’s benediction that would assure a disciple’s redemption (O’Brien 1971: 141–162; Wade 1967). These religious beliefs were readily translated into a high level of socioeconomic and political deference to the shaikh and his descendants, leading to the stereotype of Murids as “blindly obedient” to their marabouts to whom they offer financial contributions and labor as a “price of intercession” (B. Seck 1991–1992: 47). Even before universal suffrage was extended to the Senegalese peasantry after World War II, the Murid marabouts were able to convert their economic, symbolic and social capital into political capital first with the colonial and later the postcolonial state (Robinson 2000: 5–7). Although their access to state-controlled resources such as land and financial capital has been critical to the phenomenal growth of the Muridiya and the wealth of its leaders, the relationship between Murid marabouts and the central state has always been characterized by their inter-dependence based on the mutual benefits derived from their collaboration and thus the relative autonomy of these brokers in social and economic terms. This combination of political deference to the Murid marabouts and their autonomy from political patrons has made them influential brokers who have permitted a high level of political competition at critical junctures in Senegalese history while generally dampening the autonomous participation of ordinary citizens since the introduction of electoral politics under French rule.

Murid Marabouts as Political Brokers in the Colonial State The leaders of the Muridiya have historically preferred to broker rather than seek political office, dating back to their historical efforts to secure the return of Amadou Bamba from exile. In the earliest example of Murid electoral politics, Murid leaders obtained the assistance of François Carpot, a Creole politician, after financially supporting his candidacy in the 1902 election of Senegal’s representative to the French National Assembly. With the assistance of the newly elected deputy, Bamba was pardoned and returned to Senegal within a year (Coulon 1981: 191–200; Monteil 1966; O’Brien 1971: 264–267). Even as the candidacy of black Senegalese became more common in the 1920s (Johnson 1971), Murid marabouts did not deign to directly implicate themselves in electoral politics. Nor were they readily swayed by the religious identity of the candidates, starting with their support for a Christian candidate, Blaise Diagne, over a Muslim

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candidate, Galandou Diouf, despite the latter’s distribution of leaftlets entreating voters to rise up for the “glory of Islam” (Coulon 1981: 197). Having recently succeeded his father Amadou Bamba following his death in 1927, the new Murid Khalif, Mustapha Mbacke, was swayed by Diagne’s assistance in pressing charges against the French administrator implicated in the embezzlement of funds for the construction of a mosque in the Murid holy city of Touba (O’Brien 1971: 61–73). Galandou Diouf was not, however, without his supporters among the Murid leadership; Diouf received money from Cheikh Anta Mbacke, Bamba’s brother who had challenged his nephew Mustapha for leadership of the brotherhood. This became a strategy used repeatedly by other Murid marabouts to jockey for status within the brotherhood by supporting oppositional candidates, thereby increasing political competition in Murid areas as loyal disciples voted in competing blocs. After universal suffrage was extended to Senegal’s hinterland in 1946, the precedent of supporting Christian allies over Muslim candidates was reinforced when Leopold Sedar Senghor, a young Christian politician, convinced Mustapha’s brother and successor, Falilou Mbacke, to support his candidacy in the 1951 legislative elections over the seasoned Muslim politician, Lamine Guèye of the SFIO, the Senegalese section of the French Socialist Party. Senghor promised the new Khalif that if elected he would recover the blueprints of the still incomplete Touba mosque from Cheikh Mbacke, Mustapha’s son who unsuccessfully challenged his uncle Falilou for the Murid leadership upon his father’s death. Once again, the Murid vote was split when Cheikh Mbacke supported Guèye who recognized him as the rightful leader of the Muridiya. After Senghor’s electoral triumph, the alliance between the future president of Senegal and the Murid Khalif-Général spanned nearly two decades, coinciding with the Golden Age of state–marabout collaboration.

The Golden Age of State–Marabout Collaboration under Senegal’s One-Party State The 1951 elections marked a watershed in Senegalese politics: the rise of a dominant-party system led by Senghor, which left Murid disciples with limited political choices and rival marbouts with little room to maneuver. By the time of the 1957 territorial elections, Lamine Guèye’s SFIO, along with various smaller regional parties, had joined forces with Senghor to form the UPS, giving Senghor’s new party

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over 95 percent of the vote (Nzouankeu 1984: 27–30; Zuccarelli 1988: 57–59). A minority of politicians and their marabout-brokers, nevertheless, persisted in their opposition to the UPS, most notably Cheikh Mbacke who supported almost every party that opposed Senghor over his two decades of postcolonial rule, including the Bloc des Masses Sénégalais which was founded by Cheikh Mbacke’s cousin and Senghor’s most resilient political rival, Cheikh Anta Diop. Despite this exceptional example of opposition, the marabouts’ predominant mode of interaction with the new party-state after independence was clearly one of collaboration. As political power was transferred from French colonial rulers to Senegalese politicians at the time of independence, the reciprocal relationship between the marabouts and the new ruling class remained the dominant pattern of interaction given their mutual interests in maintaining the status quo. The marabouts continued to serve as administrative auxiliaries providing legitimation to the Senegalese state and Senghor’s leadership, while the new president continued to protect the marabouts’ economic interests and respect their religious authority. This Golden Age of state–marabout collaboration coincided with the friendship of President Senghor and Sereigne Falilou, which was crucial during the political showdown between Senghor and Prime Minister Mamadou Dia in December 1962 (chapter 2). Until his death in 1968, Falilou used his office to assure Murid access to the state and in return offered Murid support for Senghor and his party. In public statements, Falilou emphasized the valor of Senghor and the benefits the brotherhood received from the PS-state to persuade Murids to support his political ally. Older Murid informants repeatedly recounted how Falilou had told them to look at Senghor “with both eyes,” that is not to look at him askance or half-heartedly. With obvious nostalgia, Murids of all ages repeatedly attributed the Khalif’s friendship with and support of Senghor to the material assistance provided by the Socialist party-state. Despite lingering rifts among the lineages of Murid marabouts, Falilou’s close ties with Senghor reinforced the hierarchy of marabouts within the brotherhood and formed the basis for an ideal type of state–marabout relations, which is often presented erroneously as pervasive and static. In fact, it reflects the coincidence of propitious political, religious, and economic circumstances. During this Golden Age of state–marabout collaboration, Murid support for the UPS was influenced by the dramatic decline in opportunities to upset the political monopoly of Senghor’s ruling party. Few benefits accrued to marabouts who supported opposition parties,

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which after 1966 became clandestine (chapter 2). In the absence of opposing ndigels, Murid taalibe had little incentive to thwart state– marabout collaboration, given the opposition’s urban focus, radical Marxist orientation, and the unlikelihood of their gaining access to the state and its resources. Thus, religious considerations in following the Khalif in his support of the ruling party were reinforced by the political preferences and material interests of the taalibe. The discipleclients saw their support of the UPS politicians as assuring the political prestige and access of Murid marabouts, which in turn assured the disciple-clients political protection as well as the trickle-down of resources such as peanut seed, fertilizer, wells, and other development projects. The disparity in the patronage resources available to maraboutbrokers and their disciple-clients has led some Western political scientists to insist on the exploitative nature of this relation, in particular Jean Copans (1980). Nevertheless, these clientelist networks provided disciple-clients with resources that were and continue to be critical to them given their precarious economic situation. From the perspective of Senegal’s party-state, its political monopoly meant that the electoral support of a Murid voting bloc was less important since elections had become more of a ritual than a contest. Nevertheless, the Murid leadership still played an important role as intermediary between politicians and disciples, providing the partystate with an important source of political legitimacy. In addition, marabouts provided crucial support to competing factions within the UPS. With the rise of the one-party state, the struggle to gain access to state resources shifted political competition from opposing parties to rival UPS factions or “clans” as they were commonly referred to in Senegal (Schumacher 1975). In the department of Mbacke, the Khalif’s patronage was decisive in determining which clan controlled the local party leadership and its resources. Moreover, the colonial legacy of Senegal’s peanut economy, which employed over 80 percent of the Senegalese workforce in 1966, served as an important link in state–marabout collaboration as well as taalibe dependence throughout the 1960s (Mbodj 1991: 119–126). Providing the state with a tax base for its bloated and expanding administrative apparatus, peanut production was the basis for the marabouts’ position of prestige and authority in society. In addition to their personal wealth, the marabouts’ relationship with their taalibe revolved around the peanut economy, including the socialization of disciples in rural daaras, Koranic schools where students disciples also work for marabouts, and the distribution of land by the marabouts.3 However, in the late 1960s, land became more scarce, peanut production

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dropped, and peasant-disciples became increasingly resentful of the state’s mismanagement of the agricultural sector. Marabout–state collaboration began to erode and the material basis of the marabout– taalibe relationship was redefined, just as the basis for the marabouts’ religious authority also began to be transformed by their growing numbers and distance from the source of their baraka, Amadou Bamba.

Murid marabout offers blessings to disciples and research assistant, Thierno Sow, during the sorghum harvest outside Touba (September 1994).

The Transformation of Murid Clientelist Relations Despite generalizations drawn from this Golden Age of collaboration, the intimate relationship between the marabouts and the state, as well as taalibe deference to the political preferences of the marabouts, is more uncertain and contingent not only on economic interests but also on the nature of the religious and political context. With declining economic conditions, a rise of Islamic reformism, and the return to mulitpartyism, the factors that were propitious for collaboration changed, as did relations among the party-state, the marabouts, and their taalibe.

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Peasant Malaise and La Politique de Distance in the 1970s By the 1970s, serious land pressure in the peanut basin and prolonged drought (1968–1973) reinforced the growing “peasant malaise” of economic hardship and increased indebtedness to the state. Over the first decade of independence, the state established a monopoly over the peanut economy through the parastatal Office National de Coopération et Assistance au Développement (ONCAD). During the drought, ONCAD continued to make remarkable profits due to the near doubling of the world price for peanuts whereas the producer price set by the state barely increased. Peasants grew resentful of ONCAD’s legalized exploitation and mismanagement but had little recourse other than to withdraw from the market and return to subsistence farming (Casswell 1984). During this period, the new Khalif-Général, Abdou Lahatt, who replaced his brother Falilou upon his death, took up the peasants’ cause, circuitously criticizing and publicly distancing himself from the Senghorian state. While Abdou Lahatt continued to receive government delegations as had his predecessor, he abstained from flattering speeches of friendship, adhering to a policy commonly referred to as “la politique de distance” with the increasingly unpopular regime. When asked about the historical relationship between marabouts and the PS-state during this period, older Murid disciples repeatedly referred to the tensions between the leaders of the Muridiya and the Senegalese state. One Murid informant quoted the Khalif as having described Senghor as “a stick on the sea that never stays in one place,” a reference to the president’s perceived lack of dependability and integrity. While Abdou Lahatt’s reputation among his taalibe soared, the party-state was not happy with the new terms of its relationship with the Murid leadership. Accustomed to conspicuous acts of loyalty, the regime sought to counterbalance the Khalif-Général’s reserve with the support of other marabouts, in particular Modou Boussou Dieng Mbacke, the eldest son of Falilou and the khalif (head) of his lineage. Although Boussou Dieng did not overtly challenge his uncle’s appointment as the new Khalif-Général, his vocal support for Senghor, his father’s trusted friend and political ally, was seen as an affront to Abdou Lahatt’s authority. For the Senegalese state, Abdou Lahatt’s aloof attitude toward the government was one thing, but his encouraging the withdrawal of peasants from peanut production was another. Although his own wealth depended on proceeds from peanut harvests, Abdou Lahatt discouraged

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peasants from assuming the state-sponsored loans necessary for peanut cultivation. Official production fell significantly as peasants chose to either return to subsistence farming or sell their harvests for a higher price in the Gambia through networks set up by Murid marabouts. This revolt against the peanut cash crop illustrates the autonomy and influence of the Murid marabouts. By refusing to participate in the state economy, the marabouts demonstrated that they were sufficiently autonomous from the politicians in the party-state that they could abandon their historical alliance in order to maintain the allegiance of their taalibe when their interests clashed with those of the state. Admittedly, the decision to side with their disciples against the state was also driven by the marabouts’ own economic interests as major peanut producers that coincided with those of the taalibe. Concerned with the loss of its tax base as well as Murid political support, the Senghorian state was ultimately forced to double its producer price for peanuts, repeatedly cancel the farmers’ debts to ONCAD, and offer the Khalif-Général 2,500 acres of declassified forest for cultivation in the environmentally fragile sahelian zone of central Senegal (Coulon 1981: 286). Nevertheless, the Khalif and most Murid marabouts continued to have a more distant, ambivalent stance toward the state, even after economic and political tensions led to the institution of “controlled” multipartyism in 1976, which coincided with the final name change of Senghor’s party to the contemporary Parti Socialiste (PS). A few marabouts were quick to respond to the opportunity to oppose the Senghor regime, in particular Cheikh Mbacke. Although several of his pro-PS disciples adamantly denied any association between their late marabout and Abdoulaye Wade, Cheikh Mbacke’s son, Abdou Fatta, and various other Murid informants were equally adamant in claiming that the “rebel” marabout had not only provided funds but had asked Wade to challenge Senghor because the prospects of Cheikh Mbacke’s cousin, Cheikh Anta Diop, were so dim when his party was not recognized under the new limited form of multipartyism (chapter 2). Sereigne Abdou Lahatt, on the other hand, merely distanced himself from the Senghor regime rather than openly oppose it. Indeed, most Murid marabouts were hesitant to risk losing the access to state resources that their relationship with the still dominant PS afforded them by visibly supporting the opposition. During the 1978 presidential and legislative elections, therefore, Abdou Lahatt did not make a strong public endorsement for President Senghor or his party, but Murid informants across the political spectrum concur that he clearly supported the reelection of the ruling party albeit through informal, discrete channels, rather than overtly public proclamations.

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Consequently, the decisive electoral victory of Senghor and his party in the department of Mbacke was attributed to the continuing clientelist ties between the PS-state and the Murid leadership and their capacity to mobilize electoral support, as well as the ability of the PS-state to control the electoral process through fraud and intimidation as discussed in chapter 2. Under these circumstances, it is surprising that Wade received even 10 percent of the vote in Mbacke during the 1978 presidential elections (appendix 2).

A Political Rapprochement with the PS-State and the Rise of Public NDIGELS in the 1980s After Senghor’s dauphin, Abdou Diouf, assumed power in January 1981, there was a rapprochement with the Murid leadership. Their improved relations may be attributed in part to Diouf’s being a Muslim, although he was a member of the Tijaniya order. Diouf nevertheless adeptly played the “Islamic card” to gain both national support and international assistance for his regime. During his first month in office, Diouf enhanced his prestige and distinguished himself from his Christian predecessor by attending the Organization of the Islamic Conference meeting in Saudi Arabia, triumphantly returning with a $50 million grant from the hosts and another $40 million from Iraq (Boutbien 1988–1989). But it was more likely that it was the cancellation of agricultural debts and a sharp increase in the producer price of peanuts after the disastrous 1980–1981 agricultural season that won him favor with Murid peasants and their marabouts. There remained, nevertheless, a great deal of dissatisfaction with the PS-state. As the economic crisis of the 1980s set in, the opposition gained support. This may explain why the leaders of both the Murid and Tijan brotherhoods thought it necessary to make public declarations of their support for President Diouf in the 1983 elections. In the past, political ndigels were not such a public affair; marabouts simply let their political preferences be known through vague declarations of friendship. An ndigel to vote for a particular candidate or party was conveyed quietly through a representative without fanfare or publicity. Many older informants claimed that in the past Murid disciples did not even need an ndigel, recognizing that their marabouts’ interests and, thus their own, lied with the ruling party. Given Abdou Lahatt’s previous politique de distance with the PS leadership, however, a more explicit ndigel was now prudent. Despite the Khalif’s public ndigel for President Diouf, as well as continuing electoral fraud and intimidation, the 1983 electoral

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results in Touba-Mbacke as well as the other predominantly Murid departments in the Diourbel region indicated a dramatic drop in support for the ruling party in comparison to the national average (appendix 3). Moreover, the abstention rate in Mbacke reached 55 percent, 10 percentage points higher than the national average (appendix 2). This suggests that disciples who did not want to vote for the ruling party abstained from participating in the elections rather than disobey the Khalif, a common practice according to many Murid informants. Consequently, despite the rapprochement between Abdou Lahatt and President Diouf, marabout–state relations did not return to the Golden Age of collaboration that existed between Senghor and Falilou. From the point of view of the PS-state, the marabouts had become too independent, often irksome allies who politicians would have preferred to bypass, but who could not easily be pushed aside without serious political risks despite their declining capacity to deliver a Murid voting bloc. From the marabouts’ perspective, relations with their taalibe, who were becoming increasingly disgruntled with the ruling party, and the marabouts’ own economic interests had always taken precedence over their political alliance with the party-state. Fluctuations in their relations with the ruling party, therefore, reflected the degree to which marabout economic and socio-religious interests coincided or conflicted with those of the PS-state. As for Murid disciples, the marabouts remained popular heroes and saints whose economic and political interests typically coincided with their own, although not always as was evident in Murid reluctance to adhere to the 1983 ndigel. This decline in political though not social deference to the Murid leadership was directly related to the decline in Senegal’s peanut economy and the consequent changes in the material basis of marabout–taalibe relations.

From D A A R A to DA A HIR A : The Impact of Economic Changes on Marabout-Disciple Relations By 1979, Senegal’s already stagnant economy was hampered by recurrent drought, declining export earnings, and the second global oil-price shock, leaving the government with little choice but to pursue a structural adjustment program. Seeking to preempt World Bank criticism of the ONCAD agricultural parastatal for its topheavy, corrupt bureaucracy, the government dissolved it. Although farmers had criticized ONCAD, they also relied on it for access to

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seed and fertilizer, subsidies for which were gradually eliminated under the “New Agricultural Policy” adopted in 1984. The impact of the structural adjustment policies combined with increasing population pressure and a shortage of arable land consequently intensified the migration of young men from rural areas, while those Murids who remained to cultivate in the peanut basin were increasingly forced to pursue secondary incomes, such as transport and petty commerce, that further blurred the distinction between urban and rural Murids. Languishing peanut prices, declining harvests due to land degradation, and the cost of maintaining the daaras of young disciples who cultivate the marabouts’ fields made agriculture less profitable for marabouts as well. In the late 1980s, for example, Sereigne Modou Boussou Dieng Mbacke dismissed his disciples working in the daaras, until one of his leading taalibes pointed out the implications of this decision on his religious authority and, consequently, his economic and political power. As this grand taalibe explained, the daara connects a marabout to his “family heritage—the source of his baraka (grace)—and binds a new generation of disciples to him.” The importance of the daara to the reproduction of marabout– taalibe relations resonates among all Sufi groups in Senegal, described by Cheikh Tidiane Sy (1969: 174) as “the nucleus where a disciple is psychologically conditioned to accept his dependence [on the marabout] for the rest of his life.” Sy claimed that “all that would be necessary is for the daara in its current form to disappear for the [entire] system to wither, if it did not collapse immediately.” While the daara have not disappeared, fewer Murid boys now go through the socialization process of working in a daara and do so for shorter periods of time. Murid families prefer to send their sons to a Western-style school or increasingly, given the rate of unemployment among educated Senegalese today, to work as an apprentice or street vendor in an urban area. This decline in the daara system has not, however, led to the destruction of the entire system of marabout–disciple relations, having been largely replaced by daahira religious self-help organizations that sprung up to meet the demands of urban life. First created by Murids in the 1940s with the dual purpose of mutual assistance and organization of religious worship in urban areas, the daahira were initially seen as an indication of how urbanization would result in declining marabout power over urban taalibe. During the 1970s, Donal Cruise O’Brien (1971: 238) asserted that urbanization would result in the general erosion of the disciples’

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religious convictions for various reasons, including: geographic isolation from the sources of Murid faith such as the sacred tombs of Touba; decline in social pressure to observe one’s duties as a Murid since rural-based marabouts would no longer be proximate; contact with other Muslims and non-Muslims who would challenge Murid beliefs; and a new economic role in commerce that would reinforce “personal decision-making, a concentration on individual profit, even unscrupulous self-interest.” O’Brien believed that this would be difficult to reconcile with submission to a marabout particularly “when submission must be expressed in economic as well as spiritual terms.” Moreover, he anticipated that these trends would be reinforced within the daahira as the president of a daahira would replace the marabout as patron, protector, and object of allegiance among urban disciples. Undoubtedly, the marabout–taalibe relationship has been affected by urban as well as international migration (chapter 6). However, O’Brien’s initial assertion that urbanization would result in the general erosion of a disciple’s religious conviction underestimated the strength of Murid religious beliefs and the capacity of the brotherhood to adapt to new contexts (Mamadou Diouf 2000). Interviews with Murids in Dakar, various other Senegalese towns, and New York City indicated that disciple allegiance to marabouts remains strong, evidenced by the collection of large sums of money by the daahira destined to the marabouts in place of the disciples’ traditional contribution of labor to marabout fields. Murid marabouts and disciples alike acknowledge that these financial proceeds from the daahira far exceed the profits gained from agriculture, representing a radical transformation of their economic relationship that has reverberated throughout marabout–disciple relations. While maintaining that Murid disciples are far from renouncing their allegiance to a marabout, Momar Coumba Diop (1982) concurred with O’Brien that the daahira represent a significant transformation in Murid social relations in that: [the] traditional Murid institution—the daara—has no [elected] office. Its politico-economic power is concentrated in the hands of the marabout or his designee; the taalibe do not take part in decisionmaking. The authority of the marabout alone guarantees the functioning of the institution. On the other hand, power in the daahira is not exercised by an individual but by the group in its entirety . . . Its leadership is not designated by the marabout but elected by the members. Therefore, one may surmise that the daahira represents a relaxation of the structure of maraboutic control and that these structures

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in an urban setting constitute an important step in the modernization of the Murid organization. (Diop 1982: 301)

However, the proliferation of these associations has resulted in different methods for selecting the daahira president, thus the degree of autonomy from the marabout varies among the daahira. In areas where there is a concentration of Murids, such as Touba-Mbacke, Dakar, and more recently New York City, there are daahira that regroup disciples of a particular marabout or lineage. In these cases, the marabouts approve, nominate, or even appoint the leaders of their affiliated daahira, thus limiting the groups’ autonomy. Rather than posing a threat to their authority, these marabouts have been able to largely harness the substantial social, economic, and political resources of the daahira. In this sense, the daahira may be seen as a prototype of the Fattahists and the Daahiratoul Moustarchidine wal Moustarchidaty, partisan associations in the Muridiya and Tijaniya respectively that served as a means for marabouts to mobilize political support among their disciples during the 1990s as discussed below. There are other cases, however, in which a daahira has pledged its allegiance and contributions to the Khalif-Général who has so many daahira and diverse sources of power that he has chosen to play little to no role in their affairs, thereby giving the daahira and its leadership greater autonomy. An excellent illustration is the powerful Hizbut Tarqiyya, composed of Murid students and graduates of the University of Dakar as well as traders living abroad. With their extensive transnational networks and economic resources, combined with the Islamic learning of their leaders, the Hizbut had become one of, if not the most powerful and prestigious daahira in the Muridiya by the mid1990s until its leader came into conflict with prominent members of the maraboutic hierarchy. Although the Hizbut recognized the authority of the Khalif-Général, its leader, Atou Diagne, made several public statements claiming that it was possible for someone who was not a descendent of Amadou Bamba to become the leader of the brotherhood. His radical statements did not provoke an immediate response by the Khalif, but he could not turn a deaf ear when Diagne allegedly insulted his son during a heated argument over control of a large hostel that the Hizbut had built for the Khalif’s guests during the annual Magal pilgrimage to Touba. The Khalif immediately banned the Hizbut and condemned its leader, although a repentant Digane was ultimately forgiven and the Hizbut reinstated, but only after the gendarmes had to be called into the holy city to protect its members from an angry mob of “loyal” Murid disciples (Beck 2001).

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The crisis surrounding the Hizbut indicates the limited authority of daahira presidents and their capacity to challenge marabout authority and privilege. Despite the proliferation and vitality of the daahira, the shift from the centrality of the daara to these religious self-help organizations, now commonly found wherever there is a concentration of Murids—in villages and towns, at home and abroad—has not posed the anticipated threat to the social reproduction of Murid hierarchy. The rise of the daahira, nevertheless, reflects the weakening of the material basis for the clientelist relationship between Murid disciples and their marabouts as well as an important sociological change that in some cases has empowered taalibe by providing their leaders with greater autonomy that may pose a challenge to the marabouts’ hegemony. This trend has been reinforced by other sociocultural factors that have played an even more significant role in transforming the basis for spiritual authority in the Muridiya, which in combination have diminished the political deference of taalibe to their marabouts and even the Khalif-Général.

The Changing Basis for Spiritual Authority and Marabout Withdrawal from Worldly Affairs The spiritual authority of the most prominent Murid marabouts is tied to their descent from Amadou Bamba. As the baraka (grace) of Amadou Bamba has become increasingly remote and further diluted by the growing number of heirs contending for their shared birthright, the spiritual authority of the marabouts has been reinforced in several different ways. Following in the footsteps of the founder, some marabouts have been able to reinforce the faith of their taalibe in their power of redemption through the demonstration of their supernatural powers. The reputation of Sereigne Modou Boussou Dieng, for example, was greatly enhanced by a successful harvest after he ordered hesitant disciples to plant despite the tardy rains. The reputation of most Murid marabouts, however, has become increasingly connected to their ability to replicate Bamba’s personal qualities of piety, asceticism, and Koranic knowledge, which is in part a response to the reproach of Murid marabouts for their “worldly bearing.” In the early 1970s, O’Brien (1971: 98) reported taalibe criticism of marabout debauchery as “country magicians” who boasted of “whiskey that turns miraculously to milk in their stomachs.” More flagrant examples of this behavior, however, have disappeared,

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persuaded or compelled by the pious example and exacting nature of Abdou Lahatt. In 1980, for example, the Khalif required all the grands marabouts (leaders of the different houses/lineages) to sign a document prohibiting alcohol, tobacco, drugs, musical instruments, and games of chance in Touba. He then requested that the state control the “import” of these substances into the holy city by posting gendarmes at each entrance, although neither they nor any other state official had authority within the limits of the city, which has been described as a “state within a state.” The trend toward an increasing emphasis on piety among Murid leaders was reinforced by Senegal’s Islamic reformist movement, which gained relatively few adherents from the Sufi brotherhoods but significantly influenced the character of Senegalese Islam. Although the presence of Islamic reformism (integrisme) dates back to preindependence Senegal with the founding of the Union Culturelle Musulmane by Cheikh Toure in 1953, Islamic reformism gained broader support among Arab-educated Muslims after the Iranian revolution in 1979. For example, Sidy Lamine Niasse, a pro-Iranian integriste, founded the Walfadjri newspaper to further Islamic reformism in Senegal. According to a journalist for the paper, the lack of a Senegalese audience—at least among the minority of literate Senegalese—for these ideas forced the newspaper to progressively move away from its religious editorializing by the late 1980s. Closely allied with the West as well as Sunni regimes such as Saudi Arabia, the Senegalese government distanced itself from the Khomeni regime, though President Diouf hoped to benefit politically from the Islamic reformist movement in Senegal or at the very least accommodate a religious movement that has posed a serious political threat in other Muslim countries. While continuing to solicit the support of the brotherhoods, Diouf sought to check the power of the marabouts by promoting what was ironically seen as a more controllable form of reformist Islam. This political project failed in part because of the inability of the secular state to capture reformist Islamic organizations and their arabisants (Arabic-educated) leaders. More importantly, as Senegalese increasingly turned to Islam during the economic recession of the 1980s, the Sufi brotherhoods were better organized and well positioned in society to benefit from the resurgence of Islam than were the reformists. Although reformism continues to influence Islam in Senegal, by the late 1980s the boundaries between maraboutic and reformist organizations were blurred, as Leonardo Villalòn (1999; 2004) has pointed out in his articles on Islamism in Senegal. Today, it is not uncommon for a marabout to have Arab-educated disciples in his entourage, to send his

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sons and grands taalibes to North Africa for Islamic studies, or, among younger marabouts, to have studied there themselves. The leaders of the brotherhoods, however, did not use the resurgence of Islam to unite and usurp political power. Momar Coumba Diop and Mamadou Diouf have noted that: [c]ontrary to Iran or Syria where the leaders of the religious orders came together to form politico-Islamic organizations and introduced social projects, the advent of which required the overthrow of the political system in place, in Senegal, the marabouts are generally very integrated into the current political system . . . The marbouts have [thus] abstained from playing any role in the destabilization of the politico-administrative power. (Diop and Diouf 1990: 72–78)

Aside from the brief flirtation of the Tijan marabout Ahmed Niasse, known as the “Ayatollah of Kaolack,” with forming a Hizbulla (party of God), marabouts had more to gain from using their position in society to extract political resources from the PS-state than from establishing a theocracy. Even those Senegalese marabouts who oppose the PS-state channeled their opposition through the support of opposition parties that did not wish to change Senegal’s secular state but merely its rulers. The creation of an explicitly Islamic party in 2000 received little support from Murid marabouts, disciples, or the Senegalese electorate in general. Nor did the political party more recently created by Murid marabout Modo Kara Mbacke, the selfproclaimed “marabout of the youth,” who received little support beyond his followers who do not constitute a significant percentage of Murids let alone the Senegalese population. As for the impact of Islamic reformism on marabout–taalibe relations, O’Brien (1988: 153) estimated that it would result in a movement “away from the tradition of blind obedience to the shaikh, towards a more modern form of Islamic devotion which might have a greater claim to international Islamic respect.” Although it is difficult to gauge this tendency in all facets of life, it is clear that taalibe continue to defer to their marabouts for religious guidance and diverse socioeconomic matters such as marriage and land tenure disputes. In addition, taalibe continue to contribute to the substantial wealth of their marabout though, as mentioned above, offerings from the daahira now outweigh the marabouts’ income from peanut cultivation in the daaras. The socioeconomic and political significance of this phenomenal increase in remittances from daahira abroad is discussed further in chapter 6.

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Nevertheless, an important consequence of Islamic reformism—if somewhat ironic given Islamic doctrine regarding theocracy—is the growing conviction among Murids that there should be a separation between religious and secular domains, thus permitting a greater autonomy in the political choices of disciples. Unlike the Middle East and South Asia, where Islamic reformism has resulted in political challenges by the Muslim leadership, the piety and asceticism associated with Islamic resurgence in Senegal has been translated into a criticism of self-interested marabout-politicians corrupted by their clientelist relations with the secular state. Repeatedly, Murid informants—taalibe and marabouts alike— asserted that good, pious marabouts are not preoccupied with politics or making money, that their role is spiritual and, therefore, they should leave politics alone. One Murid informant who was heavily implicated in encouraging marabouts to give a political ndigel for the ruling party in 1993 went so far as to claim that: “while I have not read all of the Koran, I, too, know that politics is not recommended by the Koran.” This curious statement was less a condemnation of the political activities of marabouts than a sheepish admission of his complicity in “corrupting” marabouts. While not all Murids condemn the involvement of marabouts in politics, renewed emphasis on Muslim piety translated into Murids placing a higher value on marabouts who are aloof from the worldly affairs of politics and electoral mobilization. When combined with the declining capacity of the PS-state to fulfill its patronage obligations, the renewed emphasis on piety has led Murids to dispute the propriety of political ndigels. As Islamic reformism narrowed the role of pious marabouts to the religious realm, the boundaries of marabout– taalibe relations were altered and the submission of devout Murids became more contextualized.

Variance in Murid Submission: The Sadikhe, Murid Simple, and Mourirondo Although a great deal has been written on the role of marabouts as political intermediaries and advocates for Murid peasants, the relative autonomy of disciples vis-à-vis their marabouts has been understudied and understated. The most sophisticated and detailed studies of Islam and politics in Senegal are more nuanced in their assertions about the obedience of taalibe to their marabouts (Coulon 1981; O’Brien 1971; Villalòn 1995). However, these nuances are often

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overlooked or overshadowed by the dominant theme of the hierarchical relationship that reinforces the economic, political, and spiritual dependence of disciples on their marabouts as well as the privileged position of the marabouts in Senegalese society. In his study on state–society relations in Fatick (Senegal), Leonardo Villalòn (1995: 205–213) attributes this oversimplification of marabout– taalibe relations to an elite bias that ignores societal influences and autonomy, an overemphasis on Sufi ideology, and empirical research that has concentrated on the “exceptional case” of rural Muridism. Although I would argue that this also represents a caricature of rural Murids, I agree with his criticism of the reduction of marabout– taalibe relations to absolute obedience or psychological dependence. Villalòn insists that the authority of contemporary marabouts is more tenuous, a reflection of their clientelist relations with their taalibe, because cultivating a marabout’s patronage is only one possible strategy among others in the taalibe’s daily struggle to secure benefits, get ahead, or simply survive. Decades ago, O’Brien reported that prior to the rise of the one-party state in the 1960s, taalibe occasionally broke with their marabout in order to support the political party of their choosing without risking their status as devout disciples. Following the return to competitive party politics in the 1980s and 1990s, the renewed emphasis on marabout piety permitted Murids to more readily distinguish between a political and religious realm. Rather than change marabouts, they could therefore simply differentiate political ndigels from other religious commands by their marabouts. As one Baye Fall explained: “If you do not follow a political ndigel it does not matter because there are two types of ndigels. A political ndigel cannot hinder a taalibe who otherwise follows a marabout because it is not an ndigel for Islam or God, but for this world.” Villalòn (1995: 324–330) claims that taalibe are limited to two drastic alternatives to enhance their political autonomy—switching marabouts or reducing their affiliation to a nominal level. However, distinguishing between political and religious ndigels does not necessarily reduce a taalibe’s affiliation to a nominal level; it merely narrows the basis for marabout authority to socio-religious matters. Among Murid and non-Murid disciples alike, there exists a continuum in the level of their allegiance to their marabouts especially in rural areas. In the department of Mbacke, for example, Murids villagers frequently spoke of variances in the disciples’ obedience to the marabouts based solely on their individual beliefs and religious practices. As the chief of a Baye Fall village explained, there are three types of taalibes: the first

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and “highest” category is the sadikhe who accepts everything that the marabout says and applies all his ndigels without reflection. The second is a Murid simple who submits to his marabout because he wants to be a “good” Muslim but he selectively follows ndigels. The third type of disciple is a mourirondo who only follows what the majority of people around him are doing; if they obey an ndigel, then he will too. This categorization of Murid disciples was repeated by various informants, including a Murid intellectual who described the sadikhe as the “Murids fous” (crazy or foolish) before correcting himself and crediting them as the “most devout.” But rather than emphasizing the level of devotion as the basis for differentiation, he focused on the purpose of the ndigel, characterizing the “simple Murid,” the category in which he undoubtedly placed himself, as the “moderates” who try to see if the ndigel is serving the personal interests of the marabout or if it is in the interest of his taalibe and the brotherhood in general. The varying degree to which a taalibe yields to the wishes of his marabout is, therefore, not simply a function of the clientelistic calculations Villalòn highlights or even the sociological factors identified by Coulon. While Villalòn (1995: 330) maintains that “disciples may, quite simply, ignore the marabout’s advice while continuing to profess their allegiance” if the benefits are unclear and the potential sanctions limited, Coulon (1982: 105) asserts that disciple obedience is a function of their caste, physical distance from the marabout, and contact with “the modern world,” to which we might also add gender. While these socioeconomic factors may be highly predictive of the obedience of disciples to political ndigels, it is dependent upon how they impact a disciple’s conception of the marabout–taalibe relationship which is the key causal factor explaining the varying levels of obedience among Murid taalibes as well as other disciples. This is evidenced by the fact that within each category of Murids there are members of high and low castes, those living in a village with a marabout and those living in urban areas far from their marabouts. A taalibe’s decision to follow an ndigel may be determined by the absolute obedience of a sadikhe or at the other extreme by the personal interests of a mourirondo whose affiliation is more or less nominal. For a “simple Murid,” however, his conception of the marabout–taalibe relationship, and therefore his level of obedience, is more likely to vary depending on the context in which an ndigel is given and its religious verses economic or political purpose. For example, no practicing Murid would ignore a religious ndigel from the Khalif-Général, such as when to begin fasting during the holy month of Ramadan. Few would ignore the call of their marabout to work in his fields or contribute to a development project for the holy city of Touba.

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A political ndigel, however, is a special case. Recognizing both the continuum of taalibe obedience and the distinction drawn between political and religious ndigels is important to understanding how a Murid can ignore a marabout’s voting instructions while still considering himself a devout taalibe. As a Murid village chief who supported an opposition candidate explained to me, submission to a marabout is made within a religious context and is absolute only in this context. He held that: A taalibe must follow the marabout. The taalibe must work for his marabout, and give him the hadiyya (offering). The marabout must believe in God and put you on the path to God. As for the political ndigel, this is not his concern because if a taalibe comes to submit himself to a marabout, neither the marabout nor the taalibe has politics at the center of their heart. The taalibe submits by the grace of God, and the marabout accepts by the grace of God.

While there are many Murids (sadikhe) who would never consider challenging any ndigel, whether out of deference to their marabout or indifference to politicians and the political process, there is clearly a continuum of taalibe responses to political ndigels. Some Murids may follow the political preferences of their marabouts in hopes of benefiting from their access to state resources. Others who differ with the political preferences of the marabouts may abstain from voting or even registering, which appears to have been the most common form of Murid protest particularly under the PS party-state. Those Murids who have acknowledged voting against an ndigel justified their actions on various grounds, including: absolute rejection of marabout political involvement; distinguishing the source of the ndigel in terms of whether it was given by the Khalif-Général, their own or another marabout; and the type of ndigel in terms of whether the marabout’s issuance of an ndigel is benevolent, mutually beneficial, or self-serving. Indeed, a taalibe is most likely to obey the ndigel when: (a) the leaders of the brotherhood concur, that is, in the absence of opposing ndigels; (b) it is given by the Khalif, his own marabout, or the leader of his marabout’s lineage; and (c) it does not conflict with his own perceived interests. By the late 1980s, Murid disciples who saw their own political interests as in conflict with or unrepresented by the PS-state were rapidly growing in numbers. The declining capacity of the state and the concomitant decline in the ability of the marabouts to secure material benefits for their disciple-clients encouraged greater autonomy

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among disciples, whose trickle of benefits had been reduced to drops of water in a desert of economic despair. While they continued to rely on the marabouts for spiritual guidance, taalibe were forced to pursue other strategies to economically prosper or even survive. By the 1988 national elections, the evident dissatisfaction with the ruling party during the previous elections was intensified as structural adjustment and an overvalued currency took their toll. Given that nearly a quarter of the voters in Touba-Mbacke found Abdou Lahatt’s 1983 ndigel to vote for the PS neither in their interests nor a part of their religious obligations, it is not surprising then that in 1988 the Khalif felt compelled to give a more vocal, fervent ndigel to assure the reelection of President Diouf.

The Rise of Modern Muridism: The Decline of the Political NDIGEL In 1988, President Diouf was no longer seen as the new, innovative, and inspiring candidate the Khalif had supported in 1983, but rather a beleaguered president faced with a chronic economic crisis. Despite growing popular dissatisfaction with the ruling party, Diouf was able to maintain the support of the marabouts through lavish state investment in Murid areas, particularly in the holy city of Touba and villages of prominent marabouts, and by providing them with long-term bank loans often without interest or expectations of repayment (Cisse 1990: 47). In terms of investment in infrastructure, Touba was among the largest recipients of the largess of the party-state, including the installation of new market stalls, a slaughter house, telephone center, and street lights. In contrast with the previous elections in 1983, Abdou Lahatt’s ndigel for Diouf during the 1988 presidential election was not an endorsement of his political leadership so much as political payback for patronage benefits received and possibly an investment in anticipated patronage. In January 1988, just prior to the national elections, the Khalif made an unusually public announcement of his support for the ruling party. Claiming that politicians who assist in the modernization and beautification of Touba are working for the perpetuation of the glory of Muridism and Amadou Bamba, he insisted that “if someone works for [Shaikh Amadou Bamba], Murids must repay them by working for them,” that is by voting for them.4 In the time-honored fashion, Abdou Diouf responded by praising the Khalif as his “brother, faithful friend, prestigious guide . . . staunch patriot and fervent Muslim.” The state newspaper followed up with a

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three-page spread paying homage to the Khalif (Le Soleil, January 12, 1988). Throughout the campaign, the PS emphasized the “objective reasons” for the Khalif’s declaration, highlighting what the Socialist government had done for ordinary Murids in terms of the construction of roads, health centers, and hundreds of wells. Evidence that the ruling party did not expect to win Murid support through religious zeal alone, the ndigel was often upstaged but never left out of a political rally in a Murid area. As one PS politician declared at a rally in the neighboring Murid department of Diourbel: “You are realists because it is the result of concrete achievements and observations that you have chosen us. And also because of the ndigel” (Le Soleil, February 24, 1988). The ruling party backed up its claims to past achievements with the classic clientelist practice of distributing rice, cloth, and money. The decision not to rely on Murid obedience to the ndigel was a wise political strategy given the inability of the PS to stem the tide of Murid support for the opposition in 1983. This indiscipline, though still involving only a minority of Murids, was seen as a threat to the Khalif’s authority as well as the value and therefore influence of Murid marabouts as political brokers. Consequently, the Khalif stated the ndigel in no uncertain terms, shocking Murids and Senegalese in general with its severity. In his instructions to the taalibe, Abdou Lahatt warned that “any Murid who does not vote for Abdou Diouf will be betraying Sereigne Touba [Shaikh Amadou Bamba].” In effect, the Khalif was asserting that those who did not vote for Abdou Diouf would forfeit their place in paradise given that Murids believe that they will be taken there “on the backs” of their marabout and Amadou Bamba. Never before had a Khalif threatened the salvation of taalibe who failed to comply with a political ndigel. Although the motives of the Khalif to promote the health and prestige of the brotherhood were unquestioned, his assertion that politics had anything to do with Amabou Bamba, religious devotion or salvation, as well as the suggestion that the Murids owed a political debt to Diouf for his alleged largess, was received with a fair amount of skepticism and even resentment among many Murids. Nevertheless, the majority of Murid marabouts threw their support behind the Khalif or remained silent, though there was some dissension within the marabout hierarchy as well as among the taalibe. Although opposing political ndigels were not new to the brotherhood, Khadim Mbacke, a nephew of the Khalif, not only gave an ndigel for the PDS candidate Abdoulaye Wade but openly opposed the harsh and absolute tone of Abdou Lahatt’s voting instructions.

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On February 9, Khadim declared on national television: “Sereigne Touba put prayer above all else. As for Abdou Diouf, he has deprived us of work, and if God wants people to be happy, Abdou Diouf will not be re-elected” (Cisse 1990: 51). Although Khadim Mbacke was only a petit marabout-politician without much of a following or influence, this public declaration called into question the Khalif’s supreme authority. A few days later, Khadim reappeared on television and made an abrupt about-face, acquiescing that “I was mistaken. It is Abdou Diouf who must be supported. I apologize for having deceived my fellow Muslims” (Wal fadjri, February 12, 1988). His public apology did not, however, extinguish the already inflamed debate over the marabouts’ role in Senegalese politics. Khadim Mbacke was undoubtedly persuaded to revoke his endorsement of the PDS, either morally by the Murid leadership or financially by the PS or both. On the other hand, Dame Faty Mbacke, a cousin of the Khalif, continued to call for the election of Abdoulaye Wade. He did not, however, openly challenge the appropriateness of drawing the memory of Amadou Bamba into the political fray. Consequently, his support for the opposition was less of a direct challenge to the Khalif, permitting Dame Faty to successfully run as a PDS candidate for the National Assembly in 1988 and again in 1993. His candidacy represented a new and relatively unusual form of political participation by a marabout that only began to become more prevalent in the late 1990s. The scandal of Khadim’s declaration and Dame Faty’s opposing ndigel, along with rumors that a significant number of taalibe were going to ignore the ndigel, forced another prominent marabout, Moustapha Bassirou Mbacke, to speak on behalf of the Khalif one week before the elections, reiterating the ndigel: All Murids who do not vote for Abdou Diouf will betray Sereigne Touba (Shaikh Amadou Bamba) . . . The Khalif-Général of the Murids was not restrictive when he told Murids to vote for Abdou Diouf . . . I have never in my life entered a polling station but on the 28th of February for the first time I will vote, and it will be for Abdou Diouf and the PS. I will do it in order to not betray Sereigne Touba, so as to never be far from Sereigne Touba. (Le Soleil, February 12, 1988)

On election day, there were some Murids who did not heed the ndigel, but based on electoral returns in Mbacke and the other Murid dominant departments in the Diourbel region, they were remarkably few. In comparison with the 1983 presidential elections, Diouf gained

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10 percent in the region and 20 percent in Mbacke, surpassing every other department in the country in its level of support for the incumbent (appendix 3). Moreover, participation in the department jumped from 45 to 67.2 percent, one of the highest rates in the country. This dramatic increase in participation and PS support may be attributable to the severity of the ndigel; however, it is peculiar that only a week before the election, the state paper reported difficulties getting people to pick up their electoral cards (Le Soleil, February 19, 1988). This raises the question of whether the overwhelming majority of Murids supported Diouf, whether out of conviction or adherence to the ndigel, or if others spoke in their place. Murid informants across the political and socioeconomic spectrums concurred that electoral fraud in 1988 was particularly rampant, with numerous informants admitting that they themselves had voted more than once or stuffed ballot boxes. One party worker acknowledged casting over 200 ballots in the polling station where he had been appointed by the PS-state to serve as a poll worker. Others spoke of voter intimidation by administrative and elected officials who were present at the polling stations. This was possible because despite the constitutional guarantee of a secret ballot, the use of a voting booth had been made optional by the PS-state (chapter 2). The opposition repeatedly argued that this permitted infinite possibilities of intimidation and manipulation as the request to use a voting booth was seen as tantamount to declaring support for the opposition. Refusal to use one became a cornerstone of the PS campaign, which charged its supporters to “declare [their] vote openly and proudly” (Le Soleil, February 11, 1988). The obvious consequence was that your vote was no longer “between you and God” since you could be sure that your neighbors would report any indiscretion to the marabout as well as local party leaders who controlled the distribution of state resources (e.g., seeds, fertilizer, and millet grinders). Some Murids nevertheless chose to and were able to vote against the ndigel; but this appears to have been more common in urban areas, particularly Dakar where the physical presence of a marabout in a polling station was unlikely and thus both voter autonomy and anonymity were greater. This is evident in that Murids constituted nearly 25 percent of the Dakar region but there was no anomaly there in support for Diouf during the 1988 elections. Instead, there was continued decline in support from 84 percent in 1983 to 73 percent in 1988 (appendices 1 and 3). Several ardent PS members in Mbacke went so far as to claim that one of the most important reasons for the ndigel was it permitted

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electoral fraud. Not only would no one stop those “acting in the spirit of the ndigel,” but since the expectation is that the taalibe would overwhelmingly vote for the PS, the ruling party’s electoral victory— even a landslide—would not be questioned. To do so would have been tantamount to challenging the authority of the Khalif over his taalibe. Similarly, opposition parties that criticized “maraboutbusinessmen” who used religion to advance their own interests did not directly challenge the Khalif or even the controversial nature of his ndigel. Nevertheless, the extreme nature of Abdou Lahatt’s command intensified the debate over the role of political ndigels. Alternative perspectives of the ndigel as a recommendation rather than a command, as well as competing interpretations of the historical example of Amadou Bamba and the model he offers for marabout involvement in contemporary Senegalese politics became openly debated among intellectuals, within opposition parties, and in the independent press, which had gained prominence and a significant readership by the late 1980s. Opposition parties, especially the leftist micro-parties, were ideologically opposed to the “marriage of convenience” between political and religious leaders and, it should be noted, seldom benefited from marabout support. They, therefore, seized the opportunity to weaken this much maligned though envied instrument of PS political mobilization. The former Marxist party PIT, for example, combined its condemnation of marabout-politicians with homage to Amadou Bamba and the marabouts of the Fuuta Tooro as providing a “model” of the more appropriate “apolitical” relationship between marabout and politicians (Le Soleil, February 2, 1988). Careful to blame his political opponent rather than the Murid leader, Mamadou Diouf of the Ligue Democratique-Mouvement pour le Parti du Travaille (LD-MPT) claimed that “Abdou Diouf has replaced the ‘ndigel’ with the ‘ndougal’ [imposition] . . . the ‘ndougal’ forces itself upon those who follow it while the ‘ndigel’ is a counsel based on the understood interest of those who follow it. We have never objected to [an ndigel] but we reject the ‘ndougal’” (Le Soleil, February 17, 1988). The implied distinction is that ndigels are optional, chosen or ignored based on the taalibe’s interests. On his death in 1989, Abdou Lahatt’s ndigel continued to inspire debate. In a two-page spread commemorating the Khalif’s life, A.N. Sylla of the independent newspaper Sud-Hebdo (now SudQuotidien) asserted that the ndigel was a cornerstone of Abdou Lahatt’s Khalifat but should be interpreted as a “recommendation”

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not a command. Insisting on the divine origins of concepts of free will and rationality, he argued that an ndigel should not be blindly adhered to, that “a taalibe can, based on the form of the ndigel, recognize the truth from error. The order must not in any way go against his interests.” Moreover, Sylla claimed that Amadou Bamba followed the example of the Prophet Muhammad in encouraging Muslims to evaluate a situation themselves and to respect an ndigel only if it is “inspired by the teaching of God, [since] an ndigel has no other purpose” (Sud-Hebdo, June 20, 1989: 4). It may be argued that these (re)interpretations of the ndigel come from Dakar-based intellectuals, but “simple taalibe” in Mbacke also demonstrated their displeasure with political ndigels that they saw as not being in their interest. After the Khalif’s 1988 ndigel, angry letters of protest were strewn across the courtyard of his residence in Touba. Although numerous Murid informants from all walks of life confirmed the event, no one acknowledged having committed this audacious challenge to his authority. While it is impossible to determine exactly how many Murids dared to criticize the Khalif, even anonymously, what is significant is that this story has become an important part of Abdou Lahatt’s legacy and indicates the cognitive dissonance that many Murid disciples experienced during the 1988 elections. By making an unpopular demand backed up by the threat of eternal damnation, the Khalif forced the taalibe to choose between abiding by their supreme religious leader and adhering to their own political preferences and perceived economic interests. Placing in jeopardy marabout–taalibe relations, the ndigel also threatened to demonstrate the limits of Murid devotion and thus jeopardized the marabouts’ leverage with state officials, whose patronage is based on their power to influence the actions of their disciples. Although Abdou Lahatt remained incredibly powerful and popular with by far the largest number of disciples, many Murids of all political stripes acknowledged privately that the ndigel was costly in terms of his credibility and that had he lived until the subsequent election in 1993, the Khalif was unlikely to have repeated such a stringent ndigel. Many PDS supporters also speculated that his younger brother and successor, Abdou Khadir Mbacke, would have introduced a significant shift in the brotherhoods’ relationship with the PS-state, lending support to his disciple Abdoulaye Wade, had he lived longer. Abdoul Khadir, however, also had disciples in the ruling party, including Bassirou Ndao, the PS mayor of Mbacke, and was reputedly averse to involvement in matters of this world. Even if Abdou Khadir would have treated all parties equitably, as his son Modou Mbacke Abdou

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Khadir claims, this would have been a significant political shift in the Murid leadership. Within a year of assuming leadership of the brotherhood, however, Abdou Khadir passed away, leaving the task to his younger brother, the current Khalif-Général, Salilou Mbacke. As disinclined to engage in political activities as his predecessor, it has been the silence rather than the words of Sereigne Salilou that has contributed to the radical change in Mbacke’s electoral politics.

The Contribution of Modern Mouridism to the Rise of Senegal’s Clientelist Democracy During the Grand Magal pilgrimage in August 1992, the new KhalifGénéral, Salilou Mbacke, received the customary delegation of state officials led by the Minister of the Interior, Madieng Khary Dieng, who solicited prayers from the Murid leader for “the president, the government and all Senegalese people,” in hopes of receiving an ndigel for Abdou Diouf’s reelection. The Khalif, however, simply offered prayers for a bountiful harvest and perennial peace in Senegal. In an account of the event that appeared in the Sud-Hebdo independent newspaper, journalist Ibra Fall reported that conforming with Sereigne Salilou’s “image as a Sufi spiritual guide, uninterested in worldly affairs, the Murid Khalif-Général did not even mention the 1993 elections . . . Those who were expecting an ndigel (command to vote), even one less direct than that of Sereigne Abdou Lahatt Mbacké during the 1987 Magal, waited in vain” (Sud-Hebdo, August 20, 1992: 3). Undoubtedly, Salilou’s personality has influenced his relationship with politicians and the state. Like his father Amadou Bamba, the current Khalif’s life has been primarily dedicated to prayer and the religious education of young Murids rather than the pursuit of political advantages or commercial holdings. Consequently, it is not surprising that Salilou remained silent during the 1993 elections as well as the historic elections in 2000. What is interesting and perhaps more informative is the interpretation of his silence. Murids from across the political spectrum have described the Khalif as refusing to implicate himself in the vulgar affairs of electoral politics to avoid taking sides with politically divided Murids. As one elderly Baye Fall marabout explained, Sereigne Salilou has refused to support any politician because “he is not willing to ruin anything on behalf of a candidate.” Consequently, the Khalif’s silence on political matters has enhanced his image as a pious man of great integrity who places religion above all else, including politics.

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Salilou Mbacke has, nevertheless, been willing to receive government officials, party leaders, and any of the presidential candidates who have sought an audience with him, which includes the candidates of every major and most minor parties. Local politicians from across the spectrum have interpreted this as the Khalif’s recognition that to do otherwise would undermine his relationship with Murid disciples and subordinate marabouts who are increasingly affiliated with various political parties. Although many if not most marabouts have followed the Khalif’s lead and now remain silent on political matters, one of the direct consequences of his silence has been the flourishing of competing ndigels by both prominent and less consequential “petits” marabouts.

The 1993 PS NDIGELS : Filling the Void of the Khalif’s Silence The PS attempted to compensate for the absence of Salilou Mbacke’s support in several ways. Prior to the elections, President Diouf made high-profile visits to see the Khalif-Général and various other prominent marabouts who nevertheless remained silent during the 1993 electoral campaign, such as Mbacke Soxna Lo, the khalif of Cheikh Mbacke’s family, and Modou Aminata Fall, the khalif of the Baye Fall. These courtesy visits were prominently featured in the stateowned print and broadcast media. The strategy of associating the PS with these prominent but silent marabouts remained important but quickly became secondary to the pursuit of ndigels to compensate for their silence. As in the past, there were marabout-politicians who eagerly sought to increase their access to the PS-state while presumably lining their pockets by giving pro-PS ndigels. Given the political void created by Salilou’s silence, the support of marabout-politicians took on added significance to the PS in 1993. Unfortunately for the PS, these marabouts typically enjoyed relatively small followings, with no claims to influencing the votes of taalibe other than their own. These marabouts are often considered marabouts mondains (worldly marabouts) who are unable to give an ndigel that will be widely obeyed but who need the patronage of the state. Consequently, their declarations must be seen and heard for the benefit of their patrons, whereas in the past an ndigel was clandestine, an unpublicized instruction between marabout and taalibe. Even cumulatively these marabouts could not compensate for the absence of an ndigel from the Khalif. The PS, therefore, did the next best thing: revive the ndigels of previous Murid leaders.

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To offset Salilou’s silence on political matters at the annual Magal pilgrimage, a PS rally was held in November 1992, two months prior to the official presidential campaign, to renew the ndigel of Abdou Lahatt, with the claim that “everything that justified the ndigel of 1988 is still observable today” (Le Soleil, November 16, 1992). Although Sidy Mbacke, the Khalif of Abdou Lahatt’s family, did not speak at the rally, his presence added force to the words of PS politicians. Sidy Mbacke also permitted a PS rally in his family’s village of Touba Belel where he reportedly showed his disciples which ballot to cast in the upcoming presidential elections. His voting instructions to support Diouf were then underlined by representatives of the marabout who sat in front of the polling stations in Touba Belel, asking for the unused ballots of Diouf’s seven opponents as proof that they had obeyed the ndigel by placing the ballot for Diouf in the ballot box. As the Khalif of an important marabout family, Sidy Mbacke’s order to vote for the PS applied not only to the many disciples he inherited from his father, but also to his younger brothers and their disciples, at least in theory since his brother Mamadou Mortada Mbacke, who ran as an LD/MPT candidate for the National Assembly in 1993, was unlikely to have followed his brother’s instructions. Mortada, however, is more of a businessman than a marabout or even a politician. Although the LD-MPT undoubtedly hoped that his lineage would draw support among Murid voters, Mortada barely campaigned during either the presidential or legislative elections in which his party won less than 3 percent of the vote in the department of Mbacke. The real source of strength for Sidy’s ndigel was in the words and, perhaps even more importantly, the deeds of his father. Although many Murids, including PS supporters, claimed that Abdou Lahatt would not have repeated his infamous ndigel because of its impact on marabout–taalibe relations, many Murids in Touba Belel and surrounding villages considered the voting instructions of the former Khalif to still apply. This is explained not only by their devotion to this charismatic leader, but also the many state-financed development projects from which Murids in this area continued to benefit. For example, in one neighboring village where almost all of the inhabitants are disciples of the maraboutic family of Cheikh Mbacke, a tireless opponent of Senghor, the vast majority supported the PS in 1993 because they felt indebted to the government and the marabouts who helped them on several occasions and built the bore hole in Touba Belel from which water is pumped to their village. Because the khalif of Cheikh Mbacke’s family, his son Mbacke Soxna Lo, was silent on

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political matters, villagers felt free to interpret Cheikh Mbacke’s opposition to Senghor as distinct from the PS and Abdou Diouf. As one informant stated: “My marabout Sereigne Cheikh Mbacke opposed Senghor . . . [therefore] I have never voted for Senghor, but rather than break the ndigels [of Falilou and Abdou Lahattt], I simply did not vote. But since the arrival of Diouf, I have supported him.” On the other hand, a minority in this village who were dissatisfied with the ruling party used the political autonomy that Soxna Lo’s silence provided them to support an opposition party. After the overwhelming though contested victory of President Diouf in the area surrounding Touba Belel, the PS called once again on Sidy Mbacke during the subsequent legislative elections in May 1993. In a village meeting, the marabout emphasized the continuing authority of his father’s ndigel that invites Murids to “walk with Abdou Diouf.” He insisted that: While some do not understand the weight of such a calling, it is incumbent upon everyone to appreciate the magnitude of the famous call by Sereigne Abdou Lahatt. That is why all the disciples of Sereigne Abdou Lahatt, his friends and all his family, will assume the supreme responsibility to stand by President Abdou Diouf under all circumstances. (Le Soleil, May 14, 1993)

The PS victory in Touba Belel was marred, however, by a turnout of less than 28 percent of the 1,747 registered voters. Furthermore, despite the use of the new method for bypassing the secret ballot by requiring voters to return with the unused ballots of the opposition, 20 percent of Sidy’s disciples found the courage to vote against their marabout’s instructions. These election results indicate that even when an ndigel was combined with clientelist benefits and intimidation it no longer had the same efficacy as in the past. The decline in the authority of an ndigel was also evident in the electoral returns of the villages of Modou Boussou Dieng Mbacke. In December 1992, Boussou Dieng gave an ndigel for Abdou Diouf, reminding Murids of the great friendship between his father Falilou Mbacke and Diouf’s predecessor, President Senghor. In a declaration that was broadcast by the state media and recorded on widely distributed audio cassettes, Boussou Dieng maintained that his father had promised Senghor that he could remain president as long as he liked, as could whoever he appointed to succeed him. Therefore, the marabout claimed that Murids must continue to support Abdou Diouf.

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At least as important as his voting instructions to the taalibe was Boussou Dieng’s prediction that Diouf would be reelected as he had previously done with the good harvest several years prior. At a PS rally in February 1993, Boussou Dieng’s spokesman declared that the marabout had predicted Diouf’s safe return from campaigning in the Casamance despite threats from the separatists movement, and that if Diouf came to his village of Ndindi, Modou Boussou Dieng would make him president. Diouf did indeed journey to Ndindi and took the occasion to have the ndigel reiterated on national radio and television just a few days prior to the presidential elections. In a familiar performance usually reserved for the Khalif-Général, Diouf spoke of his long-time friendship with Boussou Dieng, which dated to the time when Diouf was the director of Senghor’s office and the marabout assisted his father in his contacts with the state, permitting Diouf to remind Murids of the historical roots of the current ndigel in the Golden Age of collaboration between President Senghor and Sereigne Falilou. Boussou Dieng’s spokesman replied to Abdou Diouf that the marabout “has charged me with assuring you that you are the candidate of Sereigne Falilou. It was [in Ndindi] that Senghor received his support from him. Sereigne Modou has already done the same for you and you will be installed as the President of the Republic” (Le Soleil, February 17, 1993). Popular belief in the mystical powers of Modou Boussou Dieng and the inevitability of Diouf’s election following the ndigel were evident in pre-election conversations with a wide range of Senegalese, from peanut farmers and street vendors to civil servants and professors, Murid and non-Murid alike. Not only did people believe that his prediction made Diouf’s reelection inevitable, but there was also concern among some taalibe that the prediction must be realized, otherwise the reputation of a grand marabout, and consequently the brotherhood, would be tainted. A Baye Fall explained that although “Murids are not the most numerous, they are the most unified and therefore play a large role in politics . . . The marabouts’ voices are listened to because a voice that many people listen to could provide political advantages . . . [Therefore], even if you are not a taalibe of Modou Boussou Dieng, you must follow the ndigel regardless of whether your own marabout gave you one.” Boussou Dieng’s renewal of the ndigel did not, however, enhance his own reputation. One of his wives, Awa Gadiaga, was also accused of behaving in an “undignified” manner during her PS campaign appearances. Various Murid informants described her as “behaving

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like a griot,” a low caste of storytellers/historians in Wolof society, by singing the praises of Diouf. Rumors flew about money offered and promises made to Boussou Dieng by the PS. One rumor regarding the construction of a road between his family’s villages of Ndindi and Touba Bogo was given credence when the necessary materials and machinery suddenly appeared outside Ndindi after Diouf’s successful reelection. According to two of his grands taalibes, there were also allegedly promises of electricity and water pipes. Presumably disciples in his villages would have benefited from this new infrastructure; however, unlike the villages surrounding Touba Belel, disciples in Boussou Dieng’s villages did not have prominent examples of completed projects that had accrue to them from marabout–state collaboration. In Ndindi, informants repeatedly expressed hostility to Diouf and his government, openly stating that they and their neighbors only voted for Diouf out of respect for their spiritual guides, Falilou Mbacke and his son, Modou Boussou Dieng. Despite the efforts of Boussou Dieng and the publicity surrounding his ndigel, less than 22 percent of the 3,625 registered voters in Ndindi and Touba Bogo participated in the presidential elections, with nearly 15 percent voting against Diouf. Nevertheless, President Diouf received over 70 percent of the votes in the Mbacke department in the 1993 presidential election. Thus the PS party-state could consider the ndigels to have been a success. At least in the short term, the PS marabouts provided a buffer to the growing dissatisfaction with the ruling party among Murid disciples. But the abstention rates were so high in Mbacke that had the national election results paralleled those of Mbacke, Diouf would not have had sufficient support to win on the first ballot since the winning candidate had to receive 25 percent of the registered voters as well as the majority of votes cast. In the Mbacke department, only 29 percent of the registered voters participated in the elections, with Diouf receiving only 20 percent of the registered voters. In comparison with the nearly unanimous support for the PS in 1988, it is evident that the 1993 PS ndigels were neither as effective in winning support for Diouf nor in bringing Murids to the polls. The declining efficacy PS ndigels was a product not only of waning popularity of the ruling party, but also maraboutic silence and support for opposition parties.

The Resurgence of Competing Ndigels in 1993 Immediately following Senegal’s return to multipartyism in the 1970s, few Murid marabouts threw their support behind opposition

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parties. This can be explained by several interrelated factors: the capacity of the ruling party to attract support in a dominant party system; the absence of a succession struggle in the brotherhood that would encourage competing ndigels among powerful marabouts; and the attitude of Senegalese opposition leaders toward the role of marabouts in politics. Under dominant party rule, it was difficult to conceive of the Khalif-Général offering an ndigel for an opposition party given the clientelist benefits received from the party in power. Although the opposition might win over some other marabouts, especially petits marabouts, in the absence of a competing ndigel from a prominent rival to the Khalif-Général, it was a logical strategy—and one that fit with the ideological perspective of leftist parties—for the opposition to denounce the political involvement of marabouts, yet not too loudly for fear of alienating the powerful marabouts and their taalibe. Regardless of their ideological orientation, opposition leaders have come to recognize the political influence marabouts continue to have over their taalibe and, therefore, are unlikely to reject the support of marabouts out of ideological conviction. Various opposition leaders have described in personal interviews that their attitudes toward the marabouts have changed since the return to multipartyism. A leader of the LD-MPT explained that initially they had hoped to bypass the brotherhoods through mobilization of Senegalese youths. Now that the party leaders are older, he contended, they are less ideological and more pragmatic in their efforts to gain broader political support. This pragmatism was reflected in a comment made by a leader of another former Marxist party, Andd-Jëff, who admitted that “we will take anything we can get.” Leaders of small opposition parties such as these acknowledge that they were unlikely to gain support from marabouts because the PS ruling party had “all the money and political patronage” to offer them. Therefore, rather than trying to win them over, these parties sought to “neutralize” the role of marabouts in politics. By convincing the marabouts that they are worthy candidates whose leadership would benefit the country, and presumably their brotherhood as well, they attempted to convince the marabouts to remain silent and not add to the political advantages of the PS politicians in power. The willingness of marabouts to support an opposition party increased, however, with its prospects for gaining power. Consequently, in 1993 there was an increase in marabout support for the opposition due not only to the Khalif’s silence but also the perception that under the new, fairer electoral code, an opposition party

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had greater potential to achieve power. In Senegal’s bipolar electoral politics, the PDS had the greatest prospect of defeating the PS; therefore, the PDS presidential candidate Abdoulaye Wade represented a “vote utile” (useful vote) not only to the electorate but also to Murid marabouts such as Abdou Fatta Mbacke, whose father, Cheikh Mbacke, had allegedly financed Wade’s initial political project. Fatta shares certain similarities with Moustapha Sy of the Tijan brotherhood who also supported Wade’s candidacy, primarily in their family histories of political opposition as a product of a succession struggle. Fatta’s support for the PDS was not as spectacular, however, as the role of Sy and his Daahiratoul Moustarchidine wal Moustarchidaty in the 1993 elections. While Fatta undoubtedly drew political support for Wade, the Fattahists were only a loose reference to disciples who followed his voting instructions as opposed to the formidable religious-political organization of the Moustarchidine. Though everpresent during the election campaign, Fatta did not give fiery speeches or make the incredible (though unsubstantiated) accusations that Sy lodged against Abdou Diouf (Kane and Villalòn 1995). As a PDS leader from Mbacke concluded: “It is a question of personal temperament; Sy is more [politically] involved.” In an interview with Abdou Fatta, he claimed that his support of Wade was based on the example of his father, Cheikh Mbacke who had lost the succession struggle to Falilou Mbacke. Prior to 1993, however, there were no Fattahists. In 1988, Fatta had obeyed the ndigel of Abdou Lahatt, or at least, as he claims, had remained neutral. Unlike his father who staunchly opposed Falilou and his political ally Senghor throughout his life, Abdou Fatta did not dare to directly challenge the Khalif. Nor was his support for Wade seen as part of an impending succession struggle, as the political mobilization of the Moustarchidine appears to have been with the Sy family of Tijan marabouts based in Tivouane. Why then did Abdou Fatta pick up his father’s political gauntlet in 1993? Some Murids suggested that while Abdou Fatta’s older brother, Mbacke Soxna Lo, who is the khalif of Cheikh Mbacke’s family, refused to implicate himself in political matters because he had taalibe “everywhere,” he had permitted if not encouraged his brother to support Abdoulaye Wade so that their family would be assured political access if the PDS came to power. At the very least, the silence of Soxna Lo permitted Abdou Fatta to support the PDS, but it also left Soxna Lo’s significantly larger following politically unencumbered. Many of his disciples were more likely to follow an ndigel from Soxna Lo, espeically if they believed it reflected their interests, than those

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who felt obliged to support the PDS because of Abdou Fatta’s—or even Cheikh Mbacke’s—association with Abdoulaye Wade. While Abdou Fatta was Wade’s most prominent Murid supporter, Cheikh Ndigel Fall also offered Wade support among the Murid sect of Baye Fall, whose khalif, Modou Aminata Fall, followed the lead of the Khalif-Général by remaining silent during the 1993 elections. Like Abdou Fatta, Cheikh Ndigel’s family had been heavily implicated in Senegal’s political opposition. His father, Cheikh Baye Gor Fall, allied with Cheikh Mbacke when the former lost a succession struggle to become the khalif of the Baye Fall. Following his father’s death, Cheikh Ndigel reconciled with the Baye Fall leadership and actively supported Abdou Diouf. But in 1993, Cheikh Ndigel sought an alternative source of political patronage after feeling neglected by the PS-state. In an interview with Cheikh Ndigel prior to the 1993 elections, he complained that he had worked for the PS for a long time and had never received any recognition for his work. He claimed that he joined the PDS hoping for this recognition, quickly adding that it was not for his own benefit that he had become involved in politics, but to aid his followers who need the help of the state. Diouf had not fulfilled his promises for his villages, such as digging a bore hole in his village of Samb Fall and building a road from Touba to another of his villages, Touba Fall. Nor did the President reply to Cheikh Ndigel’s letters regarding these matters. The marabout, therefore, agreed to appear at a rally for Wade several days before the presidential election. As one of his disciples explained: A political ndigel is used to show a politician that “if you do something for me, I will give you my taalibes. And if you do not, I will not either.” This is what Cheikh Ndigel did regarding the road he wanted but never received. In fact when he left the PS for the PDS, Cheikh Ndigel told this to Abdou Diouf.

After the defeat of Abdoulaye Wade, Cheikh Ndigel appeared two months later at a PS rally for the legislative elections. The Baye Fall marabout maintained that despite his dissatisfaction with Diouf, Wade had been “ungrateful . . . he did not even call to thank me for my support.” As might be expected, Cheikh Ndigel denied that his return to the PS fold was motivated by any political promises or economic incentives. However, a PS representative in one of his villages claimed that the marabout had been assured by Diouf that he would personally take care of the promised projects, though months later nothing

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had been done. The elderly man bitterly complained: “Abdou betrays. He never does what he says he will . . . If Diouf promises something you do not want, he will do it. And if he promises something you want, he will not do it.” After the legislative elections in May 1993, Cheikh Ndigel expressed regret for his political involvement, stating that for a marabout “politics is dirty.” Though this sentiment may be more of a reflection of having come up empty handed, he nevertheless declared in front of a room full of disciples: Politics should not be mixed with religion . . . the leaders of the parties seek the ndigels of religious leaders who become corrupted by politicians and finally speak on their behalf. The ndigel comes originally from Shaikh Amadou Bamba who prayed to God for guidance. This is the true ndigel . . . you must not take these politician-marabouts at their word; what is in their heart may be different.

Given his participation in the 1993 elections, this statement may sound like a confession of a marabout who has seen the error of his ways. It is important to note, however, that his regrets centered around his involvement with the PDS. For Cheikh Ndigel, involvement in politics was equated with supporting an opposition party. As a PS civil servant pointed out in his criticism of Abdou Fatta’s “use of religion to deviate people into politics,” maraboutic “support for the party in power does not require rallying people;” political opposition, however, requires the active participation by the marabouts. Following a similar logic, an opposition deputy claimed that a Khalif-Général will never support an opposition party because it requires “active participation, [political] militancy, getting their hands dirty in politics,” as opposed to more “passive” support for the ruling party. While Cheikh Ndigel may have joined the PDS in anticipation of its victory, only to return to the PS after the opposition was once again defeated, other marabouts were accused of playing the “PDS card” to profit from their negotiated return to the Socialist ruling party. Unlike Cheikh Ndigel, many PDS supporters accused Mbaye Guèye, a descendent of one of Amadou Bamba’s leading disciples, of never really having been with the PDS, but instead of having been “bought off” by the PS who were looking for turncoats to show off in public during the 1993 elections. A local leader of the PS admitted that the marabout was allegedly given FCFA1 million to prepare a rally where he announced his “return to the PS fold,” which was

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either an extremely expensive rally or included extra “pocket money” to reward Guèye. Local PDS leaders meanwhile claimed that he had never truly left the PS fold to join them in the opposition. Other marabouts appeared less interested in gaining political advantages but were instead attracted to the PDS as a strategy for enhancing their status in the brotherhood. Although there is not yet any evidence of a Murid succession struggle, despite the advanced age of Sereigne Salilou, a growing number of Amadou Bamba’s descendants were already jockeying for position within the brotherhood or their lineage by the early 1990s. PDS deputy Dame Faty, for example, had lived in the shadow of his elder brother, Koussou Mbacke, who served as the khalif of their lineage and was well connected with the ruling party, dating back to the 1970s when their father had placed him in charge of relations with the PS-state. In his ndigel to vote for Diouf in 1993, Koussou not only explicitly acknowledged the clientelist motives behind his ndigel, but also reminded the taalibe of his status as the khalif of his family’s lineage that required the obedience of the all Murids who had submitted to any member of the “house” (keur) of Darou Mousty (the village of Abdou Lahatt), including disciples of his younger brother, the PDS deputy. Koussou told his followers prior to the 1993 election that “if you have a problem with the customs officials, police, prefect, or forestry agents, come see me. As you need me, I need them to help you. So you must continue to follow the ndigel” of Abdou Lahatt for President Diouf. In an interview at Koussou’s home in Dakar, one of his sons attempted to explain away the political defiance of his uncle Dame Faty claiming that he had “received permission” from Koussou to join the PDS. As the political prospects of the PDS improved in the 1990s, it seemed to be a logical strategy for maraboutic families to split their support for the two major parties to assure their continued access to state resources no matter which way the political winds turn. But it was also common knowledge that in 1993 there were heated conflicts in Darou Mousty. According to various sources, Koussou came with a pistol to a PDS rally organized by Dame Faty during the 1993 legislative campaign, threatening anyone who approached the gathering. The claim that Dame Faty had Koussou’s “permission” was apparently an attempt to conceal his lack of authority or control over his younger brother. Although Wade welcomed the support of these marabouts, it nevertheless put the PDS on the defensive about incongruities between their charges against mixing religion and politics by the PS and their own actions. When asked if the PDS seeks ndigels, a local representative

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responded rather noncommittally that “Wade is not fundamentally for the ndigel because he does not want to bring marabouts into politics, but the PS has pushed him in this direction.” Other PDS supporters justified the new role of marabouts in the party by referring to it as “support as opposed to a command,” adding that it is different because “there is no language threatening religious retribution if the followers do not vote PDS.” Interestingly, the objections that taalibe raised to PS ndigels were nearly unheard of with opposition ndigels. Marabouts supporting the opposition were able to avoid conflicts with their taalibe for several reasons. Not only were the opposition ndigels typically less forceful, permitting taalibe to ignore their recommendations, but the taalibe themselves were increasingly dissatisfied with the ruling party and often welcomed if not encouraged their marabouts’ support of the opposition. Many Murids who had supported the PS also saw their clientelist interests shifting with the marabouts’ support of the opposition. To maintain their access to state resources, they needed to ensure that their marabout’s new political ally gained power. Furthermore, if they wanted to continue supporting the PS, there were older ndigels or alternative ones by prominent marabouts to justify voting for the ruling party. For example, one of Cheikh Ndigel’s disciples claimed to be following the ndigel of Modou Boussou Dieng in his decision to vote for Diouf despite his own marabout’s support for Wade. Other Murids who voted for Diouf relayed elaborate histories of ndigels by different marabouts and former Khalifs-Généraux, at times equating Diouf as an extension of Senghor and at other times insisting that the two politicians are distinct in order to justify their vote. Consequently, Murids who supported the opposition in 1993 had reasons for doing so that were as complex as those who supported the PS. There were a handful of Murid intellectuals who supported leftist micro-parties out of ideological conviction or aspiration for a position within the party or coalition government, while their families followed their lead with the hope of greater political access should the opposition gain power. In some cases, Murids who voted for the opposition were simply following the political ndigel of their marabout, or because they felt deprived of patronage benefits from the PS-state and hoped to improve their access via the PDS. Still others considered party politics as insufficiently important to challenge their marabout’s decision since elections were seen as having little bearing on their lives. When Murids supported the opposition in the absence of an ndigel from their marabout, they like other Senegalese described their political

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choice as the result of their explicit exclusion from political resources and their hope of potential clientelism should the PDS come to power. For example, an entire Murid village joined their chief in supporting the PDS after the PS president of the local rural community council repeatedly excluded them from the distribution of political patronage (e.g., millet grinding machines) following their support of a local PS leader of an opposing faction. Given the circumstances, it is not surprising that these Murids were more vocal in their assertions that religious authority is separate from political obligation. The silence of the Khalif-Général as well as the flourishing of competing ndigels created a context for the increase in political competition and taalibe autonomy, which ironically often decreased their interest in political participation. This rebounded, however, in the 2000 presidential elections that were widely viewed as a crucial referendum on the PS government. The Contribution of Murids to Sopi (Political Change) Electoral politics in Touba-Mbacke during the 2000 presidential election were marked by several recurrent themes: the silence of Sereigne Salilou, competing ndigels, and references to those of the former Khalifs-Généraux. Despite the current Khalif’s silence, several Murid informants claimed after Wade’s resounding victory in the second round of the presidential elections that the Khalif had supported him “though people didn’t know it.” This was a reference to Wade benefiting from his mystical powers as opposed to taalibe obedience to a political command. It did not explain, however, the plurality of 46.7 percent that Diouf received in the department during the first round before Wade went on to defeat him in the second round with 63.3 percent of the vote in Mbacke. Nonetheless, once again the Khalif’s silence permitted other Murid marabouts of varying prominence greater freedom to negotiate their relationship with Senegal’s political parties, some more publicly than others. Modou Kara, for example, openly declared that President Diouf must “concretize” his promises as he had successfully done before: “When [Diouf] collaborated with Abdou Lahatt Mbacke, [he] sent him up the elevator . . . [So, too,] I cannot be ignored in this country” (Walfadjri, November 26, 1999: 4). Despite his claims to power and influence, Modou Kara was forced to apologize for his crude portrayal of the former Khalif’s clientelist relationship with the state after one of Abdou Lahatt’s sons admonished the following day

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that “everyone should leave the late Sereigne Abdou Lahatt in peace” (Sud-Quotidien, November 27, 1999). This was only the beginning of Modou Kara’s problems. At an ostensibly religious conference he organized at a Dakar stadium, the “marabout of the youth” attempted to intercede when his taalibe booed Ousmane Tanor Dieng, his invited guest and Diouf’s heir apparent. To no avail, the marabout warned: “I consider a lack of respect toward my guests an offense to me personally” (Walfadjri, January 3, 2000: 2). Although Dieng was presumably present to receive an ndigel on behalf of President Diouf, the marabout toned down his remarks, merely acknowledging that he had voted for the PS in 1988 for “known reasons” (Abdou Lahatt’s ndigel) but had not voted in 1993 and would not in 2000. Similarly, after the first round, he offered a lukewarm endorsement that “everyone should vote according to their conscience, but if I had an electoral card, I would vote for Abdou Diouf, because it is he whom I support,” going on to offer his own prediction of Diouf’s victory (Walfadjri, March 13, 2000: 2). Although Modou Kara and his primarily urban disciples are not representative of all Murid marabouts and their disciples, this event reflects the increasing willingness of disciples to ignore or even challenge the marabouts’ political preferences. In a 1997 survey conducted in the Mbacke department, half of the 234 respondents stated that the marabouts have no influence on their political decisions such as voting, in contrast with significantly higher levels of influence in their social and economic lives (over 85 percent in both cases). Intriguingly, the survey also indicated that 49 percent of the respondents believed that most Murids refuse to obey a political ndigel, while 62.9 percent saw the political role of the ndigel as diminishing with another 29.2 percent uncertain. Indeed, the failure of President Diouf to win a majority in the first round of the election led to some speculation as to “what is left of the ndigel” given the massive support he received from a wide range of marabouts including the khalifs of the lineages of Falilou and Abdou Lahatt Mbacke, as well as the unified support of both the Tidian Khalif-Général and his arch nemesis Cheikh Tidiane Sy for the incumbent. This analysis, however, ignores the diluting effect of competing ndigels as well as a new phenomenon, the dramatic increase in opposition marabout-politicians. During the 1998 legislative elections, Idrissa Seck, a prominent PDS politician and presumed successor to Abdoulaye Wade, devised a new strategy to win Touba-Mbacke that involved “co-opting”

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marabouts by offering them a prominent place on the party’s electoral list. In a 1999 interview with the independent newspaper Walfadjri (November 29, 1999: 4), Seck responded to this “charge” that he was merely prioritizing “candidates with political weight,” a response that does not deny the practice but rather justifies it in political terms. Among the various new PDS marabout-politicians was Sereigne Mewndou Diahkate, the former president of the rural council of Touba-Mosquée who lost his position after the 1996 municipal elections. Although the rural council is technically elected, the PS-state had always proposed a list of candidates to the Khalif-Général for his approval, which continues to receive nearly unanimous support from the electorate. The rural council president is thus seen as a representative of the Khalif. In an interview with Diakhate after the 2000 elections, he maintained that Sereigne Salilou had asked him to step down from the presidency, which he had held continuously since Abdou Lahatt appointed him in 1984. The reason given was that decentralization now required a literate council president and Diakhate had never been to school. He remained on the council but was clearly embittered, particularly after various scandals surrounding the new council’s leadership (Beck 2001). Undoubtedly, this contributed to his decision to join the PDS. Diakhate, however, left the opposition party just prior to the 2000 elections on the request of his marabout, Sidy Mbacke, who as the khalif of Abdou Lahatt’s lineage continued to support the PS, indicating that the political influence of the marabouts among their taalibe and within the hierarchy of marabouts has not disappeared. The growing prominence of marabout-politicians was also reflected among the eight candidates in the 2000 presidential elections. For the first time in Senegalese history, two marabouts ran for the presidency, including Ousseynou Fall, the brother of the KhalifGénéral of the Baye Falls, who described himself as “the Murid candidate.” At a campaign rally in Touba, Ousseynou Fall accused Abdou Diouf of betraying the legacy of Sereigne Abdou Lahatt by failing to pay attention to Touba since the death of the former Khalif. He asked those in attendance, “since then, what has the Socialist candidate done for the holy city of Touba?” The Baye Fall marabout concluded that therefore “Abdou Diouf should reap what he has sown in the Murid community.” In this way, Fall did not contradict the ndigel of Abdou Lahatt but provided an argument as to why Murids no longer needed to follow it. When fellow maraboutpolitician Modou Mactar Mbacke, a PS senator, responded that “Ousseynou Fall must be blind” if he cannot see all the PS-state has

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done for Touba, the Walfadjri (February 18, 2000: 3) reported that the apparent “gentleman’s agreement” that had been in place between Murid marabouts was unraveling, indicating a potential cost of the marabouts’ more public role in politics. Certain limits and unspoken norms have nonetheless endured concerning the involvement of Murid marabouts in politics, above all that the khalifs of each maraboutic lineage remain above the political fray. For example, when Abdou Rahman Boussou, the self-proclaimed first Murid marabout to support Wade, recently became the khalif of the powerful lineage of Amadou Bamba’s mother, Mame Diarra Boussou, he reported that he “no longer seeks a position in politics.” This may be attributed in part to the fact that he no longer needs a position in politics given his enhanced status in the brotherhood, but also to the political reality that his taalibe are, in the words of Abdou Rahman, “everywhere” in reference to their diverse party affiliations. There is always the possibility that marabout-politicians may be acting with the private blessing or even encouragement of the khalif of their lineage. For example, there is speculation that PDS Deputy Falilou Mbacke, the son of Mbacke Soxna Lo who is considered the second most popular Murid marabout, has his father’s blessing as Soxna Lo himself has come to play a prominent role as an intermediary between factions of the new PDS ruling party although he has never endorsed a party or candidate. Nonetheless, the refusal of prominent khalifs to hold a position in a political party or the state, combined with competing ndigels and marabout-politicians in various political parties, has been crucial to the high level of political competition in Touba-Mbacke. Beyond the changing dynamics between marabouts and politicians, the assertions of political autonomy by taalibe based on a “modern” interpretation of Muridism and political ndigels have also played an essential role in enhancing political competition and to a lesser degree political participation. However, the autonomy taalibe have gained as a result of both of these sociopolitical changes has encouraged not only participation in opposition parties but also withdrawal from politics. This was particularly evident in low voter turnout rates. Although participation rebounded from 30 percent in 1993 to 49 percent in 2000, this was presumably due to the portrayal of the election as a referendum on Diouf and the PS regime. Most Murid interviewed described electoral politics as an elite affair of little consequence in their daily lives, a product of the socio-religious hierarchy that continues to privilege the political role and access of Murid marabouts and the clientelist nature of Senegalese politics in general.

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When asked about the significance of elections during the 1997 survey, 78 percent of the respondents replied that elections are only important to elites. In this sense, modern Muridism has ironically provided greater space for the political participation of and competition between Murid marabouts than it has for their disciples. Nevertheless, it was apparent in both the 1993 and 2000 elections that political deference to the marabouts has been diminishing as taalibe, frustrated by the declining capacity of the state and emboldened by the Khalif’s silence, refused to follow ndigels for the PS by either voting for an opposition party or abstaining from participation in the elections. Each Murid marabout and politician interviewed for this study over the last decade has acknowledged that the ndigel is not as effective as in past. As al Hadji Barra Mbacke, the current khalif of Falilou’s lineage and presumed successor to Sereigne Salilou, admitted during an interview after the 1993 elections, every marabout who gives an ndigel has disciples who support another candidate. He claimed, however, that he chooses “not to take any action against them [as] there is a religious realm and a political realm, and even if a taalibe does not agree with his Sereigne’s politics, there should be no misunderstanding between them.” Although Barra maintained that a political ndigel is “something separate” from religion, an admittedly odd statement for the son of Falilou Mbacke, this did not prevent him from supporting the ruling party in the 2000 elections, though his public declaration in support of Diouf was not nearly as adamant as that of his older brother, the late Modou Boussou Dieng, in the 1993 presidential election. The question remains whether al Hadji Barra or any other potential successor to the Murid khalifat will revive the practice of giving an ndigel for a political candidate or party, thereby recentralizing the clientelist relationship between the Muridiya and Senegalese politicians, something that Abdoulaye Wade has been attempting to promote through his frequent contact with and numerous gestures toward Sereigne Salilou since coming to power in 2000. To date, however, the current Khalif has not changed his stance toward politics or the new ruling party; but it is open for speculation whether a subsequent Khalif-Général might resume the practice of giving political ndigels and if so, at what cost to marabout-taalibe relations? Clearly the relationship between each Khalif-Général and Senegalese politicians reflects not only the changing socioeconomic and political context but also the marabout’s temperament, leadership style, and conception of the role of the Khalifat in politics. Based on his past behavior, al Hadji Barra therefore seems more likely to negotiate with

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and publicly support the ruling party if he considers it to be in his interests and those of the brotherhood. However, if he or any other Khalif- Général chooses to give a political ndigel, it is also more likely that he would follow his father’s example of public praise for the partystate and discrete voting instructions to support it, rather than his uncle’s more stringent and thus antagonizing ndigel. Under these circumstances, the political ndigel would perhaps constrain but not eliminate political competition. On the other hand, there are those Murids who predict the imminent disappearance of political ndigels altogether. Prior to the PDS victory in 2000, one of its earliest supporters, the owner of a gasoline station in Touba, surmised that “although the marabouts have played an active role in Senegalese politics for the last 100 years, in 20 years the marabouts’ role in politics will disappear, and even if a marabout gives an ndigel it will have no effect. Marabouts will be limited to religious not political matters.” While political ndigels would appear to be on the path to irrelevance if not extinction, until such time it is unlikely that they will ever again have the same capacity to mobilize large voting blocs as they did during the Golden Age of collaboration between the Murid leadership and the party-state. Nonetheless, increased competition as well as the growing number of descendants of Amadou Bamba are likely to ensure both the demand for and the supply of political ndigels. As one local politician explained, “in a battle one should not neglect any weapon.” Even if a growing number of taalibe refuse to obey the political instructions of their marabout, there are still Murid sadhike who do not distinguish political ndigels from other ndigels. As one Murid woman stated, “an ndigel is an ndigel.” Nevertheless, Murids who have claimed that they unwaveringly adhere to their marabout’s political preferences frequently seemed conflicted in their responses. Even a Murid bureaucrat who worked in PS headquarters admitted during an interview in 1997 that “taalibe must follow political ndigels but marabouts should not give them.” These sentiments were echoed by the chief of a Baye Fall village in the department of Mbacke who had obediently followed his marabout’s instructions to vote for the PS. The chief ambivalently claimed that “ndigels are good because they are divine but political ndigels are of this world. Regardless, taalibes who receive one must abide by it . . . [But] political ndigels are not good because politics is the cause of problems with neighbors and turns you from the path of God.” Clearly conflicted, the chief went on to say that he felt “betrayed” by Diouf’s unfulfilled campaign promises (i.e., failure to distribute peanut

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seeds), and asserted that he would not vote for the PS again, but if there is another ndigel, he might be forced to. Although the obedience of this village chief may be attributed to his sociological status as an uneducated farmer, what is significant about Murids who distinguish between religious obedience and political allegiance is that they cannot be categorized other than by their common refusal to obey political ndigels. Although they are overwhelmingly male and more likely to support an opposition party or not participate in politics at all, both informants and survey respondents who challenged the religious basis for political ndigels were young and old, urban and rural, intellectuals and illiterates. Consequently, marabouts are increasingly leery to give a political ndigel because a significant cross section of their taalibe will not comply and as one Murid informant observed, once they are “forced to disobey an ndigel, it will be much easier to disobey another,” perhaps even a religious ndigel. Fortunately for Murid marabouts, or at least the most prominent ones, their social and economic power has permitted them to withdraw from politics without putting in jeopardy their social status or even their political influence, unlike their counterparts in the northern Senegal River Valley.

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D e pe n de n t Brok e r s: Tu k u l or Nobl es i n Nor t h e r n Se n e g a l

Since the era of territorial elections under French colonial rule,

Senegalese politics has been characterized by both the prominent role of Wolof marabouts, in particular Murid leaders, as political intermediaries and the dominance of the Wolof ethnic group among Senegal’s political elite. Consequently, the withdrawal of marabouts from the political realm and the dramatic decline in Wolof support for the PS discussed in chapter 3 represented a profound transformation in Senegalese politics. As the Wolof represent less than 50 percent of the population, however, the maraboutic model of autonomous brokers does not necessarily apply to other ethno-regional groups. To avoid the common mistake of generalizing Wolof experiences to all Senegalese, the Murid case must be put into a comparative context. The Tukulor ethnic minority in the northern historic region of the Fuuta Tooro in the Senegal River Valley provides an excellent basis for comparison as Tukulor politics centers around caste not religion, which has arguably made Tukulor intermediaries more dependent on their role as political intermediaries with significant consequences for democracy in the region. The term “Tukulor” refers to an ethno-regional identity, a subset of both the Pulaar-speaking ethno-linguist group found throughout Sahelian West Africa, and the Fuutankobe (people of the Fuuta) regional identity that includes ethnic Peul, Soninke, and Wolof minorities in the Fuuta Tooro region of the Senegal River Valley.1 The Tukulor are numerically and sociopolitically dominant in the region, although the Senegalese census does not distinguish between Peul pastoralists and the more sedentary Tukulor, both of whom are Haalpulaar’en (Pulaar speakers).2 Referred to in the census by their common language of Pulaar, they constitute over 80 percent of the Fuuta Tooro, which roughly coincided with the administrative

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departments of Podor and Matam. After a politically charged debate over administrative redistricting discussed below, the department of Matam was joined with the department of Linguère to form the region of Matam in 2002. During the period discussed in this chapter, however, Matam was a department within the region of SaintLouis along the Mauritanian border. Although this chapter is based on research conducted in Matam, the demographics of and political trends in Podor are strikingly similar and appear to confirm the findings presented here (appendices 1 and 3). Given the stereotype of Senegalese marabouts as the grands électeurs, the Tukulor were an unlikely bastion of PS support. Despite the Fuuta being the site of Senegal’s only precolonial Islamic state, Tukulor religious leaders have rarely taken a political position and do not give ndigels for a particular party or candidate. As an ethnic minority, the Tukulor have also been prone to making disparaging remarks about the “Wolof state,” which they accuse of providing ethnic Wolofs with a disproportionate amount of political advantages. Furthermore, they live in an impoverished region that has been wracked by recurrent drought, failed development projects, and violent border disputes with its Mauritanian neighbors that erupted into massive human rights violations in the late 1980s. Nonetheless, support for the PS ruling party among the predominantly Tukulor voters in the department of Matam was stronger and more resilient than in any other region, superior even to support in President Diouf’s home region of Louga (figure 4.1). 100% 90% 80%

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Figure 4.1 Support for PS Presidential Candidates in Matam and Louga, 1978–2000 Source: Official results obtained from documents provided by the Senegalese Ministry of the Interior (1978, 1983, 2000) and published in the Official State newspaper Le Soleil (1983, 1988, 1993).

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The resilience of support for the former ruling party throughout the 1980s and 1990s could arguably be explained by identity politics given the common religious identity the Tukulor share with President Diouf, a fellow adherent of the Tijaniya brotherhood, that was only trumped by ethno-politics in 2000 when fellow Pulaar-speaker Djibo Ka entered the presidential race. Although ethno-politics undoubtedly played a role in 2000 as discussed below, religious identity as an explanatory factor for decades of PS support is implausible given political opposition in other predominantly Tijan areas, including Dagana, the third administrative department in the region of Saint-Louis. Unlike Matam and Podor, support for the PS in Dagana continually declined at a rate higher than the national average (appendix 3). The contrast between Dagana and the departments of Matam and Podor could arguably be attributed to their relative distance from the regional capital of Saint-Louis or even Dakar where education, literacy, and political opposition are far greater. However, in other departments that are equally remote, opposition to the PS ruling party was significantly stronger than in Matam or Podor, as in the southern region of Ziguinchor (chapter 5). Furthermore, in Mbacke, the level of schooling and literacy in French is among the lowest in the country, yet support for the opposition became increasingly vibrant there throughout the 1980s and 1990s (chapter 3). To explain the remarkable resilience of Tukulor support for the PS, the default explanation for their “conservative nature” is typically the persistence of “feudal” relationships between Tukulor politicians of noble birth (toorobe) and the Tukulor electorate. Both Abdoulaye Bara Diop’s (1965) book on the impact of migration on Tukulor society and Christian Coulon’s (1975) analysis of socioeconomic changes in the Fuuta Tooro emphasize the continuity of Tukulor sociopolitical hierarchy. Catherine Boone, on the other hand, claims that the erosion of the Tukulor “indigenous social order” led to greater incorporation or “power-sharing” in the Fuuta during the 1970s and 1980s in the form of state promotion of irrigated agriculture (Boone 2003: 282–314). Although emphasis on the continuity of Tukulor structures of social hierarchy by Diop and Coulon does not take into account how socioeconomic changes have altered the basis for power, this transformation has not eradicated, as Boone suggests, but narrowed the basis for social stratification among the Tukulor. Consequently, in contrast with the withdrawal of Murid marabouts from their alliance with the PS-state, these forces of change served to reinforce the need of the Tukulor ruling dynasties to maintain their social status and access to state resources through their role as local “rulers,” thereby making

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them dependent brokers whose support for the PS-state was relatively constant up until its demise in 2000. After outlining the historical sources of status and power among the Tukulor, this chapter analyzes how religious and political authority came to be identified with different Tukulor noble families by the time of colonial rule, thereby narrowing a religious basis for political authority, before explaining the political impact of equalizing economic forces that began to take hold after independence. These developments left Tukulor elites with limited alternatives to their role as representatives of the PS-state to maintain their power and status. Consequently, despite declining benefits and mounting critiques, these local brokers remained concentrated in the ruling party. This undermined political competition in the Fuuta Tooro until the splintering of the PS and its ultimate defeat in 2000 encouraged rival Tukulor elites to join opposing political parties, which resulted in a dramatic increase in electoral competition without necessarily broadening political participation, evident in the continuing dominance of Tukulor nobles in Fuutanke politics.

Historical Sources of Status and Power in the Fuuta Tooro Like most Senegambian ethnic groups, including the Wolof, precolonial Tukulor society was highly stratified, with three basic social orders: freeborn (rimbe), artisans (ñeeñbe), and captives (jeyaabe). Within these orders were several different subgroups, varyingly referred to as social strata, status groups, or castes. These subgroups were based on social function, relative power, and status in society. While there is no consensus on how to represent this complex system of social stratification, a simplified, composite version is presented in table 4.1 based on discussions with Tukulor informants as well as various secondary sources (Coulon 1975; Dilley 2004; A.-B. Diop 1965; Schmitz 1994; Y. Wane 1969). Notably absent from this list are the toorobe who are included in nearly every contemporary description of Tukulor social stratification.3 The toorobe are an elite subgroup of the Tukulor, synonymous with the “First Rung” of freeborn Tukulor according to Yaya Wane (1969: 33). Prior to the Toorodo Revolution in the late eighteenth century, however, the toorobe (literally “beggars of alms”) were merely a religious category of Muslim clerics who had some Koranic knowledge and literacy but were drawn from various social strata. To avoid a static analysis of precolonial Tukulor society, their incorporation into a preexisting system of social stratification is discussed separately.

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Social Stratification in Tukulor Society

Orders

Status Groups

Freeborn (Rimbe)

First Rung (Rimbe Ardiibe)

Rulers (Laambe) Religious leaders (Seerembe) Counselors (Jaawame) Farmers with Land (Aldube) Landless Farmers (Miskineebe)

Second Rung (Rimbe Huunybe)

Warriors (Sebbe) Fishermen (Subalbe)

Manual Labor (Golle)

Weavers (Maabube) Metal Workers (Waylube) Leather Workers (Sakkebe) Wood Workers (Lawbe) Potters (Buurnaabe)

Entertainers (Naalankoobe)

Lute Players (Wambaabe) Singers (Maabube) Griots (Awlube)

Artisans (Ñeeñbe)

Captives (Jeyaabe)

Dependents (Halfaabe) Slaves (Maccube, Horbe) Servile Servants (Soottiibe)

As with the Hindu caste system in India, social stratification among the Tukulor has been reproduced through endogamy and inherited status that have been quite resilient even among educated Tukulor in urban areas and the diaspora, which is discussed further in chapter 6. During interviews in Matam, Dakar, and New York City, toorobe informants repeatedly stated that interethnic marriage is more acceptable, and therefore more common, than marriage between a person of noble birth and a descendent of artisan or captive status. In his recent book on Islamic and Caste Knowledge among Haalpulaar’en, Roy Dilley (2004: 45) notes that intermarriage between freeborn rimbe (literally “those without stain”) and ñeeñbe artisans (“those with skill”) is not only uncommon but may also be used as grounds for annulment if their social origins were hidden prior to marriage. Moreover, any offspring from these “miscegenous” unions are also thought to be susceptible to physical deformities and emotional problems. Dilley is nonetheless the latest in a series of authors to object to the application of the concept of caste to the Haalpulaar’en (Amselle 1990; Schmitz 1994). Despite his desire to avoid labels “that come with particularly strong cultural or theoretical overtones,” Dilley

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(2004: 27) uses caste as “a shorthand gloss” applied solely to ñeeñbe artisans while referring to the toorobe as “caste-like.” This limited application of the concept mirrors the restricted usage of the term “casté” (casted) by Senegalese in everyday parlance in reference only to artisan groups (Robinson 1975: 6). It was precisely such limited applications of the term, however, that Senegalese sociologist Abdoulaye Bara Diop disputed in his analysis of social stratification in precolonial Wolof society. To demonstrate the applicability of the concept of caste to the Wolof, Diop sought to provide historical evidence of the three distinctive characteristics of a caste system as outlined by Louis Dumont in his seminal work on caste in India, Homo Hierarchus (1966): (1) caste’s pervasiveness throughout society; (2) the presence of a religious ideology that opposes purity and impurity; and (3) the distinction within the caste hierarchy between status and power. In applying this model, Diop asserted: (1) the inclusiveness of the Wolof caste system based on the “negative specialization” of the superior or freemen caste (i.e., they were not artisans); (2) an ideology of “racial” as opposed to religious superiority among the Wolof based on origin myths; and (3) a separate system of Wolof castes and orders to distinguish status from power (A.B. Diop 1981). Given the similarities in the social hierarchies found among Senegambian ethnic groups, Diop’s analysis of Wolof society has some application to the Tukulor. There are, however, several distinguishing features of social stratification within Tukulor society, as well as certain shortcomings in Diop’s otherwise insightful study. Like the Wolof, negative specialization can be said to distinguish Tukulor freemen, though there were also functional differences among the rimbe. Although there is no status group of fishermen in Wolof society, its freeborn geer are categorized similarly to the Tukulor rimbe. Diop, however, associates their subdivision into electable nobles (garmi), noble electors (jambuur), and farmer-commoners (baadoolo) with political orders that were only created with the establishment of monarchical rule in the thirteenth century. These orders allegedly disappeared with the rise of Islam in the nineteenth century and the emergence of a new system of inequality, based ironically within this egalitarian world religion, between marabouts and their taalibe. Diop’s differentiation of castes and orders as two distinct systems of social stratification in Wolof society permits him to distinguish between status and power, as is required by Dumont’s definition of caste. But unlike Dumont, Diop makes power extraneous to the Wolof caste system by associating power with the political orders as

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distinct from caste-based social status. In asserting that caste predates Wolof political orders, he is then forced to depict the caste system as ostensibly without power or at least, in his terms, without “exploitive” power. Diop, therefore, emphasizes interdependence and the social value of generosity to explain the allegedly nonexploitive nature of Wolof castes prior to monarchical rule. In the absence of further historical evidence, however, it is difficult to accept this idealized portrayal of a caste system. Furthermore, Diop argues that Wolof political orders disappeared because precolonial Wolof leaders, in contrast with their Tukulor counterparts, never established an Islamic state. Despite frequent intermarriage between Wolof noble and maraboutic families, Diop claims that Wolof orders never became embedded in the religious hierarchy of the brotherhoods, his third system of inequality. Nonetheless, he acknowledges the continued, albeit transformed existence of pre-Islamic hierarchies in the politico-administrative roles of Wolof nobles who first served as chefs de canton (leaders of an administrative unit of villages) under colonial rule and later as local representatives of the PS-state. Although their political power was both dependent on and eclipsed by the religious authority of the marabouts, Wolof nobles as a political order or status group never completely vanished, evidenced by their prominence in positions of political authority from the village level to the National Assembly. Rather than viewing hierarchies based on caste, orders, and religion as distinct systems of social stratification specific to a historical period, we therefore need to emphasize the historical transformation and intertwining of socioeconomic and political bases for inequality in these Senegambian societies. By emphasizing the incorporation of political orders into a preexisting system of social stratification and its subsequent transformation by the spread of Islam and colonial conquest, we can highlight not only the pervasiveness of these “caste” systems but also their resilience, while acknowledging that both their ideological basis and the relationship between social status and political power are not constants but reflect the changing social, economic, and political contexts. In terms of the ideological basis for inequality among the Tukulor, social stratification can be tied to origin myths not unlike those described by Diop as having established “racial” differences.4 Unlike the Wolof, however, the Tukulor discourse of the superiority of the freeborn was altered by the emergence of a precolonial Islamic state in the Fuuta Tooro. Following the Toorodo Revolution in the late eighteenth century, the religious category of toorobe was transformed

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into a qualification for the ruling elite. Although the toorobe represented the largest social category (45 percent) in Tukulor society, only a small fraction of them constituted a ruling elite, requiring us to distinguish between the political power of the grandes familles (ruling dynasties) of the Fuuta Tooro and their social status as toorobe nobles.5 The power of these dynasties was derived in part from their superior social status, while their reproduction as a ruling class was tied to their religious authority, economic wealth, and monopoly on political positions within the state as readily identifiable “caste markers.” It was the progressive loss of these “caste markers” that narrowed the basis for their elite status in Tukulor society, making them increasingly dependent on their patrons in the PS-state.

A Tukulor toorodo prepares for a wedding celebration accompanied by a group of her griots (December 1997).

The Narrowing of Islam as a Source of Power and Status Since the conversion of the leaders of the Takruur Empire in the eleventh century, the rulers of the Fuuta Tooro have been at least nominally Muslim.6 Under the Denyanke dynasty (sixteenth to eighteenth centuries), Fuutanke leaders practiced a courtisan form of

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Islam, surrounding themselves with marabout counselors while continuing to observe traditional religious practices that reinforced their authority among their non-Muslim subjects. By the mid-eighteenth century, instability arising from internal power struggles among the Denyanke leaders and external pressures from Arab-Berbers who led slave raids in the region permitted the rise of an Islamic reformist movement known as the Toorodo Revolution. Condemning the pagan practices of the Denyanke and their collaboration in the slave raids, a group of Muslims known as toorobe (singular: toorodo) led by Souleyman Bal established an Islamic regime and attempted to spread its version of Islam throughout the Senegal River Valley. Initially, accession to the toorodo class was relatively open, based neither on prior caste status nor ethnicity, but rather on piety and at least a rudimentary knowledge of Islamic texts. Once the toorobe were in power, however, “toorodoization” became more difficult, at least for artisans and captives. Meanwhile, as a growing number of the initial toorobe leaders were killed in battle by Moor slave raiders, the toorobe were forced to incorporate new recruits from among the old Denyanke leadership who hastened to avail themselves of the new toorodo identity to preserve their political power and social status in society. After Bal was killed in battle, the toorodo state was ruled by an Almamy, a title derived from the Arabic term al imam (leader of prayer). Under the first and most effective Almamy, Abdul Kadir Kane, the Fuuta Tooro was divided into vast domains or provinces that he conferred to his allies. This process, known as the feccere Fuuta (the dividing of the Fuuta), created a privileged group of toorobe who became the ruling dynasties or grandes familles of the region. Coulon (1975: 35) identified the politically dominant toorobe dynasties as: Wane, Ly, Kane, Bal, Dia, Toure, Agne, Any, N’Diaty, Sy, Talla, Ba, Baro, and Thiam. Throughout the colonial and postcolonial periods, these grandes familles remained the political elite of the Fuuta Tooro. The invasion of the Fuuta Tooro by the neighboring states of Bundu and Karta in alliance with some of Abdul Kadir’s top administrators led to his assassination in 1806, marking the end of the centralized theocratic state. Throughout the nineteenth century, the Almamate survived in its basic institutions, but it never recovered the strength and zeal of the earlier period. The Fuuta was governed officially by an Almamy, but effective control rested with dynasties of the provincial leaders who formed the college of electors (jaggorde). Responsible for selecting and overseeing the Almamy, the electors were able to prevent the accession of an Almamy who could threaten

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their autonomy. To legitimize their power and privileges, the electors continued to refer to their historical mission to Islamicize the Fuuta. However, the authority of the new ruling oligarchy was based less on Koranic knowledge than possession of the fertile land and clientelist relations in a system of government that David Robinson (2000: 165) described as a form of “decentralized patrimonial authority.” Over the course of the nineteenth century, a separation of religious and political power, which had been intertwined by the Toorodo Revolution, became increasingly apparent with the specialization of toorobe who either ruled or served as spiritual guides. This specialization became part of a toorodo’s inheritance with certain families serving as the imam of the village mosque (serembe) whereas others served as the village chief (jom wuro), mirroring the growing division of religious authority and political power between the Almamy and the leaders of the provincial dynasties. By the 1850s, the disintegration of the centralized power of the Almamate and competition among the provincial dynasties encouraged the French to establish more direct control over commerce along the Senegal River and ultimately colonial rule of the Fuuta Tooro. Although the Almamate was weak and divided, the French confronted resistance in the Fuuta from an Islamic reformist movement led by al-Hadj Umar Tall, a Tijan marabout who sought to fulfill what he perceived to be the abandoned Islamic reformist mission of the Toorodo Revolution. Initially, Tall took a conciliatory attitude toward the presence of the French, focusing his criticism on the wealthy toorobe leaders who had appropriated the assakal (alms) that Muslims are required to contribute to those less fortunate, and transformed positions of politico-religious leadership based on merit into a hereditary entitlement. However, when the French refused to sell him arms while supplying his Mande enemies, Tall led armed resistance against the colonizers. In the end, Tall’s most effective strategy against the French was the fergo Umar, a massive migration in 1858 to western Mali where he established an Islamic state that ultimately fell to the French conquerors several decades after his death in 1864. Although Tall never firmly established political control over the Fuuta Tooro, his descendants became the most prominent marabouts among the Tukulor, thus reinforcing separation of political and religious authority. Following the example of Tall, a succession of various reformist marabouts became equally vocal critics of the Almamy and provincial leaders during the second half of the nineteenth century. These Tukulor prophets, who were notably not from the Fuuta’s ruling families, potentially could have undermined the authority of the toorodo

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aristocracy and reestablished a theocratic basis for political power. The aspirations of the reformist marabouts, however, were thwarted by both French colonial forces and Abdul Bokar Kane, a provincial leader from the Bosseya province (western Matam department), who emerged as a dominant force in the Middle valley in the mid-1800s. While the French successfully played on competition between provincial chiefs to dismember the already weak Almamate, Kane was the most effective among them in resisting colonial conquest, finally succumbing in 1891 and thus ending independent rule of the Fuuta Tooro.7 Under the French colonial policy of la politique des races (chapter 2), the colonial state sought the assistance of the provincial dynasties in administering the region. Under a form of colonial administration similar to British indirect rule, preexisting Tukulor political structures and hierarchies were adapted to the needs of the colonial state. Thus, toorobe families who were cooperative allies maintained or even enhanced their power in Tukulor society. Although collaboration with the French may have tarnished their reputations, it did not adversely affect their social status. Those associated with resistance to colonial rule, on the other hand, found themselves excluded from access to colonial economic and political resources, which ultimately undermined both their power and status.8 In addition to the ruling dynasties, Umar Tall’s grandson, Sedou Nourou Tall, also played an important role as a mediator with the French. Tall never held a position in the colonial administration of the Fuuta, but traveled throughout Senegal and West Africa settling disputes and advocating for the extension of peanut cultivation. In 1947, Tall created the Union Générale des Originaires de la Vallée du Fleuve (UGOVF), an association to organize Tukulor emigrants in urban areas, specifically Dakar. As the Union spread quickly to the Fuuta, the UGOVF became an important political force, especially in Podor, the birthplace of Umar Tall. Seydou Nourou Tall was undoubtedly a grand électeur. But unlike electoral politics among the Murid, political competition in the Senegal River Valley during the 1950s was not fueled by religious leaders or competition within the Tijaniya brotherhood. Instead, there was an intense rivalry among the political dynasties of toorobe families who varyingly allied with Lamine Gueye’s SFIO or Leopold Sedar Senghor’s BDS. Some even created their own regional parties such as the Bloc Progessiste de Cercle Matam. Consequently, although Tall’s alliance with Senghor assured decisive electoral victories for BDS in Podor, the party had mixed results in Matam due to support for the SFIO from Thierno Seydou Kane, a chef de canton belonging

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to a local grande famille. Senghor’s Matam allies, Moustapha Toure and Fadel Kane, were also toorobe; but unlike Thierno Seydou, they were from families of counselors (jaawame) not rulers (laambe). The reliance of Dakar politicians on the Tukulor grandes familles as political brokers resulted in the reproduction of the “decentralized patrimonial authority” of the precolonial state within Senegal’s emerging political parties. This created highly fractured political support and thus a competitive electoral process until the rise of the one-party state after independence, when competition between dynasties was channeled into “clan politics” within the PS. Intense multiparty competition in the late colonial period, however, only strengthens the conundrum as to why the return to a multiparty system in the mid-1970s did not result in a resurgence in competition among the Fuutanke similar to opposition among the Murid in Mbacke. The argument offered here is that the toorobe politicians did not have the same socioeconomic autonomy as the Murid marabouts. This does not explain, however, why Tukulor marabouts whose religious authority could arguably have made them more autonomous and thus influential brokers have not played a political role similar to their Wolof counterparts. Given that a similar division of authority existed between nobles as politico-administrative representatives of the state and marabouts as religious leaders in both Tukulor and Wolof societies, it may be argued that the reason why Tukulor marabouts did not enjoy the same political authority as their Wolof counterparts in Mbacke is because of the differences between the Tijaniya and Muridiya brotherhoods. As discussed in chapter 3, Senegalese Tijans—Wolof and non-Wolof alike—are not as deferential to their marabouts in political matters in part because their submission has never been as absolute, nor is their salvation seen as directly tied to their reverence of the marabouts. Although these are important factors that differentiate the brotherhoods, Tijan marabouts rather than Wolof nobles have served as grands électeurs among the Tijan Wolofs in central Senegal. Therefore, rather than reflecting doctrinal differences between the two brotherhoods, the different roles of Tukulor and Wolof marabouts in Senegalese politics would appear to reflect distinct historical trajectories that resulted in different relationships between religious and political power among the Tukulor and the Wolof. Because the toorobe as a religious category were absorbed into the preexisting Tukulor system of social stratification and then divided into distinct groups of religious and political leaders, the social status and consequently the political power of the grandes familles were not reproduced by their religiosity or knowledge of Islamic texts as has

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been argued by Christian Coulon (1979: 34). Instead, the superiority of the toorobe nobles became identified with a vaguer notion of descendency from the leaders of the Toorodo Revolution, along with inherited wealth, in particular land ownership, and political power associated with the ruling class. The evolution of the contributions or “taxes” given to the toorobe as the largest landowners in the Fuuta Tooro provides an excellent illustration of this historical transformation. In his efforts to establish the religious basis of toorodo power, Coulon (1981: 21) points to the assakal tithe of 10 percent of the harvest given to the toorobe. The assakal, however, became associated with political power rather than fulfillment of a religious obligation. Tukulor who emigrated from the Fuuta, for example, stopped giving the assakal, evidence that these payments were seen as rents as opposed to religious contributions that devout Tukulors would be expected to pay regardless of their place of residence or occupation. Unlike the Murid marabouts, whose fortunes have abounded with the offerings of their disciples living in urban areas and abroad, the toorobe have no claim to the nonagricultural income of their former tenants. With the decline in the importance of the agricultural sector in the Fuuta, this has had significant ramifications for the economic power of the grandes familles whose land-based wealth was an important basis for their elite status and power in Tukulor society.

The Erosion of Landownership as a Source of Power and Status In her comparative study of state-building in West Africa, Catherine Boone (2003: 264) argues that social differentiation is not sustainable over time in contexts such as the Senegal River Valley, where economic surplus from its primarily subsistence agricultural economy is extremely low. The Tukulor, however, have proven to the contrary that the maintenance of control over a critical resource, regardless of the level of surplus, can be sufficient to sustain social stratification. The sustainability of the Tukulor social system only became threatened when elite control of this resource and the agricultural basis of the economy came into question. In the agricultural economy of the Fuuta Tooro, the most important economic resource was historically arable land along the Senegal River. For centuries, the river basin has been the object of military campaigns, internal power struggles, and pernicious intergroup violence to control the land and/or the rules governing its exploitation (C. Ba 1986; Park 1993; Touré 1984–1985). Although Boone (2003: 282) claims that

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Tukulor ruling dynasties were entirely political, making no effort to increase, capture, or transform agricultural surplus, they too engaged in a massive albeit incomplete land grab that permitted them to profit from various taxes and rents, including the assakal, from landlesss Tukulor of both freeborn and captive status.9 When the French colonial state asserted its right to regulate the use of the land, it did not challenge the preexisting land tenure system so much as assure that its political allies maintained, and when possible gained, control of large tracts of the most valuable land in the floodplain (waalo). The French, however, were more concerned with trade than agriculture in the Senegal River Valley. By the late nineteenth century, France began to shift its economic focus to central Senegal, where the colonial state instituted a peanut cash crop with the assistance of the Wolof marabouts. Given the absence of a cash crop in the Fuuta, the economy of the river basin remained primarily tied to subsistence agriculture, with the Fuutankobe serving as a reservoir for labor in the peanut basin of central Senegal and for Dakar’s service sector in a regional division of labor that was common under colonial rule in Africa. Although Boone (2003: 284–285) claims that the lack of economic incorporation of the Fuuta into the French colonial state economy and its Senegalese successor was motivated by a desire to protect the interests of their local intermediaries, this does not fully explain why neither of these centralized states chose to negotiate a mutually beneficial development plan as in the peanut basin. There are instead several other plausible explanations for the concentration of French economic investment in central Senegal, such as the presence of a large, compliant labor force and the availability of new lands (Klein 1972), and later the ethno-political considerations of the Wolof-dominated postcolonial state (O’Brien 1979; 1998). Rather than abiding by the wishes of the Tukulor elites who were allegedly threatened by economic development, it seems more likely that Dakar politicians did not feel compelled to negotiate with them or invest in the Fuuta because they were “confident of the political support of the populations in this economically marginal zone” (Le Roy 1991: 175), whose toorobe intermediaries were more politically dependent on the state to maintain their power and status in society than were the Murid marabouts. Moreover, Boone argues that it was only in the 1970s and 1980s that Dakar embarked on “powersharing” with the Tukulor grandes familles through the devolution of authority within newly created rural councils (CRs) and the village-based irrigated agricultural projects (PIVs). This argument, however, requires us to overlook the crucial role toorobe politicians had previously played as political

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intermediaries in the party-state as well as the initial intent of these initiatives by the Senegalese state: popular empowerment such that, had they been implemented as planned, the new CRs and PIVs would have undermined the political power and social status of Tukulor nobles with whom the state allegedly sought to share power. Instead of reflecting a “path shift” taken by the government in response to an alleged “erosion of the indigenous social order” (Boone 2003: 284– 285), these initiatives reflect the state’s “schizophrenia” in its repeated attempts to alleviate socioeconomic constraints on the development of the Senegalese economy while privileging political considerations, that is the maintenance of clientelist ties with its local toorobe intermediaries whose socioeconomic interests were threatened by these reforms. The first attempt at such economic reform occurred shortly after independence when the Senegalese state passed the National Domain Law that established that all land not currently titled constituted the national domain, in effect granting the state title to over 80 percent of the nation’s land. Individual Senegalese could gain or maintain their right to occupy this land by putting it into productive use. The purpose of the law was to encourage development through a politically progressive policy of providing access to land based on economic potential rather than inherited social status. The new law contained the germs of radical change in that, if applied, it would have dispossessed customary landowning elites such as Murid marabouts and Tukulor toorobe of any claims to (re)distribute land or collect rents from it. In practice, the National Domain law had little impact on local land tenure practices because the state lacked the political will to implement the reform in the face of politically influential landholders who continued to follow their customary land tenure systems. The PS-state took no action against these individuals, who served as its political intermediaries with the population; nor did the state seek to break the “conspiracy of silence” among self-interested noble-politicians by educating the population as to their new rights. Coulon (1975: 46) explained that “the desire to modernize a region with economic and social structures judged to be archaic was in the end tempered by the desire to maintain political support and by the fear that a more radical political program would create a crisis of authority in which the effects would be difficult to control.” By the early 1970s, however, a mounting trade deficit due to the dramatic increase in imported foodstuffs, primarily rice to feed Senegal’s growing urban population and provide relief to the droughtridden rural areas, led to pressures for economic and political reform. In 1972, a new law was passed to address the inadequacies of the

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1964 National Domain law by creating new institutions for popular participation in the administration of local affairs, in particular the management of natural resources (ARD 2001; Ribot 2004; Vengroff and Johnston 1989). The state’s role as manager of the land was delegated to rural and municipal councils. Despite the potential for radically altering local power structures, the law once again served more as political rhetoric than as an impetus for reform. Progressively implemented in different regions of the country, the first rural council elections in the Fuuta were held in 1980, SaintLouis being the last region to institute the new councils presumably due to anticipated problems with implementation. Despite the reforms, the landowning elite in the Fuuta was able to protect its interests by capturing the local councils. Already in control of the agricultural cooperatives in the region that appointed one-third of each council, Tukulor nobles held a monopoly on nominations to the PS party list as the political intermediaries for the party-state, and the PS was assured victory in the majority-takes-all electoral system for the remaining seats (Bloch 1988; Ribot 2004; Schmitz 1986; Sy 1988). The decentralization of power to local councils was thus a far cry from the democratizing force it was intended to be, demonstrating the strength of clientelist networks and the resilience of the Tukulor social order. But while the legislative reforms posed little threat to the landowning aristocracy, the dramatic expansion of irrigated agriculture in the river basin during the late 1970s and 1980s introduced a new stimulus for equalizing access to land.

Irrigation as an Equalizing Force in the Fuuta Tooro After a number of false-starts and financial fiascos dating back to the 1820s, the Senegalese state decided in the 1960s to invest heavily in irrigation in response to recurrent drought and continual desertification that threatened Senegal’s food security and peanut cash crop, the same factors that led to the introduction of rural councils in 1972.10 Even prior to the creation of local councils, the Senegalese state began developing irrigated agriculture in the delta of the Lower Senegal (Dagana department) under the direction of the Société d’Aménagement et d’Exploitation des Terres du Delta du Fleuve Sénégal (SAED). The new agency played a critical role in developing PIVs in the lower valley by undertaking their design and construction, providing technical assistance and inputs, hiring out machinery, operating large pumping stations, and marketing the crop (Chateau 1986). Although the PIVs’

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results were mixed at best, the state was not dissuaded from this development strategy in light of the dramatic decline in Senegal’s rain-fed cultivation. From 1965 to 1972, the state invested over FCFA 5.5 billion into this development project. The climatic crisis also gave impetus to the development of the broader river basin by the countries bordering the Senegal River: Mali, Mauritania, and Senegal. In 1972, the three governments created the Organisation pour la Mise en Valeur du fleuve Sénégal (Organization for the Development of the Senegal River, OMVS), which drew up plans for the development of 300,000 hectares of irrigated land in the river basin. With the help of foreign financial assistance to the tune of FCFA 200 billion, two dams were constructed to control the flow and salinity of the river for floodplain farming and to provide hydroelectric power. Even prior to the completion of the dams, irrigated agriculture rapidly expanded in the Middle and Upper Senegal River Valley, not as a result of a state-led initiative but rather as a result of a local impetus and international incentives. In an article highly critical of the Senegalese state and international donors, Adrian Adams (1981: 344) described how a Soninke emigrant from a village in the Upper Senegal River Valley region of Bakel sought a new farming method in order to make agriculture more profitable thereby permitting him to return to the land while allowing other emigrants to channel their remittances into a more productive form of investment other than conspicuous consumption (see also Adams and So 1996). In 1973, the Soninke man returned to Bakel after successfully soliciting assistance from a French nongovernmental organization (NGO) that offered a small motor pump and the services of a technician. In 1975, a United States Agency for International Development (USAID) team saw the project and offered a $60,000 grant for additional motor pumps. This led to the placement of the initial PIV under SAED’s “tutelage,” allegedly a formality necessary to receive bilateral aid. Peter Bloch (1988: 4) explains that subsequently USAID, “[f]lush with Sahel droughtrelated funds . . . converted this small request [for pumping equipment] into a $3.1 million project, which became $7 million by the time it was contracted out in 1977.” This huge infusion of money into irrigated agriculture was channeled through SAED, which expanded its original jurisdiction from the delta to the entire river basin.11 Between 1974 and 1985, the number of PIVs in the department of Matam increased from 3 to 522, with 50 percent of the population newly involved in irrigated farming (Niasse 1991: 97). The phenomenal rate of expansion is attributable not only to the dire climatic

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conditions, but also the incentives of state-sponsored irrigated agriculture, evident in the predominance of state-directed PIVs (14,467 ha.) as opposed to private and NGO-sponsored PIVs (4,110 ha.) by the late 1980s (Seck 1991: 30). Initially, the expansion of irrigated farming seemed to represent a social as well as agricultural revolution that challenged Tukulor social stratification. In a study of Haalpulaar’en villages across the middle valley, Geert Diemer and Ellen van der Laan (1987) found that access to irrigated plots was more egalitarian than customary land tenure in that lower-status groups who had no customary land rights gained access to PIV plots at a rate comparable to that of the superior status group of freemen. The threat that the PIVs presented to customary tenure hierarchies was directly related to the role of SAED, which insisted on equal or at least greater access to irrigation projects for members of lower castes as a condition for technical assistance and access to credit. Thus, SAED appeared to be a force for promoting greater economic if not sociopolitical equality among the Tukulor. As Philip Woodhouse and Ibrahima Ndiaye noted: In contrast with the largely ignored land reform legislation, the construction of irrigation infrastructure has been seen as affecting an irreversible transfer of tenure from the land’s traditional users to the members of the irrigation group. As a result traditional landholders resisted irrigation construction, particularly in the middle valley, on the low-lying “cuvettes” used for flood-recession farming. (Woodhouse and Ndiaye 1990: 3)

Consequently, there was initially ferocious opposition on the part of the Fuutankobe elites, Tukulor as well as Peul, Soninke, and Bambara, who saw irrigated agriculture as a threat to their land tenure both in terms of SAED’s requirement of equal access to the PIVs and the looming threat of expropriation of larger tracts of land for agro-business enterprises that would be controlled by the state, wellconnected bureaucrats, powerful marabouts, and/or foreign investors as had occurred in the delta (Schmitz 1993: 604). Nevertheless, the dire economic situation in the Fuuta left these elites with few alternatives. As one Soninke man stated: “A drowning man will grab onto any object you reach out to him to save his life, even if it is a knife; this is how we felt when we accepted SAED’s help” (Bloch 1988: 5). Following the completion of the dams in the late 1980s, a series of articles salutatory of the Fuuta’s changing land tenure and agricultural development appeared in the independent newspaper

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Sud Hebdo. This gave rise to several heated responses, including one entitled “The Land, a Gift of God.” Written by a toorodo from a historically powerful dynasty, the op-ed piece defended “caste” privileges of land ownership based on a “mythico-religious conception of relations between man and land” and the “collective guardianship” of the land by the toorobe (Sud Hebdo, December 1, 1988: 6). The journalist who wrote the initial articles replied that “even if the land is a gift of God, it is also more prosaically the economic foundation of the feudal aristocracy.” Consequently, “the democratization of land tenure” should be applauded rather than resisted (Sud Hebdo, December 15, 1988: 6). What was democratization to one observer, however, was expropriation to another. In a 1997 interview, Adrian Adams, a fierce defender of customary land tenure in the Senegal River Valley and wife of a Soninke landowner, complained that “Westerners have a lot of nerve coming up here and saying that the land should be redistributed, that it is inegalitarian. After all, no one would do that to someone who inherited a factory?” Nonetheless, by the mid-1980s, it appeared that SAED was able to apply the principles of the National Domain law in a manner that had previously eluded the Senegalese state. Although the PIVs represented an important economic innovation, providing economic opportunities not previously available to lower castes as well as to young people and women (Bloch 1988; Schmitz 1994), they nonetheless did not erase economic sources of inequality. First, the plots to which landless lower-caste Tukulor gained access through the PIVs were less valuable fonde land (Adams 1977; Schmitz 1993). Second, Tukulor elites were able to regain control of the PIVs as a result of their political influence in the local councils that had been empowered to attribute rights to natural resources including land. In addition, SAED’s commitment to equity declined once lowerstatus groups gained some access through the initial PIVs. Finally, the bottom dropped out of this agricultural revolution once the state withdrew its assistance and the actual costs of irrigation fell to the Fuutanke farmers, resulting in a dramatic decline in capacity for and thus interest in irrigated agriculture by the late 1980s. Under the 1984 New Agricultural Program, an integral part of Senegal’s new Structural Adjustment Program, the government initiated the gradual withdrawal of SAED over a five-year period. Left with only a skeletal staff, SAED no longer took charge of extension or maintenance of the PIVs, and repairing or replacing motor pumps, while subsidized inputs disappeared. Although less abrupt than the immediate dissolution of ONCAD was for Murid farmers (chapter 3),

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the Fuutankobe were ill-prepared to assume the high production costs of irrigated agriculture. By 1989, 50 percent of the PIVs in Matam were no longer in use, suggesting that the golden age of irrigated agriculture had already passed (Niasse 1991: 97). As a result of the withdrawal of SAED, some of the more economically and socially vulnerable farmers were forced to sell their rights to PIV plots. Some became sharecroppers working in the PIVs of wealthier landowners, much as they had under traditional agricultural practices. Consequently, there was a drift back to customary land tenure practices and its related social stratification, reinforced by a return to rain-fed cultivation following the completion of the Manatali dam just as the period of drought came to an end in the late 1980s (Mathieu 1991: 214). Although Bloch (1993) referred to a “new” elite based on privileged access to irrigation and political ties to the party-state, no Tukulor from either artisan or captive origins became economically, let alone sociopolitically, powerful through irrigated farming. As Massata Gueye (1994) argued, there was a “reconversion” of the sociopolitical elites, who were now “the first to defend improving the value of their land by installing small PIVs.” By the time I arrived in Matam in the mid-1990s, any earlier aversion to PIVs on the part of landowning elites had disappeared. The concern had become how to gain access to the resources necessary for irrigated agriculture following the disengagement of SAED. Consequently, PIVs did not cause a radical restructuring of social stratification in the Fuuta Tooro. This is evident not only in the ability of Tukulor landowners to reassert customary land tenure practices, but also in the continuing dominance of toorobe politicians in the PS-state and the absence of any significant support for the opposition up until the 1990s. Even after the return to a multiparty system in the mid-1970s, the toorobe political brokers such as Moustapha Toure and Aly Bocar Kane, a cousin of the former chef de canton, remained in the PS, competing for positions within the party-state that provided crucial political and economic resources that reinforced their elite social status. A handful of young toorobe, such as Yero Deh of the Ligue Démocratique party and Samba Dioulde Thiam of the Parti Indépendant des Travailleurs, became local leaders of Senegal’s micro parties on the Left, but they did not “inherit” an electoral base as they are not descendants of a grande famille. Nor did they have access to sufficient resources to campaign in this vast region, let alone distribute patronage to their potential supporters. The uphill battle they faced

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was far greater, however, for their colleagues, such as Amadou Djibril Diallo of the PDS and Abou Guisse of Andd-Jëff, both of them teachers with limited resources who respectively descended from a family of captives (maccudo) and artisan weavers (maabo). The lack of “dembacratie” that would permit an ordinary “Demba” (a common Tukulor name) without prominent origins or family ties to be elected to national office persisted throughout the Fuuta well into the 1980s, with members of lower-status groups still representing a small minority of elected officials even at the local level.12 The experiment with irrigated agriculture clearly did not overturn the Tukulor social order. But it was indicative of forces of socioeconomic change that were dramatically undermining the economic power of Tukulor elites and reinforcing their need to retain political power, specifically recurrent drought that eroded the value of the land, which they continued to control, and migration that introduced crucial economic resources, but over which they had no control.

Migration and the Broadening of the Category of Tukulor Political Elites Even prior to independence, emigrants from the Fuuta Tooro played an important role in the local economy (Diop 1965; Minvielle 1985; Revault 1964). Although there are no precise statistics as to how many Tukulor have migrated to Dakar, Paris, Libreville, or more recently New York City among numerous other destinations, the majority of families and seemingly every village in the region have at least one emigrant. Over a decade ago, Phillippe Lavigne Delville (1991b: 16) estimated that emigrants represented 30–40 percent of the population, with their monthly remittances comprising 30–70 percent of a family’s budget. Some Tukulor families I interviewed in the department of Matam around the same period had even stopped engaging in other forms of economic activity, including agriculture, relying solely on remittances from emigrant family members, usually a husband or son. Previously, both Abdoulaye Bara Diop (1965: 205–206) and Christian Coulon (1975: 74–78) maintained that migration had little effect on social hierarchy in the Fuuta because migration left the conditions of subsistence production unchanged. According to Coulon (1975: 35), migration did not change the fact that “economic stagnation in the Fuuta is a factor more favorable to the social and political status quo,” leading him to conclude that “the absence of upheaval in

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the economic order has left the social bases for the power of the toorodo oligarchy basically intact.” Unfortunately, by the 1980s economic stagnation gave way to economic decline if not total collapse. This resulted in a significant change in the basis for economic wealth and power in the Fuuta that enhanced the potential for sociopolitical upheaval. With the degradation of customary forms of agriculture and the failure of irrigation as a cost-effective alternative, greater emphasis was placed on migration, gradually transforming the Fuuta’s agricultural subsistence economy into a remittance economy. In this new economy, the prestige of emigrants is readily apparent. While less-successful emigrants are scorned, the young men who remain in the Fuuta are quite literally taunted. In the mid-1990s, a young male toorodo who was under social pressure to emigrate referred to a song that Tukulor women mockingly sing about young men who have attained the “age of emigration” but remain in the village: When a young man gets used to saying: “Mother, heat [the food]. Heat it, and bring it for us to eat. Mother, milk the goat and bring us some porridge.” Such a young man will never go abroad. Such a young man will never be an emigrant.

Professor Baydalaye Kane of the University of Saint-Louis (Senegal), who kindly translated the song, explained that the term used for an emigrant (jeenga daano) is literally “one who stays up late,” a reference to how hard emigrants must work, juxtaposed in this song to the image of a lazy man who stays at home and depends on the labor of his mother. Delville (1991a: 122) goes so far as to describe the emigrants as a “new nobility” due to their contributions to village development projects. Such a new basis for elite status would represent a radical social transformation in that members of all Tukulor status groups emigrate. Migration is also a potential equalizer in that the caste status of emigrants is of little significance in determining their access to resources in their new socioeconomic contexts. While it is true that the toorobe tend to be better educated as a result of greater access to political and economic resources, nevertheless, the technical skills associated with artisan castes can make them more readily employable outside the Fuuta (chapter 6). Thus, the social status of emigrants does not influence their ability to send remittances, which might

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otherwise reinforce their status and that of their family back home.13 Unlike their Murid counterparts, Tukulor emigrants also make substantial contributions to their villages of origin rather than directly to their marabouts. While Murids typically belong to dahiras, the religious self-help organizations discussed in chapter 3 that collect contributions for the marabouts, the Tukulor characteristically belong to Associations Villageoises des Ressortissants (AVRs), associations of emigrants from the same village. Through the ARVs, they contribute to the construction of mosques, schools, health centers, and other village infrastructure.14 As a result, emigrant investment in infrastructure has surpassed that of the state in many if not most areas of the Fuuta Tooro. Similar to the Murid dahiras, Tukulor village associations provide for new arrivals, the unemployed, the sick, and repatriation of corpses in case of death. Delville (1991b) maintains that they are like a “village-bis” (sub-village) in which social solidarity is reinforced and structures of social hierarchy are replicated as is evident in their leadership. Jean Schmitz (1994: 424) notes that “the local social status, far from being put into question” is reconstituted in the social structures of Halpulaar’en migrant communities. The apparent exception to this pattern appears to be those who have emigrated to the United States whose Pulaar Speaking association has been led by lower-caste Tukulors (chapter 6). Although unlikely to be a reflection of the “uniqueness” of the American socioeconomic context, this may reflect the newness and/or size of the community in the United States, or possibly a more recent trend that may ultimately result in a radical social transformation in other diasporic communities as well as in the Fuuta. To date, however, there is limited evidence of this. Given that contributions by emigrants are channeled primarily through AVRs that are dominated by Tukulor nobles, it should not be surprising that there have been few examples of emigrants from lower castes who have turned, or even tried to turn, their fortunes into political power in Matam. The economic power of wealthy migrants from lower castes has apparently been insufficient to break the sociopolitical barriers to their leadership in the AVRs and political empowerment back home. Nor could they potentially use their numbers. In contrast with their Indian counterparts who have enjoyed dramatic electoral and political victories over the last two decades (Jaffrelot 2002), Tukulor of artisan and captive origins comprise only a minority of the Fuutankobe (7.5 and 21.5 percent respectively), and

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thus do not constitute a sufficiently large voting bloc to effectively challenge the toorobe in a political culture based on caste. On the other hand, there is abundant evidence that the category of “electable” toorobe has been expanded to include the toorobe electors and counselors under the pressure of new economic wealth generated by migration as well as the rise of toorobe technocrats who have turned their access to state resources into a political base. Djiby Basse, the former PS mayor of Ouroussougui (1990–1996), is a prime example of the impact that emigrant wealth has had on politics in the department of Matam. Djiby Basse is from a toorodo family whose political role as counselors (jaawame) was historically limited to selecting leaders from among a separate category of electable families (laawame). Although in the past the Basse family was not a grande famille that could hold positions of power, Djiby Basse was able to use his family’s new economic resources to become the PS candidate for mayor in Ouroussogui’s first municipal elections in 1990. While the Diallo family, the customary leaders of Ouroussogui, watched their economic power deteriorate with the value of their land, Djiby Basse’s older brother, Yero Basse, amassed a substantial fortune as a successful businessman in Dakar.15 By the time Ouroussogui was recategorized by the Senegalese administration from a village to a municipality in 1990, thus requiring a formal election for mayor, Djiby Basse was well placed to transform his family’s wealth into political power through the distribution of patronage to well-placed clients, including the Diallo family, who retained a seat on the municipal council. Basse was also a client of a powerful PS leader in the department, Cheikh Hamidou “Mathiara” Kane who belongs to one of the most politically powerful toorobe families in the department, serving as a deputy, minister, and the local leader of the PS in the 1990s.16 This connection to a traditional grande famille cannot however explain Basse’s political ascendancy which exceeded his social status and represented an important new trend in Matam politics. This broadening of the category of “electorable” toorobe led some of his political adversaries and disgruntled members of the historical political dynasties to remark with regret that “politics is no longer based on caste status but money.”17 The expansion of the category of “electable” toorobe was also a product of the attempt by President Diouf to establish a technocracy that would permit him to replace the old barons of the PS loyal to his predecessor with young educated elites dependent on his patronage (chapter 2). A prime example is Abdourahmane Toure, a member of an “unelectable” toorodo family who served as minister of commerce

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(1983–1988) and then ambassador to the Côte d’Ivoire (1988–1994), before becoming the director general of the textile parastatal Société des textiles de Kaolack (SOTEXK A, 1994–1995). Following in his footsteps was Adama Sall, a toorodo from a maraboutic family, who served as director of the Société d’amenagement de la Pétite Côte (SAPCO, 1993–1998), and subsequently the Centre International de Commerce Extérieur du Sénégal (CICES, 1998–2000). Even other categories of rimbe (freemen) were able to assume prominent roles in the PS-state, such as Sada Ndiaye, a member of a tieddo (warrior) family, and Souleyman Nasser Niane, a member of a family of diawando (royal counselors), who both served in the 1990s as directors of an agency in the Education Ministry. These upper caste technocrats were able to translate their position in the administration into political power within the leadership of the local party. Thus, the concept of an aristocracy of Tukulor nobles remained but was broadened to include other rimbe. Among the new technocrats were, not surprisingly, a number of well-educated Tukulor from lower-status groups. In his doctoral thesis on Fuutanke politics, Alioune Badara Diop (2002) refers to a toorodo who concurrently served as both deputy and mayor but was “reduced” to accompanying a minister of captive origin. Nevertheless, Diop challenges the significance that Mamadou Diouf (1992) previously attributed to the alleged shift from clientelism to technocracy, given the difficulties that technocrats from lower-status groups faced in translating the political resources at their disposal into an electoral base. As one elderly man from an artisan status group observed: “No matter how well connected and wealthy an artisan becomes, he can never become a noble.” Nevertheless, in the face of these potentially equalizing economic forces, the broader category of toorobe politicians clung tightly to their role as political elites whose role as intermediaries for the PS-state assured them access to the necessary economic resources to remain in power and maintain their elite status in society. Despite mounting political opposition and economic frustrations, the toorodo ruling class remained closely allied to the ruling party because, unlike the Murid marabouts, it had no other source of religious authority or economic power to maintain its power and status in Tukulor society. Consequently, it was only when their access to public resources and positions of power were seriously threatened or irrevocably curtailed that members of the toorodo ruling class began to “migrate” to other political parties at the turn of the twenty-first century resulting in increased political competition in Matam as well as Podor.

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Politics as a Source of Power and Status As late as the 1993 presidential and legislative elections, there was still little evidence of “migration” to opposition parties by toorobe politicians. Unlike the Murid marabouts in Mbacke, the return to multipartyism and declining capacity of the PS-state did not create incentives for members of the Tukulor elite in Matam to jockey for position by joining an opposition party or even withdraw their support for the increasingly unpopular ruling party in order to protect their social status. The disparity in the level of support for the opposition in the two departments cannot, however, be attributed to differences in the level of (dis)satisfaction with the PS-state. Dissatisfaction with the ruling party ran high in Matam due to the withdrawal of state funding for SAED and a general lack of state investment in the department’s infrastructure, which had never been well developed and was now decaying due to age and lack of repair. In 1993, the worst symbol of the poor state of the department’s infrastructure was the unfinished repairs to the bridge to the departmental capitol of Matam that forced cars and pedestrians alike to travel in the adjacent fields and left the road nearly impassable during the rainy season. Consequently, during the 1993 electoral campaign Tukulor voters from all status groups spoke without exception of unmet needs and unfulfilled promises. When asked about the role of Senegalese deputies, a member of an artisan family angrily responded that he did not know what their role was “because they have not achieved anything here: no school, no post office, no teaching materials.” The chief of a fishing village complained that “the government does nothing here, just like the politicians who only come around during the elections with a lot of lies; and when they leave, we do not see them any more.” His counterpart in a toorodo village agreed that “the state no longer plays a role here. The infrastructure [we do have] is the result of the emigrants. The state should help the poor with food, water, and housing. But instead they only give out rice right before the elections, [just] a half kilo per person,” a clear indication that the patronage resources that trickled down to the local level were drying up. Perhaps the most prominent issue in the Fuuta during the 1993 elections was how the PS-state handled the 1989 Senegal–Mauritania border conflict. In April 1989, two Senegalese were killed after confiscating cattle that belonged to Mauritanians because the animals were grazing in their fields. The incident triggered a chain of events that

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quickly escalated to violence along the border, followed by looting of Mauritanian shops in Dakar, a bloody rampage against Senegalese in Nouakchott, and, finally, a “Mauritanian manhunt” in various Senegalese cities. By June, hundreds of Senegalese and Mauritanians had been maimed or killed, and over 200,000 were repatriated to their country of origin (Belotteau 1989; Jourde 2004; Magistro 1993; Parker 1991; Republic of Senegal 1989; Santoir 1990). In January 1993, just prior to the presidential elections, a group of Fuutankobe intellectuals sent an open letter to the Senegalese political class, reminding them of the injustices surrounding the conflict, unresolved land tenure issues, and the question of indemnities for destroyed or abandoned property. The letter was also quite candid about their frustration with the Senegalese government for maintaining “the myth of friendship, fraternity, and Islamic solidarity” with the Mauritanian government with which diplomatic relations had been restored. In effect, the Fuutankobe intellectuals handed the opposition a list of campaign issues for the region. Similar criticisms by the Union des Associations des Ressortissants du Fuuta (Union of Emigrant Associations from the Fuuta) led many political observers to speculate that the PS would lose the Fuuta in 1993. Although the PS-state was not directly blamed for creating the conflict, and Diouf was praised for contributing to the peacefully ending it, the government was nevertheless seen as ineffective in protecting the rights of the Fuutankobe to the northern bank of the Senegal River, which Senegalese citizens had been cultivating with their Mauritanian relatives for generations. Furthermore, the PS-state had failed to obtain reparations for Senegalese who were forcibly repatriated or for the families of those killed in Mauritania, most of whom were Fuutankobe emigrants. Various Matamois explained that their frustration with Diouf stemmed from his having become “too friendly” with President Taya of Mauritania before negotiating the return of their property or the repatriation of Mauritanian refugees, who had been living in Senegalese villages and refugee camps since 1989. Although the stage was set for a dramatic change in party allegiance, the PS was nevertheless able to maintain over 88 percent of the vote in Matam during the 1993 presidential election, the highest percentage in any electoral district in the country (appendix 3). Given the level of political dissatisfaction in Matam and the gains the opposition had made elsewhere in Senegal, it is necessary to explain why support for the ruling party in the presidential as well as the legislative elections in 1993 were greatest in this peripheral region, especially given that the PS fiefdom had always been considered to be the

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peanut basin where Murid marabouts assured the support of large voting blocs. The explanation lies in the fact that in contrast to the Murid leaders whose social status and access to economic resources independent of the PS-state permitted them to withdraw their political support in the face of mounting opposition, the toorobe politicians remained in the ruling party because they enjoyed neither of these political advantages. The intertwining of socioeconomic status and political power became particularly evident in one of the most telling statements by toorodo politician Abdourahim Agne who declared while fighting for his political life during the subsequent 2001 legislative elections: “As the al Fekky (prince) of this zone, I cannot admit to being beaten by candidates who come from elsewhere. If I lose these elections, I will have lost a part of my honor” (Walfadjri, May 4, 2001). But this argument neither explains the historical level of political competition prior to independence nor its more recent resurgence in Matam. In the 2000 presidential elections, support for President Diouf dropped by 28 percentage points, although the region had not experienced any new economic or human rights disaster like those that proceeded the 1993 elections. Nor were there any indications of a significant erosion of Tukulor social hierarchy or the emergence of a Tukulor politician on the order of B.R. Ambedkar, the hero of India’s dalits (untouchables). The only exceptional event between these elections, which dramatically affected the entire country, was the 50 percent devaluation of the CFA Franc, the currency Senegal shares with other francophone West African countries. Nevertheless, it is difficult to argue that the devaluation in January 1994 was responsible for the plummeting electoral support in 2000, especially given declining support for President Diouf in Matam surpassed the impact in other departments that were equally affected by the devaluation. Already a remittance economy, Matam was no more and perhaps less adversely affected by the economic dislocation than other departments. As one local opposition leader noted, while the economy in Matam had been weak for ten to 20 years, “the PS, however, had never been beaten [before] in the Fuuta.”18 The difference between these periods of high levels of electoral competition and the period of crushing electoral majorities for the PS must, therefore, be attributed to the one common denominator: the relative political and economic dominance of the ruling party at the national level. During the high levels of political competition in the 1950s, there was greater uncertainty in the outcome, and the victor was not assure a monopoly on the administrative let alone economic apparatus of

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the colonial state. Toorodo politicians could, therefore, choose their political allies without fear of losing their employment or access to state resources which the French, not elected officials, controlled. The SFIO politicians from the grandes familles, such as Thierno Seydou Kane, already held posts as the chefs de cantons that legitimized their status as the ruling elite, while their political rivals who also held other posts in the colonial bureaucracy, such as Mamadou Toure, had nothing to lose and much to gain in supporting opposition parties such as Senghor’s BDS. In terms of the recent resurgence in political competition in 2000, Tukulor politicians remained loyal to the PS ruling party despite its waning fortunes up until the struggle over President Diouf’s successor that resulted in the splintering of the ruling party (chapter 2). This presented both a political opportunity for disgruntled PS politicians and an omen of the demise of the PS as Senegal’s ruling party.

The Demise of the PS and the Rise of Competitive Fuutanke Politics Whereas the campaign themes changed little from the 1993 to the 2000 presidential elections, the position of the PS in Matam politics changed dramatically. During this interim period, there were several major changes within the ruling party that undermined its support in the department, all of which were linked to the struggle for control of the PS at the national level. As one local opposition leader observed in an electoral postmortem, “the PS did not lose Matam; it lost power at the national level, which led to political migration (transhumance)” to other political parties. The first politically destabilizing event for the PS in Matam was the 1995 internal party election (renouvellement), which determines the local party leadership, functioning in some ways as a primary for local and legislative elections. The ruling party held off from holding the renouvellements that were scheduled to occur throughout Senegal in 1992. Given the tumultuous nature of prior renouvellements, the national party leaders decided to wait until after the 1993 presidential and legislative elections so as to avoid any ill-will between local factions within the party that in the past had led almost inevitably to sanction votes against the PS. After the national elections, there were several additional factors that delayed the renouvellements, including the assassination of one of the justices on the Constitutional Court in May 1993 and political unrest surrounding the devaluation in early

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1994. When the PS finally got around to holding the renouvellements in 1995, there was a high level of political instability and even violence in some areas, including Matam where the stakes were seen as particularly high as control of the local PS leadership was still seen as assuring election to public office and hence control of the patronage resources of the PS-state. The 1995 renouvellements were particularly destabilizing because the PS was undergoing a major transition. Following significant losses for the party in 1993, particularly in the capital region of Dakar, a debate arose over the future of the party between the refondateurs led by Ousmane Tanor Dieng and the renouveauteurs led by Djibo Ka (chapter 2). The underlying theme was who would succeed President Diouf. Under the 1992 electoral code, Diouf could run for one more term in office, but would be required to step down in 2007. Already in the late 1990s, it was clear that Dieng, who was head of the powerful presidential secretariat, was well placed to be Diouf’s political heir. This struggle reverberated in Matam’s renouvellements with the unseating of Cheikh Amadou Kane “Mathiara” by one of Tanor Dieng’s ally, Abdourahmane Agne, a Dakar businessman turned Fuutanke politician, in alliance with Elimane Kane, the “dean” of Matam politics. Unfortunately, the violent conflicts between the factions did not end with the renouvellements. When Agne visited Matam in 1997, his entourage was pelted with stones, allegedly by supporters of Matam’s mayor, Abdourahmane Toure, an ally of Mathiara. As anticipated, Toure ultimately lost his elected position as mayor to an ally of Agne in the 1996 mayoral elections. He then joined the PS splinter party Union pour le Renouveau Démocratique (URD), which had been formed by fellow Pulaar-speaker Djibo Ka from the Linguère department (Louga) after he was suspended from the PS for forming an alternative electoral list to compete against the official PS list headed by Tanor Dieng in the 1998 legislative elections (chapter 2). Relatively few other PS politicians from Matam joined the URD prior to its impressive performance during the 1998 elections. Nevertheless, the new party’s list, formed within months of the elections, managed to receive 23 percent of the vote in Matam, surpassing all other opposition parties in the department. This level of support was only rivaled by results in Podor and Ka’s home department of Linguère, where his coalition, Alliance Jëf Jël, received 31 and 39 percent of the vote, respectively. The most obvious explanation for Ka’s success was his shared ethnicity with the Haalpulaar’en majorities in these three neighboring departments. In his analysis of support for Ka in the Fuuta Tooro,

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Alioune Badara Diop (2002) describes Ka’s “capacity to inscribe his Peul cultural identity in the same registry of history as the legitimacy of the toorobe.” It was, therefore, his pullagu (quality as a Peul) that permitted him to mobilize high levels of support among the Haalpulaar’en without a party infrastructure to speak of and limited resources. Not surprisingly, Ka’s opponents accused him of using an ethnic vote, which the PS mayor of Kanel (Matam department) complained was an illegal form of discrimination against other ethnic groups under Article IV of the Constitution. Claiming that it was not Abdourahmane Toure’s decision to join the URD that brought many PS supporters to the new party, a local Andd-Jëff leader asserted during an interview in November 2003 that URD support in Matam was based solely on Ka, whose party played the ethnic card with alleged statements such as “every Pulaar-speaker who is not with Ka is a bastard.” Most Matam politicians and voters, however, maintained that ethnicity was not the basis for Ka’s support because, “if this were so, the entire Fuuta Tooro, not just a minority of it, would have supported Ka” according to the mayor of Matam during a post-election interview (December 29, 2000). Indeed, many Matamois were offended by the suggestion that their political loyalties could be swayed by ethnicity. For example, the independent newspaper Walfadjri reported during Senegal’s first Senate race in 1999 that the son of a Tukulor marabout was scandalized by a PS national leader who approached him by saying that he understood that the Tukulor would “vote for Djibo [Ka] out of ethnic solidarity.” The maraboutic toorodo retorted that “neither Galandou Diouf, nor Leopold Sedar Senghor, nor Abdou Diouf were Haalpulaar’en, but nevertheless the Haalpulaar’en supported them repeatedly over a long period” (Walfadjri, May 18, 1999). Nonetheless, a significant number of Matam voters were undoubtedly predisposed to support Ka based on an ethno-linguistic affinity, particularly voters who previously were not interested in politics. Many, however, explained their support for Ka’s party as providing them with the opportunity to protest recent developments in the PS while remaining within “the Socialist family,” with the hope or even expectation that the renegade party would be brought back into the fold or politically eclipse the PS faction that “undemocratically” gained control over the ruling party. As one Tukulor supporter of the URD noted, Ka had never done anything for the Haalpulaar’en, nor was he promising to; those who supported him were responding to “the injustice of 1995” (i.e., the renouvellements) and the banning of Ka and his supporters, including Abdourahmane Toure.

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Indeed, frustration with the PS national leadership intensified as many Matam politicians were losing their lucrative and influential positions in various parastatals, the fallout from economic as well as political changes at the national level. Although Senegal had been under structural adjustment programs nearly continuously since 1980, it was only in the mid-1990s that the government began to seriously undertake privatization. Alioune Badara Diop (2002) identified nine different Fuutanke politicians who lost their positions in the party-state as the result of the factional infighting and/or the dissolution of a parastatal, including Abdourahmane Toure’s post as director of SOTEXK A. Even Abdourahim Agne, Matam’s highest ranking socialist, was unsuccessful in his 1998 bid for the powerful post of minister of finance. While primarily the result of a power play by Ousmane Tanor Dieng, who saw Agne as a potential rival, Agne’s political capital with President Diouf was most likely weakened by the inroads that the URD had made in the legislative elections that year. Even before Agne finally formed his own party with Elimane Kane after the 2001 legislative elections, Agne and Ousmane Tanor Dieng frequently butted heads in public as well as private. Angered by the general absence of Matamois in prominent political positions, Matam political leaders lobbied President Diouf who named Adama Sall as the head of CICES (Centre International du Commerce Extérieur du Sénégal) after he lost his position as director of SAPCO (Société d’Aménagement et de Promotion des Côtes et Zones Touristiques). PS factional disputes intensified in Matam during the 1999 elections for the newly recreated Senate, a political institution with little raison d’être other than the distribution of patronage posts to PS intermediaries in a context of economic austerity. Allied with fellow toorobe politicians Ousmane Khasoum Dia and Souleymane Nasser Niane, Mathiara Kane threatened to abstain from the election because Abdourahim Agne did not submit to the PS the negotiated list of Senate candidates from the department that included leaders of both factions. This was undoubtedly a factor, perhaps the last straw, that led Ousmane Khasoum Dia to join the Alliance des Forces de Progrés (AFP), another PS splinter party created by Moustapha Niasse, the former minister of foreign affairs.19 An ethnic Wolof and member of one of the most prestigious and internationally known families of Tijani marabouts based in Kaolack (central Senegal), Niasse emphasized his family’s historical relationship with Tukulor marabout and colonial resistance leader Umar Tall. Although this sort of identity politics was unlikely to be as persuasive as Ka’s more immediate and personal ethno-linguistic identity, Alioune Badara Diop (2002: 143) suggests that it may have

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assuaged the conscience of those Tukulor who chose to support Niasse out of frustration with the PS and a desire to obtain a better position in this neophyte party. In fact, Ousmane Khasoum Dia’s decision to join the AFP was described by various informants as having been motivated by the desire to improve his position in Matam politics. As one of the founding members of the AFP, Dia was not only the local leader of the party in Matam, but also a prominent member of its national leadership, evident in his having been placed as the third candidate on the national party list of the AFP during the 2001 legislative elections. Dia left the PS after he lost his position as director of the prime minister’s office without being offered an equally prominent position in the PS-state. But even under these circumstances, Matam politicians in the past were willing to remain in the ruling party with the hope that their political fortunes would change, as they almost inevitably would. What was different at the turn of the twenty-first century was that for Matam politicians like Dia, not only did their immediate prospects look bleak under Ousmane Tanor Dieng’s rising star, but equally important the ability of the PS to retain power was becoming increasingly uncertain. Diop (2002: 356) cites an Andd-Jëff politician from Podor as commenting just prior to the 2000 presidential elections that “the PS reminds me of a house in ruin deserted by its orphans who are in a hurry to find a new father, even if he is the unyielding adversary of yesterday . . . Their vote can fall to any power.” Nevertheless, the PS was able to maintain a clear electoral majority in Matam, receiving 60.5 percent of the vote in the first round of the 2000 presidential elections and 71.1 percent in the second round with the assistance of Djibo Ka, the lone opposition candidate to support Diouf against Wade. Although in the first round support for President Diouf had dropped over 28 percentage points from 1993, he still received his largest percentage of support in Matam, rivaled only by Podor (53.7 percent) and the department of Bakel in the Upper Senegal River Valley (58.7 percent). Support for Diouf during the second round was slightly higher in Podor (71.4 percent) and Ka’s home department of Linguère, where support for Diouf soared from 49 to 74.8 percent between the first and second rounds. After Diouf’s defeat, political chaos emerged in Matam. As Abdoulaye Dieng, the mayor of Ourroussogui (Matam Department), explained during an interview in January 2001: “In the end, one did not know on which foot to dance.” Thus, he decided to leave the PS for the new PDS ruling party, along with a flood of other politicians in Matam, including Dieng’s political rival Djiby Basse, who was able

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to regain his mayoral seat in the 2002 municipal elections shortly after Dieng was elected to the National Assembly in 2001, both on a PDS ticket. With the arrival of other Tukulor nobles formerly affiliated with the PS, Wade’s earlier supporters, in particular Amadou Djribril Diallo of modest maccudo (slave) origins, were basically sidelined. Nevertheless, Tukulor politicians from lower-status groups have made some remarkable strides in establishing a dembacratie in Matam, in which the origins of elected officials are less significant than their competence, knowledge, experience, generosity, or identity as Haalpulaar’en. Over the last decade, the number of lower-caste politicians in elected office has been small but growing, including educated Hal-Pulaar’en such as Andd-Jëff’s Abou Guisse. Unlike his counterparts in the PS and PDS, however, Guisse’s education has not generated lucrative political appointments that could permit him to create an electoral base through patronage politics. Instead, his training as a French teacher allowed Guisse to return to Matam where he engaged in la politique de proximité (neighborhood politics) based on frequent contact with his constituency through which he gained their respect and trust, in contrast to the frequently absent noble politicians in larger parties who have been accused of coming around only during electoral periods to offer empty promises. In Guisse’s home town of Thilogne, a historically powerful seat of politically influential toorobe, most notably PS Deputy Elimane Kane, Guisse was able to gain political control of a third of the municipal council for his party in the 1996 municipal elections. In an interview in 2003, Guisse claimed that Abdourahmane Agne had noted with surprise that Elimane Kane spent millions of FCFA on the local election, leaving Agne wondering how Guisse “a teacher and a neeno (artisan) at that, had been able to uproot the baobab tree,” a reference to the long tenure of not only Elimane Kane but his grande famille of toorobe nobles. But the political roots of the toorobe run deep in the Fuuta. Despite Guisse’s description of Tukulor griots who have created “fictive princely roots” for lower-caste politicians like himself, and those who once referred to him as “that little neeno” who now talk of how his family counseled the Almamy, Tukulor from across the political spectrum and at all levels of social stratification agree that the evolution away from caste politics is occurring albeit very slowly. Following the defeat of the PS in 2000, there were high expectations that Sopi (change) would entail the disappearance of caste politics in the Fuuta Tooro. Noting that no “casted” person has headed a PS electoral list, a member of one of Senegal’s micro parties from a

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lower status group asserted in 2001 that “we were lucky that alternance (change in ruling parties) has succeeded in Senegal so that the role of caste in political life will change.” However, the PDS as well as the AFP and URD have all continued to follow the example of the PS, depending on the “natural” leadership of the toorobe. In the 2001 legislative elections, all but one of the candidates on the electoral lists of the major parties were toorobe. Indeed, Adama Sall, who headed the PDS electoral commission, admitted to Alioune Badara Diop (2002) that the PDS electoral strategy had depended on the “political recycling of transhumant elites” from the PS. Although it was not a resounding triumph, with only 33.2 percent of the vote, the PDS was able to win Matam in 2001 through a combination of these prominent transhumant toorobe and the classic flood of resources (as well as threats of denied access) and campaign promises, including the tarring of the airport runway in Ourrossougui, construction of other transportation infrastructure, the purchase of ferries, and last but not least, the creation of Matam as a new administrative region, a promise which was fulfilled in 2002. First proposed by the UARF to include the departments of Podor, Matam, and Bakel, the Matam region comprises only the former department of Matam and parts of Linguère, effectively dividing Djibo Ka’s one remaining stronghold, perhaps “punishment” for his support of Diouf in 2000 or a political strategy to weaken a potential future rival from among the Halpulaar’en. With the Tukulor nobles now scattered among various parties, there has been a dramatic increase in political competition in Matam. There has been some evidence of increasingly democratic, or dembacratic, participation by a broader range of social categories in party politics and political institutions particularly at the local level. This has not posed a challenge to Senegal’s clientelist form of democracy, but may permit the democratization of who can be a broker with privileged access and political power. The strides that have been made in enhancing political competition, however, have been somewhat eroded with the consolidation of a new dominant party, encouraging the migration of Tukulor nobles from the splintered PS opposition parties to the new PDS ruling party in order to assure both their political access and status in Tukulor society. Electoral uncertainty along with socioeconomic reform are, therefore, key to the enhancement of democracy among dependent brokers such as the Tukulor nobles.

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ike the Tukulor in Matam, the Casamançais in the southwestern region of Ziguinchor have felt geographically, economically, culturally, and politically peripheral to the Wolof-dominated Senegalese state. Unlike the Tukulor, however, this sense of marginalization has given rise to a secessionist movement in Casamance that has lasted nearly three decades, resulting in the loss of thousands of lives and forcing tens of thousands of Casamançais to flee the violence surrounding West Africa’s longest-running civil conflict. Although there have been several cease-fires and negotiated peace accords between the Senegalese government and the Mouvement des Forces Démocratique de la Casamance (MFDC), including the most recent accord signed in December 2004, the region continues to erupt in violence that threatens Senegal’s political stability and tarnishes its international reputation as one of the rare examples of a relatively tolerant, democratic regime in sub-Saharan Africa. The contrast between the Fuuta Tooro and Casamance extends to electoral politics as well. Since Senegal’s return to a multiparty system in the mid-1970s, the two regions have differed dramatically in their level of support for the PS. As discussed in the previous chapter, electoral support for the ruling party in Matam was unsurpassed throughout the 1980s and 1990s, despite its economic woes and critiques of the “Wolof state.” In the Casamance department of Ziguinchor, on the other hand, electoral support for the PS progressively declined over the two decades leading up to the ruling party’s defeat in 2000 (figure 5.1). Ziguinchor’s support for the PS nevertheless seems relatively high given claims of the absence of a PS party apparatus in the Casamance (Boone 2003), the predisposition of the region’s Jola ethnic majority

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Figure 5.1 Support for PS Presidential Candidates in Matam and Ziguinchor, 1978–2000 Source: Official results obtained from documents provided by the Senegalese Ministry of the Interior (1978, 1983, 2000) and published in the official state newspaper Le Soleil (1983, 1988, 1993).

toward political opposition (Pélissier 1966), and its marginalization from the dual state-building processes of Islamization and Wolofization (Diop and Diouf 1990; Diouf 2001). What is perhaps most surprising about Ziguinchor’s electoral results is that the decline in support was not more precipitous following the outbreak of hostilities in the early 1980s. The gradual erosion of support for the ruling party could be attributed to electoral fraud though as previously discussed in chapter 1, regional variation in the capacity to commit fraud in Senegal has been correlated with a relative lack of political opposition in an area. Moreover, despite the introduction of electoral reforms such as guaranteeing the opposition’s right to observe the electoral process, the ruling party was able to retain its majority in Ziguinchor up until the 2000 elections. It is significant, therefore, that with the notable exception of the Oussouye department where support for the PS was consistently low, electoral results throughout Casamance, in both the Ziguinchor and Kolda regions, paralleled the downward slope in support for the PS nationwide (appendix 3). The mirroring of the national decline in PS support in the Kolda region is not nearly as puzzling, however, as the similar electoral pattern in the departments of Bignona and Ziguinchor in the Ziguinchor region. Although the secessionist movement is generally referred to as “the Casamance problem,” Casamance is composed of three politically, economically, and culturally distinct historical regions that were

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divided into two administrative regions in 1984 primarily to contain the secessionist movement in Lower Casamance. Only sporadically and relatively recently has the armed conflict spilled over into the Middle and Upper Casamance, which are jointly administered within the region of Kolda, where the predominantly Mandinka area of Middle Casamance coincides with the department of Sédhiou and the Peul-dominated Upper Casamance is divided into the Kolda and Velingara departments (appendix 1). The origins and locus of the separatist movement have been in Lower Casamance, the boundaries of which coincide with the administrative region of Ziguinchor, which is ethnically diverse though largely dominated by the Jola. This chapter sets out to explain the apparent counterintuitive level of support for the PS in the Ziguinchor region, specifically the departments of Bignona and Ziguinchor, as well as the failure to contain political opposition within the electoral process. Although the higher level of political opposition in Oussouye may be largely attributed to an unresolved dispute between PS factions that resulted in electoral sanctioning of the ruling party that precipitated support for the opposition in the late 1970s and early 1980s, for the purposes of this study Oussouye politics are less intriguing in that a low level of electoral support for the ruling party would be predictable in a region whose marginalized population resorts to the extreme action of armed rebellion to resolve its differences with the state. The real puzzle, therefore, lies with the ability of the local PS brokers in Bignona and Ziguinchor departments to ensure a sustained if narrowing electoral majority for the ruling party. While providing a political overview of the entire Ziguinchor region, the chapter focuses on the Ziguinchor department in part because it was the epicenter of the secessionist movement. Equally important in a region wracked by political violence that makes informants leery of prying political scientists, research in Ziguinchor was aided by long-standing personal ties to the department that permitted greater entree with the population and local elites.1 Nevertheless, the departments in the Ziguinchor region are not the discrete political entities typically found in other regions, where a leader in one department is unlikely to challenge a leader in another on his home turf as occurred during a dispute for Ziguinchor regional leadership in the 1990s. This distinctive attribute of politics in Lower Casamance is a consequence of the low social authority of both “foreign” politicians from northern ethnic groups living in the region, whose prominence is exceptional in Senegalese local politics, and the Casamançais “sons of the soil,” an educated elite who serve as political

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brokers without the benefit of either the religious or caste status enjoyed by their counterparts in northern Senegal. Consequently, their power as brokers for the PS-state was highly dependent on their ability to distribute resources gained through positions in the partystate from which they enjoyed little autonomy. The lack of a rigid social hierarchy, however, permitted a high level of political participation in the region, including intense competition to become a PS broker as a local representative of the party-state. Unlike their similarly dependent counterparts in Matam and the more autonomous marabout grands electeurs in Mbacke, the patron– client exchanges of Ziguinchor brokers were neither constrained nor reinforced by hierarchical social structures that could assure the authority and legitimacy of the Senegalese state beyond distributive clientelist politics. In this sense, these patron–client relations were more individualized and instrumental, more closely resembling machine politics rather than patrimonial forms of clientelism that provide electoral support and political legitimacy “at a discount” (Lemarchand 1988: 151). Although this was sufficient for Ziguinchor brokers to mobilize electoral majorities for the PS-state up until 2000, they could not buffer the ruling party from mounting opposition as the Murid Khalif had in 1988 and the Tukulor toorobe did throughout the 1980s and 1990s. Given the limitations of Ziguinchor brokers in their ability to assure the political legitimacy of the PS-state, when a political rebellion arose in the early 1980s, they were illequipped to prevent the crisis from snowballing let alone resolve it. In this sense, PS clientelist networks in Ziguinchor were relatively weak in that they were limited to a narrow exchange relationship between patron and client, unembellished or reinforced by hierarchical structures of authority.

“Casamance Particularism”: The Origins of the Limited Authority of the Sons of the Soil The Lower Casamance region of Ziguinchor is distinctive from other regions in a number of ways, some of which have contributed to the limited authority of local political brokers as well as the region’s marginalization. The most obvious source of the region’s marginalization is its geographic isolation. Even Makhtar Diouf (1994: 198), one of the most vocal and adamant defenders of the ethnic harmony and unity of Senegal, acknowledges that Casamance is geographically

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“one of the most aberrant situations in Africa,” cut off from the remainder of the country by the Gambia. Historically, the Gambia River has represented a symbolic though fluid boundary between the northern region of Senegambia and a southern region that extended to the Cacheu River in present day Guinea-Bissau, including the Casamance region of contemporary Senegal. In precolonial Senegambia, the proximity of the northern ethnic groups (the Lébou, Serer, Tukulor, and Wolof), their common involvement with trans-Saharan merchants and Muslim clerics, and the formation of political alliances, vassal states, and even interethnic warfare were indicative of highly integrated societies (Barry 1985; Mamadou Diouf 1990; Klein 1968; Robinson 1975). Their sustained interaction is evident in shared family names among northern ethnic groups, a reflection of extensive intra-regional migration and even intermarriage among precolonial rulers. Though not entirely isolated from these northern ethnic groups, Casamance was peripheral to northern precolonial states and trade relations, only indirectly connected via commercial networks in the Gambia region (Mark 1985: 75). Beyond a legend of shared ancestry with the Serer, there is little evidence of their sustained interaction with northern ethnic groups.2 This spatial and historical marginality has had a distinct impact on the incorporation of Lower Casamance into Senegalese society, evident in common references by Jola to “the people of Senegal” as distinct from themselves.3 Each time I traveled from Casamance to northern Senegal, Jola villagers would innocuously tell me to “greet the people of Senegal” and on my return ask me “how are the people of Senegal” without intending to make a political statement. In his analysis of Senegalese interethnic relations, Makhtar Diouf attempts to downplay this frequently cited manifestation of the distinctiveness of the Casamance periphery by claiming that there are comparable attitudes among other remote groups such as the Tukulor who allegedly equate Senegal with Dakar and the Peanut Basin of central Senegal. Diouf, however, offers no linguistic examples or other evidence of this phenomenon in the Fuuta Tooro, nor has my own research in that northern region revealed the same distancing from a Senegalese identity as opposed to alienation from the “Wolof state.” Moreover, there is no similar linguistic distancing among other ethnic groups in Middle or Upper Casamance who are also spatially isolated from the rest of the country. The marginalization of the Lower Casamance may, therefore, be better understood in terms of the region’s cultural particularism.

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The Significance of “Casamance Particularism” in the Islamo-Wolof Model According to the Islamo-Wolof model initially proposed by Momar Coumba Diop and Mamadou Diouf (1990), Islamization and Wolofization constitute the dual processes of modern state formation in Senegal that has allegedly succeeded in integrating non-Wolof Muslim populations such as the Tukulor of the Fuuta Tooro while marginalizing other less Islamicized groups such as the Jola in Lower Casamance. The religious particularism of Lower Casamance is substantiated not only by the higher rate of adherence to Christianity and traditional religions in the region, but also the absence of marabouts with extensive sociopolitical authority as found in the northern “pays du ndigel” (country of religious commands). In the Upper Casamance region of Kolda, the most influential marabouts in southern Senegal are members of the Ba maraboutic family of Medina Gounasse, while in the Lower Casamance region of Ziguinchor there are four prominent marabouts: Cherif Boubacar Aidara, Khalife Younouss Aidara, Cheikh Ousmane Sountou Badji, and El Hadj Arfang Bakary Camara (Darbon 1988: 129–130). None of them, however, have had the prominence or following of the Tall maraboutic family in the Fuuta Tooro and certainly not the sociopolitical authority of Wolof marabouts. Makhtar Diouf (1994: 202) attributes the lack of influential marabouts in Lower Casamance to late Islamization and greater adherence to the Qadiriya brotherhood in the region. As a result of its relatively late Islamization, Casamance clearly lies along the periphery of West African Muslim communities. The connection between late Islamization and the lack of influential marabouts, however, is less self-evident, tied presumably to an incomplete or inferior conversion process demonstrated by the persistence of pre- or un-Islamic practices of which there is some evidence. In his sociohistorical study of Muslim Jolas in the Bignona department, Peter Mark (1985: 37–52) maintains that Islamization at the turn of the nineteenth century sent indigenous religious shrines underground though they did not disappear. Mark (1985: 110) describes how these recent converts would visit their shrines surreptitiously to seek relief from various ailments in order to avoid criticism by fellow Muslims. That these remnants of pre-Islamic society are an indication of the region’s late and thus “incomplete” Islamization process in contrast with northern Senegalese is problematic, however, given the continuation of non- if not un-Islamic practices in northern Senegal,

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such as: the exoneration of Murid Baye-Fall from practicing Islam’s basic tenets (chapter 3); the persistence of social castes (chapter 4); and the caste-like nature of northern marboutic families (chapters 3 and 4). In contrast, one of the defining characteristics of Jola Muslims has been the limited role of marabouts in their lives. Indeed, many Jola do not even have a marabout. But the limited role of Casamance marabouts as intermediaries “between this world and the next” may ironically better approximate the egalitarian principles of Islam whether or not it reflects incomplete conversion to a Senegambian form of Sufi Islam. As for the argument that the limited authority of marabouts in Lower Casamance can be explained by the prevalence of adherents to the Qadiriya brotherhood, it is accurate that this Sufi brotherhood has the largest following in the region, nearly a third of the population (appendix 1). However, this begs the question of why Casamançais would embrace a brotherhood in which religious leaders have played a more restricted social role when other Senegambian brotherhoods have also actively sought converts in the region. Furthermore, it ignores the Qadiriya origins of the Murid brotherhood that was expressly adapted to the sociohistorical context of early twentiethcentury Wolof society. The crucial point in analyzing the distinctive nature of the Islamization of Lower Casamance is that the absence of powerful marabouts is indicative of a different rather than a uniquely incomplete or late conversion process. In both northern and southern Senegal, the conversion process gave rise to a syncretic form of Islam as well as influencing the practice of Christianity in both regions.4 Consequently, marabouts in Lower Casamance are more comparable in their limited sociopolitical authority to Catholic and traditional religious leaders in the region than their Islamic counterparts in highly stratified northern societies, specifically the Wolof. Furthermore, despite their early conversion to Islam, the Tukulor are no more a part of the “pays du ndigel” than the Jola in that Tukulor marabouts have relatively limited sociopolitical authority and thus are unable to mobilize large electoral blocs through political ndigels in contrast with their powerful Wolof counterparts (chapter 4). The political integration of the Tukulor is, therefore, not tied to a common religious affiliation or maraboutic institutions, and certainly not to their Wolofization, but rather the social stratification and reproduction of the Tukulor caste system through PS clientelist relations that have integrated them into the Senegalese state. In terms of Wolofization, the other dimension of the Islamo-Wolof model, Diop and Diouf claim that Wolof hegemonic values and norms

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have been an integrative force in Senegal evidenced by the spread of the Wolof language. This aspect of the Islamo-Wolof model has its intellectual roots in Donal Cruise O’Brien’s (1980) analysis of the Wolofization of Senegal’s political economy. Although ethnic Wolofs represent 42.7 percent of the population, Wolof is spoken by over 70 percent of Senegalese. As an indicator of uneven Wolofization, the spread of the Wolof language is obviously less advanced in Ziguinchor than regions where the Wolof represent the ethnic majority (Dakar, Diourbel, Kaolack, Thies, and Louga) as well as the neighboring region of Fatick where the Sereer are highly Wolofized. But in contrast with the three predominantly Hal-Pulaar’en regions of Kolda, Tambacounda, and Saint-Louis, the use of Wolof by non-Wolofs is far greater in Ziguinchor (table 5.1). Wolofization is typically associated with migration to urban areas, which is relatively high in the Ziguinchor region; but the Wolof language has also penetrated rural areas in Lower Casamance. In 1988, nearly one-third of Ziguinchor’s rural inhabitants spoke Wolof, including 22.9 percent of rural Jola (Republic of Senegal 1990: 24–25). Based on personal observations in Jola villages over the last two decades, this number has dramatically risen as a result of high rates of migration in pursuit of employment and education that obliges Jolas to learn Wolof as the Senegambian lingua franca. Though considered an integrative force in the Islamo-Wolof model, the invasive spread of the Wolof language and the broader Wolofization of Casamance culture have been a source of tension frequently cited by MFDC leaders as a contributing factor to their desire to secede from the “Wolof state.” Nevertheless, resistance to Wolofization is not

Table 5.1

Wolof Speakers in Regions with a Wolof Minority

Region

Saint-Louis Fatick Ziguinchor Tamba Kolda National

Ethnic Wolofs

Wolof First Language

Wolof Second Language

Total Wolof Speakers

30.1

32.2 33.4 7.8

12.9 44.2 28.2

45.1 77.6 36.0

9.8 3.6 49.2

10.2 6.8 22.1

20.0 10.4 71.3

29.9 10.4 8.8 3.4 42.7

Source: Republic of Senegal (1990: 26–27)

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unique to Lower Casamance as discussed in chapter 4 on the Pulaarspeaking Tukulor. The Hal-Pulaaren response, however, has not led to political violence but taken the form of a cultural movement, spearheaded by a massive Pulaar literacy campaign supported by leftist opposition parties and NGOs led by Hal-Pulaar’en intellectuals and their expatriot allies such as Sonja Fagerburg-Diallo who co-founded the Associates in Rural Education and Development (McLaughlin 1996). Consequently, the two historical processes that constitute the Islamo-Wolof model may be indicative of a cultural sense of alienation in Lower Casamance but they do not fully differentiate the region from Senegal’s other peripheral areas, thus preventing the model from explaining the rise of the secessionist movement. Moreover, this thesis is contradicted by the relatively high level of support in Lower Casamance for the Wolof-dominated party-state of the PS. What is culturally “particular” to Lower Casamance, therefore, is not a lack of Wolofization, which is relatively high, or a rejection of the process, which is evident in other non-Wolof areas such as the Fuuta Tooro. Nor is it the absence of ndigels by marabout grands électeurs which is also true of the Tukulor, but rather a lack of social hierarchy and centralized authority that contrasts this region with both Wolof and Halpulaar’en societies. These sociopolitical factors were central to Dominique Darbon’s 1988 comparative analysis of the impact of sociopolitical structures on the administration of the Lower, Middle, and Upper Casamance. Studies that rely on the Islamo-Wolof model make at least passing reference to Darbon’s work (Diaw and Diouf 1992: 49; Diop and Diouf 1990: 21; Gasser 2002: 467). In their analyses, the dominance of the Islamo-Wolof model, with its highly hierarchical and centralized social structures, explains the clientelist nature of the Senegalese state, as well as the marginalization of Lower Casamance. The analysis in this chapter, however, turns this argument on its head. Instead, the hierarchical authority in Wolof Muslim society explains its ability to thrive in the neo-patrimonial political and economic institutions that have characterized Senegal’s colonial and postcolonial state, a phenomenon found not only in Senegal but in all of sub-Saharan Africa. State-building in Senegal, in contrast with nation-building, is not based on an Islamo-Wolof model but rather on a clientelist model to which the hierarchical structures of Wolof as well as Tukulor societies have been better adapted. By focusing on regional variations in social structures rather than Senegal-specific historical processes highlighted in the Islamo-Wolof

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model, we can not only explain “Casamance particularism” but also move beyond the specificity of the Senegalese cultural context to generalize more broadly about the impact of social structures on political integration into a clientelist system and their capacity to provide political access and legitimacy. Thus, while the Islamo-Wolof model of Senegalese state-building is undoubtedly seen by the Jola—Muslim and non-Muslim alike—as a source of alienation and discrimination, what distinguishes Casamance politics from the shared experiences of other peripheral regions is the absence of a customary political class that limits the authority of local elites.

Egalitarianism and Decentralized Political Authority in Precolonial Jola Society The Jola, Manjak, Mancagne, Balant, and other smaller ethnic groups that constitute the majority of the inhabitants in Lower Casamance are widely viewed as distinctive in their absence of social stratification (table 5.2; see Darbon 1988; Pélissier 1966; Roche 1985; Thomas 1958).5 Although Catherine Boone (2003: 1054) accurately states that “there is more to [Jola] social organization than ‘lack of hierarchy,’ ” in a comparison with other Senegalese ethnic groups, this is by far the most distinctive and generalizable attribute. Given the large historical and ethnographic literature on the Jola, as well as their predominance in the region and the MFDC, this chapter focuses on the historical social structures of the Jola without considering them to be synonymous with either the Casamançais or the separatist movement, a common occurrence in the discourse of the Senegalese government, the media, and academics as well (Lambert 1998). Table 5.2

“Egalitarian” Ethnic Groups in the Ziguinchor Region Bignona Department

Jola Manjak Mancagne Balant Total

Oussouye Department

Ziguinchor Department

82.4 0.7 0.3 0.3 83.7

34.5 7.5 5.6 4.8 52.4

80.6 0.2 0.2 0.8 81.8

Source: Republic of Senegal (1990: 21)

Ziguinchor Region 60.7 3.8 2.6 2.5 69.6

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Although the Jola are characterized by their “incredible diversity, to such a point that one cannot speak of the Jola except in terms of a geographic reference” (Darbon 1988: 31), Jola societies have been uniformly marked by an absence of hierarchical categories of social status. Unlike the Wolof and Tukulor, the Jola have never had a caste system based on ascribed occupations and endogamy, nor a class of slaves (Mark 1985; Pélissier 1966; Roche 1971; Thomas 1958). Pélissier (1966: 682) noted: All Jolas are socially equal and none is privileged nor has the obligation to fulfill particular functions that are conferred on him due to a definitive vocation that places him in the service of the collective. Jola society is ignorant of castes as it is ignorant of slavery; nowhere does one find warriors, griots, leatherworkers, metalworkers, attached to their function by their birth, inheritor of techniques immutably transmitted from father to son, constrained from marrying except a girl from the same caste.

Without denying that these social structures are distinctive, Mamadou Diouf is critical of an idealization of Jola egalitarian societies in contrast to the inherently hierarchical northern societies, a romanticism and exoticism evident in colonial texts and ethnographies of the region. Diouf (2001: 179) maintains that this “invention of the qualities of the Jola ethnic group that opposes them above all to the Wolof” is the source of the oppositional Jola/Casamançais selfidentification that has been politicized by the MFDC. Diouf (2001: 179–181) sets out to refute this ethnographic stereotype by drawing upon Peter Mark’s (1985) ethnographic history of Lower Casamance to demonstrate the involvement of the Jola in slave raiding and the Atlantic slave trade (see also Baum 1999; Linares 1987). Their involvement in slave raiding challenges the romanticized “idyllic vision” of Jola societies, but without undermining the assertion of their distinctive egalitarianism given the common practice among the Jola of “forced adoption.” Mark (1985: 27) notes that a captive among the Jola “was quickly regarded as a member of the adopting lineage and could, if a male, inherit his own rice fields from his adoptive family.” In contrast to northern societies where certain families are still identified with a slave caste, forced adoption of slaves in Lower Casamance “usually entailed few enduring social handicaps,” evidenced by the absence of any contemporary references among the Jola to individuals, their families, or their ancestors as slaves. In contrast, Wolof and Tukulor informants privately identified the families of slave caste in a community, and on numerous occasions I observed the

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technically free “slaves” of a toorodo family performing menial tasks such as sweeping the courtyard or disposing of garbage. When asked who these individuals were, they replied in a matter-of-fact manner that “they are our family’s slaves.” While Diouf (2001: 181) aptly describes Mark’s writings on Lower Casamance as “indispensable for a good understanding of the crisis in Casamance,” Diouf, nonetheless, limits his references to evidence that presumably challenges the opposition of Casamance to northern Senegal. However, in addition to his discussion of “forced adoption,” Mark’s (1985: 8) work contains important ethnographic evidence of “Casamance particularism,” such as the “shallow patrilineal” lines in which “lineages are generally quite shallow with precise affiliation rarely remembered beyond four generations.” In contrast to northern Senegalese societies, there are no lineage genealogies of noble families whose praises are sung by a caste of griots that could provide a Jola kinship group with a historical claim to power. Thus, unlike the Wolof and Tukulor dynasties, there has never been a ruling class of noble families among the Jola. Furthermore, there was no precolonial Jola state, but “rather a plurality of zones of politico-religious influence” (Thomas 1968: 1). Political power was highly dispersed, with the gerontocracy of each Jola village selecting a chief without obligations to a broader regional authority. Even at the village level, the power of a Jola chief was constrained by the authority retained by the head of each concession or household in the village. Consequently, the Jola have historically had a very restricted notion of both authority and community. Intermittently, Jola villages did contract alliances. But these agreements were ephemeral, often the result of external threats or the particular qualities of an individual chief, rather than groundwork for a Jola state. Once the enemy was pushed back or the leader disappeared, each group reclaimed its autonomy. Even in the few instances where several villages were united under a “king,” or on occasion a “queen,” their authority was typically circumscribed both geographically and politically. A Jola king, or more accurately “priest,” was a local religious figure who was appointed to serve as the guardian of the boekin (sacred object) of a particular village or group of villages. Unlike the prominent marabout leaders of northern Senegal, the political influence of a Jola king-priest was typically weak and their economic power mediocre at best (Pélissier 1966: 677–680). Forced to bow to numerous and rigorous customs, the life of a Jola king was “hardly enviable . . . a difficult responsibility that one sought to avoid” (Roche 1985: 35). Undoubtedly, this

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nonhierarchical and decentralized nature of sociopolitical authority in Lower Casamance influenced the region’s distinctive form of resistance to and administration by the French colonial state.

“Casamance Particularism” under French Colonial Rule In the absence of centralized sociopolitical or religious authority structures, the French found it more difficult to conquer and administer Lower Casamance than the centralized precolonial states in northern Senegal or even neighboring Mandinka and Peul communities in Middle and Upper Casamance. Contrasting “Muslim resistance” among the Mandinka with Jola “pagan resistance,” Roche (1985: 154–187) describes how powerful marabouts in Middle Casamance resolutely resisted French colonial rule, but once defeated militarily would submit to the authority of the colonial administration, serving as intermediaries not unlike the powerful Wolof marabouts in northern Senegal. In this sense, it was advantageous for the colonizers to confront “a centralized opposition represented by a single chief [as once he was] defeated, resistance would collapse” (de Benoist 1991: 27–28). While the absence of centralized leadership prevented coordinated resistance to colonial rule, the French were confronted by an inability to effectively defeat, co-opt, or negotiate with the Jola, forcing the colonizers to conquer Lower Casamance village by village with innumerable treaties that were little respected without military presence (Darbon 1988: 59; Thomas 1958: 20–21). This “pacification” of Lower Casamance was further complicated by its dense forests and winding mangroves as opposed to the open savannah in northern Senegal. Even after the region was militarily conquered, the Jola continued to engage in passive forms of resistance and occasionally outright revolts against the colonial administration (Roche 1971: 451–467; 1985: 154–187). Consequently, the French created a special administrative relationship with the region that placed it under the direct authority of the governor of French West Africa (AOF) in Saint-Louis. Although the region was later incorporated into the Senegalese colony as a cercle (district), this distinctive colonial experience became a basis for MFDC separatists’ claim to the right to self-determination as an autonomous former colony of France, despite findings to the contrary by French archivist Jacques Charpy who was called in by the Senegalese government in 1993 at the urging of the MFDC to assess the validity of the separatists’ claim.6

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Once colonial rule was established, French administrators continued to be frustrated by the limited authority and jurisdiction of Jola leaders. Accustomed to dealing with the centralized political institutions of northern Senegalese societies, colonial officials depicted the Jola as “primitive” Africans with “a violent repulsion to authority.” This became the basis for another, less-flattering stereotype of the Jola as anarchists. Pélissier, for example, asserts that Jola resistance was not specifically directed against European authority but against all forms of authority (Pélissier 1966: 677). Their rejection of colonial rule, however, had less to do with a general aversion to authority than their forced integration into a centralized political structure that was alien to their culture, led by foreigners who sought to control their political institutions, economic activities, and religious practices. These foreigners were not only the French colonizers but also northern Senegalese who were brought in under colonial rule to govern the “anarchical” Jolas. The colonial policy of imposing northern administrators stems from what Christian Roche describes as a “disastrous report” written in 1891 by French administrator Martin who was sent to assess the economic and political situation in Lower Casamance. Based on his limited experience in the region, Martin reported: It is sad to say but one must admit that Jola villages . . . recognize the authority of no one . . . Orders fall on deaf ears for these people who abuse alcohol although they are not in rebellion . . . The only villages where there is some semblance of organization are those led by chiefs from regions other than those they administer. In general, they are the Wolof from Saint-Louis and Gorée. From this we can conclude that it is necessary to place Wolofs at the head of these idolatrous villages. (Quoted by Roche 1985: 268)

French control of the appointment of chiefs was not unique to Lower Casamance. Throughout Senegal, as well as other African colonies, European colonizers manipulated local institutions, throwing their support behind a particular candidate or deposing an “unfriendly” leader to promote the interests of the colonial state. Nor was it unheard of to impose “foreign” administrators; in northern Senegal, outsiders were occasionally appointed to head a canton of villages. In the case of the Jola, however, outsiders not only headed this alien form of a centralized administration, but in many cases outsiders were imposed as village chiefs per Martin’s recommendation. Not surprisingly, where the foreign chiefs were installed, serious conflicts typically ensued.

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The imposition of colonial administrators from northern Senegal was not the first contact between Wolofs and Jolas. Wolof traders became linguistic and economic intermediaries in the region when the Portuguese, followed by the French, first established trading posts along Casamance River in the early seventeenth century. In the 1880s, several Wolof marabouts also led jihads against the Jola and other ethnic groups in the northwestern quadrant of Lower Casamance, with the tacit approval of colonial administrators who found northern marabouts to be reliable allies (Roche 1985: 214– 220). While the Wolof saw the Jola as “primitive infidels” who drank palm wine, the activities of the Wolof, including marriage to Jola women, did little to endear them to the local population. Their poor image was compounded by the behavior of many Wolof administrators. For example, in 1891 a French-appointed Wolof chief offered to protect the women and children in the Jola village of Gudomp (Ziguinchor) under the pretext of a pending attack by a neighboring ethnic group, the Balant, with whom the Jola had a long history of conflict. He then sold the women and children into slavery and denied ever having them under his protection (Roche 1985: 269). Jola frustration with the colonial administration and its northern representatives fueled armed resistance in the region well into the twentieth century. Not until the end of World War I was the colonial state able to replace its French military commandants with a political apparatus following a successful campaign to disarm the Jola. As for their northern Senegalese intermediaries, Vincent Foucher (2002: 90–91) notes that by this time “the quasi-totality of canton chiefs in Lower Casamance were autochthonous,” reflecting the rise of William Ponty’s colonial policy of the politique des races. The powerful Seck and Cissé maraboutic families from northern Senegal were among the few “northerners” who maintained a lasting presence in the region. Northern administrators within the French colonial administration and the subsequent Senegalese civil service nevertheless remained a prevalent and frequent source of tension, prominent among the catalysts for the secessionist movement. Despite the appointment of sons of the soil as canton chiefs, passive resistance persisted with intermittent rebellions, particularly during World War II when the colonial state, lacking in human and financial resources, imposed taxes and forced labor, and resumed “recruiting” African soldiers for the war effort. It was in this context that the famous Jola resistance leader, Aliin Sitoé Diatta, led a struggle

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against the policies of the colonial state (Girard 1969: 214–267; Toliver-Diallo 1999). An illiterate migrant worker employed as a maid in Dakar, Diatta claimed to have received a divine revelation that led her to instruct the Jola to honor their culture and ancestors in order to assure plentiful rains and a good harvest. To do this, she counseled them to refuse to participate in forced labor, military conscription, the cultivation of peanuts, and the sale of rice, all of which were alien to Jola culture but critical to the French war effort. Following her return to the Casamance village of Kabrousse and her successful prediction of badly needed rains, the new prophetess cum priestess quickly gained a wide following among not only Jola from all subgroups and faiths, but also other ethnic groups in the region. The French colonial commander in Ziguinchor described Diatta as having “founded a new cult, drawing large crowds coming from everywhere, especially the Fogny, the Mancagne and Manjak regions. There are even Mandinka pilgrims from Sédhiou, Peul from Velingara, and Wolof from the Gambia and even Dakar, and finally Portuguese Guinea” (Girard 1969: 218).

Jola women harvest rice in a field south of Ziguinchor that has since been mined in the Casamance secessionist conflict (October 1986).

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Based on her multiethnic following and the location of her first vision in Dakar’s Sandaga Market, Maktar Diouf (1994: 175) asserts that “Diatta must be considered an important martyr in Senegalese history; she cannot belong exclusively to the Jola ethnic group from which she originated.” Consequently, he questions why the Senegalese government was late in paying her homage, doing so only after she had become a rallying point as a cultural icon in the secessionist movement. While Mamadou Diouf (2001: 193) attributes the failure of the government to embrace Diatta as a national symbol to its dominance by Wolof Muslims, Willmetta Toliver-Diallo (1999) noted that the MFDC embraced Diatta as a Casamance heroine not in response to her anonymity in Senegalese political culture, but rather her appropriation by Dakar-based leftist intellectuals in their critique of the neocolonial regime of Senghor. Predominantly northerners, these leftists downplayed her role as a Casamance leader, asserting that Diatta’s message “was revolutionary, almost Marxist” (Foucher 2002: 38). Catherine Boone, on the other hand, sees Diatta as an example of the political threat that the region posed to not only the colonial state but also the postcolonial state stemming from its diffuse, highly localized political structure. According to Boone (2003: 115–116), Diatta, along with subsequent Casamançais leaders, was a particular threat to the state because of her ability to mobilize the local population without the capacity to reliably harness it, thus preventing them from delivering “a disciplined constituency or electoral bloc.” Following the capture of Diatta and her entourage in 1943 and the reestablishment of order, the French were concerned about the subsequent flourishing of new priestesses in the region who sought to emulate Diatta’s example, although none ever succeeded. Instead, the anticolonial sentiments that continued to resonate in the region were “harnessed” by a local group of educated elites including Emile Badiane and Ibou Diallo. In the 1949 manifesto that announced their new political party, the Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques de la Casamance—the original MFDC from which the current separatist movement derives its name—they denounced the colonial administration for its excessive centralization and corruption. As for the ability of these Casamançais sons of the soil to develop a local constituency and assure electoral majorities if not a “disciplined electoral bloc,” this became clear in the 1950s as electoral politics spread beyond the Four Communes to incorporate the rural Wolof hinterland and peripheral regions of the colony including Casamance.

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Political Opposition and Incorporation of the Casamançais Sons of the Soil Whereas opposition to colonial rule in Casamance was far from unique in postwar Senegal or Africa in general, the Casamançais and Jola in particular have often been portrayed as “welcoming of ideas and initiatives of different forms of opposition to the authorities” due to the absence of social hierarchy and centralized political structures, making them “more open to democratic competition” (Pélissier 1966: 679). Among historians and social scientists, including myself (Beck 1996; Boone 2003; Darbon 1988), a consensus arose that the absence of structural obstacles to democratic competition in Jola society translated into weaker incorporation into the colonial and subsequently postcolonial state. Consequently, Casamance has been distinguished as “poorly defended in the realm of politics” (Dumont and Mottin 1982: 136) thus explaining the rise of the separatist movement.7 The most extreme variant of this argument is the translation of the lack of hierarchy into a rejection of all forms of authority by the Jola and thus their incompatibility with the colonial and Senegalese states (Darbon 1984: 127; Diaw and Diouf 1992: 49). In his explanation of the origins of the secessionist movement, Vincent Foucher (2002: 32–33) offers a fascinating counterargument that it was not rejection of authority but pursuit of fuller integration into the PS-state that ultimately led the Jola to feel like “the cheated pilgrims of the Senegalese state.” Foucher (2002: 82) notes that “one cannot . . . but wonder how this society, supposedly so entrenched in its refusal of hierarchies, power and the state, came to so easily accept modern education, an institution so closely related to the state, a system so productive of inequalities, so elitist in its principles.” Like other educated Senegalese, their pursuit of employment typically led them to positions in the civil service, a further indication of integration rather than rejection of state authority. Foucher’s rejection of the “anti-authoritarian” thesis is also supported by the disproportionate number of Jola who have sought to escape poverty and advance in Senegalese society by joining the armed forces, undoubtedly the most hierarchical state institution in any society. Even if the Jola are not averse to the hierarchical nature of the Senegalese state, it is nonetheless assumed that the absence of hierarchy in Jola society translates into not only a greater capacity for democratic competition but also weak local intermediaries in a political

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“Catch-22.” The argument is that in the absence of a customary political class, the sons of the soil in Lower Casamance have been unable to mobilize popular political support and thus unable to negotiate access to the political resources from the PS-state that could, in turn, permit them to mobilize greater political support (Beck 1996; Boone 2003; Darbon 1988; Gasser 2002). Catherine Boone adds to this argument an element of risk aversion, maintaining that the absence of “interlocutors who were trusted enough, and powerful enough” to assure not only “acquiescent electoral blocs” but also control of a mobilized population, made the centralized state leery of political and economic investment in the region. Boone asserts that “Dakar never built a deep-reaching partystate apparatus” that linked villages and towns in Lower Casamance to local elites by “irrigating” them with resources from the center. Instead, she argues that the PS-state did not allow the emergence of “sites for building clientelist networks or foci of political activity” (Boone 2003: 97). In contrast, Dominque Darbon (1988: 132) insists that the implantation of the Socialist Party in Casamance was “very efficient due to an integrative structure from the village (committee) to the region (regional coordination),” enhancing its capacity for mobilization and penetration of rural areas. Rather than taking a risk averse approach, Darbon (1988: 131) depicts the numerous efforts by the Socialist leadership to “avoid the development of local partisan and independent structures in Casamance . . . [by rallying] Casamançais political personalities, notably by integrating them into the apparatus of the state.” An examination of early electoral and party politics under colonial rule clearly demonstrates both their capacity to mobilize electoral support for the party of Leopold Senghor in its various manifestations and their incorporation into the party and later the state apparatus of the newly independent Senegalese state.

Early Party and Electoral Politics in Casamance8 As in the Four Communes in northern Senegal, French and Creole African politicians initially dominated urban politics in the regional capital of Ziguinchor prior to the extension of suffrage to rural areas after World War II (chapter 2). According to Vincent Foucher (2002: 131–133), there were also a handful of men with “rural Casamançais patronyms” on the Ziguinchor municipal commission by the 1930s, suggesting the presence of Jola as well as Mandinka and Balante sons

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of the soil. But in comparison with other regions, the more distinctive feature of the commission was the inclusion of politicians whose names reveal their northern origins, a product of the diaspora of northern administrators and merchants in Lower Casamance. Following the enfranchisement of Senegal’s rural subjects, these local traders and civil servants gained power through alliances with Lamine Guèye’s SFIO, while the Creole, who allied by default with the Rassemblement Démocratique Africain (RDA), retained power in their political fiefdom of urban Ziguinchor until well after independence when politicians of northern origins assumed the helm of the local party apparatus and elected offices in the regional capital. In 1946, however, when franchise was extended to the rural population, the electoral victory of northern politicians was based on their large rural networks and economic resources since local brokers during this period had to rely solely on their personal wealth as opposed to access to state or party resources to mobilize political support. Although the SFIO list was headed by Momodou Alpha Kane, a school teacher whose father was a prominent Tukulor trader and member of the 1934 Ziguinchor Municipal Commission, the “kingmaker” in Ziguinchor politics according to Vincent Foucher (2002: 136) was Ibou Cissé, “a rich trader from the Saloum [central region of Kaolack], who put his influence and money in the service of the SFIO.” Cissé recruited young educated Jola to generate support as sons of the soil, although Emile Badiane, a young Jola school teacher, refused to join the SFIO, resulting in his crushing defeat as an independent candidate in 1946. Three years later, Badiane formed the MFDC party with various other educated Casamançais including fellow schoolteacher Ibou Diallo, a “Mandingised” Peul related to the powerful canton chief and Muslim leader, Samba Aissata Diallo, based in the predominantly Mandinka area of the Middle Casamance. Given its multi-ethnic leadership, there was obviously no ethnic ideology underpinning the initial MFDC. Nevertheless, the MFDC took a strong regionalist stance in opposition to the political dominance of the Four Communes while criticizing various colonial policies, particularly taxes that were crushing the rural population, not unlike various other regional parties including those in the Fuuta Tooro (chapter 4). From its origins, the MFDC was closely allied with Leopold Sédar Senghor. In 1949, the MFDC published its initial manifesto in Condition Humaine, the party organ of Senghor’s newly formed Bloc Démocratique Sénégalais (BDS), which had recently splintered from Lamine Guèye’s SFIO in 1948. By 1950, the MFDC established a

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formal alliance with the BDS. Initially, party membership cards bore the name MFDC-BDS, although ultimately the Casamance regional party was subsumed under the rubric of the BDS along with various regional associations, including the Union Générale des Originaires du Fleuve and the Association des Toucouleurs du Fouta Toro. From this period until his death in 1972, Emile Badiane was a constant political companion of Senghor, serving continuously as his minister of technical education despite the rise and decline of Senghor’s various other political allies. Demba Coly, another MFDC leader and Jola politician, also served as Senghor’s minister of health from 1962 until 1966, although unlike Badiane, he was never appointed to the powerful Political Bureau of the Socialist Party. Senghor’s confidence in the MFDC leadership was with cause given the massive electoral support they generated for the BDS, especially in the early years when Senghor’s party had not yet established its monopoly over Senegalese politics. In the 1951 elections for the French National Assembly, the BDS received nearly 94 percent of the vote in Ziguinchor, the highest percentage in Senegal (Morganthau 1964: 143). Support for Seneghor’s party in Ziguinchor surpassed the electoral majorities in the regions of the pays du ndigel despite support from Wolof marabouts, including Murid Khalif-Général Fallou Mbacke. As for the Tukulor in the Senegal River Valley, the BDS majority was even slimmer in Podor (61.3%), while barely one-quarter of the Matam electorate supported Senghor’s party despite its alliance with Tukulor regional associations. By the 1952 elections for the Territorial Assembly, BDS support reached over 55 percent in Matam and nearly 80 percent in Podor; however, the Ziguinchor electorate remained the staunchest supporters of the BDS giving Senghor’s party 92 percent of the vote. In the 1956 elections for the French National Assembly, support for the BDS in Casamance slipped slightly to 87 percent but remained well above the national average of 76 percent, despite an alliance between the SFIO and a newly formed regional party, the Mouvement Autonome de Casamance (MAC; Foucher 2002: 144, 157; Morganthau 1964: 147; Zucarelli 1988 42–45). The MAC was formed in 1955 by a group of younger, more radical members of the MFDC, such as Djibril Sarr and Louis Da Costa, who were angered by the party’s integration into the BDS. In contrast with the MFDC’s rural base, the MAC was an urban intellectual party. After its formation, Assane Seck, a member of a powerful Wolof family of canton chiefs who had settled in Sédhiou (Middle Casamance) at the end of the nineteenth century, was recruited by the MAC

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leadership.9 A military officer in the French colonial army during World War II, Seck returned to Senegal in 1952 after obtaining a prestigious degree (aggregation) in geography. Like his fellow Casamançais politicians, Seck was an educator but with a more advanced degree, teaching at the prestigious Ecôle Normale Willam Ponty in Dakar. Consequently, Seck quickly became a prominent MAC leader before being wooed by Senghor who made him a member of the political bureau of the newly constituted Bloc Populaire Sénégalais in 1957. Seck did not remain with Senghor for very long after the coalition party, which was rebaptized the Union Progressiste Sénégalaise (UPS), decided to support extended autonomy within the French colonial state in the 1958 referendum on colonial rule (chapter 2). This pushed the radical wing of the UPS, including Assane Seck and various other Casamançais along with northern politicians such as Abdoulaye Ly, to form the Parti de Regroupement Africain-Sénégal (PR A-S), which demanded immediate independence for Senegal. The referendum for increased autonomy within the French colonial state rather than immediate independence was resoundingly approved by over 97 percent, thanks largely to support from Senghor’s marabout and toorodo allies in northern Senegal (Zucarelli 1988: 69). Although various analysts have noted that the highest percentage against the referendum came from Casamance, only 7.4 percent of Casamançais voted against it in defiance of Senghor and the local brokers of his party (Foucher 2002: 158–159). In her argument about the perceived risk of investing in a region dominated by the opposition, Catherine Boone (2003: 115) notes that the PR A-S received 85.5 percent of its votes in the 1959 legislative elections from Casamance voters. She mistakenly claims, however, that the party also won an electoral majority, citing Darbon (1988: 184) who instead verified that “the party of President Senghor always retained its [electoral] majority” in the region. Although Senghor’s UPS party received its lowest level of support in Casamance, it still obtained 74.4 percent of the vote in the 1959 election, which was not significantly lower than support in the Senegal River Valley where the UPS received 77.1 percent of the vote.10 O’Brien (1967b: 558) made a similar assertion that “the PR A-S controlled the majority in Casamance through M. Assane Seck.” However, not only did the party fail to capture a majority in the region, but Seck was unable to carry the majority of votes even in his own department of Sédiou. Nonetheless, the myth of a historical opposition majority is widely believed among Casamance separatists,

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including MFDC leader Abbé Augustin Diamacoune Senghor who claimed during an interview in August 2001 that an alleged majority in favor of immediate independence during the 1958 referendum entitled the region to an earlier and separate independence from France. Until the PR A-S leadership joined the ruling party in 1966 making Senegal a de facto one-party state, the UPS continued to hold a comfortable if not resounding majority in Casamance, although always lagging behind as the “least supportive” region of the UPS. Nevertheless, support for the UPS during legislative elections at the time of independence increased to 85.4 percent in 1963, reaching 100 percent by 1968 (Zucarelli 1970: 131). Given that the UPS enjoyed unanimity in all regions by 1968, Zucarelli attempted to demonstrate the continuing hostility toward the ruling party in “certain departments of the Casamance” by calculating the number of votes for the UPS as a percentage of the registered voters. Although abstention rates throughout this period were significantly higher among Casamançais, reaching over 18 percent in 1968 in comparison to less than 5 percent in the Murid region of Diourbel, it is difficult to determine whether this reflects the relative level of opposition or other factors such as inaccuracy in the region’s electoral lists. Regardless, the party-state enjoyed electoral support from the vast majority of registered voters in Casamance during this period. In addition to rates of electoral opposition and abstention, Foucher (2002: 158) refers to political violence between partisans of the UPS and PR A-S in Casasmance as evidence of greater opposition in the region. Unfortunately, this was not exceptional, as violence flared up throughout Senegalese history in various regions even during the height of one-party rule when violence frequently erupted among local political factions of the ruling party jockeying for position throughout the country. One need only glace through the endless regional reports in the PS archives in Dakar to realize how pernicious and violent factional disputes were particularly during the internal party elections (renouvellements) when the local party leadership was up for grabs, including periodic political violence in Matam (chapter 4). What we can conclude from this analysis of early electoral and party politics is that support for Senghor’s party was remarkably high in Casamance despite its reputation as “a zone of opposition” (Darbon 1988: 132). Nevertheless, it was logical for the PR A-S leadership to concentrate its political energies on mobilizing support in Lower Casamance, which it saw as the most “de-Senghorified” and hence

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democratic region “thanks to the objective local conditions,” specifically the lack of hierarchy and centralized authority (Foucher 2002: 159). Despite this concentration of opposition resources in the region, Senghor’s party, in its various incarnations, retained a decisive majority in the region since its inception. In this sense, neither the PR A-S nor the previous regional parties posed a serious threat to Senghor’s party or the Senegalese state. Moreover, when the PR A-S “fused” with the ruling party in 1966, Casamançais politicians benefited from additional political appointments that provided them with access to the clientelist resources of the party-state. According to Assane Seck during an interview conducted in July 1997, the PR A-S received a negotiated percentage of positions in both the government and the ruling party. This assertion is confirmed by the significant number of Casamançais on the lists of governmental and party officials in the late 1960s provided by François Zucarelli (1970: 194, 282). Zucarelli offers further evidence of the incorporation of the PR A-S in terms of an electoral quota set by Senghor in 1968, much to the chagrin of his party’s “old guard,” that reserved 10 percent of the legislative lists for former PR A-S politicians. In Casamance, four of the twelve candidates were former PR A-S, including Da Costa and Seck (Zucarelli 1970: 77–78). Foucher astutely observed that the UPS used factional competition to “domesticate” the former PR A-S politicians in its mists, in contrast to the banning of other national party’s such as Cheikh Anta Diop’s RND. The PR A-S were so effectively incorporated that by the 1970s its former leaders had become the old barons of the UPS with Assane Seck serving as the doyen of the PS in Casamance on Emile Badiane’s death in 1972 (Foucher 2002: 164). In reference to this PS strategy of incorporation, O’Brien (1967b: 561) observed in the late 1960s that President Senghor “let it be known that he actively favors the recruitment of support from all sides, and he has usually not allowed himself to be prejudiced by considerations of the past conduct of the opposition.” The inclusion of Casamance in Senghor’s ethnic or more accurately regional arithmetic is evident in that the twelve positions reserved for Casamançais on the 1968 legislative electoral list, reflecting fifteen percent of the total number of positions for the National Assembly. This was the same percentage of the seats distributed to the Cap-Vert and Diourbel regions, and 5 percent more than the Fleuve (Saint-Louis) region received. Furthermore, 16 percent of the delegates sent to the Party Congress in 1968 were selected from

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Casamance, more than any other region with the exception of the Sine-Saloum (Kaolack) region (Zucarelli 1970: 170–176). As Darbon (1988: 132) notes, this high level of incorporation continued through the postcolonial period, with Casamance always well represented in both the National Assembly and leadership of the PS. He cites for example that 19 out of 100 deputies elected in 1983 were from Casamance, four of whom were named president of a commission in the National Assembly, thus ensuring greater access to its clientelist perks. While the history of early party politics clearly demonstrates the inclusion of Casamance politicians and their ability to deliver electoral majorities throughout Senegal’s initial period of competitive elections, we must still determine whether they were able to use their positions within the party-state to provide access to political resources and protect the interests of their constituency, a critical role for a broker and a fundamental critique of the MFDC separatists. If not, the question is whether the rise of the Casamanqués, a term Diamacoune coined for the Casamançais who “miss out” (“manqué”) on public resources and investment, is attributable to the central government’s fear of integrating or merely failure to integrate Lower Casamance.

Casamance’s Economic Particularism or a “Particular” Response to Economic Marginalization in Senegal’s Periphery? The MFDC has cited various examples of the state’s “malign neglect” of Casamance to demonstrate the necessity and justness of its pursuit for independence (Chambaudouin 1993; Darbon 1985; Diamacoune 1995). In particular, the separatists have condemned the lack of state investment in infrastructure, claiming that state-sponsored projects have been blocked or diverted to northern Senegal and the central Peanut Basin in particular. These assertions by the MFDC are supported by various analyses of the economic marginalization of Casamance (Beck 1996; Boone 2003; Darbon 1988; Diaw and Diouf 1992; Trincaz 1984). Rare in his defense of PS-state investment in the region, Maktar Diouf (1994: 180) offers a list of development projects undertaken in Casamance prior to the outbreak of hostilities, such as the creation of the two parastatal agencies SODAICA (Society for Agricultural and Industrial Development in Casamance) and SOMIVAC (Society for Agricultural Development in Casamance). Although he acknowledges

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that the majority of these projects have failed, Diouf observes that the experience in Casamance unfortunately mirrors that in the rest of the country. In both the colonial and post-independence periods, however, economic investment in Senegal clearly centered around the peanut economy in central Senegal that was developed in collaboration with the Wolof marabouts, the state’s quintessential brokers. Nevertheless, as Catherine Boone (2003: 99) points out, peanut production in Casamance was not insignificant. By the 1960s, the region produced 12–15 percent of Senegal’s peanut exports, half of which were produced in Lower Casamance. The region did not, however, benefit from the same level of state investment as northern producers despite the significant potential for commercial agriculture in this region of fertile land and abundant rainfall. Although Aminata Diaw and Mamadou Diouf (1992: 47) attributed the initial decision not to further develop the Casamance peanut economy primarily to difficult access to the region, Catherine Boone maintains that the continued economic neglect of the region after independence was not just a colonial legacy but a deliberate political strategy by the PS-state, which was willing to sacrifice potential economic gains to avoid the alleged political risks associated with intensive state-building in Lower Casamance. Boone (2003: 99) maintains that Dakar’s strategy was to “keep this rural population politically disorganized” by refusing to provide “resources—institutional or financial—that would help local political entrepreneurs harness existing collectivities and social networks, and overcome the collective action problems built into the fragmented nature of rural social organization in this region.” But while her analysis of the economic marginalization of the region focuses on the “weak rivals” in Lower Casamance who were not powerful enough to be trusted with substantial state resources, she does not offer an explanation of why the PS-state strategy did not differ in Middle and Upper Casasmance where hierarchical social structures presumably provided interlocutors who were “trusted enough and powerful enough” to safely permit “irrigating” these areas with clientelist resources such as state-controlled development projects. On the other hand, Boone does offer an explanation for the similarity in state strategies in Casamance and the Fuuta Tooro region of the Senegal River Valley, arguing that these different contexts ironically necessitated the same approach by the PS-state, namely a lack of state economic investment. According to Boone, the PS-state did not invest in the Fuuta Tooro because the Tukulor toorobe were “strong

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rivals” who considered such investment undesirable. Meanwhile it failed to invest in Casamance because the sons of the soil as “weak rivals” could not effectively use these political resources to mobilize support. On the contrary, according to Boone, state investment in Casamance ran the risk of strengthening opposition to the party-state. As discussed in chapter 4, it is not clear why the PS-state could not have conceived of a program of investment on terms favorable to the toorobe as it had done for the marabouts. In the case of Lower Casamance, on the other hand, it is ironic that Boone chose to categorize local elites as “weak rivals,” not only because of their historic incorporation as prominent allies of the precursors to the PS-state, but also because Lower Casamance has produced some of the strongest rivals to the centralized state, first during colonization and most recently within the MFDC separatist movement. Furthermore, within Senegal’s periphery, Lower Casamance has been relatively “blessed” with state investment, dating back to efforts to develop rice production in the region after independence. Boone (2003: 132–133) explains this as an instance of “off-the-path” behavior for which there is little explanation in her framework other than the state being forced to “adopt politically risky economic development strategies” when weighing other factors, in this case recurrent drought, decline of the peanut economy, and international pressure from foreign donors to develop Casamance’s underexploited agricultural potential. Other analysts, however, have interpreted state investment in the region as an attempt to enhance relations between the region and the central state given the relative strength of the PR A-S in Casamance (Foucher 2002: 214). This would seem to more accurately reflect the modus operandi of the PS-state, which was the provision of clientelist resources to co-opt opposition rather than risk aversion to state investment that may have served as a catalyst for uncontrollable political organization. Indeed, there is little evidence to support a risk aversion thesis in public documents or statements made by the leadership of the partystate other than a debate on dividing Casamance into two regions as reported by Dominique Darbon and cited by Boone. In reference to a 1980 inter-ministerial report and 1983 minutes from the National Assembly, Darbon (1988: 69) notes that although “the Casamance region was considered by a number of [political] leaders to be too extensive and should be [divided] for that reason . . . the problem was tabled, given the risk of accentuating local particularism, notably Jola, which [splitting the region] threatened to reinforce.” However, just as

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the ultimate decision to split the region in 1984 reflected state efforts to redress the current political crisis in Casamance, the perceived “risk of accentuating local particularism” by isolating the secessionists in Lower Casamance was in reference to the current hostilities with the MFDC, not a political theme that set the parameters for the relationship between the central state and local elites in the region. The strongest empirical evidence that Boone (2003: 129–130) provides to support her thesis on PS-state risk aversion in Lower Casamance is the dissolution of the Associations d’Intéret Rural (Rural Interest Associations, AIR), 330 “pre-cooperatives” that entitled members to access credit provided by the central government. As the cooperative movement took off quickly in Casamance, Boone asserts that the PS-state was concerned because “Dakar could not easily control agenda setting.” The Casamance AIRs were dissolved in 1967 on the grounds that they were allegedly not viable. Although “clean-up of the AIRs and consolidation of the cooperative network” in the peanut basin were also discussed in 1966, that matter was tabled despite a similar lack of economic vitality (Boone 2003: 129–130; Schumacher 1975: 152–153, 175; Vengroff 1987). As Boone aptly points out, the cooperatives served primarily political not economic purposes. Those in central Senegal “were too useful to the center to simply dismantle” as they were a clientelist resource for the PS-state’s powerful marabout allies. But her assertion that the cooperatives in Lower Casamance were a “political liability” rather than simply not politically useful requires further substantiation. The cooperatives were not benefiting the brokers who the PS-state relied on to mobilize political support, notably Emile Badiane and Assane Seck who, as mentioned above, were doing a rather effective job. Thus, why would the PS-state be compelled for political reasons to retain these costly institutions especially after France withdrew its purchasing subsidy for Senegalese peanuts in 1967? Rather than being risk averse, an alternative explanation is that the PS-state not only needed to withdraw from the cooperative movement due to the loss of French funding, but also sought to do so in light of the political crisis between President Senghor and Prime Minister Dia that ended with his arrest in 1962 (chapter 2). Dia had spearheaded the cooperative movement as a lynchpin to his program of agricultural reform. After Dia’s trial and imprisonment, President Senghor went to great lengths to distance himself and the PS-state from Dia’s progressive policies. The discussion of dissolving cooperatives in the central peanut basin, which were a critical component of the clientelist relationship with the powerful Wolof marabouts,

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demonstrates how determined Senghor was to put this policy behind him. It is not surprising, however, that the PS-state did not follow through with this policy reform in the central region once it weighed the political costs in terms of its relations with the marabouts. Nor is it surprising that, on the other hand, they were able to do so in Casamance where their political brokers were neither as powerful nor embedded in the cooperative movement. Therefore, the key difference between the two regions is not a difference in state strategy or “deliberate institutional choices” as Boone (2003: 97) suggests, but rather differences in the capacity of the central state to implement its intended policy due to differences in the sociopolitical context of these regions. In this sense, what is remarkable about the comparison of Casamance to other regions in Senegal, including the central Peanut Basin, is not the difference but the similarity of governmental strategies and institutional structures as well as the party apparatus under the PS-state. Nevertheless, the relative power of government officials in Lower Casamance, as Boone correctly points out, was dramatically different: In Lower Casamance, the regional governor, a direct agent of the center, was powerful and acted autonomously from local political influences; governors in the groundnut basin were weak, even marginal actors. In Lower Casamance, sous-preféts were also autonomous agents of centralized control; in the Wolof groundnut basin, they were the politicized co-conspirators and allies of local notables. (Boone 2003: 97–98)

But this relative power did not reflect an explicit strategy of the PS-state to disempower local elites in Casamance, but rather the relative capacity of the PS-state, unencumbered by a powerful local elite, to centralize power through administrative representatives. As Dominque Darbon (1988: 54–55) observes, “Casamance has been submitted to the same process of political, economic and social integration as other parts of Senegal. However, the specificity of the local social formations, and notably their social reference, reinforced by the geographic and historical situation of the zone, provoke the appearance of distortions.” Darbon goes on to describe “the nature of political and economic networks” in Casamance as “indistinguishable from the rest of the country” because they reflect a “Senegalization” of these structures. A prime example of regional variation in the implementation of a nationwide state policy that reflects the varying capacity of the

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PS-state to implement its preferred strategy is its 1972 administrative reforms. As discussed in chapter 4, the new law established local councils to permit greater popular participation in the administration of local affairs, in particular the management of natural resources. This new administrative code was passed to address the inadequacies of the 1964 National Domain law, which was largely unenforced due to political considerations that its implementation would undermine clientelist relations with powerful landowners such as Wolof marabouts and Tukulor toorobe. Boone (2003: 131) notes that even in Casamance prior to the implementation of the 1972 reforms, the PS-state “had not intervened in rural land-tenure relations in this region,” preferring to intervene minimally in these socioeconomic processes. But whereas Murid marabouts and Tukulor toorobe were able to sideline or capture these new rural councils, local PS brokers in Ziguinchor department had neither the social authority nor the incentives to stave off these new reforms. Instead, they utilized them to manipulate the highly decentralized land tenure system in Lower Casamance, gaining access to additional economic resources to reinforce their clientelist network, which did not necessarily include customary landowners. This gave rise to a land-tenure crisis in the regional capital of Ziguinchor that propelled the region into its still unresolved civil conflict.

Ziguinchor’s Land Tenure Crisis: Machine Politics and the “Invasion of the Northerners” Beyond Casamance’s “malign neglect” by the PS-state, the MFDC and Casamançais in general have complained of the “invasion” of their region by northerners. By the 1970s, accusations of the “Senegalese colonization” of Casamance were no longer limited to the predominance of northern administrators assigned to the region. The growing number of Wolof merchants, Tukulor fishermen, Murid farmers, and Peul charcoal producers in Lower Casamance were seen as infringing on local access to and management of the region’s natural resources.11 Land tenure in particular was a thorny issue even prior to the implementation of the 1972 administrative reform, which was progressively implemented in different regions, arriving in Casamance in 1979. One of the flashpoints was the construction of a Club Med resort in the coastal town of Cap Skirring, 80 kilometers from Ziguinchor, not far from the home of Aliin Sitoe Diatta. With

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accommodations for 400 visitors who could fly directly from Europe following the construction of a local airport, the new tourists primarily benefited the resort’s European owners and a handful of Wolof and Tukulor merchants who dominated the neighboring souvenir market. Club Med employees were also predominantly northerner Senegalese, who lived in huts in the middle of fallow rice fields belonging to neighboring Jola villages, which neither gave their authorization nor received compensation for their land. Unable to get satisfaction from the local administration, they demonstrated in front of Club Med, which resulted in a violent reaction by the police and army that forced 20-odd villagers, alleged “agitators,” to march 25 kilometers to Oussouye where these men were imprisoned (Trincaz 1984: 144–146). Development of tourism in the region led to similar land tenure problems with the construction of hotels in Ziguinchor and Kabrousse. The question this raises is not so much why the state behaved in this manner as its strategy was clearly focused on development in the region that would benefit the country’s economy as a whole. But rather the question is why could the PS-state do this? In contrast to both Matam and Mbacke, the PS-state was not constrained by powerful intermediaries whose interests ran counter to public policy adopted by the centralized state. Indeed, local brokers of the PS-state initially were not heavily involved in these land-tenure matters as they typically did not own the land, nor did they have the political power to prevent the hotels’ construction or the social authority to quell resistance to it. Instead, local administrators of the centralized state, typically of northern origin, enforced the political and economic decisions made by the PS-state, unmitigated by clientelist considerations. This clearly did not represent a region-specific state strategy of risk aversion. Instead, it reflected the relatively unique capacity of the PS-state to govern directly through its own agents as desired by all centralized states, that is to centralize political power and authority to the greatest degree possible rather than negotiate with a local elite. As a centralized state rooted in a neo-patrimonial system, the PS-state only ceded power to local brokers when absolutely necessary: when their social authority gave local brokers sufficient autonomy to withdraw from the state if its preferred policies were in conflict with their interests or those of their clients, as in the case of influential brokers such as the Murid marabouts (chapter 3); or when implementation of the PS-state’s preferred policy would have undermined the social authority of dependent yet dependable brokers such as the Tukulor

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toorobe (chapter 4). The limited brokers in Lower Casamance, on the other hand, did not enjoy a high level of political autonomy or social authority. Thus, the PS-state was not obliged to depart from its preferred policies, including the concentration of authority in its administration and the creation of local councils, which were actually intended to re-concentrate rather de-concentrate power by placing them and their newly acquired control over natural resource management under the “tutelage” of the sous-préfets, local representatives of the central state. Boone (2003: 133) asserts that sous-préfet supervision only existed in Casamance, offering this as an indication of a distinct state strategy. However, under the 1972 administrative reform, all rural councils were formally under the “direct control” of these local administrators. Of course, the reality varied by region depending on the relative power of the local brokers, the extreme case being Touba where the sous-préfet was approved if not nominated by the Khalif and the president of the rural council was his designee (chapter 3). In Ziguinchor, local brokers saw the introduction of these new institutions and their challenge to preexisting land tenure system not as a threat that needed to be countered but as an opportunity to expand their political and economic resources. The most egregious example was in the regional capital of Ziguinchor. In anticipation of the creation of the new administrative reform, northern administrators, local leaders of the PS, and Tukulor merchants began engaging in land speculation in the mid-1970s to their own profit at the expense of the local population. During this period, land was being distributed under the auspices of two officials of “northern origins”: the regional governor, El Hadj Moustapha Kane, and the commune’s deputy mayor, Mamadou Abdoulaye Sy, who used the expropriated land to distribute political patronage in his successful bid to unseat the Ziguinchor mayor at the time, Etienne Carvalho, a Creole son of the soil.12 As competition for political power was costly to PS factional leaders under the de facto one-party state, the process of land attribution offered Sy a solution through the attribution of as few lots as possible to the actual occupants, and none to political opponents, while exaggerating the number of “unclaimed” lots that were then given to supporters or sold off. In her analysis of the Ziguinchor land tenure conflict, Gerit Hesseling (1992: 31) describes how various Ziguinchor neighborhoods were subdivided into lots by the Commission d’Attribution des Lots under the pretext of improving “access and sanitation, to

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establish an infrastructural base and to formalize the tenure of occupied parcels” (see also Hesseling 1986 and 1994). The residents, however, became worried when officials began delineating the lots, anticipating that they would be overwhelmed by “foreigners” who could obtain land through the favor of political patrons associated with the commissions assigning the lots, which were controlled by northerners. In 1975, a number of Jola, Manjak, and Mancagne inhabitants of Tilène, a neighborhood in central Ziguinchor, formed a delegation to formally request that the distribution of parcels take into account the families already occupying the land and their adult sons desiring their own parcel as well as houses currently under construction. Despite their meeting with the governor and letters written to the prime minister and minister of the interior, the distribution of the land favored nonresidents who typically immediately sold the lots they received, while the original residents were forced to leave their homes and seek land in the outskirts of town. Their lack of a title or deed to the land that their family had occupied for generations was compounded by their lack of a political patron to protect them from being expelled from their home. When the city began construction of a mosque for the new inhabitants among Tilène’s mostly Catholic and “animist” population, they revolted, destroying the mosque under construction as well as the unfinished homes of the interlopers (Hesseling 1992: 31–36). Given the complicity of its local brokers in the scandal, the PS-state sought an effective counterpart with whom to negotiate by relying on its classic strategy of integrating anyone who seemed to have any authority within an association based on a revived Jola social structure, Karambenor (mutual assistance). This version of a Karambenoor included local elites from all ethnic groups considered indigenous to the region, including civil servants and politicians from the various PS factions. As Eichelsheim notes: “Once again, Dakar hoped to be able to control all of Jola society by incorporating a few Jola elites. This [strategy] inevitably failed” (Eichelsheim 1991: 3). The limitations of Karambenoor were not so much related to who the state had empowered as its interlocutor, but rather the very idea that a handful of unrepresentative “elites” could resolve the problem through political compromise without communal consensus or respect of the traditional land tenure system. The approach of the PS-state was based on a “northern model,” developed and effectively applied in hierarchical societies where one could identify a key leader or group of leaders who could negotiate on behalf of the entire

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community, which would then invariably adhere to a negotiated agreement despite a potentially negative impact on their interests. This strategy did not, however, reflect the structure of Jola society and other “egalitarian” ethnic groups in Lower Casamance. As Foucher (2002: 207) points out, “there was no united [Jola] voice.” Instead, various “lobbies” formed around different Jola leaders who were “divided by factional tensions that corresponded more or less to those of the PS tendances [factions].” By 1982, the year of the first public demonstration for independence, there were still thousands of unresolved cases of parcels expropriated and attributed to non-autochthons in Ziguinchor. The collusion of northern officials in this affair who sold the land to “fellow Tukulor” merchants, along with other political clients, heightened the frustrations of the population that served as a catalyst to the secessionist movement. Local brokers with northern origins such as Mamadou Sy not only lacked in social authority, as have all brokers in the region including the sons of the soil, but now their northern origins were increasingly seen as giving them a “negative” social status among the autochthonous majority. Although this stemmed from involvement in this and other land scandals in the region that did not involve every “northern” broker or only them, the politicization of Casamance identity and the rise of the secessionist movement tarnished the political reputations of all brokers with northern origins, however distant. Even Assane Seck was ultimately forced into political retirement, replaced by more “authentic” Casamançais, specifically Robert Sagna, a Bainuk-Jola from Ziguinchor, and Landing Sane, a Fogny-Jola from Bignona.

Revival of the MFDC: The State’s Limited Capacity to Suppress the Secessionist Conflict Frustrated by the failure of the PS-state and its brokers to protect their interests, a group of Casamançais held a secret meeting in 1981 to revive the MFDC. In addition to the “northern invasion” and various land scandals in the region, tensions had been mounting especially in the regional capital following the 1980 death of a Jola student by a “northern” police officer during a nation-wide demonstration against cuts in government funding for education and more local complaints against the high school administration, specifically an unpopular principal of “northern origin.”

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In December 1982, the revived MFDC organized a demonstration of over a thousand Casamançais, mostly Jola, who marched from the sacred forest of Diabir on the outskirts of Ziguinchor through the town’s streets, taking down the Senegalese flag from government buildings and replacing it with a white sheet as a statement of Casamance independence. MFDC leaders maintain that it was a peaceful demonstration in which the Senegalese flags were not burnt but respectfully folded. Nevertheless, many of the participants were reportedly carrying machetes, and bows and arrows. As the group approached the governor’s office, the police force descended on the crowd arresting over fifty demonstrators including Abbé Augustine Diamacoune Senghor. When the trial of the demonstrators began on December 6, 1983, the MFDC called a meeting in the sacred forest to show support for their compatriots appearing before the State Security Court in Dakar. Fifteen gendarmes entered the forest to break up the meeting. Three of them were killed in the struggle that ensued. Less than two weeks later, the condemnation of thirty-two demonstrators to prison for up to five years incited a second march in Ziguinchor. The military forces that were deployed after the first episode responded with greater force this time. Officially, there were twenty-four deaths and eight wounded, although by all accounts the actual casualties were much higher. Hundreds of people were arrested, and some were detained for months, even years without charges. The military was given wide berth to round up “the rebels” and rid the countryside of MFDC sympathizers. Amnesty International (1990b; 1991; 1996, 1998; 1999) along with various other human rights organizations repeatedly denounced the use of arbitrary detention, torture, and summary execution of Casamançais by the PS-state as well as similar practices by the MFDC. In a 1991 Amnesty International report, for example, the Senegalese government was condemned for frequent arrests based only on the detainee’s relationship with alleged “rebels” or denunciations by police informants, some of whom were allegedly motivated by political rivalries. Prominent Casamançais politicians continue to be falsely charged as “rebels” by their political rivals, including Robert Sagna, a former PS minister and current mayor of Ziguinchor, and Landing Savane, the leader and perpetual presidential candidate of opposition party AnddJëff who currently serves as a minister in the PDS government. President Diouf responded to the crisis with carrots as well as sticks. With significant international assistance (EU and UNDP 2001; USAID 1999), the PS-state invested heavily in a number of

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infrastructure projects, including: repair of roads and bridges, which also aided in its military occupation of the region; construction of schools, health centers, and other administrative buildings; and introduction of large development projects such as the Anambe-Kayang dam to curtail the salination of rice fields. The Diouf administration also offered economic incentives for MFDC leaders and their cells to lay down their arms, typically timed with the various peace talks and cease fires intended to end the fighting, the most recent being an accord signed in December 2004, which was almost immediately violated by renewed fighting. The continued fighting by cells in the so-called “Southern Front” that remain loyal to MFDC leader Salif Sadio and the separatist cause reflects the seemingly insurmountable obstacles to either a military or diplomatic solution (Evans 2003b; Marut 1996; 2002). The challenge of the PS-state to resolve this perpetual conflict, which the PDS inherited in 2000, has been clearly tied to the decentralized authority and egalitarianism that characterize social structures in Lower Casamance and that are reflected in the leadership and organization of the MFDC. Consequently, the Senegalese state has faced the same challenges as did the colonial state in its efforts to militarily defeat or negotiate an end to the conflict that will be respected by the entire population, complicated by the economic incentives of the war economy that has developed in a broader context of regional instability in West Africa (Evans 2003a). Following the model used to address the Ziguinchor land scandal, the PS-state reached out to a wide array of Casamançais groups to try to resolve the situation, such as the Collectif des Cadres Casamançais, Groupe de Réflexion et d’Action pour la Paix en Casamance, and Forum National des Femmes pour la Paix en Casamance (Biya 1998). There were also various government commissions created, such as the Commission National de la Gestion de Paix and the Comité Provisoire de Pilotage. Noble in their aims and committed in their efforts, these groups nonetheless met with limited successes that were rolled back by MFDC factions that refused to abandon their claims for independence or the rise of new factions that rejected the decision by MFDC leaders to lay down their arms. In desperation, the PS-state turned to newly elected PDS deputies from the region after the 1988 legislative elections, in particular Marcel Bassène, who allegedly had close ties to the MFDC. Although he played a key role in establishing the 1991 ceasefire, Bassène, disparagingly referred to as “Mr. Casamance,” was no more able to bring an end to the conflict than his new allies in the PS-led government of

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national unity. While Marut (1995) claims that Bassène never had the confidence of the MFDC, others claim that his efforts were sabotaged by local PS leaders who did not want to see him credited with ending the conflict. Nevertheless, Abdoulaye Wade claimed during his 2000 presidential campaign that if elected he could resolve the problem in twenty-one days, a promise that he unfortunately was not able to keep despite concentrated efforts to create a unified MFDC with which he could personally negotiate, unencumbered by layers of intermediaries (Foucher 2004). The growing prominence of the PDS in Casamance politics in the 1990s that led up to Wade’s victory in 2000 indicates that the PS-state was losing ground in the Ziguinchor region even if its political decline was not as dramatic as might be anticipated in a war zone. While this might be explained by popular discontent with the MFDC due to the instability, destruction, and loss of life caused by the conflict, discussions with ordinary Casamançais in towns and villages across the region over the last two decades verify what other researchers in the region have also reported: that even those Casamançais who do not agree with the ends pursued by the MFDC agree with its analysis of the region’s marginalization and the need for greater equity if not autonomy in its relations with the Senegalese state. Moreover, as Genviève Gasser (2002) has indicated, the reasons why Casamançais have supported the MFDC are not that different from the reasons why the majority continued to support the PS-state and its local brokers up until the 2000 elections: as a strategy to gain access to resources. Uncanny in its similarity to the pro-Zapatista/pro-PRI (Partido Revolucionario Institucional) position of many Mexicans during the Zapatista uprising against the former ruling party (Stephen 1997), the pro-MFDC/pro-PS stance of many Casamançais did not cause them cognitive dissonance but rather was a source of reassurance during a time of great instability that one of their “patrons” might provide for them. As one Jola woman reported in May 1996, her hope was to have a pension should her son, “the rebel,” succeed; but until then she would work within the PS system of patronage. Consequently, the gradual decline in PS support in the region, though undoubtedly tied to its thwarted efforts to resolve the conflict, was largely a reflection of the ruling party’s declining capacity to provide clientelist resources as was evident throughout the country. But just as PS factional disputes at the national level were the ruling party’s undoing, factionalism and sanction votes, rather than mounting support for the opposition, were the ruling party’s undoing in Ziguinchor.

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PS Factional Disputes and the Declining Capacity of Ziguinchor’s PS Machine In the late 1980s, Dominique Darbon (1988: 132) observed that “if the PDS is stronger in Casamance than in other regions of the country, this strength must be attributed to internal divisions within the PS.” As with the initial inroads that the PDS made in Oussouye in the late 1970s, growing support in the 1980s and 1990s for the PDS and subsequently Andd-Jëff opposition parties in the other two departments of the Ziguinchor region were largely attributable to struggles for control of the local PS apparatus. In 1978, electoral support for President Senghor remained at over 90 percent in both the Bignona and Ziguinchor departments despite the return to a limited form of multipartyism. When President Diouf stood for election for the first time in 1983, support for the PS candidate dropped less than 10 percent in these two departments of Ziguinchor region, significantly less than in Mbacke where, notwithstanding support from the Murid Khalif, Diouf received 15 percent fewer votes among fellow Muslim voters than had his Christian predecessor (appendix 2). The greater capacity to sustain support in Lower Casamance is particularly significant given that this was during the initial period of mass demonstrations, arrests, and the trial of MFDC leaders and their supporters. Consequently, it was not a decline in support for the ruling party but factional disputes within it that led to the “parachuting” in the mid 1980s of Casamançais sons of the soil Landing Sane and Robert Sagna into leadership positions in the Bignona and Ziguinchor departments respectively. In Bignona, Angrand Badiane, the local leader of a minority PS faction in the department, wrote an angry letter in February 1983 criticizing Basssirou Cisse, the local leader of the majority PS faction. The letter was addressed to Moustapha Niasse, who then wore the dual hats of minister of foreign affairs and PS political secretary, whose tasks included resolving local factional disputes. In a letter nearly identical to thousands of others written by PS factional leaders throughout Senegal over the four decades of PS rule, Badiane complained that Cisse had taken “all the means of the party,” in reference to both its finances and material resources such as vehicles and campaign materials (e.g., hats and t-shirts), and distributed only to his own faction. When a riot broke out between supporters of Badiane and Cisse, the national leadership of the PS imposed Landing Sane, an educated

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bureaucrat, as the leader of the ruling party’s departmental coordination in Bignona. After Badiane was left off the PS electoral list for the 1988 legislative elections, presumably at Sane’s request, Badiane led a sanction vote that handed the PDS its first victory in the department. As a direct repercussion of Sane’s inability to deliver the departmental vote, he lost his post as minister of sports. During the 1990 renouvellements, he was nevertheless able to recapture control of the PS departmental apparatus with support from Robert Sagna, the leader of the neighboring PS coordination in the department of Ziguinchor. Like Sane, Robert Sagna was “parachuted” in to assume leadership of the Ziguinchor department in 1984 when the PS was in shambles due to similar factional disputes in the wake of the land scandals and problems with the MFDC. A technocrat with a doctorate in economics, Sagna was first appointed to a PS ministry in 1978. He remained in the cabinet until the demise of the ruling party in 2000, serving in a “first among equals” position as a minister of state as well as a member of the powerful PS political bureau. After his imposition by the PS national leadership on the Ziguinchor party apparatus, he became in 1985 the first Jola mayor of Ziguinchor, a position he continues to hold despite the rise of the new PDS party-state. While “parachuting” in politicians to head a local party coordination is not unheard of in other regions, the imposition of two departmental leaders in a single region is unusual as is their sustained leadership beyond the immediate crisis within the local party leadership. In Matam, for example, the PS “parachuted” in Cheikh Amadou Kane, the famous author of L’Aventure Ambigu, during an intense period of factional fighting in the department (chapter 4). Once the waters had calmed, however, a broker from a local toorodo family resumed leadership of Matam’s coordination. In Ziguinchor, however, these parachuted leaders were able to retain their positions because, as educated Casamançais, they were seen as legitimate as any other son of the soil, and in some sense were preferred to the previous disputing leaders because they were known to be well connected to the PS national leadership, the source of clientelist resources in the PS-state. In this African “Tammany Hall” (Foucher 2002), Casamançais voterclients were willing to support the imposed leaders because, as Ferdinand de Jong (2002: 217) explains, their eyes were on resources that they could acquire through “a qualified man with good relations in Dakar.” In addition to this unusual practice of retaining “parachuted” PS leader, mounting tensions between Sane and Sagna over the regional leadership of the PS apparatus led to a rare if not exceptional challenge

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of a departmental leader by a PS leader from another department on his home turf. Because the political leadership of most local brokers is inextricably tied to local social structures that provide the basis for their political authority, this is unlikely to be tolerated in another locality such as Matam or Mbacke. Cheikh Amadou Kane, even with his prominent national stature as an internationally acclaimed author and a Tukulor toorodo from the neighboring department of Podor to boot, did not presume to be able to challenge the local toorobe politicians in Matam for permanent leadership of the coordination. In contrast, Ziguinchor leader Robert Sagna was able to ally with minority leaders in Bignona and even campaigned in their department after the “ungrateful” Landing Sane challenged Sagna for the regional leadership of the PS apparatus in 1990. Over the next ten years, the two parachuted sons of the soil battled for control of the regional leadership of the ruling party, jockeying for position not only through their powerful allies in the national party, which was not uncommon, but also by attempting to gain a following in their competitor’s home turf. Their feud came to a head after the 1995 renouvellements. Based on political support from Paul Mende, the local PS leader who headed what would normally be the “tie-breaking” department of Oussouye, Sagna seemed to be a shoo-in for leadership of the party in the Ziguinchor region. Sane’s friendship with Ousmane Tanor Dieng, however, trumped local support for Sagna. After the poor showing of the PS in the 1993 national elections in which President Diouf received only 56 percent of the vote in Ziguinchor, the PS held a National Party Congress to reinvigorate the party. At the party congress, leadership of the PS was effectively given over to President Diouf’s dauphin, Ousmane Tanor Dieng, whose refondateur faction had been struggling for control of the national party with Djibo Ka’s renouveauteur faction (chapters 2 and 4). To consolidate his power, Dieng sought to insure that his allies such as Landing Sane were in control of the local party apparatus. To regain control of the region, Robert Sagna went au terrain (in the field) to Bignona during the 1996 local elections in support of politicians in the PS minority faction led by Ousmane Coly in order to topple Landing Sane at the departmental level and thus neutralize his threat at the regional level. According to various members of Coly’s faction and Sagna’s entourage, Sagna instructed them to join forces with opposition party Andd-Jëff, which was presenting an electoral list for the first time in the department. As a result, the PS

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lost eleven of the sixteen rural councils in the department of Bignona. In addition to his relatively unorthodox campaigning against Sane in his home district, Sagna was also credited with the unusual political ploy of providing Bignona with clientelist resources. While one villager in Bignona maintained that it is “better to support someone from your department [because] if you skip over your own department leader, you will not be in a position to be appointed to a post in your department,” others emphasized the prominence of people from Bignona in Sagna’s entourage and attributed to him the construction of a newly paved road in the Bolof-Jola area of northwest Bignona. Perhaps the most dramatic effort by Robert Sagna to strengthen his connection to and social authority among residents in the department of Bignona was his decision to undergo the Bukut initiation in the Bolof-Jola town of Thionk Esil in the department of Bignona rather than his own village of Brinn just outside of Ziguinchor.

Pursuit of Social Authority and Political Power: Traditionalizing the Sons of the Soil Historically, Bukut initiations took place in each Jola village once every twenty-five years during which young initiates would enter the scared forest where they would remain for two to three weeks, emerging as full-fledged men. Due to the instability surrounding the conflict, many villages had not been able to perform them on a regular basis. The social problem that gained a political spin in the 1990s was that an uninitiated man (ambaj) is considered a child and, without the status of adult, is unable to marry or assume responsibilities in the community. Robert Sagna, who was fifty-five when he entered the sacred forest of Thionk Esil, had not been initiated in his village as a youth because, as a devout Catholic, his father forbade it. Although he went on to get married and raise a family and was a well-respected and powerful politician, Sagna’s uninitiated status became problematic because, as de Jong explains, it had become: increasingly common for politicians to attend initiation rituals, and give hand-outs and congratulate the initiates on their new status. Sagna did this, too, but could never enter the sacred grove himself and had to send representatives. Other politicians had begun to refer to Sagna’s status as non-initiated, suggesting that he could not properly represent the people. Landing Sane, another prominent Jola politician . . . openly

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ridiculed Sagna for his status as ambaj. For Sagna remaining noninitiated entailed a risk of being ostracized. (de Jong 2002: 209)

Nevertheless, everyone involved in the ceremony denied there were any political motives behind his initiation, just as political motives were vehemently denied when Landing Savane, the Andd-Jëff leader of Casamance origins (Mandinka father and Jola mother), converted to Muridism and performed an njebel (act of submission) to the Khalif-Général. Though in both cases there is no concrete evidence to the contrary, there are clear indications of the political benefits to be gained from these acts. For Sagna, not only was the initiation itself politically advantageous, but so was its location in the prominent Bolof village of Thionk Esil in the heart of his adversary’s political base, which also happens to be the hometown of the hardline MFDC leader Salif Sadio.13 Though this may be chalked up as coincidental, it could not have been unknown to Sagna, nor the fact that his new initiated status would now permit him to enter a sacred forest where negotiations with the MFDC have often taken place. Indeed, newspapers accused Sagna of being “a rebel” for having entered the sacred grove for the initiation, an illustration of the fine line that he and other Casamançais politicians have to walk to maintain their “trustworthiness with the Senegalese government, the MFDC, and the Jola electorate” (de Jong 2002: 210). It also seems more than coincidental that several years later President Diouf gave the Casamance dossier to Sagna, despite his enmity with Diouf’s trusted dauphin Ousmane Tanor Dieng. Unfortunately, once again these efforts did not bear the fruits of peace. Although Sagna’s initiation clearly raised his social status among his constituency, he was not able to forestall the slipping popularity of the ruling party, which lost its electoral majority in both Bignona and Ziguinchor in 2000. In the second round, support for the PS dropped to less than a third of the vote in both departments, ironically surpassing the decline in PS support in Oussouye, which only dipped to 45.7 percent (appendix 3). The initiation of Robert Sagna is not the only example of Casamançais politicians wrapping themselves in Jola tradition or of ordinary Casamançais asserting their cultural identity in an effort to end the perpetual conflict in the region (Foucher 2003; Marut 2003). While many Casamançais men and notably women have hoped to restore peace to the region through this neo-traditionalism, it may also permit a sort of clientelism at a “discount” for the sons of the soil

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which may explain in part how Robert Sagna has been able to continue as one of the few remaining PS mayors under the PDS regime rather than follow his former rival Landing Sane into the new ruling party in order to retain his position in Casamance politics. Jola neotraditionalism, however, is unlikely to provide a “discount” at a rate comparable to that historically enjoyed by local brokers in the hierarchical northern societies. Nevertheless, the relatively narrow basis for clientelism in Lower Casamance has promoted both political competition and participation in the region. As one educated though not yet politicized son of the soil noted, “the fact that the traditional organization of the Casamance is horizontal has meant that the Casamançais have never submitted to the orders of the party, especially when they go against their interests.” As a result, the level of both political competition and participation have been historically high, boding well for democracy in this region as Paul Pélissier noted over half a century ago. The key to the future of the region, and Senegal, is to find the elusive solution to this simmering civil conflict, producing political instability that risks undermining both political competition and participation.

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Au t onomous Brok e r s: Th e M B Ë RU G O X a mong t h e S É N É G A L A I S D ’A M É R I Q U E

Leketu neen du naxu bey. (An empty calabash does not attract goats.) Wolof Proverb

T

he enduring effect of clientelism on Senegal’s political culture is evident in the degree to which this Wolof proverb resonates with so many Senegalese politicians and voters based in the United States. Nevertheless, as with each of the proceeding chapters, political mobilization and accountability among the Sénégalais d’Amérique have been influenced by the distinct socioeconomic context in which the mbëru gox operate within the Senegalese immigrant community. As discussed in chapter 1, the term mbëru gox (neighborhood wrestlers in Wolof) refers to local opinion leaders who Dakar-based politicians rely on to mobilize political support. In contrast with the different forms of brokering observed in the preceding three chapters, the mbëru gox in the United States are not as dependent on the state to maintain their social status or to gain access to material resources. Their high level of autonomy from political patrons, however, is mirrored by their limited social authority. This dual autonomy of local brokers from politicians and the local electorate thus has limited the mbëru gox’s capacity to broker political support among the Sénégalais d’Amérique. It should not be surprising, therefore, that after the revised 1992 electoral code gave Senegalese living abroad the right to vote, support for the Socialist ruling party among the expatriate community in the United States was relatively low and continued to decline after the 1993 presidential elections in a pattern similar to Dakar and other urban areas that also witnessed a decline in the social authority of

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National US Dakar

20% 10% 0% National US Dakar

Figure 6.1

1993

2000-1st

2000-2nd

58.4% 46.3% 41.2%

41.3% 18.2% 23.8%

41.2% 23.5% 25.1%

Support for PS Presidential Candidates in Dakar and the United States

Source: Official results obtained from documents provided by the Senegalese Ministry of the Interior (2000) and published in the Official State newspaper Le Soleil (1993).

political intermediaries and in the capacity of clientelist resources to mobilize political support (see figure 6.1).1 The declining capacity of clientelist resources to mobilize political support in urban Senegal, however, was more of an issue of too few CFAs chasing too many voters, in contrast with the Sénégalais d’Amérique for whom political autonomy has been gained through the greater economic opportunities they enjoy in the United States. Despite an apparently inhospitable sociopolitical and economic climate, clientelism nonetheless persisted as a political strategy for mobilizing electoral support among Senegalese immigrants in the United States. The question is why would politicians, specifically those in the ruling party, rely on a severely weakened form of clientelism to mobilize support among the Sénégalais d’Amérique? Even if Senegalese politicians could not have initially predicted the ineffectiveness of this strategy prior to the extension of suffrage to Senegalese living abroad, it became abundantly clear in the 1993 presidential elections when the PS received only a plurality of 46.6 percent of the votes cast in the United States. Yet the former ruling party continued to rely on this method to mobilize political support by offering resources to the local mbëru gox during the 2000 presidential elections. Senegalese politics in the United States also raises the question of what motivates local politicians to participate in clientelist relationships given that they have alternative sources of income to support themselves and their extended family. Like their counterparts back home, U.S.-based politicians recognize that politics can be extremely

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costly both in terms of time and, ironically, money. While Senegalese in general frequently quote the American adage “time is money,” for the Sénégalais d’Amérique, this idiom rings particularly true. Time devoted to political activism is typically seen by both U.S.-based politicians and voters as requiring a trade-off from other potentially more lucrative activities. As one PS leader in New York commented with regret, his compatriots feel that “they came to the US to look for money and do not have time for politics, besides, they want to know what they would get out of it anyway.” Politicians among the Sénégalais d’Amérique are faced with the dual demands of cashstrapped politicians in Dakar who depend on their relatively wealthy U.S. representatives to contribute their own personal resources to conduct electoral campaigns, and a Senegalese electorate in the United States that continues to expect that Senegalese politics is about the distribution of resources, whether from the coffers of the partystate or the pockets of its political brokers. Under these circumstances, why would any Senegalese in the United States become involved in politics? Finally, perhaps the most perplexing conundrum associated with the Sénégalais d’Amérique is why politicians in Dakar even care about this constituency given that it represents less than .01 percent of the electorate. Nevertheless, during both the 1993 and 2000 presidential campaigns, ranking members of the PS and every major opposition party in Senegal spent precious time and resources, clearly disproportionate to the electoral significance of U.S.-based voters, to mobilize their support. To understand why, we need to first understand who are the Sénégalais d’Amérique and what is their transnational role in Senegal’s political economy and its process of democratization.

L ES S ÉNÉGA L A IS D’A MÉRIQUE The first wave of Senegalese came to the United States in the early 1980s, establishing themselves primarily in New York City and then slowly diffusing into other urban areas around the country, motivated by economic opportunities as well as a lower cost of living. Among the Senegalese who first migrated to the United States, there were those who came seeking adventure and their fortune on the streets of New York City, while others were students who chose not to take the beaten path to French universities as an alternative to the University of Dakar, which was losing its stature as a premier institution of higher education in Africa due to a lack of sufficient funding and the consequent deterioration of its infrastructure and staffing.

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A common assumption about the Sénégalais d’Amérique is that they enter the United States on visas obtained for them by powerful marabouts, in particular Murid leaders. Some Senegalese may have entered the United States with the assistance of their marabout, but in fact most Senegalese have come to the United States on student, business, or tourist visas they legally obtained themselves. Nor have they always come with the express intention of overstaying their visa. Some of the early arrivals in the United States who were gainfully employed in Senegal have described how they were enticed by the relative ease with which they could obtain employment in the informal or “gray” sectors of the U.S. economy that were far more lucrative than their salaries back home. As they began sending home substantial remittances to their extended family, more Senegalese back home—both educated and illiterate—dreamed of improving their increasingly bleak economic prospects by emigrating to the United States. This was further intensified when over 1,300 undocumented Senegalese received amnesty under the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act. Among these Senegalese, the majority resided in New York City, including ironically those who applied as “special agricultural workers.”2 Largely as a result of this amnesty, the number of Senegalese-born persons in the U.S. census tripled from 801 in 1980 to 2,426 in 1990.3 Their numbers rose even more dramatically to an estimated 10,215 in the 2000 census after the enactment of the 1990 Immigration Act that introduced the Diversity Pool program in addition to expansion of the number of visas for family members and applicants with “special occupational backgrounds or skills.” Although most of the sub-Saharan Africans who have benefited from this program have been Nigerians and Ghanaians, over 1,000 Senegalese received visas from the diversity lottery between 1994 when it was first instituted and the year 2000.4 The majority of the remaining Senegalese legally admitted during this period (2,124) were spouses or other immediate family members of immigrants legally residing in the United States. These “documented” Senegalese, however, reflect only a small fraction of the over 8,000 Senegalese newly identified in the 2000 census. The dramatic increase in the number of Senegalese-born persons counted in the 2000 census reflects not only the rising number of Senegalese emigrating to the United States, but also a massive effort by the Census Bureau to include less “visible” populations such as undocumented immigrants and non-English speakers. The accuracy of this improved census data, however, has been repeatedly called into

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question by various sources, including an INS report that estimates that the census nevertheless missed over 400,000 illegal aliens, a category into which many if not most Sénégalais d’Amérique fall (Office of Policy and Planning 2003). Consequently, what we have at best are “guesstimates” as to the size of the immigrant community that vary dramatically among community leaders as well as journalists and academics writing about them.5 The most substantiated estimate of the Senegalese in America would seem to be the one offered by the U.S.-based Senegalese journalist Dame Babou who during an interview in July 2003 estimated that there are at least 40,000 Senegalese currently residing in the United States based on the approximately 10,000 accounts Senegalese immigrants have with major money wiring services in the United States. Given the large number of Senegalese known to send their remittances through informal networks, his estimation that one in four sends their money through a wire service may in fact be high, suggesting that the number of Senegalese immigrants is even greater. Though the initial “push” factor that led to their migration to the United States was Senegal’s prolonged economic crisis and recurrent drought, most Senegalese did not come to the United States directly from Senegal, but first lived for varying amounts of time in one or more of the various other communities of Senegalese abroad, typically in France, the Côte d’Ivoire, Gabon, and the Central African Republic. Their decision to come to the United States from these alternative destinations was partially influenced by the increasingly hostile, economically troubled, and/or politically unstable environments in which they resided, including the rise of anti-immigrant politics in France. Following the adoption of the Pasqua Laws in 1993, which encompassed a broad array of severe anti-immigrant measures, a second wave of Senegalese arrived in the United States in the mid-1990s (Ababacar Diop 1997; Naïr 1994; Stoller 2002). This second wave was also a product of the devaluation of the CFA franc in 1994. Devaluation of the Senegalese currency not only intensified the push for emigration among the un- and underemployed, but it also shifted the cost–benefit analysis of Senegalese students who had previously preferred to study in francophone Quebec. The devaluation’s effective doubling of tuition at schools abroad and the ineligibility of international students for employment in Canada made American schools appear more attractive to Senegalese students because they could hold part-time jobs in the formal sector as well as the informal sector through the growing Senegalese community.6

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While the media, particularly widely distributed American films and television programs that sensationalize wealth in the United States, represented an important “pull” factor, many of the Senegalese arriving in the United States in the 1980s and early 1990s were also attracted by the limited internal police control and the relative tolerance of street vendors by authorities in New York City, the initial destination for nearly all Senegalese. Once they managed to pass through immigration at their port of entry, Senegalese who overstayed their visas were less likely to be stopped by U.S. police than in France where African immigrants are routinely required to produce identification as proof of their immigration status.7 Furthermore, Senegalese merchants who sold their wares in midtown Manhattan, and later along 125th Street in Harlem and Fulton Street in Brooklyn, rarely faced arrest and seldom had more than their exposed merchandise confiscated according to various street vendors in Harlem and Brooklyn. Tolerance for street vending dramatically declined in the mid-1990s after the arrival of Mayor Rudolph Guilliani. But by then, Senegalese vendors, or modou-modou as they are more commonly known, had already set up shop in America both figuratively and literally (see Stoller 1996).

The Socioeconomic Diversity of the Modou-Modou in America The term modou-modou for itinerant traders is derived from Modou, a common Senegalese nickname for Mamadou (Ebin 1996: 96).8 Historically, the modou-modou were characteristically uneducated Wolof belonging to the Murid brotherhood, but the modou-modou identity has been increasingly embraced by a growing number of Senegalese working abroad, regardless of their occupation, ethnicity, religious affiliation, or even their educational background. Among the Sénégalais d’Amérique, being a “simple modou-modou” has become a badge of honor and is thus an identity that Senegalese of all walks of life seek to embrace. During an interview with Fallou Gueye, the president of the Association des Sénégalais d’Amérique (ASA) and a graduate student at City University of New York, he noted that Senegalese intellectuals claim the modou-modou identity in part because they “often behave like modou-modou in terms of the jobs they take on.” But even when they do not, educated Senegalese immigrants embrace the identity because they frequently feel alienated in their country of residence and do not wish to be isolated from their less-educated compatriots.

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As an illustration, Gueye cited a comment made by the Minister of Foreign Affairs Cheikh Tidiane Gadio during the tenth anniversary celebration of the U.S.-based Africa Times for which he had been a radio commentator prior to assuming his post in the new PDS government. In contrast to prior speakers at the event, Gadio informed the gathering of mostly Senegalese intellectuals that he would speak in Wolof rather than English or French because “I am a modoumodou.” When he concluded his comments, the moderator proudly stated in French “we all are modou-modou.”

The executive board of the Association des Sénégalais d’Amérique at a meeting in Harlem (May 2004).

Despite the increasing heterogeneity of those who identify themselves as modou-modou, it is the uneducated Murid traders who have become the stereotype of the Senegalese diaspora for several reasons. Within the relatively recent and thus sparse literature on the Senegalese diaspora, the Murid modou-modou have received by far the most attention due to the relative success of their transnational business networks with its New York base in their ethnic enclave in Harlem’s “Little Senegal.” “Little Senegal,” or more accurately “Little Touba,” is not the only community of Murids in the United States. There are concentrations

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of Murids in various other American cities, including Atlanta, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Nor does the Murid community in Harlem represent the only Senegalese enclave in New York City. There are a number of Senegalese in the Bronx, where a mosque is run by Wolof leaders of the Niassian branch of the Tijanya brotherhood, and in the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, where there is a multinational community of Halpulaar’en composed mostly of Senegalese.9 Neither of these Senegalese enclaves is as visible, however, as the Murid community in Harlem with its significant number of Muridowned businesses clearly demarcated by the names of shops and restaurants that often refer to the Murid holy city of Touba and the mother of the Murid founder, Mame Diarra Boussou. In the absence of reliable statistics on the largely undocumented Senegalese population, it is difficult to determine the degree to which the relative visibility of these communities reflects the ethnoreligious composition of the Sénégalais d’Amérique, a critical factor when assessing the mbëru gox’s basis for social authority in the community. In order to fill this gap in the data, I therefore created several databases based on membership in Senegalese immigrant associations and Senegalese electoral lists, and conducted two exit polls in New York City during the 2000 Senegalese presidential elections. When combined with information gathered from interviews, focus groups, radio programs, and participation in various political and sociocultural events held by Senegalese immigrants, the data confirm the bipolar nature of the Sénégalais d’Amérique between the Murid religious community and the Halpulaar’en ethnolinguistic community at least in metropolitan New York, the hub of the Senegalese immigrant community in the United States (Beck forthcoming).

Social Authority in New York’s “Bipolar” Senegalese Community Despite the availability of Senegalese electoral lists in eight American cities with a sufficient population of Senegalese to warrant at least one polling station since 1993, there are no survey data and limited information to date about the associational life of the Sénégalais d’Amérique outside of the New York metropolitan area.10 Focusing on the Senegalese community in New York in this comparative study is not only methodologically necessary but also warranted in that New York has been the center of political activity for the Sénégalais d’Amérique primarily because it has the largest concentration of

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Senegalese in the United States and thus represents the majority of U.S.-based voters. In the 1993 presidential election, the Senegalese registered to vote in New York constituted 74 percent of the electorate in the United States and 77 percent of those who actually voted. Although the Sénégalais d’Amérique have since become increasingly dispersed, New York–based Senegalese continued to represent 66 percent of the electorate and 64 percent of the voters in the 2000 presidential elections. The Senegalese electoral lists for the New York polling stations provide us with additional demographic information not found in U.S. census data. The registration data confirms findings from qualitative research that the Senegalese immigrant community is comprised primarily of men between the ages of 30 and 50 who are typically married and engaged in a wide range of economic activities (Beck forthcoming). However, for obvious reasons, the lists do not include religious affiliation or ethnic identity, which is difficult to ascertain from proxies such as family name or hometown given significant ethnic overlaps among patronyms and multiethnic towns and villages as well as multiple instances of the same place name. Nonetheless, the bipolarity of the immigrant community is reflected in the location of the two polling stations in New York, with one in Harlem’s “Little Touba” not far from the Murid mosque, and the other within the headquarters of the Pulaar Speaking Association on Fulton Street in Brooklyn’s Bedford Stuyvesant. In addition to the location of the polling stations, the vibrant associational life within these ethno-religious enclaves is indicative of their relative size in the immigrant community. Although there is a diversity of Senegalese cultural associations in New York, the Murid Islamic Community in America (MICA) and the Pulaar Speaking Association (PSA) are the two largest organizations other than the nationality-based ASA, whose leadership has been dominated by these two cultural groups. Both MICA and PSA have thousands of dues-paying members and provide their respective communities with various resources and services including weekly radio broadcasts produced by these organizations. The predominance of the two communities was also reflected in the exit polls conducted during Senegal’s presidential elections in 2000. Among the 332 Senegalese polled during the first round of the elections, 42 percent self-identified as Murid and 28 percent as Halpulaar’en. During the second round, the numbers shifted to 47 percent Murid respondents and only 17 percent Halpulaar’en; this

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disparity, however, is attributable to a significantly higher refusal rate by Halpulaar’en voters during the second poll due to frustration with the decision by the Halpulaar candidate Djibo Ka to support President Diouf in the run-off against opposition leader Abdoulaye Wade, the ethnic politics of which is discussed below. With the Murids and Halpulaar’en constituting at least threequarters of the Senegalese voters in New York, the prior case studies on clientelist politics among these cultural groups in Senegal can serve as a baseline from which to compare the transformation of sociopolitical attitudes and structures in the immigrant community and their impact on the social authority enjoyed by the U.S.-based mbëru gox in comparison to their counterparts in Senegal. As discussed in chapter 3, there is evidence of a growing trend among Murids in central Senegal toward a modern form of Muridism in which the continuing socio-religious authority and economic power of marabouts is distinguished from the political authority they may claim over their disciples. By contrast, in New York, marabout politics has for all intents and purposes disappeared. Meanwhile, in the Halpulaar’en community, the caste politics of the Fuuta Tooro discussed in chapter 4 has been eclipsed by ethnic politics among Senegalese in Brooklyn’s “Fuuta Town.”

The Murid of Harlem Despite the thousands of Murids who belong to MICA and various other Murid organizations in New York City, marabouts have wielded little influence over the political preferences of their disciples in America, a fact that became abundantly clear during the 2000 exit polls.11 Despite the portrayal of Murids as politically obedient to their marabouts, Murid respondents to the exit poll taken during the first round of elections resoundingly rejected the practice of marabouts giving a ndigel (religious command) to vote for a particular candidate or party at a rate only slightly lower than their non-Murid compatriots in the immigrant community (see table 6.1). Many of them even questioned the marabouts’ civic right to run for public office, a direct affront to the historic inclusion of a maraboutic candidate in 2000 and indicative of a higher level of separation of church and state than even Thomas Jefferson may have envisioned.

Au t onomous Brok e r s Table 6.1

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Responses on the Political Role of Marabouts, First Exit Poll (2000) All Respondents 20(7%)

Murid Respondents

Marabouts have the right to give a political ndigel

Yes No No opinion

267(88%) 15(5%)

104(83%) 7(6%)

14(11%)

Marabouts should have the right to run for office

Yes No No opinion

129(43%) 149(50%) 21(7%)

59(48%) 54(44%) 11(9%)

Source: Exit poll for the first round of the 2000 presidential election, February 2000

The second exit poll confirmed that most Murids in New York reject the role of the ndigel in Senegalese politics, this time at an even higher rate than Senegalese voters in general who were more likely to have no opinion on the issue. In this second poll, the question regarding marabout candidates was replaced with a broader question about the proper role of marabouts in politics, given that neither of the two remaining candidates—President Diouf and Mr. Wade— were marabouts in contrast with candidates in the first round. Once again, the overwhelming majority of Murid respondents, at a rate greater than Senegalese in general, indicated that marabouts should play no political role whatsoever (see table 6.2). Table 6.2

Responses on the Political Role of Marabouts, Second Exit Poll (2000)

Marabouts have the right to give a political ndigel

The role of marabouts in politics should be:

All Respondents

Murid Respondents

Yes No, but they can advise their followers No No Opinion

7(3%) 18(9%)

0(0%) 12(13%)

162(78%) 21(10%)

75(82%) 5(5%)

Larger than current Smaller than current No role Just right

5(2%) 16(8%) 14 8 (7 2 %) 17(8%)

1(1%) 6(6%) 76(81%) 7(8%)

19(9%)

4(4%)

No Opinion

Source: Exit poll for the second round of the 2000 presidential election, March 2000

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One could argue that this reflects a more general transformation of marabout–disciple relations within the brotherhood rather than that of a mere subset of Murids living in New York. This would ignore, however, evidence of the continuing political influence of Murid marabouts over many of their disciples and the growing number of marabout-politicians in Senegal (chapter 3). At the very least, it appears that Murids in New York are ahead of the curve in the rise of Modern Muridism. The marabouts’ relative lack of influence in New York politics might arguably be attributed to a religious “awakening” due to greater exposure to other non-Murids, particularly non-Sufi Muslims, that could challenge the marabouts’ status within the brotherhood. There is little evidence, however, of a pan-Islamic community in New York (Beck 2007). Meanwhile, membership in lineage daahira (religious groups) associated with different maraboutic families and large turnouts for visiting marabouts, not to mention the significant sums of money sent to Touba as offerings to individual marabouts and to finance various development projects in the holy city, all suggest that quite to the contrary Murid marabouts have little to fear that emigration might undermine their socio-economic relationship with their disciples (Babou 2002; Diouf 2000). Despite the proliferation of research on how globalization has shrunk distances, making them seem almost irrelevant through revolutions in transportation and communication technology, the political autonomy of Murid disciples may alternatively be attributed to their distance from marabouts back home. With the exception of recent highly public ndigels such as that of Sereigne Abdou Lahatt in 1988 (chapter 3), most voting instructions are transmitted more discreetly by word of mouth or even innuendo from marabout to disciple. The empirical question then is whether there is sufficient maraboutic presence in New York beyond the occasional reverse-pilgrimage of marabouts to visit their disciples in the diaspora that could influence taalbie political attitudes and voting behavior. The first prominent Mbacke-Mbacke (descendent of the founder) to set up residence in the United States was Sereigne Mustapha Mbacke, a great-grandson of Shaikh Amadou Bamba and grandson of the first Khalif-Général, Mustapha, for whom he was named. He came to the United States as a student in the early 1980s, subsequently holding various jobs, including driving a taxi like many of his compatriots. While attempting to further American awareness and knowledge of the religious teachings of his great-grandfather, Sereigne Mustapha concentrated a great deal of his time and resources on

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creating an infrastructural base for the Murid immigrant community both through the establishment of the first Murid daahira in New York and the initial Cheikh Amadou Bamba House in Brooklyn. Unfortunately, the community lost the mortgage on the house, somewhat tarnishing Sereigne Mustapha’s reputation and authority in the community. Ultimately, another house was purchased in Harlem following an ndigel to construct a Murid Islamic center in New York by Sereigne Mourtada, the youngest son of Shaikh Amadou Bamba and Sereigne Mustapha’s uncle. Over $350,000 was raised by the community in addition to the $55,000 Sereigne Mourtada contributed to start the fund for the “House of Islam” through MICA, the Murid umbrella organization led by taalibe in the community. Until his death in 2004, Sereigne Mourtada was something of a “patron saint” of Murids in the diaspora, annually visiting the United States in late July for New York’s Shaikh Amadou Bamba Day, which was officially established in 1992 by then-Mayor David Dinkins. In contrast with Sereigne Mustapha, the majority of Mbacke-Mbacke based in New York are not leaders in the community, having more in common with Murid modou-modous than their maraboutic families back home as they focus their time and energy on various economic activities. Consequently, they do not have the same stature in the community as Sereigne Mustapha or Murid religious leaders back in Senegal. Although they are treated with respect, descendents of Amadou Bamba are often asked to wait their turn and can be found sitting quietly and unassumingly among their compatriots in various Murid-own shops and restaurants in “Little Touba.” This is in stark contrast with the “royal treatment” even the most obscure member of the Mbacke clan receives in Senegal. Furthermore, with the exception of Sereigne Mustapha, whose leadership position in the community is limited to his family’s daahira, the Mbacke-Mbacke in New York have not played a leading role in local Murid organizations. Nor have any of them, including Sereigne Mustapha, been implicated in Senegalese politics within the immigrant community. Aside from Sereigne Mustapha, the other most widely known and respected members of the community are the “simple” taalibe who lead MICA and the network of various daahira that have proliferated within the Murid immigrant community. As for the taalibe leaders of MICA, such as Sereigne Mbacke Ndiaye and Moustapha Amar, they have been quite vocal about keeping politics and politicians out of their association, which explains in part why its mosque is not a polling location unlike the Pulaar Speaking Association headquarters in Brooklyn. Instead, space within the 116th Street mosque of the

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Nation of Islam has been rented for the Harlem polling station during Senegalese elections. The apolitical if not antipolitical stance of the MICA leadership was evident during a focus group in October 2000 that included prominent leaders of the organization, one of whom offered an interesting interpretation of the relationship between Islam and politics in stark contrast to politics in most of the Muslim world: Muslims are inclined more to God than politics. We believe that our only reason to live is to devote [ourselves] to God. Muslims are allowed to take part in politics individually but not collectively. When Muslims gather they should only discuss Islam . . . Involvement in politics as a group is against our principles and the teachings of our leader.

In contrast with the MICA leadership, however, other daahira leaders have played an active role in Senegalese electoral politics in New York, including: Pape Kane who leads the Daahira Khassayid that meets weekly to sing the religious poetry of Amadou Bamba and performs at various Murid events; and Arame Athie, the president of the Daahira Mame Diarra composed of Murid women in metropolitan New York. These Murid mbëru gox do not, however, enjoy the same authority over and, therefore, capacity to politically mobilize Murid disciples as do Murid marabouts in central Senegal. Nevertheless, the Murid daahira in New York have served as important forums for Senegalese politicians. The former president of MICA, Cheikh Seye, compared the widespread practice of Senegalese politicians visiting the daahira during an electoral period with U.S. politicians going to church organizations “where every member has his own interests and votes based on that, but the politicians can meet with them as a group.” A New York–based PDS leader explained, “you can’t tell them ‘vote for me.’ You have to be more subtle. You must be visible, and if you have something, give it to them.” His nonchalant reference to the practice of offering a contribution, “an envelope” as Senegalese commonly refer to it, is indicative of not only the continuing importance—and expectation—of clientelism but also an indication that its practice has extended beyond the PS. In Senegal, the issue for the PDS and other opposition parties was that they could not offer patronage resources comparable to the ruling party-state. This limited the opposition to little more than “potential clientelism.” In the United States, however, the resources available to the PS ruling party—both monetary and other state-controlled resources such as employment in the public sector—were dwarfed by

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the U.S. economic context. The “envelopes” offered by politicians were little more than symbolic, given to the mbëru gox such as dahiraa leaders to gain access to the group and encourage them to speak well of their candidate, with little to nothing for redistribution within the community as was common practice back home, other than sponsoring a sabar (traditional dance) or other soirées with African popular music in the Senegalese enclaves of New York City. For Senegalese immigrants, the elections were generally not about gaining access to the resources held by the ruling party or potentially the opposition, but rather about the need for political and economic reform because, to quote a local opposition supporter, “the fact that we are here is a sign of the problems in Senegal.” Consequently, the Murid mbëru gox in New York enjoyed limited social authority with which to create a bloc of Murid voters for the PS, as was clearly evident in the 2000 electoral results as well as the exit polls. Among self-identified Murids in the exit poll during the first round of the 2000 presidential elections, President Diouf came in third place, receiving support from only 17 percent of respondents. In the second poll, he received only 10 percent. By contrast, among voters in the overwhelmingly Murid district of Mbacke, President Diouf received 47 and 36 percent in the successive rounds (appendix 2). The ruling party faced a similar predicament among New York’s Halpulaar’en community.

The Halpula ar’en of Brooklyn Although the Senegalese community initially lived together in Manhattan during the 1980s, by the end of the decade the size of the community had begun to outgrow the hotels they communally lived in and thus members began moving to other boroughs as well as outside the city altogether. The Halpulaar’en community dates its arrival in Brooklyn to 1987. The formation of PSA occurred three years later in the wake of the 1989 gang murder of a Halpulaar’en immigrant that required the community to band together in order to finance the repatriation of his body, a common origin of immigrant groups. The PSA slowly expanded with the growth of the community and assistance from outside organizations such as the African Services Committee, an NGO that includes in its mission capacity building of immigrant community-based organizations such as the PSA. Within the Halpulaar’en community, several Tijan religious groups also arose, most notably Gale Cheikh led by Tijan adherents of the

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maraboutic family from Medina Gounasse and Gale Ndiawar composed of Tijan followers of the Tall maraboutic family from the Fuuta Tooro region of northern Senegal. Although religion is an important part of the social life of the Halpulaar’en community, with the Gale Cheikh mosque just across the street from the PSA headquarters on Fulton Street in Bedford Stuyvesant, membership in this and other less formal religious groups is much looser than in the Murid community. Instead, the PSA plays a more central role in the predominantly Tijan com munity of Halpulaar’en.12 As in the Fuuta, there are no daahira, no money is collected to send to marabouts back home, and these Halpulaar’en religious groups are decidedly not involved in politics. Nor is the PSA involved in politics, though its affiliated Pulaar Speaking Radio (PSR) program, founded in 1999, hosted call-in shows with representatives of each political party prior to the 2000 election. Similar to the Murid daahira, the PSR was a forum in which politicians could seek political support among this sizeable community of Senegalese voters in New York. During personal interviews, local politicians from across the political spectrum have commented on how the development of Senegalese radio programs transformed politics among the Sénégalais d’Amérique. At the time of the 1993 elections, however, there were no radio programs in the community; so politicians relied on “door to door” campaigning and put up flyers. By 2000, however, several radio programs were well established, including the PSR as well as a weekly program produced by the ASA, and another by the private media group Africa Times, each of which gives significant coverage to Senegalese politics, unlike the weekly MICA radio program devoted exclusively to religious programming and announcements. In terms of political support for the ruling party from the Hal-Pulaar’en mbëru gox, several of the PSA leaders were accused of being “on the take” with the PS, although none were publicly affiliated with the ruling party. On the contrary, several were vocal supporters of Djibo Ka’s candidacy in 2000, including the PSA director of communications responsible for the PSR program, Mamadou Kane.13 Though each of these mbëru gox is a member of a noble family of torodo, their social authority and even their position in the PSA was not based solely on their social status. In contrast with caste politics among the Halpulaar’en in Matam discussed in chapter 4, there has been what one member of the immigrant community described as a “subaltern caste revolution” in New York and more broadly in the United States. Although caste

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distinctions remain de rigueur in decisions of marriage, a dembacratie of equality among the Halpulaar’en is evident in both their associational life and electoral politics in the community. While delicate questions about caste could not be posed appropriately in an exit poll, a series of focus groups as well as interviews and participant observation in the community permitted investigation into this issue and its sociopolitical implications.14 Even passing familiarity with this immigrant community would quickly reveal a striking contrast with caste politics back home. For example, two past PSA presidents were of low-caste origin (maacube), though more than one toorodo noble relished in the demise of the latter of the two who allegedly stole money from the association in 1998. The artisan castes of ñeeño are also well organized, having formed active organizations in both the Halpulaar’en and Wolof communities, while members of noble families noted that there is nothing for the toorobe because “that would be like having an NAACP for white people in America.” In further evidence of this “subaltern caste revolution” is the leadership of the women’s group “Fans of Baba Maal,” a Senegalese Halpulaar musician with an international following. The president of the group is also a member of a family from the lower rung of cuballo fishermen. According to various members of the community, tensions between her and a prominent toorodo woman have prevented the formation of a PSA women’s group. Such a challenge to the presumed leadership of a toorodo is a highly unlikely scenario in the Fuuta Tooro. There are many potential explanations for this revolutionary change in caste relations among the Halpulaar’en in New York, the most obvious being their distance from the societal pressures that reproduce these social institutions and a dramatic change in economic relations that underpin them. As discussed in chapter 4, social stratification among the Halpulaar’en is based on a division of labor combined with religious justification not unlike the Hindu caste system. In the U.S. economic context, the distinction between farmer, fisherman, weaver, and ironworker is less relevant. In fact, various Senegalese immigrants noted that the artisan castes in some ways are economically favored in the United States. For example, a toorodo woman stated with remorse that unlike women from a weaver caste, she had never learned to braid, one of the most lucrative sources of income for African women in New York City.15 The particularly low caste of griots has also benefited from their musical talents, performing in the community as well as various night clubs.

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The key point is that the Halpulaar’en in the United States are “freer to choose what type of work they do,” according to participants in a series of focus groups at PSA headquarters in September 2003. These dozen Halpulaar’en men from across the social and political spectrum were unanimous in their view that the community needs unity and must avoid emphasizing divisions such as caste that would destroy their group, just as the PSA avoids partisan politics. Moreover, they maintained that since they have moved to the West, they must now assume its habits, they must adapt. Not all Halpulaar’en share their views on caste, however, as was evident during a PSR call-in radio program in September 2000 on whether “caste is appropriate in an egalitarian, modern, and developed society.” The majority of callers denounced caste, some claiming it is “un-Islamic,” another challenging why members of the community “refuse to marry a ‘casted’ (lower caste) woman from the Fuuta but would marry an African-American woman who everyone knows is from a family of slaves.” Nevertheless, a lone caller supported the persistence of caste asserting that it is “a cultural act that should not be condemned nor sought to be eradicated with the assistance of Western concepts.” Still there is little doubt that caste identity continues to resonate in the immigrant community, not only in marriage but also in the tensions and accusations made against one another based on this social stratification. The toorobe remain susceptible to the charge of manipulating associational life in order to dominate in the community, while they accuse the ñeeño and griots of perpetuating caste identity for their own self-interest. For example, the election of a Wolof ñeeño over a Halpulaar toorodo to head the ASA was described as an “affaire de ñeeño” with the Halpulaar’en ñeeño accused of forming a “bizarre alliance” along caste rather than ethnolinguistic lines as had been the case in past ASA elections. The griots meanwhile are seen by both toorodo and ñeeño members of the community as “living off their caste status, collecting money from people at various events.” A leader of a village association from a family of relatively high-ranking fishermen noted that “the griots are the ones trying to perpetuate the difference between the castes. When the time comes that they can’t support themselves from this, they too will begin to work.” Nevertheless, social stratification has not resonated in electoral politics for either the leadership of the PSA or the Senegalese government. As with PSA leadership, the Hal-Pulaar’en mbëru gox who represent the different political parties come from a wide range of family

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backgrounds, including members of “casted” families such as Alison Fodou Diallo who mobilized support for President Diouf, and toorobe families such as Mamadou Kane who worked on the campaign of fellow Hal-Pulaar candidate Djibo Ka in 2000. Kane described his support for Ka as being “out of ethnic pride,” a sentiment that was reiterated repeatedly during PSR call-in shows with representatives of the various candidates in February 2000, particularly when Ka’s candidacy was discussed, but also as an indirect indictment of the other candidates. For example, when the Hal-Pulaar representative of the PDS candidate Abdoulaye Wade (an ethnic Wolof) was invited to participate, several callers stated, in lieu of a question, that “everyone should vote for Djibo Ka since he is a Peul.” During a broadcast with the Andd-Jëff (AJ) representative for Landing Savane—whose father is Mandinka and mother is Jola—the AJ party was criticized for sending an ethnic Wolof: “This is Pulaar radio and Andd-Jëff should have sent a delegate who speaks Pulaar, especially since there are a number of them in this party.” The ethnic nature of electoral politics among the Halpulaar’en in New York was evident in the results in the first round of the 2000 elections. Among those Halpulaar’en voters polled, a plurality of 40.5 percent stated that they supported Djibo Ka, followed by 36.1 percent who caste their vote for Abdoulaye Wade.16 In contrast, President Diouf received his highest level of support in the overwhelmingly Halpulaar’en district of Matam, where over 60 percent of the electorate voted for him following an intense campaign by the toorobe politicians in the Fuuta Tooro (chapter 4). After Ka became the only opposition candidate to support Diouf in the second round, however, the Halpulaar’en immigrant community was enraged, resulting in a significantly lower turnout in Brooklyn and a dramatically higher refusal rate in the second exit poll by visibly frustrated and embittered voters according to Halpulaar’en pollsters. The poor performance of the PS in New York among the Halpulaar’en, the Murids, and the Sénégalais d’Amérique in general, compared to similar groups in Senegal, was undoubtedly attributable in large part to the limited social authority of the ruling party’s mbëru gox in New York. This was both related to and compounded by an economic context in which clientelist resources were dwarfed by the economic opportunities available to both the potential clients and brokers for Dakar-based politicians thereby thwarting the ruling party’s search for effective local brokers among the mbëru gox.

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The Search for M BËRU G OX among the S ÉNÉGA L A IS D’A MÉRIQUE There were several difficulties associated with finding mbëru gox among the Sénégalais d’Amérique who were willing and able to mobilize political support. Many mbëru gox refused to be implicated with a Senegalese political party, especially with the PS, which was blamed for all the political and economic ills of the country that led the Sénégalais d’Amérique to emigrate. On various call-in radio programs as well as events organized by the community, including meetings with ministers and other government officials, community leaders and members alike denounced the policies and behavior of the PS-state. Moreover, those who were willing to assume the role as its local representatives were not particularly effective in mobilizing support for the ruling party. Most Sénégalais d’Amérique who chose to serve as a representative of the PS or any other party often did so as a continuation of their political activism prior to arriving in the United States. Many of these local politicians, such as Cheikh Mbacke Samb of the PDS, proudly declared that they had gained greater access to national party leaders in Dakar since moving to the United States. Others claimed that they only became involved after being approached by a ranking member of the party, often someone with whom they had personal ties, such as Ben Aidira of the PS who was a high school friend of President Diouf’s heir apparent, Ousmane Tanor Dieng. But even popular mbëru gox such as Fallou Guèye, the president of ASA who is a party activist for one of Senegal’s micro-parties, were not able to translate their immense support as community leaders into political support for their political parties. A prominent example within the PS is Pape Kane. His initial contact with the PS just prior to the 1993 elections was through the Senegalese embassy in Washington D.C., which had been asked by Djibo Ka, then a prominent member of the PS regime, to locate “someone popular” who could mobilize support in the immigrant community. During this period, Kane was not only active in the Murid community as mentioned above, but also owned a grocery store that served as a penc (meeting place) for the Senegalese community in Harlem. Although the potential advantages of his affiliation with the party-state may have in part motivated his decision, Kane quickly learned the high costs and limited benefits of becoming involved in Senegalese politics. After the election, Kane was forced to close his store because, as he explained in an interview in 2001, he “hadn’t paid sufficient attention to [his] business and

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didn’t make anything from politics but just spent a lot of money.” As noted by one local mbëru gox who refused to become involved in party politics, U.S.-based “politicians can’t be in it for personal advancement, because you can’t live off politics here; if anything, it will cost you.” Nonetheless, various mbëru gox in the community, both those who chose to become involved in politics and those who have resisted, observed that there are some advantages that parties can offer their local brokers. The perceived advantages may be relatively intangible, such as the belief that “good political connections are good for business in all political systems.” Other advantages are more concrete, such as the local opposition leader who was promised a visa for his wife if he helped assure the party’s victory. There is also the promise or hope of political appointment. The most prominent example of such a promotion in the 2000 regime change was Cheikh Tidiane Gadio who has risen to become minister of foreign affairs in the Wade administration. During the election campaign, Gadio was not, however, a formal representative of the PDS, but a fervent critic of the Diouf administration during his weekly commentary on a radio show produced by Africa Times. On the other hand, Cheikh Mbacke Samb, an “official” representative of the PDS, was appointed “advisor to the president” after the party’s victory, a position that, according to his critics, permits him to “draw a salary from the New York consulate without showing up to work.” For many Senegalese politicians in New York with whom the myth of return remains vibrant, their political activism is also seen as a possible ticket back home given the lack of economic opportunities in Senegal that prevent their return. The question remains why the parties would offer these rewards or enticements to mobilize support among a constituency that represents a miniscule fraction of the overall electorate. One frequent response that both national and local politicians offered was that they represent more than their individual votes. Throughout each electoral campaign, a common theme repeated by all political parties to the Sénégalais d’Amérique was to press voters back home who rely on them for their economic survival to support their candidate. At the 2000 “town hall” meeting where the local representatives of all the political parties gathered in a Harlem school auditorium to make a final plea for electoral support, each speaker repeated a variation on the refrain “you are here, but you can call Senegal.” During a postelection interview with Cheikh Mbacke Samb, he elaborated on this strategy: “First thing we did was to tell people to call voters back home, and tell them that since you feed them, provide for them, that they should register and vote for the opposition.” He claimed that

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this worked well “as everyone has at least 10–11 people in their family.” Even if these family members followed the political preferences of the Sénégalais d’Amérique, this still represented a small fraction of the Senegalese electorate. Moreover, when asked about the effectiveness of this strategy, most of the Sénégalais d’Amérique consider the support they can generate to be limited at best. Drawing a comparison with the grands électeurs, one Senegalese immigrant noted: “I have a family, but not 100,000 followers.” This more conservative estimate of their electoral impact is supported by data collected during the exit polls. When asked whether they had given voting instructions, 33 percent indicated that they had during the first poll and 26 percent during the second, both times primarily to family members. Poll results thus suggest that this practice is fairly limited and unlikely to motivate national-level interest in the Sénégalais d’Amérique among Dakar-based politicians. Perhaps a better explanation for the disproportionate attention given to the Sénégalais d’Amérique was their symbolic rather than numerical influence. The symbolic value of capturing this constituency was seen as threefold. Some politicians considered New York to be a microcosm of Senegal: “People believe that if you win New York, you will win most of Senegal because there are people from all over Senegal in New York. It is like a sample of the electorate.” Of course, the preceding discussion of the Murid and Halpulaar’en communities in New York demonstrates that they may have been a bellwether for the declining popularity of the PS, but the electoral results were not parallel to comparable communities in Senegal. Other informants tied the symbolic value of winning over a majority of the Sénégalais d’Amérique constituency to popular images of America as the “golden land of opportunity” to which many if not most Senegalese aspire to emigrate. In this sense, politicians and journalists alike sought as much support and political coverage as possible in this economic “promise land.” Finally, the political value of the U.S.-based electorate beyond its numbers also laid with their perceived influence on U.S. foreign policy. In particular, the general prestige of gaining political support in New York City has been enhanced by it being the home of the United Nations where more than one protest was held by the Sénégalais d’Amérique against the policies and practices of the PS-state. The capacity of Senegalese immigrants to sway American public opinion if not public officials through their demonstrations and other informal channels may exist, though most likely in a more limited form than is often perceived by politicians and ordinary citizens back in Senegal.

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Ironically, the largest factor inflating the political importance of the Sénégalais d’Amérique may well be economic considerations. While it has been argued here that the economic opportunities available to them have generally thwarted patronage politics in the United States, there were clear financial benefits that Dakar-based politicians derived from campaigning in this foreign electoral district. The obvious benefit for smaller parties was that the Sénégalais d’Amérique were a source of campaign financing, inverting the direction of the resource flow toward politicians in a system more comparable to U.S. politics though obviously on a smaller scale. Leaders of the URD, for example, reported financing campaign materials for Djibo Ka’s bid for the presidency. Meanwhile, the Senegalese politicians traveling to campaign in the United States benefited from per diem from their parties and allegedly enjoyed the opportunity to skim off from the envelopes destined for the local mbëru gox. This brings us back to the issue of why the PS would rely on, and other parties would attempt to replicate, a clientelist strategy that was clearly ineffective in the American context during the 1993 elections. Some community leaders maintained it was because the PS had no other option. They chose “‘clientelism by default’ because it was the easiest path to follow, the only way Dakar knows how to do it.” Although Senegalese parties continue to adhere to a clientelist strategy—at least to the degree they financially can—the Sénégalais d’Amérique may nevertheless illustrate how Senegal, and Africa more broadly, may surpass a clientelist form of democracy. While the political reforms Senegal undertook from 1975 through 2000 were critical to its advancement beyond a de facto one-party state to the establishment of a clientelist democracy, the Sénégalais d’Amérique demonstrate the need for social reform and economic development in order to consolidate its democratic regime and move beyond its clientelist form of democracy by diminishing the relevance of patronage resources and replacing the grands électeurs, not with a new generation of little Big Men, but with political debate based on the performance and promises of competing parties and candidates. Unfortunately, developments in Senegal since the historic elections of 2000 indicate political backsliding rather than advancement on these fronts.

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7

Th e Fr agi l i t y of a C l i e n t e l ist D e mo c r ac y

In the conclusion of his book on Democracy in Senegal, Sheldon

Gellar (2005: 171) offers an insightful assessment of the comparative value of Senegal’s experience with democracy. He argues that Senegalese democracy is neither a reflection of Western democratic systems, “which have different histories, traditions, and physical environments,” nor can it serve as a model for other African countries for similar reasons. The comparative value of studying Senegal is instead the analytical insights it provides us into the opportunities and obstacles to the transition and consolidation of democracy in African countries that have more recently undertaken democratization, as well as countries in other regions that share with Senegal a similar clientelist basis for political authority within a democratic regime. As illustrations of potential trajectories other than the limited options of either stalling as a competitive authoritarian or achieving an advance form of liberal democracy, the four Senegalese case studies presented here demonstrate how variations in the socioeconomic power of local brokers can explain the relative constraints that clientelism places on political competition and participation, permitting under certain conditions the rise of a clientelist form of democracy as occurred in Senegal at the turn of the twenty-first century. Though clientelist democracy is not a normatively ideal form of democracy, the ousting of the Socialist Party after four decades of uninterrupted rule demonstrated that democracy can be achieved even in a neopatrimonial system such as ones that continue to exist in Senegal and throughout sub-Saharan Africa. Given regional variations in the level of support for the PS-state at the time of its downfall, it is imperative to analyze the impact of clientelism on the democratization process at the local level. The Senegalese case studies illuminate the conditions under which political competition and participation may thrive despite the continuing prevalence of clientelism.

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While explaining the diminished role of Senegal’s quintessential brokers, the Wolof marabouts of central Senegal, the analysis of modern Muridism in Chapter 3 clearly demonstrated that the autonomy of local brokers from national-level political patrons can permit a high level of political competition when local and national interests diverge. Though the social authority of these autonomous brokers dampened political participation as their approval remains a requirement for implementation of public policy and entry into local politics, the desire to protect their relationship with their disciples led most prominent marabouts to refrain from giving political ndigels (religious commands) for the increasingly unpopular PS-state, a practice that has largely continued under the PDS regime of President Abdoulaye Wade. Discussion in chapter 4 of the most resilient support for the PS among the Tukulor toorobe of northern Senegal illustrated the importance of electoral uncertainty in a clientelist democracy. As dependent brokers who relied on their political position to reinforce their social status as well as political power and economic access, the toorobe politicians were unlikely to abandon the ruling party until the prospects for a change in power seemed possible if not imminent. Nor did these noble politicians face any serious competition from local opposition leaders given the resilient sociopolitical authority of the toorobe that translated into a lack of dembacratie at the local level, which continues to hinder the political participation of a ordinary “Demba” among the Tukulor. In the third case study presented in chapter 5, the lack of social hierarchy in the southern Casamance region of Ziguinchor enhanced competition by permitting its citizen-clients the autonomy to withdraw support from the PS party machine in response to its declining capacity to provide clientelist resources. While this lack of social hierarchy also translated into a high level of political participation, including the rise of political brokers of “northern origins” as well as the local “sons of the soil,” it also curtailed the capacity of these limited brokers to avoid or resolve the Casamance conflict, which continues to fester with sporadic incidences of violence. Finally, the Sénégalais d’Amérique discussed in chapter 6 embody the democratic advantages of all three of these sociopolitical conditions: the autonomy of the local mbëru gox brokers from Dakar-based politicians due to increased economic opportunities; a similar autonomy of citizenclients from the PS-state as well as autonomy from their local brokers due to a declining significance of sociocultural hierarchies; and finally their enfranchisement at a time of high uncertainty in Senegalese electoral politics. Nevertheless, Senegalese politicians retained their less effective

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clientelist strategies in large part because of the “persistence of patrimonial mores” (Gellar 2005: 156) that have led both local brokers and voters based in the United States to retain their expectation that politicians are to be Samba Linguers, generous benefactors who distribute resources, whether the state’s or their own (Coulon 1988). The resilience of clientelism in Senegalese politics is therefore not in question unlike its democratic status. While various scholars have depicted Senegal as newly democratic (Diamond 2002; Diop et al 2002; Gellar 2005), and Freedom House has categorized it as an “electoral democracy,” Marina Ottoway identifies Senegal as a semiauthoritarian regime. Correctly anticipating that this categorization is “bound to raise objections,” Ottoway (2003: 91–92) claims that “democracy requires a system of constant checks and balances [which] President Wade has explicitly rejected.” Despite the challenges that presidentialism poses to a democratic regime, few theorists of democracy or democratization consider a lack of checks and balances in and of itself as a basis for categorizing a regime as semi-authoritarian/ democratic, although it may make a regime more susceptible to authoritarian backsliding, which Senegal has arguably been experiencing since its historic 2000 elections. These are two separate questions, however: Did Senegal join the ranks of electoral democracies in 2000? And if so, has it been able to retain this title and consolidate its democratic albeit clientelist regime? If there is a plethora of definitions for democracy, there are nearly as many measures of when a country has attained a minimal set of criteria to be categorized as democratic. Based on Robert Dahl’s (1971) minimal procedural definition of the political rights and civil liberties required in a democracy, accepted in this study as a consensus definition, Senegal’s democratic moment may have occurred in 1993 when critical political reforms were instituted to insure the competitiveness of the electoral process. Most analysts, however, insist that there has to be at least one change in the political party in power to demonstrate that democratic reforms are not just a façade or part of a “passive revolution” (Fatton 1987). By this definition, Senegal clearly became a democracy when the PDS won the 2000 presidential election under the slogan of Sopi (change). As for Senegal’s capacity to consolidate its clientelist democracy , Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan (1996) set out five conditions for the consolidation of a democratic transition: freedom of association and communication; free and inclusive electoral contestation; an institutionalized market economy; constitutionalism (rule of law); and rational-legal bureaucratic norms. Their first two conditions regarding civil liberties

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and competitive elections are actually required in a minimal definition of democracy; thus they are conditions for a democratic transition prior to consolidation. The third condition regarding a market economy is highly contested both in theory and practice in democracies such as France, India, and Nordic countries where the market economy is balanced by socialist policies and programs of an extensive though declining welfare state. The remaining two issues, however, are critical to our discussion of Senegalese politics and the future of democracy in Africa. By definition, Senegal’s clientist democracy is not based exclusively or even primarily on rational-legal bureaucratic norms. Moreover, its legal culture of constitutionalism does not have “strong roots in civil society,” nor is it invariably “respected by political society and the state apparatus” (Linz and Stepan 1996: 14). While these conditions aptly describe the distinctive nature of liberal democracy, Guillermo O’Donnell (1996: 39) challenges the argument that recent democracies, or polyarchies to use Dahl’s apt term, “will or should become ‘consolidated’ or ‘highly institutionalized’” in terms of adopting formal (legal-rational) institutions as opposed to informal (clientelist) institutions. In reference to the inherent teleology and ethnocentrism of this argument, O’Donnell concludes that “consequently, calling some polyarchies ‘consolidated’ or ‘highly institutionalized’ may be no more than saying that they are institutionalized in ways that one expects and of which one approves,” that is in the form of a liberal democracy. Therefore, democratic consolidation, in contrast with the quality of democracy, should be limited to analyses of regime stability as Andre Schedler (1998) astutely points out in his effort to resolve the conceptual confusion among democratic transition, consolidation, and advancement. And it is not self-evident that constitutionalism and rational-legal bureaucratic norms are sin qua non for regime stability. To the contrary, the advanced age of India’s clientelist or patronage democracy (Chandra 2004) indicates otherwise. The inherent problem with the debates surrounding these concepts of democracy and democratization is that when political scientists identify inadequacies with countries that meet the minimal procedural definition of polyarchy as set out by Robert Dahl, they attempt to exclude regimes that do not approximate their ideal or preconceived notion of democracy by raising the bar, rather than acknowledging the possibility of diversity among democracies that minimally guarantee civil liberties and competitive elections. The problem, I would argue, is not with the minimal definition of democracy

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but with our expectations of what can be achieved merely through formal, legalistic political reforms. Democracy can be attained without a precondition of economic development, but the consolidation and quality of democracy are undoubtedly influenced by economic as well as social conditions (Przeworski et al. 2000). Clearly then “all good things” do not come with the formal, legal political reforms associated with democratization, as the experiences of established Western polyarchies have demonstrated and continue to demonstrate, requiring continual vigilance as well as economic and social reform in order to better approximate the political ideal of democracy and its principles of liberty and equality. Nevertheless, political developments in Senegal under President Wade may prove Linz and Stepan right that democratic consolidation is difficult if not impossible in the absence of constitutionalism and rule of law. Since coming to power in 2000, President Wade’s PDS party has effectively gained control of the state apparatus including the National Assembly, and enhanced the power of the presidency despite a campaign promise to institute a parliamentary democracy in Senegal. In spite of maneuverings by the PDS leadership to ensure the political tenure of the new ruling party, including extension of its clientelist networks that have absorbed many former PS brokers, the democratic backsliding by the new PDS-state has not yet precluded the possibility of a second transfer of power, which some analysts claim is necessary for the consolidation of democracy. The recent 2007 presidential elections were in fact highly competitive with President Wade receiving only 55.9 percent of the vote, a far cry from the heyday of the PS-state. Nonetheless, he received over 40 percent more than his next closest rival and former heir apparent, Idrissa Seck (see table 7.1). Wade’s margin of victory, however, is as much a reflection of political maneuvering by the ruling party as the failure of the opposition to unite behind a single or even a few candidates. In the February 2007 elections, there were fifteen presidential candidates, including three prominent former PS leaders: Ousmane Tanor Dieng, Moustapha Niasse, and the mayor of Ziguinchor, Robert Sagna. In terms of the 2007 presidential election results in the four electoral districts analyzed for this study, support for the new incumbent among the Sénégalais d’Amérique was significantly higher than support previously garnered by the PS-state in a pattern that remained similar to Dakar’s urban voters. Despite apparent frustration in the community with the shortcomings of Sopi (change), evident in a lack of increased voter participation despite the continuing growth of the

226 Table 7.1

B r ok e r i ng D e mo c r ac y i n A f r ic a Results from the 2007 Presidential Election Abdoulaye Ibrissa Wade Seck

Ousmane Tanor Dieng

Moustapha Niasse

Robert Other Sagna Candidates

NATIONAL

55.9

14.9

13.6

5.9

2.6

7.2

Diourbel Bombey Diourbel Mbacke

73.5 64.8 56.2 83.8

10.4 17.8 9.0 8.1

8.3 8.1 21.8 3.0

2.2 2.2 5.4 0.9

0.5 0.6 1.0 0.3

5.1 6.5 6.6 3.9

Matam Matam

67.1 66.7

3.7 4.6

5.2 5.2

11.4 12.0

1.6 2.3

11.0 9.2

Saint-Louis Podor Dagana

59.6 65.5 58.9

12.2 4.3 13.9

17.0 15.2 18.0

3.4 4.6 3.1

0.5 0.5 0.6

7.3 9.9 5.5

Ziguinchor Bignona Oussouye Ziguinchor

55.9 53.1 54.2 58.7

4.9 3.9 5.9 5.4

2.1 1.6 1.4 2.8

2.4 2.5 2.8 2.3

26.3 26.6 28.8 25.5

8.4 12.3 6.9 5.3

Exterior United States

69.2 54.4

9.8 12.6

6.5 10.2

5.6 12.1

1.7 1.8

7.2 9.0

Other Regions Dakar Fatick Kaolack Kolda Louga

55.9 55.9 44.7 68.1 59.1

19.1 6.5 6.6 4.4 14.2

14.0 16.9 18.0 5.6 15.4

4.1 9.9 23.1 4.5 2.8

1.3 1.0 0.9 5.8 0.8

5.6 9.8 6.7 11.6 7.7

Tamba Thies

60.0 38.6

7.0 32.9

10.5 19.9

4.3 2.6

5.4 0.8

12.8 5.2

Sources: www.senelections.org; Le Soleil (March 1, 2007)

community over the last seven years, the majority of Sénégalais d’Amérique remained steadfast in their support for President Wade. In the Lower Casamance departments of the Ziguinchor region, the “son of the soil” Robert Sagna made an impressive showing, demonstrating in part the autonomy of Casamançais voters who continue to be frustrated by the perpetual civil conflict. An equally important factor, however, was the failure of the local PDS party leadership to identify and unite behind a single faction of “sons of the soil,” reminiscent of the problem that previously undermined electoral support for the PS-state.

Th e F r ag i l i t y of a C l i e n t e l i s t D e mo c r ac y

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Electoral results in the Matam department of the new region of Matam, as well as the other predominantly Tukulor department of Podor that remains in the Saint-Louis region, reflect the transhumance (migration) of Tukulor toorobe politicians to the new ruling party rather than a rise in dembacratie. The strong showings of Moustapha Niasse and Ousmane Tanor Dieng in Matam and Podor, respectively, are a manifestation of the toorobe brokers who have thus far chosen to remain with the splintered PS party in the opposition. The relatively high level of political competition for these districts, reminiscent of the pre-independence period prior to the establishment of the PS-state, is unlikely to continue, however, if the political dominance of the PDS remains ineffectively challenged, resulting in a decline in the uncertainty of the electoral process. In contrast, phenomenal electoral support for President Wade in the predominantly Murid department of Mbacke would appear to suggest a possible return to the Golden Age of marabout relations with the party-state. Support from over 83 percent of voters in Mbacke does not, however, reflect the “blind loyalty” of disciples to an ndigel from the Khalif-Général or other prominent marabouts, but rather perceived favoritism of a Murid president to the benefit of fellow adherents to the Muridiya, which has been widely criticized by nonMurids and even some Murids. Since President Wade’s decision to travel to the holy city of Touba with prominent members of his cabinet to thank the Khalif immediately following his election in 2000, there have been concerns regarding mounting tensions between the brotherhoods as well as Muslim and Christian communities and the potential rise of a divisive ethno-regionalism that has never existed in Senegal despite the salience of cultural identities in Senegalese politics, averted through the ethnic arithmetic established under Leopold Sedar Senghor’s leadership. In March 2003, for example, the PDS-state announced it would turn over a large portion of state-controlled land (over 50,000 hectares) to the Khalif. While this is not the first example of the Senegalese state’s generosity toward a Murid leader, the reallocation of the land for purely agricultural purposes prompted three months of protests and threats of violence by herders, the majority of whom are ethnic Peuls, who charged the government with favoring Murid farmers who are largely ethnic Wolofs. The high level of support for Idrissa Seck in his home region of Thies may also be interpreted as another indication of a growing tendency toward political regionalism. However, Seck’s legal troubles stemming from his power struggle with President Wade give greater

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cause for immediate concern about the state of democracy in Senegal. In April 2004, tensions between President Wade and then–Prime Minister Seck came to a head when Wade demanded that Seck account for monies allocated to still incomplete public works projects in Thies. Charged with “endangering national security,” Seck was arrested for the alleged misappropriation of FCFA 17 billion. Although the charges were commonly viewed as perhaps accurate, they were also seen as a politically motivated attempt to check the rising power and popularity of President Wade’s presumed heir apparent. Although ultimately released and permitted to run in the 2007 elections, Seck’s arrest was not exceptional but rather part of a pattern of intimidation of political opponents through a combination of arrests and violence allegedly perpetrated by “thugs” affiliated with the president’s entourage. For example, opposition leader Amath Dansokho has been repeatedly arrested, most recently in 2006 when he was charged with making inflammatory statements after commenting to members of the Senegalese and French media in Paris that the president was “gagging the press.” In January 2007, a banned protest of Wade’s unilateral decision to postpone the legislative elections resulted in the detention of various opposition leaders including three presidential candidates, Ousmane Tanor Dieng, Moustapha Niasse and Abdoulaye Bathily, who angrily stated that Senegal has “surely gone backward in terms of civic liberties” (Economist Intelligence Unit, February 2007). The British Broadcasting Company (BBC, February 16, 2007) has also reported that Senegalese radio stations have been shut down for supposedly biased reporting, while Senegalese rappers who initially supported the champion of Sopi are now being served with backdated tax bills after their refusal to infuse their music with positive political messages about the new PDS government. Perhaps the worst example of political intimidation and violence under the PDS regime was the attack on Talla Sylla, a candidate of the Jef-Jel Alliance in 2007, who was nearly beaten to death in October 2003. During a subsequent rally condemning this and other political violence, opposition leaders openly accused the Wade government of being directly or indirectly behind the attack by creating a climate of politically motivated violence in Senegal, including attacks and threats against trade union leaders, opposition leaders, and journalists. For example, in 2003 Abou Latif Coulibaly, the director general of Sud FM radio and journalist for the Sud-Quotidien daily newspaper, was detained following the publication of his immensely popular and controversial book, Wade: un opposant au pouvoir: l’alternance piegée

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(Wade: An Opposition Leader in Power: Failed Political Change). After being released, Coulibaly received death threats while a parliamentary commission, dominated by PDS deputies, found that Coulibaly’s accusations of corruption and political mismanagement were without basis (Jeune Afrique, April 2–9, 2006). In 2003, a Radio France Internationale journalist was also arrested for allegedly attempting to sabotage the Casamance peace process by giving “tendentious treatment” to the rebellion during an interview with MFDC leader Alexandre Djiba, a long-standing opponent to a negotiated settlement with the Senegalese state. Again in 2004, the managing editor of Le Quotidien, a daily newspaper in Dakar, was arrested after publishing several articles on corruption among Senegalese customs officials and magistrates. These illustrations of infringements on the civil liberties of Senegalese nationals as well as foreign journalists indicate that, unfortunately, Senegal may be more likely to experience the erosion of its democracy than its clientelist basis for political authority. While President Wade has reinforced the personalization of political power through the distribution of monthly supplements to government officials and stipends to party leaders in his coalition government (Diop et al. 2002: 176; Gellar 2005: 157), his tolerance of, if not active participation in, infringements on civil liberties has set the stage for a return to semi-democracy although Senegal’s Freedom House ratings have thus far remained unaffected. Equally disturbing is the recent proposal to recreate the Senate, which was dissolved under the 2001 constitution. Created by the PS-state primarily to provide additional clientelist resources for the former ruling party, the dissolution of the PS-dominated institution by the new PDS government was not surprising or alarming. The proposal to reinstate the Senate, however, has raised cause for concern particularly because, according to the bill presented in January 2007, the Senate would consist of 100 members, 65 of whom would be appointed directly by the president. This would considerably increase the president’s power, further weakening the limited legislative checks on executive power, which have already led Marina Ottoway to label Senegal as a semi-democracy. The question remains whether these developments are attributable to the clientelist nature of Senegal’s democracy. The protection of civil liberties and political rights in a clientelist democracy are undoubtedly more fragile than under the constitutionalism and rule of law that distinguish liberal democracies. Nonetheless, I would argue that these developments were not inevitable, nor are they

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irreversible. I share with Sheldon Gellar (2005) his favorable assessment of the development of democratic political norms in the Tocquevillian associations that are the focus of his book. Their vigilance, however, is unlikely to be sufficient if there is not also a commitment by political elites at the national as well as local level to democracy as the “only game in town” (Valenzuela 1992). In this sense, the departure of President Abdou Diouf was a democratic moment not only in terms of the triumph of the political opposition, but also in his willingness to step down. After the defeat of the PS in the 2000 presidential elections, there were rumors in the New York community of Sénégalais d’Amérique that President Diouf had been under pressure from other leaders in his party to use fraudulent means to remain in power but that he had refused. This was an uncharacteristically favorable portrayal of the former president among the Sénégalais d’Amérique. Regardless of its accuracy, President Diouf’s acceptance of his electoral defeat serves as model for political leaders in Senegal and throughout Africa. Critical as one may be of the performance and/or clientelist nature of his regime, President Diouf’s departure was an advancement over the widely praised though highly orchestrated departure of his predecessor, Leopold Sedar Senghor. May other political leaders choose to follow his commitment to the democratic process.

A ppe n di x 1

D e mo gr a ph ic s of Se n e g a l : Et h n ic i t y a n d R e l igion ( B y R e gion a n d D e pa r t m e n t i n %)

ETHNICITY Wolof

Pulaar

Jola

Serer

Mandinka

Other

NATIONAL

42.7

23.7

5.3

14.9

4.2

13.4

Diourbel: Mbacke Bambey Diourbel Saint-Louis: Matam Podor Dagana Ziguinchor: Ziguinchor Bignona Oussouye Dakar Fatick Kaolack Kolda Louga Tamba Thies

66.7 84.9 57.3 53.4 30.1 3.9 5.5 63.6 10.4 8.2 1.8 4.8 53.8 29.9 62.4 3.4 70.1 8.8 54.0

6.9 8.4 2.9 9.4 61.3 88.0 89.8 25.3 15.1 13.5 5.2 4.7 18.5 9.2 19.3 49.5 25.3 46.4 10.9

0.2 0.1 0.1 0.4 0.3 0.0 0.3 0.7 35.5 34.5 80.6 82.4 4.7 0.0 0.0 5.9 0.0 0.0 0.7

24.8 8.4 38.9 34.4 0.7 1.0 0.3 1.3 4.5 3.4 1.2 3.5 11.6 55.1 11.8 0.0 1.2 3.0 30.2

0.2 0.1 0.1 0.5 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 13.7 14.4 6.1 1.5 2.8 2.1 0.5 23.6 0.0 17.4 0.9

1.2 1.1 0.7 1.9 7.6 8.0 4.1 10.4 20.8 26.0 5.1 3.1 8.6 3.7 6.0 17.6 3.4 24.4 3.3 Continued

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A p p e n di x 1

Appendix 1 (continued) RELIGION Tijan

Murid

Khadir

Other Muslim

NATIONAL

47.4

30.1

10.9

5.4

4.3

1.9

Diourbel: Mbacke Bambey Diourbel Saint-Louis: Matam Podor Dagana Ziguinchor: Ziguinchor Bignona Oussouye Dakar Fatick Kaolack Kolda Louga

9.5 4.3 9.8 16.0 80.2 88.6 93.8 66.2 22.9 31.2 17.0 14.6 51.5 39.6 65.3 52.7 37.3

85.3 91.6 85.6 77.2 6.4 2.3 1.9 11.9 4.0 5.0 3.3 2.5 23.4 38.6 27.2 3.6 45.9

0.0 3.7 2.9 4.6 8.4 3.0 2.4 15.8 32.0 17.6 51.2 3.3 6.9 12.4 4.9 26.0 15.1

4.1 0.0 0.6 0.7 3.7 4.7 0.8 0.9 16.3 16.2 18.5 6.1 10.9 1.2 0.9 11.1 1.2

0.0 0.0 0.7 1.2 0.4 0.3 0.0 0.8 17.1 24.2 8.2 27.7 6.7 7.8 1.0 5.0 0.1

0.3 0.2 0.4 0.3 0.9 1.0 1.0 1.1 7.7 5.8 1.8 45.8 0.7 0.5 0.6 1.6 0.5

Source: Republic of Senegal (1990)

Christian Traditional

A ppe n di x 2

Se n eg a l ese P r e si de n t i a l E l ec t ion R esu lts i n t h e Fou r C a se St u di es, 1978 – 20 0 0

1978

1983

1988

1993

2000-1st

2000-2nd

NATIONAL 1,932,265

2,549,699

Valid Votes (%)

Registered

1,556,742 1,888,444 62.5

57.9

58.6

50.9

62.0

61.5

PS (%)

82.3

83.6

73.2

58.4

41.3

41.2

PDS (%)

17.4

14.7

25.8

32.0

31.3

58.9

1.7

1.0

9.6

27.5

53,605

62,342

56,362

72,107

78,054

78,055

82.0

45.0

67.2

28.4

48.6

49.4

4.5

2.6

3.3

1.6

2.3

2.4

90.1

75.8

95.6

71.9

46.7

36.3

9.9

23.6

4.3

21.3

33.1

63.3

0.7

0.1

6.8

20.2

68,266

68,739

75,012

92,394

80,063

80,018

69.8

76.2

60.2

48.5

54.8

52.7

4.9

4.8

4.0

3.5

2.7

2.6

98.6

93.5

93.9

88.9

60.5

71.1

1.4

2.2

5.9

4.4

8.3

28.9

4.3

0.2

6.7

31.2

29,463

35,999

37,596

46,521

50,331

50,094

66.7

51.9

64.3

50.2

60.4

59.6

2.0

1.7

2.1

1.8

1.9

1.9

Other (%)

2,624,762 2,624,762

Mbacke Registered Valid Votes (%) National (%) PS (%) PDS (%) Other (%) Matam Registered Valid Votes (%) National (%) PS (%) PDS (%) Other (%) Ziguinchor Registered Valid Votes (%) National (%)

Continued

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A p p e n di x 2

Appendix 2 (continued) PS (%)

90.9

81.0

67.4

56.1

34.9

32.2

9.1

17.2

31.6

28.1

37.2

67.8

1.1

15.8

27.9

NE

1,547

3,127

3,127

67.7

42.1

38.6

0.1

0.1

0.1

PS (%)

46.4

18.2

23.5

PDS (%)

45.4

35.7

76.5

8.2

46.1

PDS (%) Other (%) United States Registered

NE

Valid Votes (%) National (%)

Other (%)

NE

Notes: NE: Not Eligible to vote. Sources: Official results obtained from the Senegalese Ministry of the Interior (1978; 1983; 2000) and the official state newspaper Le Soleil (1988; 1993). Data were triangulated with statistics generously provided by Richard Vengroff and Shaheen Mozaffar.

A ppe n di x 3

R egiona l E l e c t or a l Su pp or t f or P S P r e si de n t i a l C a n di dat e s, 1 9 7 8 – 20 0 0 (i n %)

NATIONAL Diourbel: Mbacke Bambey Diourbel Saint-Louis: Matam Dagana Podor Saint-Louis Ziguinchor: Ziguinchor Bignona Oussouye External: United States Other Regions Dakar Fatik

1978

1983

1988

1993

2000-1st

2000-2nd

82.3

83.6

73.2

58.4

41.3

41.2

90.1 66.1 80.5

75.8 77.4 77.9

95.6 80.5 85.5

71.9 59.5 61.4

46.7 49.8 44.4

36.0 38.0 39.1

98.6 82.6 97.3 86.1

93.5 85.9 91.2 84.3

93.9 73.7 90.3 ND

88.9 66.5 82.9 56.3

60.5 55.1 53.7 42.4

71.1 58.0 71.4 39.0

90.9 93.1 51.0

81.0 86.0 57.0

67.4 42.3 52.4

56.1 55.3 54.3

34.9 38.8 52.4

32.2 33.0 45.7

NE

NE

NE

46.4

18.2

23.5

70.4 85.3

78.2 86.8

58.2 72.2

41.2 59.6

23.8 51.4

25.1 42.1 Continued

236

A p p e n di x 3

Appendix 3 (continued) Kaolack Kolda Louga Tambacounda Thies

70.7 86.8 81.8 93.7 83.4

81.9 81.8 87.6 89.2 82.9

73.9 60.5 90.1 71.5 76.8

57.8 50.9 79.0 62.7 58.4

44.8 45.1 55.5 52.6 45.9

44.8 40.3 62.2 54.4 42.8

Notes: ND: No data; NE: Not eligible to vote. Sources: Official results obtained from the Senegalese Ministry of the Interior (1978; 1983; 2000) and the official state newspaper Le Soleil (1988; 1993). Data was triangulated with statistics generously provided by Richard Vengroff and Shaheen Mozaffar.

No t e s

Chapter 1 Clientelist Democracy in Comparative Perspective 1. On the anarchist critique of tyranny of the majority, see Alix Shulman’s work Red Emma Speaks (1998). 2. Two notable exceptions, though both on advanced industrialized democracies, are the recent work of Herbert Kitschelt and Steven Wilkinson (2007) on the transition from clientelist to programmatic linkages in Western Europe and Japan, and Eleonara Pasotti’s doctoral dissertation (2003) on the transformation of Neopolitan municipal government. 3. The provision of material resources to a politician in exchange for his support of a particular government policy needs to be distinguished from the distribution of resources by a political patron to his/her clients. Depending on the laws and political norms in a given country, the former should be more appropriately categorized as political corruption as opposed to clientelism. 4. The argument for inclusion of clientelist democracy does not negate the possibility of other “structural deficits” discussed by Andreas Schedler that may warrant an additional category of “Advanced Democracy,” although the defining characteristic of “structural deficits” should be more clearly specified.

Chapter 2 The Rise of Senegal’s Clientelist Democracy 1. The literature on neo-patrimonialism or “personal rule” in sub-Saharan Africa is extensive. See inter alia Bayart (1993); Bratton and van de Walle (1997); Ekeh (1975); Jackson and Rosberg (1982); Joseph (1987); Lémarchand (1977; 1988); and Médard (1991). 2. In the 1988 census, the highly Wolofized Lébou of the Cap Vert peninsula (Dakar) were grouped with the Wolof, while the various Pulaarspeakers were categorized by their shared language, including groups commonly referred to as Tukulor and Peul based on their primary occupation and region. Senegal has updated its 1988 census based primarily on statistical projects rather than household surveys. However, percentages vary little and the publicly available data are less comprehensive. Therefore, this study relies on the older census.

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No t e s

3. Since Paul Marty’s Études sur l’Islam au Sénégal (1917), there have been innumerable studies on Islam and the Sufi brotherhoods in Senegal, in particular the Muridiya. The classic work in English on the Murids remains Donal Cruise O’Brien’s The Mourides of Senegal (1971). 4. The title Shaikh is italicized with Anglicized spelling to distinguish it from the Senegalese name “Cheikh,” which is often incorrectly used in association with Amadou Bamba. 5. There is an extensive literature on the history of Islam and colonial rule in Senegal, inter alia: Babou (2002); Klein (1968); Marty (1917); Monteil (1964); Robinson (1988; 1991; 2000); and Searing (2002). 6. This discussion of early electoral and party politics in the Senegalese colony is based primarily on several sources: Clark and Phillips (1994); Crowder and O’Brien (1987); Foltz (1966); Gellar (1995); Johnson (1971); Morganthau (1964); Nzouankeu (1984); and Zuccarelli (1988). 7. Whereas the PDS and PIT were generally applauded in 1991 for joining the government during a period of heightened domestic and international tension, the decision by the PIT, LD-MPT, and ultimately the PDS to join the PS-led government after the 1993 elections was met with greater skepticism. These parties were seen as choosing to join the government not only to influence public policy and demonstrate their capacity to rule but also to gain access to the state’s clientelist resources to promote their popularity among their supporters and broaden their electoral base (Beck 2002). 8. During an interview with Babacar Touré (August 21, 2001), the director general of Sud-Communications, Senegal’s largest independent media organization, he claimed that repeated requests for authorization of a radio station were rebuffed until the PS-state finally agreed with the stipulation that they could not go on the air until after the 1993 elections.

Chapter 3 Influential Brokers: The Murid Marabouts of Central Senegal 1. The term taalibe is derived from the Arabic word taalib (student), but is used by Senegalese to refer to disciples of a marabout, a Sufi cleric, derived from murabit, a Muslim who spreads or defends Islam (Robinson 2000: 241). 2. All references to statements made by informants are anonymous unless made by a public figure who has not requested anonymity. Every effort has been made to provide relevant demographic information without revealing the identity of the informant. 3. Murid daara (schools in Arabic) are agricultural work groups of young boys who are sent by their parents to live, study, and work with a marabout. 4. Amadou Bamba is often referred to as “Sereigne Touba,” which literally means the head or chief of Touba.

No t e s

239

Chapter 4 Dependent Brokers: Tukulor Nobles in Northern Senegal 1. Tukulor is derived from Takruur, the Arabic word for the middle Senegal River Valley, which was also the name for an eleventh-century empire in the region. 2. The various names for Pulaar speakers have created a great deal of confusion. Dialects of Pulaar or Fulfulde are spoken throughout the Sahel by pastoralist groups who are collectively known as the Fulbe or Fula from fullude (to disperse). In Francophone Africa, the Fulbe pastoralists are referred to as the Peul, derived from the singular of Fulbe, or pullo (Kane and Robinson 1984: 1–5). In addition to the Tukulor and Peul populations in the northern Fuuta Tooro region, Pulaar speakers are found throughout Senegal with another large concentration in the southern region of Kolda (Upper Casamance). 3. Also absent from table 4.1 are the Fulbe pastoralists, who have been more recently incorporated into a broader Haalpulaar’en schema of social stratification in Fuutanke society (Dilley 2004; Kyburz 1994; Schmitz 1986; 1994). Although they have been highly integrated into Tukulor society, economic activities, and politics, the Fulbe have a distinct ethno-cultural identity (Peul) with their own system of stratification that prevents their incorporation as single status group. 4. Only the origin myths regarding fishermen, who were believed to have inherited mystical powers to tame the waters of the river, are distinctive to Tukulor society. Accounts of the mystical feats of their ancestors remain prevalent in Tukulor fishing villages. 5. Bouteiller et al. (1962: 54) provided statistical estimates on the relative size of Tukulor status groups: 45 percent toorobe nobles, 26 percent other rimbe (warriors and fishermen), 21.5 percent captives, and 7.5 percent artisans. These statistics basically correspond to those offered by Dilley (2004: 27). 6. This summary of Tukulor history is based on a number of prominent sources: Diagne (1967); Hanson (1996); Kane (1987); Kane and Robinson (1984); Klein (1972); Robinson (1975; 1988); Schmitz (1990); and Soh (1913). 7. Coulon (1981) offers a succinct overview of the various reformist marabouts of the Fuuta Tooro. On the life of Abdul Bokar Kane, see Robinson (1975). 8. On the French policy toward “dissidents” and the selection of reliable political allies, see M.M. Kane (1987: 103–146). On the conversion of the precolonial rulers into administrators for the colonial state in the Fuuta and other regions, see Klein (1968) and Zucarelli (1973). 9. Tukulor artisans seldom cultivated until irrigated agriculture spread in the region at the end of the twentieth century. 10. On the history of irrigation in the Senegal River Valley, see Adrian Adams (1981; 1985; 2000); Adams and Jaabe So (1996); and Bernard Crousse et al. (1991).

240

No t e s

11. Catherine Elkins (1997) and Brett O’Bannon (2004) offer insightful analyses of land tenure, decentralization, and agricultural reform in the Senegal River Valley. 12. According to Yaya Wane (1969: 80), the Tukulor at the time of independence were “quasi-unanimous” in their opposition to Western-style democracy, and derisively referred to it as “dembacratie,” allegedly because they did not trust someone from an inferior caste such as a common “Demba.” 13. In 1991, Delville claimed that emigrants sent remittances of up to FCFA30,000–50,000 per month to their families (Delville 1991b: 16). This estimate was confirmed by interviews conducted in Matam during the mid-1990s. More recent discussions with Haalpulaar’en emigrants in the United States indicate, however, that this amount has tripled if not quadrupled over the last decade, though the Amériquobe (emigrants to the United States) are reputedly among the wealthiest emigrants due to the relative strength of the U.S. economy. 14. Abdoulaye Kane (2001) offers an insightful and empirically rich study of the particularly vibrant Thilogne AVR. 15. As with previous grandes familles, the political power of the Basse family became a source of greater economic power. For example, the independent paper Walfadjri reported that the Basse family was able to use its political clout to prevent a couple dozen traditional bakeries from selling bread after the creation of industrial bakeries in Ourroussougui by the Basse family (Walfadjri, June 1, 1994: 6). 16. Kane’s nickname is “Mathiara,” which helps avoid confusion with the author of the renowned novel L’Adventure Amibigue (1961). Cheikh Hamidou Kane “Le Grand,” as the latter is known, did serve briefly as head of the PS coordination in Matam, but was “parachuted” in by the national PS leadership in response to a particularly divisive factional dispute in the 1980s. 17. In contrast, Jean Schmitz (2000) offers an account of a dispute over the successor to a village chief in the Podor department in which emigrants from the village played a key role in resolving the dispute and protecting the distinction between the toorobe families who are electable as village chief and those who are merely electors. 18. The other possible exception is the 1999 ban on excision that was widely criticized by religious leaders in the Fuuta Tooro. Although several local politicians claimed that presidential candidate Djibo Ka (a Peul) and other Haalpulaar’en politicians opposed the law, it was never mentioned as a basis for critiquing the PS-state. Instead, a local opposition leader claimed that “the law had nothing to do with anything other than the PS attempting to increase its funds,” a reference to its lack of implementation and pressure for the ban by foreign donors (Beck 2001).

No t e s

241

19. Dia was later joined by Mathiara after the defeat of the PS in 2000, along with Abdourahmane Toure, who left the URD when Djibo Ka decided to support President Diouf in the second round of the presidential elections.

Chapter 5 Limited Brokers: Casamançais “Sons of the Soil” in Southern Senegal 1. In the mid-1980s, I served as a Peace Corps volunteer in a village south of Ziguinchor. Unfortunately, political problems in the village stemming from the Casamance conflict led the inhabitants to abandon the village shortly after my departure. To date, continued fighting and land mines have prevented them from returning to the village, although some brave and desperate individuals who have sought refuge in the regional capital of Ziguinchor continue to cultivate the rice fields surrounding the hamlet seven kilometers away. 2. According to the legend, the twin sisters Aguène and Diambogne were separated by an evil genie who forced Aguène to head south creating Jola society while Diambogne headed north of the Gambian River forming Serer society. Although there is no evidence of shared lineages or socioeconomic or political institutions, the legend clearly resonates with both ethnic groups, leading to the creation of the Association Culturelle Aguène-Diambogne, which has sought to contribute to the resolution of the Casamance conflict (ACAD 1999). 3. Conversely, I have also repeatedly heard northern Senegalese, specifically ethnic Wolofs, use pejorative terms such as naq (a primitive person from the bush) in reference to the Jola and Casamançais in general. Though this has typically been said in jest, various ethnic Jolas have described this as a common ethnic slur. 4. See Max Weber’s distinction between the theological doctrine of the charismatic founder and the “practical religion of the converted” in his study The Sociology of Religion (1978). 5. Egalitarianism does not refer here to gender equality. Although women in these societies have held positions of religious leadership (Girard 1969), only men can serve as a member of the gerontocracy of village elders, thus they dominate the political leadership in the region as elsewhere in Senegal (Beck 2003). 6. In postcolonial Africa, the only recognized claim to self-determination has been based on the right of colonized peoples to independence rather than the right of ethnic, religious, or other cultural groups or “nations” to form their own state. Given the incredible cultural diversity of African countries, it is not surprising that the former, more restricted definition of self-determination became a governing principle of the Organization for African Unity (Young 1991).

242

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7. My analysis of Casamance politics has significantly evolved since an earlier discussion in my doctoral thesis (Beck 1996), which was based on secondary research and limited interviews with Casamançais residing outside the region. This was necessary because the conflict in the mid-1990s prevented me from doing field research in Ziguinchor at the time. Since then, I have conducted interviews in the region in 1997 and 2001, supplemented by on-going communications with key informants in the region. 8. This summary of Casamance’s early party and electoral history is based primarily on several prominent sources: Darbon (1988); Foucher (2002 ); Morganthau (1964); and Zucarelli (1970; 1988). In particular, Chapter Three of Vincent Foucher’s doctoral thesis provides a wonderfully detailed and well-documented history of the internal struggles and alliances during the pre- and post-independence period of Ziguinchor politics (Foucher 2002: 120–168). 9. According to Seck, his grandfather had come to Casamance to flee the French colonial invasion only to ironically become a chef de canton in the colonial administration (July 8, 1997). 10. The results from the 1959 election reported in the Paris-Dakar newspaper on March 23 of that year and the partial results presented by Zucarelli (1988: 131) are not identical with those reported by William Foltz (and Deutsch 1966), a problem that unfortunately is not uncommon with early electoral results, requiring some sleuthing and often interpretation of conflicting data. In this case, the overall percentage of votes for each party vary little, although the statistics reported in the Paris-Dakar indicated that the Senegal River Valley (74.8%) not Casamance (78.0%) had the lowest level of support for Senghor’s UPS. 11. This discussion of the origins of the secessionist movement draws on the large literature on the topic, in particular: Barbier-Wiesser (1994); de Benoist (1991); de Jong (1979); Foucher (2002); Hesseling (1992); Lambert (1998); Marut (1999); and Trincaz (1984). 12. Although some observers claim that Sy colluded with Kane in this land grab, according to Gerti Hesseling they headed competing commissions, often resulting in two titleholders for the same parcel as reported in the Senegalese daily Sud Hebdo (August 16, 1991: 6). Vincent Foucher (2002) provides a detailed analysis of the ethno-politics behind the factional dispute between Sy and Carvalho in Chapter Six of his dissertation. 13. Although Sanga’s entourage claims that there is a special relationship between Brinn and Thionk Esil, there is no known historical tie between them unlike various other Jola villages in the region (de Jong 2002: 208).

Chapter 6 Autonomous Brokers: The M BËRU G OX among the S ÉNÉGA L A IS D’A MÉRIQUE 1. The Sénégalais d’Amérique are not representative of a larger population of Senegalese expatriates because the diaspora operates in disparate socioeconomic and political contexts. Consequently, there was significant

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2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

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variation in support for the PS among Senegalese living abroad, ranging from over 90 percent in Mali to less than 20 percent in the United States during the 2000 presidential elections. In general, electoral results reflect a pattern of relatively lower levels of support for the PS among Senegalese voters residing in Western countries in contrast with those residing in other African countries. This disparity may be attributable to various factors, including greater access to information and a political environment in Western democracies that promotes political opposition, two factors that were frequently cited by U.S.-based informants. Further comparative research on the Senegalese diaspora is required to consider these and various other potential factors, such as age, education, and regional origin, as well as the degree to which national politicians campaign in particular diasporic communities such as the United States for reasons discussed later in this chapter. The category of “Special Agricultural Workers” was a last minute addendum to the legislation, creating a loophole for undocumented immigrants who could not prove that they met the requirement of U.S. residency since 1982. The census statistics are based on data from the Public Use Microdata Series provided by the Minnesota Population Center at the University of Minnesota. INS data were provided by the Department of Planning of the City of New York. According to a serial report on immigration published by the City of New York (1999: 23), the diversity pool program was introduced because citizens from “certain countries were unable to obtain visas for entry to the United States as a result of the family reunification provisions of the 1965 Immigration Amendments.” The diversity lottery, which distributes 55,000 visas for immigration from countries that received less than 50,000 visas the preceding year, is intended to rectify this situation by breaking the generational chain and providing new “seed” immigrants. For example, in his article on Murids in New York, Cheikh Anta Babou (2002) cites both an estimate by the Senegalese Ministry of Foreign Affairs that puts the Senegalese community in New York at 11,000 in 1994, and another from the U.S. embassy in Dakar that estimates the number of Senegalese for the entire United States five years later at 10,000. Dame Babou offered this insight on the impact of devaluation on the migration of Senegalese students. A college financial aid officer confirmed that international students in the United States can work parttime on campus for up to 20 hours per week and may request permission to work off campus from the Office of Citizenship and Immigration Services, formerly the Immigration and Naturalization Service. According to various informants, the relatively lax border and internal controls in Italy have also been an important factor in making it another newly preferred destination among Senegalese immigrants (see also Carter 1997; Riccio 2002; and Schmidt di Friedberg 1993).

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8. There is some debate over the origins of the term modou-modou, which is repeated twice similar to regional identities such as Baol-Baol and Walo-Walo that are associated with precolonial Wolof states of the same name. Mamadou Diouf (2000), for example, claims that modou-modou refers to Mamadou Moustapha Mbacke, the first Murid Khalif-Général. 9. As in the case of the Murids, there are smaller Halpulaar’en enclaves scattered across the United States, in urban areas such as Philadelphia, Columbus, and Memphis. Although the Senegalese Halpulaar’en in New York are by and large Tukulors from the Senegal River Valley, they self-identify as Halpulaar’en, a more encompassing term that reflects the diversity of the Halpulaar community in Brooklyn. 10. In 1993, there were polling stations in Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York City, San Francisco, Washington D.C., and Wilberforce, Ohio. In 2000, additional polling stations were added in Providence, Columbus, and Cincinnati. 11. Although there are no survey data from the 1993 presidential elections, there is little reason to believe that there would have been any significant change in the political influence of Murid marabouts by 2000, a view confirmed by various Murid informants. 12. A weaker Sufi identification was evident in the first exit poll in which most Halpulaar’en respondents self-identified simply as Muslims with slightly less than a third asserting a Tijan affiliation. 13. For example, there were numerous allegations that a former PSA president who played host to President Diouf’s son Pedro while he visited New York had received a large envelope to mobilize support in the Halpulaar’en community. However, there was no evidence to substantiate this claim given his lack of a public endorsement for Diouf let alone voting instructions to members of the PSA prior to the election. 14. In addition to attending various social functions and conferences organized in the community, I volunteered as an instructor in English as a Second Language at the PSA from 2001 to 2003. 15. There are toorobe women who are nevertheless involved in braiding, including one who is the owner of a hair salon in Brooklyn. 16. The exit poll also included a question about who they voted for in 1993. Among the Halpulaar’en voters who responded to this question, 48.8 percent supported Diouf, closely followed by 44 percent who voted for Wade. Again, this was in stark contrast to the overwhelming support for President Diouf in the Fuuta Tooro during the 1993 elections when he received 88.9 percent of the vote in Matam.

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Note: Page numbers with letters “t” and “f” such as 32t, 41t, 68f, 118f indicate tables and figures, respectively Abdou Khadir; see Mbacke, Abdou Khadir Achebe, Chinua, 37 Adams, Adrian, 133, 135 Agne, Abdourahim, 144 conflict with Ousmane Tanor Dieng, 148 Agne, Abdourahmane, 150 Aidara, Cherif Boubacar, 158 Aidara, Khalife Younouss, 158 Aidira, Ben, 216 Alliance des Forces de Progrès, 148–149 formation of, 66 Alliance Jëf Jël, 146 Amar, Moustapha, 209 Ambedkar, B.R., 144 Andd-Jëff, 66, 149, 192–193 in 1998 elections, 147 Casamance support for, 190 in Tukulor politics, 150 assimilationism, French, 52 associational autonomy, 10 Associations d’Intérêt Rural, 180 Associations Villageoises des Ressortissants, 139 Athie, Arame, 210 Atika, creation of, 62 authoritarian backlash, potential for, 21 authoritarianism bureaucratic, 40 in continuum of regimes, 40–41 versus democracy, 40–41, 41t versus semi-clientelism, 9–10

authority; see social authority autonomous brokers, 197–219; see also mbèru gox; Sénégalais d’Amérique autonomy associational, 10 of clients, 25 continuum of, 17–18 of local brokers, 15–17 taalibe, 91, 112 Auyero, Javier, 6, 27, 35 Ba, Mabba Jaxu, 51 Ba, Mamadou Saidou, 51 Babou, Cheikh Anta, 243n5 Babou, Dame, 201, 243n6 Badiane, Angrand, 190 Badiane, Emile, 169, 172–173, 176, 180 Badji, Cheikh Ousmane Sountou Badji, 158 Bal, Souleyman, 125 Bamba, Amadou, 51, 52, 73, 76, 83 descendents of, 114 importance among New York Murids, 209 marabout spiritual authority and, 84–85 mother of, 112 Muridiya founded by, 51 supernatural powers of, 71 Basse, Djiby, 140 PDS and, 149–150 Basse, Yero, 140

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Basse family, political power of, 240n15 Bassène, Marcel, 188–189 Bates, Robert, 37 Bathily, Abdoulaye, 228 Baye Fall sect, 71–72 BDS; see Bloc Démocratique Sénégalais Berman, Bruce, 28–29 Bloc Démocratique Sénégalais founding of, 52–53 support in Ziguinchor, 172–173 Bloc des Masses Sénégalais, 74 Bloc Populaire Sénégalais, 174 founding of, 53 Bloc Progressiste de Cercle Matam, 127 Bloch, Peter, 133 Boone, Catherine, 119, 169, 171, 174 on economic development in Casamance, 178–179 on Jola social organization, 162 risk aversion thesis of, 171, 179–180, 183 study of state-building in West Africa, 129–130 on variation in rural authority, 10–11 Boussou, Abdou Rahman, 112 Boussou, Mame Diarra, 112, 204 Boussou Dieng, Modou; see Mbacke, Modou Boussou Dieng Bratton, Michael, 3–5 brokers; see also autonomous brokers; dependent brokers; influential brokers; limited brokers defined, 6 identity and status of, 9 influence on political process, 2–3, 9–11 influential, 69–116 (see also Murid marabouts) “parachuted,” 14

political autonomy of, 15–17 social authority of, 11–15 social authority-political autonomy continuum of, 17–18 socioeconomic power of, 221 typology of, 17, 17f brotherhoods Muridiya, 7, 50 Qadiriya, 50, 159 Tijan, 50, 104 Bukut initiation, 193–195 bureaucratic authoritarianism, 40 Camara, El Hadj Arfang Bakary, 158 Carothers, Thomas, 19, 23, 29–30 Carpot, François, 52 support for Murid leaders, 72 Carvalho, Etienne, 184 Casamançais, 2, 153–196 human rights violations against, 187–188 as limited brokers, 20 neo-traditionalism and, 194–195 political opposition by, 170–171 power base of, 155–156 and pursuit of social authority, 193–195 Casamance, Senegalese colonization of, 182–186 Casamance conflict, 53, 153, 241n1 origin myth and, 239n2 persistence of, 222 Casamance region; see also Lower Casamance; Ziguinchor early party and electoral politics in, 171–177 economic particularism of, 177–182 versus Fuuta Tooro, 153 historical regions of, 154–155 lack of hierarchy in, 156 particularism of, 156–165 patron-client relations in, 156 political violence in, 175

I n de x PS neglect of, 177–178 PS support in, 8 secessionist movement in (see secessionist movement) Senegalese “colonization” of, 182 caste system, 16 absence in Jola society, 163 attitudes toward, 150–151 characteristics of, 122 Tukulor emigration and, 139–140 in Tukulor society, 117, 120–122, 121t in U. S. Halpulaar’en community, 212–215 Wolof society and, 122 Centre International du Commerce Extérior du Sénégal, 148 CFA franc, devaluation of, 144, 201 Chandra, Kanchan, 4, 28 Charpy, Jacques, 165 Chehabbi, H.E., 4 Cheikh Amadou Bamba House, 209 Cheikh Mbacke, 216–217, 223 Christianity, in Lower Casamance, 158–159 Cissé, Bassirou, 190 Cissé, Ibou, 172 Citizen and Subject, 10 civic public, versus primordial public, 21–22, 37–38 client-broker relationships deference in, 13–14 reciprocity versus inequality in, 25 withdrawal from, 14 clientelism authoritarianism and, 26 as basis of political authority, 44–45 coercive form of, 26 definitions of, 25, 26 democracy and, 1, 3–7, 18, 34, 47, 221 dimensions of, 34–35 economic versus sociological approaches to, 27–28

265

erosion of, 2 lack of economic alternatives to, 5 mobilization of electoral support in, 11 as political subordination versus equalizing force, 33–34 potential demise of, 5, 21 in the “primordial” public, 38, 237n2 rational choice theory and, 28 resilence in Senegalese politics, 223 rule of law and, 44 subnational variations in, 6 transition to citizenship, 26 typology of, 34 in U. S. party machines, 33 clientelist democracy; see also Senegalese clientelist democracy assumptions about evolution of, 42–43 versus authoritarian and semidemocratic regimes, 1–2 comparative perspectives on, 23–48 conditions fostering, 2 (see also Senegalese clientelist democracy) countries characterized as, 29 criteria for, 43 defined, 4 examples of, 4–5 fragility of, 221–230 and inappropriate application of transition paradigm, 29–30 versus liberal democracies, 33 operationalizing, 44–46 as oxymoron, 28–29 political equality and, 32–35 public interest in, 37 as subtype versus diminished form, 4, 18, 23–24 client-patron relations in Casamance, 156 studies of, 6–7

266

I n de x

Club Med, conflict over, 182–183 Collier, David, 23 colonial rule; see French colonial rule Coly, Demba, 173 Coly, Ousmane, 192 common good, defining, 36–37 competition; see political competition constituency politics, versus programmatic politics, 44–45 constitutional crisis, 1962, 54 constitutional reform, 1975, 57 Copans, Jean, 75 Cote d’Ivoire, coup d’état in, 66 Coulibaly, Abou Latif, 228–229 Coulon, Christian, 59, 89, 119, 129, 131, 137–138 Da Costa, Louis, 173 daahira religious self-help organizations, 81–84 and changes in marabout-disciple relations, 80–84, 86 in diaspora, 208–210, 212 Murid, in New York, 209 and remittances from abroad, 86 versus Tukulor village associations, 139 Daahiratoul Moustarchidine wal Moustarchidaty, 83, 104 daara defined, 238n3 in marabout-taalibe relations, 81 taalibe socialization in, 75–76 Dagana, contrast with Matam and Podor, 119 Dahl, Robert, 223 on polyarchy, 24–25, 46–47 rule of law and, 40 Dansokho, Amath, 63, 228 Darbon, Dominique, 161, 171, 179, 181, 190 Darou Mousty, 107 decentralized despotism, 10

constraints on political competition and, 25–26 deferential relationships, 13–14 Deh, Yero, 136 Delville, Phillippe Lavigne, 137 dembacratie, 222 establishment of, 150 evidence for, 151 lack of, 137 in U. S. Halpulaar’en community, 213–214 democracy(ies) advancement of, rule of law and, 42 alternative, as pathologies, 30 versus authoritarianism, 40–41, 41t categorizing, 46 Central American hybrid regimes of, 25–26 “classical” subtypes versus “democracies with adjectives,” 24–29 clientelism and, 1, 3–7, 18, 34, 47 consolidated, 29–30 deepening, 31 diversity among, 224–225 electoral versus liberal versus advanced, 31–32, 32t liberal (see liberal democracy) procedural versus substantive definitions of, 47 required components of, 31 rule of law in, 40–43 subtypes of, 23 Western, 18–19 with and without adjectives, 46–47 Democracy in Senegal, 221 democratic consolidation controversy over, 224 influences on, 225 rule of law and, 41–42 Democratic Experiments in Africa, 3–4

I n de x democratic reform in African politics, 1 clientelism’s constraints on, 3 democratic transition, 237n2 criteria for, 223–224 democratization impact of clientelism, 221 teleological aspects of, 42–43 varying patterns in, 6 dependent brokers, 117–152; see also Tukulor nobles; Tukulor society and erosion of landownership as source of power/status, 129–132 despotism, decentralized, 10 political competition and, 25–26 Dia, Mamadou, 54 arrest and imprisonment of, 54 crisis with Senghor, 74, 180 political reversals of, 57 Dia, Ousmane Khasoum, 148–149 Diagne, Atou, 83 Diagne, Blaise, 52, 72–73 Diahkate, Mewndou, 111 Diallo, Alison Fodou, 215 Diallo, Amadou Djibril, 137, 150 Diallo, Ibou, 169 Diallo, Samba Aissata, 172 Diatta, Aliin Sitoe, 167–169, 182 Diaw, Aminata, 66, 178 Diemer, Geert, 134 Dieng, Madieng Khary, 97 Dieng, Ousmane Tanor, 65, 110, 148, 192, 216, 225, 227 Dijiba, Alexandre, 229 Dilley, Roy, 121 Diop, Abdoulaye Bara, 119, 122, 137–138 Diop, Alioune Badara, 141, 147, 148–149 Diop, Cheikh Anta, 54, 78 and founding of BMS, 74 political reversals of, 57 Diop, Jor, 51

267

Diop, Majhemout, 57 PAI founding by, 53 Diop, Momar Coumba, 66, 86, 158 on daahira’s role in Murid social relations, 82–83 Diouf, Abdou, 97 in 1993 election, 65 in 2000 election, 2, 67, 110 appointed as prime minister, 57 assumption of power, 58–59, 79–80 Boussou Dieng’s support for, 113 departure of, 230 electoral support for, by region, 113, 235–236 internal/external conflicts and, 62 marabout power and, 85 ndigels supporting, 70–71, 79–80, 91–94 ndougals and, 95 rapprochment with Lahatt, 79–80 semi-democracy under, 59–62 technocracy and, 140–141 Tukulor religious identity and, 119 Diouf, Galandou, 73 Diouf, Makhtar, 156–158, 169 on PS development projects, 177–178 Diouf, Mamadou, 86, 141, 158, 163–164, 178 Diourbel region, administrative map of, 68f disciples; see taalibes dissidents; see also opposition parties; secessionist movement French policy toward, 239n8 diversity pool program, 200, 243n4 dominant power politics, 30 Dumont, Louis, 122 economic conditions, Senegalese; see also peanut economy in Casamance, 177–182

268

I n de x

economic conditions—continued economic reforms and, 131–132 in Fuuta Tooro region, 129–130, 137–141 impact on marabout influence, 69 remittance economy and, 137–141, 219 1980s, 79 economic development, in Casamance, 177–179 economic wealth, social authority and, 12 education, social authority and, 12–13 egalitarianism distinct from gender equality in Casamance, 241n5 in Lower Casamance social structures, 188 in precolonial Jola society, 162–165, 162t Ekeh, Peter, 21, 37 elections; see presidential elections electoral code and boycott of 1990 elections, 30, 59, 63 limitations of, 61–63 opposition parties and, 60, 104 political equality and, 33 presidential succession and, 146 and Senegal’s democratic transition, 7 U. S.-based voters and, 197–199, 205–206 electoral code commission, formation of, 62–63 electoral politics religious identity in, 72–73 Senegalese history of, 52 electoralism, defined, 31 elites, rural; see brokers; Casamançais; Murid marabouts; rural elites; Tukulor nobles

emigrants, role in Fuuta Tooro economy, 137–141 emigration; see also Sénégalais d’Amérique and impacts on caste, 139–140 prestige and, 138–139 equality; see political equality ethnic groups, 50, 237n2; see also specific groups by department and region, 231–232 ethnic/religious identities, emotional charge of, 28 Fagerburg-Diallo, Sonja, 161 Fall, Cheikh Baye Gor, 105 Fall, Cheikh Ndigel, 105–106 Fall, Ibra, 71–72, 97 Fall, Modou Aminata, 98, 105 Fall, Ousseynou, 111 Fattahists, 83, 104 Fatton, Robert, 57 Faty, Dame, 107 feccere Fuuta, 125 feckless pluralism, 29 fergo Umar, 126 Foucher, Vincent, 167, 171, 175 Fox, Jonathan, 9–10, 26 French colonial rule, Casamance particularism and, 165–169 French colonialism in Fuuta Tooro, 126–127, 130 marabout resistance to, 51 Fuuta Tooro region, 51, 53, 117, 239n2; see also Tukulor agricultural economy of, 129–130 versus Casamance, 153 caste politics in, 150, 206 emigrants’ economic role, 137–141 French colonialism and, 126–127 Halpulaar’en of, 117 (see also Halpulaar’en) invasions of, 125–126

I n de x irrigation as equalizing force in, 132–137 Islam and, 124–125 Ka support in, 147 marabouts of, 95, 158 precolonial Islamic state in, 123–124 as remittance economy, 138 rural councils in, 130–132 socioeconomic changes, 119 sources of status and power in, 120–124 Fuutanke politics, 239n3; see also dembacratie competitive, 145–151 history of, 120–124 irrigation and, 135 Islam and, 124–125 Tukulor nobles in, 120 Gadiaga, Awa, 101 Gadio, Cheikh Tidiane, 203, 217 Gasser, Genviève, 189 Gellar, Sheldon, 54, 221, 230 Gramsci, Antonio, 57 Grand Magal pilgrimage, 97 grands électeurs, Murid marabouts as, 69 griots, 121t, 124f, 150, 163, 164, 213, 214 Guèye, Fallou, 202–203 Guèye, Lamine, 73, 127, 172 Guèye, Mbaye, 106 Guisse, Abou, 137, 150 Gunther, Richard, 29 Halpulaar’en, 33, 117 in 1998 elections, 146–147 in 2000 elections, 205–206, 211 candidates supported by, 244n16 caste system and, 121–122 in New York, 205–206, 211–215: ethnic factors in politics of, 215 social stratification of, 239n3

269

social structure of, 139 subaltern caste revolution in U. S., 212–214 U. S. communities of, 244n9 Herbst, Jeffery, 3, 23 Hesseling, Gerti, 184–185, 242n12 High Council of Radio and Television, formation of, 63 Hizbut Tarqiyya, 83–84 Homo Hierarchus, 122 human rights violations against Casamançais, 187–188 in Senegal-Mauritania conflict, 142–143 Immigration Act of 1990, 200 Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986, Senegalese amnesty and, 200 influential brokers, 69–116; see also Murid marabouts irrigation abandonment of, 136 as equalizing force, 132–137 irrigated agricultural projects, 130–131 Islam brotherhoods of, 50 establishment in Senegal River Valley, 125 reformist, impact on marabout influence, 69 Senegalese, Khomeni regime and, 85 spread of, 51 syncretic form in Lower Casamance, 159 Tukolor social stratification and, 124–129 Wolof society and, 123 Islamic and Caste Knowledge among Haalpulaar’en, 121 Islamic reformism impact on marabout-taalibe relations, 86

270

I n de x

Islamic reformism—continued influence of, 85–86 and religious-secular separation, 87 Islamization, in Senegalese state formation, 158 Islamo-Wolof model, Casamance particularism and, 158–162 jeyaabe (captives), 120, 121t Jola ethnic majority, 50, 153–155 bukut initiation and, 193–194 Casamance politics and, 171–173 Diatta and, 167–169 egalitarianism and, 170–171 marabouts and, 159 MFDC and, 187 northern relations with, 167 political opposition by, 153–154 precolonial egalitarianism of, 162–165 resistance to French, 8, 165–168 Jong, Ferdinand de, 191 judiciary, independence of, 58 Ka, Djibo, 65, 119, 146–147, 206, 240n18 in 2000 elections, 67 Sénégalese d’Amérique support of, 212 Kane, Abdou Diaf, 104 Kane, Abdul Bokar, 127, 239n7 Kane, Abdul Kadir, 125 Kane, Aly Bocar, 136 Kane, Baydalaye, 138 Kane, Cheikh Amadou, 146, 191–192 Kane, Cheikh Hamidou “Mathiara,” 140, 148, 240n16 Kane, Elimane, 148, 150 Kane, Fadel, 128 Kane, Mamadou, 212, 215 Kane, Mathiara, 148 Kane, Momodou Alpha, 172, 215 Kane, Moustapha, 184 Kane, Pape, 210, 216–217

Kane, Thierno Seydou, 127–128, 145 Kante, Babacar, 62 Kara, Modou, 110 Karambenor, 185–186 Karl, Terry Lynn, 25, 31 Khadir, Modou Mbacke Abdou, 97 khalifs, noninvolvement in politics, 112 Khalifs-Générals 1983 ndigels of, 60–61 silence of, 67 Kitschelt, Herbert, 4, 44–45 Kolda region, 155 administrative map of, 152f comparison of politics in Halpulaar’en regions of, 160 Lahatt, Abdou; See Mbacke, Abdou Lahatt land tenure practices in Lower Casamance, 182–185 in Senegal River Valley, 130–131, 134–136, 240n11 Levitsky, Steven, 23 liberal democracy versus clientelist democracy, 24, 28–38 end of transition to, 29–30 political authority in, 36–37 liberalization impact on marabout influence, 69 imposition by Senegalese ruling party, 57–58 Ligue Démcratique, 66 limited brokers, 153–196; see also Casamançais in Lower Casamance, 20 Linz, Juan, 4 Little Senegal (Little Touba), 203–204 local elites, French incorporation of, 51 Locke, John, 32 Louga region, PS support in, 118, 118f

I n de x Lower Casamance; see also Casamance; Ziguinchor cultural particularism of, 157–162 under French colonial rule, 165–169 and French imposition of northern administrators, 166–167 lack of broker authority in, 184 lack of social hierarchy in, 222 northern “invasion” of, 182–186 sociopolitical differences of, 181–182 Ly, Abdoulaye, 174 machine politics U. S., ethnic dimension of, 11, 33 Ziguinchor’s land tenure crisis and, 182–186 Mamdani, Mahmood, 10 Man of the People, A, 37 marabouts; see also Murid marabouts; Tall, Umar; Toorodo Revolution; Wolof marabouts absence of authority in Lower Casamance, 158–159 changing role of, 67, 75, 80–84, 222 defined, 7 and Golden Age of statemarabout collaboration, 73–76 influence on U. S. Murid community, 206–211, 207t petit, 67 reformist, in Fuuta Tooro, 126–127 resistance to French colonialism, 51 support for independence referendum, 53 Tijan, versus Murid marabouts, 71 Tukulor, versus Wolof counterparts, 128 in Ziguinchor, 158 marabouts mondains, 98

271

marabout-taalibe relations, 76 challenging stereotypes of, 70 changes in, 76–84 economic factors in, 77–84 factors affecting, 113 Islamic reformism and, 86 Lahatt’s ndigel and, 96–97 political factors in, 79–80 religious component of, 88 Villalòn’s analysis of, 88–89 Mark, Peter, 158, 163 Matam department, 8 deference to Tukulor nobles in, 19 emigrant economic impact in, 140 PS decline in, 145–151 PS support in, 118, 118f Mbacke, Abdou Fatta, 78, 104–106 Mbacke, Abdou Khadir, 96 Mbacke, Abdou Lahatt criticism of, 110 pious example of, 85 political ndigels of, 91, 93–96, 99, 104, 107 rapprochement with Diouf, 79–80 support for peasants’ cause, 77–78 Mbacke, Abdoulaye Dieng, PDS and, 149–150 Mbacke, Boussou Dieng, ndigel for Diouf, 101–102 Mbacke, Cheikh Anta, 73, 78, 98, 99, 104 Mbacke, Dame Faty, candidacy of, 93 Mbacke, Falilou, 80, 100, 104, 112–113, 173 influence of, 74, 102 relationship with Senghor, 74, 80, 100 successor to, 77, 104 Mbacke, Khadim, 93 Mbacke, Koussou, 107 Mbacke, Mamadou Mortade, 99 Mbacke, Modo Kara, 86

272

I n de x

Mbacke, Modou Boussou Dieng, 81 mystical powers of, 101 spiritual authority of, 84 support for Diouf, 113 Mbacke, Modou Kara, 67 Mbacke, Modou Mactar, 111 Mbacke, Mourtada, 209 Mbacke, Moustapha Bassirou, 93 Mbacke, Mustapha, in U. S., 208–209 Mbacke, Salilou, 97 silence of, 98–99, 109–110, 113 withdrawal from ndigel politics, 70–71 Mbacke, Sidy, 111 Mbacke, Soxna Lo, 98, 99, 104 Mbacke district, 7 electoral support in, 19 mbèru gox, 2; see also autonomous brokers; Sénégalais d’Amérique defined, 197 family backgrounds of, 214–215 limited social authority of, 215 search for, 216–219 Sénégalais d’Amérique politics and, 216–219 media, 55 in 2000 elections, 66–67 under Diouf, 60 Mende, Paul, 192 MFDC; see Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques de la Casamance migration; see also Sénégalais d’Amérique and marabout-taalibe relationship, 82 and Tukulor political elites, 137–141 modou-modou heterogeneity of, 202–204 origins of, 244n8 Mouvement Autonome de Casamance, origins of, 173–174

Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques de la Casamance, 153, 169, 177 Casamançais support for, 189 and criticism of PS Jola and, 162–163 origins of, 172–173 protests by, 186–189 secessionist movement by, 62 (see also secessionist movement) Mouvement Républicain Sénégalais, founding of, 57 multipartyism, establishment of, 57 Murid disciples, political defiance of, 61 Murid Islamic Community in America (MICA), 205, 206 a political stance of, 210 Murid marabouts, 2, 69–116 changing relations with taalibes, 80–84 changing role of, 75, 222 contribution to Sopi, 109–115 future role of, 114 and Golden Age of statemarabout collaboration, 73–76 increasing independence of, 80 influence in elections, 113 as influential brokers, 71–72 loss of influence, 110 opposition parties and, 103–104 as political brokers in colonial state, 72–73 as politicians, 111–112 rapproachment with state, 79–80 relations with central state, 72 relationship with taalibes, 76 religious authority of, 69 silence of, 97–98 succession struggle, 107 support for opposition parties, 110 support for UPS, 74–75 transformation of clientelist relations of, 76–79

I n de x urban influences on power of, 81–82 withdrawal from politics, 70–71, 84–87, 112, 115, 117 Muridism, 7, 50 influence of, 69 modern, 69–70, 91–97: contribution to clientelist democracy, 97–98; in New York, 206–211 mysticism associated with, 71 studies of, 238n3 Muridiya brotherhood, 7, 50 influence of, 69 Murids; see Muridism National Assembly Casamançais positions in, 176–177, 179 centralized decision-making by, 55 constitutional reforms passed by, 57 Dame Faty’s election to, 93 Dia-Senghor crisis and, 74, 180 during Diouf administration, 59, 61 Mamadou Mortada Mbacke’s candidacy and, 99 PDS control of, 225 as presidential rubber stamp, 55 National Domain Law, 131–132, 135, 182 National Electoral Census commission, 64 Ndao, Bassirou, 96 Ndiaye, Ibrahima, 134 Ndiaye, Sada, 141 Ndiaye, Sereigne Mbacke, 209 ndigels in 1983 election, 60–61, 79–80 in 1988 election, 67, 70, 96 in 1993 election, 102–115 in 2000 election, 67, 109–110 Abdou Lahatt’s, 92–96, 99, 107

273

absence in Lower Casamance, 160–161 competing among Murid marabouts, 98–109 criteria for following, 89–90 declining authority of, 100 grounds for ignoring, 90 influence of, in 1983 election, 60–61 from petits marabouts, 67 political, 87: attitudes toward, 114–115; debate over, 95–96; decline of, 91–97; diminished practice of, 222; future of, 113–114; “modern” interpretation of, 112–113; versus other religious commands, 88–90 PS pursuit of, 98–99 public (see public ndigels) rejection by New York Murids, 206–207 in support of Diouf, 70–71 for Wade, 92 ndougals, versus ndigels, 95 ñeeñbe (Halpulaar’en artisans), 120, 121t ñeeños (Wolof artisans), 150, 213, 214 neo-patrimonialism, 5 of African regimes, 33 as basis for authority, 49 New Agricultural and Industrial Programs, 62 “New Agricultural Policy,” 81 New Agricultural Program, 81, 135 Niane, Souleymane Nasser, 141, 148 Niasse, Ahmed, 86 Niasse, Ibrahim, 51 Niasse, Moustapha, 66, 148, 190, 225 in 2000 election, 67 in 2007 election, 227 Niasse, Sidy Lamine, 85

274

I n de x

O’Brien, Donal Cruise, 55, 81–82, 88, 160 O’Donnell, Guillermo, 4, 35–36, 38–39, 40, 224 Office National de Coopération et Assistance au Développement, 77 dissolution of, 80–81 ONCAD; see Office National de Coopération et Assistance au Développement opposition parties; see also specific parties Murid marabouts and, 103–104, 108–109, 111 radicalization of, 61–62 support for, 8–9, 79–80, 142–143, 190 Organisation pour la Mise en Valeur, 133 Organization of the Islamic Conference, 79 origin myths, 122–123, 239n4 and Casamance conflict, 239n2 Ottoway, Marina, 223 Oussouye politics, 155 Owolu, Dele, 10 “parachuting,” 14, 191 Parti Africain de l’Indépendence, 53 as official Marxist-Leninist party, 57 Parti de Regroupement AfricainSénégal, 53 in Casamance, 174–176 Parti Socialiste; see also Bloc Démocratique Sénégalais; Bloc Populaire Sénégalais; Union Progressiste Sénégalaise in 1978 election, 57 in 1983 election, 60–61, 79 in 1988 election, 70, 70f in 1988 versus 1993 elections, 102 in 2000 elections, 2

Casamance support for, 8, 20, 101, 153–154, 171, 173–174, 190 caste politics and, 151 decline in Matam politics, 145–151 declining Murid support for, 117: marabouts and, 67 defeat among Senegalese in U. S., 20 dissatisfaction with, 60–62, 79 and economic development in Casamance, 177–178 electoral process distortion by, 64 erosion of clientelist support for, 2 formation of, 57 Fuuta Tooro versus Casamance support for, 153, 154f ndgels and, 61, 67, 79–80, 98–99, 108 neglect of Casamance, 177–178, 182 opposition party collaboration with, 238n7 renouvellements of, 65 Sénégalais d’Amérique and, 197–198, 198f support by Tukulor, 8 Tukulor and, 118–120, 118t, 142–144 Ziguinchor and, 192 “passive revolution,” 56–59 Gramsci’s concept of, 57 patrimonialism versus authoritarianism, 40–41 in precolonial Senegal, 49–51 in Senegalese bureaucracy, 55 patronage resources, uses of, 26–27 patron-client relations; see clientpatron relations PDS; see Senegalese Democratic Party peanut economy revolt against state monopoly of, 77–78

I n de x state monopoly over, 77 state-marabout collaboration and, 56, 75–76 “peasant malaise,” 77 Peul pastoralists, 117 Piattoni, Simona, 27, 28, 34 Pole de Gauche, 66 political change; see Sopi political competition clientelism and, 5 conditions fostering, 2 constraints on, 25–26 development in African countries, 5 political equality clientelist democracy and, 32–35 in theory versus practice, 32–35 political liberalization, African experiences with, 23 political opposition; see opposition parties; specific parties political reform economic/social justice and, 19 in “passive revolution,” 56–59 Political Topographies of the African State, 10–11 politics, programmatic versus constituency, 44–45 politique de distance, 77–78, 79 politique de proximité, 150 politique des races French adoption of, 51–52 in Fuuta Tooro, 127 in Lower Casamance, 167 polyarchy controversy over, 224 Dahl’s definition of, 24–25, 46–47, 224–225 republicanism as, 36 typology of, 39 Ponty, William, 167 “pork-barreling,” public interest and, 36 presidential elections 1951, 73–74 1959, 54, 174, 242n10

275

1978, 57–59, 78–79 1978–2000, 233–234 1978–2000, regional electoral support for candidates, 235–236 1983, 79–80 1988, 102: fraud and intimidation in, 94–95; PS support in, 70; social unrest and, 61–62 1993, 64–65, 101–102: marabout influence in, 113; ndigels in, 102–115; Tukulor preferences in, 142–144 2000, 1–2, 21, 65–67: democratic transition in, 223–224; marabout influence in, 113; results in Matam, 149–150; themes of, 109–110; transfer of power in, 2; Tukulor preferences in, 144–145 2007, 225–229, 226t primordial public, versus civic public, 21–22, 37–38 privatization, 148 ONCAD and, 77–80, 135–136 SAED and, 132–136, 142 programmatic politics, versus constituency politics, 44–45 Przeworski, Adam, 30 PS; see Parti Socialiste PSA; see Pulaar Speaking Association public interest, in clientelist democracy, 37 public ndigels, 79–80 public resources, distribution of, 44 Pulaar literacy campaign, 161 Pulaar speakers, 117 names for, 239n2 Pulaar Speaking Association, 205 formation and expansion, 211–212 Qadiriya brotherhood, 50 majority in Lower Casamance, 159

276

I n de x

Rassemblement Démocratique Africain, 172 rational choice theory, 28 Rechtsstaat, role in democracy, 41 refondateurs, 65 debate with renouveauteurs, 146 regimes revised typology of, 42–43, 43t Schedler’s typology of, 31–32, 32t typology of, 40–41, 41t religion, indigenous, in Lower Casamance, 158 religious groups, by department and region, 231–232 religious leaders; see marabouts renouveauteurs, 65 debate with refondateurs, 146 renouvellements (primaries), and PS destabilization in Matam, 145–146 republicanism defined, 35–36 public versus private spheres in, 35–38 rule of law and, 40 resource distribution, in clientelist versus liberal democracy, 45–46 rimbe (freeborn), 120, 121t technocracy and, 141 Wolof geer and, 122 risk aversion thesis, 171, 179–180, 183 Robinson, David, 126 Roche, Christian, 166 Roth, Gunther, 40 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 32 Rudolph, Lloyd, 27 Rudolph, Susanne Hoeber, 27 rule of law definition and role, 40 democratic consolidation and, 41–42 in programmatic versus clientelist politics, 44 role in democracies, 40–43

rural councils, in Fuuta Tooro, 130–132 rural elites; see also brokers power variations among, 10 relationship with central state, 10–11 Sabine, George, 32 Sadio, Salif, 188, 194 SAED; see Société d’Aménagement et d’Exploitation des Terres du Delta du Fleuve Sénégal Sagna, Robert, 186, 187, 190–192 in 2007 election, 225–226 Bukut initiation of, 193–195 St. Louis region, administrative map of, 116f Saints and Politicians, 55 Sall, Adama, 141, 148, 151 Sane, Landing, 186, 190–192 Sarr, Djibril, 173 Savane, Landing, 187, 194 Schaffer, Fredric, 23 Schedler, Andreas, 31–32, 224 Schmitz, Jean, 139, 240n17 secessionist movement, 153–155, 170–171 criticism of PS, 177–178 origins of, 182–183, 242n11 state’s failure to suppress, 186–189 Seck, Assane, 173–174, 176, 180, 186, 242n9 Seck, Idrissa, 110, 167, 225 in 2007 election, 226t, 227–228 conflict with Wade, 228 Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière, 52, 73–74, 172 self-determination, in postcolonial Africa, 241n6 semi-democracy, under Diouf, 59–62 Senate, Senegalese creation of, 66 recreation of, 229 Senegal; see also specific regions

I n de x administrative map of, 1984–2002, 48f democratic status of, 1–2, 223–224 demographics of, 231–232 ethnic groups in, 50, 237n2 as exceptional case (see Senegalese clientelist democracy) northern (see dependent brokers; Tukulor nobles) precolonial, patrimonialism in, 49–51 southern (see Casamançais; limited brokers) Sénégalais d’Amérique; see also mbèru gox attitudes toward caste, 212–215 as autonomous brokers, 20 bipolar demographics of, 204–206 clientelism and, 198–199, 210–211 democratic advantages of, 222–223 economic significance of, 219 finding mbèru gox among, 216–219 history of, 199–202 influence of clientism and, 8 and low support for PS, 197–198, 198f murid influence and, 206–211, 207t other Senegalese expatriates and, 242n1 political impacts of radio programs, 212 and right to vote, 197–199, 205–206, 211–212, 215, 217, 223 symbolic influence of, 218 Senegalese clientelist democracy economic versus ethno-political explanations of, 2 explanations of, 2–3 and insights into African democratic transition, 221

277

interdistrict comparisons of, 7–8 local brokers’ roles in, 2–3 (see also brokers; specific brokers; specific groups) modern Muridism and, 97–98 potential for authoritarian backlash, 21 potential trajectories of, 20–21 rise of, 49–68 significance of, 7–9 Wade’s impact on, 225 Senegalese Democratic Party in 1983 election, 59 in 1988 election, 95 in 1993 election, 64–65, 93, 104–108 in 1998 election, 65 in 2000 election, 66–67, 114, 189, 191, 215, 217, 222–223, 225–229 Abdoulaye Dieng and, 149–150 in Casamance politics, 189 Casamance support for, 190 caste politics and, 151 marabouts and, 107–108, 111 in Matam 2001 election, 151 Tukulor support of, 19 Wade’s candidacy and, 2 Senegal-Mauritania conflict, 1993 elections and, 142–143 Senghor, Abbé Augustin Diamacoune, 175, 187 Senghor, Léopold Sédar, 47, 54 1951 candidacy of, 73 Abdou Diouf’s succession to, 58–59 BDS formed by, 52–53 crisis with Mamadou Dia, 74, 180 and distribution of patronage resources, 26–27 election to French National Assembly, 53 MFDC and, 172–173 one-party rule under, 54–56

278

I n de x

Senghor, Léopold Sédar—continued response to unrest, 57 succession to, 58–59 Tukulor alliances with, 127–128 separatists; see secessionist movement Seye, Babacar, assassination of, 64–65 SFIO, Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière Shaiykh Amadou Bamba Day, 209 slavery, absence among Jola and, 163–164 social authority basis for, in sub-Saharan Africa, 49 of brokers, 11–15 Bukut initiation and, 193–195 democratic participation and, 14–15 gender and, 12 precolonial structures of, 49 roles as party officials and, 15–16 social hierarchy, absence in Lower Casamance, 161, 222 social structure, regional variations in, 161–162 Société d’Aménagement et d’Exploitation des Terres du Delta du Fleuve Sénégal, 132–136 sons of the soil; see Casamançais as limited brokers Sopi, 67 and changes in marabout-taalibe relations, 76–84, 86 Murid contributions to, 109–115 sous-préfets, 181, 184 Soxna Lo; see Mbacke, Soxna Lo spiritual authority, changing basis for, 84–87 state-building, Islamo-Wolof versus clientelist model, 161–162

structural adjustment program, 80–81, 135 1998 elections and, 148 sub-Saharan Africa democratization of, actorcentered theories of, 3 neopatrimonial basis for authority in, 49 suffrage French, 52 in rural areas of Casamance, 171–172 universal, 73 Sufi ideology, taalibe devotion in, 71 Sufi Muslim leaders; see marabouts Sy, Cheikh Tidiane, 81, 110 Sy, Malik, 51 Sy, Mamadou Abdoulaye, 184, 186, 242n12 Sy, Moustapha, 104 Sylla, Salifou, 59 Sylla, Talla, 228 taalibes autonomy of, 90–91, 112 categorization of, among Murids, 89 changing attitudes of, among Murids, 69–70 dependence of, peanut economy and, 75 derivation of term, 238n1 in Harlem’s Murid community, 209–210 relationships with marabouts (see marabout-taalibe relations) state-marabout collaboration and, 75 submission of, 87–91 Tall, Sedou Nourou, 127 Tall, Umar, 51, 126–127, 148 technocracy, social impacts of, 141 Thiam, Samba Dioulde, 136 Thompson, Phillip, 33 Tijan brotherhood, 50 support for Wade, 104

I n de x Tijan marabouts, versus Murid marabouts, 71 al-Tijani, Ahmad, 50 Toliver-Diallo, Wilmetta, 169 toorobe; see Tukulor nobles Toorodo Revolution, 120, 123–124, 125, 129 Touba, 69 infrastructure investment in, 91 pilgrimage to, 83 Toure, Abdourahmane, 140–141, 147, 148, 241n19 Toure, Babacar, 238n8 Toure, Cheikh, 85 Toure, Mamadou, 145 Toure, Moustapha, 128, 136 trade unions, 55 transition paradigm, inappropriate application of, 29–30 Tukulor ethnic minority, 8 caste system and, 16 factors in political integration of, 159 inequality among, 123–124 Tukulor immigrants, 20 Tukulor nobles, 2; see also dependent brokers basis of social status, 128–129 broadening of, migration and, 137–141 dominant dynasties of, 125 economic reforms and, 131–132 electoral uncertainty and, 222 political competition among, 127–128 political deference to, 19 politics as source of power and status, 142–145 power and status sources, 129–130 religious and political authority of, 120–124 versus Wolof counterparts, 128 Tukulor politicians, caste status of, 150 Tukulor religious leaders, a political role of, 118

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Tukulor society attitudes toward Western-style democracy, 240n12 inequality in, SAED and, 134–135 and Islam as source of power and status, 124–129 origin myths, 239n4 precolonial, social orders in, 120–122, 121t religious-political separation in, 126 versus Wolof society, 122–123 Union Culturelle Musulmane, 85 Union des Associations des Ressortissants due Fuuta, 143 Union Générale des Originaires de la Vallée du Fleuve, 127 Union pour le Renouveau Démocratique, 65, 146 Union Progressiste Sénégalaise, 174 Casamance support for, 175 domination after independence, 54 founding of, 53 Murid support for, 74–75 renaming of, 57 SFIO merger with, 73–74 U. S. Agency for International Development, irrigation project of, 133–134 United States machine politics in, 33: ethnic dimension of, 11 Senegalese community in (see Sénégalais d’Amérique) van de Walle, Nicholas, 3–5 van der Laan, Ellen, 134 Velingara department, 155 Villalòn, Leonardo, 64, 85–89 voting process, lack of secrecy in, 61 Wade, Abdoulaye, 57, 96 in 1978 election, 58

280

I n de x

Wade, Abdoulaye—continued in 1983 election, 61 in 1993 election, 103–106 in 2000 election, 67 in 2007 election, 227 Cheikh Mbacke and, 78 conflict with Idrissa Seck, 228 democratic impacts of presidency, 225 on electoral abuses, 58 marabout support for, 107–108 mbèru gox and, 215 ndigel for, 92 opposition support for, 2 Pole de Gauche and, 66 and restoration of clientelist relationships, 113 separatist conflict and, 189 victory in 2000, 109 Wane, Yaya, 120 Weber, Max, 241n4 on legitimate domination by rulers, 49 rule of law and, 40 Weingrod, Alex, 26 Western democracies, recategorization of, 18–19 Wolf, Eric, 6 Wolof ethnic group caste system and, 122 economic and political dominance of, 7 marabout influence on, 69 precolonial, versus Tukulor society, 123

relations with Jolas, 167 versus Tukulor society, 122–123 Wolof immigrants, 20 Wolof language, spread of, 160, 160f Wolof marabouts, 51; see also Murid marabouts collaboration with French, 51 electoral mobilization by, 19 Wolofization resistance to, 160–161 in Senegalese state formation, 158–160 Woodhouse, Philip, 134 Wunch, James, 10 Young, Crawford, 62 Zapatista uprising, 189 Ziguinchor; see also Lower Casamance administrative map of, 152f cultural particularism of, 156–165 lack of social hierarchy in, 222 land tenure crisis in, 182–185, 242n12 marabouts of, 158 “parachuted” politicians in, 191 PS support in, 153–154 secessionist movement and (see secessionist movement) Seneghor support in, 173