From Revolutionary Movements to Political Parties: Cases from Latin America and Africa

From Revolutionary Movements to Political Parties

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From Revolutionary Movements to Political Parties Cases from Latin America and Africa

Edited by

Kalowatie Deonandan, David Close, and Gary Prevost

FROM REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENTS TO POLITICAL PARTIES

Copyright © Kalowatie Deonandan, David Close, and Gary Prevost, 2007. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. First published in 2007 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™ 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS Companies and representatives throughout the world. PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN-13: 978–1–4039–8010–6 ISBN-10: 1–4039–8010–1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data From revolutionary movements to political parties : cases from Latin America and Africa / edited by Kalowatie Deonandan, David Close, and Gary Prevost. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–8010–1 1. Political parties—Latin America—Case studies. 2. Political parties—Africa—Case studies. 3. Revolutions—Latin America— Case studies. 4. Revolutions—Africa—Case studies. I. Deonandan, Kalowatie, 1958– II. Close, David, 1945– III. Prevost, Gary. JL969.A45F76 2007 324.2096—dc22

2007013674

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: December 2007 10

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Printed in the United States of America.

To my husband Raj Srinivasan for the zest and joy he brings to our lives From Kalowatie Deonandan To Rosa From David Close To the people of South Africa and their ongoing struggle for social justice From Gary Prevost

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Contents

List of Illustrations

ix

Preface and Acknowledgments

xi

1 Introduction: Transitioning from Revolutionary Movements to Political Parties and Making the Revolution “Stick” David Close and Gary Prevost

1

2 From Guerrillas to Government to Opposition and Back to Government: The Sandinistas since 1979 David Close

17

3 Guatemala: From the Guerrilla Struggle to a Divided Left Carlos Figueroa Ibarra and Salvador Martí i Puig

43

4 The Left’s Long Road to Power in Uruguay Martin Weinstein 5 The Colombian Contradiction: Lessons Drawn from Guerrilla Experiments in Demobilization and Electoralism Suzanne Wilson and Leah A. Carroll

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6 Guyana’s PPP: From Socialism to National Democracy Kalowatie Deonandan

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7 Revolutionaries in Power: The Evolution of the African National Congress Gary Prevost

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8 Born Powerful? Authoritarian Politics in Postliberation Eritrea and Zimbabwe Sara Rich Dorman

157

9 Revolutionaries to Politicians: The Case of Mozambique Carrie Manning

181

10 Angola: From Revolutionary Movement to Reactionary Regime Assis Malaquias 11

Revolutionaries to Politicians: Can the Transition Succeed? Kalowatie Deonandan

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Bibliography

247

Notes on the Contributors

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Index

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Illustrations

Figures 1.1

Characteristics of Parties Evolving from Politico-Military Fronts

2.1 The Sandinistas: A Chronology

12 22

Tables 1.1 The Cases under Study 2.1 2.2 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 4.1

6

Nicaraguan Presidential Election Results, 1990–2006

30

Changing Voter Preferences in Nicaragua, February–October 2006, Decided Voters

32

Revolutionary Organizations and Their Affiliated Mass Organizations

50

Results of the First Round of Presidential Elections, 1995

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Results from the First Round of Presidential Elections, 1999

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Results from the First Round of the Presidential Elections of 2003

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Electoral Results for Leftist Parties since 1971

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Preface and Acknowledgments

T

he original inspiration for this book was the experience of Nicaragua’s Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN). All three coeditors are scholars of Nicaraguan politics, have done extensive fieldwork in the country and have in-depth knowledge of the country’s political evolution, particularly the story of the FSLN. This common background stimulated intriguing questions about revolutionary movements elsewhere, especially as following the end of the cold war, variations on the Sandinistas’ experience were witnessed in many countries of Africa and Latin America. These developments begged analysis. Our first practical step was a roundtable held at the 2001 meetings of the Canadian Association of Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CALACS) in Guatemala where all three of us made presentations. We then let the matter lie dormant for four years before taking it up again in collaboration with other scholars working on relevant cases (though of course it was not possible for us to cover the entire spectrum of examples). It is our hope that the current volume will stimulate further work on the question of how revolutionary armed movements face up to the challenges of becoming civilian governments. When the idea of this project of analyzing the transition from revolutionaries to politicians first developed, we suspected we would be writing about a historical phenomenon, one that had had its hey day. We were wrong. Besides the Lebanese and Palestinian cases (not included in this volume), the world may soon have to cope with the coming to power of one or more Iraqi insurgent groups. And if our findings about the transitions of revolutionary fronts to political parties can be generalized to include other cases of violent yet nonrevolutionary insurrections, it is unfortunately likely that there will be no shortage of cases for future scholars to examine. In fact, this situation will persist as long as violence is a political instrument and revolution the last resort of the oppressed. Perhaps the most important lesson we have learned while putting this book together is that

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the struggle for freedom does not end when the guns fall silent but rather continues under new and equally difficult and exhausting circumstances. Many individuals and institutions have been instrumental in bringing this project to fruition. Kalowatie Deonandan would like to recognize the many hours invested by Alexis Dahl and Meagan Williams in finding creative solutions to the research and technical problems that emerged in the preparation of this manuscript. She would also like to express her appreciation to the many scholars and politicians in Guyana (of all political stripes) who generously offered their time for interviews, shared their knowledge and insights, and greatly faciliatated her research endeavors. Finally, she would like to thank the Department of Political Studies at the University of Saskatchewan for the material support it provided for this project. David Close acknowledges the many people with whom he discussed the complexities of Nicaraguan politics over the years, especially: David Dye, Carlos Fernando Chamorro, Shelley McConnell, Salvador Martí i Puig, Sherrill Pike, Linda and Cliff Holland, and Judy Butler. Gary Prevost would like to acknowledge his administrative assistant, Suzanne Reinert at St. John’s University and the College of St. Benedict, for her tireless logistical support and the officials of the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University, especially Dr. Nico Jooste, Head of the International Office, who hosted him twice as a visiting scholar on the Port Elizabeth campus. He is also indebted to South African scholar Janet Cherry for her wisdom and guidance on the political issues of South Africa. In addition, he owes a debt of thanks to Roland Williams of the Mayor’s Office of Nelson Mandela Bay for his assistance in contacting officials of the African National Congress and to all of the officials who willingly gave of their time for lengthy interviews.

CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Transitioning from Revolutionary Movements to Political Parties and Making the Revolution “Stick” David Close and Gary Prevost

T

oward the end of 1958, the movie star Errol Flynn, known for his portrayal of swashbuckling heroes, took on the real-life role of newspaper reporter to cover the final days of Fidel Castro’s triumphant overthrow of the Batista dictatorship in Cuba. His initial stories were overwhelmingly positive (he even made a sympathetic movie about the Fidelistas, Cuban Rebel Girls, a box-office flop), but as ever more Batistianos made their way to el paredón—the wall where prisoners were shot—he began to alter his opinion of the Cuban revolution. “[It] is one thing to start a revolution, another to win it, and still another to make it stick. . . .”1 Making their revolution “stick” is, of course, the goal of all revolutionaries. Put more formally, their objective is to institutionalize the revolution, translate plans into actions, and even make dreams into realities. Institutionalization of the revolution ensures that it is without serious challengers—its position is hegemonic. However, hegemony is not achievable overnight. So how do revolutionaries make a revolution stick? To begin, the revolutionaries themselves have to make some important changes in their behavior and outlook. In a sense, they have to make the same adjustments as any political group that graduates from opposition to government. At its simplest, that means they have to do more than say “We can do it better,” because now they are in charge of the polity and responsible

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for the fate of the nation. However, revolutionaries have to undertake more dramatic shifts than most opposition groups, simply because they are revolutionaries whose platform is to bring about dramatic reforms. Substantive overhauls of a political system are never without costs nor are they easily achieved. They require patience, substantial administrative capacity, and, usually, great negotiating skills. Revolutionaries may have the first in abundance but the latter two are traits that need not have been demonstrated by those who lead revolutions. Besides the behavioral and attitudinal realignments, revolutionaries who become rulers also need to lay a firm and complex political foundation before the revolution can become a country’s unquestioned regime. This latter process consists of setting up formal structures and processes— economic, political, and social—without which the big changes needed to make the revolution hegemonic either simply will not happen or will take place so painfully slowly that, to most people, the revolutionary project starts looking like just another government. Making it to power does not end a revolution, rather it starts the work of “making the revolution stick.” As we the editors of this volume all teach political science, we put special emphasis on the political machinery of revolutions. Nevertheless, we recognize that not all aspects of that machinery are equally important and, even more, that it is simply impossible to canvass all the apparatus of revolutionary government in one book. Thus, the broad purpose of this book is to look at how some revolutionaries constructed and used the political instrument known as the “organizational weapon”—the political party. Its narrower objective is to examine how a selection of late-twentieth-century revolutionary movements from Latin America and Africa went about turning themselves into political parties. However, our specific focus is on not parties in general but parties that contest reasonably open elections, ones that they can lose as well as win. Although this book includes cases of revolutionary parties that govern effectively one-party states, they are included principally to highlight the differences between them and our real center of attention. Besides all teaching politics, we have another characteristic in common: all of us have worked extensively in and on Nicaragua. Having followed the fate of the Sandinistas over several decades, we wanted to know if their experience was unique. The Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional (FSLN, Sandinista National Liberation Front) went from guerrilla movement to revolutionary junta to elected government to electoral opposition, all between 1979 and 1990. From 1990 until 2006, the party has been the largest opposition party in the Legislature and the runner-up in presidential elections. It has fared better on the municipal front yet national power

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has remained elusive. This history naturally gave rise to a series of what became research questions. Preliminaries Before going further, we must clarify a number of points. The first of these is that, although most of the cases presented in this book began as armed groups, not all did. When we think of revolution we normally think of armed struggle, of the violent overthrow of one class by another to use Mao Zedong’s words. But in the second half of the twentieth century there were at least three revolutionary movements—organizations that proposed thoroughgoing economic, political, and social change—that endorsed a peaceful road to Socialist transformation. Two of these are well known: the Eurocommunists2 of the 1970s and Salvador Allende’s Unidad Popular (UP, Popular Unity) in Chile (1970–1973). However, they were following in the footsteps of Cheddi Jagan, the Guyanese Marxist, whose People’s Progressive Party (PPP) won a colonial election in 1953 that saw Jagan become chief minister, thus the first Marxist elected to head a government in the Western hemisphere. His tenure lasted 133 days, at which time British troops removed him, suspended the constitution, and named an interim administration. Jagan, however, returned to lead the country twice more: as the colony’s premier (1961–1964) and as the nation’s president (1992–1997). Both because Jagan’s history is relatively less known and because he and his party exercised power, it is he who represents the small class of nonviolent revolutionaries in this work. All the other cases presented involve armed-opposition movements. However, we have two classes of these as well. Not all insurrections succeed. Most are defeated and even some of those that are not defeated still do not take power. In four of the cases presented there are political parties constituted by former insurrectionists who did not take state power: Colombia, Guatemala, Mozambique, and Uruguay.3 Interestingly, in three of these countries, these parties remain in opposition, while in Uruguay, the Tupamaros are part of a left-of-centre coalition Frente Amplio (FA, Broad Front) that took office in 2005. In the past, it was highly unlikely that a failed revolutionary group would survive defeat to form a party and contest power within a nonviolent, constitutional context. However, the changing dynamics of the post–cold war world has opened possibilities for armed groups that can fight government troops to a draw. Rather than pursue internal war to its bitter and bloody end, the combatants can find themselves pressured by the international community to enter negotiations. This benefits both sides.

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The insurgents, who have been unable to defeat the government’s troops, get a seat at the negotiating table that it can turn into a chance to enter an at least somewhat reformed political system. The state, which could not defeat the insurgents, has to accept its erstwhile enemy as a political competitor but gets peace in return. From our perspective, what matters here is that the insurgents have to transform themselves into a political party and learn the art of nonviolent politics. The bulk of the cases examined below, however, are neither nonviolent revolutionaries nor guerrillas who did not have quite enough strength to overthrow the government. Rather, they are the successful armed-oppositional insurgents. Logically, they can set up the kind of state that they want. Throughout much of history, the preferred option in such cases was to either forbid opposition or permit it in a limited form that did not include challenging the control of government. A number of our cases follow this well-established practice, but three winners—in Mozambique, Nicaragua, and South Africa—present themselves in winner-take-all elections, and one of them, the FSLN of Nicaragua, has lost. Obviously, the universe of cases comprising that last category is small, as there are not a lot of one-time, armed insurgents that have become political parties in electoral democracies. In fact, in 2006 it is difficult to identify even two dozen cases. Central America contributes three: Nicaragua’s FSLN, El Salvador’s Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FMLN, Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front), and Guatemala’s Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca (URNG, Guatemalan National Revolutionary Union). Southern Africa gives us four:4 the Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO, the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique; the Movimento Popular para Liberação de Angola (MPLA, the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola); the Southwest Africa People’s Organization (SWAPO) of Namibia; and the African National Congress (ANC) from South Africa. Beyond these there is Ethiopia’s Ethiopian Peoples’ Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF); Frente Revolucionária do Timor-Leste Independente (FRETILIN, Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor) from East Timor; Colombia’s M-19 (Movimiento 19 de Abril or April 19th Movement); the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO); and from the former Yugoslavia, the Croatian Democratic Union and Serbian Democratic Party in Bosnia and Herzegovina, as well as the Kosovo Liberation Army. Operating at a rather different level are Hamas and Hezbollah, because they maintain armed operations alongside their electoral actions. Finally, one might stretch the concept of revolutionary-movement-to-party to include the political wings of armed movements, the best known of which are Sinn Fein, linked to the

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Irish Republican Army, and the now outlawed Batasuna, the political arm of ETA stands for Euskadi ta Askatasuna (Basque Fatherland and Liberty), the Basque separatist movement. With the exception of Sinn Fein, all the parties listed above grew from fronts founded in the second half of the twentieth century. Armed opposition, however, has been a constant throughout history. Thus, while there may never be many instances of parties growing out of political-military oppositional fronts, there is also no reason to believe that the species will disappear. Why, however, did we choose to focus on Latin America and Africa, leaving aside the European, Asian, and Middle Eastern cases? We had originally planned to focus solely on Latin American examples. This offered some uniformity of background and a relatively common set of expectations about how politics works and what political parties do. However, centering our attention on Latin America brought with it two weaknesses: first, there were only five cases and, second, only one of those five, Nicaragua’s Sandinistas, had taken power as an armed revolutionary front and then transformed itself into a political party. It was evident that we needed a larger sample and Africa not only offered the greatest number of potential cases but many of the revolutionary-movements-turned-parties there also had long enough histories to permit thorough studies. This approach is not without its own costs and limitations. The most obvious of them is that we exclude the small but important category of cases formed by Hamas in Palestine and Hezbollah in Lebanon. Their originality derives from their maintenance of armed struggle as a part of their identities even after entering the electoral arena. In both cases, this decision reflects the parties’ continuing conflict with Israel, against whom each wages a continuing guerrilla war. Although one can argue that other revolutionaries in power have had to mobilize militarily to resist threats to their regimes, Angola, Mozambique, and Nicaragua come readily to mind, the military instruments were national armies and not party militias. Although Hezbollah has been an active political party in Lebanon for over a decade and Hamas is the largest party in Palestine, we decided that their continued reliance on violence made them sufficiently different from other examples that it was best to use them only as contrastive examples. As the above suggests, this is a book of case studies. Although the use of cases studies in common in political science, it is also controversial.5 We chose to build this work around cases instead of concepts for a series of reasons. First, the details of the experience of the various parties are generally not widely known. Central America specialists, such as us this book’s editors, might have a good sense of what has gone on in Guatemala and Nicaragua but only a general idea of the details of most of the African cases.

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Our situation probably applies more broadly. Second, although the following section will indicate that there are a series of benchmarks that we use to guide this investigation to allow for comparisons across cases, there is not a substantial array of concepts explicitly applied to the study of the transformation of revolutionary movements to civic political parties. Thus, finally, we decided that to derive concepts useful to the study of this phenomenon we needed the rich databases that country- and movement-specific case studies offers. Orienting Themes, Concepts, and Questions Although the book only covers 10 countries, these relatively few cases present a complex array of traits (table 1.1). There are armed movements that took power in a revolutionary seizure of the state, movements that failed to do that but held out long enough to earn a negotiated peace and a place in the political system, and a revolutionary party that used only Table 1.1

The cases under study

Country Angola

Group MPLA UNITA

PF x

PE

RPE x

Colombia

UP M19

Eritrea

PFD

Guatemala

URNG

Guyana

PPP

Mozambique

FRELIMO RENAMO

x

Nicaragua

FSLN

x

x

x

South Africa

ANC

x

x

Uruguay

FA

x

Zimbabwe

ZANU(PF)

x

LPE

x

NCE x

SEV

Armed x x

x x

x

x

x

x

x x

x

x

x

x

x

*: Some former armed insurgents PF: Power by force PE: Power by election RPE: Retain power by election LPE: Lose power by election NCE: Not competitive elections SEV: Some electoral victories, not state power

x

x

x x

x x

x x

x

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peaceful electoral struggle. Among those that gained power, we have cases where power was lost by election, won in elections, retained through elections, or where either elections were not held or were never going to take power from the government. There are groups that neither acceded to power by force of arms nor have yet managed to win a national election as well. What concepts can be employed, what questions asked to draw intelligible findings from such disparate cases? The best way to proceed is to start with the armed movements and give particular attention to those in political systems with competitive elections. Competitive elections, those in which the winner is not predetermined either legally or through the manipulation of electoral machinery, mark the context of 7 of the 10 armed movements in this study. This is a very challenging transition to make. It is more difficult to put your record on the line for all to judge every few years than it is to repeatedly assert that the people have voted for their vanguard in the insurrection, and no political lottery will cheat them of their triumph. Yet making themselves accountable to their citizenry is what the parties in this class do. The others, both the Guyanese who sought to make their revolution without force of arms and those who follow the time-tested practice of eschewing elections they could lose, will be treated as separate categories, which will provide a context for comparison. The Armed Movements: Context and Conjuncture In the early twenty-first century, as in every previous era, a certain number of states are reconstructing their political systems, after periods of internal conflict. What distinguishes the current situation from those of the past is, as noted above, that many of the political rebuilding projects aim at becoming constitutional democracies. These are polities where the rule of law prevails, reasonably free and fair elections decide who holds power, and citizens can usually count on their constitutionally guaranteed rights being respected by the state. However, in all of the cases that have emerged since the collapse of the Eastern European Socialist governments at the end of the cold war, the democratic and constitutional governments are operating in the framework of capitalist property relations. The economies of these emerging democracies are overwhelmingly in private hands, especially in the wake of the drive of neoliberal ideas in the 1990s to downplay any positive role of state-owned enterprises or even a large role for the state in regulating economic relations. This challenge will be especially difficult for the former revolutionaries

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who have entered constitutional politics because their prior goals had gone beyond establishing political democracy to the establishment of economic democracy (i.e., socialism). Operating within this framework poses extra challenges for governments who must not only restore order and remake their economies but do so while being bound by the law themselves. Those forming the governments undertaking these tasks often were not long before political-military organizations, generally guerrilla groups, built to seize and hold power by force of arms. It is clear that these parties must reconfigure themselves as they rebuild their countries. Two principal tasks await guerrillas who transform themselves into parties. The first of these concerns the introduction of a new medium of political exchange: ballots instead of bullets. With the new currency comes the need to make a host of operational adjustments. Clandestine operations yield to relative openness. Coercion takes a backseat to persuasion, although the persuasion can easily be co-optation. Ringing declarations of principle are traded for policy analyses. Enemies are transmuted into opponents. And bureaucratic tedium becomes the new fog of battle. As significant as those adaptations might be, the second great transformation, the abandonment of verticalism, may be even harder to achieve. Political-military organizations are constructed and operate on military lines. They literally have command structures. Leaders drawn from such organizations give and follow orders. Although commanders doubtless discussed war plans among themselves and top representatives probably negotiated with civilian authorities, the continuous buffeting that elected leaders get from the media, opposition parties, organized interests, and even their own caucuses will be unfamiliar. Democratic centralism will look very good. Nevertheless, these newly minted politicians will learn that insulation from public pressure and unaccountability often spells electoral disaster. Successfully carrying out all of the above changes does not assure electoral success. Once launched on their constitutional democratic careers, parties that grew from the soil of revolutionary struggle should be neither better nor worse equipped than any other to contest and exercise power. But is that really so? Besides the foregoing structural factors, there are also questions of history and public perception that can work to either the benefit or detriment of any party. Did the ex-revolutionaries enter the electoral fray as the only organized political force in the country, giving themselves an advantage that they can build on? Is the party too closely linked in the public mind with bloodshed and suffering to win the majority’s votes? Have new parties arisen that better capture the current public mood?

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A Framework To analyze these questions, we should start from the more familiar ground of the movements-to-parties literature before addressing the particularities of how political-military organizations might make the transition to become political parties. There are many cases around the world of movements transmuting into parties—most Labor and Socialist parties sprang from movements, as did many nationalists, and now the Greens—and there is a surprising wealth of Canadian examples reported in an ample and easily available literature.6 The hallmark of the movement-to-party literature is its emphasis on routinization7 or institutionalization.8 Movements, even powerful ones, generally have flexible structures.9 They encourage members to participate broadly and allow substantial innovation. Parties demand greater discipline, at least from officially registered members. There are platforms and policies to support. And elected members can be expected to toe the party line on votes, at least where party discipline is enforced. Thus, the shift from a movement to a party implies a significant change of organizational culture and operational logic. In essence, one institution, the movement, becomes another, the party. Political-military fronts cannot have flexible structures. They are command organizations. Therefore, when they change from movements to parties it is not the loss of spontaneity that stands out. In fact, there is a marked tendency to adapt a verticalist, top-down, party structure and impose a quasi-military discipline on the relatively restricted number of militants who compose the formal membership. Yet they too make substantial adjustments, to be effective the old political-military organization has to become more flexible and more open. What this literature, then, suggests is that the hard part of changing from movement, civil or armed, to party is that it requires developing a new and quite distinct institution. Themes and Questions Parties that began life as armed, politico-military revolutionary movements carry with them a lot of heavy baggage. For one thing, they may have a strong tendency toward verticalism, the top-down, order-giving organizational logic characteristic of armies. This is a necessary concomitant of war fighting but it does not translate well into democratic politics. Debating a general’s orders is unthinkable, just as unthinkable as not debating a political leader’s positions should be. Are parties growing from armed struggle in fact more verticalist? Are they more leader-centered than other parties in the same polity?

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Another trait that is absolutely necessary in war is secrecy. However, democracies at least claim to promote transparency. Are transformed politico-military movements less open than the parties against whom they compete? Though each of the above can and should be remedied with time, patience, and energy, other aspects of the character of armed oppositions may be more deeply rooted. Maximalism, that is, a predisposition to seek unconditional victory, is one of these. Politico-military movements are almost always revolutionary in the sense that they propose to use violence to change the existing regime. The revolution could be Marxist or religious, nationalist or ethnic; but people seldom take up arms to negotiate the fine points of a contract. Although stalemate may produce climb-downs and negotiations, at least at the start the rule will be, “Patria libre o morir! Patria o muerte! Venceremos!” However useful maximalism may be in war, it can be a terrible encumbrance in ordinary politics. One possible consequence of maximalism is polarization. Playing a zerosum game, in which you either win or lose everything, leads to a “with us or against us” perspective. Again, this is perfectly adapted to the battlefield and has its place in transformational revolutionary politics, or even in a dictatorship. In more pluralistic settings, however, where there is no imaginable, legitimate reason for annihilating your opponent, maximalism will simply divide the polity into warring camps. One possible outcome of this is gridlock. Another is the permanent marginalization of a weaker party, which produces a different kind of instability. There is also the Nicaraguan solution, described in chapter 6, of making a power-sharing pact between the adversaries. None of these options is fully consistent with democracy. Transformed armed oppositions are not the only sources of political maximalism and polarization. The question is whether these are more common outcomes where parties that grew from politico-military movements are prominent political actors. To the extent that they are, it becomes useful to know if the consequences of maximalism noted above in fact appeared, and if so, how they have been addressed. A final condition that could logically affect all parties in this class is ideological rigidity and reluctance to move far from the original movements’ founding principles. Obviously, at least the commitment to armed struggle has to go. But the question is how far a party whose founders shed blood for a cause can move away from its original message, even if that message will never bring electoral success. Beyond these questions that consider the characteristics of whole political systems, there are themes that require the examination of specific parties operating in particular contexts. Four are set out here: whether the

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movement seized power by force of arms; the role of external actors; issues of recruitment and generational change; and the strength of other parties in the system. The most obvious of the particular factors is whether the party had taken power by force of arms. Those who did were assured experience in government. This gave them a record of rule, which is not always an advantage, some managerial skills, and some appreciation of the arts of negotiation and compromise. For those who entered the realm of electoral politics after a negotiated end of hostilities those advantages may not have existed. To examine this issue the obvious comparison would be the FMLN of El Salvador and Guatemala’s URNG, on the one hand, and the FSLN of Nicaragua and Mozambique’s FRELIMO, on the other. Only slightly less immediately apparent is the role played by external actors. Support or opposition from without can be critical to armed oppositions and to the political parties that succeed them. To take one well-known case, the opposition of the U.S. government to the Sandinistas has hampered the FSLN’s electoral chances in Nicaragua. As armed oppositions were set up to recruit warriors and not politicians, there is some question about how well their leaders will adapt to their new jobs. Even if they do well, however, eventually the party will need new people with new ideas. The experience to date of the FSLN and the FMLN suggests that this will be difficult. These parties continue to put great weight on participation in the armed struggle, which may call for different skills than the electoral struggle. A possible result is parties whose leaders are strongly attached to ideas that have little currency among voters, perhaps even among the party’s younger members. Yet FRELIMO appears to have solved that problem. Whether that was the result of good leadership and sound planning or was simply fortuitous is a question that we shall have to consider. There is also the question of the other parties in the system. In one sense, parties formed from politico-military movements are just like any other party. They have to raise money, recruit candidates and workers, put together platforms, and run elections, and if they win, organize a government. But in the polarized environment that often follows protracted conflict, facing strong opponents with attractive policies and leaders can spell oblivion for the ex-fighters. We believe that this matter lies at the heart of the different results achieved by, for example, the FSLN and FRELIMO, and is part of what accounts for the FMLN’s limited success. Finally, we must ask if these parties have been able to make the social changes their revolutions promised. Obviously, they will be hamstrung by the reigning international economic order, which prescribes a reduced

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public sector and an open, largely unregulated economy. Also a revolutionary organization like any other party will find that what looks good in a platform is often found wanting after a confrontation with intractable social and political realities. Nevertheless, if ex-revolutionaries are to claim any sort of distinction in the present it logically ought to be for having a political agenda that promotes, as far as is reasonably possible, revolutionary goals. In practice, their program will likely take the form of redistributive social policies, affirmative action for marginalized groups, economic policies favoring the poor and working classes, and a foreign policy promoting nonintervention and a skeptical stance on global free trade. Parties in power plainly are better placed to secure these ends than are those in opposition, thus it is easier to assess their records. However, parties out of office can not only push for current versions of their historic goals from opposition but can also sometimes shape legislation to move their country toward those objectives. We can summarize all the foregoing points in a box (figure 1.1) for easier reference. Likely to apply to all parties in this class Verticalist Secretive Maximalist Polarlizing Ideologically Rigid Likely to distinguish between parties in this class Came to power through arms or not Role of external actors Recruitment and generational renewal Other parties in the system Fulfillment of revolutionary agenda Figure 1.1 Characteristics of parties evolving from politico-military fronts

The Others Four of the cases examined in this collection either are not descended from armed-oppositional movements, Guyana, or do not operate within a framework of freely competitive elections, Angola (National Union for the Total Independence of Angola UNITA [União Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola], and MPLA). Eritrea (Democratic Federal Party, PFD), and Zimbabwe. These afford us two useful sets of controls. Knowing about Guyana will shed light on the effects of having to make

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the transition from armed to electoral political struggle. As the PPP’s roots are Marxist, hence presumably revolutionary, the extent to which its path diverges from that followed by the former guerrillas will generate hypotheses about the impact of armed struggle on a party’s behavior. Similarly, the policy profiles and socioeconomic outcomes produced by ruling parties that dispense with free elections will be compared to those generated by administrations of ex-revolutionaries who fight open elections to raise questions about how competitive politics affects the course of one-time armed insurgents. The Plan of the Book The book is divided into two sections; the first draws on case studies from Latin America and the second from Africa. Among those in the former category, Nicaragua’s FSLN is the only one to have seized power via revolution (1979). It then became a constitutional opposition after an electoral defeat (1990), and then regained control of the state by winning national elections (2006). In chapter 2, David Close presents the history of the FSLN, emphasizing its 16 years in opposition and the conditions that allowed the party to return to power in 2006. Carlos Figueroa Ibarra and Salvador Martí i Puig’s chapter on Guatemala detail the history of the Guatemalan revolutionary movement distinguished as the first to take up arms after the Cuban Revolution and the last to lay them down. The primary question that the authors confront is how to explain why the guerilla movement and its final manifestation, the URNG, has had so little electoral success compared to its Nicaraguan and Salvadoran counterparts. The answer they suggest lies in the extent of the success of the Guatemalan state in repressing the movement, which in turn limited the latter’s ability to penetrate effectively into Guatemalan political life in the long term. Martin Weinstein’s chapter on Uruguay documents the long road to power of the Uruguayan left. Success came with the election of Dr. Tabaré Vázquez to the presidency in 2004, at the head of the Broad Front coalition of Socialists, communists, and ex-Tupamaros (the armed guerillas of the 1960s and 1970s). Weinstein places the Broad Front’s victory in the context of Latin America coming to grips, increasingly so, with its authoritarian past through the prosecution of crimes committed by military regimes. The contribution by Suzanne Wilson and Leah Carroll on Columbia approaches the themes of the book from a somewhat different angle because the primary guerilla group, the Armed Revolutionary Forces of Columbia (FARC, Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia), have not laid

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down their arms and entered the political arena, but are continuing their 40 year long insurrection. The particular focus of the authors is on those groups over the past 25 years that have demobilized and entered the political arena. Their primary conclusions are that the Colombian system has ultimately provided only limited political space to revolutionaries turned politicians and that the state’s systematic and ongoing repression has not encouraged a transition to electoral politics. Furthermore, they note, the former guerillas have had the most success when they participate in the political system as relatively small players in broad political coalitions. The last chapter in this section, by Kalowatie Deonandan, analyzes one of the more unique cases, the PPP in Guyana, that from the beginning advocated the electoral route to socialism over armed struggle. What emerges is that the PPP share many of the traits and constraints its counterparts had espoused via the armed route. Like many of them, once it won power (after 28 years of political exclusion) it modified its ideological program to conform with the economic policies it was forced to implement. Furthermore, it faces internal challenges such as verticalism in leadership, and is constrained by accusations that it is perpetuating one-party dominance, charges not unfamiliar in other contexts as well. The second half of the book consists of four case studies of revolutionaries–to-politician transitions in Africa. The first is Gary Prevost’s chapter charting the transformation of the ANC in South Africa from revolutionary movement to Social Democratic Party adhering to the Third Way political path. This transformation is placed explicitly within the context of geopolitical changes surrounding the collapse of the Soviet Union. The chapter then proceeds to an examination of the challenges which confront a liberation movement when it strays politically from its historic commitments. In her chapter on Eritrea and Zimbabwe, Sara Rich Dorman draws out the differences between the two countries’ postliberation experiences based on the manner by which the liberation forces took power. In the case of Zimbabwe, the negotiated character of the transition placed great restraints on the behavior of the ZANU in power. This is unlike Eritrea, where the military victory of the EPLF gave the movement greater freedom in its postliberation policies. This theme of the constraints imposed by (pacted) transitions is also central in Prevost’s chapter on the ANC. Dorman also makes important comparisons between the two countries in terms of the relative lack of democratic openings in Eritrea compared with that of Zimbabwe. In the chapter on Mozambique, Manning compares the experiences of FRELIMO and Resistência Nacional Moçambicana (RENAMO, Mozambican National Resistance) as armed movements that have had

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dramatically different political success. FRELIMO began as a guerilla army and assumed power in 1975 with the end of Portuguese rule. RENAMO was a counterrevolutionary armed force backed by South Africa and the West to destabilize the FRELIMO government and protect South African apartheid. FRELIMO’s success is discussed in terms of its much greater organizational preparedness for multiparty elections in the 1990s. The chapter documents how FRELIMO utilized its advantages over RENAMO to consolidate power by electoral means in the early elections and to strengthen its long-term dominance in Mozambican politics. FRELIMO was especially adept at separating its party structures from the state apparatus, a task that often proves difficult for revolutionary parties operating in the pluralist democratic environment. Malaquias’ chapter on Angola analyzes the trajectory of the main revolutionary force in Angola, the MPLA. He identifies the key factors that enabled the MPLA to survive at various stages of the conflict and to rise to a position of dominance in the postcolonial era. The chapter also provides an analysis of the motivations behind the MPLA’s abandonment of its revolutionary ideals in recent years and its embrace of privatization and neoliberalism. Malaquias explains the transformation primarily in terms of the economic realities of postcolonial Angola and argues that its principal beneficiaries are the revolutionary elites. The concluding chapter by Deonandan brings together the cases by identifying the common and cross-cutting themes that bind them and highlight the challenges faced by revolutionaries who become politicians and the possibilities that await them. She identifies several common factors that allowed for the transition from revolutionary movements to political parties, and one overriding theme is the fall of the USSR. In terms of their success in the transition phase, she suggests they can be evaluated in terms of several criteria and amongst these are: the degree to which they remained ideologically committed to their revolutionary agenda; and ability to promote democracy both within the movement and within the state. Notes 1. Quoted in Peter Pavia, The Cuba Project: Castro, Kennedy, Dirty Business, Double Dealing, and the FBI’s Tamale Squad (New York: Palgrave, 2006), p. 65. Flynn ended his story with the comment, “. . . and as far as this writer is concerned it ain’t sticking.” He was wrong. 2. Although Eurocommunism was arguably mostly about relations between Western European Communist parties and the Soviet Union, it was also an attempt to adapt those parties to the realities of late twentieth century, West

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European political pluralism. It is for this latter reason that we include them in the category of nonviolent revolutionaries. This collection originally was to have included a chapter on El Salvador, a key case. Unfortunately, the author of that chapter withdrew for personal reasons when it was too late to find a replacement. The editors regret this omission. At one time we could have included Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF) as a fifth case. A good review of the debate on case studies in political science is found in J. Gerring, “What Is a Case Study and What Is It Good for?,” American Political Science Review 98, 2 (2004), pp. 341–354. Two sets of movements in Canada produced parties that went on to form provincial governments, some for extended periods. The first of these came from the farmers’ movements of the early twentieth century, which yielded the United Farmers, Progressives, Social Credit, and the Cooperative Commonwealth Federation, while the second emerged from the Quebec nationalism of the 1960s, which produced the Parti Québécois. On agrarian radicalism in Canada, see the classics, viz. S. Lipset, Agrarian Socialism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1950); W. L. Morton, The Progressive Party in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1950); C. Macpherson, Democracy in Alberta (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1953); also L. Zakuta, A Protest Movement Becalmed (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1964). For recent Quebec nationalist politics, consult M. Sarra-Bournet and J. St-Pierre, Les nationalisms au Quebec du XIX au XXI siecle (Quebec: Presses de l’Universite Laval, 2001), and S.Trofimenkoff, The Dream of Nation (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2002). S. Clark, J. Grayson, and L. Grayson, Prophecy and Protest (Toronto: Gage Educational Publications,1976). S. Tarrow, Power in Movement (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Flexibility, of course, is far more characteristic of new social movements— for example, second- and third-wave feminism, antiglobalization, and the environmental movement—than of old social movements, for example labor.

CHAPTER 2

From Guerrillas to Government to Opposition and Back to Government: The Sandinistas since 1979 David Close

Introduction Nicaragua’s Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional (FSLN, Sandinista National Liberation Front) was well positioned to make a successful transition from armed guerrilla movement to competitive electoral party. Even before abandoning Leninist principles in 1982 and allowing free electoral competition, the Sandinistas had begun constructing a remarkably pluralistic revolutionary state. Winning open elections against a weak and divided opposition in 1984 gave the revolutionaries useful experience in electoral politics and committed them to recognizing victory at the polls as the only legitimate road to power in the new regime. Handing over power after losing the 1990 elections confirmed the FSLN’s democratic credentials. After that, however, the Sandinistas showed signs of becoming Nicaragua’s natural official opposition. The two succeeding national elections (1996 and 2001) produced second-place finishes that saw the party stalled at approximately 40 percent of the vote, at least 10 points behind the winning Constitutionalist Liberal Party (Partido Liberal Constitucionalista, PLC) To change their fortunes, in 2000 Sandinista leader Daniel Ortega struck a deal with Liberal leader and then-president Arnoldo Alemán to change Nicaragua’s constitution in ways that might improve the FSLN’s chances.

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In 2006, even with a smaller percentage of the votes than in 2001 (38 as against the previous 42.5 percent), however, the FSLN captured the presidency for its historic leader Daniel Ortega. This chapter asks two questions about the Sandinistas electoral trajectory. The first is whether the FSLN’s lack of electoral success over 16 years can be attributed to its revolutionary origins or whether other factors accounted for the party’s showing. To be able to consider the party’s armed, revolutionary origins as the principal cause at least one of the following must be present: party choice dividing along pro-/anti-Sandinista lines; continuing salience of issues from the period of revolutionary government; continuity of party program or ideology from its period as a movement; continuity of leadership; outside, here United States’, opposition to the FSLN carried over from the party’s revolutionary past. Explanations for the Sandinistas’ 16-year stint in opposition that are not rooted in their pre-1979 history include their record as governors (1979–1990) and the strength of other parties in the political system. The available evidence indicates that it is necessary to draw on both factors to explain the Sandinistas’ long run in opposition. Specifically, a careful reading of the record suggests that the FSLN’s radical origins and the record of the revolutionary government combine with its leader’s style and the party’s performance to limit its electoral appeal. Obviously the second question addresses the party’s 2006 victory. The best way to understand what produced this result is to focus on three related themes: actors, structures, and conjuncture. The actor most in the spotlight has to be Daniel Ortega, although his pact partner Arnoldo Alemán and the presidential candidates of the three other significant parties—the runner-up Eduardo Montealgre of Nicaraguan Liberal Alliance (Alianza Liberal Nicaragüense, ALN), Jose Rizo of the PLC, and the Sandinista Reform Movement (Movimiento de Renovación Sandinista, MRS), whose candidate was eventually Edmundo Jarquín1—who contested the election also played significant roles. Structures are those factors that can be counted on to shape Nicaraguan politics. These include historic voter preferences, the country’s legal-constitutional framework, the party system, the media, and the U. S. government. Finally, contextual elements include the campaign and national and international events that shape voters’ perceptions. We shall want to explain how the FSLN’s vote stayed above its historic floor (37.7 percent in 1996), how and why the anti-Sandinista—perhaps better thought of as the anti-FSLN or anti–Daniel Ortega—vote split as it did. Above all, we are interested in determining whether the FSLN is now a party like its main Nicaraguan competitors or it retains anything of its insurrectionary past, besides memories.

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Addressing these questions takes us through a number of steps. First, we need a framework within which to analyze and evaluate the problems that confront guerrilla movements as they move armed struggle to electoral politics. Here we also ask whether revolutionaries and other armed insurgencies have to overcome similar obstacles or whether their different raisons d’être present them with distinct challenges. The next part of the chapter sets out a history of the FSLN that highlights the factors that have most shaped its passage from revolutionary guerrilla force to Nicaragua’s largest opposition party and finally back into office. Reflections on the state of the Sandinistas and Nicaraguan politics more generally constitute the conclusion. Basic Questions In the early twenty-first century, as in every previous era, some states are reconstructing their political systems after periods of internal conflict. What distinguishes the current situation from earlier ones is that most of the political rebuilding projects involve constitutional democracies. These are polities where the rule of law prevails, reasonably free and fair elections decide who holds power, and citizens can usually count on their constitutionally guaranteed rights being respected by the state. Operating within this framework poses extra challenges for governments who must not only restore order but also do so while being bound by the law themselves. Those forming the governments undertaking these tasks had often not long before been politico-military organizations, generally guerrillas, that were built to seize and hold power by force of arms. It is clear that these governors must reconfigure themselves as they rebuild their countries. Two principal tasks await guerrillas who must transform themselves into electoral parties. The first concerns the introduction of a new medium of political exchange: ballots instead of bullets. With the new currency come a host of operational adjustments. Secrecy yields to relative openness. Coercion is replaced by persuasion, although the persuasion can easily be co-optation. Ringing declarations of principle are traded for policy analyses. Enemies are transmuted into opponents. And bureaucratic tedium becomes the new fog of battle. As significant as these adaptations are, the second great transformation may be even harder to achieve. Politico-military organizations are constructed and operate on military lines. They literally have command structures. Their members give and follow orders. Although commanders doubtless discussed war plans among themselves and top representatives probably negotiated with civilian authorities, the continuous buffeting that

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elected leaders get from the media, opposition parties, organized interests, and even their own caucuses will be unfamiliar. Democratic centralism will look very good. Nevertheless, these newly minted politicians will learn that unaccountability and insulation from public pressure bring their own costs. Successfully making all the above changes does not assure electoral success. Once launched on their electoral careers, parties that grew from the soil of revolutionary struggle should be neither better- nor worse-equipped than any other to contest and exercise power. But are they? Besides structural factors, questions of history and public perception can also work either to the benefit or detriment of any party. Did the ex-revolutionaries enter the electoral fray as the only organized political force in the country, giving themselves an advantage that they can build on? Or is the party too closely linked in the public mind with bloodshed and suffering to win the majority’s votes? All the foregoing assume that the former insurgents’ party actually runs in competitive elections. If for any reason it does not, none of the above applies. For most of the twentieth century the political party was the revolutionary’s organizational weapon. It was used to organize state power and mobilize popular support. Of the many political forces that seized power by force over the past century, only military regimes conventionally dispensed with parties. Nevertheless, the mere presence of a political party did not mean that there would be contested elections in which citizens could freely choose their governors. In fact, during the first three-quarters of the past century, armed oppositions that won power were most reluctant to risk losing it in elections. It is only since the 1980s that organizations formed for and through armed struggle have accepted elections. Are Armed Opposition Movements Automatically Revolutionaries? When we think of revolution we automatically think of armed oppositional movements. After all, one does have to smash the existing state before building a new regime. As Kalowatie Deonandan’s treatment of Cheddi Jagan (see chapter 6) indicates, however, not all revolutionaries have resorted to arms to win control of the state.2 Equally, not all armed oppositional movements are revolutionaries. Military leaders plotting a coup are unlikely to seek thorough social change, although Chile’s General Pinochet and his allies clearly did. And even more broadly based forms of armed resistance may aim not at overthrowing government as much as seeking more autonomy; Native American movements that have occasionally used violence exemplify this point.

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In short, when thinking about revolution as a political end and armed opposition as a political means we need to be careful to specify what our concepts mean. This is especially true in the case of the Sandinistas. They have existed long enough to have undergone numerous dramatic changes. Thus they fall into many slots, which makes analyzing them a complex and delicate task. We can begin by noting what may be the Sandinistas’ most significant political achievement: it was the first successful armed insurgent organization in Latin America to make electoral competition a central part of its system. While some might argue that the Costa Rican rebels of 1948 should receive this distinction, the FSLN’s case is stronger. The principal reason is that, although Costa Rica’s Partido Liberación Nacional (PLN, National Liberation Party) grew out of that country’s 1948 civil war, it was not structured as an armed group. Rather the Social Democrats, the PLN’s predecessor whose loss in the national elections 1948 sparked the war, were a reformist, electoral political party that turned to arms to defend its electoral victory. Violence was certainly used to take power but it was not the instrument of preference. The Costa Rican Social Democrats were not revolutionaries. That they sought dramatic reforms of society and polity is unquestioned, and the social and political changes the PLN oversaw between 1950 and 1980 were massive. Yet they were not about destroying the old order and bringing an entirely new society into being. The Sandinistas, however, were. In many ways the FSLN was a classical revolutionary guerrilla organization. It spent 18 years, from 1961 to 1979, operating clandestinely, doing political work with the people while fighting the state. But it was also a revolutionary organization with complex internal politics. The Sandinistas were famous for harboring three very different tendencies or revolutionary strategies within the bosom of a single guerrilla front. The Prolonged People’s War faction followed the path blazed by Mao Zedong: the patient accumulation of forces, military and political, to allow guerrillas from the countryside to engulf the city-based state. Following a different trajectory was the Proletarian Tendency, which, as the name indicates, built its antiSomoza struggle around the working class. The third group was the Terceristas (Third Tendency), whose strategy of forming a multiclass alliance to carry through a great insurrectionary movement finally carried the FSLN to power. We should think of the Sandinistas as revolutionary in three distinct but related ways. First, they led a successful political revolt against two generations, 43 years, of dictatorial rule by the Somoza family. As well, the social and economic agenda the FSLN brought with it to power was revolutionary. It proposed a radical redistribution of economic, political, and social

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power to displace Nicaragua’s capitalists and give the workers and peasants much greater authority and prestige. The third way in which the Sandinistas were revolutionaries, or at least radical innovators, lay in the structure and logic of the revolutionary state. Although the Junta de Gobierno de Reconstrucción Nacional (JGRN, Governing Council of National Reconstruction) was not a constitutional democracy, one governed by the rule of law, it was not a proletarian dictatorship either. Rather, it was a system that permitted licensed opposition and a greater degree of pluralism— centers of power not under state control—than had the Somozas. It is not necessary to accept all the premises of Philip Selznick’s old work on the Bolsheviks3 to agree that the Sandinistas came to power as a combat party. The FSLN displayed most of the characteristics of such organizations. The Sandinistas’ project of destroying the Somozas’ dictatorship and replacing it with a revolutionary democracy demanded using military means and a military structure, as well as assuring that most political work would be clandestine. Yet the FSLN soon moved toward open, electoral, political struggle (figure 2.1). Why? 1961 1979 1982 1984 1990 1996 2000 2001 2006

Foundation Take power Pass Parties’ Law; election now sole road to power Elections; Sandinista landslide win; Ortega president Elections; Sandinistas lose by 14 points; Ortega candidate Elections; Sandinistas lose by 14 points; Ortega candidate Pact with Liberals Elections; Sandinistas lose by 14 points; Ortega candidate Elections; Sandinistas win by 8 points; Ortega president

Figure 2.1 The Sandinistas: A chronology

Transforming the FSLN I: From Revolutionary State to Electoral Party There is well-developed literature that treats how political movements become parties.4 Almost all of it describes the shift from movement to party as a loss of élan and democratic effervescence. The process has been called “routinization,”5 or of leaving a protest movement “becalmed.”6 Regardless of the language chosen, the implication is that becoming a political party takes away the romance and daring of movement politics, replacing it with calculations of small, short-term advantages. Although this maybe true where the shift from movement to party takes place in a democratic,

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constitutional framework, one might think that a revolutionary movement such as the Sandinistas would act differently. In part they did; but in part the FSLN, too, had to settle into routines. Gaining power after overthrowing the Somozas gave the Sandinistas advantages they would not have enjoyed had they won office through elections. The most important of these was not necessarily the most obvious. Having a clearer commitment to a total restructuring of the state than to holding elections, the revolutionaries did not have to dicker over details of policy or bear in mind the need to not alienate potential voters. Being able to just do things, however, brought results as mixed as would come out of a more constrained process of negotiated politics. On the plus side were the revolution’s centerpiece social programs—the literacy and vaccination campaigns, expanding education and health care, and the general reduction of social barriers to individual fulfillment and happiness. The FSLN’s agrarian reform had somewhat more mixed results: it certainly democratized land ownership but it was founded on questionable assumptions,7 made the peasant farmers who received land prime targets of the counterrevolutionaries, and in the end proved unsustainable. However, the revolutionary government (the JGRN) made its most egregious error in its policy toward the ethnically and culturally distinct Atlantic Coast. Although the Sandinistas corrected this mistake in 1987 by granting the Atlantic departments a measure of autonomy, it came only after years of combat had cost many lives. Yet when the FSLN opted to move toward electoral politics, a step it took in 1982, neither was it a complete turnaround nor was it undertaken out of conviction. Part of the framework that let the Sandinistas become an electoral party existed even before the revolution’s triumph. More than most armed revolutionary groups,8 the Sandinistas built a broad base of support while still fighting. Besides unions and organizations of women, peasants, and students, from among whom revolutionaries normally expect to find support, the FSLN also had backers from the anti-Somoza elite. Some of these were children of the rich who became Sandinista militants, but there were also Los Doce, 12 executives and intellectuals who publicly endorsed the Sandinistas. This pluralism carried over into the first years of revolutionary government. A licensed opposition, one that could criticize but never take power, was permitted and opposition groups, parties and economic organizations, were also members of the appointed representative body, the Council of State, although they formed a minority. In other words, the Sandinistas did not have a complete monopoly on political life, even if they were by far the preponderant force. Even so, the passage of the Political Parties Law by the Council of State in 1982 marked a dramatic change in the nature of Sandinista politics.9 In

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its original form, the bill permitted all parties not proposing a return to Somocismo to contest elections but not to gain power; that is, in good Leninist form, power remained with the revolutionaries. This accorded with the Sandinistas’ oft-repeated claim that the people had voted with their blood in 1979 and that no mere lottery of votes could reverse their verdict. However, the government was facing increasing political pressure from its European social democratic donors to abandon all traces of Leninism, while military pressure from counterrevolutionary insurgents (the Contras) was beginning to strain the state’s resources. The FSLN’s opponents in the Council of State took advantage of this conjuncture to press the government to amend the parties’ bill to permit any recognized party, without Somocista elements, to govern if it won an election. The Sandinistas had committed themselves to becoming an electoral party. The Practice of Electoral Sandinismo From the Sandinistas’ perspective, the Parties Law probably seemed a minimal risk. Although there is no formal study of their decision, the logic of the situation suggests that, faced with an array of small, ill-funded, and scarcely organized parties, the FSLN could count on relatively easy electoral victories. Certainly their first election in 1984 confirmed this, as they took 67 percent of the presidential vote and 61 of 96 seats in the National Assembly. Even though the last minute withdrawal of the best-financed candidate, Arturo Cruz of the Coordinadora Democrática, a loose coalition of committed anti-Sandinista groups that enjoyed the support of the U.S. government, may have increased the FSLN’s margin of victory, it also left the revolutionaries with the weak, divided opposition. Between 1984 and 1990, it was possible to conceive of the Sandinistas as being Nicaragua’s hegemonic party for a long time to come. Beyond the characteristics of the opposition there were also institutional factors favoring the FSLN’s chances at a long, uninterrupted stay in office. The key here was the electoral system. The 1984 elections, like those of 1990 and 1996, were run under one of the most egalitarian PR systems of proportional representation ever established anywhere. Of particular note, any presidential candidate receiving 1.1 percent of the national vote, the quota needed to qualify for a seat in the National Assembly, got a seat in the chamber. In 1984, all parties running met this criterion, thus all had their leaders present in the house. Whether due to the designers’ intentions or not, the electoral system encouraged small parties to proliferate and made forming a party a better way for the ambitious to advance their political careers than working their way up through an established party.10

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It was also during their period as Nicaragua’s elected government that the Sandinistas sought to institutionalize their revolution by drafting a new constitution, which took effect in 1987. Previously the FSLN had not been overly scrupulous in constitutional matters. For example, it was the Electoral Law of 1984 that defined the offices of president and vice president, and created the National Assembly. Because there was no constitutional charter before 1987, there was no alternative. That history aside, the final document was a mix of radical and conventional democratic elements, formed both through public consultation and legislative debate, that vested extreme power in the president: for example, the right to spend and tax without legislative approval. In fact, one of the most significant developments of the 1984–1990 Sandinista administration was the growth of presidential authority exercised by Comandante Daniel Ortega, the only person to have ever been the presidential candidate of the FSLN. Although the FSLN expected to be returned to office in 1990, Nicaraguan voters had other ideas. Running against an ad hoc coalition of 14 small parties, the Unión Nacional Opositora (UNO, National Union of the Opposition), Daniel Ortega received just 41 percent of the vote, while Violeta Chamorro took 54 percent, with the rest scattered among third parties. The legislative results were a little better for the revolutionaries, winning 39 of 92 seats; but opposition was the FSLN’s destination. Responsibility for the defeat can be laid on a straitened economy—the Sandinistas imposed a fierce austerity program in 1988—and a costly war against the U.S. financed counterrevolutionary insurgents, the Nicaraguan Resistance.11 Yet by being perhaps the first Marxist-revolutionary party anywhere to acknowledge defeat at the polls and leave office voluntarily, and only the second in Nicaraguan history to do so,12 the FSLN clearly demonstrated its democratic credentials. Transforming the FSLN II: Nicaragua’s Permanent Opposition, 1990–2006 After losing the 1990 election, the FSLN did not come within 13 percent points of winning a presidential race until 2006. This made us think of them as perpetual runners-up: able to make a game of it but who were never able to unseat the champions. Yet these results did not reflect lack of effort by the Sandinistas, or a failure to use all the oppositional tools at their disposal, or that they never sought to change the system to better their chances. This section sketches the actions of the FSLN in each of the three administrations that has governed between the time the Sandinistas lost power in 1990 and their return to office in 2006.

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The Administration of Violeta Chamorro, 1990–1996 In his first speech after conceding defeat in 1990, Daniel Ortega announced that the Sandinistas would “govern from below.”13 Though this could be read to have subversive intent, in fact Ortega was giving notice that the FSLN would not limit its opposition to the floor of the National Assembly and that confrontational politics could be in store. To give extra force to this declaration, Ortega handed over leadership of the legislative opposition to Sergio Ramirez, his former vice president who was Daniel’s alternate in the National Assembly, and dedicated himself to events on a wider stage.14 In the wake of their defeat, the Sandinistas moved to restructure their party. A meeting of the Sandinista Assembly, the party’s national forum,15 in June 1990 called for the democratization of the FSLN. The immediate result was to permit local Sandinista organizations to elect their executives and to open up a spirited public debate. As well, an ethics committee was established. There were hopes that the base organizations would be able to elect the National Directorate, which officially runs the FSLN on a day-today basis, but the first party congress, in July 1991, showed the official slate unopposed and elected with 95 percent of the vote. However, the congress did see the FSLN decide to no longer identify itself as a vanguard party.16 Although President Chamorro led the anti-Sandinistas grouped in the UNO to a resounding victory, her policy of moderation toward the losers led many in her own party to reject her leadership and oppose most of her initiatives. To pass her program, the president needed Sandinista support. Freed of legislative responsibilities, Daniel Ortega was able to negotiate deals with Antonio Lacayo, Chamorro’s son-in-law and the minister of the presidency. Ortega also placed himself at the head of many strikes and antigovernment protests, presenting himself as still the champion of Nicaragua’s downtrodden. But while Daniel was taking the roles with the highest profile, his legislative lieutenant, Sergio Ramirez, was actively working with reform-minded UNO legislators, led by Luis Humberto Guzman, to modernize Nicaragua’s constitution. Chief among the elements slated for change was the power of the presidency. Although the amendments backed by Ramirez and Guzman became law in 1995, it was only after a prolonged struggle with President Chamorro and her backers, one of whom was Daniel Ortega. Obviously, the FSLN could not have its president and legislative leader on different sides, so Ramirez and other Sandinistas who favored the reforms were effectively read out of the party at an extraordinary congress in 1994.17 Daniel Ortega thus became the unquestioned leader of the FSLN and brought caudillo politics to the former revolutionary movement.

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The Administration of Arnoldo Alemán, 1996–2001 For a good part of the 1996 campaign it looked as though the Sandinistas would retake the presidency and control the assembly. With a more moderate Daniel Ortega at its head, the FSLN’s hopes that a more responsible image and the promise of solid leadership would bring victory looked well founded. However, a combination of a well-timed ad that reminded Nicaraguans of the revolutionary past of Daniel and the FSLN and the open intervention of Managua’s archbishop, Cardinal Miguel Obando y Bravo, on the side of Ortega’s main competitor, the Constitutional Liberal Party (PLC, Partido Liberal Constitucionalista) chief Arnoldo Alemán, swung the decision to the anti-Sandinista side once again.18 Alemán had been an implacable enemy of the Sandinistas, but it did not take long for him to start making deals with Ortega. In the new president’s first year in office, he and the opposition leader reopened an ostensibly widely accepted settlement of the allocation of properties nationalized under the revolutionary government. The resulting accord probably undermined the rights of the poor who got lands and houses in the 1980s, leaving them worse off. Yet the biggest deal was the pact. The pact was literally an ad hoc agreement between Ortega’s Sandinistas and Alemán’s Liberals to back a package of legislation, part of which included constitutional amendments.19 Work on the deal began in 1999 and when completed a year later it left the country with a far less accountable executive and put in partisan hands state agencies that most democracies strive to make neutral, such as the controller, the electoral authority, and the courts—most notably the supreme court. From the FSLN’s perspective, however, reestablishing the bases of presidential power and getting greater quotas of power—Nicaraguan parlance for jobs at a party’s disposal—was only half the story. The other half was a changed electoral law that ostensibly provided the Sandinistas a better chance at winning. Opposition had turned to collaboration undertaken with an eye to regaining the reins of power. The Administration of Enrique Bolaños, 2001–2006 It is in this most recent period that the current editions of Daniel Ortega and the FSLN have taken form. On the basis of a strong showing by the party in the 2000 municipal elections, the Sandinistas believed that they could win nationally in 2001. Again, they were wrong, although this time it was pressure from Washington that worked against them. Perhaps this is

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why Daniel Ortega remained at the head of his party despite losing three straight presidential elections by landslide margins.20 Not only did he survive, he became the most powerful politician in Nicaragua. Exactly how this happened is too complex a story to present here. However, it is possible to sketch a few points that highlight the evolution of the party and its leader. Enrique Boloños had been Arnoldo Alemán’s vice president, yet his first major initiative as president was to launch an investigation of corruption under his predecessor’s government. With the aid of a Sandinista judge, the inquiry brought Alemán a 20-year jail sentence, albeit one that has been served mostly under house arrest. The Sandinistas responded to this by abandoning their erstwhile ally, occasionally siding with Boloños,21 and making themselves the linchpin of national politics. It is what the FSLN did with their newfound power that is most interesting. First, in April 2004, the same Sandinista judge who had indicted Alemán began speaking of indicting Bolaños for receiving illegal campaign contributions. A few months later, the party, completely under the control of Daniel Ortega, by then an electoral caudillo, once again joined its old partners, the PLC, to push another set of constitutional amendments. The effect of the changes was to strip the president of the power to name ministers and directors of state agencies without legislative authority. And unlike conventional “advice and consent” provisions, a supermajority of 60 percent of the National Assembly would be needed for approval. That provision was presumably inserted to ensure that neither of the pact partners would be able to act without the consent of the other. Although a decision apparently taken unilaterally by Ortega in January 2005 delayed the implementation of the amendments until after the end of President Bolaños’s term, by that June the pact partners were pushing for his impeachment. Yet in September of that same year, Ortega announced that the impeachment was off and the original deal back on, demonstrating his ability to control the course of political events.22 In the opinion of Carlos Tunnerman, once a Sandinista legislator but now a critic of Ortega, the objective of this exercise was to let Ortega distance himself from Alemán and the PLC to have a better chance of winning the presidency in 2006.23 Daniel Ortega and the Sandinistas: 1990–2006 During the Sandinistas’ 16 years in opposition, Daniel Ortega kept himself at the forefront of national politics, while the FSLN remained a significant actor in Nicaraguan affairs. That Ortega could not have remained a national figure had the FSLN suffered a significant decline is unquestionable;

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whether the party would have failed dismally without his leadership is less clear. What is evident is that over the course of his tenure as effective opposition leader, Ortega became an electoral caudillo, a charismatic party boss who builds a personalistic machine to take and keep power,24 just as fully as his one-time rival for the presidency and partner in the pact, Arnoldo Alemán. Thus the verticalism typical of Leninist vanguard parties shifted shape to become more like top-down, leader-centered, boss politics. Indeed, his control over the party goes far to explain Daniel Ortega’s persistence at the helm of the FSLN despite 16 years without a major victory. But how did he manage to keep control while losing three straight presidential elections? After all, bosses only stay bosses if they keep power and have access to government funds to look after supporters. Perhaps part of the explanation is the FSLN’s continuing self-identification as a revolutionary party, which may privilege the historic leaders who were combatientes (combatants). There is, however, an alternative explanation: Daniel Ortega delivered the goods, even while losing. From 1990 to 1996 the FSLN was the key to the survival of Violeta Chamorro’s government.25 Then the pact he struck in 2000 with Alemán gave the Sandinistas a substantial quota of power, in the form of high profile government jobs. And holding important posts in the judiciary, electoral authority, and the controller’s office gave the FSLN substantial influence over decisions.26 This does not mean that losing was the Sandinistas’ aim, but rather that Ortega was able to convert finishing second into a source of material benefits for his party. Thus, although some measure of its leader’s importance may stem from the FSLN’s days as a guerrilla movement, one can also see a pattern of being able to secure material benefits for followers that would work in any party in any system. Verticalism is not the only attribute of revolutionary Sandinismo that was maintained through the years out of power. Two other aspects of Sandinista politics that have remained constant since 1979 are a generally progressive, redistributive social policy focus domestically and a foreign policy perspective that is frankly anti-imperialistic.27 What may be more significant is that the FSLN still identifies itself as a revolutionary party.28 The expulsion of Ramirez and his allies in 1994 was not just an attempt to maintain Nicaragua’s extremely powerful executive; it was also an effort to keep the party from shifting too completely into the social democratic, electoral-cum-constitutional camp. Even if this commitment to revolution is more rhetorical than real, an argument we consider further on, the revolutionary origins and achievements of the FSLN are evidently still important to Ortega and probably to all of the generation that engaged in armed struggle against the Somoza dictatorship.

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Since that party congress ousted the most prominent foes of Daniel Ortega, it has become increasingly common to label the FSLN “Danielistas;” just as the PLC is usually called “Arnoldistas.” In both cases the nickname reflects the leader’s dominance over his party; that is, it bespeaks boss-style politics reminiscent of Huey Long or Richard Daley, to use only North American parallels. Certainly Ortega’s ability to remain party leader after three consecutive electoral defeats looks like a boss controlling his machine. Whether Ortega does this because he feels that only he can uphold the Sandinistas’ revolutionary legacy or because he wants another term in office is not important. What matters is that the FSLN turned into a party run by an electoral caudillo. The FSLN was left not only leader-dominated after 16 years on the wrong side of the aisle but also more experienced in playing by electoral democratic rules. And Ortega had proven himself a master at maximizing the party’s influence, allowing it to punch above its electoral weight. Thus by 2006 the Sandinistas were not just surviving but were doing as well as any party out of power could hope to do. Victory, at Last! The 2006 Elections To understand how Ortega and the FSLN came out on top in 2006 it helps to think in terms of the party’s high floor and low ceiling. Leaving aside 1984, which might better be thought of as a vote of confidence in a revolution coming under foreign fire, the FSLN’s presidential vote has fallen in a range of less than 5 percent, from a 37.75 percent floor to a 42.3 percent ceiling (table 2.1). As a result, when there is a straight, two-party race, the Sandinistas lose. To win with roughly two-fifths of the national vote Table 2.1

Nicaraguan presidential election results, 1990–2006

Year

FSLN

1990 1996 2001 2006

40.8% 37.75% 42.3% 37.99%

Opponent 1

Opponent 2

Opponent 3

UNO, 54.8% PLC, 51% PLC, 56.3% ALN, 28.3%

Others, 4.4% Others, 1.2% Others, 1.4% PLC, 27.1%

– – – MRS, 6.3%

UNO: National Union of the Opposition PLC: Constitutional Liberal Party ALN: Nicaraguan Liberal Alliance MRS: Sandinista Renewal Movement Totals may not equal 100 percent due to rounding Source: Data from Political Database of the Americas.

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necessitates a race among three or four relatively strong parties. In the three presidential elections from 1990 to 2001 the FSLN faced a single, strong, anti-Sandinista opponent. In 2006, those opposing the FSLN split three ways. This let the FSLN win with its second lowest vote total ever. Two things stand out in table 2.1. First, the FSLN held on to its historic share of the vote. True, the party did suffer a loss of 10 percent relative to 2001, yet it marginally beat its worst performance. Second and more important was the splintering in the anti-Sandinista vote. The Liberals nearly equaled their 2001 vote but in 2006 it took two evenly balanced Liberal parties to collect those votes. And there was also an anti-Daniel, pro-Sandinista Progressive Party, the Sandinista Renewal Movement (MRS, Movimiento de Renovación Sandinista), which stumbled badly on voting day after having shown strongly throughout the campaign. In other words, the structure of FSLN versus non-FSLN votes held, while the structure of that non-FSLN vote changed to the FSLN’s advantage. In fact, without that change the ex-guerrillas would doubtlessly have lost the presidency a fourth straight time. Another factor that we need to consider is the electoral system. Winning a presidential election with 38 percent of the vote is uncommon. Normally, there is some kind of second round of voting—usually a runoff election or a legislative vote—that decides presidential elections where no candidate receives a substantial proportion of the votes cast.29 This proportion need not be a majority; Costa Rica and Ecuador, for example, set a 40 percent threshold, although the latter demands a 10 percent lead over the runner-up. In Nicaragua, the threshold is lower: 35 percent and a 5 percent lead over the runner-up. This curious provision was part of 2000 Alemán-Ortega pact, and the FSLN fought hard for its inclusion. At the time, it appeared little more than a curiosity, as the Sandinista versus anti-Sandinista twoparty system seemed to be well entrenched. But in 2006 this obscure section of Nicaragua’s Electoral Law (Article 145) was Daniel Ortega’s ticket back to the presidency. How Daniel Did It: The Dynamics of the Campaign Entering 2005, the Sandinistas’ prospects were bright. Not only were the Liberals in disarray, due to Alemán’s incarceration, but the Sandinistas emerged as the strongest party in the 2004 municipal elections. However, complications soon presented themselves in the form of the candidacy of Herty Lewites, a longtime FSLN militant who was a minister in Ortega’s administration and from 2000 to 2004, the mayor of Managua. Interestingly,

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the PLC faced the same sort of challenge from Eduardo Montealegre, who served in the cabinets of both Alemán and Boloños. Both Lewites and Montealegre had reputations as pragmatic problem-solvers, and neither showed signs of the personalistic dominance that characterizes both Alemán and Ortega. Of greater significance, a CID-Gallup poll released in midDecember 2005 showed Lewites and Montealegre tied for the lead with 22 percent, while Daniel Ortega came third as the pick of 14 percent of those surveyed,30 while a poll by M&R Consultores, released in January 2006, showed that Lewities was by far the most popular potential Sandinista standard bearer, supported by 44.9 percent of the sample, whereas Ortega was favored by only 14 percent.31 As table 2.2 shows, these numbers changed dramatically as the year wore on. Table 2.2 Changing voter preferences in Nicaragua, February–October 2006, decided voters (in percentage) Candidate/Party Ortega/FSLN Motealgre/ALN Rizo/PLC Lewites-Jarquin/MRS

February

May

August

October

18 22 17 27

28 27 22 15

29 23 14 14

33 22 17 13

Source: Data from Angus Reid Global Monitor.32

To explain the change we refer to four facts. First is the death of Herty Lewites in July. Although his campaign was beginning to lose force even then (see table 2.2), Lewites was a strong campaigner and a charismatic populist who might have retained a larger proportion of the vote. Second was Ortega’s campaign. Organized by his wife, Rosario Murillo, the campaign avoided controversy and anything that might have taken Daniel off message; he even skipped the candidates’ debate.33 Thus, Ortega could concentrate on the very real and far too often ignored problem of poverty without being drawn off into the minefields of foreign policy or whether he would pardon Arnoldo Alemán and put the pact back in business. Even events that could have caused problems, such as joining the Liberals to vote to criminalize even therapeutic abortion, where the mother’s life is at stake, had little effect on the candidate.34 Third, foreign intervention worked in Daniel’s favor. The U.S. government tried to undermine the FSLN campaign but harkening back to the old story of the hardships of the revolutionary era had little bite; even a Republican congressman’s threat to stop Nicaraguans in the United States from sending money home fell flat.35 On a more positive note, Venezuela’s Hugo Chávez donated fertilizer and diesel

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fuel to Nicaragua; although these were distributed by the government, there was little doubt that without Ortega the aid would not have come. Finally, the Liberals split. Although some have suggested that this was the pact at work,36 hence a device to throw the election to Ortega, there are significant differences, which are based on both policies and personalities, between the PLC and the ALN. Montealgre, in fact, was expelled by the PLC.37 The Liberals could not unite behind a single candidate; however, had they not split the right-of-center vote so equally between them there could have been a runoff election that would have put the common wisdom about Ortega’s low electoral ceiling to the test. What Will the Sandinistas Do with Power? As this is written Daniel Ortega has yet to be sworn in as Nicaragua’s president. Thus we cannot know how he and his party will govern. We can, however, say something about the limits within which he will have to act. In the National Assembly, the FSLN will have 38 seats out of 92, while the PLC has 25, the ALN 24, and the MRS 5. Although the Sandinistas theoretically could work with either Liberal faction, the ALN’s roots in opposition to the Alemán-Ortega pact leaves the PLC as the only plausible source of support for the FSLN. In this case, a new edition of the SandinistaLiberal pact promises to become the framework in which Nicaraguan politics will play out until 2011. Although Ortega has very close relations with Venezuela’s Hugo Chávez, whom he even visited in Caracas on December 5,38 it remains to be seen how these will affect the Nicaraguan president’s ties with Arnoldo Alemán and shape the government’s policies. Beyond these domestic constraints, Daniel Ortega and the FSLN also confront international challenges. The U.S. government worked very hard to keep Ortega from the presidency, and one of the new administration’s central challenges will be normalizing relations with Washington. With this in mind, Ortega set about mending fences with Washington, establishing ostensibly promising relations with the Bush administration even before visiting Chávez, his hermano venezolano (Venezuelan brother).39 If to this we add the FSLN’s alliance with Nicaragua’s very conservative Catholic Church and having as its vice-presidential candidate Jaime Morales Carazo, once a leading Somocista, the evidence points to a Sandinista government quite unlike those of the 1980s. Not only is the Ortega administration likely to be more orthodox economically, it could well limit its progressive policies to rhetorical gestures in foreign affairs.40 The revolutionaries of 1979 have become a party just like any other in Nicaragua:

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leader-dominated, pragmatic to a fault, and on the lookout for quotas of power to keep its supporters on the public payroll. Conclusions Unique among the cases treated in this book the Sandinistas have done it all. They fought a long guerrilla war, overthrew a dictatorship, established a revolutionary state, liberalized that state, lost power in elections, spent 16 years in opposition, and then won another national election. Over the course of its 45-year existence, the organizations has changed greatly. Obviously it is no longer a guerrilla front but rather a very pragmatic, electoral political party. This conclusion asks a two-part question. First, to what extent is the FSLN’s trajectory, since first coming to power, explicable in terms of its origins as a revolutionary movement? The question can be formulated slightly differently to ask how far the Sandinistas have come along the road to being a party like all the others and how this happened. The second question reflects on what the Sandinista experience tells us about the transition from armed movement to electoral party. Lessons from the Sandinistas’ Journey from Combat Party to Personal Electoral Machine In 1979 it would have difficult to imagine the Sandinistas becoming a conventional electoral party, although picturing them holding elections would have been easy. Similarly, in 1990, in the wake of its electoral defeat, few would have foreseen the FSLN’s transformation into a personal political vehicle for its leader, and even fewer would have predicted that it would lose three consecutive national elections. But all these things happened and we want to know how much is owed to having begun life as an armed revolutionary movement. By extension, we also want to know whether the return to power in 2006 owes anything to the party having separated itself from those origins. It is best to begin by reviewing the challenges facing electoral parties descended from insurgent groups that we set forth earlier. One of these was learning to carry out political transactions in the currency of ballots instead of bullets, which was not a grave problem for the Sandinistas. This does not mean that opponents were not harassed during the worst years of the counterrevolution or that residents of combat zones did not occasionally receive rough justice. Rather it suggests that the FSLN recognized that institutionalizing its revolution required civility and tolerance, instead of the police state practices that had marked the Somoza regime.

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Neither has the FSLN suffered from ideological rigidity. Yes, it continues to define itself as a revolutionary party, talks about constituting a leftist bloc with Venezuela and others,41 and describe party dissidents as having abandoned the principles of anti-imperialism.42 Yet it has formed a pact with the very conservative PLC to assure itself a quota of power—an allotment of government positions that gives the party both a presence in the state and benefits to distribute to its loyalists.43 Further, in both the 2001 and 2006 elections, the FSLN has formed an electoral alliance with the National Convergence, a group opposed to the politics of the Liberal Party that includes a significant number of those who were once prominent antiSandinistas, not least the vice- presidential candidates of 2001 and 2006. And under Daniel Ortega’s leadership the party has supported its opponents in government when doing so benefited the FSLN. More problematic has been verticalism: running state and party on topdown, military lines. The steps taken to decentralize the FSLN’s structure at its 1991 congress were an attempt to address this issue. Yet 15 years later power within the party remains concentrated at the top, especially in the hands of its leader, Daniel Ortega. Before deciding that this trait represents a holdover from the FSLN’s guerrilla days, however, we need to remember that the PLC is similarly structured, as was the Somozas’ Nationalist Liberal Party. Verticalism is not just a disease of insurgents but one afflicting personalist parties, as well. In this sense, the Sandinistas have become a party like others in Nicaragua. Reflecting on the Sandinistas’ political evolution—from guerrillas to government to opposition and back to government—suggests several questions for further comparative study. One asks whether parties grown from armed insurgents eventually come to conform broadly to the political culture of their environments, instead of reshaping it, as revolutionaries should hope to do. If local political wisdom says that only parties with strong centralized leadership succeed, it is improbable that an erstwhile revolutionary organization will break the mold. This certainly is the experience of the Sandinistas, at least under their current leadership. A second question meriting investigation relates to the conditions under which ex-revolutionary parties modify their ideology, identity, and leadership. In the case of the Sandinistas, their program is no longer one that could be associated with the revolutionary Left, if we set aside calls for international solidarity to confront imperialism. And although the FSLN styles itself a revolutionary party, its practice increasingly resembles the rest of Latin America’s populist Left as it has made its peace with capitalism even while it works to redistribute more of capitalism’s product to the poor. Nevertheless, the party’s leadership still retains many figures from not just

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its days in power but even from its guerrilla past. It thus appears that the FSLN’s revolutionary identity will not be significantly modified as long as the generation of combatants who fought against Somoza leads the party, and that the founders of the revolutionary regime do not readily relinquish power over their movement. In this respect, the Sandinistas resemble El Salvador’s FMLN (Frente Marti de Liberacion Nacional, Faribundo Marti National Liberation Front), while they are strikingly different from Mozambique’s Frente para a Liberação de Moçambique (FRELIMO, Mozambique National Liberation Front), the former guerrillas who have governed the country since 1974 (see chapter 9). Finally, we should compare these armed movements–turned-parties to see how they affect their political systems. Do they bring in actors from different sectors? Do they offer distinctive programs? And most importantly, do those with revolutionary roots continue struggling for equity and justice? If parties grown from revolutionary insurrections do not differ materially from their opponents then, even if they once exercised state power, we must question the historic impact of their revolution. In the Sandinistas’ case, the answer to the last question is a qualified yes. On the positive side of the ledger, the FSLN has a 30 percent quota for women on the party executive, the National Directorate, and although not required by party statute, the legislative complement between 2001 and 2006 had 13 women among its 38 members. Further, 10 percent of the positions in the party’s executive are reserved for members under 30 (as well, a number of young people are deputies). However, between 2001 and 2006 the party appeared to have rather few National Assembly deputies who hailed directly from the working class or peasantry.44 In terms of policies and program, it is the only party in the country that opposed the Central American Free Trade Agreement with the United States (CAFTA); and it was certainly the only party to make poverty alleviation the central theme of its campaign in 2006. The FSLN has a distinct image built on its revolutionary identity, which makes it the most plausible defender of the poor and marginalized. However, the party has also accumulated a list of negatives since 1990, most notably through its pact with the PLC, which suggests that its commitment to equity and justice comes second to its drive for power. The bottom line, however, is that the Sandinistas were long unable to capitalize on what should have been a head start in the transition from successful revolutionary front to successful electoral party. We found part of the explanation in the party’s environment: Washington’s continued opposition, the electoral strength of first the UNO and then the Liberals, and the apparent refusal of over half the Nicaraguan electorate to vote for the FSLN. While the FSLN’s past—something the Sandinistas share with the

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parties analyzed in this book and few others—accounts for part of its electoral showing, it is not the whole story. Like all parties, regardless of their origins, the explanation for both its recent success and repeated earlier failures rests with its leader, the party’s political choices, the performance of its opponents, and the voting decisions of Nicaraguan citizens. Postscript: Daniel Ortega’s Return to Power January 10, 2007 was Nicaragua’s inauguration day, the day Daniel Ortega returned to his country’s presidency after almost 17 years out of power. During the campaign and during the two months between his electoral victory and assuming office, Ortega and his FSLN hewed as closely to the conventional as possible, even accepting the criminalization of therapeutic abortion. Tactically and strategically, this was their best option. The candidate and the party avoided controversy prior to the November 5 vote, and having defined for themselves a cautious path left the new administration well positioned to function as a minority government, which had received the votes of only 38 percent of Nicaraguans. However, things started change on inauguration day. At that point, Ortega began formalizing links with other Left populist Latin American presidents, especially Evo Morales of Bolivia and Venezuela’s Hugo Chávez. With Chávez, Ortega struck deals to bring massive Venezuelan investment to Nicaragua to finance a refinery for Venezuelan oil and perhaps to help build the so-called dry canal, an intermodal transport system linking Nicaragua’s Pacific and Caribbean coasts.45 The week after his inauguration, Daniel received Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and spoke in terms of cooperation to fight hunger, unemployment, and poverty.46 Although this looked awfully like reconstructing the 1980s anti-imperialist alliance, it is significant that Ortega neither openly endorsed the more radically anti–U.S. foreign policy positions of his allies nor retreated from earlier commitments to maintain good relations with Washington.47 If President Ortega second term is bringing a more circumspect foreign policy, his domestic initiatives are causing concern, because he is concentrating power in both the presidency and his family. Daniel has kept control of the police and military in his own hands and has seen a bill passed to allow the creation of “people’s councils.”48 Although in form these are purely consultative bodies, there are concerns that they will be used to orchestrate support for Ortega’s policies and attempt to offset opposition from the National Assembly, where the FSLN can count only about 40 percent of the votes. More intriguing is Ortega’s appointment of his wife,

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Rosario Murillo, as director of the Consejo de Comunicación y Ciudadania de la Presidencia de la República (Office of Communications and Citizenship of the Presidency of the Republic), a post that controls all government publicity.49 Putting the president’s wife in charge of an office with such rich potential for patronage is curious political optics in any country; in Nicaragua it is also unconstitutional: Article 130 of Nicaragua’s constitution prohibits any official of the state from naming close relatives to government positions. A month into his new mandate Daniel Ortega appears to putting a substantial amount of power under his personal control or that of his immediate family. Even if this power is used for some positive end, like reducing poverty, the personalization of power is too reminiscent of what Arnoldo Alemán did from 1996 to 2001, or even what the Somozas did in their four decades in power to those hoping to see a return to power by the FSLN put Nicaragua back on the democratic path. Notes 1. The MRS ran under the label Alianza Herty and was named for its original candidate, Herty Lewites, the former Sandinista mayor of Managua. Unfortunately, Lewites died of a heart attack during the campaign and the party chose as its new candidate Edmundo Jarquin, another former FSLN official who later was an international civil servant. 2. Salvador Allende obviously belongs to this class of nonviolent revolutionaries. 3. P. Selznick, The Organizational Weapon (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1952). 4. It is especially rich in Canada, where four relatively successful federal parties emerged from political movements in the twentieth century. Three came from the agrarian movement of the early twentieth century: the Progressive Party, which existed in the 1920s; Social Credit, a significant force from 1935 to 1979; and the Commonwealth Cooperative Federation, founded in 1933, since 1960 it has been called the New Democratic Party. A fourth, the Bloc Québécois, which first ran in 1993 and still exists, grew from the separatist movement in Quebec. There have also been numerous parties born of movements operating in Canada’s provinces. The key works are: W. L. Morton, The Progressive Party in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1950); C.B. Macpherson, Democracy in Alberta (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1953); L. Zakuta, A Protest Movement Becalmed (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1964); and S. Clark, P. Grayson, and L. Grayson, Prophecy and Protest (Toronto: Gage Educational Publishers, 1976). 5. Clark, Grayson, and Grayson, Prophecy and Protest. 6. Zakuta, A Protest Movement. 7. The revolutionary experts in MIDINRA (Ministerio de Desarrollo Agropecuario y Reforma Agraria), the agrarian reform agency, wrongly assumed that the

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8. 9. 10.

11.

12. 13. 14.

15.

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semi-industrial model used on agribusiness properties could be successfully applied to the smallholdings of peasants who produced basic grains (especially corn and beans) and coffee. This not only affected production but also turned many smallholders into opponents of the revolution. For an overview of the FSLN’s agrarian reform, see two books by L. Enriquez, Harvesting Change: Labor and Agrarian Reform in Nicaragua, 1979–1990 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991) and Agrarian Reform and Class Consciousness in Nicaragua (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1997). This is a subjective assessment, as I have never seen a systematic comparison of the civilian support organizations linked to armed insurgents. A brief description is found in D. Close, Nicaragua: Politics, Economics and Society. London: Frances Pinter Publishers, 1988. There are discussions of the proliferation of these “vanity parties” in D. Close, Nicaragua: The Chamorro Years ( Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1999). Congress ended funding to the Contras in 1988. This gave the Sandinistas, who had effectively contained the insurgents militarily for some time, reason to believe that victory was near. That same year produced a ceasefire, the Sapoa Agreement, and 1989 brought deals to help the former insurgents reenter the Nicaraguan mainstream. Nevertheless, postelection survey data showed the war to be the most pressing issue for most people. On the Contras see: C. Dickey, With the Contras: A Reporter in the Wilds of Nicaragua (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1987); G. Garvin, Everybody Had His Own Gringo: The CIA and the Contras (Washington: Brassey’s, 1992); and L. Horton, Peasants in Arms: War and Peace in the Mountains of Nicaragua, 1979–1994 (Athens: Ohio University Center for International Studies, 1998). An evaluation of the Sandinistas’ counterinsurgency strategy is found in D. Close, “Counterinsurgency in Nicaragua,” New Political Science 18/19 (1990), 5–19. A thorough discussion of the 1990 election is found in V. Castro and G. Prevost, eds., The 1990 Elections in Nicaragua and Their Aftermath (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1992). The Conservatives recognized the Liberals’ triumph in the 1928 elections that were supervised by the United States. Much of the material in this section comes from Close, The Chamorro Years. In Nicaragua’s electoral system, every candidate for the National Assembly runs with an alternate who is to replace her in case of death, illness, or simply a prolonged absence. Ortega’s seat in the chamber came as the result of being a losing presidential candidate who got more than 1.1 percent of the vote. Ramirez, his running mate, was treated as Ortega’s alternate and occupied the seat when Daniel opted for a more public presence outside the assembly. Currently Nicaraguan law awards a seat to the runner-up in the presidential contest and to the past president, who cannot serve consecutive terms. The Sandinista Assembly only meets when called by the seven-member Sandinista National Directorate.

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16. A useful, brief treatment of the 1991 FSLN congress is provided by Federal Research Division of the Library of Congress, Nicaragua a Country Study. <www.countrystudies.us/nicaragua/50.htm> (January 30, 2006). This is an online version of the old Army Area Handbook series. 17. However the 1994 congress set a 30 percent floor for women in FSLN leadership structures, including National Assembly slates, and a 10 percent floor for members under 30. 18. This section draws on D. Close and K. Deonandan, eds., Undoing Democracy: The Politics of Electoral Caudillismo (Lanham, MD; Lexington Books, 2005), which offers an extensive analysis of the Alemán administration. 19. K. Hoyt, “Parties and Pacts in Contemporary Nicaragua” in Undoing Democracy, ed. Close and Deonandan, 17–44, provides a thorough description and analysis of the pact. 20. Daniel Ortega’s leadership of the FSLN was reaffirmed at the 1998 party congress. Securing the party’s presidential nomination for 2001 and again for 2006 can be seen as votes of confidence. 21. Although elected at the head of the Liberal ticket, Bolaños lost the support of the party in the assembly when he turned against Alemán. Able to count on only a handful of supporters from Bancada Azul y Blanco (the Blue and White Caucus), who comprised less than 10 percent of assembly, the president had to rely on Sandinista votes to carry his program, to the extent that it was carried at all. In this he resembles former president Chamorro. 22. Brief accounts of this lengthy episode are found in D. Close, “Nicaragua and the Crisis of 2005,” Focal Point 4, 5 (May 2005), 5–7; and L. Arriolaga, “Pacto intermitente en año electoral,” Confidencial, 467 (December 18, 2005– January 5, 2006), <www.confidencial.com.ni.> (January 12, 2006). 23. Quoted in Arriolaga (2005–2006). 24. On electoral caudillos , see Close and Deonandan, Undoing Democracy, especially 1–16 and 173–188. 25. Close, The Chamorro Years. 26. D. Dye, Democracy Adrift: Caudillo Politics in Nicaragua (Brookline, MA: Hemisphere Initiatives, 2004) 27. S. Aguirre Aragón, 2005, “Antiimperialismo es cortina de humo,” El Nuevo Diario, 27 de febrero de 2005, <www.elnuevodiario.com.ni> (March 2, 2005). 28. E. Solis, 2002, “FSLN y sus dos rostros,” El Nuevo Diario, 17 de marzo, <www. elnuevodiario.com.ni> (March 12, 2006). 29. Mexico is the most notable exception, as its 2006 presidential election demonstrated. 30. CID-Gallup, Public Opinion Survey, Nicaragua no 50, December 2005, <www.cidgallup.com> (January 18,2006), <www.laprensa.com.ni> 31. E. Marenco, “Mayoria cree que disidencia sandinista es real,” La Prensa, el 9 de enero de 2005, <www.laprensa.com.ni>. Another article in the same edition reported that Montealegre was Nicaraguans’ favorite Liberal, with the approval of 51.7 percent; the second most popular option was “none,” with

The Sandinistas since 1979

32.

33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

39.

40.

41. 42. 43.

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28.1 percent; see, M. J. Uriarte, “PLC pierde terreno como opcion electoral,” La Prensa, el 9 de enero de 2005, <www.laprensa.com.ni> (March 15, 2006). The Angus Reid Global Monitor <<www.angus-reid.com>> reports polls done by different firms. In the case of Nicaragua these are: CID-Gallup, M&R Asociados, and Borge y Asociados. Thus data came from different polls. Given that this table tracks the growth of Ortega’s support, something recorded by all pollsters, the fact that the data is combined from different polls is insignificant. For a series of short articles on the campaign as well as on the strategies of the four parties see Envío, numero 296–297 (noviembre-diciembre 2006), 3–26. BBC News, “Nicaragua Brings in Abortion Ban,” November 18, 2006, , (November 19, 2006). X. Chamorro, “Proponen en EE.UU. bloquearar remesas,” La Prensa, el 28 de octubre de 2006, <www.laprennsa.com.ni> (October 28, 2006). P. DeChazo, “The Triumph of the ‘Pact’ in Nicaragua,” CSIS Hemisphere Focus 14, 8 (November 27, 2006), <www.csis.org> (November 28, 2006). The PLC expelled Montealegre in January 2005. Not to be outdone, the Sandinistas ejected Lewites in February 2005. C. Sandoval, “Ortega invita a Chávez y Morales,” El Nuevo Diario, el 6 de diciembre de 2006, (December 6, 2006). J. Rios, “Ortega dispuesto acercarse a Washington,” El Nuevo Diario, 28 de noviembre 2006, <www.elnuevodiario.com.ni> (November 28, 2006). Ortega visited Chávez on December 5, 2006. “Enla Asamblea Nacional: ¿pacto con el PLC o alianza con el ALN?” Envío, numero 296–297 (noviembre–diciembre 2006), 32–42, raises a number of yellow flags warning of disappointments that could come from the Sandinista administration. L. Loásiga López, “Borge: ‘Lewites es diabolico,” La Prensa, 5 de febrero de 2005, <www.laprensa.com.ni> (February 5, 2005). Aragón, “Antiimperialismo,” 2005. In Nicaraguan usage, a “quota of power” is often linked to political pacts. Pacts, at least in this nation’s vocabulary, are deals between the government and the strongest opposition party. They can even be made when the government is a dictatorship that tightly controls its opponents, as was true during the Somoza dictatorship. A review of the backgrounds of the 35 out of 38 members of the Sandinista caucus in the National Assembly between 2001 and 2006, for whom biographies were available, came up with four who appeared unquestionably of lower class origin. However, as many FSLN deputies have also worked for the party as organizers and administrators and have furthered their education through their work, it is probable that a more thorough check would reveal a higher proportion of Sandinista legislators from the popular classes. For more information see <www.asamblea.gob.ni> (October 15, 2006).

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45. B. Morel, “Chávez sera el principal asistente financiero de Nicaragua,” El Nuevo Diario, 11 de enero de 2007, <www.elnuevodiario,com.ni/2007-01-11/ html> (January 11, 2007). 46. CNN, “Iranian, Nicaraguan leaders meet, vow to work together,” January 14, 2007, <www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/americas/01/14/nicaragua.iran.ap/index. html> (January 14, 2007). 47. C. F. Chamorro, “Navegando en dos aguas,” Confidencial 11,518, 14–20 de enero de 2007, 2, <www.confidencial.com.ni> (January 22, 2007). 48. Associated Press, “Ortega’s People’s Councils approved,” Washington Post, January 24, 2007, <www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/ 2007/01/ 24/AR2007012402703.htm> (January 24, 2007); L. Loasiga, “Cortar alas a Consejos,” La Prensa, 25 de enero de 2007, <www.laprensa/com.ni> (January 25, 2007). 49. J. Loasiga, “C$90 millones para Murillo,” La Prensa, el 2 de febrero de 2007, <www.laprensa.com.ni> (Februrary 2, 2007).

CHAPTER 3

Guatemala: From the Guerrilla Struggle to a Divided Left Carlos Figueroa Ibarra and Salvador Martí i Puig

Introduction The Guatemalan case fits amongst those revolutionary movements, such as its neighbor El Salvador, that were not defeated militarily (at least the guerrillas adamantly assert that they were not but had fought the military to a stalemate) but laid down their arms for the electoral option through negotiated settlements. However, power has eluded the former guerrillas since they first began contesting elections in 1995, and by the last elections, 2005, their movement was in danger of extinction, torn by internal divisions, wracked by leadership problems, and uncertain of its ideological direction. The Evolution of Armed Struggle from Inception to Strategic Defeat Revolutionary guerrilla activity began in Guatemala in the early 1960s. The country was the first in Central America to know armed struggle after the Cuban Revolution and the last to see its guerrillas lay down their arms. At the same time, and again different from its neighbors, Guatemala’s Communist Party, the Partido Guatemalteco del Trabajo (PGT, Guatemalan Labor Party) was quick to embrace armed struggle as the road

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to power, while maintaining its vision of a multifront “revolutionary war” that also encompassed the struggle for democracy and human rights.1 There are two defining features of the Guatemalan revolutionary Left. One is the role of the country’s Communist Party; the other is the Latin American national liberation movements spawned by the Cuban Revolution.2 In fact, one can claim that the PGT was the parent (or perhaps grandparent) of all succeeding revolutionary organizations in Guatemala. In some instances, as with the Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes (FAR, Rebel Armed Forces, founded in 1962 and reorganized after a schism in 1968) and the Ejercito Guerrillero de los Pobres (EGP, Guerrilla Army of the Poor, founded in 1972) the relationship was immediate and direct. In other cases, such as the Organización del Pueblo en Armas (ORPA, Organization of the People in Arms, dating from 1979), the ties are more distant and attenuated. Armed struggle in Guatemala occurred in two cycles. The first was between 1962 and 1967, while the second and longer lasted from 1972 to the middle of the 1980s. In the first cycle, which reached its peak in 1966 and 1967, the FAR succeeded in establishing several guerrilla fronts in the country. In the northeast of the country, between Zacapa and Izabal, the Frente Guerrillero Edgar Ibarra (Edgar Ibarra Guerrilla Front-FGEI) had over 100 guerrillas. The 13 November Revolutionary Movement (MR-13, Movimiento Revolucionario 13 de Noviembre) operated in Izabal with 30 ill-armed men. In Santa Rosa, located in the southeast of Guatemala, there was a small group called the Regional de Santa Rosa (Santa Rosa Regional Front). The Regional del Occidente (Western Regional Front), which operated in San Marcos and Quetzaltenango, had 30–40 combatants, as did the Southern Regional Front, while there were some 25 in the northern region. About 80 guerrillas operated in Guatemala City, the central region. Overall, there were about 300 combatants, with an additional 5,000 sympathizers and collaborators, most of whom were concentrated in Zacapa and Izabal.3 A year and a half after reaching its highpoint, the first guerrilla movement was effectively dismantled by a wave of unprecedented state terror. Before its collapse, however, the insurgency carried out a number of armed actions4 and withstood counterinsurgent sweeps by the army in 1964 and 1965.5 But the army’s third offensive, which began the day after the death of Luis Turcios Lima, October 3, 1966, and lasted until August 1967, completed dispersed the FAR.6 In the second cycle of the insurgency several guerrilla fronts coexisted with the PGT, which in its IV Congress, December 1969, adopted a line

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endorsing popular revolutionary war.7 Particularly noteworthy in this period was the activity of the EGP, which had emerged in the context of the split between the PGT and the FAR. The EGP waged armed struggle from the jungles of Ixcán to the Cuchumatanes mountains, thence toward the northwestern mountains of El Quiché near Huehuetenango. Later, guerrilla action moved to the northeast with the creation of a front in Alta Verapaz and to the center with the founding of the “paracentral” front. In 1976, the EGP began doing political work with the urban and rural proletariat, semi-proletarian migratory laborers, students, shantytown dwellers, and middle peasants.8 At the end of the 1970s and beginning of the 1980s, the EGP was the most efficient politico-military front, and the one most feared by the Guatemalan state and its army.9 By early 1982 the EGP claimed to have six guerrilla fronts operating. Fighting alongside the EGP were the FAR and the ORPA. The former worked mainly in the country’s central region but also succeeded in establishing a stable front in the north, in the Department of El Petén. The ORPA was able to establish itself in several highland zones and the west of Guatemala. Unlike what happened to the guerrillas in the 1960s, the second wave took root in areas inhabited by poor, indigenous peasants and was accompanied throughout the 1970s by a vigorous urban mass movement. We should note that alongside this urban movement the EGP succeeded in organizing the Peasant Unity Committee (Comité de Unidad Campesina, CUC), which brought together peasants and rural laborers. As late as 1980, in the midst of a rising wave of state terror, the CUC was able to organize a significant strike on the agro-export plantations located on Guatemala’s coast. Combined, the urban and rural movements provided both the guerrillas’ social base and the training ground for future leaders of the insurgency. It was under these conditions that guerrilla activity in Guatemala grew to cover three-quarters of the nation during 1979–1980; and by 1981 the insurgents could realistically foresee expanding to the rest of the country. This phase of rapid expansion coincided with the impetus that the triumph of the Sandinista Revolution and gave the revolutionary hopes of large sectors of society in Guatemala and El Salvador. When the Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca (URNG, Guatemalan National Revolutionary Union) emerged in February 198210 the military was stunned by the dimensions of the revolutionary movement. Reading the memoirs of General Hector Gramajo11 one sees clearly that the Guatemalan army perceived the guerrillas as a serious threat.12 As it had been in the 1960s, the army’s response was a fierce counterinsurgent campaign that unfolded in distinct phases.

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The counterinsurgency began in urban areas, focusing on eliminating the leaders and activists of the mass social movement and political parties of the Center and Left (1979–1980). Its objective was to completely destroy the network of social organizations that had been built up during the seventies; thus state terror was selectively applied. This changed with the second phase (1980–1981), which began with a massive wave of terror in the countryside that was directed against the periphery of the insurgency, with the EPG as its principal target.13 A third phase started in July 1981, targeting the urban network of the insurgency and ravaging the EPG14 and the ORPA. The final phase of the counterinsurgency began in the last quarter of 1981. Beginning under the government of General Romeo Lucas Garcia (1981–1982) and reaching its peak during the rule of General Efrain Rios Montt (1982–1983), this final offensive razed dozens of rural communities in its campaign to exterminate the guerrillas. During its 17 months in power, the government of Rios Montt murdered more than 16,000 Guatemalans, most of them in rural areas, created over 90,000 refugees, most of whom fled to Mexico, and displaced roughly 1 million people. The campaigns carried out under the government of Rios Montt— Operación Victoria (Operation Victory) in 1982 and Firmeza (Strength of Purpose ) the following year—had as their mission the occupation and control of communities deemed susceptible to becoming guerrilla bases. Three instruments were developed for this task. One was the Civil SelfDefense Patrols (Patrullas de Autodefensa Civil, PACS, later renamed Voluntary Civil Defense Committees), which would become a counterinsurgent force of some 800,000 persons, most of whom were of peasant or indigenous origin.15 A second tool was the establishment of economic growth poles16 in zones where guerrillas operated. The final device was a scorched earth policy, which military intelligence saw as a way to “drain the water from the revolutionary fish.”17 Unlike the 1960s, however, significant parts of the guerrilla organizations survived and were able to launch several offensives in the following years. Further, the URNG did not acknowledge the effects of the counterinsurgency.18 However, in January and February 1986 they began making overtures toward the recently elected President Cerezo. Then, in November, when the guerrillas suggested the possibility of initiating a dialogue in the interior of the country,19 it became clear that the chimera of a revolutionary seizure of power had been abandoned. In its place was the more realistic project of a negotiated solution to Guatemala’s internal war. In fact, by the end of 1983 the revolutionary project had suffered a strategic defeat.20

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The Organizational Logics of the Guerrillas Guatemalan guerrilla organizations began their political careers carrying out a very specific task (armed struggle), in an equally specific environment (defined by the hostile and repressive Guatemalan Military Regime), and with a common objective (getting the power to carry through the social and political transformations sought by the revolutionary Left of the time). These organizations were highly centralized, vertically structured, and constructed around rigidly defined and hermetically sealed compartments. Nevertheless, each guerrilla formation presented its particular organizational variation on this general theme. The PGT built its structure around a series of regional bases that covered the principal geographic regions of the country (west, north, central, etc.); the FAR, in whose founding the PGT had participated, used essentially the same organization. The EGP, ORPA, and to some degree the FAR too, used a slightly different geographical base that reflected physical or social regions (plains, highlands, jungle, city) and constructed their organizations around guerrilla fronts that had set up in each zone. At the local level the PGT installed base committees and local committees, whereas the guerrillas formed what they called local irregular forces (FIL) or militias. Relations between the guerrillas and their social bases went through different phases, with each organization having a somewhat different approach. Generally speaking, the PGT, FAC, and EGP sought to maintain close ties with the rural populations in the zones where they had a presence. This was not true of ORPA. After the disastrous effects of the counterinsurgency, it chose to limit the risks it posed to inhabitants of zones where it operated by not organizing villages as publicly declared support bases. All organizations that engaged in armed struggle (FAR, ORPA, EGP, and PGT) were Marxist-Leninist. Nevertheless, there was still substantial ideological variation among the groups. In the cases of the PGT and FAR, their commitment was explicit. Indeed, at one time the FAR asserted that the PGT was failing to fulfill its duties as Guatemala’s Communist Party. The EGP also took Marxism as it doctrinal guide, yet its documents are not as explicitly doctrinaire as those of the FAR or the PGT. As to the ORPA, although its conception of what needed to change in Guatemala was clearly radical, having long been inspired by the Cuban example, it neither defined itself as Marxist nor had “revolutionary” in its name: it was simply the organization of the people in arms. Each of these groups felt it necessary to have a centralized structure, sustained by a highly selective membership (militancia) that was completely dedicated to the cause and absolutely sure that its path was correct, much like Panebianco’s “believer.”21 In all cases, the

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structure of organizational power, due to its limited size and extremely hierarchical configuration,22 is characterized by its simplicity: all the resources of organizational power are concentrated in and exercised by the party leadership. Thus the only difference between the guerrillas (FAR, ORPA, and EGP) and the PGT was that former saw themselves as politico-military fronts, while the later conceived of itself as a party. In the party, this difference revealed itself through the existence of two collegial bodies (the central committee and the politburo), as well as a secretary-general who was primus inter pares. In the guerrilla fronts, however, the dominant figure was the commander in chief, even when he was formally supported by a national directorate. The secretary-general was of course derived from Stalinist usage, whereas the commander in chief followed the Cuban model. In fact, the strong leaders who emerged to guide Central American revolutionary movements during this period effectively amalgamated the two styles. And like their Soviet and Cuban role models, these Central American figures held their positions for life. Though change was not impossible, it took a tremendous upheaval for a secretary-general or commander in chief to lose his post. In Guatemala there are only four instances where this happened. First, in 1954, Jose Manuel Fortuny resigned as secretary-general of the PGT in the midst of the turmoil following the CIA-engineered overthrow of President Jacobo Arbenz. Two leaders of the FAR lost their posts. The first incident occurred in 1968 when the group it removed Cesar Montes (Julio Cesar Macias) as its leader. Then in the early 1970s the FAR discharged Comandante Marco Antonio Yon Sosa as its commander when it broke its alliance with the MR-13. The last case occurred in 2001 as an ex-URNG commander, Pablo Monsanto, led a movement that produced a split that saw the organization’s secretary-general resign and move on to reshape the Alianza Nueva Nacíon (ANN, Alliance for a New Nation). In the three political-military organizations the commanders in chief (the URNG’s Pablo Monsanto [Jorge Soto], the FAR’s Rolando Moran [Ricardo Ramirez], and Gaspar Ilon [Rodrigo Asturias] of ORPA) had a role not held by the Communist Party’s secretary-general. Unlike the secretary-general, the guerrilla commander in chief was a charismatic leader and the leader-for-life who personified the organization’s history. Besides enjoying moral authority and controlling the levers of organizational power, the commander also had international contacts and prestige. These were sources of political capital that he used within the national revolutionary movement and in his relations with foreign revolutionaries and the international Left more generally.

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Guatemalan revolutionaries, like those in El Salvador, were also influenced in their organizational thinking by the 1979 victory of the Sandinista Revolution in Nicaragua. The three guerrilla fronts and the PGT faction known as the National Directing Nucleus united to form the URNG in February 1982.23 Until the moment when the URNG went from being a federation of four groups to begin functioning as a unitary organization, the four component organizations maintained their structural independence and autonomy in military operations. There had been no general staff and military plans agreed to by the Comandancia General (General Command ), composed of the military leaders of the four organizations, were carried independently by each of the four allies. It was only as the war continued that there were more instances of coordination among the insurgents. Besides the General Command, there were also a Commission of the Masses, a Commission of International Work, and, as hostilities wound down and the signing of the peace accords drew closer, there emerged a Political Commission to direct the work of the Frente Democratico Nueva Guatemala (Democratic Front for a New Guatemala) in the 1995 elections. Shortly after the formation of the three original committees, a 44-member Political Council was formed, made up of 11 representatives from each of each of the 4 constituent organizations. Its function was to elect by secret ballot the URNG’s first National Directorate. It should be noted, however, that neither the secretary-general of the PGT nor any of the three commanders in chief of the guerrilla factions had to stand for election, as this was considered unnecessary. We mentioned earlier that, unlike the guerrilla movements of the 1960s, those formed in the 1970s functioned in a specific organizational structure. One of the frequent self-criticisms of the guerrillas was that their ties with the urban and rural masses became tenuous. The PGT had always criticized its politico-military allies for this and the point was one of the differences communists had first with the FAR and then with the founders of the EGP. Yet the EGP’s founders noted in their own documents the need to select where they would operate by taking into account the characteristics of the population and not just geophysical features; the FAR would come to a similar conclusion in the 1980s. In fact, the three guerrilla fronts elaborated a program of work with the masses to build organizations to perform four tasks: (1) promote forms of struggle that supported the claims of specific social sectors in order to radicalize the population; (2) extend the guerrillas’ organization beyond its clandestine base; (3) construct a base of rural and urban social support for the insurrection; and (4) develop a pool of future leaders and staff for the various organizations.

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The clandestine groups conceived of the social movements they were either building or had taken over as “broad organizations” in which the guerrillas would have to establish their influence. That implied recruiting the labor, student, and peasant leaders and activists who were most sympathetic to the revolutionary cause. These recruits would then afford the clandestine groups privileged access to the various organizations, maximizing their influence. In general, and recognizing that each organization had a slightly different approach, it was the Leninist conception of mass organizations as the revolutionaries’ “conveyor belts” that dominated the clandestine groups’ thinking about what we now call civil society. Even when the members of a clandestine group were a minority in a mass organization, this was enough to leave the latter with little or no autonomy. Table 3.1 Table 3.1

Revolutionary organizations and their affiliated mass organizations

Politco-Military Group

Popular Organization

Partido Guatemalteco del Trabajo, PGT (1949) (Guatemalan Labor Party)

Federación Autónoma Sindical de Guatemala, FASGUA (1957) Escuela de Orientación Sindical, EOS (1975–1980) Frente (organización estudiantil universitaria) Movimiento Nacional de Pobladores, MONAP Coordinadora de Estudiantes de Educación Media, CEEM

Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes, FAR (1968) (Rebel Armed Forces)

Comité Nacional de Unidad Sindical, CNUS, 1976 Central Nacional de Trabajadores, CNT

Ejército Guerrillero de los Pobres, EGP (1972) (Guerrilla Army of the Poor)

Comité de Unidad Campesina, CUC (1978) Coordinadora Nacional de Pobladores, CONAP Frente Estudiantil Revolucionario Robin García, FERG- educación media Frente Estudiantil Revolucionario Robin García, FERG- educación universitaria Frente de Trabajadores de Guatemala, FTG

Organización del Pueblo en Armas, ORPA (1979) (Organization of the People in Arms)

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sketches the links between the revolutionaries and their associated civil society organizations. The Peace Accords and Their Effect on the URNG Officially, the URNG never accepted that it had been defeated in the counterinsurgent offensives of 1979 and 1983. Even after the conclusion of hostilities, in January 1997, the secretary-general of the URNG, Comandante Rolando Moran (Ricardo Ramirez) asserted that the armed struggle had not been defeated. Rather, he declared that negotiations had started precisely because the state could not defeat the insurgents. Nevertheless, despite the extreme weakness of the Guatemalan insurgency, nine years of negotiations came to an end on December 29, 1996 when the URNG, the Guatemalan government, and the UN Mediating Mission signed the Acuerdo de Paz Firme y Duradero (Accord for a Firm and Lasting Peace). By this act, 36 years of internal conflict drew to a formal close.24 As we have already indicated, the process began in 1986, with the two sides first meeting formally in October 1987. However, it was not until March 1990 that a delegation from the National Commission for Reconciliation, which was composed of leaders from various sectors of Guatemalan society, the government, and representatives of the URNG, signed the Acuerdo Basico para la Busqueda de la Paz por medios politicos (Basic Agreement to Seek Peace by Political Means), the so-called Oslo Accord. Then followed meetings between the URNG and representatives from various sectors of Guatemala’s civil society (business, the churches, academics, the popular movement) that led to agreements on procedures (April 26, 1991) and democratization (July 25, 1991). After that, negotiations stalled for over two years, until January 1994, when a framework agreement for restarting talks was signed. The next step was to set up a schedule for talks (March 1994) when the parties also signed a global agreement on human rights. Other deals were concluded later. These included • the Agreement to Resettle Populations Displaced by Armed Confrontations (June 1994); an undertaking to establish a truth commission (June 1994); • an agreement on native rights and indigenous identity (March 1995); • an agreement treating economic and agrarian questions (May 1995); • an understanding regarding the function of civil society and the role of the military in a democracy (September 1996);

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• the Accord for a Definitive Cease-fire, which also treated constitutional amendments, the electoral system, legalizing the URNG, a calendar for implementing the peace treaty, and the Basic Agreement itself (December 1996).25 The 1991 democratization accord set out the agenda for future talks and, more importantly, for a nation-building project in which the revolutionary Left would abandon violent struggle for legality and peaceful and electoral political competition. The new society would see the preeminence of civil society; the development of democratic institutions; the effective establishment of the rule of law and respect for human rights; an end to political repression, electoral fraud and coercion, military coups, and antidemocratic destabilization generally; civilian control of the military; the resettlement of displaced populations; recognition of indigenous identity and native rights; and the establishment of a practical social justice in which all Guatemalans would share in the country’s wealth.26 The final document, the Firm and Durable Peace Accord of December 1996, summarized all the points agreed to earlier and added the stipulation that Guatemalans had the right to know the truth regarding human rights violations and other acts of violence that occurred during the war. There was also an appendix laying out the spirit of the earlier (1995) agreement of the economy and agriculture. This noted that as the rural population was especially affected by poverty, injustice, and weak government institutions it was the duty of government and all sectors of society to join forces to address the problem of rural underdevelopment.27 Why was the peace process so long and complicated? Obviously, there were many obstacles and difficulties encountered along the way, but the guerrilla’s extreme weakness was perhaps the most important cause. The URNG never had the solidity and force of El Salvador’s FMLN, let alone that of the Sandinistas who governed for a decade. The Left in Guatemala, which was grouped around the URNG and whose numbers were increased by the popular movements, always trailed behind the regional peace efforts. In fact, it was thanks to the work of international organizations like the UN and the various human rights organization that the government came to negotiate with the guerrillas. Even then, however, real progress only began after the combatants were “advised” that a continuation of armed conflict would delay Guatemala’s entry into the community of democratic nations—and their markets. With reference to their political effects, the peace accords demanded a new perspective on two issues essential to the identity of the Guatemalan revolutionary Left: democracy and revolution. In part this was due to the conjuncture which

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coincided with the collapse of what was then called “actually existing socialism” and the new climate of world affairs that accompanied the fall of Soviet communism. The conjuncture also tempered the Guatemalan government’s anticommunism, allowing more room for concessions. And with socialism no longer on the horizon, the insurgents had to reformulate their vision of democracy and change their meaning of the word “revolution.” This new panorama offered a solution to the dilemma that the revolutionary Left had faced on several occasions: should it fight for democracy to open the way to revolution or should it make revolution to make democracy possible? Participating in the negotiations that started in 1987 demanded accepting, at first implicitly and later explicitly, the former. To accept this was to recognize that the revolutionary movement had lost the historic opportunity for a revolutionary seizure of power, an objective that had been the bedrock of its identity.28 For the URNG to abandon the proposition of a revolutionary conquest of power and accept participating with the framework of a representative democracy required a drastic reformulation of the ends of the revolutionary Left. It demanded accepting representative democracy as the starting point for social transformation, instead of continuing to assume that revolutionary transformation was the point of departure for the construction of new kind of democracy. The URNG Becomes a Political Party It took several years for the bulk of both the leaders and rank and file of the URNG to accept that the peace talks with the Guatemalan government were not a tactical ploy but a serious effort to end years of internal war. And it was the course of the negotiations and of the agreements reached over the course of those ten years that prompted a significant ideological turnaround by the insurgent organizations. In mid-1995, just before that year’s presidential elections, the URNG and the government had concluded agreements on democratizing the country (which set out the issues that the participants would negotiate), a truth commission, human rights, indigenous rights, resettlement of the displaced, agriculture and the economy. They also approved procedures and a timetable for future negotiations. That same year the URNG published a manifesto that displayed its new ideological profile.29 That document expressed the organization’s ideas regarding the social and political changes for which it would fight. Naturally, the terms socialism, communism, and proletariat all disappeared, as did revolution, agrarian reform, and imperialism. The document was actually surprisingly moderate. It spoke of a new Guatemala that would grow from the

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construction of a multicultural and multilingual nation, as well as of demilitarizing the country and rooting out official corruption. To move the country in this direction the UNRG envisioned nine targets for change: 1) modernize agriculture; 2) tax reform; 3) labor reform, notably the labor code and the civil service law; 4) decentralize power and change the relationship between the city, especially the capital, and the countryside; 5) educational reform; 6) reform public health; 6) restructure the public service; 7) promote effective, sustainable development; 8) reform the social security system; 9) adopt a new foreign policy that is independent, active, and progressive. The scope of these proposals made it clear that despite the gravity of the problems facing Guatemala, the URNG felt the country could be saved “without traumatic changes or spectacular transformations.”30 Such was the ideological climate that prevailed while the Left was getting ready to run its own candidates in the November 1995 presidential elections. The old divisions and disputes that had split the Left during the years of armed combat still existed, however. One group of former dissident Left activists, Octubre Revolucionario (Revolutionary October) and PGT- 6 de enero (PGT-6th of January) participated actively in what would come to be called the Frente Demcratico Nueva Guatemala (FDNG, New Guatemala Democratic Front). They were quickly pushed aside by officials and members of the URNG who were active in various social movements. At that time, it was practically assured that the presidential candidate of the Left would be Arturo Bauer Paiz, who had been a minister in the governments of the revolutionary era of 1944–1954 and widely respected as a fighter for social justice. However, the URNG met behind closed doors and to the consternation of not a few of its followers declared that the candidate would be Jorge Gonzalez del Valle, an economist known for his opposition to neoliberal policies. As a result, the follower of Bauer Paiz withdrew from the campaign and joined whom the URNG had expelled from the FDNG to form Unidad de Izquierda Deomocratica (UNID, Democratic Left Unity). The 1995 election results revealed that party fragmentation and voter volatility characterized the Guatemalan political system as a whole, not just the Left. On the one hand, the parties that had sustained the various military dictatorships (MLN, PID, PR, CAN, CAO) had disappeared. The two major parties that had squared off in elections at the end of 1985 and the beginning of 1986, the Union del Centro Nacional (UCN, National Center Union) and the Democratica Cristiana (DC, Christian Democrats) were rendered almost insignificant, as was the party of President Jorge Serrano, the Movimiento de Accíon Solidaria (MAS, Solidarity Action

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Movement), after his failed attempt to dissolve congress and suspend the courts in 1993. There were, though, two major political forces that faced off in 1995: the Partido de Avanzada Nacional (PAN, Party of National Advancement), which put forward Alvaro Arzu, and the Frente Republicano Guatemalteco (FRG, Guatemalan Republican Front), whose candidate was Alfonso Portillo, a one-time member of the EGP. The PAN succeed in gaining the support of the Comité Coordinador de Camaras del Agro Comercio Industria y Finanzas (CACIF, Coordinating Committee of the Chambers of Agriculture, Commerce, Industry and Finance), which, as its name suggests, was the umbrella organization of Guatemalan big businesses. Its chief opponent, the FRG, capitalized on the prestige of General Efrain Rios Montt among the emerging bourgeoisie, urban middle classes, and the campesinos who had served in the PACS organized under the general’s rule. The Left was able to ally with what was left of the Partido Revolucionario (Revolutionary Party), led by Rafael Arriaga (son of the repressive [minister of defense in the government of Mendez Montenegro) and to use its official registration to run as the FDNG. The election results are found in table 3.2. Table 3.2 shows that abstentions (53.2%) won without need for a second round. However, counting only the votes that were cast required a runoff, which Álvaro Arzú won. Looking at the Left, the FDNG’s nearly 7 percent of the vote was a credible result for a group that had not yet abandoned clandestinity and had to work through those of its supporters who could Table 3.2

Results of the first round of presidential elections, 1995

Voters Eligible voters Total votes Valid votes

Number

Percentage of eligible voters

3,711,589 1,737,033 1.544,636

100.00 46.80 41.61

Results Spoiled or blank ballots PAN FRG FDNG Other parties

Percentage of total votes 192,397 564,739 341,038 119,056 519,803

5.18 32.51 19.63 6.85 29.92

Source: Political Data Base of the Americas. Republic of Guatemala, Electoral Results, 1995 Presidential Elections, http://pdba.georgetown.edu/Elecdata/Guate/guate. html>, accessed July 9, 2007.

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operate legally. Further, the FDNG’s 6.85 percent of the vote won it a third place. The remaining parties in the race took three-tenths of all votes cast, but those were so widely dispersed that they had minimal effect. During the following four years, the PAN government concluded the peace treaty with the URNG that ended the long internal conflict. Nevertheless, the PAN suffered the same fate that has befallen every governing party in Guatemala since the middle of the twentieth century: defeat at the next election. In those same four years, the URNG entered public, legal political life. Ironically, the ex-guerrillas occupied the political space that Social Democrats had long fought to open, much as happened in El Salvador and Nicaragua. The former guerrilla command accordingly made its debut in public life in control of the reformed and restructured forces of the Left. However, the process of gaining control of these forces produced conflicts. One of these saw Rafael Arriaga terminate his alliance with the URNG, while another resulted in the FDNG organizing its electoral campaign independently of others.Part of the broad social movement close to the former guerrillas felt itself marginalized and Left the URNG, though not the electoral alliance then forming to launch the candidacy of Álvaro Colom. Examining the results of the first round of the 1999 elections (table 3.3), we see the rise of the FRG, which went from roughly 20 percent in 1995 to over 43 percent, and the defeat of the PAN, which fell from 33 percent to Table 3.3

Results from the first round of presidential elections, 1999

Voters

Number

Eligible voters Total votes Valid votes

4,458,744 2,379,989 2,175,458

Results Spoiled or blank ballots FRG PAN ANN FDNG Other parties

Percentage of eligible voters 100.00 53.37 48.79 Percentage of total votes

203,531 1,037,775 660,404 268,001 27,832 181,446

4.56 43.60 27.74 11.26 1.16 7.62

Source: Political Data Base of the Americas. Republic of Guatemala, Electoral Results, 1999 Presidential Elections (First Round), http://pdba.georgetown.edu/Elecdata/Guate/ guate.html>, accessed July 9, 2007.

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27 percent. The Left, running as the ANN, came in a distant third, its 150,000 votes amounting to 11 percent of the vote; this rises to over 12 percent if the votes of the FDNG are added. An 8.5 percent fall in the number of blank or spoiled ballots can be attributed to the concentration of the vote among three main parties. In the next elections in 2003, there were 13 registered parties. Most of them were small, recently founded, and with uncertain life expectancies. The URNG was one of four parties (along with the PAN, FRG, and ANN) had run in more than one election campaign. The FRG found itself in a difficult situation, as its presidential candidate, Efrain Rios Montt, had not been registered. Moreover, it faced the costs that came from its time in office, a period characterized by corruption and preeminence of the “invisible powers,”31 while the PAN continued the downward slide that had led to its defeat in 1999. In 2000, a group of former officials from the Arzu administration broke with the PAN and formed the Partido Unionista (PU, Unionist Party). Oscar Berger, the PAN’s presidential candidate and the most important opponent of the FRG, split from the party that nominated him and headed a coalition composed of the Partido Patriota (Patriotic Party) and two others. For the 2003 elections the URNG put forward as its presidential candidate Rodrigo Asturias, the former comandante Gaspar Ilon, on a ticket with Pablo Ceto. URNG dissidents, along with other political forces that had regrouped in the ANN, coalesced early on around the former mayor of Quetzaltenanngo, Rigoberto Queme. Once again, Guatemala’s Left was unable to leave its insurgent past behind and form a competitive party. Comandante Pablo Monsanto had abandoned the URNG for a dissident group named the Corriente Revolucionario (Revolutionary Current, CR) that along with two other small organizations, the Frente Democratico Social (FDS, Social Democratic Front) and UNID, ran in a reorganized ANN which was a project for a pluralist, participatory Left. During the months before the November 2003 elections, the ANN proved that it could not live up to its claims of pluralism and participation. When it came time to choose congressional candidates, the FDS and UNID, as well as Queme, the presidential candidate, felt as though they had been steamrollered by the CR. Indeed the CR pulled the strings of the nascent party and used its control to impose Monsanto at the top of the list for national deputies.32 Other CR members also pushed aside potential candidates from other parties in the alliance. These maneuvers proved costly as Rigoberto Queme withdrew as the party’s presidential nominee, leaving the ANN with only a congressional slate. When the results were in the URNG had just over 69,000 votes and 3 legislative seats, while the

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ANN legislative candidates received 124,000 votes and took 6 seats in congress. The weakness of the URNG’s presidential ticket (Asturias-Ceto) was best shown by the fact that the party took roughly 30,000 more votes in legislative contests. But the URNG was weak even at the local level, winning only 8 of 331 mayoralties. Thus the ANN significantly outperformed the URNG, even without a presidential candidate. They did, however, have in Nineth Montenegro, a charismatic human rights activist, a magnetic figure who drew votes. Yet the ANN’s relative success was shortlived as Montengro Left in May 2005 to form her own party, Encuentro por Guatemala (Getting Together for Guatemala). With respect to the URNG, their own assessment of their showing led them to the dispiriting conclusion that “our election results constitute such a serious setback that the party must now have a serious discussion of its principles and practices.”33 In fact, the results were disastrous for the Left as a whole. Although in 1995, while still operating semi-clandestinely, the Left built a coalition around the FDNG that captured 7 percent of the vote. In 1999 the ANN coalition took 11 percent. But 2003 produced a split between the URNG and the ANN that saw only 5 percent of Guatemalans voters support the Left. These last results were particularly disastrous for the URNG, whose 2.58 percent share suggest that the party may be headed for extinction. However, the ANN is little better off, as its star candidate in 2003, Nineth Montnegro, has Left; indeed it could even lose its status as an official party. Concerning Montengro’s new organization, Encuentro por Guatemala, it is currently seeking registration as an official party. Turning to the parties of the right, the FRG finally succeeded in registering General Efrian Rios Montt as its presidential candidate. Despite the former dictator’s appeal as a caudillo, however, his party’s record in office was too much to overcome. The PAN, another former governing party, fell to fourth place, while a coalition of small parties (Partido Patriota—Patriotic Party, Movimiento Reformador—Reform Movement, and Partido de Solidaridad Nacional—National Solidarity Party) had the support of a substantial part of Guatemalan business and was able to ride the coattails of the winning presidential candidate, Oscar Berger, to become the country’s largest party. Second place went the Union Nacional del Esperanza (UNE, National Union of Hope), whose presidential candidate, Alvaro Colom, also finished behind Berger in the presidential runoff held in December 2003. Table 3.4 presents the results of the first round of the 2003 elections.

Guatemala Table 3.4 of 2003

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Results from the first round of the presidential elections

Voters

Numbers

Percentage of eligible voters

Eligible voters Total votes Valid votes

6,413,032 2,937,169 2,683,779

100 45.8 41.85

Results Spoiled or blank ballots PP-MR- PSN UNE FRG PAN PU URNG Other parties ANN

Percentage of total vote 253,290 921,233 707,578 518,328 224,127 80,943 69,297 166,273 123,853

8.63 31.37 24.09 17.65 7.63 2.76 2.36 5.45 *

Source: Political Data Base of the Americas. Republic of Guatemala, Electoral Results, 2003 Presidential Elections (First Round), http://pdba.georgetown. edu/Elecdata/Guate/guate.html>, accessed July 9, 2007. * Did not run a presidential candidate; votes for legislative candidates.

Conclusion The historical analysis presented in this chapter show that since the second half of the 1990s the URNG’s political vision has changed in two ways. First, power is to be gained through electoral struggle. Second, all proposals for social change most be based within the framework of a market economy. Adopting this new stance was only possible because the Guatemalan Left had already made two significant ideological moves. The first was to demote revolution from being the centerpiece of the Left’s politics and make it more of a symbol shared by the once revolutionary Left. A second adjustment demanded embracing representative democracy and dealing regularly and peaceably with those who were once mortal enemies to be dealt with only by force of arms. Still, it must be noted that both the leaders and members of this Left have Marxist ideological roots, even though its programs are now grounded in a pragmatic evaluation of what is possible. It is here that we see the Left’s communist past coexisting with its social democratic present and future. And this sort of mixed, even contradictory, consciousness shows up most clearly in moments of internal crisis. Both the Left’s dissidents and its

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official leaders accuse one another of “right deviationism” or of “having infiltrated neoliberal ideas into our ranks.” It is sufficient to recall the formation of the Corriente Revolutionario, headed by Pablo Monsanto, whose very name indicated that it opposed the line the older organization was taking. In a sense, these splinters base their legitimacy on their claim to be the defenders of revolutionary purity. Facing perpetual internal revolts suggests that Guatemala’s Left can neither define a common vision for itself and the country nor accommodate dissenters. At the root of this problem is the maintenance of the tightly disciplined, rigidly hierarchical organizations that grew from crossing Leninism with a politico-military command structure. We can put this somewhat differently by saying that the political organizations of the former Guatemalan guerrillas accept democracy for the country as a whole but preferred to keep power concentrated in the leader’s hands internally. There are, though, some signs that this is changing. Rolando Moran and Gaspar Ilón have died, their leadership styles dying with them. The last of the three historic guerrilla comandantes, Pablo Monstanto, has left the URNG and his new group, Corriente Revolucionario, of which he is the unquestioned leader, remains very marginal. The fourth member of what was once the high command of the URNG, the last secretary-general of the PGT, Carlos Gonzalez (Ricardo Rosales), currently holds an ambiguous position within the URNG. None of them had the brilliance or moral authority of Schaffick Handal, secretary-general of the Salvadoran Communist Party and later unsuccessful presidential candidate of the FMLN;34 nor did Handal have his leadership questioned as theirs was following the splits that rocked the PGT after 1978. There is, however, a broad base of ideological and programmatic agreement within Guatemala’s Left today. It insists that democracy cannot be had without social justice, that the market must be regulated and limited in its reach, and that a strong state is necessary to assure that the public interest prevails over the private. And the Left has not abandoned its belief in the utopia of a new society, although it moderated its programs for achieving this dream. These ideological and programmatic differences clearly distinguish the Guatemalan Left from its right-wing counterparts, even if the demands of practical electoral politics sometimes make the two camps adopt similar positions. This change of posture by the Left has been abrupt and rapid, and it was not carried out in a climate of organizational stability. Rather, these changes have come about in a context of conflicts arising from the residue of a political culture of clandestinity. That outlook glorified a mystique of militancy built around complete dedication to the revolution,

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total self-sacrifice, and unconditional struggle. Therefore the passage from “struggle and faith” to focusing on electoral calculations and winning office produced a significant symbolic shock. Today’s typical member of a left-wing party is what Panebianco35 called a careerist, someone who neither fits well with nor is well regarded by the classic “believers” who in the past were the heart of Guatemala’s leftist political organizations. We believe that the above explains why this process of change has been accompanied by the emergence of violent internal confrontations that have nearly always ended in divisions, expulsions, resignations, and conflicts, occasionally serious ones, between officials and the rank and file. It is probably precisely these internal conflicts that have most seriously damaged the credibility and drained the political capital of the parties descended from the guerrillas. In the URNG’s “adaptation” to the imperatives of this new political reality three elements stand out: • its self-identification as a political formation of the Left, as can be seen in its speeches, proclamations, and electoral platforms; • the party’s incessant internal turmoil, where confrontation with those who control power (generally those linked to the party’s secretarygeneral) usually leads to expulsion, political irrelevance, and/or leaving to form new parties that have to date had precarious existences; • its inability to gain electoral support at the local level or to built coalitions in the legislature, unlike the FSLN in Nicaragua and the FMLN in El Salvador. Overall, the URNG’s move from the underground to the legal has left a meager legacy. This is evident when we consider the cost paid by several generations of Guatemalans to secure democratic government and its attendant freedoms, on the one hand, and the country’s socioeconomic reality of increasingly widespread poverty and social exclusion, on the other. The end to the fighting, the disappearance of even the possibility of revolution, the unviability of socialism and increasingly, even an inability to define socialism in practice all combined to produce the current crisis of the Guatemalan Left. As both the FSLN and FMLN have been able to maintain their organizational integrity while confronting this same crisis of socialism,36 we must ask why Guatemala’s ex-guerrillas have so plainly failed. Answering this question requires forwarding new hypotheses. With respect to the Sandinistas, the most plausible explanation is that the FSLN

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seized power and governed Nicaragua throughout the 1980s, giving it time to embed itself in Nicaraguan society. It is difficult to imagine the Sandinistas having the resources, influence, and media presence they enjoy today had they not governed the country for ten years. Turning to the FMLN, the simple truth is that the URNG never came near to having the military and political power of the Salvadorans. This state of affairs can be explained in terms of the following factors. First, Guatemala is far more ethnically diverse and socially heterogeneous than El Salvador. Its geographic and cultural fault lines are more marked, making political organization harder. Second, it suffered under a dictatorship that ruled by a terror more cruel and sophisticated than its Salvadoran counterpart: many leaders and activists in Guatemala’s revolutionary Left were simply physically eliminated by the state. The most vulnerable and weakest of the three revolutionary movements, the Guatemalan, was also the one that suffered the fiercest repression. Despite all that we have set out in this chapter, we do not believe that there is no future for the Left in Guatemala. Renewal of the Left need not mean that it abandon all that has shaped its identity. It is even possible that the disappearance of Left’s historic standard bearers can open the way for a new movement with new ideas and a more democratic structure. Moreover, Guatemala has certain characteristics that it shares with Bolivia and Ecuador, and which can favor the revival of the Left. Each of the three shows high levels of electoral volatility, has a fractionalized party system, and works with a permeable electoral system, which add up to opportunities for parties now on the margins to break through. Further, Guatemala shares with the two Andean states a large indigenous population, a mobilized civil society, a highly polarized society, and a political system that suffers recurrent crises of legitimacy. Only time will tell if these traits can be converted into political opportunities that permit Guatemala’s Left to regain and even expand the political influence it had through most of the second half of the last century. Notes Translated by David Close. 1.

The PGT first proposed adopting armed struggle in 1955 and at its 1960 congress laid out the possibility of “combining all forms of struggle.” These recommendations took concrete form in 1962 when the party openly participated in the founding of the first Rebel Armed Forces (Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes, FAR), an organization that must be distinguished from the better-known FAR founded in 1968. This first FAR was conceived as the military arm of the

Guatemala

2.

3. 4.

5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12.

13.

14. 15.

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PGT, in which both PGT members and revolutionaries who were not formally communists would serve, but with the PGT retaining political control. In part, it was the party’s insistence on directing the FAR that led the FAR to split from the PGT in 1967. However, the PGT also continued backing electoral struggle, putting forward candidates for election and by giving covert support to Christian Democrats and social Democrats. We cannot overemphasize the impact the Cuban Revolution had on a generation of young activists, rapidly politicized by the array of symbolic, discursive, and organizational elements that the “new revolutionary Left” generated. See, Salvador Martí i Puig, “Nacimiento y mutación de la izquierda revolucionaria centroamericana” in La izquierda revolucionaria en Centroamérica. De la lucha armada a la participación electoral, ed, Salvador Martí i Puig and Carlos Figueroa (Madrid: Libros de la Catarata, 2006), 15–52. Régis Débray and Ricardo Ramírez. “Guatemala” in Las Pruebas de Fuego, ed. Régis Débray (Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1975), pp. 285–286. Humberto Alvarado, Apuntes para la historia del Partido Guatemalteco del Trabajo, Colección Revolucionaria, editado por la Comisión para la Conmemoración del cincuentenario de la revolución de octubre (edited by the Commission for the Commemoration of the 50th Anniversary of the Revolution of October 1944) (Guatemala City: Universidad de San Carlos de Guatemala y la Asociación de Estudiantes Universitarios “Oliverio Castañeda de León,” 1994), p. 55. Débray and Ramírez, “Guatemala,” p. 290; Alvarado, Apuntes, p. 65. Débray and Ramírez, “Guatemala,” p. 299. Luis Turcios Lima was, along with Marco Aurelio Yon Sosa, one of the two disgruntled army officers who founded the FAR. Partido Guatemalteco del Trabajo, El camino de la revolución guatemalteca (Mexico City: Ediciones De Cultura Popular, 1972). Mario Payeras, Los fusiles de octubre ( Mexico City: Juan Pablos Editor, 1991). Héctor Gramajo, De la guerra . . . a la guerra (Guatemala City: Fondo de Cultura, 1995), pp. 154–155. Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca (URNG), Proclama Unitaria de las organizaciones EGP, FAR, ORPA, PGT al pueblo de Guatemala (Mimeo), February 1982, (UNRG, 2/1982). Gramajo, De la guerra. Carlos Figueroa Ibarra, “La izquierda revolucionaria en Nicaragua: Revolución para la democracia, democracia para la revolución” in La izquierda revolucionaria en Centroamérica, ed, Martí i Puig and Figueroa, pp. 129–172. Carlos Figueroa Ibarra, El recurso del miedo: Ensayo sobre Estado y terror en Guatemala (San Jose, Costa Rica: Editorial Universitaria Centroamericana, 1991). Mario Payeras, El trueno en la ciudad. Episodios de la lucha armada urbana de 1981 en Guatemala (Mexico City: Juan Pablos Editor, 1987). Figueroa Ibarra, El recurso del miedo, p. 235. The creation of the PAC, paramilitary groups composed of local people, involved the forced recruitment

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17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22.

23.

24.

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of the inhabitants of a given area to carry out military functions. This greatly increased the militarization of rural society and led to the PAC members’ participation in human rights violations perpetrated by the army. Growth poles presupposed concentrating an area’s indigenous population in camps under the control of military commanders, in order to “uproot the population,” indoctrinate it, and “inoculate” it against insurgency. Ricardo Falla, Masacres en la selva Ixcán, Guatemala 1975–1980 (Managua, Nicaragua: CRIES-latino editores, 1992). See the following URNG documents: Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca. Proclama Unitaria de las organizaciones EGP, FAR, ORPA, PGT al pueblo de Guatemala (Mimeo), February 1982; Las maniobras políticas de Ríos Montt y el papel del movimiento popular y democrático (Mimeo), Guatemala, February 1983; Fracaso militar de la campaña “Victoria 82” de Ríos Montt, Imposibilidad de la maniobra reformista, Seguridad del triunfo del pueblo y la revolución en Guatemala (Mimeo), Guatemala, March 1983; Ante el golpe de estado de los altos jefes militares del ejército de Guatemala contra el general Ríos Montt (Mimeo), August 10, 1983; Informaciones sobre la actual coyuntura política guatemalteca, Guatemala (Mimeo), June 1985; Al pueblo de Guatemala, edición clandestina September 1985; Declaración Política de la URNG en su V aniversario, Guatemala, February 7, 1987, in URNG, Boletín internacional 2 (March 1987); Comunicado de la Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca con motivo de su VI aniversario (Guatemala), February 7, 1988, edición clandestina. Inforpress, 1995, pp. 9–11. Inforpress Centroamericana. Compendio del proceso de Paz. Cronologías, análisis, documentos, acuerdos. Vol. I. Guatemala City: Inforpress Centroamericana, 1995. Octubre Revolucionario, Carta del Comité de Dirección de Octubre Revolucionario a los militantes del Partido Guatemalteco del Trabajo (PGT-6 de enero) (Mimeo), March 1990, pp. 7–8. Angelo Panebianco, Modelos de partidos (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1990). We use this concept as does Panebianco in Modelos De Partido. The structure of organizational power is based on the “resources of organizational power,” which are the factors around which an organization’s vital activities, competition, relations with its environment, communication, formal rules, finance, and recruitment, develop. The PGT (National Directing Nucleus—NDN) was one of three factions, the others being the January 6th (6 de enero) and the Central Committee (CC), to emerge after a split in the party over the issue of armed struggle. In 1987, following the effective destruction of the NDN, the URNG brought the PGT-CC in to replace the NDN. What seemed to be the continued presence of the PGT in the URNG was accomplished by one faction of the party succeeding another. Fundación Casa de la Reconciliación, Recopilación cronológica. Acuerdos firmados en la negociación por la paz en Guatemala. (Guatemala City: Casa de la Reconciliación, 1997), p. 23.

Guatemala 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34.

35. 36.

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Reconciliación, 1997, pp. 5–9. Reconciliación, 1997, 99. Reconciliación, 1997, pp. 348–349. Panebianco, Modelos De Partido, p. 40 and pp. 67–68. URNG, Guatemala, propuesta a la sociedad: Cuatro objetivos, nueve cambios, cuatro prioridades (Mimeo), April 1995. URNG, Guatemala, propuesta a la sociedad, p. 14. During the second half of the 1990s and through the first five years of the twenty-first century, the term “invisible powers” meant the multiple mafiastyle networks of extortion, which emerged after the peace agreements and that certainly appear to be the current incarnation of what were once counterinsurgent groups, though this cannot be proven. Among their activities one finds a combination of economic crimes, human rights violations, and the selective intimidation of left-wing political activists. National deputies are elected from a nationwide list, separate from departmental ones. URNG, Los acuerdos de paz. Análisis de su cumplimiento y perspectivas (Mimeo), Guatemala City, May 2003. Editors’ note: Handal’s reputation suffered greatly after leading the FMLN to a poor showing the 2004 presidential elections, at which point his leadership and even the appropriateness of the historic, revolutionary identity of the FMLN in an electoral setting, came to be questioned. Panebianco, Modelos De Partido. Editors’ note: the chapter by David Close on Nicaragua, addresses this question indirectly. For a more inclusive vision see, Martí i Puig, “La Izquierda Centroamericana: ¿Renacimiento o Debacle?” in América Central, las democracias inciertas, ed, Ana Sofia Cardenal and Salvador Martí i Puig (Madrid: Tecnos, 1998), pp. 65–108.

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CHAPTER 4

The Left’s Long Road to Power in Uruguay Martin Weinstein

Introduction The case of the Tupamaros of Uruguay can be viewed as an example of revolutionaries who rank somewhere in the middle in terms of their success. They did not seize state power outright through an armed insurrection nor did they completely control the state through an outright electoral victory of their own. Rather they gained access to state as members of a broad coalition, the (Frente Amplio or Broad Front) that was victorious in the 2005 elections. The “long road to power” however, involved the Tupamaros making compromises in terms of their commitment to socialism, for as members of the Frente Amplio-Frente Amplio- Encuentro Progresista (Broad Front-Progressive Encounter) they adopted a more nationalist, pragmatic, and moderate program. Background Uruguay—that tiny nation of 3.3 million people frequently overshadowed by its giant South American neighbors, Brazil and Argentina—has a lot to teach us about politics and the struggle for social equity in Latin America. To begin, Uruguayans enjoyed free secular education before the British, and women had the right to vote before their French counterparts. The right to divorce was granted 70 years before Spain and workers enjoyed an eight-hour workday before it was established in the United States. All of this was accomplished thanks to José Battle y Ordoñez whose liberal (in the

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best sense of the word) ideology would dominate Uruguayan politics for the first three decades of the twentieth century and cast a giant shadow over its institutions for three decades more. Aided by the resources generated by the insertion of Uruguay in the same British imperial orbit enjoyed by Argentina, the country prospered amid democratic and progressive economic, social, and political transformation. Unlike the Argentines, Uruguay did not succumb to military intervention in the 1940s and 1950s when it deservedly enjoyed its reputation as the “Switzerland of South America.” Economic stagnation in the late 1950s and throughout the sixties unfortunately did lead to the social, economic and political tensions that sadly saw Uruguay join her neighbors in a descent into military dictatorship. The bureaucratic authoritarian regime that ruled Uruguay from 1973 to 1984 was not the bloodiest in South America but, given Uruguay’s small size, it could be considered the most repressive. Over 50,000 Uruguayans would be arrested with between 5,000 and 6,000 ultimately imprisoned and brutalized, giving the country, according to Amnesty International, the dubious distinction of having more political prisoners per capita than any other nation on earth in the mid-1980s. The road back to democracy was long and difficult but when it was finally accomplished Uruguayans restored their democratic institutions with courage and enthusiasm. Since 1984 there have been five national elections in Uruguay. All have been clean with the historic traditional parties—Blancos and Colorados—winning the first four, but with the leftist coalition known as the Frente Amplio improving its vote, actually finishing first in the 1999 elections, but losing in the runoff required by the new electoral system approved by plebiscite in 1996. In the past six years, left-leaning presidents have taken office in five South American countries, including Hugo Chávez in Venezuela in 1999, Ricardo Lagos in Chile in 2000, Luis Ignacio Lula da Silva in Brazil in 2002 and again in 2006, Néstor Kirchner in Argentina in 2003 and Tabaré Vázquez in Uruguay this year. The inauguration this past March of Tabaré Vázquez of the Frente Amplio, a left-wing coalition of social democrats, socialists, and communist founded in the early 1970s, is the latest and in some ways, most intriguing case. Some three decades before, the government, which at the time was a military dictatorship, kidnapped and tortured hundreds of people, targeting especially Tupamaro guerrilla leaders. Now, Senator José “Pepe” Mujica, a founder of the Tupamaros, presided over the swearing in of the president and vice president during the inauguration ceremonies. In one part of the ceremony, Mujica was presented the flag by the army’s Florida Batallion, the very same army installation under which he was tortured and kept at the bottom of a well for several years.

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The Left, once repressed and marginalized, is now empowered with the political capital and institutional authority to lead the country along a new path of development. Why has this seemingly 180 degree reversal come to pass in Uruguay and elsewhere in the region? Explaining the Electoral Victory of the Left In this context, the “Left” is not a new phenomenon in Latin America. For over a century, the values and principles of the Left have formed the foundation of Latin American society. Beginning with the contributions of anarchist and socialist European immigrants at the turn of the century, continuing with José Batlle’s precocious welfare state in Uruguay and the sophisticated Marxist analysis of José Mariategui of Peru in the 1920s and the role of Communist and Socialist Parties in promoting the ideal of social justice, today’s Left is deeply rooted in a strong historical foundation. However, with the rise of the cold war and the increasing U.S. hostility toward anything that was remotely progressive, the Left in Latin America was first, mildly, and then severely repressed. The list of casualties is long and includes: The Arbenz regime in Guatemala; Goulart in Brazil; Allende in Chile; and the destruction of democracy in Uruguay and Argentina. The plague of repression that Latin America suffered from the late 1960s into the early 1980s was a major blow to both the Left and the cause of democracy in the region. The rebirth of the Left is a story of both the failure of the bureaucratic authoritarian regimes to find an economic model that resulted in stable growth and the rejection of a nondemocratic mode of governance by their citizens. This process was slow and painful but led to a resurgence of democratic values—even by those groups that some might consider revolutionary. Democracy’s fragile comeback would be buffeted by economic policies and international trends, which moved citizens to take another look at a seemingly demoralized and demonized Left. This has especially been the case in Uruguay. Uruguay’s European-style welfare state, which was a strong presence throughout most of the twentieth century, gradually eroded in the 1960s and 1970s, worsened by the debt crisis of the 1980s and the conservative fiscal policies of the 1990s, and was under almost unsustainable pressure in the economic crisis of 1999–2002. But we are getting ahead of the story . . . From the mid-1950s on, Uruguay experienced economic decline and increased political polarization that was compounded in the late l960s by the emergence of a new and important political force—urban guerrillas. The existence of an organized revolutionary

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movement officially calling itself the National Liberation Movement (Movimiento de Liberación Nacional, MLN)—Tupamaros was an indication that growing sociopolitical division could not be contained at the institutional level and was spilling over into basic value conflicts concerning the nature of the national community. It is not by chance that the most widely used Tupamaro slogan was “Habrá patria para todos o patria para nadie” that translates as: “There will be a fatherland for all or a fatherland for none.” Many commentators were surprised by the appearance of a revolutionary guerrilla movement in Uruguay. They felt that the literate, sophisticated, relatively democratic, and still relatively comfortable society was not the kind of sea in which revolution normally spawns. What they overlooked was the fact that it is these very conditions that would impel more and more individuals to challenge an increasingly repressive and ineffective government and enable these individuals to make such a challenge effective. The best information available indicates that the Tupamaros were organized in late 1962 or early 1963 around a nucleus of disenchanted members of the Socialist Party.1 Their founder was Raúl Sendic, then a 36-year-old law student and militant member of the Socialist Party who had been active in the organization of the sugar beet and sugarcane workers in Uruguay’s northeast. The name Tupamaro has two possible derivations. The most widely accepted explanation is that the name was derived from Tupac Amaru, an Incan Indian chief who led an unsuccessful rebellion against the Spanish and was rewarded for his efforts by being drawn and quartered in Cuzco’s main square. Another explanation argues that the name was taken from Uruguayan history, the term having been used in the 1820s and 1830s for the rebel bands that continued to attack the large landowners after the defeat and self-imposed exile of the nationalist hero, José Artigas. In any event, the Tupamaros remained in a totally clandestine organizational phase until 1967 when they made their position and motives public: For these reasons, we have placed ourselves outside the law. This is the only honest action when the law is not equal for all; when the law exists to defend the spurious interest of a minority in detriment to the majority; when the law works against the country’s progress; when even those who have created it place themselves outside it, with impunity, whenever it is convenient for them. The hour of rebellion has definitely sounded for us. The hour of patience has ended. The hour of action and commitment has commenced here and now [emphasis in original]. The hour of conversation and the enunciation of theory, propositions and unfulfilled promises is finished.

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We should not be worthy Uruguayans, nor worthy Americans, nor worthy of ourselves if we do not listen to the dictates of conscience that day after day calls us to the fight. Today no one can deny us the right to follow this dictate, wherever it might lead. No one can take the sacred right of rebellion away from us, and no one is going to stop us from dying, if necessary, in order to be of consequence.2

The opening paragraph of this statement merits particular attention. The Tupamaros indicate that they are profoundly aware that the rule of law is a basic instrument through which an effective national community is built and that the perversion of this instrument dooms the creation of an egalitarian national community. They, thus, take the position that they must place themselves outside the law in order to build a viable nation-state. Their position is deeply nationalist. Indeed, one may argue that the Tupamaros were the only effective nationalist voice in Uruguay in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The ideology of the movement was never espoused in an explicit, coherent, single statement, although several documents, communiqués, and interviews do give some basis for analysis. The Tupamaros believed in an independent, integrated, national community for Uruguay and affirmed that such independence and integration can only be built through socialism. The blueprint for socialism is vague, but includes nationalization of the banking and export apparatus and a thorough land-reform program, including expropriation of large and underutilized holdings. They also believed that the political and economic power holders in a capitalist, dependent nation such as Uruguay will not relinquish power peacefully, and therefore concluded that armed revolution was necessary. Violence is seen as a necessary tactic of this revolution, but is not promoted as an end in itself. The movement’s spokesmen also believed that the final victory will require mass action and that Tupamaro activity promotes this possibility by (1) pointing out the corruption and inefficiency of the regime; and (2) demonstrating that the Tupamaros are a parallel power within the nation, thereby raising the consciousness of the public. Organized labor and the university and high school populations were seen as the most available sources of mass support for the guerrillas. It might be added as a final consideration that the Tupamaros were always aware of potential foreign intervention and the demonstration effect offered by Brazil. In a document written in March 1972, the point is made that Brazil offered “an example which our local oligarchs might want to imitate”—a prophetic observation. During the mid and late 1960s, the Tupamaro strategy and ideology became defined, and their impact became apparent. Adopting an urban

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focus based on the obvious demographic and political reality that is the Uruguayan city-state, the movement embarked on an escalating series of robberies to secure money and arms. By 1969 the guerrillas had added political kidnappings to their arsenal and in 1970 kidnapped and assassinated Daniel Mitrione, a USAID (United States Agency for International Development) official working with the Uruguayan police. The events surrounding the kidnapping and killing of Daniel Mitrione are accurately and spellbindingly recreated in the Costa-Gavras movie “State of Siege” that starred Yves Montand as Mitrione. During the remainder of 1970 and 1971 the guerrillas pulled off spectacular kidnapping and robberies, and in September of the latter year freed, in one jailbreak, all of the 100-plus guerrillas being held by the government. However, instead of pressing its advantage, the movement decided on a temporary truce while it supported the newly created leftist coalition, the Frente Amplio, in the November 1971 elections. It is in this context of increased confrontation, growing repression, and the new leftist alliance that the 1971 election should be understood. The election would be a strong test of the Uruguayan political system, and its implications and effects would be profound. On September 9, 1971, immediately after the spectacular escape of 109 Tupamaros from the Punta Carretas Penitentiary, President Pacheco put the army in control of all antiguerrilla activity. This important new role for the army did not have an immediate impact because of the truce declared by the Tupamaros in the months surrounding the November 1971 elections. The Tupamaros ended the informal truce on April 14, 1972, with the assassination of several officials in various sections of Montevideo. The president immediately asked for and received a declaration of “internal war” against the Tupamaros. In essence, Uruguay was placed under martial law, and all constitutional guarantees of individual liberties were suspended. The military, given carte blanche and unhampered by judicial or constitutional restraints, proceeded to employ repressive techniques that moved far beyond those that any administration had dared to employ in any systematic or sustained manner. Torture and drugs were weapons the Tupamaros could not withstand. In the ensuing months, the army enjoyed almost total success against the guerrillas, all but destroying their infrastructure, capturing hundreds of active supporters, and detaining thousands of other. I would here hazard the hypothesis, with the advantage of hindsight, that the decision to support the Frente Amplio and refrain from their usual activity from October 1971 to April 1972 was a fatal mistake for the

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Tupamaros. Apparently faced with the problem of expanding their base, the Tupamaros took a calculated risk and supported the effort of various liberal groups that made up the Frente. But, as the guerrillas themselves emphasized, they did not believe that the revolution could be made in Uruguay through elections. Permitting elections to take place in an atmosphere controlled by the Pacheco government and allowing his handpicked successor to take power in relative calm put them at a disadvantage. In addition, since the jailbreak in September, the armed forces had been placed in control of antiguerrilla operations and had been permitted to gear up for their role, unchallenged, since then. Thus, the dramatic Tupamaro escalation on April 14 was met by a firmly entrenched new administration backed by a well-equipped and adequately prepared military that needed but three months to crush the guerrilla movement—a movement that found itself abandoned by the liberal groups that it had surfaced to support in the elections. On June 27, l973 Uruguay would plunge into a military dictatorship that would last for over 11 years during which tens of thousands would be arrested, thousands would be fired from their jobs, and many more would choose exile for both economic and political reasons. The long struggle to recapture democracy is not the subject of this chapter, but it involved a combination of the military’s bungling of the economy, the courage of the Uruguayan people, and the systematic inhumane treatment of political prisoners, especially those who were or were believed to be active Tupamaros or militant communists. It would take a special legislation by the newly restored democratic government to secure the release of several dozen Tupamaro leaders who were seen as guilty of ‘blood crimes” by the military. Luis Costa Bonino has perceptively summed up those decades: One can say that the contemporary history of Uruguay has seen the failure of three conceptions of the country, of three fragmentary “nationalisms.” The first, the old model of the traditional country with a verbal and rickety nationalism always supported by the crutch of co-participation which was not capable of sustaining a durable democracy for the future. The revolutionary nationalism that the MLN urged was, in spite of its “Patria para todos,” a conspiratorial and antidemocratic nationalism, symmetrical to that of the military’s ideology, an ideology where “traditional parties = oligarchy = North American imperialism” formed an inseparable and ineluctable whole. From the right, the armed forces proposed a homologous conspiratorial nationalism in which Parties and Movements of the left = Parliament = Subversion = the Soviet Union and international communism.3

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The Tupamaros emerged from prison with a conciliatory political line. This was not surprising given the fact that many politicians from the traditional (Blanco and Colorado) parties held them responsible for the spiral into dictatorship They declared that the newly established democracy was qualitatively different from the conditions of the late 1960s and 1970s and that therefore public and open political action not armed struggle was their proper role. In recognizing the current democratic rules of the game, they did not eliminate armed struggle if future conditions made such a path necessary. The movement’s relationship to its political arm in the 1971 elections, the 26 de Marzo Movement, led many to believe that the MLNTupamaros would, by fusing itself with this group, seek formal entry into the Frente Amplio. When the small but respected Christian Democratic Party, as well as others within the Frente Amplio, strenuously opposed the entrance of the Tupamaros, Raúl Sendic, the founder of the guerrilla movement, called for the creation of a “Frente Grande,” implying that the Frente Amplio was not seeking the widest possible coalition of progressive forces. He, however, was in no shape to lead the movement; he went to Cuba for corrective surgery on his tongue and mouth, which had been severely mutilated by wounds he received when he was captured in 1972. The MLN was experiencing difficulty in adjusting to its new reality. As one ex-Tupamaro put it: The movement is paying the price of defeat, with the consequent isolation from reality implied by 12 years in prison. And the other price that is being paid has also been suffered by all revolutionary movements of the left in the world: the crisis of the traditional models of the left. No one now buys the Soviet model in the way they sell it, there are very few that dream of building a new society with a model like that. Neither, whether because of maturity or because of the time that has gone by, can the reality of the Cuban revolution be taken as transplantable. We lack the beacons we used to have whether because of our age or the stage that our country or humanity in general lived through.4

In a press interview given to an Argentine journalist, Julio Marenales, one of the founders of the movement, admitted that the Tupamaros had relied too heavily on only one form of action—armed struggle—and that they had not made the necessary effort to develop contacts and work within the mass organizations of the society. He further indicated that additional selfcriticism would take place at the Tupamaros’ Fourth National Convention, scheduled for September 1986. At their Third National Convention, in 1985, the Tupamaros defined their goals as land reform, nationalization of the banking and export sectors, and a moratorium on the foreign debt. The

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convention reiterated the movement’s desire to operate legally and in accordance with the rules of a constitutional and democratic political system. The leadership did remind all who would listen that the “dominant classes have shown throughout history that they are willing to erase legality and democracy every time the people threaten their interests and privilege.” Then Vice President Tarigo responded angrily to a statement by Julio Marenales in which he indicated that guerrilla war would be valid in the face of another advance of fascism in Uruguay. Tarigo angrily reminded all who would listen that the appearance of the guerrillas in Uruguay in 1963 was a “struggle against democracy and not against fascism” and that the people of Uruguay “without the help of the Tupamaros . . . knew how to find a democratic solution that permitted the Tupamaros to leave jail and return from exile.”5 In a meeting dubbed an “extraordinary convention” held in late July 1986, the MLN-Tupamaros postponed their Fourth National Convention, scheduled for September, until 1987. At the same time a communiqué was issued by José Mujica, the group’s secretary-general, which denounced the lack of resolution of the human rights question. The statement went on to warn that if the government and the people are held hostage, threatened, or blackmailed by the military over human rights violations committed during the dictatorship, then the ex-guerrillas might have to rethink their current stance in support of the democratic game. This not-so-veiled threat was immediately denounced by the mainstream press, which argued that the Tupamaros were as misguided as ever because the government was democratic and free to act on all questions. However, if the Tupamaros were overreacting, so were their critics on this issue. It was clear to an objective observer that the threat of military intervention continued to hang over the government as it tried to find a formula for the military’s human rights violations that was acceptable to the guilty as well as those demanding justice—a difficult formula, indeed. The Tupamaros emerged as a freestanding political faction within the Frente Amplio in the l989 elections. Their percentage of the Left’s vote hovered in the mid-teens until the Left’s internal primary election of 2002 when they obtained 29 percent of the vote. In the 2004 Frente Amplio primary they garnered 33 percent of the vote. In the Left’s historical presidential and congressional victories later that year they received an impressive 38 percent of the winning vote. Clearly, Mujica, Huidoboro, Marenales and the other Tupamaro leaders decided that joining the Frente Amplio was the path to follow after their release from prison with the return of democracy. They were very careful at first to be one of a number of small

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radical groups that were allowed under the Frente Amplio- Encuentro Progresista umbrella. As their support and activities grew and as there was increased identity or legitimacy to their movement, the Movimiento de Participación Popular (MPP, Movement for Popular Participation), took its place as a freestanding party within the leftist coalition. With the approach of the 2004 presidential and parliamentary elections the Tupamaros showed their skills at coalition building by agreeing to joint parliamentary electoral lists with Senator Rafael Michelini’s small but respected Nuevo Espacio party. This marriage helped enhance the MPP’s image as a moderate, not radical, movement. The Tupamaros’ contribution of 38 percent of the Left’s winning vote garnered them 2 ministries—Labor and Agriculture in the Vázquez administration not to mention 38 percent of the seats in the Senate and Chamber of Deputes that are allocated by strict proportional representation. Senator José Mujica, a founding member of the Tupamaros, engineered this success story. Espousing a populist and nationalist ideology but with a pragmatic and moderate tone, his charismatic personality established him as a major political player. His strategy in the early years after his brutal imprisonment and release by the restored democratic government of Colorado president Julio Maria Sanguinetti, was to organize a political movement, the MPP, with recruitment and organizational activities involving students, workers, and campesinos. The emphasis was on organizational activities and not on party organization. This was in keeping with the Tupamaros’ origins as organizers of rural workers and was inspired in part by the Landless Workers Movement (Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra, MST) in Brazil. Ironically given their moderate tone, the MPP was thus seen as a less extremist sector of the Frente Amplio and not lumped with “los grupos radicales.” Mujica characterized the group’s position as follows: “el MPP se ha corrido hacia la realidad, nos hemos corrido hacia el sentido comun.” [The MPP has run toward reality,but we have run toward common sense].6 The close identification of MPP voters with “Pepe” Mujica may prove to be an Achilles heel for the movement. Mujica, who is not in good health and may soon leave his position as minister of agriculture, cannot be expected to vigorously lead the MPP in the years leading up to the 2009 elections. In this context the presidential and congressional elections that took place on October 31, 2004 marked a sea change in Uruguayan politics. Throughout the year the polls showed that the leftist coalition known as the Broad Front–Progressive Encounter (Frente Amplio- Encuentro

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Progresista) was the largest party in the country. The question that remained was whether it would secure the 50 percent + 1 vote it needed in order to avoid a runoff with one of the traditional parties, the Blanco Party (Partido Nacional, PN) or the Colorados. In the last two weeks before the election, all of Uruguay’s polls indicated that the Frente Amplio had reached the magical number needed to avoid a second round and that Tabaré Vázquez would be president. Dr. Tabaré Vázquez (known as Tabaré) is a 64-year-old oncologist who has been the political leader of the Frente Amplio leftist coalition since he was their presidential candidate in 1994. Tabaré was elected mayor (Intendente) of Montevideo in 1989 in what was a breakthrough election for the Left. A longtime Socialst Party activist, Tabaré is photogenic and charismatic and has carefully juggled his coalition that includes social democrats, democratic socialists, socialists, communists, and ex-Tupamaros. The Left’s long but steady road to electoral victory interrupted by the 11-year military dictatorship from 1973 to 1984 is exemplified by table 4.1. Table 4.1

Electoral results for Leftist parties since 1971

Party

1971

1984

1989

1994

1999-I

1999-II

2004

Colorado Party National Party Frente Amplio Nuevo Espacio

41.0 40.2 18.3 –

41.2 35.0 21.3 –

30.3 38.9 21.2 9.0

32.3 31.2 30.6 5.2

32.8 22.3 40.1 4.6

54.1 – 45.9 –

11.0 38.0 50.5 –

Source: Adapted and extended from Jorge Lanzaro, “La izquierda uruguaya: transformaciones estructurales y logicas de desarrollo politico.” 7 N.B. 1999-II reflects the runoff required by the 1996 constitutional reform.

The collapse of the Colorado Party vote did not automatically translate into an overwhelming victory for the Left. Nevertheless, they avoided a runoff and obtained majorities in both Houses of parliament by garnering a majority in the first round. The Vázquez government, which assumed office in March 2005, put together a team of ministers that also included a moderate leftist economist, Danilo Astori, as minister of economics and the former head of Texaco in Uruguay (the highest paid Uruguayan in the country at the time) as minister of industry. Mujica was promptly tapped to be minister of agriculture. A new ministry (Desarollo Social-Social Development) was created and given to Marina Arismendi, the daughter of the deceased longtime leader of the Communist Party in Uruguay. (Support for the party has been reduced dramatically in recent years.) She directs the Emergency Social

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Plan with a budget of $100 million for each of the next two years and it is intended to target the 60,000 Uruguayans living below the poverty line with cash, job training, medical assistance and educational programs. Vázquez reluctantly gave the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the current leader of the Socialist Party, Senator Reinaldo Gargano—a man not known to have many smooth edges. The Left’s victory in October carried over to the local and departmental (state) elections that took place in early May. The Frente Amplio had captured the department of Montevideo in 1989 and held it since, but had never won the Intendencia (Governorship) of any other department—that is, until now. The Frente won in 7 departments out of a total of 19. Most importantly, they won in Canelones, the increasingly urbanized department directly to the east of Montevideo, and in Maldonado and Rocha, home to Punta del Este and other tourist meccas of the country. The Left also won in departments along the border with Argentina and in two very traditional areas in the interior—an encouraging sign for future electoral prospects. In terms of policy, the economic situation continues to be a priority for the government. The thrust is clearly to create more jobs and better wages under the slogan “Uruguay: Pais Productivo.” Trade is seen as key, but President Vázquez’s decision to postpone negotiations on a free trade agreement (FTA) with the United States points to real contradiction’s within the Left’s governing coalition. When the foreign minister opposed his own president’s support for such a treaty, the Left’s split became very public. Gargano is a member of Vázquez’s own Socialist Party and was joined by the communists and other small radical groups within the coalition. Apparently, Vázquez felt he could not alienate those who were against the treaty in light of the need for their support if the public sector restructuring that is high on his 2007 agenda has any chance of being passed. The question of human rights violations committed by the military dictatorship (1973–1984) has become an increasingly salient political issue for the new government. The Uruguayan military never engaged in the mass killings their Argentine and Chilean comrades are so infamous for. However, they did arrest thousands and subject them to brutal torture while also imposing a draconian rule on Uruguay’s citizens from 1973 to 1985. The number of disappeared in Uruguay totaled a few dozen, with some 140 Uruguayans sharing the same fate in Argentina. The whereabouts of these individuals had never been clarified by the Uruguayan military until the more proactive stance of the Vázquez government produced an official army report leading to the discovery of a few bodies. Some Uruguayan former military and police have been extradited for trials in

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Argentina and Chile. A new chapter in this issue began to be written in late 2006 when ex-president and dictator Juan Maria Bordaberry and his foreign minister Juan Blanco were arrested for complicity in the murders of two exiled politicians—Senator Zelmar Michelini and Blanco deputy Hector Gutiérrez Ruiz in Buenos Aires in June l976. These arrests stimulated unions and human rights groups to start a campaign to overturn the amnesty law (Ley de Caducidad) that was passed in Uruguay in l986 and upheld in a national referendum in 1989. Civil- military relations became strained enough over the human rights issue that President Vázquez dismissed the army commander after he held a series of unauthorized meeting with opposition politicians, apparently over the direction of human rights inquiries. We have not seen or heard the last word on this subject. The historic victory by Vázquez and the Left also has regional implications. It was seen by many as further strengthening the hand of Brazilian president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva as he sought to turn Mercosur (the Southern Cone Common Market consisting of Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, and Uruguay) into the major voice of Latin American economic integration and the chief interlocutor with both the European Union and the United States in trade negotiations. Recent conflict between Argentina and Uruguay over the building of two giant pulp-paper plants on the Uruguayan side of the Uruguay river that separates the two countries has, however, complicated Mercosur’s future. Conclusion The Left’s long road to power in Uruguay does not change the fundamental questions that have faced this nation. Sustainable economic growth; providing jobs at a decent wage; a pension system and public sector too large and expensive for this small country; and a final accounting over the human rights abuses of the dictatorship are the challenges that any government in Uruguay must face regardless of its ideological proclivities. The Left brings new energy and hopefully fresh eyes to these issues. Its success will be good for Uruguay and for their continued political power. Notes 1. The literature on the Tupamaros is rather extensive. For the early period see Carlos Nuñez, “The Tupamaros: Armed Vanguard in Uruguay,” Tricontinental (Havana) 10 (January–February 1969), pp. 43–66 and M. Rosencof, La Rebelión de los Caneros (Montevideo, Uruguay: Aportes, 1969). For later activity and documents see: Antonio Mercader and Jorge de Vera, Tupamaros: Estrategía y Acción–Iinforme (Mexico, D.F.: Ediciones Era, 1971); Actas Tupamaros (Buenos

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3. 4. 5. 6.

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Aires: Shapiro Editor, 1971); A. Labrousse, Los Tupamaros: Guerrilla Urbana en el Uruguay (Buenos Aires: Tiempo Contemporaneo, 1971); Maria Esther Gilio, The Tupamaro Guerrillas: The Structure and Strategy of the Urban Guerrilla Movement (New York: Saturday Review Press, 1972); Donald C. Hodges, ed., Philosophy of the Urban Guerrilla: The Revolutionary Writings of Abraham Guillén (New York: William Morrow and Co., 1973); and José A. Moreno and Arturo C. Porzecanski, “The Ideology of Uruguay’s Tupamaros,” unpublished essay in the Departments of Sociology and Economics, University of Pittsburgh, 1972. For articles in English see: S. Connoly and G. Druehl, “The Tupamaros: The New Focus in Latin America,” Journal of Contemporary Revolutions 3, 3 (Summer 1971), pp. 59–68; F. M. Poland, “Uruguay’s Urban Guerrillas,” New Leader 54, 19 (October 4, 1971), pp. 8–11; R. Moss, “Urban Guerrillas in Uruguay,” Problems of Communism 20, 5 (September–October 1971), pp. 14–23. “Carta Abierta a la Policía,” printed in Epoca, December 7, 1967. Reprinted in Luis Costa Bonino, Crisis de los Partidos Tradicionales y Movimiento Revolucionario en el Uruguay (Montevideo, Uruguay: Ediciones de la Banda Oriental, 1985), p. 102 and Mercarder and de Vera, Tupamaros: Estrategía y Acción, p. 131. Author’s translation. Costa Bonino, Crisis de los Partidos, p. 83. Leo Harari, as reported in Aquí, March 11, 1986. Búsqueda, January 23, 1986. Comment made on the television program, “Sala de Redacción,” Channel 5, June 6, 2004. Cited in Jorge Lanzaro, La izquierda Uruguay, entre la oposición y el gobierno, (Montevideo, Uruguay: Editorial Fin de Siglo, 2004). Paper presented at the XXII Congress of the Latin American Studies Association, Miami, FL, March 2000.

CHAPTER 5

The Colombian Contradiction: Lessons Drawn from Guerrilla Experiments in Demobilization and Electoralism Suzanne Wilson and Leah A. Carroll

D

espite over two decades of negotiations between the guerrilla movements and the various governments of Colombia, and despite the formers’ participation in electoral politics since the 1980s, Colombian revolutionaries have failed to realize major electoral successes. As of 2006, Colombia stands as one of the few South American countries not to have elected a leftist or center-left leader. Along with Colombia’s unique political history, an important part of the explanation relates to the persistence of the armed conflict that has made the paths of leftist parties very difficult. Unlike Central America, Colombian peace processes demobilized and incorporated only a portion of the country’s guerrillas into legal parties. For almost 25 years, the government’s various negotiations with the country’s largest guerrilla group, the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC, Armed Revolutionary Forces of Colombia) have all eventually failed and produced backlashes, including the creation of rightwing paramilitary groups in the 1980s and the election of a rightist president, Álvaro Uribe, in 2002 and 2006.1 Despite fewer guerrilla kidnapping, many guerrilla fighters have not demobilized, their military structures remain intact, and political violence continues unabated.2 Though the mostly urban based, legal Left (in which former guerrillas are a minority)

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has resurged since 2002 and become united in their opposition against Uribe, leftist parties still have to contend with being labeled “guerrilla auxiliaries” and having their members assassinated. After describing the Colombian national context before 1982, this chapter analyzes the different demobilization and peace processes that have occurred from 1982 to 2006 and their impacts on the Colombian Left.3 We divide these years into five periods. The first period (1982–1985) was a euphoric moment, when all the major guerrilla groups (except the Ejército de Liberación Nacional [ELN, National Liberation Army]) signed ceasefire agreements. The government incorporated social movements (especially those in combat zones) into the peace process. The FARC attempted a guerrillas-to-politicians transition via a cease-fire, the shift of some members to legal political work, and the creation of the Unión Patriótica (UP, Patriotic Union party). The second period (1986–1989), however, saw “mixed signals.” The government enacted a major democratic reform, the direct election of mayors, and the FARC backed the UP’s electoral efforts. Nevertheless, the guerrilla-military war resumed, the FARC reclandestinized, and paramilitary violence (often aimed at UP members) escalated. During the third period (1990–1994), five smaller guerrilla movements either partially or completely demobilized. Four demobilized in time to help rewrite Colombia’s constitution in 1991. Many demobilized guerrillas helped form political parties including the Alianza Democrática M-19 (AD M-19, M-19 Democratic Alliance party) . The party gained short-term electoral success, but, in doing so, adopted moderate, antiguerrilla rhetoric, and allied with elite segments. The fourth period (1995–2002) witnessed the armed conflict’s amplification, unsuccessful peace talks with the FARC, and leftist parties’ minimal success. The final period (from 2002 to mid2006) saw right-wing control combined with the Left’s regeneration. Uribe pursued “democratic security” policies that cracked down on guerrilla groups but waived civil liberties. Ironically, his first administration helped generate the coalescence and electoral success of a leftist party, the Polo Democrático Alternativo (PDA, Democratic Alternative Pole).4 We conclude with insights derived from these various demobilization and peace processes. The Colombian National Context before 1982 Although Colombia generally has had democracies, its political institutions historically have been elite-dominated and centralized. Attempts to contain the centrifugal forces of regional separatism guaranteed that the two dominant parties, the Liberals and the Conservatives, would monopolize

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political power. Presidents appointed governors and governors appointed mayors based upon their ability to generate votes for provincial assembly members.5 These political traits excluded the Left from local power and prevented it from becoming powerful enough at the national level to elect a critical mass of senators or representatives. Long-standing inter-elite competition between the Liberal and Conservative Parties reinforced three characteristics: stable electoral institutions; political institutions largely co-opted by factional elite interests; and recurring partisan civil wars.6 In the mid-twentieth century, the largest of these wars, La Violencia, claimed almost 200,000 lives.7 The National Front (1958–1974), a bipartisan political pact ending La Violencia, further excluded nonelites from political power. During the 1960s and early 1970s, insurgents established Colombia’s four main guerrilla movements. Started in 1964, the Cuban-oriented ELN possessed strongholds among peasant settlers in the Middle Magdalena Valley.8 It survived near decimation in the mid-1970s and grew to 382 combatants by 1984. Founded in 1966, the FARC had 1,834 fighters by 1984. Its greatest strength was among recent peasant settlers in the Eastern Plains. Launched in 1967, the Maoist Ejército Popular de Liberación (EPL, Popular Liberation Army) had 430 members by the mid-1980s with strongholds among teachers, banana workers, and peasant colonists. Colombia’s other principal guerrilla group in the mid-1980s was the Movimiento 19 de Abril (M-19, April 19th Movement), begun in 1972. Though much of its leadership broke away from the FARC or the Communist Party, another M-19 faction broke off from the Alianza Nacional Popular (ANAPO, National Popular Alliance) political party. Although it only had 981 fighters in 1984, the M-19 cultivated widespread sympathy. Its populist ideological origins, constituency among urban students, and penchant for media-friendly actions (e.g., stealing Simon Bolívar’s sword in 1974) differentiated the M-19 from the other guerrilla groups. Together, Colombia’s elite-controlled democratic system, bipartisan rule, and varied guerrilla groups set the stage for the subsequent peace processes, demobilizations, and endeavors at guerrilla-to-politician transitions. 1982–1985: Democratic Reform and Peace Negotiations By the early 1980s, military-guerrilla confrontations and security-force human rights violations against civilians reached such intense levels that Belisario Betancur (1982–1986) won the presidential election on a peace

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ticket, ushering in a reform era. In 1982, his administration initiated peace negotiations with guerrilla groups.9 It offered amnesty and material benefits to demobilized fighters, freedom for jailed guerrillas, a national dialogue with major political actors (including guerrilla groups), and state resources for the social movements, including those in areas with a significant guerrilla presence. Betancur coupled his peace process with support for democratic political reforms, including the direct elections of mayors. The government’s peace efforts achieved cease-fires with three of Colombia’s four main guerrilla movements (all but the ELN) as well as with a smaller guerrilla group (the Auto Defensa Obrera or Workers’ Self-Defense Group). These cease-fire agreements, however, did not require these groups to demobilize or completely disarm. One group, the FARC, designated several commanders to focus on political action, even as they remained active in the FARC leadership. In 1985, it founded a political party, the UP, which the Communist Party, other leftists, and some traditional party members quickly joined. In recently settled provinces (e.g., Caquetá, Guaviare, Putumayo, and Arauca) and regions with strong rural worker movements (e.g., Urabá), the peace processes promoted social movements and opened local spaces for leftist participation.10 By 1985, the level of violence, including guerrilla-military combat and security forces’ human rights violations against civilians, had dropped.11 Betancur’s peace negotiations, however, eventually failed. Many elite groups, especially rural ones, bitterly opposed them. High-ranking military leaders openly criticized Betancur’s peace process, refused to support it, and continued counterinsurgency actions. When security forces began attacking guerrilla members and encampments, the cease-fire agreements started to erode. In mid-1985, the M-19 and EPL renounced their agreements with the government. The peace process ended in, de facto, November 1985, when the M-19 guerrilla group took over the national Supreme Court building. The army counterattacked, rather than negotiate, killing over 100 people, including 12 Supreme Court justices and several top M-19 leaders.12 1986–1989: Mixed Signals of Reform and Backlash With diminished support for the peace process, the next president, Virgilio Barco (1986–1990), adopted a harder line with the guerrillas. While his administration still met with guerrillas and implemented decentralizing reforms (e.g., the direct election of mayors in 1988), it deemphasized allocating resources to social movements as a road to peace, pressed harder for demobilization, and devoted much less political capital to guerrilla

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negotiations than Betancur’s administration had. By the end of Barco’s term, FARC-government relations were bitter, with each side accusing the other of cease-fire violations and violence against civilians. In 1986, however, hopes for the government-FARC peace process still existed and helped the UP achieve electoral success. In the March 1986 municipal and legislative elections, its candidates, including two former FARC commanders, won five Senate seats and nine House seats in the national congress.13 The party gained 18 seats in 11 provincial legislatures and 335 seats in 187 municipal councils. It won a plurality or majority in 18 of these councils, all of which were rural. The party became the main political force in Arauca and Guaviare provinces. In May 1986, the UP’s presidential candidate, a former judge, Jaime Pardo Leal, won 4.5 percent of the national vote, the highest percentage that a leftist presidential candidate ever had won to date.14 During the 1980s, the coca economy quickly expanded and this was exploited by both the guerrillas and paramilitary forces. Almost nonexistent in the mid-1970s, coca hectares grew to approximately 16,000 in 1985 and to about 42,000 in 1989.15 Coca growing often took place in newly settled, sparsely populated areas, many with a guerrilla presence. The increase in coca cultivation made territorial control more important and provided funds to armed actors. Although the guerrillas negotiated with traffickers for better prices for coca-growers, they received “taxes” from coca farming, coca-paste production, and transportation in areas under their control. While the paramilitaries also collected “fees” from cocagrowing areas, they also received significant funds from cocaine refiners and exporters.16 Along with regional elites and sectors of security forces, drug traffickers backed and organized paramilitary groups in the 1980s.17 In the mid-1980s, the paramilitaries expanded and stepped up their violence. They were especially active in regions with a guerrilla presence or strong social movements that threatened landowners’ political power. Paramilitary violence helped fuel political homicides, which grew from 630 in 1985 to 2,007 in 1990.18 Paramilitary groups were responsible for most of these homicides and for over 80 percent of the ones against political and social movement leaders from 1988 to 1990.19 They especially targeted UP activists. By late 1986, the paramilitaries, along with security forces, had assassinated 3 UP congressmen, 1 provincial deputy, 11 city council members, 1 judge, 130 party activists, 34 supporters, and 24 guerrillas who supported the cease-fire.20 By October 1987, the UP death toll included 471 party members, 4 congresspersons, and its presidential candidate, Jaime Pardo Leal.21 One leftist candidate said, “The slogan we kept hearing was, ‘Elected on Sunday, dead on Monday.’”22

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This slogan seemed to reflect what happened in March 1988, when Colombia held its first direct mayoral elections. Assassins killed over 100 UP candidates for municipal councils and 29 of the 87 UP candidates for mayor.23 While 256 UP candidates gained municipal council positions, only 16 UP candidates won mayorships in Colombia’s 1,009 municipalities.24 The FARC responded in kind to the state’s mixed signals and activists’ killings. In a well-publicized incident in June 1987, the FARC ambushed an army convoy in southern Caquetá, killing 27 soldiers.25 The incident led to the definitive collapse of the government-FARC cease-fire agreement signed in 1984. The FARC began assassinating elites linked to paramilitary activity, even though this “solution” only intensified the violence against the noncombatant Left.26 At the same time, it continued to support social movement activism and electoral activity, although its links to social movements were not as strong as when it initially began peace talks during the Betancur administration.27 Its strategy of simultaneously supporting armed struggle and electoral/social movement participation resulted in political marginality and government officials believing they have been deceived by it.28 Because of Colombia’s low judicial prosecution rate for murders, the FARC’s approach encouraged paramilitary attacks with impunity on amnestied guerrillas, leftist candidates, and social movement activists.29 In early 1987, many amnestied FARC fighters (including its two commanders in congress) rejoined the armed struggle and the FARC withdrew its active support from the UP in 1989.30 Colombia’s first guerrilla-to-politician transition was problematic from both the Right’s and Left’s points of view. The military and elites saw the peace processes as “coddling” guerrillas and pointed to their failure to demobilize guerrilla groups. By the end of the 1980s, guerilla groups’ (especially the FARC’s and ELN’s) ranks had grown from 3,682 in 1984 to around 12,000 by 1990.31 The Left denounced Barco’s hostile responses to social movements and lamented the UP’s members’ assassinations, and the party’s short-lived electoral successes. The party’s deadly experiences would haunt subsequent peace negotiations, leftist political parties, and guerrillato-politician transitions over the next two decades. 1990–1994: The Constitutional Assembly and Smaller Groups’ Demobilization After the FARC’s strategy of “combination of all forms of struggle” failed, a bifurcation occurred within the guerrilla movement as a whole. Guerrilla groups opted for either electoral participation or continued armed

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struggle—but not both. Their chosen strategy tended to correspond to the group’s size, military strength, and, to some extent, constituency. The demobilized groups were smaller or weaker militarily; several had urban or worker-based constituencies. Conversely, many peasant-based and militarily strong groups (e.g., the FARC, the ELN, and a dissident EPL group) remained armed, eschewed electoral politics, and opted not to participate in the 1991 Constitutional Assembly. President César Gaviria (1990–1994) continued peace initiatives that Barco had begun shortly before leaving office. From 1989 to 1991, four groups (or significant parts of their membership) signed peace agreements. In the early 1990s, all the M-19 (791 members), the EPL´s main faction (2,149 fighters), all the 205-member Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores (PRT, Workers Revolutionary Party), and all the tiny (around 140 fighters) indigenous Quintín Lame (QL) group demobilized.32 The government offered the demobilized groups amnesty for political crimes, employment projects, and their groups’ spokespersons’ presence in the 1991 Constitutional Assembly. In 1994, 430 fighters from the Corriente de Renovación Socialista (CRS), a faction from the Unión Camilista-Ejército de Liberación Nacional (UC-ELN, Camilist Union-National Liberation Army) guerrilla group, laid down their arms.33 The CRS’s demobilization agreement gave it two seats in the House of Representatives, state resources and development projects in localities where they had ties to social movements (especially peasant-based ones), and the formation of special peace jurisdictions in 195 municipalities.34 Many former guerrillas went on to participate in electoral politics. In 1990, the demobilized M-19 formed a coalition with the Movimiento Democrático Colombia Unida (United Democratic Colombia), an alliance of social movements.35 Together, with members from other demobilized groups, they started the AD M-19. Paramilitaries assassinated the AD M-19’s first presidential candidate and demobilized M-19 leader, Carlos Pizarro, in April 1990.36 Pizarro’s replacement, (another demobilized M-19 chief), Antonio Navarro Wolff, denounced armed struggle and adopted a moderate, social democratic discourse, aimed at urban electorates.37 In the May 1990 presidential elections, Navarro Wolff received almost a million votes or over 12 percent of the total vote.38 The party accepted President Gaviria’s subsequent offer to head the Ministry of Health. In the December 1990 elections for Constitutional Assembly delegates, the AD M-19 received almost 27 percent of the vote and won 19 seats, making it the second largest group in the assembly after the Liberal Party.39 The AD M-19 formed a coalition with other delegate blocs, including the Unión

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Cristiana (Christian Union) and the Movimiento de Salvación Nacional (National Salvation Movement), led by a well-known Conservative, Álvaro Gómez. With AD M-19 backing, the constitutional assembly passed significant democratic initiatives, including direct elections of governors, election of senators by national proportional representation, due process protections for citizens in war zones, a new ballot designed to impede votebuying, and ground-breaking cultural, political, and land rights for indigenous and Afro-Colombian groups (including guaranteed congressional seats for these groups).40 The AD M-19’s alliances during its stint in the constitutional assembly and their participation in the Gaviria administration when it began implementing unpopular neoliberal “reforms,” however, cost them their oppositional identity and distanced them from their base. Along with internal party divisions, the perception of the AD M-19 as being too conciliatory with traditional political groups had negative effects at the ballot box.41 In the October 1991 congressional elections, the AD M-19 gained only 9.4 percent of the national vote for senators and a little over 10 percent of the vote for representatives’ seats.42 Nine AD M-19 members (including Vera Grabe, a demobilized M-19 guerrilla), however, did win Senate positions and 13 AD M-19 candidates secured House seats. In the March 1994 legislative elections, the party merely received 2.6 percent of the national vote and only held onto one Senate and two House seats.43 Several months later, the AD M-19 presidential candidate, Antonio Navarro Wolff, received only 3.8 percent of the total vote in the May 1994 elections.44 Although the EPL pursued a different path from the M-19, it also made pacts with elite segments. Some disbanded EPL members joined the AD M-19 and successfully ran as that party’s candidates, including two AD M-19 senators in 1991. Others retained their separate identity as EPL members and formed a political party, called Esperanza, Paz, y Libertad (maintaining the EPL acronym) or Hope, Peace and Liberty. To avoid the UP’s fate, many EPL members who stayed in the rural areas such as Urabá negotiated pacts with local paramilitary groups. The FARC and the still-active EPL dissident group, however, accused former EPL fighters of being traitors and assassins began killing them.45 Two years after their demobilization, almost 200 Esperanza, Paz, y Libertad members had been killed.46 The still-active guerrillas’ accusations became a self-fulfilling prophecy when EPL members sought military and paramilitary protection. In some cases, they even became full-fledged paramilitary members. The QL guerrilla movement took another course. The group had close ties to the indigenous Nasa community (known for its well-organized, militant struggles to recover land from large estate owners in the

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Cauca province). Many demobilized QL fighters joined indigenous social movements, including the newly founded Movimiento Alianza Social Indígena (ASI, Indigenous Social Alliance Movement).47 With middle-class support and two Senate seats guaranteed to indigenous Colombians by the new constitution, ASI (and its demobilized QL members) achieved a guerrillas-to-politicians transition that allowed them to be both faithful to their rural base and electorally successful.48 In 1991, ASI won one at-large Senate seat (along with gaining one of the two Senate seats reserved for indigenous Colombians), and, in 1992, it secured 38 municipal council positions and one provincial legislative seat.49 The party gained 8 mayorships, 127 municipal council positions, and 6 provincial legislative seats in 1994.50 Like other leftist movements, however, ASI members risked being killed. Armed actors assassinated hundreds of indigenous leaders in the 1990s, including several ASI mayors.51 On December 1992, 50–60 gunmen massacred 20 rural Nasa land occupiers at El Nilo ranch in Caloto, Cauca.52 The CRS’s ballot box experiences reflected its later demobilization date. The CRS tried to compete locally and replicate the AD M-19’s electoral experiences.53 Unlike the AD M-19, the CRS had few urban and national alliances and never achieved significant electoral successes. Like other demobilized groups, it also suffered attacks. During the negotiation process, assassins killed 118 CRS members and 6 more during the following year.54 Although the PRT received a seat in the constitutional assembly, it did not become a political party. Former PRT members joined the AD M-19, participated in regional politics, or worked with human rights or peace movements, especially in the departments of Sucre and Bolívar.55 Their 1994 Senate candidate, who ran as part of the AD M-19, was not elected. Although paramilitaries and security forces killed many demobilized guerrillas, they targeted UP members more often. For example, from 1991 to 1994, 18 AD M-19 leaders were killed, as opposed to the 83 UP leaders.56 In 1990, paramilitaries killed the UP presidential candidate, Bernardo Jaramillo.57 Keeping in mind security concerns, party leaders did not replace him with another candidate. By 1993, security forces or paramilitaries had killed 1,163 UP members and “disappeared” another 1,234 party activists.58 In March 1990, the UP fractured and six of its nine national council members resigned their posts.59 Even though most UP leaders refrained from openly disparaging the FARC, several national UP principals (who the press dubbed as “perestroikos”) publicly criticized the FARC and advocated its total demobilization.

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The assassinations and the internal divisions undermined the UP at the ballot box. In the 1991 congressional elections, one UP candidate won a Senate seat and three UP members gained representative positions.60 In the 1994 congressional elections, only one UP candidate, Manuel Cepeda, secured a congressional seat.61 Soon after the 1994 elections, however, paramilitaries killed this sole UP senator.62 Although the Gaviria administration oversaw guerrilla peace agreements and the constitutional assembly, it simultaneously waged war on active guerrilla groups. Security forces bombarded the FARC’s national headquarters, “Casa Verde,” in December 1990.63 The military’s attack was symbolic because Casa Verde had been a site for peace negotiations in the 1980s and the attacks took place on the same day as the constitutional assembly elections. In late 1992, after several prominent guerrilla attacks and failed government attempts at negotiation with the FARC, ELN, and dissident EPL group, army officials confronted Gaviria with concerns that his government was too “soft.”64 Soon after that, he declared a full-scale war on guerrilla groups, removed legal impediments to counterinsurgency efforts, suspended parts of the new constitution, and declared a “state of internal unrest” (equivalent to a “state of siege”).65 As the possibilities for a negotiated peace with guerrilla groups became more remote, combat levels climbed. Guerrilla-military combat fatalities rose from an annual average of 520 in 1986–1989, to 1,720 in 1990–1993.66 Thus, as in the 1980s, the Colombian government in the early 1990s negotiated peace agreements with one guerrilla group at a time, rather than simultaneously with all of them. This tactic divided these groups into “good guerillas” and “bad guerrillas,” with state discourses emphasizing peace with some and war against others. From 1990 to 1994, five guerrilla groups demobilized. Many former guerrillas joined legal parties, especially the AD M-19. Accommodationist agendas and internal divisions, however, ultimately sabotaged the party’s electoral success. The two largest guerrilla movements (the FARC and ELN) did not turn in their arms and Colombia’s internal conflict continued.67 1995–2002: Failed Peace Talks and Accelerated Armed Conflict Despite President Ernesto Samper’s (1994–1998) promises to initiate dialogues with guerrilla groups, he made little progress toward peace. During the mid-1990s, Colombia returned to a situation similar to the pre-Betancur reform period: a full-scale confrontation between the military and the

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guerrillas, few peace initiatives, and a weak legal, electoral Left. This time, though, paramilitary groups were present, the guerrilla groups were more powerful, and the illegal drug trade helped fuel the conflict. Throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, the armed actors’ numbers and violence grew. In 1997, paramilitary groups unified in a national confederation, Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (AUC, United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia). From 1997 to 2000, the paramilitaries more than doubled in size, growing from a little less than 4,000 to over 8,000.68 Guerrilla fighters increased their numbers from 14,000 to 22,000 from 1996 to 2000.69 The guerrillas and the paramilitaries brutally competed for territorial control, especially in regions with illegal drug crops, natural resources, or strategic transportation routes.70 While the guerrillas committed numerous killings and most of the kidnappings, the paramilitaries were responsible for most massacres, noncombatant deaths, and forced disappearances inthe late 1990s and early 2000s.71 Guerrilla kidnappings rose from 710 (July 1996–June 1997) to 1,933 (July 2001–June 2002).72 Paramilitary extrajudicial executions, killings of street people, and disappearances grew from 1,378 (July 1996–June 1997), to 1,882 (July 2001–June 2002).73 From July 1996 to June 2001, the paramilitaries were responsible for 66 percent of the massacres.74 The expansion of coca and opium poppy cultivation fueled the armed actors’ growth and violence. In the mid-1990s, Colombia overtook Peru and Bolivia to become the world’s largest coca cultivating county.75 Opium poppy cultivation and the heroin industry emerged in the 1990s. Paramilitary and guerrilla (especially the FARC) groups’ income swelled as coca- or opium poppy-growing areas spread.76 Hectares with coca cultivation increased from 37,100 in 1992 to 160,119 in 1999 while hectares with opium poppies grew from nothing in 1990 to 6,500 in 1999.77 Paramilitary groups also continued their direct participation in the more lucrative parts of the illegal drug trade, cocaine and heroin processing, and exporting.78 Although military expenditures increased from 2.16 percent of the GNP in 1996 to 3.5 percent in 1999, the armed forces could not contain the guerrillas’ military expansion.79 From 1996 to 1999, the FARC handed them several stinging defeats, including a 1996 takeover of the Las Delicias military base in Caquetá province. The guerrillas killed 27 soldiers and held 60 other soldiers hostage, releasing them almost a year later.80 Following these defeats, Pastrana won the presidency (1998–2002), promising peace talks, and soon after his election, he began negotiating with the guerrillas. His administration agreed to the FARC’s demands, including a demilitarized zone (zona de despeje) to hold the peace talks.

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Although the U.S. press usually described the zona de despeje as “Switzerland-sized,” it covered only five sparsely populated municipalities in southern Colombia.81 Despite opposition from military and antireformist elites, formal peace negotiations between the FARC and the government began in 1999. The peace talks, however, wore on while guerrilla attacks and kidnappings multiplied. In 2000, Pastrana announced his support for Plan Colombia, an antinarcotics package with significant U.S. funding (mostly going to the Colombian military) and counterinsurgency elements.82 The plan focused on aerially fumigating illegal drug crops and eliminating the FARC’s presence in Southern Colombia. In early 2002, after three years of negotiations and mutual recriminations, Pastrana terminated the peace negotiations and ordered the FARC out of the demilitarized zone. From 1999 to 2002, Colombia’s other active guerrilla group, the ELN, reversed its mid-1990 expansion and began to militarily weaken as paramilitaries assaulted many of its strongholds (e.g., Barrancabermeja). It intermittently met with the Pastrana administration, which agreed to establish a demobilized zone for the talks in 2000. Soon after, however, paramilitary groups helped organize local protests and road blockades that, along with military opposition, eliminated the possibility of an ELN demilitarized zone. Since then, despite several meetings, the ELN and the government have failed to finalize any concrete peace talks. Meanwhile, as the FARC expanded and the peace talks broke down, the electoral Left splintered and faltered. In 1997, after several years of inactivity, the AD M-19 held a national conference in a failed attempt to revive the party.83 In 1998, the AD M-19 won only 0.15 percent of the presidential vote and 0.3 percent of the vote for the Senate vote, gaining no Senate seats.84 In the same elections, two former M-19 and AD M-19 leaders, Antonio Navarro Wolff and Gustavo Petro Urrego, won House seats, but ran on a ticket from a newly formed alliance of social movements, called the Movimiento Vía Alterna (Alternate Way Movement).85 The Left further fractured when trade unionists, academics, former UP members, and social movement members began the Frente Social y Político (FSP, Social and Political Front) in 2000. Other demobilized guerrillas and their parties also faced problems. In 1996, paramilitaries, security forces, or active guerrillas threatened and killed demobilized PRT, EPL, and CRS members in Sucre province. From January–August 1997, 23 CRS members and 16 Esperanza, Paz, y Libertad members were assassinated.86 In the 1997 local and provincial elections, all the PRT’s candidates were murdered and not replaced. In the same elections, the CRS withdrew its candidates from races in three provinces due to

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death threats and killing of its members by paramilitaries and the FARC. Although Esperanza, Paz, y Libertad members running on the AD M-19 ticket won several mayoral and city council races in 1997, EPL, PRT, and CRS candidates were unsuccessful in the 1998 Senate elections.87 The CRS, PRT, and EPL did not achieve significant electoral successes in the 1990s and 2000s, but many of their members worked in social movements, especially at the local and regional levels. The UP killings did not abate and the party continued to feel their effects. By 2000, the UP had only 2 mayors, 30 council members, and 4 provincial representatives.88 In 2002, the UP lost its personería jurídica or legal recognition as a party because it did not have the requisite 50,000 votes and an elected congressional representative in an election. By early 2004, assassins had killed 3,000 UP members.89 Ironically, the Left’s overall failure created the one bright spot in the guerrillas-to-politicians transition during this period as “ethnic parties expanded in the space abandoned by a discouraged and demoralized [L]eft.”90 ASI increased its number of municipal councilors from 127 in 1994 to 200 in 1997, won the first governorship for the Left and an indigenous party in 1997, and in 1998 successfully elected two candidates to congressional House seats, one indigenous-jurisdiction senator, and one atlarge senator.91 In the 2000 municipal and provincial elections, independent candidates, many of them indigenous, received approximately 2 million votes.92 That year, ASI candidates won 11 mayorships, 8 provincial deputy seats, and 146 local councilships.93 In 2000, independent candidates won four governorships in Southern Colombia, including Colombia’s first indigenous governor, Floro Tunubalá, who won in Cauca with backing from ASI and the Autoridades Indígenas de Colombia (AICO, Indigenous Authorities of Colombia).94 In the late 1990s, ASI, however, became divided internally. Francisco Rojas Birry, an ASI national senator elected in 1998, led a breakaway faction from ASI shortly before the 2000 elections, and successfully ran as candidate for the regionally based indigenous group, Movimiento Huella Ciudana or Citizen Path Movement.95 This breakaway group included many former QL guerrillas. Hence, government-FARC peace negotiations failed again and talks with the weakened ELN did not even begin. Downplaying democratic reforms and resources for social movements and emphasizing demilitarized zones for talks and demobilization, Pastrana’s negotiation strategy differed from Betancur’s in the 1980s. During the 1995–2002 period, the FARC and paramilitaries increased their size and military activity. The former now emphasized territorial military expansion rather than social movement

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strategies.96 As in the 1980s and early 1990s, assassins, many of them paramilitaries, continued to kill UP members. Unlike these earlier periods, the electoral Left (with the exception of an ethnic party, ASI) achieved few electoral successes, becoming even further divided. 2003–mid-2006: Uribe’s Rise and the Left’s Resurgence As guerrilla kidnappings continued to increase and their highway blockades prevented urban Colombians’ intermunicipal travel by car, key segments of the middle class and elites started demanding hard-line solutions. In 2002, a rightist, Álvaro Uribe, won the presidency, promising to militarily defeat the guerrillas. Although the first Uribe administration (2002– 2006) did not attain this goal, guerrilla kidnappings and road blockings did diminish, and urban Colombians were able to venture outside of the cities.97 Along with the economy’s recovery after the late-1990s and early2000s recession, these gains buoyed Uribe’s political standing, especially among the middle classes and elites, and allowed him to push through a constitutional amendment in 2004 that would allow for reelection of a president.98 The first Uribe administration oversaw the highly publicized paramilitary demobilizations. In late 2002, AUC declared a cease-fire and, in 2003, met with government officials in Santa Fe de Ralito, Córdoba, to discuss disarming. The 2005 Uribe-endorsed “Peace and Justice Law” granted generous conditions to demobilized paramilitaries. These included minimal punishment for offenses (including murder and drug trafficking), protection from extradition to the United States, and no requirement to reveal information about paramilitary groups’ past crimes, organizations, or financial support. In mid-2006, the government announced that the paramilitary demobilizations had succeeded with 41,026 paramilitary fighters having turned in their arms.99 Critics, however, decried the law’s lenient punishments.100 They critiqued its failure to dismantle paramilitary organizational structures, amnesty for drug traffickers from jail time in Colombia or the United States, and the paramilitaries’ retention of political, economic, and military control of much of the country, especially in northern Colombia and the Atlantic Coast. Uribe’s antiguerrilla security policies also were scrutinized. In 2003, with U.S. support and funding, Uribe started Plan Patriota or the Patriotic Plan, emphasizing aerial fumigation of illegal crops and military takeovers of FARC-controlled areas in Southern Colombia (especially in the former

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despeje zone). These policies often trampled on the civil liberties of civilians in the war zones. Security forces jailed suspected insurgents without due process, paid citizen informers, and, often, did not distinguish between guerrilla fighters and noncombatants when implementing these policies.101 These factors led to a backlash that eventually helped the Left in the 2003 elections. Along with a backlash against Uribe’s policies and the aerial fumigation, the weakening of traditional parties, the economic recession of the late 1990s and early 2000s, the resurgence of social movements and the legal Left’s abandonment of the “combination of all forms of struggle” doctrine, combined to help the Left electorally.102 Inspired by the independent candidates’ successes in the 2000 elections, Luis Eduardo (“Lucho”) Garzón, the former president of Colombia’s largest labor federation, and nine congresspersons (including former M-19 members Navarro Wolff and Petro Urrego) helped start the Polo Democrático (PD, Democratic Pole) movement in 2002. Drawing on his labor base and having a former M-19 guerrilla, Vera Grabe, as his vice-presidential candidate, Garzón, the PD-supported presidential candidate, received 6 percent of the national vote in 2002.103 In the fall 2003 elections, minus a breakaway faction, the PD regrouped as the Polo Democrático Independiente (PDI, Independent Democratic Pole) party, and won several important victories, including Bogotá’s mayorship and 10 departmental assembly seats.104 Momentum from the Left’s electoral victories, a 2003 law doing away with small parties, and opposition to Uribe united Colombia’s fractious Left for the first time since the early 1980s (when another hard-line president, Julio César Turbay Ayala, was in power).105 In late 2005, almost all the Left (including the Rojas Birry breakaway faction from ASI) united to form the PDA party. In the 2006 legislative elections, the PDA won 4 representative seats and 11 Senate seats, receiving over 10 percent of the vote.106 In the 2006 presidential elections (when 55% of the Colombian electorate abstained from voting), Uribe won reelection with 62 percent of the vote.107 The second-highest vote earner was the PDA presidential candidate, Carlos Gaviria, who received 2,608,914 votes (over 22%), a historic high for the Colombian Left. He had significant support in many cities and several rural areas, many which did not have major guerrilla presence. Despite these successes, the PDA has had to contend with death threats (including ones against former M-19 leader and current PDA senator, Gustavo Petro Urrego) and their members’ killings.108 Although activists with no guerrilla affiliation vastly outnumber demobilized guerrillas in the PDA leadership, the conservative press and columnists have labeled the

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PDA as “camouflaged communists” or “guerrilla terrorists,” maintaining cold war binary views of “either you are with us or the guerrillas.”109 As the UP experience demonstrates, these labels can have deadly consequences. In sum, the period 2002–2006 had contradictory trends. While the national government was rightist, growing criticism of its leniency with the paramilitaries, fumigation policies, and disregard for civil liberties helped cement the electoral Left’s unity and success. By cultivating broad alliances and avoiding the problems of “combination of all forms of struggle,” the PDA managed to avoid the UP’s fate of extermination and political marginalization.110 When the PDA announced shortly after the 2006 presidential election that it would reject any offer to be part of Uribe’s governing coalition and intended to form a shadow cabinet, the PDA made it clear that the party did not want to repeat the AD M-19’s experiences of cooptation in the 1990s.111 Conclusions This chapter has analyzed almost 25 years of attempts to end Colombian insurgencies via peace talks, demobilizations, and guerrilla-to-politician transitions, and their legacies for Colombian leftist parties. The initial experiment in guerrilla-to-politicians transitions, the mid-1980s peace processes, was unsuccessful in two respects. First, although Betancourt’s democratic reforms and government assistance to social movements had important, long-lasting results, his attempts to negotiate an end to guerrilla insurgencies eventually failed. Second, after a short period of electoral success, the FARC’s attempts to transition into a political party, the UP, were unsuccessful. Its “combination of all forms of struggle” strategy produced electoral marginality, and the resulting deadly attacks on amnestied guerrillas, UP candidates, and social movement activists were tolerated, de facto, by the government. The next attempt at guerrilla-to-politicians transitions, the 1990–1994 demobilizations, had mixed results. On the one hand, they did not include the ELN, the FARC, and an EPL faction, who carried on their insurgencies. On the other hand, this time, the government insisted on demobilizations rather than cease-fires as negotiations’ end point. Five guerrilla groups (or segments of them) laid down their arms and made the long-term transition to politicians. Before internal divisions and the perception of being too conciliatory with elite segments took their toll, one party, the AD M-19, founded by the demobilized M-19 members, had astounding short-term

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electoral successes and substantial input in rewriting Colombia’s constitution. In the 1990s, while individual members from demobilized groups joined the AD M-19, specific groups’ fates varied. The tiny QL indigenous guerrilla group had one of the more successful transitions to politician experiences. Many of its demobilized members joined ASI, which, before splitting in 2000, achieved notable electoral victories in the 1990s. Since the split, the demobilized QL fighters and their allies have continued to achieve electoral success via PDA senator Francisco Rojas Birry. Demobilized EPL, CRS, and PRT fighters, however, did not fare so well, failing to achieve widespread electoral success. Active insurgencies labeled them as traitors and, along with paramilitaries, killed many of them. Overall, Colombia’s attempts at peace negotiations, demobilizations, and transition from guerrillas to politicians have had varied results. Despite attempts at negotiations, the FARC and ELN remain active insurgencies. Because Uribe aims to defeat them militarily, their transition to unarmed politicians seems distant. The UP lost its recognition as a political party and assassinations decimated its ranks. Although many demobilized fighters from the 1990s joined the PDA, they are a minority within the party. Some demobilized guerrillas (e.g., Antonio Navarro Wolff and Gustavo Petro Urrego), however, are visible party leaders or held congressional seats. These “guerrillas-to-politicians” transitions offer the following lessons. First, even though security forces and armed actors threatened or assassinated UP members as well as ex-guerrillas who demobilized in the 1990s, UP members, who ran for office while the FARC remained an active insurgency, were more likely to be killed than the latter who demobilized all at one time. Also, in the 1990s, the demobilized guerrillas avoided government accusations of treachery. During the mid-1980s peace processes, the FARC did not formally demobilize its membership before engaging in political action and forming the UP. Rural elites, threatened by both the FARC and UP, helped form and back paramilitary groups who, along with security forces, assassinated many UP members. Furthermore, when the FARC commanders returned to combat and the military-FARC conflict resumed, government officials felt deceived. In the 1990s, even though paramilitary, security force, and guerrilla violence hit demobilized guerrillas (especially Esperanza, Paz, y Libertad, the PRT, and the CRS) hard, they were less likely to be murdered than UP members. The government considered these guerrilla demobilizations to be successful and officials did not feel betrayed.

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Second, in the long run, ex-guerrillas were the most stable and successful at the ballot box when they joined broad-based coalitions in which they are a minority. In the 1990s, many ex-QL members joined ASI, an electorally successful coalition which cultivated alliances with urban and middle-class constituencies, along with rural ones.112 Colombia’s most successful leftist party since 1982, the PDA, had a significant participation from demobilized guerrillas, but the majority of its members came from never-armed groups. The PDA has built broad-based alliances with other leftist political parties, social movements, and many labor unions. Third, demobilized guerrillas have been most likely to thrive electorally over time when elite allies have been subordinate within a coalition or party and the ties to oppositional social movements are sufficiently strong to prevent the loss of their oppositional agenda. In contrast to the AD M-19 in the 1990s, the PDA has avoided overt alliances with traditional parties or elites, maintaining close ties to peace, women’s, and labor movements. Unlike many other South American countries in 2006, Colombia has not elected a leftist government, despite the PDA’s success. In large part, this has been due to the armed insurgency’s persistence. The guerrilla’s strong presence fueled many upper- and middle-class Colombians’ fears and has allowed the “guerrilla terrorist” label to be applied freely to leftist political parties building support for right-wing solutions. In some Latin American cases (e.g. Mexico) where guerrilla movements are strong but do not pose a significant national military threat, a prolonged “mixed signals” stage may result. This stage includes human rights violations coinciding with reformist social movements and leftist electoral gains. In most cases, this ambiguous mixed signals stage is not sustainable over the long-term. It will “resolve” itself toward either peaceful democratization or a rapid descent into counterreform and war. Like Peru in the 1980s and early 1990s, the latter seems to have taken place in Colombia over the past 25 years. In both cases, powerful armed insurgencies gained strength, provoking first “dirty war,” then a de jure reversal of democratic reforms, and an attempt (mostly successful in Peru but not Colombia) to defeat the insurgency militarily. In other South American countries (e.g., Chile and Argentina during their transitions to democracy in the 1980s), the lack of threat from insurgencies (who no longer presented a serious menace to elites after years of dictatorship) facilitated peaceful reform. In Colombia, however, guerrillas still maintain considerable regional strength, threatening elites (especially rural ones). In the Colombian context, a negotiated solution may be the only route to peace. If such a resolution does not come out of a powerful leftist electoral

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mandate or out of international mediation (e.g., the Salvadoran and Guatemalan cases in the early 1990s), it may arise only after both sides have grown weary of fighting and many more civilian Colombians have gotten caught in its deadly cross-fire. Notes 1. Romero discusses how peace negotiations have produced backlashes: Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas 1982–2003 (Bogotá, Colombia: IEPRI and Editorial Planeta Colombiana, 2003). 2. Adam Isacson, “La seguridad: ¿Una debilidad electoral para Uribe?” El Espectador, March 27, 2005 (June 2, 2006). 3. This article is based on more than 18 years of fieldwork and interviews by the two authors. In 1992–1993, Carroll conducted extensive fieldwork in rural areas of Colombia that had leftist mayors, with follow-up interviews in 1995 and 2005. In 2006, Wilson spent six months in Bogotá, Colombia, interviewing PDA leaders and activists and former members of demobilized groups from the 1990s. She observed major PDA events and the 2006 presidential elections. 4. Cesar A. Rodríguez Garavito, “La nueva izquierda colombiana: orígenes, características y perspectivas” in La nueva izquierda en América Latina: Sus orígenes y trayectoria futura, ed. Cesar A. Rodríguez Garavito, Patrick S. Barreto, and Daniel Chavez ( Bogotá, Colombia: Grupo Editorial Norma, 2004), pp. 191–238. 5. Jonathan Hartlyn, “Colombia: The Politics of Violence and Accommodation” in Democracy in Developing Countries, Vol. 4, Latin America, ed. Larry Diamond, Juan J. Linz, and Seymour Martin Lipset (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1989), pp. 290–334. In Colombia, municipal governments function both as city and county governments. So, Colombian mayors’ responsibilities include those of county executives and mayors. 6. Hartlyn, “Colombia.” 7. For an estimate of deaths during La Violencia see Marc Chernick, “Negotiating Peace amid Multiple Forms of Violence: The Protracted Search for a Settlement to the Armed Conflicts in Colombia” in Comparative Peace Processes in Latin America, ed. Cynthia J. Arnson (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999), pp. 297–318. 8. The qualitative details about the guerrilla groups’ histories are from Eduardo Pizarro, “Revolutionary Guerrilla Groups in Colombia” in Violence in Colombia: The Contemporary Crisis in Historical Perspective, ed. Charles Bergquist, Ricardo Peñaranda, and Gonzalo Sánchez (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 1992), pp. 169–194; Rodríguez Garavito,“La nueva izquierda colombiana.” Estimates of the groups’ sizes during the 1980s are rare. Our figures are from the Ministerio de Gobierno de Colombia, “Política de paz del Presidente Betancur.

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10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

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PAZ. La paz es un derecho pero también es un deber,” April 1985, p. 2, courtesy Marc Chernick. Our discussion of the 1980s government-guerrilla negotiations draws on Marc W. Chernick, “Negotiated Settlement to Armed Conflict: Lessons from the Colombian Peace Process,” Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs 30, 4 (Winter 1988–1989), pp 53–88 and Chernick, “Negotiating Peace.” Carroll, Leah. “Backlash against Peasant Gains in Rural Democratization: The Experience of Leftist County Executives in Colombia, 1988–1990,” Berkeley Journal of Sociology 39 (1994–1995), pp. 133–187. Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas, p. 29. See Chernick, “Negotiating Peace,” p. 176. Data and information about the March 1986 elections are from Constanza Vieira, “Film Documents ‘Red Dance’ of Annihilation,” Inter Press Service, January 24, 2004 and Registraduría Nacional del Estado Civil (Bogotá). (Municipal Council Elections, 1986) and Chernick “Negotiated Settlement,” p. 75. See Registraduría (Presidential Elections, 1986) for number of votes for Jaime Pardo Leal. For coca hectares’ estimates, see Jaime Eduardo Jaramillo, Leonidas Mora, and Fernando Cubides, Colonización, coca y guerrilla, second edition (Bogotá, Colombia: Alianza Editorial Colombiana, 1989), p. 103 and and Ministerio de Defensa figures presented in Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas, p. 103. Bruce Michael Bagley, “Drug Trafficking, Political Violence and U.S. Policy in Colombia in the 1990s,” Colombia in Context Working Papers, 2001, (June 17, 2006). Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas. See Comisión Colombiana de Juristas’ figures about political homicides, cited in Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas, p. 90 Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas, p. 90, presents Comisión Colombiana de Juristas’ political homicide statistics. We calculated the 80 percent statistic from Presidencia de la República data, presented in Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas, p. 92. See Vieira, “Film Documents,” for number of UP assassinations by late 1986. See Facts on File World News Digest. “UP[´s] President Assassinated,” Facts on File World News Digest, October 16, 1987 for UP assassinations by October 1987. Alan Riding, “Colombian Voting Marred by Political Killings,” New York Times, March 15, 1988. See Riding, “Colombian Voting” for UP death tolls in the March 1988 elections. See Registraduría (Municipal Council and Mayoral Elections, 1988) for UP electoral results. See Jaramillo et al., Colonización, p. 218 for number of soldiers killed.

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26. Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas. 27. Eduardo Pizarro, “Revolutionary Guerrilla Groups in Colombia,” pp. 169–194. 28. The Colombian Communist Party also endorsed the simultaneous use of various tactics—armed struggle, electoral action, and social movement activity. The party referred to this as the “combination of all forms of struggle,” or in this volume’s terms, “guerrillas and politicians” rather than “guerrillas to politicians.” 29. See Steven Dudley, Walking Ghosts: Murder and Guerrilla Politics in Colombia (New York: Routledge, 2004), p. 187 for a discussion of Colombia’s low judicial prosecution rate. 30. Dudley, Walking Ghosts, pp. 94–95. 31. See Ministerio de Gobierno, “Política de paz del Presidente Betancur,” p. 12 for 1984 guerrilla figures and Ministerio de Defensa figures cited by Cynthia Arnson, “Summary of Conference Presentation by Alberto Chueca Mora” in The Social and Economic Dimensions of Conflict and Peace in Colombia, ed. Cynthia J. Arnson, Latin American Program Special Report (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, 2004) for 1990 guerrilla figures. 32. See Comisión de la Superación de la Violencia, Pacificar la paz: lo que no se ha negociado en los acuerdos de paz (Bogotá, Colombia: IEPRI, CINEP, Comisión Andina de Juristas, and CECOIN, 1992) and Jaime Zuluaga Nieto, “De guerrillas a movimientos políticos (Análisis de la experiencia colombiana: El caso del M-19)” in De las armas a la política, ed. Ricardo Peñaranda and Javier Guerrero (Bogotá, Colombia: Tercer Mundo Editores and IEPRI, 1999), pp. 33, 43 for demobilized guerrilla numbers. 33. In addition to the 430 fighters, 200 jailed CRS members and another 200 unarmed CRS members participated in the demobilization process. See EFE News Agency, “Socialist renewal current signs agreement with government, lays down weapons,” EFE News Agency, April 9, 1994 for number of demobilized CRS members. 34. Cristina Escobar, Clientelism, Mobilization, and Citizenship: Peasant Politics in Sucre, Colombia. Doctoral dissertation (San Diego: University of California, 1998), pp. 420–432. 35. Lawrence Boudon, “Colombia’s M-19 Democratic Alliance: A Case Study in New-Party Self-Destruction,” Latin American Perspectives 28, 1 (2001), p. 75. 36. Mauricio Aranguren, Mi confesión: Carlos Castaño revela sus secretos (Bogotá, Colombia: La Oveja Negra, 2001). 37. Nieto, “De guerrillas a movimientos políticos,” pp. 1–74. 38. See Registraduría Nacional del Estado Civil (Presidential Elections, 1990) for votes for Navarro Wolff. 39. See Registraduría Nacional del Estado Civil data cited in Boudon, “Colombia’s M-19 Democratic Alliance,” p. 78, for December 1990 elections. 40. Marc W. Chernick, and Michael F. Jiménez, “Popular Liberalism, Radical Democracy, and Marxism: Leftist Politics in Contemporary Colombia,

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44. 45. 46. 47.

48.

49.

50. 51. 52.

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1974–1991” in The Latin American Left: From the Fall of Allende to Perestroika, ed. Steve Ellner (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1993), p. 75. Boudon, “Columbia’s M-19 Democratic Alliance.” October 1991 election data is from Registraduría (Senate, House of Representatives, and Gubernatorial Elections, 1991). For March 1994 election data, see Boudon, “Columbia’s M-19 Democratic Alliance,” p. 79 and Registraduría Nacional del Estado Civil (Senate and House of Representative Elections, March 1994). For May 1994 election data, see Registraduría Nacional del Estado Civil (Presidential Elections, 1994). See Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensa, pp. 178–179 for a discussion of demobilized EPL members and their fate in rural areas such as Urabá. For number of demobilized EPL members killed, see Uribe figures cited in Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensa, p. 150. In 1991, Quintín Lame, a regional indigenous social movement (the Consejo Regional Indígena de Cauca or Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca), and local nonindigenous organizations founded ASI, see Donna van Cott, From Movements to Parties in Latin America: The Evolution of Ethnic Politics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005). Virginia Laurent, Comunidades indígenas, espacios políticos y movilización electoral en Colombia, 1990–1998: Motivaciones, campos de acción e impactos (Bogotá, Colombia: ICANH, 2005). See Boudon, “Columbia’s M-19 Democratic Alliance,” p. 40 and van Cott, From Movements to Parties, pp. 201–207 for ASI electoral data in 1991 and 1992. See van Cott , From Movements to Parties, pp. 201–207 for ASI 1994 electoral data. See van Cott, From Movements to Parties, p. 207 for ASI members’ killings. Latin America Weekly Report, “Killing of Indians Prompts Land Vow: New Landgrabbing Move by the Drug Traffickers,” Latin America Weekly Report, February 13, 1992, p. 10 discusses the El Nilo ranch massacre. Fernando Hernández Valencia, “La búsqueda del socialismo democrático,” in El regreso de los rebeldes: de la furia de las armas a los pactos, la crítica, y la esperanza, ed. Luís Eduardo Celis and Hernán Darío Correa (Bogotá, Colombia: CEREC and Corporación Arco Iris, 2005), pp. 62, 66. CRS member quoted in Escobar, Clientelism, Mobilization, and Citizenship, pp. 389–399 and pp. 420–432. For a discussion of demobilized PRT members’ electoral participation and PRT electoral results, see Vera Grabe, “Peace processes 1990–1994,” Accord: An International Review of Peace Initiatives 14 (2004), (3 July 2006), Eduardo Pizarro, “Las terceras fuerzas en Colombia hoy: entre la fragmentación y la impotencia,” in De las armas a la política, ed. Ricardo Peñaranda, and Javier Guerrero (Bogota, Colombia: Tercer Mundo Editores and Instituto de Estudios Políticos y Relaciones Internacionales, IEPRI), 1999 and Chernick; “Negotiating Peace.”

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56. See Consejería Presidencial para la Paz figures in Departamento Nacional de Planeación. La paz: El desafío para el desarrollo (Bogotá, Colombia: Tercer Mundo Editores, 1998), p. 77 for numbers of killed AD M-19 and UP members. 57. Aranguren, Mi Confesión. 58. See Vieira, “Film Documents” for numbers of assassinated UP members. 59. See Dudley, Walking Ghosts for a discussion of internal UP divisions. 60. Registraduría Nacional del Estado (Senate, House of Representatives, and Gubernatorial Elections, 1991) lists UP electoral results in 1991. 61. See Registraduría Nacional del Estado (Senate and House of Representative Elections, March, 1994) for UP electoral results in 1994. 62. Aranguren, Mi Confesión. 63. Latin America Weekly Report, “Raid on Casa Verde,” Latin America Weekly Report, December 27, 1990. 64. Chernick, “Negotiating Peace.” 65. The “state of internal unrest” decree permitted the president to enact measures without legislative approval, to remove governors and mayors suspected of supporting guerrillas, and to restrict the media. See Maria Isabel Garcia, “Labor, Leftist Parties Oppose State of Emergency,” Inter Press Service, November 9, 1992 for a discussion of the “state of internal unrest.” 66. For numbers of guerrilla-military combat fatalities, see Ministerio de Defensa statistics cited by Nazih Richani, Systems of Violence: The Political Economy of War and Peace in Colombia (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2002 ), p. 46. 67. The EPL dissident faction’s numbers and strength diminished in the 1990s, especially after 1994 when the government imprisoned its leader, Francisco Caraballo, see Grabe, “Peace Process.” 68. See Ministerio de Defensa, presented in Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas, p. 101 for paramilitary numbers. 69. For guerrilla numbers, see Ministerio de Defensa figures, cited in Arnson, “Summary of Presentation by Alberto Chueca Mora,” pp. 2–9. 70. Suzanne Wilson, “Terrains of Fear: A Comparison of the Colombian Paramilitaries (1997–2002) with the Argentine Death Squads (1976–1983),” unpublished manuscript, 2006. 71. U.S. Department of State, Colombia Country Report on Human Rights Practices for 2001, (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor, March 4, 2002) (June 11, 2003) 72. See Comisión Colombiana de Juristas, Garantías en creciente ausencia: situación de derechos humanos y derecho humanitario en Colombia, 1997–2003 (Bogotá, Colombia: Comisión Colombiana de Juristas, 2003), pp. 80–81 for guerrilla kidnappings. 73. See Comisión Colombiana de Juristas, pp. 30–31 for paramilitary killings. 74. See Comisión Colombiana de Juristas, p. 25 for paramilitary massacres. 75. Bagley, “Drug Trafficking.” 76. Richani, Systems of Violence.

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77. See Dirección Nacional de Estupefacientes, “Observatorio de Drogas,” (June 24, 2006) for coca and opium poppy hectares. 78. Bagley, “Drug Trafficking” and Richani, Systems of Violence. 79. See Richani, Systems of Violence, p. 45 for military expenditures’ growth. 80. See Associated Press, “Key dates in 288 days of captivity,” Associated Press, June 15, 1997 for number of soldiers killed and kidnapped during the attack. 81. See Adam Isacson, “ Was Failure Avoidable? Learning From Colombia’s 1998– 2002 Peace Process,” North South Center Working Paper No. 14 (Washington, DC: Center for International Policy, March 2003) for details about the FARCgovernment and ELN-government negotiations in the late 1990s and early 2000s. 82. Isacson, “Was Failure Avoidable.” 83. Boudon, “Colombia’s M-19 Democratic Alliance,” p. 85. 84. See El Tiempo, pp. 1–2 and Pizarro, “Las terceras fuerzas en Colombia hoy,” 313 for AD M-19 electoral results in 1998. 85. See Rodríguez Garavito “La nueva izquierda colombiana” for a discussion of the Colombian Left in the late 1990s and early 2000s. 86. Amnesty International. “Ejecuciones extrajudiciales, ‘desapariciones,’ amenazas de muerte, tortura y otros tipos de violencia política en el departamento de Sucre,” June, 1996, (July 9, 2006) and Yadira Ferrer, “New Violence Mars Election Campaign,” Inter Press Service, August 22,1997 discuss PRT, CRS, and EPL members’ deaths in 1996–1997 and their effects on the 1997 local and regional elections. 87. See Pizarro, “Las terceras fuerzas en Colombia hoy,” pp. 312–313; Registraduría Nacional del Estado (County Council and Mayoral Elections, 1997) for 1997 electoral results. 88. See Steven Dudley, “Rebels Launch Political Effort in Colombia; thousands Attend Public Rally for New Clandestine Movement,” Washington Post, April 30, 2002 for UP electoral results in 2000. 89. See Vieira, “Film Documents,” for numbers of dead UP members. 90. van Cott, From Movements to Parties, p. 203. 91. See van Cott, From Movements to Parties, pp. 203–205 for ASI electoral results. 92. Luis I. Sandoval. “Invierno y primavera en la política colombiana,” Revista Foro 57 (March 2006), pp. 12–24 discusses 2000 electoral results and numbers. 93. See van Cott, From Movements to Parties, p. 204 for specific ASI electoral results in 2000. 94. van Cott, From Movements to Parties, pp. 205–206 discusses independent indigenous candidates in the 2000 elections. 95. van Cott, From Movements to Parties, p. 206. 96. Chernick, “Negotiating Peace.” 97. Isacson, “La seguridad.”

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98. Toby Muse, “With landslide win, Colombia’s Uribe looks to 4 more years combating violence, boosting economy,” Associated Press, May 29, 2006. 99. See Alto Comisionado para la Paz, “Primer informe de control y monitoreo a los desmovilizados,” (12 July 2006) for the number of demobilized paramilitaries, a total that has generated controversy. When the paramilitaries declared a cease-fire in 2002, the Colombian Ministerio de Defensa (cited in Romero, Paramilitares y autodefensas, p. 101) estimated their numbers to be a little over 8,000. Why the paramilitary numbers soared during the demobilization process is not clear. 100. For an example of critics, see Amnesty International, “Americas: Colombia” in Amnesty International Report, 2006, (June 2, 2006) 101. Amnesty International, “Americas: Colombia.” 102. Rodríguez Garavito, “La nueva izquierda colombiana.” 103. See Deutsche Presse-Agentur, “Uribe’s presidential win met with optimism in Colombia,” Deutsche Presse-Agentur, May 27, 2002 for PD (Polo Democrático (PD) or Democratic Pole party) electoral results in 2002. 104. See Registraduría (Municipal Council and Mayoral Elections, 2003) for 2003 PDI electoral results. 105. Acto legislativo 01 de 2003 (Reforma Política) mandated that political parties with fewer than 2 percent of valid votes in a national election would lose their charters as parties. Rodríguez Garavito, “La nueva izquierda colombiana.” 106. See Registraduría Nacional del Estado Civil (Bogotá), election results (Senate and House of Representative Elections, 2006) for March 2006 election results. 107. See El Tiempo, “Uribe y el Polo hirieron de muerte al bipartidismo,” El Tiempo, May 29, 2006, pp. 1–2 for May 2006 presidential elections’ results. 108. PDA, “Amenazas contra integrantes del Polo Democrático Alternativo en Antioquia,” Comunicado, June 14, 2006 and PDI, “Aesinados dos integrantes del PDI,” Comunicado, January 15, 2005; “Petro insta al vicepresidente Santos a que informe de dónde vienen las amenazas contra su vida,” Comunicado, November 10, 2005; and “Asesinado miembro del Polo Democrático Independiente en Barrancabermeja,” Comunicado, November 18, 2005). 109. See Registraduría Nacional del Estado (Senate and House of Representative Elections, 2006) and links for senators and representatives on the PDA Web site . Out of the ten PDA senators elected in 2006, only one was a former guerrilla—Gustavo Petro Urrego, a former M-19 member. Six were labor leaders or labor lawyers, two were former Liberal Party politicians, and one was from the leftist political party, the MOIR. Of the eight PDA representatives elected to the House of Representatives in 2006, none were former guerrillas. Three PDA representatives were labor leaders, one was a neighborhood organizer, two were independent professionals, one was a former Liberal municipal council member, and one was an indigenous activist. See Romero, Paramilitares y

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autodefensas for a discussion of how cold war discourses persist in Colombia, and Rafael Nieto Loaiza, “Detrás de la pinta está la carne,” El Tiempo, May 4, 2006, (June 2, 2006) is an example of a conservative columnist who has labeled the PDA as “guerrilla auxiliaries.” 110. Rodríguez Garavito, “La nueva izquierda colombiana.” 111. Semana, “La oposición está de moda,” Semana, June 2006, (June 28, 2006). 112. Laurent, Comunidades indígenas.

CHAPTER 6

Guyana’s PPP: From Socialism to National Democracy Kalowatie Deonandan

Introduction Amongst the cases in this volume, the People’s Progressive Party (PPP), now the PPP/Civic1 in the Republic of Guyana 2 is an exception. For despite its adherence to a Marxist ideology, the party’s struggles for ending colonialism and exploitation were fought within the parameters of the union movement and formal party structures, not by guns and bullets. Electoralism was embraced from the very beginning and armed struggle eschewed. Hence, the PPP is included in this volume as a comparative case to determine whether there are differences in strategies and policies amongst revolutionary movements that had espoused divergent paths (bullets versus ballots) once they enter the formal political arena. Though the PPP disavowed the military option, it nevertheless shares profound similarities with the armed revolutionary movements analyzed here. Of major significance to this study is the fact that it adhered to an ideology common to them all, one founded on the principles of Marxism. In addition, the PPP fought for independence and democracy while excluded from political power for almost 30 years through the machinations of an authoritarian regime and its international allies. In this way, the party’s fate paralleled that of many of the armed Marxist movements that fought dictators from jungle hideouts for decades. Like its military counterparts, the PPP was not in control of the state apparatus for most of its existence and was not in a position to implement formally its political

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agenda. However, while the party was returned to office by the ballot in 1992, not all of the armed movements followed a similar path. Some, such as the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN, Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional), achieved victory by military means initially and then opted for electoralism subsequently, while others, such as the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front (FMLN) and the Guatemalan National Revolutionary Union (URNG, Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca) laid down their arms as part of negotiated peace settlements then entered the formal electoral arena, though with less success than the PPP. Still others, such as the African National Congress (ANC), not only fought the armed struggle but eventually prevailed electorally. Interestingly too, the PPP, because of its unique history and racial makeup has many traits in common with its African counterparts that its regional neighbors in Latin America do not. Like its equivalents in Africa, its roots are in the anticolonial struggles, and like them it has the added challenge of integrating race into its analyses and strategies. Reflecting this connection was South Africa’s awarding posthumously to the late PPP leader, Cheddi Jagan, its most prestigious national medal to leading international personalities, the Order of Companions of O. R. Thambo, in recognition of his “exceptional contribution to the struggle against racial oppression and colonial exploitation.”3 As such, the PPP represents a “bridge” between the two continents and the cases. For these reasons, its inclusion here allows for unique comparisons to be drawn. In light of the concurrency in ideology between the PPP and the other cases, it is interesting to inquire how it was possible for the former to return to power in 1992 and sustain electoral wins ever since, while not all the other revolutionary movements have been as successful at the ballot box. Take for example, the FSLN, which as Close notes, until its recent electoral victory in 2006, seems to have been in a state of permanent opposition after its early wins in the period following the revolutionary seizure of power. As this chapter argues, several factors contributed to the PPP’s victory including, the changes in the global arena, the role of international players, the influence of the movement’s founder and leader Cheddi Jagan and the impact of domestic factors. However, as this analysis will also demonstrate, despite its alternative route, that is electoralism over armed struggle, the PPP’s victory like that of the majority of cases in this study, was not just a victory for democracy, narrowly defined in terms of electoral success, but also a victory for neoliberalism. What the PPP experience shows is that regardless of the original strategies for socialist transformation, be it revolutionary or electoral, in an age marked by the hegemony of one superpower,

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the victory of capitalism over communism, and the concomitant rise of neoliberalism, the choices available to political leaders on the left are severely constrained, and as such, the original mandate of their movement becomes diffused at best, or lost at worst. In the case of the PPP, what emerges is that on winning office the party’s conduct differed very little in terms of its policies and actions from many of its armed counterparts now in control of state power and facing similar material conditions. Though theoretically grounded in the ideals of socialism, the PPP’s project evolved into essentially a reformist one. In a commentary written on the occasion of the PPP leader’s death in 1997, Kevin Davey described the shift thus: “Cheddi was a Caribbean Sisyphus, a man who after fifty years forced the stone to the top of the hill. By then the view had changed dramatically. And Cheddi’s project had become ‘structural adjustment with a human face.’”4 Accompanying the party’s embrace of economic liberalism was the modification of its ideological program whereby socialism was tempered and transformed into the project for “national democracy,” as Jagan labeled it. Compounding the difficulties stemming from this move to the right were problems relating to centralization in leadership, one-party dominance, racism and even corruption. Before examining these themes it is must be pointed out that while this is a study of the PPP, Guyana has several political groupings and parties which espouse or have espoused socialism. The two most prominent, and which have dominated the political landscape from the period of colonialism to the present ( a two-party contest somewhat akin to FRELIMO and RENAMO in Mozambique), have been the PPP founded and led by Cheddi Jagan until his death in 1997, and the People’s National Congress (PNC),5 now PNC/Reform, founded and led by Linden Sampson Forbes Burnham until his demise in 1985. The PNC, however, controlled state power for almost 30 years, from 1964 to 1992, generally through manipulation of the ballot box, corruption and outright fraud. The return to free and fair elections since 1992, all won by the PPP, thus offers the opportunity to evaluate the latter and its performance since the transition. Early History The story of the PPP is rooted in the history of Guyana, a country that gained its independence from Britain in 1966. It is a history that has been dictated by the imperatives of colonialism, imperialism, racism, and oppression. Initially called British Guiana, it was renamed Guyana upon independence and in 1970 it became a Republic within the Commonwealth.

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Critically important to the fate of the nation and the fortunes of its political parties is the fact that Guyana is a multiethnic society, a reality captured in description of the country as “The Land of Six Peoples.” According to the most recent census in 2002, its population consists of 43.4 percent East Indians (Indo-Guyanese), 30.2 percent African Guyanese (Afro-Guyanese), 16.7 percent Mixed, 9.2 percent Amerindians, 1 percent Chinese and 0.3 percent Other.6 While the percentages of East Indians and African Guyanese have declined from earlier censuses, they still remain the numerically dominant groups. This racial makeup has been exploited by political leaders and international players for their own objectives to the detriment of the nation. Appeal to racial loyalty has been a key feature of Guyanese politics, especially where the two largest ethnic groups are concerned. Political support for the two dominant political parties, the PPP and the PNC is largely determined along racial lines as the former is supported primarily by IndoGuyanese and the latter by Afro-Guyanese. This division is also reflected in the political leadership as neither party has ever been led by a member of the opposite ethnic group. The nature of the Guyanese economy has also been an important factor in the political direction of the nation. By the nineteenth century, the economy rested on sugar production (later, rice, bauxite, and gold were added to the mix), and much of this industry was controlled by two British companies that eventually merged, Booker Brothers and John McConnell and Company. By the 1970s, Bookers’ monopoly over sugar had extended to its control over most of the nation’s economy and even politics. According to one analyst: “Bookers was to Guyana what the United Fruit Company was to Guatemala.” 7 Such was the company’s stranglehold on the state that Guyanese referred to their country as “Bookers’ Guiana” rather than British Guiana. In his well-known 1964 study, Capitalism and Slavery, the Caribbean scholar and statesman Eric Williams proclaimed it “[s]trange, that an article like sugar so sweet and necessary to human existence should have occasioned such crimes and bloodshed!”8 It was the injustices of the sugar plantation economy that gave rise to the PPP and Cheddi Jagan. Jagan first emerged on the political scene as a union activist and this background signaled the approach he was to take throughout his life to bringing about political transformation in Guyana. His opting for unionism was perhaps not surprising as during the 1930s, the entire British Caribbean was in the throes of massive union protests and revolts with concomitant repression by the British. In 1945 he became the treasurer of the Manpower Citizen’s Association (MPCA), a sugarworkers union. However, he left soon after, charging that the organization was acting more in the interests of owners than workers. Two years later, in 1947, along with

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his white American-born wife Janet and several trade unionists, he founded the Guiana Industrial Workers Union (GIWU ) that presented as the legitimate representative of the sugarcane workers. The GIWU’s role in strikes, marches, protests, and general activism on behalf of the sugarworkers, gained its co-founders prominence, recognition and popularity. Seeking to realize greater political changes beyond what the union movement alone could bring, Jagan then founded the People’s Progressive Party (PPP) in 1950 and “tied the Indian sugar unions to it as a working class block.”9 Realizing too that he could not oust British imperial power and build a strong and united country with the support of only half the country (that is just the East Indian population) he moved strategically and invited a talented Afro-Guyanese lawyer, Linden Sampson Forbes Burnham to be chair of the new party. With the two dominant groups symbolically united under one banner, the PPP contested its first elections in 1953 and won easily. Its success, wrote Guyanese scholar Clive Thomas, “was based largely on its achievement of a broad unity among the masses of the two dominant ethnic groups (the Indo- and Afro-Guyanese.)”10 Victory, however, was short-lived as a mere 133 days later the British intervened and ousted the government. The ostensible rationale for intervention was that the PPP, a declared Marxist Party, was inciting violence and was attempting to create a communist outpost in the region.11 The immediate events which actually precipitated British actions was the PPP’s efforts to introduce a Labor Relations Bill and its call for a general strike across the sugar industry. With the intervention came the imposition of an appointed legislature which was to rule Guyana until 1957, at which time elections were again permitted. During this period, in 1955, the unity forged between Jagan and Burnham also ended as the latter (with the encouragement of the British and the Americans who saw him as less radical than Jagan) left the PPP to form a new political party, the PNC. This split also signaled the end of racial unity and start of racial strife from which the country has yet to recover. Restoration of the ballot also meant the return of the PPP to power, both after the 1957 and the 1961 elections, though the voting was largely along racial lines. However, in subsequent contests between 1964 and 1992, the PPP was completely excluded from office primarily due to PNC fraud tactics and its manipulation of the electoral machinery. For the British and the Americans, however, Burnham was the preferred leader and under his rule independence from Britain was granted in 1966. The end of colonialism, however, did not bring an end to the deeper ills plaguing Guyana. The Jagan-Burnham rupture had indelibly divided the PPP and the country along racial lines. Most prominent blacks left the party and joined

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the PNC, while Indians remained with the party. The PNC held on to power (though Burnham died in 1985 and was replaced by Desmond Hoyte) for the next three decades through outright fraud. It was only in the 1992 elections that the PPP again emerged victorious. In the following section, the international and domestic forces, that facilitated this reemergence are discussed. The Transition: Explaining the 1992 Electoral Victory The International Context Pivotal to the PPP’s fate has been the role of international actors. It was a factor in the party’s exclusion from power in the 1950s and 1960s, and a major factor in its return. It was under the supervision of international observers that electoral democracy was restored to Guyana. Ironically, it was Cheddi Jagan, ousted by the machinations of the British and Americans who himself lobbied these same players to help orchestrate his comeback. He sought the assistance of the U.S.–based Carter Center, requesting that it send observers to the 1992 elections.12 The presence of the Center’s representatives was critical to ensuring that the elections were free and fair and undoubtedly responsible for the PNC/Reform’s acceptance of the outcome, despite its initial refusal to do so. International developments were also major factors. As with the other cases studied, the end of the cold war and the defeat of world socialism are factors that cannot be underestimated in terms of the role they played in influencing the transition to electoralism amongst radical forces in the developing world. First, it meant that such groups had now lost their major source of moral and material support and hence they had to alter their practice and even theory. Some opted for a renunciation of the armed struggle, others for an embrace of the free market, and still others for both. Because the PPP never advocated an armed strategy, its reorientation was more in evidence in its theoretical shifts and its adoption of a more market oriented development strategy. In addition, and this holds true for almost all the cases in this study, capitalism’s victory over communism “heralded . . . a relaxation of American obsession with anticommunism. In Guyana this favored a focus on civil and political rights that enhanced considerably the moral and ethical claim of the PPP to the right of governance.”13 The West’s, specifically the United States’ paranoia over communism was replaced with an emphasis on democracy—meaning free and fair elections, and these were laid out as

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preconditions for financial aid and other forms of support. As such, acceptance of electoral fraud as per the Burnham years would no longer be palatable or justifiable. This situation was quite ironic, as Hinzen noted for: “The very principle of democratic governance used to condemn him [Jagan] was used later by the United States to justify his legitimate claim to executive authority . . .”14 It is interesting to speculate whether Jagan had an easier time convincing the powerful Western states that he and his party were committed to democracy since the PPP had never been an advocate of armed struggle. For unlike Nicaragua’s Daniel Ortega and the FSLN, which still raise the ire of the United States, and against whose electoral victory the United States still actively campaigns (as the 2006 Nicaraguan elections show),15 Jagan was eventually “embraced,” for lack of a better word, by his former enemies. As a matter of fact, he was treated for his fatal heart attack in the United States’ Walter Reid hospital. The Domestic Context Undoubtedly domestic factors also played a powerful role in the PPP’s return to office. The death of Burnham in 1985 had led to expectations that there would be a loosening of the authoritarian ropes. Indeed, while Burnham’s successor, Desmond Hoyte, continued with many of the PNC’s fradulent practices, he was forced to respond to domestic and international pressures to ensure fairness in the voting system in the 1992 elections. This paved the way for the PPP. Hoyte was impelled in part by the changing global tide, especially the growing emphasis in the West on democracy and free and fair elections. Adding to the impetus was Guyana’s desperate economic conditions that meant the country could not afford to be considered a pariah amongst nations. As a matter of fact, Hoyte had already been forced to abide by the demands of the Western powers by signing an IMF package designed to restructure Guyana’s debts. Relatedly, demographic factors within Guyana also must be considered in the PPP’s victory. As noted earlier, Guyana is a country divided along racial lines whereby Indo-Guyanese who are in the majority form the base of the PPP’s support, while Afro-Guyanese are drawn to the PNC. Given this scenario, under conditions of free and fair elections, the PPP will garner a larger share of the vote, as it has been doing since 1992. The role or status of other domestic political groups contributed to the PPP’s win. As Clive Thomas explained, in the post–cold war period, “a number of alliances were formed with other political parties and groups . . . [which] helped to intensify the campaign for free and fair elections.”16 Relatedly, the weakness of the other political parties, a subject

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to which this analysis will return, also explains the PPP’s return to power as none were capable of mounting a significant challenge to it. Aside from the PNC, other parties on the spectrum have only been able to capture one or two seats in all the elections held since the transition. It is also possible that the PPP’s prior experiences with electoralism also facilitated its success, Unlike its counterparts who have been fighting guerrilla wars in the jungles, the PPP had conducted its struggles all along on the electoral battlefield. Hence, the requirements of this process were not alien to it. In this way it had a major advantage over the armed guerrilla movements that had to learn the art of politics by the ballot box, including organizing, campaigning, fundraising and so on. Finally, explanations of the PPP’s resurgence must take into consideration the role of the party’s founder and leader—Cheddi Jagan. He was last in office in 1964, yet he was able to maintain the leadership of his party and keep his base loyal. It has been suggested that for armed revolutionary movements, keeping such loyalty is somewhat easier. Because of the violence involved in the struggle, the common injustices endured, the necessity for secrecy and trust amongst combatants, and the brutality of the counterinsurgency state, there is a unity and discipline forged amongst the membership due to their shared experiences. This unity is invaluable and provides much needed political capital to the leaders of the insurrection. (It continues to be critical once they enter the formal political arena though it has also been suggested that it can lay the basis for undemocratic practices). For the PPP, there was no battlefield unity. Maintaining a united party depended a great deal on the leader himself. In Jagan’s case it has been frequently noted that he had the good fortune to possess that rare and difficult to define quality, charisma, that enabled him to captivate an audience (similar claims were also made of his opponent Forbes Burham who was famed for his oratory powers). In a study of the Guyanese leader included in a volume on charismatic leaders of the Caribbean (amongst them Fidel Castro and Michael Manley), the author suggested that to his supporters Jagan was “almost a mythical figure to be revered.”17 Perhaps the display at his funeral ceremony in March 1997 helps to illustrate this. Commenting on the thousands who lined the streets for the procession, the Guyana Chronicle wrote: “They came from all races, classes, creeds—men, women, and children, the rich, the poor, the disabled, the strong, the old and the young, waving black flags, clutching his portraits, strewing the path of the truck carrying his casket with flowers, and showering the coffin with petals.”18 For his cremation, it was estimated that approximately 100,000 people, over 10 percent of the nation’s total population, were present.19 Of course, it can be argued that it is blasphemous

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to speak ill of the dead, even if they are politicians, hence the paeans to him. Nevertheless, it has been 10 year since Jagan’s death, yet he continues to have an iconic status amongst his supporters. While Guyana was granted independence under Burnham, it is Jagan who is more often cited as the father of the nation. Another aspect of Jagan that “contributed to his extraordinary success,” was, as Hinzen remarked, his “strategic pragmatism, a facet of him that was evident from the birth of PPP.”20 Though, as discussed later, this also brought him much criticism. It was this pragmatism that led him to inviting the Afro-Guyanese Forbes Burham to join the party in an effort to unite the two races in a multiracial nationalist movement; It was this that led him to court the Americans in his bid to regain power despite the latter’s machinations in the 1950s and 1960s to oust him from office. He was able to change with the times. America was the only superpower, the Soviets were no more, Guyana was a poor country in need of a great deal of economic assistance, and the time was ripe for him to appeal to the new emphasis on democracy (free and fair elections) being preached in the United States. However, as shall be discussed below, some of these same qualities that earned Jagan much adulation and success also deleteriously affected the PPP in the post-1992 period. The Transition Takes Effect: The PPP in Power The PPP’s win in 1992 represented many positive changes for Guyana. The mere fact that the party was able to claim its victory marked a significant advance in the country’s democratic development. While the elections were marred by some level of violence, aggravated by the PNC’s unwillingness to accept the results, the situation was eventually resolved with the assistance of international mediation. As the New Statesman’s Kevin Davey commented: “Nobody predicted the political stability and civil peace that. . . characterized the first 12 months of PPP/Civic government. . . . Most observers imagined that PPP retribution and PNC resistance would be the order of the day.”21 What has been less satisfactory for many has been the policies implemented by the PPP and the practices to which it has adhered once in office. The PPP’s electoral victory had brought with it high expectations. However, while the party tried to address many of the country’s social and political ills, it demonstrated that although its origins are rooted in a radical ideology, its practice duplicated that of established political parties elsewhere. That is, in seeking to maintain power, the PPP modified its ideological orientation and its economic and political stances to appeal to

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the largest segment of voters and to placate powerful international players. Admittedly, the party came to power facing many significant constraints, but there is little evidence that the PPP sought to do politics by different means. This becomes evident when the party’s ideological stance along with its practices in the economic and political spheres are examined.

Ideological Shift While the end of the cold war in part facilitated the PPP’s victory, it also signaled the tempering of the party’s socialist commitments, as it did for many of the revolutionary movements examined in this volume. It was a process initiated by Jagan himself, the Marxist and nationalist whose writings and speeches provided the basis for the party’s theoretical direction. In his early writings, Jagan was staunch in his defense of socialism as a means of ending injustice and poverty. In 1966, in his famous treatise analyzing the Guyanese condition, The West on Trial, he wrote: [B]ehind the ideal of freedom of . . . all . . . freedoms . . . lies the reality of poverty and the suffering of tens of millions of human beings. Until the problem of “freedom from want” is tackled, the other freedoms . . . can have little meaning . . . Men, parties, notions, systems and faiths can only be judged by their attitude to this, the fundamental problem of our time. It is only when the system of exploitation ends and poverty is abolished that men will really begin to be free. . . . For the Western imperialists and their local collaborators in economically poor countries, freedom means freedom to maintain the status quo and to exploit the working people. . . . This kind of capitalist democracy, however, disguised . . . leads to increased exploitation, suffering and misery for millions of people.22

Consistent with this belief, he wrote in 1988, just before the end of the cold war, that socialism was the only means of liberation for the oppressed. He argued that Only socialism with a planned economy can bring an end to unemployment, underemployment, hunger and insecurity, only socialism, with its moral and ethical principles and values can bring an end to exploitation of man, national chauvinism, racial and political discrimination. Only under socialism can national unity and rich culture representing all ethnic groups be developed. 23

However, as noted earlier, though it embraced socialism, the PPP nevertheless rejected violence as a means of change and argued against the views of

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traditional Marxists for whom unionism is narrow, economistic, and weak in transformational potential. The PPP’s position is not surprising given that the party was born in the union movement. Important too in its rationalization for nonviolence was the nature of its support base. Drawn predominantly from amongst the peasantry, small rice-producers, traders, shopkeepers, sugarworkers and even fractions of the country’s large commercial and landed interests, these groups, while they may have endorsed the PPP’s Marxist ideology for economic and/or ethnic reasons, are also known for conservative tendencies—unlike for example organized labor groups, students, and intellectuals. It is highly unlikely that they would have endorsed an armed project. Furthermore, as racial strife in the country intensified, Jagan feared that an armed uprising in such a context could degenerate into a civil war along racial lines.24 The PPP promoted itself a party committed to socialism. However, once in power, there was a decisive ideological shift that Jagan explained in a 1997. Interview with the journal NACLA, just a month prior to his death. What his government was doing in Guyana, he said, was part of a “national democratic project,”25 in essence, conveying that socialism was off the agenda. This move to the Right was further emphasized by his claim that he was procapitalist, and pro-foreign investment but not at the cost of the social state as businesses going to Guyana had to respect the environment, unions and the right to bargain collectively.26 The change in the PPP’s platform has since been entrenched in the party’s program and was reaffirmed at its Twenty-Eighth Congress in 2005. In its program, the party declared that “[b]ased on a profound analysis of the concrete situation, the PPP has concluded that to ensure Guyana’s path to development, there is need for a National Democratic State . . . which will embrace political and ideological pluralism . . . and a mixed economy.”27 Quoting from one of Jagan’s earlier speeches on the subject, it continued, “This is a state that represents the interests of all classes, groups and social strata. It is an inclusive state.”28 The PPP’s shift to a more social democratic program was not unique for revolutionary movements in this new global environment. Its actions had parallels those of revolutionary movement across Africa and the Americas as the examples in this volume demonstrate. For Nalini Persram, this shift in the PPP’s position is not surprising. In her opinion, from the beginning, Jagan’s ideology was less Marxist and more rooted in the ideals of Western liberalism as it emphasized statehood and nationalism as the route to emancipation. From the beginning Persram suggests: The concepts of modernity and Westernization, for example, go unchallenged [in Jagan’s thoughts and writings]: Guyanese nationalism is an

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ideology that unproblematically advocates the state as the vehicle for emancipation from colonial domination and the political expression of the postcolonial nation. The notion that the colonized are part of a liberal world history, that they have a right to the Western inheritance of statehood and to participate in the rationale of industrialization are not thrown in to question. . . . 29

As a matter of fact, Jagan himself stated in the aforementioned NALCA interview, “Our concept of Guyana Socialism was premised on plural, peaceful, multiparty states with mixed forms of ownership. This was misunderstood at the height of the Cold War hysteria.”30 From this comment, it would seem that his ideological shift to a “national democratic project” was perhaps not as difficult for him as it would have been for other Marxistrevolutionary leaders. Not surprisingly, as we shall see below, this ideological readjustment, so at odds with the socialist ideals was nevertheless consistent with Jagan’s history of pragmatism. Having inherited an IMF economic recovery package to deal with Guyana’s economic ills, he proceeded to align his ideology to fit with the economic imperatives of the program and this then precluded his party from being judged on the degree to which it was adhering to its socialist commitments. Economic Shifts Reflecting the shift to a condition of “national democracy” were the economic policies implemented by the PPP from 1992 and on. It these policies that led to Davey’s lamentations, quoted at the beginning of this chapter, that “Cheddi’s project had become structural adjustment with a human face.” Jagan came to power two years after the cold war had ended, with the former USSR having very little interest in continuing its involvement in Guyana, with capitalism claiming “the end of History,” and with Guyana steeped in an economic quagmire. The country was ranked as one of the poorest in the Western hemisphere; its national debt was approaching $3 billion, allegedly the largest per capita debt burden in the world at the time; and it was spending over two-thirds of its foreign earnings on interests alone.31 The staggering debt burden combined with other economic woes such as corruption, decayed and underdeveloped infrastructures, and overall economic chaos, meant that the nation was at the mercy of the international community to bail it out. As a matter of fact, the previous PNC government under Desmond Hoyte had already been compelled to sign a structural adjustment package, the Economic Recovery Programm (ERP) developed by the World Bank and the by the IMF in 1988 to stabilize the economy that had significantly contracted during the 1970s and 1980s.

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Heirs to this inheritance, the PPP and its leaders would be significantly constrained by it economically and challenged by it ideologically. This latter fact is evidenced by Jagan’s rationalization of the PPP’s move to a national democratic from a socialist one. From 1998 and on the PPP government itself was compelled to sign new IMF restructuring packages. Part of this restructuring involved the development of an official Poverty Reduction Strategy, a precondition set by the international financial institutions (IFIs) and which countries must meet before they would be considered eligible for debt relief under the Heavily Indebted Poor Country Initiative (HIPC), and then later, the Enhanced HIPC. The ERP and its successors were standard restructuring prescriptions to reduce dramatically the government’s role in the economy. Amongst other things, it called for the removal of price controls, liberalization of the exchange rate, nationalization of state-owned enterprises, reduction in public sector employment, reform of banking laws and the implementation of measures to attract private investments.32 As a result, dozens of parastatal enterprises privatized, amongst them those producing some of Guyana’s principal export products—rice, timber, gold, bauxite, and fishing. While the packages did make for growth initially, 7 percent by 1997, this declined to 0.5 percent by 2001 (though it had climbed slightly to 1.9 percent33 in 2004), and the government continued to face serious challenges in its efforts to contain the deficit.34 According to the most recently available data, despite the restructuring, “combined unemployment and underemployment is estimated at about 30 percent, and even though Guyana had negotiated almost $256 million in debt forgiveness through the HIPC and other poverty alleviation measures in 2004, the country’s indebtedness has since climbed to over 200 percent of GDP.35 In light of this grim economic picture and the country’s continued need for assistance from IFIs, there is little likelihood of the PPP moving away from a market oriented development strategy. As a matter of fact, in their analyses of the economy, what the IFIs recommend is that Guyana go deeper and faster towards marketization. As the World Bank stated: Reviving economic growth to pre-1997 levels will require an improved business environment to attract investment not only in traditional sectors but also in new areas with untapped potential. Moreover, an expansion of the private sector is urgently needed to create more employment opportunities (currently, economic activity is centered around the public sector and the private sector is at an embryonic stage). While the government has taken some steps to provide incentives to private investors, there is room for a more systemic improvement in the investment climate. . . . [S]ignificant progress in private sector activity will require a

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harmonization of tax incentives across investor types . . . and an acceleration of privatization along with strengthening of the regulatory framework (e.g., property rights).36

While in opposition, the PPP, in keeping with its socialist goals, had strongly advocated nationalization of key industries. This had had the incongruous result of Jagan offering “critical support” to the Burnham regime (in large part due to pressures from the Soviet Union37) when the latter nationalized important industries such as bauxite. Once in office, however, the PPP pushed forward with its own privatization measures as per the demands of the IFIs and in keeping with global trends emphasizing development through marketization strategies. Signaling this change in PPP policy was Jagan’s, assertion in a speech at the Carter Center, that he considered the “private sector as the engine of economic growth.”38 The PPP’s economic program has resulted in the return of old corporate players to Guyana, some of whom were the party’s strongest critics and had actively campaigned for Jagan’s overthrow in earlier years. Included in the group is Booker Tate Ltd., (formerly the corporate giant Booker McConnell,39 the virulent anticommunist, anti-Jagan force in the country during the colonial period). The company was brought back in 1990 to manage the huge state-owned Guyana Sugar Corporation (GUYSUCO), the country’s largest employer and the industry that provides the primary source of national revenue. Booker Tate’s relationship with the government has been “unusual” at best as it had a legal action pending against the latter over compensation issues for its nationalization by the PNC in the 1970s; in 2003 the company dropped the suit after it returned to manage GUYSUCO.40 Other global corporate players include the large Anglo-Dutch conglomerate Demerara Timbers, a logging company which was given access to over 1.2 million hectares of prime rainforest and several other forestry companies from Malaysia and Canada. According to author Marcus Colchester41 and the environmental group Greenpeace,42 details of the nature of the contracts awarded are kept secret, and very little royalty or taxes have been paid by these companies to the Guyana government. Furthermore, some companies, such as Malaysian-owned UNAMCO and the MalaysianKorean giant Barama, have not only been enjoying tax free investments, but have been accused of logging illegally, violating indigenous rights, failing to adhere to basic health and safety regulations and having a preference for expatriate workers over national ones.43 These developments are not limited to the logging sector but are duplicated in mining as well, as the Omai example shows.

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Canadian mining interest Cambior Inc. and U.S. Golden Star Resources won the rights under the PPP to develop the largest opencast goldmine in the world in Guyana (the country’s gold44 and diamond mining sectors are dominated by foreign firms). The joint venture, the Omai Gold Mines was involved in producing over 70 percent of the Guyana’s gold,45 but the gains to the economy have been questioned. While the company paid the requisite 5 percent in royalties, it closed its operations in 2005 claiming that the deposit had been exhausted and that it was not financially feasible to pursue further explorations. The closure came just before the mine was due to begin paying taxes. Omai also gained notoriety for one of the worst mining disasters in South America. In 1995, a breach occurred at a waste tailing pond at the mine resulting in millions of gallons of toxic effluent containing cyanide spilling into the massive Essequibo major river system. Still, despite the criticisms of the Omai operation, discussions are underway between the government and the mining executives to begin explorations anew at Omai. The company argues that due to high world prices, explorations which were previously economically prohibitive were now financially viable. Any new explorations would of course be under a new contract and hence the company would likely again get another decade of tax-free holiday. In addition to these new explorations, the PPP government established in 2005 a new joint venture with Cambior, the Omai Bauxite Mines, with the objective of privatizing the state-held bauxite mining and processing operation, LINMINE.46 Under the PPP, not only have international corporate giants been given a strong foothold in the economy, but at the same time the party’s support base, especially rice producers and sugarcane workers are becoming more and more financially squeezed by the domestic and international economic policies affecting their sector. Under the terms of the ACP (Africa, Caribbean and Pacific) Convention for example, the European Union has been major purchaser of one of Guyana’s primary exports, rice, absorbing as much as 90 percent of the country’s exports. However, with the implementation of recent EU safe guards, this preferential market access will come to an end in 2008, with an estimated 30 percent reduction of Guyanese rice sale to the EU predicted.47 These problems are duplicated in the sugar sector (which employs over 6% of the workforce),48 and in both sectors they are compounded by internal problems such as severe droughts and floods, poor management, slow technological advancements and foreclosures by banks. Predictably, the consequences for workers have been devastating as they face growing unemployment, financial insecurity and poverty. Politically, for the PPP, this has meant growing disenchantment

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with the party amongst its supporters, most of whom are drawn from the rice and sugar workers, However, despite their discontent, they are not leaving the party en masse because of their fears that doing so would lead to racial domination by the other party or race.49 In sum, what the PPP’s economic direction tells us is that the party has become almost indistinguishable from mainstream political parties in liberal democracies, especially those facing the challenges of poverty, underdevelopment and growing competition for markets for its products. Their economic program is one duplicated throughout the developing world, reflecting the hegemony of the market ideology globally. Political Shifts Though the economic strategies of the PPP show few remnants of the party’s socialist origins, there have been some progress in terms of democratization on the political front. However, when issues such as race and leadership are examined, some of the shortcomings of the PPP in the political sphere become evident. One of the most notable features of the transition in Guyana has been the return to free and fair elections. Since 1992, the country has undergone three other national elections. While the first three were marked by varying levels of violence and unrest, with the PNC refusing to accept the results, the most recent, in August 2006, overseen by international observers was generally evaluated to be free of violence, corruption, and manipulation. Overall, it can be argued that the election of 2006 was a signal of the country’s political maturity as it represents an acknowledgment by the political actors of the supremacy of the constitution and the rule of law on matters relating to political succession. According to the Council of Hemispheric Affairs, for a society marred by years of electoral abuse and violence, this is not an insignificant accomplishment, and some credit should be given to the PPP government President Bharat Jagdeo.50 Adding to the strength of Guyanese democracy is the increasing number of new political parties entering the electoral fray. Almost a dozen political parties occupy the political landscape, with the most recent being the AFC (Alliance for Change). This variety can be seen as a positive reflection on the health of the political system as it contributes to the political debate, provides alternative voices and offers the potential to dilute the racial divisions entrenched in the two dominant parties. However, while the increased number of political players may enhance democracy, there are also other signs pointing to the contrary.

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Guyana is a relatively small country in terms of population (about three-quarters of a million). Hence, a wide array of political parties can also be more of a divisive force. At the moment, however, these parties do not show signs of posing such a threat. As a matter of fact, the problem is the opposite, for aside from the two dominant parties, the others are all quite weak in terms of their electoral presence as they have only been able to garner one or two seats each. The lion’s share of the seats are still distributed between the PPP and PNC. As Hinds explained, while these smaller parties rise in popularity in the interim between elections, this does not carry over to the election period when “electoral support for the two major parties is . . . a vote simultaneously for racial security and against the threat of domination by the other party or race.51 In other words, there is fear by one race that voting for a third party will split the vote, give victory to the party of the other race and hence threaten the former’s security. One-Party Dominance While Guyana has a two-party dominant system in that the PPP and the PNC are the major political players, since the transition in 1992, the PPP has been in control of state power, albeit by democratic means. The party’s position became even more solidified in the wake of the results of the past election. The newly created AFC, which supporters had hoped would be able to woo voters away from both the PPP and the PNC, succeeded in doing so only from the PNC while the PPP held on to its electoral support. One party that had been perceived earlier as a rising force and was the Working People’s Alliance (WPA) founded and led by the black Marxist intellectual Walter Rodney in 1979. The WPA was a multiracial organization with a more traditional Marxist analysis of the Guyanese condition, emphasizing class and not race, and advocating force to oust the PNC. It explicitly rejected Jagan’s position of offering “critical support” to Burnham’s nationalization policies and his participating in elections that were obviously rigged. The growing popularity of the WPA meant that neither the PPP nor the PNC could ignore its presence. The party’s rallies attracted huge crowds from both races, particularly from amongst the young, radical, and educated classes. For its leader, the charismatic Walter Rodney, there was a swell in enthusiasm for the potential he offered for ending both the racial divide and the stranglehold of the PNC on the country. Such was the threat that Rodney posed that he was brutally assassinated by the Burnham regime barely one year after the WPA was launched. Since the death of Rodney, the party has been in decline, so much so that it did not participate in the 2006 elections. The newcomer to the political scene, the

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AFC, is its polar opposite, being more pro-Western and pro-market. It won two seats in its first electoral outing, the most any of the smaller parties have won thus far. One of the lessons of the WPA is that it demonstrates the danger of a movement which relies heavily on one individual, an issue very much of salience to the PPP and its leadership. Centralization of Leadership Though Jagan’s integrity, charisma, and pragmatism were important to keeping the PPP united during the period in the political wilderness, other aspects of his leadership have posed problems for his party in an age where transparency is stressed. In particular, his leadership style has been criticized as being more authoritarian than democratic and this has had implications for his party and its future. Soon after PPP was elected in 1992, one WPA activist stated (referring to the failed attempt to building a government of National Reconstruction which would include the WPA) stated that “Jagan behaved as if we were still in the era of one-man government. . . . I don’t believe that’s the way to introduce a culture of democracy in Guyana.”52 David Hinds echoed this sentiment, with the observation that he, Jagan, had an “authoritarian attitude” to leadership (which Hinds found was something endemic in Guyanese culture given the history of Forbes Burnham).53 The PPP leader’s preference was for ad hoc decision-making and he relied strongly on personal relations and friendships forged over time. Referring to the difference between Jagan’s style of politics and that of the current president Jagdeo, one party supporter noted that the latter has formally incorporated many sectors of the society (business and religious leaders) into government by having them head relevant commissions for example, but Jagan’s preference was for a more informal and personal approach, to “pick up the phone and call them” as a form of consultation.54 A more formal expression of Jagan’s preference for being in control was his continued adherence to the Burnhamite constitution that had centralized powers in the presidency. Drawn up during the period of authoritarian rule in the 1980s, this document accorded sweeping powers to the executive including the power to appoint and dismiss the prime minister and vice president, dissolve the legislature, make appointments, veto all legislative bills, and modify laws to bring them in conformity with the constitution. It also granted the president immunity from several types of criminal or civil prosecution in regard to actions he may undertake in his private capacity. While in opposition, Jagan had criticized this centralization, but once in office, he adopted a different approach. He argued that it was not the powers that were problematic, but the way in which they had been exercised,

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and he made no attempt at constitutional change. In reference to both Burnham and Jagan’s affinity for power to be concentrated in their hands, Hinds commented that they ”function[ed] less as first among equals and more as generals and commanders-in-chief. This unlimited authority is both formal and informal.”55 Modifications to the constitution came only in 2001 when President Jagdeo implemented the recommendations of an all-party constitution reform commission and abolished the excessive powers of the president. However, according to Hinds, while “the PPP’s constitution is less explicit about the unlimited power of the leader, its historical adherence to the Stalinist form of party organization ensures that actual power is concentrated at the top.”56 Relatedly, Jagan’s towering presence historically within the party and his iconic status both in life and death, have meant that succession and renewal have been problematic issues for the party. One of the drawbacks of leadership which relies on charisma and the personality of one individual is that he or she is not easily replaceable and hence the future of the movement remains unclear. Although it has been almost a decade since Jagan’s death, the PPP still invokes his name to legitimize policy, silence critics and unify the party. His presence also still looms large in the society so much so that even editorials criticizing present day PPP policies do so from the standpoint that the party has been deviating from “Cheddi’s vision.” Jagan’s memory is also being perpetuated by the dominant (and some say domineering) presence of his American-born wife Janet. Critics charge that her continued prominence in the party perpetuates a personal and topdown approach to governing. After Jagan’s death, she contested the 1997 elections as the party’s presidential candidate and won. To many, her victory was attributable in some measure to the memory of her husband amongst the voters. She stepped down soon after citing ill-health (she is over 80 years old), passing the torch to the current President Bharat Jagdeo. While leadership may have changed hands, there is, nevertheless, still a great deal of centralization in terms of leadership selection. It has been suggested that Mrs. Jagan plucked Mr. Jagdeo from obscurity (he was a junior finance minister) to replace her because she saw him as someone who is malleable and whom she could influence. She is considered by opponents as the power behind the throne57 as is seen from this assessment of her influence in the party: “She does not seek the leadership of her party, but the party knows she owns it, and she is in control, so they know she must have her decisions implemented . . .”58 If criticisms of Mrs. Jagan’s influence are true, it will be interesting to see how the party changes when she is no longer on the scene and when the invocation of “Cheddi’s vision” no longer has significance for the younger generation. Indeed, upon the death of Jagan,

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there were fears by some, and expectations of others, that the “party would go down in shambles.”59 Race Aside from the issue of leadership where there is evidence of contradictions between the PPP’s claims to being a socialist party representing the interests of the masses and the practices of its leadership, there is also the issue of the race, and there too exists contradictions between PPP theory and practice. In the 1992 elections, the PPP campaigned on a platform of national unity and committed itself to building a multiclass, multiethnic party. Besides, Jagan had consistently declared that while race was relevant, “[c]lass is more fundamental than race” in any analysis of the Guyanese condition and in the development of strategies for societal progress.60 Moreover, in 1992, the PPP also pledged not to approach politics and governing as a zero-sum gain, where the victor takes all, but to be more broad-based in the composition of its government. Two major steps were taken to meet this commitment. First, it tried to contest the elections by forming an alliance with the WPA. The unity never materialized as apparently the power-sharing terms were unacceptable to the WPA. Once in office, the PPP again attempted a rapprochement with the WPA, offering the party’s leader, Clive Thomas, a prominent black academic, a cabinet post—the Ministry of Planning and Production. Again, the deal did not materialize. Reportedly, because too many constraints were being placed on the appointment the WPA refused and in the end the post was never created. Another attempt to bridge the ethnic divide was the incorporation of the “Civic” component into the PPP. In general, this strategy involved a power-sharing arrangement with members of the “Civic” composed of Indian PPP supporters and African professionals61 (whom the party knew were sympathetic to its bid for power.) For example, the leader of the “Civic,” Samuel Hinds, is an Afro-Guyanese. He is also the prime minister (a largely symbolic post) as well as the minister of energy and mines. (This strategy was also duplicated by the PNC with its incorporation of Indo-Guyanese professionals as part of the “Reform” component of the PNC/Reform). Despite these attempts at racial integration, the PPP remains an Indian party and the ”Civic” has not won it any significant crossover votes.62 While Jagan spoke of ethnic unity, critics say his actions belied his words and that he did not exert enough effort to diversify the party or stop appeals to racial loyalty. One such critic is the novelist Jan Carew who, when Jagan assumed office in 1992, was quoted as saying: “After 28 years of discrimination, it is

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inevitable that the government will be accused of Indianising Guyana . . . . Of course, that is unfair. Jagan is a man without racial animus, but he must do more.63 Accusations of “Indianising” were evident in the charges that the government was trying to purge the Public Service, largely consisting of AfroGuyanese. On assuming power, the PPP replaced, or reassigned to positions of lesser responsibility, or suspended from duty, several high-ranking public servants, mostly Afro-Guyanese, though some Indo-Guyanese loyal to the PNC were affected as well. Amongst those replaced were the heads of the state-owned media, the Guyana Broadcasting Corporation, the National Newspapers Limited, the Television Broadcasting Company and the Public Communications Agency. While some changes are to be expected of any new government, especially one taking power after 28 years and facing rampant public service corruption, there were charges that this was blatant partisanship, made more blatant by the fact that many of the replacements were filled by Indo-Guyanese loyal to the PPP. Aggravating this issue is the fact that subsequent PPP governments have been involved in massive downsizing of the Public Service and this has been interpreted as the PPP negatively targeting those sectors in which Afro-Guyanese are employed. To be fair, much of this downsizing has come about as part of the demands of IFIs to reduce the size of the state and to address the corruption problem. However, what this issue shows is that, in Guyana, all politics is viewed through the lens of race, and all parties exploit this to their advantage. What makes this particularly disheartening is that the parties, in this case the PPP, which have explicitly committed themselves to an alternative vision of society and to an alternative modus operandi have fallen to pray to many of the same ills that govern political parties everywhere as they seek to win and keep power. Conclusion For one fleeting moment in 1992, with the return of free and fair elections, with the PPP victory, and with the end of the 28-year–PNC authoritarianism, Guyanese hoped that they were on the cusp of a new and better era. And indeed, while the society has made gains in terms of democratic advances and in terms of economic growth in some sectors, the promises of PPP socialism have not materialized. Guyana, like so many countries in the developing world, several of which are the foci of this volume, has been trapped by the legacy of its history, by the triumph of neoliberal economics and by the limitations of its political leadership. Upon the death of Cheddi Jagan (and Jamaica’s Michael Manley whose life had paralleled Jagan in

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many ways and who died at the same time) it was written that theirs were the “stories of battling the odds and there can be no doubting the personal dangers they endured, and the sacrifices they made. But theirs is also a story of the failure of the nationalist project to challenge the priorities of capitalism.”64 However, while the PPP government may have moved far from its socialist roots in practice domestically, internationally it still tried to project an image of itself as the champion of the underclass. Nowhere was this more evident than in Jagan’s call for a New Global Order in the wake of the cold war’s end. Highlights of this new order were his calls for debt relief or forgiveness, a Regional Development Fund (for both North and South such as a New Deal type of works program), the establishment of a Corps of Development specialists to assist the South, the restructuring of the IMF and the World Bank, and an overall emphasis on human development. During Jagan’s lifetime, while his efforts to advance such an order were politely received and even endorsed by many, his goal remained more of an idealist’s dream. Yet today, some elements of this vision have been translated into reality, such as his call for debt forgiveness programs, of which Guyana has been a beneficiary. Notes 1. The PPP was renamed the PPP/Civic. References to the party will use these two names interchangeably. 2. The name Guyana will be used throughout this text even in reference to the colonial period when the country was called British Guiana. 3. “South Africa Honours Cheddi Jagan,” The Jamaica Observer, May 10, 2005 (January 10, 2007). 4. Kevin Davey, “O Tempora,” New Times 121 (1997), (February 18, 2001). 5. The PNC is now called the PNC/Reform. Referencs to the party will use the two names interchangeably. 6. The Republic of Guyana, Bureau of Statistics, “Census 2002 Final Summary and Results,” August 2005 (March 10, 2006). 7. Chaitram Singh, Guyana: Politics in a Plantation Society (Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press and Stanford University, 1988), p. 6. 8. Eric Williams, Capitalism and Slavery (London: Andre Deutsch Ltd., 1964), p. 27. 9. Hassan Mahamdallie, “Obituary: Independence Days,” Socialist Review 207 (April 1997) (July 2005).

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10. Clive Y. Thomas, “State Capitalism in Guyana: An Assessment of Burnham’s Co-operative Socialist Republic,” in Crisis in the Caribbean, ed. Fitzroy Ambursley and Robin Cohen (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1983), p. 27. 11. See Cheddi Jagan, Forbidden Freedom: The Story of British Guiana (London: Lawrence & Wishart Ltd., 1954). The British argued that the PPP was attempting to control the movement and to use it for its own political purposes. 12. David A. Carroll and Robert A. Pastor, “Moderating Ethnic Tensions by Electoral Mediation” (Atlanta, GA: The Carter Center, June 1993) (July 2, 2006). 13. Percy C. Hintzen, “Cheddi Jagan (1918–97): Charisma and Guyana’s Challenge to Western Capitalism,” in Caribbean Charisma: Reflections on Leadership, Legitimacy and Populist Politics, ed. Anton Allahar (Kingston, Jamaica: Ian Randle Publishers; Boulder and London: Lynne Rienner, 2001), p. 147. 14. Hintzen, “Cheddi Jagan,” p. 122. 15. Council on Hemispheric Affairs, “The Upcoming Nicaraguan Elections,” (Washington: Council on Hemispheric Affairs, August 10, 2006) (August 15, 2006). 16. Clive Y. Thomas, “Interview with Clive Thomas: The IMF Comes to Guyana,” Against the Current (Interviewed by Dianne Feeley and David Finkel) September 2000 (February 18, 2001). 17. Hintzen, “Cheddi Jagan,” p. 125. 18. “Farewell Warrior,” Guyana Chronicle, March 11, 1997 (February 9, 2001). 19. Guyana News and Information, 1997 (February 9, 2001). 20. Hintzen, “Cheddi Jagan,” p. 137. 21. Kevin Davey, “Jagan Makes Up for Lost Time,” New Statesman and Society 6 (November 19, 1993), p. 10. 22. Cheddi Jagan, The West on Trial: The Fight for Guyana’s Freedom, revised edition, (London and New York: 1966, 1967, and 1972), pp. 358–361. 23. Cheddi Jagan, “Race Class and Nationhood: The Indo-Guyanese Experience,” paper presented at the Genesis of a Nation Activity, on the Occasion of the 150th Anniversary of the Arrival of Indians to Guyana, May 1988, (February 9, 2001). 24. Author Interview, Dr. Nanda Gopaul, a former union activist now the permanent secretary of the civil service, Georgetown, Guyana, November 3, 2005. According to Gopaul, given the authoritarian grip that the PNC had on the country, young party loyalists like himself were frustrated and were willing to take to the streets. He stated that just prior to 1992 he and others approached Jagan to consider, in his words, “every means possible,” aside from the ballot box as it was proving futile in challenging the PNC regime. Jagan,

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26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

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he reported, rejected the idea outright as it did not fit with his vision of how to realize change in the Guyanese context. Cheddi Jagan quoted in, “NACLA Report on the Americas: Interview with Dr. Cheddi Jagan,” interview by Fred Rosen and Mario Maurillo, NACLA 31, 1 (February 1997), (February 9, 2001). Jagan quoted in, “Interview with Dr. Cheddi Jagan.” PPP, For a Democratic and Prosperous Guyana: Programme of the People’s Progressive Party (Georgetown, Guyana: People’s Progressive Party, Freedom House, July 2005). PPP, For a Democratic and Prosperous Guyana. Nalini Persram, “The Importance of Being Cultural,” Small Axe 15 ( March 2004), pp. 88–89. Jagan quoted in, “Interview with Dr. Cheddi Jagan.” Quoted in Davey, “Jagan Makes Up for Lost Time, pp. 10–11. U.S. Department of State, “Background Note: Guyana,” (January 27, 2007). U.S. Department of State, “Background Note: Guyana.” U.S. Department of State, “Background Note: Guyana.” U.S. Department of State, “Background Note: Guyana.” The World Bank Group, “Guyana: Country Brief,” (Retrieved February 2, 2007). According to Rupert Lewis, Burnham’s “programme of nationalization” combined with “his anti-imperialist and socialist rhetoric” led to Guyana being assessed in Havana and Moscow as having two left wing parties with the PNC . . . gaining recognition as a ruling party seriously committed to transformation and internationalist solidarity [despite its authoritarian control]. Jagan was thus pressured to support the PNC in its antiimperialist posture, that is, its nationalization policies.

38.

39. 40.

41.

Rupert Lewis, Walter Rodney’s Intellectual and Political Thought (Kingston, Jamaica: The Press University of the West Indies and Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1998), p. 213. Cheddi Jagan, “Guyana’s National Development Strategy,” Global Development Initiative, Advisory Group Meeting, Atlanta, GA: The Carter Centre, June 6, 1996, (February 2, 2007). Booker McConnell was nationalized by the PNC as part of that government’s transition to a state-planned economy. Derek MacCuish, “Guyana: Experience of Economic Reform under the World Bank and IMF Direction” (Montreal: The Social Justice Committee; Ottawa: Halifax Initiative Coalition, October 2005) (December 15, 2006). Marcus Colchester, Guyana: Fragile Frontier (Gloucestershire, UK: Latin American Bureau, 1997).

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42. Greenpeace, “An Overview of Asian Companies in Guyana,” (January 27, 2007). 43. Greenpeace, “An Overview.” 44. Gold is one of the two main industries in the mining sector (bauxite being the other). 45. The Guyana Office for Investment, “Mining,” (February 2, 2007). 46. The Guyana Office for Investment, “Mining.” 47. The United Nations Environmental Program, “The Guyana Rice Industry,” (January 27, 2007). 48. MacCuish, “Guyana: Experience of Economic Reform.” 49. David Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture: An Overview,” in Modern Political Culture in the Caribbean, ed. Holger Henke and Fred Reno (Jamaica: University of the West Indies Press, 2003), p. 362. 50. Brittany Bond, “Jagdeo’s Win in Guyana: An Uninspiring Victory” (Washington: Council on Hemispheric Affairs, September 7, 2006) (November 12, 2006). 51. Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture,” p. 362. 52. Quoted in Davey, “Jagan Makes Up for Lost Time,” p. 11. 53. Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture,” p. 362. 54. Author Interview, Gopaul. 55. Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture,” p. 363. 56. Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture,” p. 363. 57. Author Interview, Derek Bernard, Opposition MP, PNC Reform, Georgetown, Guyana, November 4, 2005. 58. Frederick Kissoon, “The Window Opens Again,” Kaiteur News, April 6–13, 2001, p. 6, quoted in Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture,” p. 363. 59. Author Interview, Gopaul. 60. Jagan, “Race Class and Nationhood.” 61. Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture,” p. 359. 62. Hinds, “Guyana’s Dominant Political Culture,” p. 360. According to Hinds, the same holds true for the PNC and Reform. 63. Quoted in Davey, “Jagan Makes Up for Lost Time,” p. 10. 64. Mahamdallie, “Obituary: Independence Days,” Socialist Review.

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CHAPTER 7

Revolutionaries in Power: The Evolution of the African National Congress Gary Prevost

Introduction This research on the African National Congress (ANC) is done in the context of the question of what happens when a revolutionary, rebel movement succeeds in taking state power. It is now 13 years since 1994, when as the result of national elections negotiated with the former National Party (NP) rulers, the ANC took the reins of governmental power. This analysis will place the challenges of the ANC in the context of rebel movements in Latin America that have taken power and it will address several theoretical questions. First, when a revolutionary movement gains power what are the terms of its arrival at power? Is the old order thoroughly defeated or does it retain power in certain sectors? Second, what is the international context of the transition? Does the revolutionary movement have powerful friends or enemies? Third, what is the level of unity within the revolutionary movement? Are there factions with different approaches to the construction of a new society? Fourth, how well does the revolutionary movement, forged in part in clandestine operations, transform itself to democratic norms? Fifth, does the revolutionary movement have sufficient expertise to manage state power? How willing is it to use professionals from the old system and by what means does it control them? Sixth, how flexible is the revolutionary

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movement in adjusting to a changed environment? Does it alter its ideological stance, and if it does, what are the dangers to the movement if it strays too far from its long-stated principles? To approach these issues in the South African context it is necessary to look at the events preceding 1990. For the 30 years leading up to 1990 the ANC and other forces in the liberation struggle conceived of the defeat of South Africa’s apartheid regime in revolutionary terms. It was the perspective of the ANC and others that the reform-oriented path to power embodied in the resistance campaigns of the 1950s had reached a dead end in 1960, with the massacre in Sharpeville being the turning point. The adoption in 1960 of an armed-struggle strategy by the ANC and the PAC (Pan African Congress) did not come without previous consideration. Many within the movement, including Nelson Mandela, had doubted that the Gandhian-style resistance campaign would succeed.1 From 1960 onward the vision of the liberation forces for South Africa was clearly in the camp of the armed liberation forces worldwide embodied in the Tricontinental Conference convened in Havana in 1966, and in the words of Che Guevara that the duty of revolutionaries worldwide was to create “one, two, three Vietnams.”2 The forces of the National Liberation Front in Vietnam were seen as at the forefront of a war against imperialism for national liberation and without question, upon victory, the construction of socialism. For many, but not all of the liberation movements, the countries where Communist parties were in power, headed by the USSR, were seen as in the leadership role. The liberation movements saw themselves as clearly a part of the socialist camp worldwide.3 Having said that, it was not true that all of the political forces within the ANC made the full turn to socialism. There have always been highly traditional elements within the ANC closely linked to tribal chiefs in the rural areas. It is also important to note that the primary exile offices of the ANC were not in the USSR but rather in London where leaders like Oliver Tambo and his assistant, Thabo Mbeki (now president of South Africa) were under the strong political influence of the British Labor Party rather than Soviet-style socialism.4 In the case of South Africa the image of the heroic guerrilla was embodied in the armed wing of the ANC, Umkhonto we Sizwe, known as the MK, which operated both inside and outside of South Africa. Of course, as we study the liberation struggles of the 1960s through the 1980s we fully understand that the armed struggle of the MK was but one aspect of the liberation movement.5 Even as the MK was launched by the ANC in the early 1960s, they did not rule out other forms of struggle. However, for many years mass protests and street actions were made difficult in the wake

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of the repression of the apartheid government in response to the escalation of tactics by the liberation movements. With the rebirth of the mass struggles in the Soweto events of 1976 down to the unbanning of the ANC and the release of Nelson Mandela in 1990 the struggle took on a multifaceted character with the rise of the crucial new actors such as the Untied Democratic Front (UDF), Congress of the South African Trade Unions (COSATU), Congress of the South African Students (COSAS), and a myriad of other local and national struggle organizations. In the unfolding of these various new formations can be found the seeds of the direction of politics in South Africa post-1994, but the current political stance of the ANC was not dominant as the transition dawned in 1989–1990. Interviews with current activists and a review of the public record from the late 1980s showed that there was a belief that South Africa was a country where either the apartheid regime would hold on to power by ever more repressive means or the liberation forces would triumph and South Africa would be fully transformed politically, economically, and socially.6 However, it should be noted that behind the scenes and in contrast to the ANC’s public stance a dialogue was developing over a possible transition that included conversations between the NP and the imprisoned Mandela. Even earlier in the mid-1980s there had been important conversations between the ANC leaders in exile and members of the white South African business community. Notwithstanding these contacts, in the wake of the imposition of the state of siege in 1985 the two sides had different assessments of reality—for the apartheid government it was confirmation that they still held the upper hand militarily and for the liberation movement it was proof that the apartheid system was desperate and that they were winning. Having laid this as background, how does it come to be that in 1989–1990 there is a fundamental shift in thinking on both sides and ultimately a pacted transition emerges? Transition from Apartheid There was a series of events that shook the confidence of the leadership of the NP to continue the apartheid system purely by force. One was the defeat of the South African army in Angola in 1988 at Cuito Cunavale by Cuban forces.7 However, this defeat was only one of a number of factors. By the late 1980s the international sanctions campaign had begun to take its toll on the South African economy. The turning point had been 1986, when the U.S. Congress, overriding the veto of President Ronald Reagan, placed the United States in the camp of those countries supporting the isolation of South Africa. The primary problem for the NP was that

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South Africa’s international isolation and its growing instability in the wake of township unrest made the securing of new international loans almost impossible. This problem was combined with falling prices of mineral exports and high costs of petroleum imports confronting the government with a significant revenue crisis. The government was forced to borrow at higher interest rates and to devote an increasing share of its budget to debt service. Since its tax base in the white population was relatively narrow, there was little room for government spending on projects that might have sought to temper black unrest with material improvements. As Daniel Lieberfeld points out in his 2000 article “Getting to the Negotiating Table,” the NP was also facing an electoral challenge in that the white electorate was becoming polarized on how to deal with the crisis.8 On the right, the Conservative Party (CP) was becoming the repository of the hard-line, no compromise Afrikaaner position and in the run-up to the 1989 elections, F. W. DeKlerk, the new NP leader, saw no future in moving closer to the CP. Instead he moved the NP to the left, positioning it to be the party of reform as a way to block the Democratic Party (DP) from becoming the party that would lead the change. As Lieberfeld also argues, DeKlerk and some of his closest advisors came from a different generation of Afrikaner leaders than his predecessor. As a group they were more self confident about the survival of the Afrikaner culture and as a lawyer DeKlerk more inclined to a negotiated, constitutional solution.9 Crucial to DeKlerk’s strategy of seeking a negotiated solution were three factors. Concerned by the imposition of negotiated settlements on Angola and Namibia by powerful outside forces, DeKlerk was motivated to negotiate a settlement with the ANC on a one on one basis where the inherent strength of apartheid’s police and army apparatus would come into play. It had been the desire to maintain the upper hand militarily that led the government to seek disengagement form Angola and Namibia before those conflicts weakened the strategic position of the security forces within South Africa. DeKlerk also saw that he had a potential narrow window of time with which to negotiate with the aging ANC leadership before it passed from the scene. Mandela, Tambo, Sisulu, and others were in their seventies. For the NP leaders there became a fixation on not wanting Mandela to die in prison and become a martyr, further fueling unrest in the townships. Overall, the international climate was not favorable to the apartheid leaders, but one key and unexpected event made it easier for the NP leaders to compromise—the beginning of the fall of East European socialism in the fall of 1989. In one sense these events put pressure on both sides, but for the apartheid leaders it removed fears that the ANC as a revolutionary party would have strong allies from a socialist camp. All of these factors taken

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together led to DeKlerk’s historic February 1990 speech where the ANC was unbanned and the release of Mandela was announced. It is important to note that at that point in 1990 the exact parameters of the final deal with the ANC were not yet determined. Over the course of the next four years DeKlerk would work through a variety of means to undermine the ANC and to avoid what would eventually become a reality, the ceding of full political power to the ANC following the 1999 elections, and the dissolving of the remnants of the NP into the ANC. ANC Position To complete this analysis it is necessary to look at the ANC side of the equation. How did this revolutionary and increasingly socialist movement engage itself in a process of transition that would leave it in a position of significant political power but with considerable constraints on its ability to fully remake South Africa along the lines that it had spelled out in the 1955 Freedom Charter? This was especially true in its commitment to radical wealth redistribution based on the nationalization of the mines, factories, and banks. In a range of interviews conducted with ANC activists who were in the movement at the time, the nature of the transition events at the end of the 1989 and beginning of 1990 created a state of confusion among the rank-and-file activists.10 Most believed that the release of Mandela was an indication of the military strength of the ANC and the MK. Activists cited the victories of the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA, Movimento Popular para Liberação de Angola) in Angola and the Southwest African Peoples Organization (SWAPO) in Namibia, largely on the terms of the revolutionaries, that a similar outcome of complete victory was in the offing in South Africa. Therefore, it came as a shock to many in the ANC rank and file when the top ANC leadership announced that there would be a cessation of the armed struggle. One activist recalled an overnight session in the party congress in Durban in 1990 where current President Mbeki spoke for four hours on the question to convince reluctant ANC activists that it was the right course.11 One former SACP (South African Communist Party) member recalls how Joe Slovo reported to a party meeting on the negative realities of the relationship of forces. As Slovo explained at the time, “clearly the enemy is not defeated.”12 The forces of the apartheid security apparatus retained the upper hand. The military position of the MK was simply not as strong as the comrades had been led to believe over the years. There was no likelihood in the immediate future of an armed revolutionary victory.13 The negotiated settlements in Angola and Namibia, seen by the activists as indicators of their side’s strength,

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actually placed pressure on the ANC to compromise and limited their future sanctuaries for armed struggle. Another aspect of the change in the political stance of the ANC following the release of Nelson Mandela was that the changed political circumstances brought forward elements of the ANC’s political trajectory that had always been present. As Mandela stated in a 1990 Washington Post interview, the ANC was above all a coalition “united solely by our determination to oppose racial oppression.”14 From its inception in 1912 the ANC has been a political organization with a broad range of political forces within its ranks. From 1960 to 1990 it can be argued that the more radical elements gained the upper hand as the result of both the national and international context. However, in 1990 there began a shift from that revolutionary thrust back toward political elements that had always been there. Mandela and the other aging leaders of the ANC embodied that shift as they emerged from prison and gave the ANC its broad Africanist character that would unite the black majority and ensure its political dominance far into the future. The two term presidency of Thabo Mbeki has only served to deepen that trend to its Africanist roots. Also, contributing to the context of the compromises made by the ANC during the transition was the unexpected crisis of worldwide socialist forces. The collapse of the East European socialist governments in the fall of 1989 may have influenced the NP leaders toward a negotiated settlement but the impact of those events on ANC activists was even more profound. The influence on the ANC was particularly strong because the movement’s socialist orientation came in significant measure from the members of the SACP at its core. Like most Communist Parties worldwide the SACP looked to the USSR and its East European socialist allies as the well spring of socialist ideas and socialist practice. For decades they had been relatively uncritical of Soviet-style socialism and then in the 1980s when Gorbachev began the process of self-criticism under the rubric of perestroika and glasnost they joined in praising the new direction of the USSR. More openminded members of the pro-Moscow communist movement worldwide welcomed the new, more liberal direction that the USSR seemed to be headed. This optimism, therefore, made the disillusionment in the communist ranks even more profound when West Germany absorbed East Germany following the fall of the Wall and the people of the other East European countries unceremoniously put their ruling Communist parties out of power. Two years later, the fall from power of the Communist Party in the USSR, only served to deepen the disillusionment. These events in Eastern Europe had negative impact on a variety of progressive struggles around the world. Just days after the fall of the Wall,

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Luis Inácio da Silva (Lula), the Workers Party leader in Brazil lost the presidential election to a conservative, Fernando Collar de Mello in a contest he had been expected to win. Two weeks after Mandela’s release the Sandinistas were defeated electorally in Nicaragua after polls had predicted an easy victory. The defeat effectively ended the radical project on which the Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional (FSLN, Sandinista National Liberation Front) had embarked in 1979.15 Soon after the Sandinista defeat, revolutionary forces in El Salvador and Guatemala went to the negotiating table to salvage what they could from revolutionary struggles that were now seen as unwinnable. Even the Irish Republican Army (IRA) and the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), long symbols of revolutionary armed struggle worldwide, engaged in peace negotiations that acknowledged the superior power of their enemies and the lack of options to pursue the revolutionary course. Groups that continued on a revolutionary armed path such as the Shining Path of Peru or the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC, Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) were viewed within the progressive movement worldwide as an anachronism that would be unlikely to succeed. Pessimism was also engendered among progressive forces worldwide by the events of the Persian Gulf War in 1990–1991. A weakened USSR did not block United States and British plans for war on Iraq following the invasion of Kuwait by Iraq in August 1990. Hopes that the Vietnam Syndrome would blunt the U.S. war effort from within the United States evaporated quickly when the United States and its allies went to war in mid-January 1991. The results of the war were also sobering for forces worldwide that considered themselves to be anti-imperialist. The seemingly powerful Iraqi Army, with its Soviet equipment, was easily defeated and inflicted few casualties on the U.S. forces. The reality of a single, dominant superpower in the form of the United States was foremost in the minds of policy analysts and others worldwide. This perspective would be further reinforced by the ascendancy of Yeltsin later that year and the dissolution of the USSR as an adversary of the United States. What was the ultimate result of all of these conservatizing factors on the development of the ANC’s strategy during the transition? The ANC leaders, especially those who were engaged in ongoing negotiations with the NP at the highest levels, focused on a pragmatic strategy to gain the best possible grounds for achieving political power. The ANC was fully aware that NP leaders were proceeding from a position of strength and were not ready to simply concede even political, let alone economic, power to the ANC. It quickly became clear to the ANC leadership that the NP would resort to a variety of means, including violence, to stretch out the

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negotiations and to concede as little as possible. Using paid agents, the NP was able to foment violent actions against ANC activists in the townships, especially in KwazuNatal using the forces of the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP). Ultimately, the ANC rather skillfully neutralized these efforts and kept the momentum toward the eventual 1994 elections moving forward. However, many activists who were interviewed for this study spoke of the conservatizing influence that these attacks had on the rank and file.16 Another feature of the transition that can be analyzed in hindsight was the demobilization of the ANC township activists during the negotiations. Except in the places where activists were being targeted with violence, there developed a sense that the key decisions about the future of the country were not being made by the mobilizations in the townships, a sentiment that was widespread in the 1980s, but rather in the negotiations involving only the highest leadership of the ANC. Several activists also spoke of not being well informed about the state of the negotiations.17 To many it would not be clear until the final draft of the constitutional plan just how many concessions had the ANC been forced to make to get agreement on the promised elections. It may not have been the intent of the ANC leadership, but in hindsight the time period of 1990–1994 becomes one marked by the demobilization of the grassroots political forces that had been so energized in the townships during the 1980s when thousands of civil organizations emerged to confront to the apartheid system. Ironically, it had been the work of these organizations that contributed mightily to the decision to negotiate by the apartheid leaders. Demobilization of the Grassroots In an April 2002 article in the African Studies Review researcher Elke Zuern argues that the 10 year trend from the time of the transition to the present has been one of significant demobilization of the civic organizations that were formed in 1980s.18 Zuern explains the demobilization primarily in terms of conscious ANC policies. Especially with the first municipal elections in 1997, the ANC moved decisively to co-opt key community leaders into the local government structures as councilors and members of ward committees. Dissatisfaction from this arrangement led the South African National Civic Organization (SANCO) to consider running independent candidates in the 2000 local elections, but under pressure from the ANC backed off from that threat. In the Port Elizabeth area there was disappointment with the decision to not run independent candidates.19 These organizations share a similar position with the SACP and the unions. Often because of overlapping membership, the SANCO organizations are both a

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part of the ANC and also struggling against it on behalf of the poorest of the poor. This stance infuriates ANC leaders because the government has devoted significant resources to expanded social grants and township infrastructure. However, the critics of the ANC would argue that overall its priority has been the creation of a black middle, not the majority poor. More recent studies have documented the weakness of civil society organizations, across South Africa.20 The level of noninvolvement during the transition years also extended to the intellectual community in the milieu of the ANC. Originally there were to be created around the country, so-called Development Research Centers (DRCs), where local intellectuals and activists would come together to strategize on ideas of transformation at the local level. If implemented, this idea would have cut across the demobilization of township forces and would have contributed to a democratization of the ANC. However, the idea was never implemented and instead the project was placed in just one location, the University of the Western Cape, where it took on a more purely academic character lacking grassroots input.21 The story of the proposed DRCs is an instructive one because it shows that alternative approaches more grounded in the philosophy of the ANC from the 1980s were placed on the table but that ultimately the leadership of the ANC chose strategies that moved the party in a different direction. The story of the unimplemented DRCs became a preview of the public debate over the adoption of the Growth, Employment and Redistribution (GEAR) strategy by the president’s economic advisors in 1996 over the strong objections of the trade union movement and its policy advisors. Such a concentration of ideas on public policy in the Office of the Presidency would have been more difficult had there been a decentralized and grassroots based system of policy advice in place.22 An additional compromise made by the ANC leaders during negotiations was an acceptance that large sections of the old government bureaucracy would have to be maintained. The ANC had to acknowledge that it did not have the people to fully replace the existing government bureaucracy both in terms of sheer numbers and also out of a lack of appropriate skills in a wide range of areas.23 As a result, the negotiated transition left many apartheid-era officials in positions of power in the government bureaucracy, the police and the army. Other revolutionary movements coming to power in the twentieth century faced similar challenges, but in comparison to some others the ANC was clearly in weaker position on this question. For example, the Bolsheviks in Russia in 1918 had been forced to accept the continuation of a significant portion of the Czarist government bureaucracy, but they were able to assign a significant number of political commissars to shadow the work of

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the retained workers and to keep them in line by force if necessary. Of course, the relationship of forces was more in the favor of the Bolsheviks because of the revolutionary means by which they gained power. The July 26th Movement (M26J, Movimiento 26 de Julio) in Cuba and the FSLN in Nicaragua were also forced to make certain concessions in this arena because of their lack of all the people necessary to staff the new government. However, there was an important difference in both of these cases. Members of the old order were retained but not in the army. In both Cuba and Nicaragua the old army structures were dismantled and new revolutionary structures were developed from the ranks of the revolutionary forces.24 In the case of South Africa individual members of the ANC’s armed wing were integrated into the military, but the structures were not significantly altered. Of course, the key to the different strategies of the M26J and the FSLN were the total capitulation of the armed forces of Batista and Somoza, the former dictators. However, it is important to note that their own small members could have led the M26J and FSLN to different decisions, but both considered the reconstruction of the armed forces to be essential to the development of their revolutionary projects. The consequences for the continuation in power of apartheid-era bureaucrats have been considerable for the ANC. There has been much evidence that many retained bureaucrats have never fully accepted the transition to ANC black majority rule. They have been slow to accept the gradual transformation of the government bureaucracies to include new employees who come in through programs of affirmative action for previously disadvantaged groups. The issue in South Africa has been significantly tied to race as older, white government bureaucrats have had difficulty accepting black supervision and in many cases delivering their services equally to a diverse community.25 The full extent of the latter problem is difficult to empirically verify and in some instances may be used by ANC leaders to explain away problems caused by inefficient bureaucrats brought into position postapartheid. Though the process of contracting out government services has become far more transparent and has empowered many new black businesses, the process has not been entirely successful as many contracts still go to white-dominated enterprises that have long standing ties to the older, white bureaucrats. The great majority of these white bureaucrats and also younger ones who have been hired since 1994 have their political home in the Democratic Alliance (DA) which as a political party opposes most of the significant transformation programs put forward by the ANC government.26

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Contemporary Character of the ANC What kind of ANC has emerged as the ruling party of South Africa more than 10 years after the assumption of power and how successful has it been in carrying out its program? The ANC has evolved significantly from the political positions it held in the 1980s. What will be the long-term consequences of that evolution and will its distancing from the revolutionary past eventually have negative consequences for its continuance as a party with a supermajority in the South African politics? A related question is how much was the evolution of the ANC an inevitability or to what degree was the shift the result of political choices that could definitely been taken in a different direction closer to its previous political trajectory? There has been considerable scholarship on the question of the kind of political economy that was developed by the ANC government after 1994.27 Many local leaders interviewed within the ANC and some within the academic community argue that the ANC’s adoption of a mainstream economic program was an inevitable result of the end of the cold war, the promotion of the so-called Washington Consensus by the United States and its allies in the face of the collapse of the USSR, and the structural realities of the South African economy, unaffected as it was by an economic transformation. Following 1994, South African finance capital, primarily white South Africans, continued to control the economic system much as they had throughout the colonial and apartheid eras. This outlook on the options facing the ANC in the period of the 1990s was summed up in an interview with a local councillor, “Faced with the collapse of the Soviet Union we had little choice but to abandon the baggage of Marxism.”28 This chapter will argue that since 1990 the ANC has significantly conservatized and in the process moved to the political center occupying a political space in world politics that has come to be known as “The Third Way.”29 The author endorses the perspective offered by De Beus and Koelbe who argue that while the term “social democracy” is not in vogue in South Africa, the remarkable similarities between the political project of parts of the European left and leading elements of the South African ANC should be given some thought since they point to a convergence of political ideas and a free f low of political information.30

President Mbeki regularly participates in the Policy Network of the New Progressive Agenda, a key Third Way institution. A recent edition of its journal included articles by Mbeki, Tony Blair, Jean Chretian, and Javier

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Solana. A photograph published widely from the 2005 Davos Economic Summit featured Mbeki with Bill Clinton, Bill Gates of Microsoft, and Tony Blair, all Third Way proponents. For Mbeki this social democratic affiliation is nothing new going back to his student days in Britain and fascination with the Labor government of Harold Wilson. It is important to note that the Third Way perspective distances itself from traditional social democracy and its projected long-term commitment to socialism. Within the Third Way movement there are different political currents and many ANC members seemed more comfortable identifying with the Swedish Social Democrats, probably the most progressive force within Third Way politics.31 In any case, the ANC has moved from its position on the revolutionary left and in many ways has even jettisoned the political stance of social democracy in favor of the more conservative Third Way position. This centrist positioning is not at all self-evident for a number of reasons. First of all, the ANC, including its top leader, Thabo Mbeki, continue to use in many settings the rhetoric of an earlier era that focuses on national liberation and societal transformation.32 Even the idea of an eventual goal of socialism is not ruled out in the mainstream rhetoric of the ANC.33 Second, the rankand-file base of the party, together with its alliance partners the SACP and COSATU, continue to rhetorically embrace positions that alternate between the revolutionary left and social democracy. The symbols of the latter two organizations retain the communist hammer and sickle and the offices of COSATU officials are as likely to have pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Che on their walls as that of Mandela or Mbeki.34 The political rhetoric of both organizations remains explicitly focused on the goal of ultimately building socialism in South Africa. Key activists, especially in COSATU, see themselves as standing an opposition to the ANC government while still seeing themselves as members of the ANC party through the tripartite alliance and as individual ANC members.35 SACP and COSATU The complicated positions of the SACP and COSATU place these organizations in a very awkward position. They both argue that they represent the voice of the working class within the alliance and that their position as insiders in the ANC structures gives them a platform from which to argue their positions and to influence the direction of the government policy. Crucial to any analysis of the alliance is a balance sheet on whether or not that influence has been significant over the course of the last thirteen years. Considerable South African scholarship has been devoted to this very

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question and the mainstream South African media also often weighs in on the matter.36 Most analysts will argue that a crucial early test of the power of SACP and COSATU was the government’s initial adoption of the Reconstruction and Development (RDP) strategy in 1994 at the time of the installation of the new government. The RDP committed the South African government to a set of economic development initiatives, that while a retreat from the nationalization schemes envisaged in the Freedom Charter, were clearly against the era’s worldwide neoliberal agenda. The RDP were hailed by COSATU and the SACP as evidence that the ANC government was still committed to a transformation agenda and that these programs showed the strength of their influence within the multiclass ANC.37 However, long before the policies of the RDP were fully implemented, the South African government adopted in 1996 a new set of economic measures under the name of GEAR championed by the minister of finance, Trevor Manuel. These measures moved South Africa much closer to neoliberal orthodoxy and were designed in significant measure to assure international investors that South Africa was a country fully ready for renewed foreign direct investment. Its measures included a tighter money supply regulated by the government, a policy that inevitably controlled inflation but with a consequent rise in unemployment guaranteed, at least in the short term. Beyond the adoption of GEAR, which the Mandela government insisted was not a repudiation of the RDP, and may have represented fiscal prudence at a difficult time for the South African economy, the method by which it was adopted was particularly significant. As Tom Lodge demonstrated in a 1999 article, the decision to adopt GEAR was made with little or no input from COSATU even though its membership was inevitably to be affected in a negative way. The leaders of COSATU only learned of the government’s decision to adopt GEAR after the policy had already been fully formulated by the technocrats of the Mandela government working in collaboration with advisors from the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund.38 Both COSATU and the SACP vigorously attacked the government’s adoption of GEAR believing that these policies were a mistake that could be reversed. There was even some belief that the government could be convinced to see the error of its ways. In reality the adoption of GEAR became a turning point in the power of COSATU and the SACP to significantly influence government policy. COSATU and the SACP formally filed their divergent views within the structures of the ANC expecting at worst a polite rejection of their perspective. Instead they received a harsh dressing down from the ANC leadership led by Mandela himself. In opposing

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GEAR they were called “ultra-leftists” and accused of not representing the interests of the South African nation but rather of narrow, selfish interests of an aristocracy of labor.39 Stung hard by these criticisms, the opponents of GEAR were basically told that if they were to remain within the family of the ANC through the tripartite alliance then the acceptance of the government’s macroeconomic package was part of the deal. COSATU and the SACP, not prepared at that time to break the unity of the ANC, swallowed hard and accepted the reality of GEAR. The pattern established during the adoption of GEAR basically continued in the ensuing years, especially with ascension of Thabo Mbeki to the leadership of the ANC in 1999 and his subsequent reelection in 2004. Mbeki deepened the trend begun slowly under Mandela of centralizing power in the Office of the Presidency and on economic matters relying heavily on Finance Minister Manuel and his team of financial technocrats.40 Richard Calland has argued that there are six pillars of power in South Africa—the presidency, the treasury, ANC, informal networks across government and business, transnational corporations and domestic big business, and civil society (primarily COSATU and emerging social movements). He questions whether the ANC as a party actually controls the government, arguing that in recent years power has gravitated to the presidency and Treasury who work in close collaboration with big business. He questions whether the ANC and the social movements will be successful in actually being a check on “the naked aggression of South Africa’s big capitalists.”41 Rank-and-file COSATU activists have not surrendered in this struggle, but increasingly they do not view the ANC-led government as standing primarily on their side.42 COSATU is the most important social movement in South Africa with more than a million members, but its political positioning is not easy to characterize. As noted earlier, the movement has many key operatives in leadership roles who come from a radical left position. Its public document, the 2015 Plan,43 has a very radical core embodied in its notion of “consolidating working class power.” The union federation openly commits itself to supporting the SACP as “the vanguard of the working class” by stating that it seeks “to build the SACP into a strong, mass-based organization.”44 Such a commitment to the SACP implies support for the project of promoting a socialist future, but at no point in the 17-page document is there an explicit commitment by COSATU to socialism. Instead the document adopts wholeheartedly the ANC’s formulation that the political project of the current moment is the construction of the National Democratic Revolution. The document acknowledges that the ANC is being pressured strongly by both national and international capital to adopt political positions that go

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against working class interests. However, ultimately COSATU asserts that “the ANC retains its overall character as a mass liberation movement.”45 The document goes on to say that the role of COSATU is to ensure through its efforts that the ANC retains that progressive and working class bias. To those who would counsel that the COSATU should separate from the ANC, the document states boldly: “The ANC is our organization and we are not going to throw in the towel and leave it.”46 How is this position to be understood in light of the considerable evidence that the ANC has conservatized to the point where its defense of the working class can be called seriously into question? One explanation lies in the natural conservatizing force that a trade union movement can represent. This was first fully recognized by Lenin in his work What is to Done47 where he spoke of the natural limitations of “trade union consciousness” and argued that radical action by workers and a commitment to socialism did not flow automatically from trade union organization, however strong that movement might be. The trade union movement and its professionalized bureaucracy naturally come to represent those workers who have jobs, often a relatively privileged position in countries with so much poverty, such as South Africa. Trade union structures are therefore used to protect the interests of their members rather than necessarily becoming a vehicle for the transformation of society. COSATU emerged as a key aspect of the antiapartheid movement in the late 1980s more through the organizational skills developed by its shop stewards than through political strike activities that might have rocked the apartheid system at its core. During the period of ANC rule there have also been key programs that have compromised the radical character of COSATU over time. When the National Economic Development and Labor Council (NEDLAC) was created in 1994, it was seen by its proponents within the ANC government and COSATU as providing an opportunity to provide the labor movement and previously marginalized groups access to legislative proposals before their proposal to parliament. However, access does not mean influence and NEDLAC operates on the highly questionable premise that a consensus can be reached between the interests of labor and capital. The union movement initially believed that the NEDLAC framework would work to benefit their interests, but most analysts now agree that these were false hopes, dashed in the government’s adoption of the GEAR strategy in 1996. Once COSATU was committed to the class compromise premise of NEDLAC, it was destined to a secondary role in influencing state-level macroeconomic power. Eddie Webster has identified another element limiting COSATU as a radical force when he observes that COSATU lost significant layers of leadership to government, political office, and the corporate world.48

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A dramatic example of that was the redeployment of Mbhazima Shilowa from the presidency of COSATU to become the premier of Gauteng in 2000. Shilowa’s successor at COSATU, Zwelinzima Vavi, is an equally strong leader but the transfer was still a loss for the trade union movement. Often labeled the “brain drain,” this movement of people has denied the labor movement some of its most skilled operatives and in this context it means that these individuals have been co-opted into a system, especially at the corporate level that demands the abandonment of previously held radical political views. Interviews with officials remaining in the union movement generally revealed that former union activists placed on corporate boards through Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) were often less sympathetic to union concerns than the previous board members.49 Over the course of time, as the luster of neoliberal strategies worldwide has waned, South Africa’s macroeconomic strategy has adjusted accordingly, moving back in the direction of greater state involvement.50 Recently there has even been the discussion of adopting a newly forming Beijing Consensus that gives government a greater role in providing basic services to those left outside of capitalist economic growth strategies.51 However, even these subtle shifts do not change the fact that COSATU and the SACP are largely left on the outside looking in when it comes to policymaking. The latest evidence of that being Mbeki’s call for new, more liberalized labor legislation to favor small business at the expense of trade union interests.52 SACP and COSATU leaders immediately condemned the proposals as being blatantly antiunion and completely unacceptable to the labor movement.53 COSATU may succeed in making small revisions to the proposed amendments before they become law, but past experience dictates that the changes will occur over the objections of COSATU and the SACP. As of this writing the proposals to restructure labor laws had not moved forward. This latest episode brings into focus the choices facing the labor movement and a Socialist Party as they seek to maintain their political space within South African politics. Their marginalization has resulted, especially in the Eastern Cape, in discussions on whether or not COSATU and SACP should seek greater political independence from the ANC. Proposals for greater independence, especially from the SACP, usually revolve around the idea that the party should run its own candidates in both local and national elections. At the national level such discussion made its way into the national media in 2005 and 200654 and in the past SACP branches in the Port Elizabeth area have passed resolutions supporting the idea.55 Such proposals from within the SACP envision that the party would likely remain in a parliamentary coalition with the ANC, but its members would

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be elected in their own right and would therefore not be subject to ANC parliamentary discipline as they are now. Proponents of the prospective of separate electoral lists argue that it would give the SACP a better platform from which to promote socialist ideas and working class interests.56 In the foreseeable future such an independent stance by the SACP is unlikely to be adopted by the party as a whole and the point of view in Port Elizabeth will remain in the minority. However, increasing disillusionment with ANC government policies resulted in the idea being debated at the SACP National Conference in July 2007. There are several factors that make such change unlikely in the short term, even though South Africa’s proportional representation system would likely allow the SACP to win some seats in its own name. Most importantly, it is not yet clear that South Africa’s black voters are prepared to turn away from the ANC in any significant numbers in spite of the party’s steady drift into the political center and its partial failure to deliver on significant economic advances for the black majority. The research conducted by Janet Cherry and her researchers in the Port Elizabeth township of Kwazakele is particularly illustrative of the staying power of the ANC.57 Her surveys conducted after the 1994, 1999, and 2004 elections show that the population of this stable black township has become increasingly discontented with the ability of the ANC to deliver on all of its promises. However, at the same time there is almost no drop off in electoral support for the ANC.58 Parties that have sought to challenge the ANC from the left, including the PAC, have been spectacularly unsuccessful. Over the three elections ANC support has remained in the vicinity of 98 percent and there has not been any significant drop in the rate of voter participation. If the voter participation in Kwazakele were to have shown significant decline, especially among young people, then one could more easily envisage a successful challenge by the SACP. Another factor that mitigates against the SACP pursuing an independent course is that key SACP leaders have been co-opted into the government structures at the highest level. Five members of the SACP serve in Mbeki’s cabinet: Charles Nqakula, Safety and Security; Alec Erwin, Public Enterprises; Ronnie Kasrils, Intelligence; Geraldine Fraser-Moleketi, Public Service and Administration; and Jeff Redebe, Transport. Key Mbeki advisor, Joel Netshitenzhe is SACP. Outside of the former Soviet republics no country in the world has so many current Communist Party members in positions of influence than in South Africa. Longtime ANC and SACP member Ben Turok’s outlook, explained in his recently published autobiography, is instructive. After so many years in the wilderness of exile and prison the achievement of the reigns of power after 1994 was exhilarating.59 Once in the positions of power it would seem that SACP operatives are unlikely to

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concede those positions easily. As long as the party remains in the alliance, its leaders are virtually guaranteed to hold positions of influence in both the government and the private sector. Since those positions come from the super majority of the ANC, a position not likely surrendered in the near future, the temptations of power and the belief that their efforts keep the ANC in time with its radical past are not likely to be traded for the uncertainty of standing along for governmental office independent of the ANC. Running independently, the SACP might well retain positions in the national parliament and regional legislatures, but there would be no guarantee of inclusion in the ruling coalition as they are now. A third factor at work against electoral independence is that the great majority of the SACP are also members of the ANC. When these members articulate their views they often speak first as ANC members and only secondarily as SACP militants. Such a perspective naturally leads them to speak in favor of the continuation of the alliance in its current form and to speak of SACP independence only in terms of the distant future, definitely not in 2009 and maybe not even in 2014.60 A final factor working against SACP independence is that such a move could only have any real chance of success if it were done in collaboration with COSATU in the form of a labor party. Such ideas are discussed within COSATU, especially when the ANC unveils anti–working class programs, but at this point in time there is even less support within the leadership of COSATU for political independence than there is within the SACP. The primary document of COSATU, adopted at its 8th National Congress in 2003, projects the presence of the union federation in the alliance structures for both the 2009 and 2014 elections.61 The reasons for such a stance parallel those of the SACP, based in its own rank-and-file support for the ANC as an electoral force and the positions of government leadership held by key COSATU people. Presented in this manner it might seem that a break from COSATU and the SACP is virtually impossible. In the short term that may be true, but the cracks in the alliance seem to be growing deeper. One experience from early 2005 in Port Elizabeth was instructive of this trend. As the municipal administration of Nceba Faku came under increasing fire from a report sharply critical of the delivery of new homes in the townships, COSATU and the SACP went to the unusual steps of organizing a public demonstration of several hundred people outside of the hall where that evening with great fanfare the municipality was holding the formal opening of council proceedings for the new year.62 It is interesting to note, however, that the demonstration occurred hours before the actual council event and that neither COSATU nor the SACP boycotted the actual session. However, in

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spite of that concession, the ANC mayor did not receive the demonstration kindly and weeks later sought the disciplining of city workers who attended the protest during their lunch hours.63 In his opening address to the council the mayor was also critical of the union movement for, defending workers who needed to be disciplined. Ironically, Mayor Faku was not tapped by the ANC to serve another term, but it was not the opposition from either the SACP or COSATU that sealed his fate. His fate, like that of other municipal leaders chosen for the 2006 slates was made by the ANC hierarchy in Pretoria with a view toward the impending succession struggle in the ANC. How is the role of newer social movements to be understood in the context of the challenge to the ANC’s evolution? Do these movements contain the basis of political challenge to the ANC that could undermine its political power or lead to a reconsideration of its political trajectory. Adam Habib has argued that there are two different blocs within South African civil society which have emerged in response to the neoliberal direction of the ANC’s policies. One group are a set of neighborhood organizations focused primarily on helping township residents to survive under difficult conditions.64 While an important part of South African life, these groups are not the focus of this study but rather the second group, social movements that seek to engage the state to change government policy. These organizations use a variety of tactics ranging from lobbying to court action to direct action. They are usually organized around single issues and do not directly seek to supplant the political power of the ANC. Some are national in orientation like the Treatment Action Committee (TAC) which has been in the forefront of challenging the ANC’s HIV-AIDS policy or the landless movement. Some are more local in focus such as the Soweto Electricity Crisis Committee and the Concerned Citizens Group organize against electricity cutoffs in Soweto and rates evections and water terminations in Durban. A final example is the Anti-Privatization Movement launched in response to government privatization programs and allied with the international antiglobalization networks. These groups represent a growing factor in South African politics, but it is not clear that they pose any serious threat to the ANC nor are they likely to effect much policy change with the exception of the TAC that has succeeded in changing the ANC’s HIV/AIDS policies in the last three years to be more in line with international norms. Part of the limitation of the new social movements is that they tend to be based on a fairly narrow middle class constituency or are too localized to affect national government policy. In addition, their general aversion to party politics makes them less of a threat to the ANC’s electoral dominance, ironically, by serving as the conscience of the ANC on such issues as HIV/AIDS. They have the ability to strengthen the

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ANC in the longer term if the ANC is willing to be flexible enough to incorporate their concerns. Conclusion Where does all of this leave South African politics today? On the one hand the ANC is clearly the implementer of an economic project far different from the radical, socialist oriented program envisioned in the Freedom Charter and nurtured through long years in exile in close contact with Soviet bloc. The ANC assumed power in the context of the collapse of the socialist bloc and the triumphalism of the neoliberal new world order. That in the eyes of the ANC leadership sharply constrained their room for maneuver. A decade later, neoliberalism has lost some of its luster and the political stance of the ANC and the general political scene in South Africa is one of the contradictions. In spite of its clear move to the right, the political discourse of the ANC in areas like women’s rights and environment remains far more progressive than their fellow Third Way politicians in Europe and the United States. Outside the ANC, the political space for left and progressive ideas remains very broad and well received within the South African population. The future trajectory of the ANC is not entirely clear. Faced with little real viable opposition there is a danger that the movement may ossify and ignore the country’s key problems headed by continued high levels of unemployment and HIV/AIDS. In that case the real possibility that a viable opposition could arise beginning with COSATU at its core but expanding to include those elements who sat out the 2004 elections, disillusioned by the ANC’s shortcoming in delivering on all of its promises. Notes 1. For Nelson Mandela’s views on armed struggle see Mandela, No Easy Walk to Freedom (London: Heinemann, 1965) and Martin Meredith, Nelson Mandela—A Biography (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), p. 196–216. 2. Cuba’s perspective on Latin American revolution is embodied in the February 1962 Second Declaration of Havana published in full in Martin Kenner and James Petros, eds., Fidel Castro Speaks (New York: Grove Press, 1969), pp. 85–106. For an overview of Cuban foreign policy see Gary Prevost, “Cuban Foreign Policy in the 1980s: Retreat from Revolutionary Perspectives or Maturation” in Cuba—A Different America, ed. Wilber Chaffee and Gary Prevost (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1992), pp. 154–169 and Michael Erisman, Cuba’s International Relations: The Anatomy of a Nationalistic Foreign Policy (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1985).

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3. Che Guevara’s message to the Tricontinental Conference is quoted at length in Herbert Matthews, Revolution in Cuba (New York: Charles Geribner’s Sons, 1975). Also for specific commentary on Africa see “At the Afro-Asian Conference” and “Interview with Liberacion” in Che Guevara Speaks, ed. Joseph Hansen (New York: Pathfinder Press, 2000). 4. William Mervin Gumede, Thabo Mbeki and the Battle for the Soul of the ANC (Capetown: Zebra Press, 2001), pp. 38–39. 5. Anthony Marx, Lessons of the Struggle: South African Internal Opposition (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992). 6. A review of the key ANC documents from this time period reveals that as late as the January 8, 1989 document there is little change in the perspective that the armed struggle will triumph and that there can be no compromise with the apartheid system. The turning point is the January 8, 1990 document where one month prior to Mandela’s release there is a paragraph entitled “Tactical Flexibility Will Be Needed.” Documents from this time period can be viewed on line at www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/. 7. For documentation on the importance of the events at Cuito Cuanavale see “The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale, March 23, 1988” in Cuban Revolution Reader, ed. Julio Garcia Luis (Melbourne: Ocean Press, 2001). For background on Cuba’s overall role in Angola, see Piero Gleijeses, Conflicting Missions: Havana, Washington, and Africa, 1959–1976 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002). 8. Daniel Lieberfeld, “Getting to the Negotiating Table in South Africa: Domestic and International Dynamics” Politikon 27, 1 (2000), pp. 19–36. 9. Lieberfield, “Getting to the Negotiating Table in South Africa.” 10. Author Interviews with Thami Mkongi, Community Activist, Kwazakele, Former SACP member, January 23, 2005; Zanoxlo Waylie, COSATU official, Continental Tire Company, February 4, 2005; Michael Xego, Coordinator of Councillors, Port Elizabeth, February 10, 2005; Mlingsi (Lulu) Johnson, Member of National Parliament, February 1, 2005. 11. Author Interview, Xego. 12. Slovo quoted in Radio South Africa, November 20, 1992. 13. Author Interview, Mkongi. 14. Nelson Mandela in Washington Post, June 26, 1990, cited in C. Spiess, “OneParty-Dominance in Changing Societies: The ANC and INC in Comparative Perspective,” Heidelberg Papers in South Asian and Comparative Studies No. 10 (South Asia Institute, University of Heidelberg, October 2002), p. 15. 15. For a detailed analysis of the FSLN electoral defeat see Vanessa Castro and Gary Prevost, eds., The 1990 Elections in Nicaragua and Their Aftermath (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1992). 16. Author Interviews, Mkongi; Xego. 17. Author Interviews, Mkongi; Xego; Johnson. 18. Elke Zuern, “Fighting for Democracy: Popular Organizations and Postapartheid Government in South Africa,” African Studies Review 45, 1 (April 2002), pp. 77–102 and Author Interview, Mkongi.

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19. Author Interview, Mkongi. 20. R. Ballard, A Habib, and I. Valodia, eds., Voices of Protest: Social Movements in Post-apartheid South Africa (Scottsville, South Africa: University of KwazuluNatal Press, 2006). 21. Author Interview with Janet Cherry, South African Human Sciences Research Council, Port Elizabeth, February 23, 2005. 22. Author Interview, Cherry. 23. Author Interview, Xego. 24. Harry Vanden and Gary Prevost, Democracy and Socialism in Sandinista Nicaragua (Boulder, CO: Lynne Reinner, 1993) and K. S. Karol, Guerrillas in Power (New York: Hill and Wang, 1970). 25. Author Interview, Xego. 26. Author Interview with black business owner, Port Elizabeth, February 2005. 27. Patrick Bond, Elite Transition (New York: Pluto Press, 2000); Nigel Gibson, “Transition from Apartheid,” Journal of Asian and African Studies 37, no. 1 (February 2001), pp 65–85; Hein Marais, Limits to Change (Cape Town: University of Cape Town Press, 2001) and Neville Alexander, An Ordinary Country: Issues in the Transition from Apartheid to Democracy in South Africa (Durban, South Africa: University of Natal Press, 2002). 28. Author Interview, Xego. 29. For a discussion of the Third Way concept in South African politics see Jos De Bus and Tom Koelble, “The Third Way Diffusion of Social Democracy: Western Europe and South Africa Compared,” Politikon 28, 2 (2001), pp. 181–194 and Thomas Koelble, “Globalization and Democratization: The Prospects for Social Democracy in South Africa,” Politikon 26, 2 (1999), p. 259–268. 30. DeBus and Koelble, p. 181. 31. Author Interview, Johnson. 32. Thabo Mbeki, Annual Message to the ANC, quoted from <www.anc.org.za> January 8, 2005. 33. Mbeki, Annual Message to the ANC. 34. Observed in the offices of COSATU, Continental Tire Company, New Brighton, February 2005. 35. Author Interviews with Tobile Ntola, Regional Chairperson, SACP, Port Elizabeth, January 24, 2005; Irvin Jim, Regional Official, South African Metalworkers Union (NUMSA), Port Elizabeth, February 16, 2005, and Zanoxolo Wayile. 36. Tom Lodge, “Policy Processes within the African National Congress and the Tripartite Alliance,” Politikon 26, 1 (1999), pp. 5–32. 37. COSATU leaders quoted in Lodge, 1999. 38. Lodge, “Policy Processes within the African National Congress.” 39. Mandela quoted in his criticism of COSATU’s critique of GEAR in Glenn Adler and Eddie Webster, “Lessons from South Africa: Unions, Democracy

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41.

42. 43.

44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

49. 50.

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52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57.

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and Economic Liberalization,” Working USA 3,3 (September 1999), pp. 9–21; 88–96. For a detailed description of how Manuel and Mbeki seized the initiative on the economy from the ANC see Gumede, Thabo Mbeki and the Battle for the Soul, Chapter 4. Richard Calland, “An Anatomy of Power,” Mail and Guardian, February 18, 2005 and in more detail in Anatomy of South Africa—Who Holds the Power? (Capetown: Zebra Press, 2006). Author Interviews, Wayile; Jim. “Consolidating Working Class Power for Quality Jobs—toward 2015,” COSATU document, adopted at 8th National Congress, September 2003. “Consolidating Working Class Power for Quality Jobs.” “Consolidating Working Class Power for Quality Jobs.” “Consolidating Working Class Power for Quality Jobs.” V. I. Lenin, What Is to Be Done (New York: International Publishers, 1971). Eddie Webster, “The Alliance under Stress: Governing in a Globalized World” in Opposition and Democracy in South Africa, ed. Roger Southall (London: Frank Cass Publishers, 2001). Author Interview, Wayile; Jim. For extensive discussion of the idea of post-Washington Consensus in the context of South Africa see Patrick Bond, Elite Transition (New York: Pluto Press, 2000). This idea of South Africa moving from a Washington Consensus to a Beijing Consensus was raised in a Mail and Guardian article following Mbeki’s 2005 State of the Nation address, Nic Dawes, “Mbeki Looks East,” Mail and Guardian, February 11, 2005. Brendan Boyle, “Government Pins Hopes on Labor Reforms,” Sunday Times (Johannesburg), February 13, 2005. Boyle, “Government Pins Hopes on Labor Reforms” Rapule Tabane, “Reds Weigh ‘go-it-alone’ Option,” Guardian and Mail, February 4, 2005. Author Interview, Ntola. Author Interview, Wayile. The results of the Kwazakele research are available in a number of forms: Janet Cherry, “Cynicism at the Grassroots? Political Opposition in Kwazakele Township, Port Elizabeth” in Opposition and Democracy in South Africa, ed. Southall; Lars Buur and Janet Cherry, “Kwazakele Then and Now: Resistance and Democratic Consolidation in Kwazakele Township from 1984 to 2004,” Paper for WISER Symposium, University of Witwatersrand, June 2004; Janet Cherry, “We Shall Never Go back to Pharaoh!: Defending Democracy Despite Disappointment with Delivery,” unpublished paper, Human Sciences Research Council, 2004. Burr and Cherry, Kwazakele Then and Now.

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59. Ben Turok, Nothing but the Truth (Johannesburg and Cape Town: Jonathan Ball Publishers, 2003). 60. Interview with Vuyo Toto, Regional Secretary, ANC, Port Elizabeth, February 19, 2005. 61. “Consolidating Working Class Power for Quality Jobs.” 62. “Hundreds Demonstrate at Council Meeting,” The Herald (Port Elizabeth), January 22, 2005. 63. “Prosecutions Contemplated for Council Protectors,” The Herald (Port Elizabeth), February 24, 2005. 64. Adam Habib, “State-Civil Society Relations in Post-apartheid South Africa,” State of the Nation—2003–2004. For additional writing on South African civil society, see A. Desai, We Are the Poors: Community Struggles in Postapartheid South Africa (New York: Monthly Review Press, 2002) and Ballard, Habib, and Valodia, eds. Voices of Protest.

CHAPTER 8

Born Powerful? Authoritarian Politics in Postliberation Eritrea and Zimbabwe Sara Rich Dorman

Introduction Eritrea and Zimbabwe are African states liberated from colonial rule after years of guerrilla warfare. Both generated great hope and enthusiasm in their early years of independence yet they have now become bywords for authoritarianism, fear, and violence. There are many similarities in their experiences of war and of peace. However, they also raise questions about the impact of guerrilla warfare and of transitional arrangements on the prospect of democratic governance after conflict. Political scientists expect liberation wars to result in governments “born powerful”—with the capacity to mobilize their populations and reform institutions and transform state-society relations in dramatic ways. Nevertheless, in his 1995 account of African politics, Chris Allen concluded that despite winning independence through “prolonged warfare” African postliberation states were “following similar paths to . . . the peacefully decolonised majority.”1 As Allen noted, the dominant party states formed after the end of the cold war organized state-society relations in much the same way as the earlier generation of states.2 However increasing authoritarianism and destabilization has now overtaken many of these states and “liberation” has become a rallying cry of aging politicians seeking to justify their continued rule.

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Perhaps inevitably, observers talk of liberation and democracy as “competing paradigms,”3 suggesting that the antidemocratic ethos of nationalist movements and liberation war experiences had “trumped” liberal or social democratic norms and distinctively shaped the post-liberation politics. But, if this was true, how can we explain the continuing institutional and discursive power of the democratic discourses, juxtaposed against the liberationist narratives? If we compare a country like Zimbabwe where power came through a negotiated transition after civil war with one where a liberation army literally took power “at the barrel of the gun,” such as Eritrea, a subtly different picture emerges: . . . the exceptional case, which stands out from the rest, invites us to explain why it is different and to reconsider why specific conditions gave rise to the features common to all the other cases.4

The Eritrean case reveals the significance of the negotiated transitions and the inherited state institutions (or the lack thereof), as well as the history of the armed struggle in shaping the nature of authoritarianism—and the scope for alternative discourses—in the postliberation state. This chapter first examines the symbolic, cultural, and material legacies of the Eritrean and Zimbabwean liberation wars, and then moves to analyze the emergent patterns of societal mobilization and demobilization. The concluding section argues that these factors are crucial to understanding and comparing the nature of authoritarian politics in postliberation states in Africa. Zimbabwe and Eritrea show marked similarities, but diverge significantly in balancing regime interests with societal pluralism in the years following independence. Zimbabwe’s negotiated settlement required demobilization and limited pluralism, not simply for constitutional reasons but out of pragmatic necessity in governing a complex, inherited state. As a result, discourses of democracy and a respect for the rule of law, do compete, albeit handicapped, against the liberationist discourses, and have more potency than there are sometimes credited with. Eritrea’s government, on the other hand, had to make fewer bargains and permitted less pluralism, but now struggles to maintain the resources and commitment required for their mobilized and controlled mode of governing. Colonialism and the Cold War Zimbabwe and Eritrea are relics of settler colonialism, and as such, were typical in experiencing delayed decolonization, albeit under rather different circumstances. Zimbabwean nationalists were fighting for

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self-determination against the white settler regime of Ian Smith’s Rhodesia, which declared independence unilaterally from Britain in 1965. In contrast, Eritrea, a favored Italian colony until the end of World War II, then briefly administered by the British, had been federated to Ethiopia in 1952 under the aegis of the United Nations. Ethiopia absorbed the Eritrean province in 1961, claiming that Eritrea was culturally and historically part of its empire, while the Eritrean nationalist movement claimed the right to self-determination along the former colonial borders. The nationalist movements had moved to armed conflict when faced with the intransigence of the settler colonists in Zimbabwe, and the expansionist Ethiopian state in Eritrea. Zimbabwe gained independence in 1980, after negotiations conducted in London at Lancaster House resulted in an agreed upon constitution, based on majority rule. In contrast, Eritrea’s liberation struggle persisted until the end of the Cold War, and was resolved through military victory with the triumphant troops marching into Asmara in 1991. In its key years of struggle, Zimbabwe was supported by neighboring countries, the OAU and international sympathizers. Eritrea, isolated from the OAU which supported Ethiopia’s claims to the territory, and with limited international support, fought a longer and bitter struggle, which forged a potent nationalist ethic of self-reliance.5 In both Eritrea and Zimbabwe, the liberation war generated potent and meaningful symbolic politics, deriving significance from the experiences of combatants and civilian supporters, who suffered through the period of conflict. Postliberation states rely on narratives of conformity and unity that are generated during the conflict, but in doing so they often deny the divisions and rivalries. It is this contradiction that generates the tensions and intensity of relations between states and societies in postliberation states.6 The history of the movement thus both helps us understand the postliberation state, and is itself constitutive of the state’s own myths and power relations. Liberation War Legacies The legacies these wars left in the lives of civilians, especially in rural communities, and in the experiences of those who fought in the guerrilla armies, have been explored by historians and anthropologists.7 But legacies of war are also to be found in political institutions, power arrangements, and political culture. As this section illustrates, the nationalist movements in both Zimbabwe and Eritrea experienced factionalism and ingrained leadership disputes in the years before and during the war. These divisions are downplayed or denied by the victors, but nonetheless shaped people’s

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experiences. In justifying their claims to rule, the successful leaders make much use of discourses of sacrifice and suffering—the political and moral capital on which their regime is based. And in both cases, these discourses—of unity and of sacrifice—are used to justify security doctrines which permit no opposition, shaping the post-conflict political culture. Leadership and Conflict It has been the issue of leadership of the liberation movements, perhaps more than any other, which has distinguished the politics of these states. The parties which took power at independence were the victors of processes of factionalization and fusion. Zimbabwe’s liberation movement split into two competing parties in 1963. Despite pressure for them to reunify during the war, they remained distinct until 1987. During the liberation war, the Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU), lead by veteran nationalist Joshua Nkomo, appeared to have seniority over the younger organization ZANU, led first by Ndabaningi Sithole, and then by the little-known Robert Mugabe. This situation reversed itself after 1980, when ZANU clinched a majority of seats in the first parliament and went on to increase its domination of the political scene. During the war, ZANU and ZAPU guerrillas had made hostile contacts, and despite attempts to create a unified army, they soon erupted into conflict after 1980. In Eritrea, similar divisions existed between liberation armies, which led to a bitter civil war between the older sectarian Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), and the new, secular challenger, Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF).8 Unlike in Zimbabwe, however, EPLF succeeded in winning a military victory over the ELF and forced them out of the field of action. Since independence, the EPLF has dominated the political scene through its successor the People’s Front for Democracy and Justice (PFDJ). Both “successful” parties, however, also faced internal divisions. Rebellious movements within Zimbabwe’s nationalist movements questioned elite privilege and contrasted it with hardships suffered in the field, questioning the ideological commitment of the parties’ leaderships.9 Within the EPLF, factions raised issues of “increased democratic accountability . . . and power-sharing” in contrast to Afewerki’s expressed preference for “a guiding role for the leadership and controlled participation through discussion.”10 Although these internal crises divided the liberation fighters, they also enabled Mugabe to consolidate power over ZANU and Afewerki to do the same in the EPLF, creating a “stronger framework of control over internal dissidence”11 that represented “a victory

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of a centralist conception of democracy rather than a populist one.”12 The repression of dissent was accomplished through detentions and executions, enabling the emergence of dominant leadership groups which endure to this day.13 The parties that took power at independence succeeded in removing or diminishing alternative claimants to the “liberation” mantle, and dominating the political environment. In both countries, conventional wisdom suggested that no “non-liberation” party could ever hold power, such was the power of the nationalist rhetoric. In Zimbabwe, it was long forecast that effective opposition would emerge from within ZANU(PF), but despite the presence of critical voices within ZANU, no sustainable opposition party emerged. The Movement for Democratic Change, (MDC), which effectively challenged ZANU after its launch in 1999, has few high-profile former ZANU members, although most of its older generation of leadership was at one point affiliated either with ZANU or ZAPU. In Eritrea, a schism emerged within the leadership of the PFDJ, with little apparent warning. In 2001, 15 members of the PFDJ’s Central Committee, and the National Assembly, including several generals and ministers, appealed privately to the president, for internal party reform, the implementation of the 1997 constitution, and the holding of national elections.14 Following a brief period of public discussion, the dissidents, who came to be known as the G-15, were accused of being “engaged in unlawful acts against the sovereignty and national security of the country.”15 Those in Asmara have been detained without access to lawyers or their families since October 2001.16 Although in Zimbabwe, opposition politicians were arrested and accused of treason with very little evidence, their arrests were known and documented, and they were given access to lawyers and other concerned visitors.17 In contrast, no evidence or charges have been laid against the Eritrean dissidents detained in 2001, although the state insists that this will take place in due time.18 Reported defections by foreign service personnel, journalists, and the former head of the demobilization program further reveal splits in the regime.19 Sacrifice and Suffering In both countries the liberation war is remembered, and inscribed on the landscape, bolstering official narratives. At national holidays, Eritrean shop windows are decked out with patriotic slogans and posters and buildings are festooned with lights. Postcards, stamps and posters celebrate not just the ethnic diversity and architecture, but also victories and sacrifices. Zimbabwe’s liberation war iconography has been mainly limited to austere

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official monuments, which in Norma Kriger’s words “exposed the gap between the political rhetoric of equity, participation, and unity on the one hand, and the realities of an enormous disparity between . . . leaders and masses.”20 Indeed, the party-political nature of the liberation war discourse, reifying ZANU and ignoring ZAPU, led Werbner to label it “quasinational.”21 Though Zimbabwe made great use out of nationalist rhetoric and nation-building, it securely buffered these exhortations with actual material benefits in the form of investment in health and education, especially in rural areas, which dramatically improved the quality of life for many Zimbabweans. The material benefits of independence seem less marked in the poorer Eritrean state, where ideologies of sacrifice, also prevalent in Zimbabwe, take on a more commandist tone. During the candlelight services on the eve of Martyrs Day 2002, the power was turned off across the country and the sale of alcohol banned for 24 hours. This was said to facilitate appropriate behavior on the part of mourners. In 2004, the sale of petrol to personal drivers was banned, preserving available stocks for “public services and development program in the best interest of the nation.”22 Security and Sovereignty Liberation war rhetoric, and a discourse in which democracy was subordinated to security, remained salient as a result of regional politics in the years after independence. Both countries found themselves at odds with powerful neighbors in the years after independence. In the 1980s, South Africa actively tried to destabilize Zimbabwe and its neighbors. These efforts included attempts to infiltrate and influence “dissident” movements in Matabeleland, the recruitment of ex-Rhodesians as spies, and covert attacks on ANC targets.23 Zimbabwe, in return, committed troops to support counter-insurgency efforts in Mozambique. At the time, these events were thought significant because they enabled ZANU to justify the maintenance of Rhodesian era laws and strategies.24 Important accounts of this period have emphasized the psycho-social impact of the Zimbabwe National Army’s brutal onslaught on the people of Matabeleland, accused of harboring traitorous dissidents.25 But the rhetorical impact of this period has often been under-estimated. While those in Matabeleland experienced the harshness of army counter-insurgency techniques, learned from North Korean trainers, the rest of Zimbabwe was subject to an unending public discourse about the need for unity in the face of external aggression.

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Unity was also seen as essential for “development” and intra-societal unity was demanded of groups like teachers, farmers, and workers to that end.26 Crystal is surely correct to emphasize the ways in which an ideology of developmentalism foster the belief that “the state must play the central role in promoting economic growth and that, to that end, individuals and social organizations must relinquish power to it, allowing it the routine, if temporary use of force against enemies.”27 In this way, closely linked themes of security and development, justify top-downstate control of the population and resources in authoritarian configurations. Eritrea’s rhetoric, perhaps unsurprisingly given the longer and less promising conditions of their struggle, explicitly link development to questions of security and sovereignty. In 1997, for example, Afewerki said: The national feeling which until yesterday centralized around the imperative of bring about the liberation of homeland is today focusing on protecting and defending it as well as strengthening its structural pillars and making shorter the journey of national development. 28

The devastating war with Ethiopia, which began in 1998, fed a new intensification of discourse, as ex-fighters were called up, and the young were newly mobilized. Those, inside and outside the country who did not fight, contributed financially to the war effort. Although a peace agreement was signed in 2000, the continuing tensions with Ethiopia mean that this rhetoric has only diminished slightly, and broadened to include new targets. 29 There has been continuing tension in relations with Sudan, which is seen as a dangerous source of Islamist radicalism. In September 2001 just before the detention of the G-15, Eritreans were reminded that it was “incumbent on all citizens to unite their ranks and intensify the struggle to build the new Eritrea without being influenced by divisive elements.”30 Just under twenty years earlier Mugabe warned Zimbabweans: “If you show divisionist attitudes the enemy will come among us and will destroy us.”31 While the threats to sovereignty were real, especially in the Eritrean case, they also served a political purpose, in extending and perpetuating a militarized and securitized discourse, which discouraged criticism and alternative views. As has been written about Cuba’s authoritarian state: “. . . to oppose Fidel meant to oppose national sovereignty, which is the revolution’s central legacy.”32 Despite, or perhaps because of, the legacy of division during the war, postliberation discourses emphasized unity and solidarity against enemies. These discourses created a framework for the

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new state which reified official accounts of the war, and justified postliberation infringements on liberty and democracy. Mobilization—Demobilization—Remobilization Liberation is assumed to be predicated on the success of a mobilized society. It is difficult, however, to assess to what extent and how evenly peasants, urban dwellers, and others were mobilized during the struggle, and what impact that mobilization has on postliberation relations with the party-turned-state. Nevertheless, in the early years of the postindependence states we can identify quite different patterns: in Zimbabwe demobilization, and in Eritrea, continued mobilization. In Eritrea, constant mobilization proves difficult to sustain; in Zimbabwe remobilization comes at the cost of stability. Demobilization Demobilization reflects the existence of limited pluralism, in which interests are aggregated by autonomous organizations, rather than through formal state or party institutions. After independence, ZANU’s party membership structures were allowed to atrophy.33 Despite regular claims throughout the 1980s and 1990s that national service would be introduced for youth, it was not attempted until 2001. The women’s and youth leagues of the party were often violent campaigners in elections, but were not significant organizations at other times. Although ex-fighters were sometimes called upon to play significant political roles in the early years, they soon felt themselves to have been sidelined. Norma Kriger writes that although ex-fighters were “born powerful” they were none the less aggrieved by the “lack of material and symbolic recognition of the ex-combatants’ war services” and that they “resented the distance their former leaders kept from them.”34 The ex-fighters were only grudgingly allowed to form their own representative organization in 1990. Nongovernmental Organizations (NGOs), Churches, workers, students, and professionals were all expected to work in and through the ZANU(PF) dominated state structures. Yet, this strategy was also relatively pluralist, with relatively few legal constraints on organizations, although this changed over the years. For example, Zimbabwean NGOs operated under Rhodesian era legislation until 1995, with little oversight from the Ministry responsible for them. In 1995, the introduction of NGO legislation was the final step in a series of laws introduced to regulate and control the University students and academics and trades unions.35 Attempts to close two NGOs

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in the 1980s and 1990s, appear to have been inspired by greed, not a response to political dissent.36 Nevertheless, in the late 1990s, NGOs were increasingly under surveillance, and warned to watch their behavior in official ministerial speeches. After 2000, this intensified, and in 2004, a draft law was introduced to parliament, which seemed likely to force the closure of NGOs working in the realm of “governance.”37 Zimbabwe’s strong economy and relative regional stability clearly enabled the state to provide goods and services which entrenched the belief that the regime was bringing “development.” It also took advantage of offered donor funds, and tolerated, if not encouraged, the formation of local NGOs. While international NGOs existed, the salient and numerically dominant sector was Zimbabwean. Whether the source was donor funds or other, the regime was also able to take credit for most development projects. Mobilization In contrast, the Eritrean state encouraged the formation of the Eritrean war disabled fighters association,38 although not an association of ex-combatants in the aggregate. Fighters do seem to have maintained some political inf luence. In his study of the EPLF, David Pool speaks of a “socioeconomic protest” resulting from the nonpayment of salaries in the months after the referendum, that also raised issues about democratic accountability within the new state.39 In a public statement sometime after the revolt, President Isaias spoke only of ex-fighters who “believed they were being abandoned by government . . . [and] took one of the officers hostage . . . demanded to speak to the president.”40 Despite this incident, or perhaps as a result of it, ex-fighters remain a relatively privileged and respected group. They have concessionary rights to import cars duty-free, most seem to have been provided with employment, and some are being sponsored for higher education. Questions have been raised about the experiences of female ex-combatants,41 which have been recognized to some extent by the state.42 More generally, in Eritrea, continued mobilization of both the military and civilian variety has dominated society’s experience of liberation. The apogee of this has been the emphasis on “national service.” Seen as a continuation of the selfless giving during the liberation war, many returnees in the years between 1991 and 1994 worked voluntarily to reestablish the state. Official national service was implemented in 1994, and written into the 1997 constitution.43 Since the 1998–2000 war with Ethiopia, however, national service has become a permanent situation.44 65,000 fighters,

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mainly veterans of the independence war, were demobilized in 2003–2004, but the “warsay” or national service youth, continue to serve.45 The following explanation of the national development campaign which mobilised 60,000 Eritreans immediately prior to the 1998 war, conveys well the rationale: During the armed struggle for liberation it was part of our policy to launch campaigns that involved popular participation. It was such popular initiatives that enabled us finally to repulse large and well-armed attacks. It is not wise to leave everything to the government. Any development strategy should get full-participation from the people who are directly benefiting from it. If we are going to build an economically strong country, free of ignorance and disease and self-reliant, then we have to take it as our duty to participate in its development.46

This mobilization also extends into other areas, students entering the university have little choice about which department they are allocated to, and after graduation are allocated to various ministries to work as part of their “national service.” Those employed in national service are paid a “stipend” or what the university payroll staff call “pocket money.” A select group of graduates from each university are sent abroad for further study.47 Many have not returned, knowing that they face a predictable future of low pay in their continued years of service. Attempts to prevent young people absconding have led to army “checkpoints” on all roads, and annual “roundups” which involve the dispersal of thousands of military police into the streets, checking the IDs of all passers-by, and even, it is reported, seizing young people from houses at the crack of dawn.48 The atmosphere in these periods is particularly bad, with many of the young staying at home in relative safety. Businesses that had turned to young female staff with the conscription of young men, now find themselves more and more desperate for labor. Eritreans insist that they did not resist conscription before 1998, but that the abuse of women by senior officers was so pervasive that parents are increasingly unwilling to let their daughters serve. High rates of pregnancy and HIV-AIDS among conscripts, many of whom have either been raped, or chose to become pregnant as a way of evading service, are alleged to have distressed many families. Exit-visas for travel abroad are also tightly controlled, in order to prevent further brain and brawn drain. Eritrea has resisted any tendencies toward pluralism. International NGOs have been tightly regulated. After the first local postwar NGO was closed down and restrictive new laws were brought in, in the mid-1990s many international NGOs left in disgust, or, by some accounts, were asked

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to leave.49 Four NGOs working on mine clearance were “asked to terminate operations” in August 2002.50 Local NGOs are few and far between. Three “social movements” representing the youth, women, and workers are the most visible and significant players, although they are not entirely distinct from either the party or the state.51 In so far as they function to “obstruct the independent organization of social interests,” they resemble Kasza’s administered mass organizations.52 The national youth organization precludes the existence of student groups, scout troops, and or sports groups.53 In 1996, an organization set up to represent and provide services for female ex-fighters was closed down on orders from the president’s office because “it duplicated the work of other organizations.”54 The EPLF’s sensitivity to religious divisions has had a particular impact on churches, although the un-implemented 1997 constitution enshrines complete religious freedoms. The two of four main religious leaders—the Islamic Mufti and the Orthodox Patriarch—are thought to be appointed by the head of state. The other two main churches, the Lutheran Church and the Roman Catholics, also have close ties to the state. Jehovah’s Witnesses, whose refusal to vote or serve in the military infuriated the ruling party, have not been tolerated.55 In 1995 it was declared that churches could not carry out development work.56 A limited number of “evangelical” churches were permitted to operate until May 2002, when they were told to close. Those who have continued to worship in their own homes risk imprisonment.57 In Zimbabwe, churches have been better tolerated, especially when they have engaged in “development projects.”58 In the early 1980s, independent churches were criticized for their antimodern stance, and rejection of biomedicine. However, by the time of the 2000 parliamentary election, they were being hastily recruited as “authentic” supporters of ZANU, and registered en masse to vote.59 Much of the regimes’ credibility has been generated by pro-government press coverage. Zimbabwe’s freedom of the press has been characterised by self-censorship, and more recently politically-inspired attacks on the press and journalists. The burgeoning of independent newspapers in the late 1990s, at the same time as cell phones, satellite TV, and email became widespread among the elite further reduced any possibility that the regime might successfully control the media. On the whole, it did not try to do so until the late 1990s, when journalists were detained and tortured60 the only independent daily newspaper was closed,61 radio licenses restricted,62 and unsuccessful attempts made to control internet access.63 In contrast, Eritrea was the last African country to gain internet access64 and cell-phone networks have just begun to operate.65 Independent newspapers, which had been allowed to publish after 1997, were shut down in 2001.66

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Economic policy has been at the heart of both regimes’ strategies for state and nation-building. As a new country, Eritrea began independence without any foreign debt, but with few other economic advantages. While Zimbabwe inherited a strong export sector and domestic production (and unlike Mozambique experienced little vandalism) Eritrea had none of these benefits. Although in the 1980s, Zimbabwe restricted imports, it did have a significant ability to supply a limited range of clothing, blankets, food, wine and beer, kitchen implements, books, paper, and so forth for domestic consumers. In Eritrea, the domestic manufacturing base is weak, despite some remaining Italian-era factories, and few inputs are produced locally. As a result, markets and shops are dominated by cheap imports from Asia and the Gulf. Perhaps because of this weak domestic base, and despite its officially free market policies, Eritrea’s ruling party has increasingly monopolized the economy through PFDJ-run enterprises known as “partypartals.” These enterprises dominate the limited “private” market, along with organizations run by ex-fighters and the former EPLF mass organizations, which have also been pressured into the market economy.67 Especially since donors withdrew assistance in 2001, the Eritrean economy has depended disproportionately on remittances—and taxes—sent home by the extensive Eritrean diaspora in the Gulf, Europe and North America. The PFDJ-linked corporations have also benefited from access to cheap labor in the form of conscript workers. While ZANU(PF) did create a “business empire” in Zimbabwe, with links into multinational deals,68 it has never been a dominant economic force. The white-owned and multinational corporations were wooed by ZANU(PF), as important partners in the postindependence state. Attempts by indigenization lobbies to influence political decision-making were limited until the late 1990s.69 Zimbabwe’s current efforts to channel remittances through the state—enabling it to access foreign exchange—have been much less successful than in Eritrea.70 Remobilization Zimbabwe’s recent destabilization is the result of efforts on the part of ZANU(PF) to remobilize society, directly linked to its electoral fortunes in 2000. However, the remobilization of Zimbabwean society actually started outside the party, with the war veterans’ protests in 1997. The Zimbabwe National Liberation War Veterans Association (ZNLWVA) had been formed in 1990, in response to the existence of impoverished war veterans “whose plight was not only an embarrassment to the government, but who had also become . . . potential recruits to the

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opposition party, ZUM.” 71 Indeed, while this group was affiliated to the ruling party, and led by party loyalists, it had the potential to radically critique the government’s postcolonial achievements. In 1996, when Margaret Dongo revealed in Parliament that the War Victims Compensation Fund had been looted by senior party and government officials, the Chidyausiku Commission was set up and mandated to investigate. The commission suspended payments to veterans, leading to a series of riots and protests in June–August 1997. Unlike other protesters they were not tear-gassed, dispersed, or charged. With apparent impunity, they occupied and looted the ZANU(PF) party headquarters, took over a courtroom—chasing out judges and court officials, disrupted Heroes’ Day celebrations across the country and demanded and received meetings with senior party officials and President Mugabe.72 Ministers holding meetings in Harare were forced to flee, in Bulawayo, veterans threatened to beat up Home Affairs Minister Dumiso Dabengwa, and in Lupane John Nkomo, Minster of Local Government Rural and Urban Development was also forced to flee the fury of ex-fighters, while elsewhere ministers were faced with verbal abuse and shouted down.73 The government rapidly conceded to their demands.74 However, the unbudgeted agreement to provide these “pay-outs” had an immediate impact on the Zimbabwean economy, with the November 1997 currency crash from which the Zimbabwe dollar has never recovered. Two further repercussions are important: The economic decline of the 1990s meant that there were few resources available to the state which it could distribute to the war veterans. Realization of the limitation led the state to turn to land redistribution, in an attempt to placate this suddenly volatile constituency, endowed with immense symbolic capital. From 1998 onwards, rhetoric over land grew, leading to the inclusion of a clause in the draft constitution empowering the state to seize land without redress. In the aftermath of the February 2000 referendum the war veterans, aided by party loyalists and unemployed youths, moved onto commercial farms and began to claim land. This process was later formalized as the “fast track” land distribution process. Over the same period, the white community most of which had maintained a safe distance from overt political involvement since independence, began to be participate in initiatives such as the church and NGO-organized National Constitutional Assembly (NCA) and the new labor-based opposition party, the MDC.75 This process was not uniform or unambiguous; the government’s rhetoric claiming that whites were behind the NCA and MDC was grossly overexaggerated. The Commercial Farmers Union (CFU), which had been close to ZANU(PF) until the 1998 land designations,

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wavered between attempting to maintain its position of nonconfrontational interaction with government ministries and using the courts to seek redress, reflecting the presence of two camps within its membership. MDC members pressured the CFU to pursue legal action against the unconstitutional land seizures. Other groups of farmers, notably tobacco growers, producing mainly for export, have emphasized the economic realities, and urged the farm community to seek ways of compromising with the ruling party.76 However, the combination of increased white involvement in politics, along with and through churches, NGOs, and unions generated a much more mobilized and participatory sector, increasingly defining itself outside of ZANU(PF)’s orbit.77 ZANU(PF) has matched this process, initially by attempting to organize its own NGO sector, along with its own constitutional commission.78 Alongside efforts to reinvigorate ZANU(PF) structures, it has began a controversial youth national service program79 and wooed traditional chiefs.80 Substantial efforts have been made to avoid allegations that land reform is only for elites, doubtless as part of program to rebuild a rural constituency.81 In 2005, Zimbabwe remains polarized, but also remobilized. Continuity and Change Much has been written about the continuity of institutions and ideologies from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe, much of which is attributed to the negotiated transition.82 In contrast, Eritrea inherited relatively little institutionally from Ethiopia, and has been at great pains to emphasize the discontinuities of territorial and governmental reorganization.83 By taking control militarily, the leaders of the Eritrean state were not required to, nor interested in, negotiating with settled interests. Instead, the ethos of the liberation war was perpetuated. Ministries were taken over and staffed with battalions of ex-fighters. The new parliamentarians were drawn from the liberation movement, as were judges and other state officials. The party’s commercial interests soon came to dominate, sometimes in partnership with diaspora-based investors. While fatigues became less common, casual dress dominates the corridors of power in Eritrea, rather than suits and ties. In Zimbabwe, the large settler community, with substantial roots in agriculture and industry, had to be reckoned with. Anecdotal accounts frequently report Samora Machel of Mozambique and Julius Nyerere of Tanzania advising Mugabe to prevent “white flight” and the concomitant loss of technical skills. Mugabe seems to have listened; he appointed whites, and other former opponents, to ministerial posts and retained civil servants. The much-maligned Lancaster House Constitution also ensured

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that whites had reserved seats in parliament, and protected property rights. White interests also maintained strong lobbying positions through the Commercial Farmers Union and the Confederation of Zimbabwe Industries.84 Mugabe was constrained not simply by constitutional provisions, but by the realpolitik of the situation. The need to balance these interests generated a particular kind of politics in Zimbabwe, characterised by societal demobilization. As Linz argues, demobilization enables authoritarian regimes to balance competing societal interests: Effective mobilisation, particularly through a single party and its mass organisations, would be perceived as a threat by the other components of the limited pluralism, typically, the army, the bureaucracy, the churches or interest groups. 85

The legacy of Zimbabwe’s two decades of demobilization, limited pluralism, and relative respect for the rule of law must also be taken into consideration when analyzing its current state of crisis. Even as some have jumped on the ruling party’s bandwagon, other Zimbabweans have not meekly acquiesced to mobilization, but have organized new parties, new social movements, and engaged themselves in a critique of liberationist orthodoxy. Urban dwellers, farmworkers, whites, and “coloreds” have resisted efforts to redefine Zimbabwean nationalism, have insisted on their citizenship rights, and their right to participation in Zimbabwe’s polity, drawing effectively on legal traditions and the remaining civic space.86 Eritrea, in contrast, with its independence seized at the barrel of the gun, had fewer existing interest groups to balance, and less need to listen to advice. The country’s lack of a commitment to “limited pluralism” has enabled the government to maintain a mobilized society, in which groups with potentially distinct interests have cooperated, until the demands of mobilization exceeded their commitment. At first only tiny fractions of the population—Jehovah’s Witnesses and Islamic political movements—resisted the party/state’s agenda. But as larger numbers of people have experienced the coercive side of the state—disenchanted national service youth and their families, elderly mediators and students arrested in 2001, the small, but upwardly mobile, Pentecostal community—the pool of potential dissidents has widened. In an interview after his defection, the former leader of the youth movement, and member of the PFDJ’s executive, said: “no Eritrean, including so-called high ranking officials, can be considered immune from arbitrary arrests.”87 But there is no space in Eritrea for the articulation of any alternative viewpoint, whether within or outside the

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ruling party: that is the legacy of Eritrea’s transition. The brief opening up of independent newspapers, and flourishing of political debate in 2001, was rapidly and easily quashed by arrests, detentions, and a resurgence of exclusionary rhetoric that dubbed all alternative perspectives as treasonous. Postliberation politics in Southern Africa has tended to emphasize inclusionary tactics—although some groups are “outside,” efforts are made to include as many “inside” as possible.88 Increasingly exclusionary politics have resulted from the unbalancing of the demobilized, stable postliberation bargain. The mobilization and privileging of certain members of the coalition weakens the regime’s hold over other, former allies. It also opens spaces for alternative accounts of nationalism or other ideologies to flourish. In doing so, it further reflects a diminishing in the ideological or cultural elements of power, as well as the material. This leaves coercive force on its own, in a much weaker position than when justified by rhetoric or resource distribution. There are simply few incentives (carrots) for people to support the regimes, instead there are coercive mechanisms (sticks) designed to enforce their acquiescence. As Fred Halliday has said about a rather different regime, its weakness was “reliance on orders and moral exhortation alone.”89 Both Eritrea and Zimbabwe have been plunged into crisis as they increasingly rely on coercive and exclusionary politics. Authoritarian politics in Africa is frequently interpreted as either “politics of the belly” (that is material need or greed) or “coercion.” Neither Zimbabwe nor Eritrea fit either characterization terribly well, yet both are markedly authoritarian. Though greed, corruption and coercion exist in Zimbabwe and in Eritrea to differing extents, these explanations do not engender understanding of their particular state-society relations, and the changes that have occurred within them. The chapter has argued instead that authoritarianism in these two cases must be understood as resulting from their distinct transitions from liberation war footing to civilian government. The postliberation regime-builders based their institutions on a combination of inclusionary tactics—both material and symbolic—buttressed by selective coercion, which generated authoritarian regimes with a certain amount of stability and durability, despite markedly different approaches to societal mobilization and demobilization. Zimbabwe’s limited pluralism and demobilization reflected a Linzian authoritarian system, with Eritrea’s attempts to control their population verging towards the totalitarian end of the spectrum.

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Notes 1. Chris Allen, “Understanding African Politics,” Review of African Political Economy 65 (1995), p. 315; he suggests that Mozambique and Angola would have followed similar paths, but for external intervention. 2. See for instance, Aristide Zolberg, Creating Political Order: The Party States of West Africa (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1966); Lionel Cliffe, One Party Democracy: The 1965 Tanzania General Elections (Nairobi, Kenya: East Africa Publishing House, 1967). 3. R. Southall, “Post-Colonial Legitimacy in Lesotho” in Limits to Liberation in Southern Africa, ed. H. Melber (Cape Town, South Africa: HSRC Press, 2003), p. 129; See also, Henning Melber, “From Liberation Movements to Governments: On Political Culture in Southern Africa,” African Sociological Review 6, 1 (2002), pp. 161–172; Henning Melber, Re-examining Liberation in Namibia: Political Culture since Independence (Nordiska, Sweden: AfricaInstitutet, 2003). 4. Gavin Williams, Brian Williams, and Roy Williams, “Sociology and Historical Explanation,” African Sociological Review 1 (1997), p. 89. Emphasis added. 5. Ruth Iyob, The Eritrean Struggle for Independence : Domination, Resistance, Nationalism, 1941–1993. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 6. For Zimbabwe see, Terence Ranger, “Nationalist Historiography, Patriotic History and the History of the Nation: The Struggle over the Past in Zimbabwe,” Journal of Southern African Studies 30, 2 (2004), pp. 215–234; For Eritrea see, Sara Rich Dorman, “Narratives of Nationalism in Eritrea: Research and Revisionism,” Nations and Nationalism 11, 2 (2005), pp. 203–222. 7. On Zimbabwean civilian experiences see especially Terence Ranger, Peasant Consciousness and Guerrilla War in Zimbabwe (London: James Currey, 1985); Norma Kriger, Zimbabwe’s Guerilla War: Peasant Voices (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), Jocelyn Alexander et al., Violence and Memory: One Hundred Years in the “Dark Forests” of Matabeleland (Oxford: James Currey, 2000); on the war see Terence Ranger and Ngwabi Bhebe, Soldiers in Zimbabwe’s Liberation War (Harare: University of Zimbabwe, 1995); Terence Ranger and Ngwabi Bhebe, Society in Zimbabwe’s Liberation War (Harare: University of Zimbabwe, 1995); Josephine Nhongo-Simbanegavi, For Better or Worse? Women and Zanla in Zimbabwe’s Liberation Struggle (Harare, Zimbabwe: Weaver Press, 2000). Critical literature on Eritrea is much more sparse, see Kjetil Tronvoll, Mai Weini (Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea, 1998); Soren Walther Nielsen, “Reintegration of Ex-Fighters in Highland Eritrea: A Window into the Process of State Formation and Its Lines of Social Stratification,” Unpublished PhD dissertation (Roskilde University, 2002); David Pool, From Guerrillas to Government: The Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (Oxford: James Currey, 2001). 8. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, especially pp. 59–104.

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9. Masipula Sithole, Zimbabwe: Struggles within the Struggle (Harare: Rujeko, 1995); Luise White, The Assassination of Herbert Chitepo: Texts and Politics in Zimbabwe (Bloomington: University of Indiana, 2003); David Moore, “The Contradictory Construction of Hegemony in Zimbabwe,” Unpublished PhD thesis, (York University, Canada,1990); David Moore, “The Zimbabwean ‘Organic Intellectuals’ in Transition,” Journal of Southern African Studies 15 (1988), pp. 96–105. 10. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, p. 78. 11. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, p. 78. 12. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, p. 77. 13. For Zimbabwe see Christine Sylvester, “Simultaneous Revolutions: The Zimbabwe Case,” Journal of Southern African Studies 16, 3 (1990); For Eritrea, Dan Connell revisits these issues in Conversations with Eritrean Political Prisoners (Trenton, NJ: Red Sea, 2005). 14. Mahmoud Sherifo, Open Letter to Eplf Members, 2001, (19 June 2004). 15. “Press Release” Eritrea Profile, October 13, 2001, p. 1. 16. Martin Plaut, “The Birth of the Eritrean Reform Movement,” ROAPE 91 (2002), pp. 119–124. 17. See for example, “Muzorewa arrested” The Herald November 2, 1983, p. 1; “Why Muzorewa being detained—Premier” The Herald, November 4, 1983; “New grounds for the detention of Muzorewa” The Herald, November 5, 1983, p.1; “Bishop’s Zaire link exposed” The Herald, November 19,1983, p. 1; “Sithole Refused Trial Date in Plot to Kill Mugabe” Sapa-AFP June 1, 1996; “Sithole says he is innocent of treason charges.” Independent, June, 27, 1997, p. 1. 18. See for example, “Interview with Yemane Gebremeskel, Director of the President’s Office” IRIN, April 1, 2004. 19. See for example, “Dr Amanuel Mehreteab Granted Political Asylum,” January 5, 2004, (19 June 2004); “An Eritrean Diplomat Requests Political Asylum in Sweden” December 29, 2003, (19 June 2004). 20. Kriger, Zimbabwe’s Guerilla War, p.140. See also, Norma Kriger, “The Politics of Creating National Heroes: The Search for Political Legitimacy and National Identity” in Soldiers in Zimbabwe’s Liberation War, eds., Bhebe and Ranger, pp.139–162; “Who Is a Hero—ZAPU?” The Herald, September 16, 1982, p. 7; “Who Is a Hero,” Zimbabwe Mirror, July 23, 1999. 21. Richard Werbner, “Smoke from the Barrel of a Gun: Postwars of the Dead, Memory and Reinscription in Zimbabwe” in Memory and the Postcolony, ed. Richard Werbner (London: Zed Books, 1998). 22. “Petrol Sales Suspended in Eritrea,” BBC, October 15, 2004. 23. Joseph Hanlon, “Destabilisation and the Battle to Reduce Dependence” in Zimbabwe’s Prospects, ed. Colin Stoneman (London: MacMillan, 1988); Michael Evans, “The Security Threat from South Africa” in Zimbabwe’s Prospects, ed. Colin Stoneman; Jocelyn Alexander, “Dissident

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24. 25.

26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

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Perspectives on Zimbabwe’s Post-Independence War,” Africa 68, 2 (1998), pp. 151–182. Ronald Weitzer, “In Search of Regime Security: Zimbabwe since Independence,” Journal of Modern African Studies 23, 4 (1984), pp. 529–557. Alexander et al., Violence and Memory; ZimRights, Choosing the Path to Peace and Development: Coming to Terms with Human Rights Violations of the 1982–1987 Conflict in Matabeleland and Midlands Provinces (Harare: ZimRights, 1999); CCJP/LRF, Breaking the Silence: Building True Peace. A Report on the Disturbances in Matabeleland and the Midlands, 1980–1988, (CCJP & LRF, 1997). “Create Unity, Mutumbuka Urges 5000 Head-Masters,” The Herald, November 13,1981, p. 3; “Nhongo Urges Unity of Sexes for Progress” The Herald January 27, 1982, 3; “Breakthrough in Battle to Unite all Businessmen” The Herald, January, 28, 1982, p. 1; “Workers Told to Unite,” The Herald, January 27, 1982, p. 2; “Unite or Be Disowned, Warns top ZCTU Man,” The Herald, January 29, 1982, p. 11; “Workers Unity is Vital,” The Herald, May 3, 1982, p. 4; “Clothing Unions’ Merger ‘is valid,’” The Herald, February 3, 1982, p. 4; “Unity Vital—Townsend,” The Herald, November 6, 1981, p. 15. Jill Crystal, “Authoritarianism and Its Adversaries in the Arab World,” World Politics 46 (1994), p. 288, see also pp. 280–281. “President Isaias Replies to Questions on National Regional and International Issues: Part II,” Eritrea Profile, May 31,1997, p. 3. See for instance, Ministry of Information, “An Axis of Belligerence Cannot Be Tolerated,” October 31, 2002. “PFDJ Stressed Steadfastness, Sacrifice in Fulfillment of National and Popular Objectives,” Eritrea Profile, September 1, 2001, p. 1. “Division Will Destroy Us, Says Mugabe,” The Herald, October 18, 1982. Darren Hawkins, “Democratization Theory and Nontransitions: Insights from Cuba,” Comparative Politics 33 (2001), pp. 441–461 and p. 448. Jocelyn Alexander, “The State, Agrarian Policy and Rural Politics in Zimbabwe: Case Studies of Insiza and Chimanimani Districts, 1940–1990,” Unpublished D.Phil. dissertation , University of Oxford, 1993. Norma Kriger, “The War Victims Compensation Act,” Journal of African Conflict and Development 1 (2000), ms p. 2. See also Norma Kriger, Guerrilla Veterans in Post-War Zimbabwe: Symbolic and Violent Politics, 1980–1987 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 175. Norbert Tengende, “Workers, Students and the Struggles for Democracy: State Civil Society Relations in Zimbabwe,” Unpublished PhD. dissertation, University of Roskilde, 1994, pp. 437–438; Peer Nordlund, Organising the Political Agora, Uppsala University, 1996, p. 184; Ngoni Chanakira, “Academic Freedom in Higher Institutions of Learning in Zimbabwe,” SAPEM April 1991, pp 30–31; Angela P. Cheater, “The University of Zimbabwe: University, National University, State University or Party University,” African Affairs 90, 359 (1999), pp. 200–203.

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36. On the AWC case see Sara Rich Dorman, “Inclusion and Exclusion: NGOs and Politics in Zimbabwe,” D. Phil. thesis, University of Oxford, 2001. On the Savings Development Movement see Michael Bratton, “Non-governmental Organizations in Africa: Can They Influence Public Policy,” Development and Change 21 (1990), pp. 96–99. 37. GOZ, Non-Governmental Organisations Bill, July 2004. 38. “EWDFA holds 2nd Congress,” Eritrea Profile, April 27, 1996, p. 1; “Eritrean War Disabled Fighters Association: Highlights,” Eritrea Profile April 27, 1996, p. 2. 39. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, pp. 173–175. 40. “The President Replies” Eritrea Profile, September 17, 1994, pp. 4–5. 41. Atsuko Matsuoka and John Sorenson, After Independence: Prospects for Women in Eritrea, Unpublished manuscript; Victoria Bernal, “Equality to Die For? Women Guerrilla Fighters and Eritrea’s Cultural Revolution,” Political and Legal Anthropology Review 23, 2 (2000), pp. 61–76; Nielsen, “Reintegration of Ex-Fighters in Highland Eritrea.” 42. “Parking Ticket Women Get Rehabilitated,” Shaebia.com April 23, 2004; “New Jobs for Ex-Parking Ticket Collectors,” Shaebia.com May 7, 2004. 43. “National Service—the Facts,” Eritrea Profile, December 1, 1994, p. 4; “Benefits of National Service Stressed,” Eritrea Profile, October 1, 1994, p. 1; The Constitution of Eritrea, 1997. 44. “Nation Launches Warsay-Yikealo Campaign,” Eritrea Profile, May 11, 2002, p. 1. 45. “All Female NS Participants Demobilized” Eritrea Profile, December 28, 2003, p. 1; Ministry of Information (Eritrea), “Commission for Demobilization and Reintegration Program Begins Distribution of Identification Cards,” March 1, 2004; Ministry of Information (Eritrea), “The NCRDP Commences Fiscal Remuneration to the First Phase Demobilized Personals,” April 16, 2004. 46. “A Word to the People,” Eritrea Profile, March 21, 1998, p. 2. 47. For a critical account of this scheme, see Daniel Mekonnen and Samuel Abraha, The Plight of Eritrean Students in South Africa (2004). 48. Intense Nighttime Roundups—”Gffa”—in Eritrea, Awate.com, 2002; Twelve Killed in Roundup (“Gffa”) Clashes, Awate.com, 2002; “Eritrea Sweeps Capital for Draft Dodgers,” Reuters, April 19, 1999. 49. Dan Connell, “The Importance of Self-Reliance: NGOs and DemocracyBuilding in Eritrea”, Middle East Report, Spring 2000, 28–32; see also, “NGOs Are Finding It Difficult to Work in Eritrea,” Eritrea Profile, April 5, 1997, p. 3; “Another Perspective on Eritrea,” Eritrea Profile, April 5, 1997, p. 3; and Rachel Hayman, “Reconciling Ownership of Development and External Assistance: Aid and Nation-Building in Eritrea,” M.Sc. dissertation, University of Edinburgh, 2002. 50. “4 NGOs Asked to Terminate Operations Here,” Eritrea Profile, August 31, 2002, p. 1.

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51. On youth, see Sara Rich Dorman, “National Union of Eritrean Youth and Students: Constraints and Opportunities for Organizational Development,” NUEYS conference on “Eritrean Youths: Post-War Challenges and Expectations,” Asmara, Eritrea, December 2002. 52. Gregory Kasza, The Conscription Society: Administered Mass Organizations (New Haven: Yale, 1995), p. 9. 53. Sara Rich Dorman, “Past the Kalashnikov: Youth, Politics and the State,” Vanguard or Vandals? Youth, Politics and Conflict in Africa, ed. J. Abbink and I. van Kessel (Leiden, Holland: Brill Academic Publishers, 2004). 54. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, p. 183; see also, Connell, “The Importance of Self-Reliance.” 55. Government of Eritrea (GOE), A Presidential Directive on Jehovah’s Witnesses, 1994, ; GOE, “Ministry of Interior, Statement on Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Eritrea Profile, 1995. 56. GOE, Proclamation issued July 15, 1995. 57. Jonah Fisher, “Religious Persecution in Eritrea,” BBC September 17, 2004. 58. For a more detailed discussion see: Sara Rich Dorman, “Rocking the Boat?: Church-NGOs and Democratization in Zimbabwe?” African Affairs 101 (2002), pp. 75–92. 59. “Apostolic Sect Supports President,” The Herald, May 3, 2001, ;”Vapostori Vote for the First Time,” Sunday News, June 25, 2000, ;”The Evening News,” ZBC, June 18, 2000;”Picture of Border Gezi at Vapostori Meeting,” The Herald, June 19, 2000, p. 1. 60. Mark Chavunduka and Ray Choto, Royal Commonwealth Society Meeting, London, April 16, 1999; see also news reports, Andrew Meldrum, “Mugabe ‘Foiled Officer’s Coup’” Guardian (UK) January 11, 1999, Andrew Meldrum, “Zimbabwe Army Torture Alleged” Guardian (UK), January 22, 1999; “Chihuri Admits Illegal Act” Standard, September 19, 1999. 61. “Plot to Close Daily News,” Daily News, November 21, 2000; “War Vets Besiege The Daily News,” Daily News, January 24, 2001; “War Veterans ‘Ban’ Daily News,” Daily News, January 27, 2001; “Press Bombed,” Daily News, January 28, 2001. 62. “Capitol Radio to Be Launched Soon,” Daily News, September 26, 2000; “Moyo Warns Capitol Radio,” Daily News, October 3, 2000; “Capitol Radio Defies Government,” Daily News, October 4, 2000. “A Fresh Breath on the Air Waves” Standard, October 8, 2000, “Moves to Extend ZBC Monopoly to 2002” Standard, October 8, 2000; “Freeing of Airwaves Unleashes Scramble for Radio Licenses” Mirror, October 6, 2000; Dumisani Muleya, “New Broadcasting Law Grossly Restrictive,” Independent, October 6, 2000; “Capital Radio Judgment Reserved,” Daily News, October 10, 2000; “Search on Auret’s Home Yields Nothing,” Daily News, October 11, 2000; “Latest on Capital Radio,” Independent, November 3, 2000. 63. “Communications Bill Seen as Draconian,” Independent, March 10, 2000; Nqobile Nyathi, “ISPs Vow to Fight Bill Gagging Email,” Financial Gazette,

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64. 65.

66. 67. 68.

69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75.

76.

77. 78.

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March 23, 2000; “Supreme Court Bars Mugabe Email Snooping” Daily Mirror, March 16, 2004. Alex Last, “Eritrea Goes Slowly Online,” BBC, November 14, 2000. Ministry of Information (Eritrea), “Eritrean Telecommunications Corporation to Introduce Mobile Telephone Service,” January 12, 2004; see also, Ministry of Information (Eritrea), “The Washington Post Commits Foul Play,” April 22, 2004; Emily Wax, “Freedom, a Call Away? Control on Cell Phone Use in Eritrea Is Called Tool of Repression,” Washington Post, April 20, 2004. “Government Places Private Newspapers under Temporary Ban,” Eritrea Profile, September 22, 2001, p. 1. Dorman, “National Union of Eritrean Youth and Students.” “Inside Zimbabwe Inc,” Focus 19 (September 2000), http://www.hsf.org.za/ focus19/focus19refozanu.html; UN Security Council, Report of the Panel of Experts on the Illegal Exploitation of Natural Resources and Other Forms of Wealth of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (2001), 33–36. Brian Raftopoulos and Sam Moyo, “The Politics of Indigenisation in Zimbabwe,” East African Social Science Review 11, 2 (1995), pp. 17–32. “Remittances—govt. hopes they can save economy,” IRIN, May 18, 2005. Tengende, “Workers, Students and the Struggles for Democracy,” p. 446; see also, “War Veteran’s Constitution” The Herald, May 1, 1989, p. 3. “Meetings with War Vets Turn Nasty,” The Herald, July 21, 1997, pp. 1, 8, 11; “Ex-Combatants Loot ZANU(PF) Headquarters,” The Herald, August 14, 1997, pp. 1, 9; “War Veterans Threaten to Seize White-Owned Land,” Independent, August 29, 1997, p. 12. “Angry Zimbabwean War Veterans Chase Ministers,” PANA, July 20, 1997. “Discontent Emerging over Zimbabwe’s Veteran’s Levy,” PANA, November 30, 1997. At the September 1999 launch of the MDC, I estimated there were three white spectators (including myself); by the 2000 elections, whites were attending NCA meetings in downtown hotels and even a few were at the MDC preelection rallies. Personal Communication, Angus Selby, October 30, 2001; “CFU Faces Split over Withdrawal of Charges” Daily News, August 18, 2000; Mercedes Sayagues, “CFU Opens Its Chequebook to Buy peace in Zim,” Mail & Guardian, May 19, 2000. Dorman, “NGOs and the Constitutional Debate in Zimbabwe: From Inclusion to Exclusion,” Journal of Southern African Studies 29, 4 (2003), pp. 845–863. “Inyika Trust Commends Government on Proposed Bill,” The Herald, May 9, 2001; “Inyika Trust Condemns CFU’s plans,” The Herald, May 11, 2001; “Inyika Trust Slams Judgment,” The Herald, February 9, 2001; “NCA, NDA Clash over Interests,” Standard, November 5, 2000; “Heritage Linked to Jonathan Moyo,” Daily News, January 20, 2001; “Heritage Zimbabwe Refutes Daily’s Story,” Sunday Mail, January 26, 2001; “Heritage Zim Hosted Hunzvi

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79. 80.

81. 82.

83.

84.

85. 86.

87. 88.

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Mourners,” Independent, June 15, 2001; see also, “State Targets Colleges, NGOs for Crackdown,” Daily News, July 23, 2003. “Youth Service Ushers in New Citizenry,” The Herald, July 31, 2003; “National Service Graduates Get Jobs,” The Herald, August 8, 2003, p. 3. Jocelyn Alexander, “Chiefs and the State in Independent Zimbabwe,” paper presented at Conference on Chieftaincy in Africa, St Antony’s College, Oxford, June 9, 2001. See also, “Chiefs Get Hefty Allowances” The Herald, April 20, 2004. “One Man, One Farm: President,” The Herald, July 31, 2003. Alexander, “State, Peasantry and Resettlement in Zimbabwe,” Review of African Political Economy 61 (1994), pp. 325–345.; Michael Drinkwater “Technical Development and Peasant Impoverishment: Land Use Policy in Zimbabwe’s Midlands Province,” JSAS 15, 2 (1989), pp. 287–305. “Eritrea to Have 6 Administrative Regions,” Eritrea Profile, 1995, p. 1; “Why a New Administrative Structure” Interview with Mahmoud Sherifo, Eritrea Profile, 1995. See for instance, Jeffrey Herbst, State Politics in Zimbabwe (Harare: University of Zimbabwe, 1991); Tor Skalnes, The Politics of Economic Reform in Zimbabwe (Houndmills, UK: MacMillan, 1995); Michael Bratton, “Micro-Democracy? The Merger of Farmer Unions in Zimbabwe” African Studies Review 37 (1994), pp. 9–38. Juan Linz, Totalitarian and Authoritarian Regimes (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 2000), p. 166. Brian Raftopoulos, “Climbing out of the Rubble” in Zimbabwe’s Presidential Elections 2002, ed. Henning Melber (Uppsala, Sweden: NAI, 2002) and “‘We Are Really Sleepwalking, Corpses, Zombies . . . We Are Carrying Other People’s World View.’ Nation, Race And History In Zimbabwean Politics.” Paper presented at Centre for African Studies’ Conference States, Borders and Nations: Negotiating Citizenship in Africa University of Edinburgh, May 19–20, 2004. “Muhyedin Shengeb’s defection from PFDJ,” Awate.com, May 9, 2004. See for discussions of inclusion, Dorman, “NGOs and the Constitutional Debate in Zimbabwe” and Melber, “From Liberation Movements to Governments.” Fred Halliday, Iran: Dictatorship and Development (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin 1979), p. 58.

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CHAPTER 9

Revolutionaries to Politicians: The Case of Mozambique Carrie Manning

Introduction Do one-time “revolutionary” movements enjoy particular advantages or suffer disadvantages in adapting to competitive democratic politics? Political competition in Mozambique is dominated by the Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO, the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique), the ruling party since independence, and the Resistência Nacional Moçambicana (RENAMO, the Mozambican National Resistance), an armed opposition group that fought a 16-year war with the FRELIMO government after independence. RENAMO entered the political arena as a political party in 1994, under the terms of the 1992 peace agreement. Of the two, only FRELIMO has ever been seriously designated as a movement with “revolutionary” tendencies or ambitions. It began as a guerrilla army fighting Portuguese colonial rule and assumed power in 1975 with the departure of the Portuguese. This chapter, which covers the period until 2000, examines the very different processes of transformation experienced by these two armed organizations as they made the transition from battlefield to political arena. It argues that FRELIMO’s greater organizational and ideological coherence facilitated its success in adapting to democratic politics—even though its highly militant transformational project at independence and ideological rigidity helped facilitate RENAMO’s successful insurgency. By the time of the first multiparty elections in Mozambique, FRELIMO had nearly

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20 years of governing experience under its belt, and for it to adapt to democratic politics meant relinquishing its exclusive hold on political power in the country. With the advent of formal democracy and the separation of party and state, FRELIMO’s internal disagreements and power struggles were opened to public view. These struggles, among the party-in-office, the party-in-parliament, and the party hierarchy, offer important insight into FRELIMO’s adaptation to democratic politics. RENAMO by contrast had no previous existence off the battlefield, much less governing experience. Its struggle to build a viable peacetime political organization required the dismantling of its military existence and the retooling of key military leaders into nominally democratic politicians. Leaders simultaneously struggled to ensure organizational survival, maintain their own positions at the head of the party, and win electoral support. A smooth transition for FRELIMO depended on how well existing organizational routines could be put to work in the new environment. For RENAMO it was a question of creating entirely new organizational routines and relationships within the organization that could negotiate democratic political institutions successfully. For both parties, these adjustments presented formidable challenges to party leaders. The country’s formal democratization process, begun in 1990, was a threefold transformation: from war to peace, from state-dominated to market economy, and from single party-state to multiparty electoral democracy. While RENAMO’s transition from armed opposition group to political party coincided with the advent of democracy in Mozambique, FRELIMO’s preceded it by fifteen years. Thus FRELIMO has experienced two periods of major adaptation—one upon acceding to power in 1975 after an armed independence struggle to become the country’s ruling and sole legal political party, and a second after the constitutional revision in 1990 that made Mozambique a multiparty democracy. Mozambique’s history of civil war has had a lasting impact on its political system. Because the political arena is polarized after many years of civil conflict during which each side demonized the other, defections from one party to another are rare. Would-be defectors from FRELIMO or RENAMO are loath to associate themselves directly with the other side, as each represents a former military as well as political enemy. At the same time, they are reluctant to break off and form their own parties because they calculate that doing so might well put the opposing party over the top.1 Mozambique’s electoral system employs proportional representation in large multi-member districts for legislative elections. This has little effect on the dominance enjoyed by FRELIMO and RENAMO. While more than a dozen parties have competed in all three general elections (1994,

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1999, and 2004), in practice Mozambique remains a two-party system. Presidential elections require a second round if no one wins more than 50 percent of the vote, but so far a second round has never been necessary. Legislative elections are held simultaneously with presidential elections, which in Mozambique has ensured that the top leader of the opposition party will not be a member of the legislature. The party system is also influenced by the residual effects of the ruling party’s longtime control of the economy. While the 1990s have seen substantial adjustment toward the privatization of banking and industry and the growth of a broader and more robust private economic sector, access to the state remains an important source of socioeconomic advancement. This increases the stakes of political competition and helps hold the ruling party together, as the opportunity costs of separating oneself from the party are considerable. It also helps keep fledgling parties comparatively resource-poor. Thus, Mozambique is an interesting and unusual case in that the two parties that dominate politics both have their roots in armed opposition groups. This chapter depicts these two starkly different parties as they confronted two major sets of changes. First, as organizations they had to adapt to civilian political tasks and to establish appropriate organizational structures and routines. This process was quite different for the two parties, as FRELIMO moved from the battlefield into an authoritarian political system in which it was the ruling party. Unlike RENAMO, it did not face the need to compete with other parties immediately. FRELIMO’s ambitious project of social transformation, however, placed tremendous demands on the party as an organization. These demands were met in part by the development of new internal structures, and the strengthening of existing ones— for the management of intra-organizational conflict, for leadership selection, and for decisionmaking on issues of party and national policy— which served the party well during the transition to competitive multiparty politics. RENAMO, by contrast, was forced to deal with the organizational challenges presented by the transition to civilian political life and by competitive democratic politics all at once. History of the Movements FRELIMO FRELIMO’s history as a movement is punctuated by ideological, ethnic, and personal conflicts. Ethnicity, particularly the perceived dominance of state power by southerners, played an important role in shaping

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Mozambique’s civil conflict, though it received little attention from scholars before the transition to multiparty politics.2 The segmented economy of the colonial state and the distinctive socioeconomic effects of colonialism in different regions of the country had initially created several anti-colonial resistance movements, each associated with a different region, and each based on an experience of colonialism particular to that region.3 FRELIMO was formed out of the union of three such groups: União Democratica Nacional de Moçambique (UDENAMO, National Democratic Union of Mozambique), União Africana de Moçambique Independente (UNAMI, the National African Union of Independent Mozambique), and Mozambique African National Union (MANU). These historical differences between the movements need not have grown into ethnic divisions within FRELIMO. Indeed, initially the most important rivalries were not between the different regionally-based founding groups, but between these groups and younger, more radical militants who were increasingly pouring across the border from Mozambique to join the struggle, and who, in the view of one FRELIMO-affiliated scholar, “occupied subordinate positions, due to the fact that they entered FRELIMO as individuals and not as part of one of the founding groups.”4 This rivalry too, had an ethno-regionalist cast to it. Some of those in this latter group, who were generally from the south and who in many cases had higher levels of education than those associated with the older exile movements, went on to form the “ideological faction” that would later press hard for a revolutionary approach to the independence struggle, in alliance with politicized young guerrilla leaders. Later on, when the ideological wing had gained the ascendancy, clashes between certain individuals or groups over ideological or policy issues more often than not coincided with ethno-regional differences, with those from the south consistently ending up on the winning side. From 1963 to 1966, the “radical” or “ideological” faction gradually gained in power. By 1967, many of the original leaders of the movements that came together to form FRELIMO had left or been expelled from the FRELIMO hierarchy. Magode notes that most of those leaving FRELIMO had been leaders of micro-level anti-colonial movements in the center or north of the country and that they left either because certain segments of the elite within FRELIMO sought to subjugate them, or because they sought a reaffirmation of their status as leaders, which was lost when they entered a centralized, unitary organization.5 Some formed new political organizations, such as UDENAMO II, Comité Revolucionário de Moçambique (COREMO), Partido Revolucionário de Moçambique

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(PRM), or the União Nacional de Zambézia (UNAR), and several, including Uria Simango, Mateus Gwenjere, and Lázaro Nkavandame, reappeared at the head of political formations in 1974 to protest FRELIMO’s assumption of power at independence. A number of these leaders came back after 1990 to form or reconstitute political parties to contest the 1994 elections. While a large number of party leaders from the center and north were leaving FRELIMO, the unfolding of the armed struggle gave rise to yet another dynamic, which created another fault line between old guard and radical elements in the Front. As the war intensified and FRELIMO began gaining “liberated zones,” a new set of young, politicized military leaders emerged, who were increasingly in conflict with FRELIMO’s “chairmen” in the liberated zones, many of whom were traditional chiefs, interested less in socioeconomic transformation than in accelerating the war to end colonial domination.6 In the eyes of both the “revolutionary” ideologues of the party and some military leaders operating inside Mozambique, it had become impossible to keep political and military issues and leaderships separate. This group decided that FRELIMO’s struggle would require a commitment to protracted conflict and long-term support from the peasants. To obtain such support required political education for the population. This issue gave rise to serious struggle within FRELIMO, with the revolutionaries eventually gaining the upper hand. The victory of the revolutionary line was consolidated and formalized at the party’s Second Congress, held in Niassa province in 1968. A number of the old guard refused to attend the conference, arguing that it should be held on foreign soil and should not include military leaders. They lost on both scores. With the old guard absent, a significant number of the revolutionary contingent were elected to the Central Committee.7 “New Members [of the Central Committee] came almost exclusively from popularly elected constituencies inside Mozambique and from the military—both of which supported the revolutionary position.”8 The Second Congress formally resolved that: “Our war is essentially a political war, and its direction is defined by the party. The people’s army is part and parcel of the party, and its strategic plans are made by the top leadership of the party.”9 By 1970, an alliance between the military leaders, who as a rule had relatively low levels of education but were radicalized by their participation in the struggle, and party ideologues, the majority of whom had come from the South, had been consolidated. The assassination of FRELIMO president Eduardo Mondlane in 1969, via a parcel bomb, also contributed to the demise of the “non-revolutionary” wing within the FRELIMO leadership. Uria Simango, the Vice President of FRELIMO and next in line after Mondlane, tried to assume leadership

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of the Front. However, Simango’s ideological credentials were suspect in the eyes of the radicals, who imposed a new leadership structure and forced Simango out.10 At the independence of Mozambique in 1975, FRELIMO, the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique, assumed power after fighting a protracted war of independence against the Portuguese. FRELIMO arrived in Maputo seasoned by a series of internal leadership struggles that produced both a firm ideological project and a number of disaffected elites, most of whom were from the center and north of the country. Thus the party came to power in 1975 led by a group of people who saw their ascension to power as merely the first step in a revolutionary social, economic, and political transformation of Mozambican society, which the party would direct. Shortly after independence, the new regime faced armed internal resistance, backed by powerful external allies, in the form of the guerrilla group that would eventually become known as RENAMO. FRELIMO and RENAMO would fight for more than 15 years before signing the General Peace Accord in Rome in 1992. As I will argue here, RENAMO’s emergence and evolution owed more than has often been acknowledged to ethnic, regional, and ideological struggles within FRELIMO itself, and to the increasingly hostile confrontation between FRELIMO and Mozambican society. RENAMO Nearly 20 years later, RENAMO’s entry into the political system also coincided with a major political and economic transformation. On the eve of elections in 1994, RENAMO was a guerrilla movement best known both inside and outside of Mozambique as an organization without a political program, sustained by external support and an army of captives. The party’s participation in the country’s first multiparty general elections offered both a vindication, in RENAMO’s eyes, of its armed insurgency, and a set of formidable challenges to the party’s leadership. RENAMO leader Afonso Dhlakama had sought legitimacy for the organization as a political force, insisting that the group was not merely a violent tool of outside forces bent on destabilization, but a politico-military organization with an ideological agenda (neoliberalism and democracy) and the ability to control and administer territory.11 The party’s history as an armed opposition group left it far less well equipped to operate as an effective civilian political force than had FRELIMO’s in 1975. FRELIMO’s history as an armed movement was marked by regular and intense debate about the movement’s goals and

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the means to get there, about the linkages between armed struggle and political goals, and about strategies of armed struggle. RENAMO began its life opportunistically, with a symbiotic relationship between Portuguese exiles in South Africa and Rhodesia, the Rhodesian intelligence and security service, and a handful of people in central Mozambique, like Andre Mattsangaissa, who had parted ways with the FRELIMO army for various reasons. RENAMO’s rise in connection with Rhodesian security force priorities and its subsequent transfer into the care of the South African military intelligence service in the early 1980s is well documented, although disputes remain about the relative contributions of RENAMO’s various backers to the organization’s founding and growth.12 The development of RENAMO as both a political and a military organization has been marked by rivalry between various external backers and between external groups claiming control of the movement and RENAMO’s internal leadership.13 From the time when responsibility for supporting RENAMO was taken up by South Africa in 1982 to the period immediately following the Nkomati Accord between South Africa and Mozambique, around 1984–1985, RENAMO’s internal structure was primarily a military one. The Gorongosa documents provide insight into this period—filled as they are with training schedules and programs for supply drops from South Africa.14 Little attention was given to the political side of the organization until the 1984 Nkomati Accord, which aimed (but failed) to end South African support for RENAMO. At Nkomati and in subsequent rounds of negotiations, RENAMO issued a series of political demands, calling for the dissolution of the Mozambican government, the establishment of a power-sharing arrangement between FRELIMO and RENAMO, and the creation of a free-market economy. However, despite the political content of its public agenda and incipient efforts by the external leadership to frame the movement in some form of political structure, RENAMO really had no political or administrative framework inside Mozambique before 1985.15 Once Nkomati was signed and RENAMO headquarters moved from Phalaborwa in South Africa to Gorongosa, in central Mozambique’s Sofala province, RENAMO’s approach appeared to change. Some RENAMO officials have suggested that the Nkomati Accord served as a catalyst to force RENAMO to establish itself as an organization in its own right—even though the accord did not end support from South African elements in practice, it provided a wake up call to many in RENAMO. Vines notes that the South Africans had themselves advised RENAMO to develop administrative structures necessary to establish control over the people living in its areas of operation,

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so as to “continue to operate [with reduced resources] and to cause the maximum impact for the minimum expense.”16 Faced with what looked then like probable abandonment by their South African sponsors, yet armed with plentiful materiel stockpiled to help the movement over the transition, RENAMO began an aggressive military campaign to expand outward from its Manica and Sofala heartland. It was during this period, from 1984 to 1986, that most of those who formed RENAMO’s political and administrative core were recruited. Many of the individuals who made up this core were captured during military attacks. 17 A systematic study of the educational and occupational backgrounds and timing of entry of a large number of those serving RENAMO in political and administrative positions at the national and local levels, particularly when compared with similar data on military officials, suggests that there was a serious and fairly successful effort to build up a political wing within RENAMO beginning in the mid-1980s.18 The party’s First Congress in 1989 consolidated these earlier efforts, rewarding better-educated and more articulate individuals who had worked closely with Dhlakama. The First Congress also marked a determined effort by the movement’s internal leadership to exercise greater control over RENAMO’s external representation. Clandestine urban branches were formalized around this same time and a group of urban-based secondary students were recruited, ostensibly to be groomed for postwar political positions. With the exception of this last group, and a handful of people who had supported RENAMO from Lisbon during the war and returned to Mozambique in time for the elections, it appears that a great many of those serving in RENAMO’s political and administrative wing had initially entered the movement against their will, or at least under false pretenses. Many of these now make up the core of the party hierarchy. Among the national heads of department, top advisers, members of the Political Commission and the National Council, twenty-one out of thirty-five had been with RENAMO “in the bush” during the war. Context of Victory/End of Conflict FRELIMO FRELIMO’s assumption of state power in 1974 was briefly contested by a number of opposition groups, including political parties led by black Mozambicans as well as settler organizations. Many of the former were created by ex-FRELIMO leaders and members, most of whom were expelled

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from the party in the course of the internal conflicts of 1962–1970, and all of whom were from the center or north of the country. Violent resistance to FRELIMO, however, was short-lived. The end of violent resistance also spelled the end of political opposition of any kind in the country. As Paul Fauvet, the pro-FRELIMO British journalist and longtime Maputo resident, declared, In the fortnight or so following the Lusaka agreement [which handed power to FRELIMO], the leaders of the PCN [opposition party] were arrested, and all the parties created to oppose FRELIMO were outlawed. Simango, Nkavandame, Simião, Gumane—all were sent to re-education centres in the north of the country. Thus the historic opposition to FRELIMO was beheaded.19

Jose Luis Cabaço, a member of the FRELIMO Transitional Government in 1975, wrote later that FRELIMO not only carried the memory of that crisis with it, but tended to see it as a foreshadowing of FRELIMO’s encounter with Mozambican society as a whole. “In the Transitional Government, this sense of internal confrontation was immediately applied to the entire country, on FRELIMO’s initiative, in an attempt to prevent problems analogous to those already experienced during the national liberation struggle . . . ”20 Accordingly, potential enemies of the “revolutionary project” were aggressively rooted out. The “revolutionary group,” which had emerged on top in the leadership struggle of the 1960s, also assumed power at independence secure in the belief that, in the liberated zones and at FRELIMO’s military training camp at Nachingwea, they had created a real alternative to the colonial, capitalist system. National unity, they argued, was based “not on respect for differences and a search for common denominators, but by the conformance of all with a superior identity that was forged in the experience of the liberation struggle.”21 Whoever was not with FRELIMO was, by definition, against it. Thus a relatively small group of leaders from the armed struggle now sought to impose their vision on the rest of society. The ideals of national unity, social justice, and development that were forged during the independence struggle left no room for the consideration of opinions and experiences that diverged from them. This is not to say that FRELIMO did not enjoy popular support. In fact there was widespread enthusiasm and expectations were very high for the new FRELIMO government, even among those who had not participated in the independence struggle. FRELIMO’s mistake was in confusing generalized public enthusiasm for

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FRELIMO and for independence with political consciousness and political consensus on FRELIMO’s revolutionary agenda. As in so many other African states at the time, Mozambique’s independence movement attempted to build national unity by defining diversity out of existence, by declaring it irrelevant and indeed illegal. But just as the FRELIMO leadership overestimated the people’s enthusiasm for transformation, it underestimated the depth and importance of ethnic sentiment for large sectors of the population. Armed with the confidence and zeal for transformation that came from its wartime experience, and buoyed by generalized popular enthusiasm for independence, FRELIMO surged ahead with its revolutionary program. FRELIMO sought nothing less than to remake Mozambican society and economy. Traditional authorities, which had played a vital administrative and social role in rural areas both before and during the colonial period, were outlawed and replaced by elected grassroots committees called Dynamizing Groups. Organized religion was suppressed, with religious leaders and their followers subject to harassment and imprisonment. All schools, including those run by the religious missions, were taken over by the state. Private law and private medical practices were outlawed, and land and rental property were nationalized. Large-scale industry was nationalized beginning in 1977. As private commercial activity was also outlawed, the government set up a network of people’s shops, where consumer goods could be purchased at low fixed prices. Family or subsistence agriculture was completely neglected by the state until 1984, and people were encouraged instead to join cooperatives, move to communal villages, or work on state farms. Unfortunately, the structures with which the party sought to replace what it abolished were extremely weak. The new state was utterly incapable of replacing the marketing network it had eliminated. The Dynamizing Groups varied wildly in their ability to handle the heavy burden of administrative tasks they inherited in the vacuum between the departing colonial state and the creation of the new one. The economy began to collapse, and social and economic disruption was most acutely felt in rural areas, where people were cut loose from both their economic means of survival and from the authority and belief systems that had given their lives order and meaning. RENAMO was eventually able to gain ground in the countryside by exploiting this problem. An equally serious problem was that, despite the inadequacy of the new structures in the face of the overwhelming challenges, the state nevertheless behaved as though the only real problem was to be found in “enemies of the people”—the “compromised,” the corrupt, the collaborators. The

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relationship between state and society was one of confrontation—between a state that identified itself as the one true path to development and national unity, and society, which the state appeared to regard as a mostly wellmeaning and supportive mass, but one sprinkled with would-be saboteurs of the state’s project. Government suspicion and harassment of groups ranging from Portuguese and other small property owners, to educated Mozambicans who had not participated in the struggle, to religious officials and ordinary citizens who fell afoul of local party officials began to create the conditions for a self-fulfilling prophecy. By the end of the 1970s, popular support for FRELIMO had dropped off significantly, due to discontent with specific government policies, the collapse of the economy (which was not only linked to FRELIMO policy), and to what often amounted to a manifest disrespect for the law on the part of the state. The formal establishment of FRELIMO as a Marxist-Leninist party in 1977 drove state and society further apart. This move institutionalized the supreme status of the party, militaristic rhetoric became even more strident, and new, stringent ideological requirements were placed on party membership. Officially excluded from the party were all those who had “voluntarily participated in anti-patriotic or counter-revolutionary organizations or activities.” In practice this included businessmen (aspirants to the bourgeoisie), religious leaders, artisans, and others. The mases were to be linked to the party though the democratic mass organizations for women and youth and approved professional associations and unions.22 By 1983, the limitations of the Marxist-Leninist strategy for Mozambique were evident. In officially adopting a Marxist-Leninist philosophy of action, the party had drastically narrowed its support base—not only because party members now had to meet strict ideological requirements, but because under the new strategy the workers became the “leading class” in the struggle to achieve socialist development, and industry became the driving force. The agricultural policies associated with the new strategy, namely large state farms that absorbed virtually all state investment in agriculture, the establishment of cooperative farming and communal villages, and the neglect of the family sector, resulted in severe economic and social disruption in the countryside. The party-state’s attitude of aggressive confrontation with “enemies of the people,” including “aspirants to the bourgeoisie,” and others who were ideologically suspect, undermined the government’s support among a fairly broad spectrum of urban dwellers—from intellectuals who did not agree with the party line to small scale traders and religious leaders. FRELIMO sought to ensure urban support by providing food staples at low prices for city residents, but eventually the collapse of rural

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marketing systems brought about by both FRELIMO policy and the intensification of the guerrilla war, the reduction in quantity of marketed surplus produced by Mozambican farmers, and various natural disasters began to create food scarcities in the cities. FRELIMO’s turn toward the West began in 1983 when it began discussions with the World Bank and IMF. By 1987, FRELIMO had launched its Economic Recovery Program (PRE) under World Bank auspices. This allowed the government to reschedule its debt and to receive a generous influx of donor support. The immediate effects of the program, however, were to increase hardship in the urban areas. It was in this economic context that FRELIMO moved to abandon its Marxist-Leninist approach. At its Fifth Congress in July 1989, FRELIMO opened up membership to religious leaders, business owners, and others who had been excluded during the Marxist-Leninist era. As one FRELIMO official put it, “we could not continue to deceive the militants by saying that we are following a doctrine that in practice we were not following.”23 The party also faced charges of corruption from within. Specific allegations of corruption, including nepotism, regionalism, and the skimming of food aid were voiced from many quarters, including the police, the army, and various provincial party headquarters. Voices within the army, police, and members of the party hierarchy complained of ethnic and racial imbalance within the party.24 At the same time, the war with RENAMO, ongoing since the late 1970s, was bringing increasing pressure to bear on the cities, and strikes and occasional urban unrest due to economic conditions made the government fearful that the cities were becoming ripe for RENAMO attack. As Luis de Brito correctly points out, “it is in a context of severe crisis that FRELIMO has been ‘converted to the democratic ideal’ and had a new constitution ratified by the Popular Assembly.”25 The constitutional reform process was in part a response to the internal party pressures just described, which the Fifth Congress had tried to address. A major challenge for FRELIMO that was implied by the shift to multiparty democracy was the separation of party and state. The Sixth Congress, held in August 1991, saw the formal separation of party and state functions. For the first time, there were not separate positions for administrators, governors and party secretaries. Previously, each governor was also the provincial party secretary, and the same held true for administrators right down to the local level. The party’s separation from the state and its resources meant not only a loss of prestige for party officials. It also meant cutting back on the party payroll. This was something that the party, now more than ever seeking to hold on to public support, found to be difficult. The Popular Assembly passed a bill that softened the blow in 1990, by allowing

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all party employees to be converted to state civil servants with equivalent pay to what they had received as party officials. The ruling party, henceforth, ceased to be the only route to state power. It no longer had the financial resources to provide a living for its local representatives or the organizational wherewithal to explain to party officials what they ought to be doing now that the party was no longer the same as the state. The biggest challenge for FRELIMO, however, was the need to face elections. First, elections forced a further opening of the party. Two groups were particularly important: Muslims and traditional authorities. Both groups had been officially excluded from the FRELIMO party until the Sixth Congress and had been subject of party criticism. In addition, many Muslims, particularly in the center and north, were involved in trade, which had made them still more suspect in the eyes of the party. RENAMO also actively sought the support of the Muslim community. FRELIMO actively sought the help of traditional leaders during the 1994 campaign, without significant success. For RENAMO, on the other hand, traditional leaders were a natural source of support. The rebel movement could credibly claim to have restored the dignity and authority of traditional leaders in the zones RENAMO controlled, although it also did its best to manipulate the leaders for its own purposes during the electoral period. Broadening the party’s base, however, inevitably weakened the party’s distinctive identity. Over the years, a weakened emphasis on ideology facilitated the spread of corruption within the party, and has hurt the party’s reputation in the eyes of its more ideologically inclined militants. RENAMO 26 RENAMO, too, faced formidable challenges in confronting elections. In other African countries, particularly in the period just after independence, the holding of elections forced parties which were mostly urban, elite-based and without much of a grassroots presence or constituency to go out and mobilize “the rural masses” along the easiest available lines, which often turned out to be region and ethnicity. For RENAMO, the problem was a different one, though not because RENAMO did not also appeal to region and ethnicity for support. Because of its character as a guerrilla army, RENAMO has roots in large portions of the national territory. It has representatives at local levels in much of the country who have at least a minimal notion of the party’s political views, as well as some training in political mobilization. RENAMO is also known, for good or ill, throughout the country. Thus it is not an intellectual, urban-based party trying to put

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down roots in the countryside, but a military organization with weakly developed administrative and political wings having to downplay its military character and strengthen its political and administrative side, largely by recruiting new people in the cities. This is not only a qualitatively different problem but a much more difficult and time consuming one than simply having to organize votes. In RENAMO’s case, it was largely the newly recruited officials, with a handful of veteran members, who would perform the most important political tasks: putting together a political program, serving as RENAMO representatives in parliament and in RENAMO’s provincial delegations, serving on the peace commissions and matching wits with FRELIMO’s more highly educated members over the implementation of the accords. Many of RENAMO’s most loyal, longstanding members were people who were without money, jobs, or prospects, who had lived in the bush for a long time and for whom luxuries and prestige now counted for a great deal. Others working for the party were recent recruits whose motives were unknown or suspect. RENAMO party leaders have been plagued by a constant fear of espionage and side-switching since the move to the cities. Almost universally among top level officials, the solution most commonly proposed for this problem was more money to distribute as patronage. This belief was perhaps reinforced by the willingness of Mozambique’s major donors to make money available at crucial moments to keep the process moving. External actors played a decisive role in Mozambique’s transition from war to peace overall, and were also important in helping to keep RENAMO’s own transition process moving forward. The UN Observation Mission for Mozambique (UNOMOZ) provided for more than 300 military observers and 5,500 troops to monitor and verify the ceasefire, demobilize and disarm troops from both the government and RENAMO armies, and provide security for the transition process. In addition to extensive involvement in supervising the peace process, Mozambique’s transition marked a number of precedents in international financial support for war termination. Financial incentives for demobilized soldiers were accompanied by a hefty “trust fund” created to support RENAMO’s transformation into apolitical party, as well a a more moderate trust fund to support the campaign costs of smaller opposition parties. The use of RENAMO’s fund was overseen and audited by the UN. Expenditures included substantial cash payments to Dhlakama in exchange for his ongoing participation in the peace process.27 The UN-administered trust-fund to facilitate RENAMO’s transformation into a political party, together with generous funding for the demobilization of soldiers (to the tne of $50

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million) indicate the sizeable financial importance of international actors. But international actors also were important in building Dhlakama’s confidence in the political process, and they played this role not just during the transition, but for a number of years after the 1994 elections. Two incidents serve to highlight this point. Just hours after voting began for the first multiparty elections in 1994, RENAMO leader Afonso Dhlakama called an election boycott. Warning signs that such an action was imminent began to accumulate in the weeks leading up to the election. In September, six weeks prior to the election, Dhlakama announced that the “security climate” for RENAMO supporters was not suitable for elections. Two weeks later he threatened to withdraw RENAMO generals who had recently been inducted into the newly integrated Mozambican armed forces, alleging a government plot to “liquidate RENAMO.” Two days before the elections, Dhlakama haunted the Frontline States Summit meeting seeking, unsuccessfully, to meet with the leaders of neighboring countries to warn them of FRELIMO plans to steal the elections. Throughout this period, RENAMO issued successive statements complaining of problems with electoral administration and issuing veiled threats of a boycott.28 The boycott fizzled, as many people had already voted by the time the call made it to outlying areas. By the end of the first day of voting, 80 percent of the electorate had voted. On the second day of voting, Dhlakama called off the boycott and urged people to vote. The backdrop to the turnabout illustrates the key role played by Mozambique’s major donors in this transition process. Indeed, it emphasizes RENAMO’s reliance on these actors for assurances that the party would not be tricked or cheated by the ruling party or by the political process itself. Following a long night of panicked phone calls and shuttle diplomacy, representatives of Mozambique’s key donor countries, along with the UN special representative, secured Dhlakama’s agreement to return to the elections, in part by drawing up a document stating that the international community would investigate all of RENAMO’s claims regarding irregularities in the electoral process.29 Dhlakama’s own comments on the boycott lend strong support to this argument. Dhlakama said he was satisfied once he heard UN special representative Aldo Ajello say that if there was fraud, the UN would not declare the elections free and fair: I have always believed that there will be a positive response whenever one presents his legitimate reasons and succeeds in putting them across to the international community. So, when we saw that the CNE [National Electoral Commission] was not reacting, and when people in Mozambique

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were showing contempt for our complaints, we had to make a decision. Ours was a carefully made decision because it permitted the international community to take into account a number of aspects that could hinder the electoral process.30

Dhlakama’s confidence in the international community reflects a larger trend in RENAMO’s behavior during the transition process. The party has consistently behaved as though its most important constituency were the international donor community, rather than Mozambican citizens. Instead of sharpening its skills in the new political system, RENAMO more often sought, particularly in the first four years following the peace accord, to go around established domestic political institutions and to draw in international actors. The boycott of elections is one example. Dhlakama’s letter to the European Union is another. In July 1995, six months after the elections, Dhlakama wrote a letter to the ambassador of Spain, which was then chairing the European Commission. In it he asked for systematic support for RENAMO from the international community, in the form of development projects, payment of debts incurred during the election campaign, and support money to sustain day to day party operations. As he stated: RENAMO is going through a very difficult period, as the international community knows . . . RENAMO transformed itself, in a very short time, from a politico-military movement to a political party. It has no resources of its own with which to survive. It depends, during this crucial phase of its existence, on the indispensable support of the international community. Disquiet and discontent are stirring in the ranks of RENAMO, with some sectors feeling betrayed and questioning my authority . . . I am aware that I could have imposed more and better conditions during the negotiations for the General Peace Accord. But immediate peace was paramount and we felt ourselves responsible for bringing it about, which led us to neglect guarantees for our own survival . . . The time could arrive when I, my authority weakened, will not have the power to avoid a catastrophe. Then, popular revolt, inevitable, will bring disastrous consequences for Mozambique, for the region, for the world . . . Turning to the International Community is our only remaining recourse. . . . 31

The letter speaks volumes about RENAMO. Dhlakama played successfully on fears in the international community that RENAMO could still return to war, that behind the organization’s calm façade lay an organized group of armed men capable of plunging the country back into chaos. He also sought to portray himself as a

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well-intentioned leader, someone the international community could do business with, but someone who was also at the mercy of followers who were less patient and less sophisticated. Also interesting is the almost sheepish way in which Dhlakama admits that he erred by not building into the peace agreement the conditions for RENAMO’s survival. The letter transmits quite clearly how intimately the international community was involved in Mozambique’s transition. In response to Dhlakama’s letter, the Spanish ambassador announced that the European Commission was prepared to pay RENAMO’s debts, noting that it was important not to isolate RENAMO.32 In part, the tendency to complain to the international community rather than to engage the government was also rooted in RENAMO’s lingering insecurity, growing out of a keen awareness that the party was a novice in the formal game of politics. Indeed, the party’s entire transition into the political arena had been managed with substantial help from the outside, from Professor Andre Thomashausen’s tutoring of Dhlakama to U.S. and Italian support during the peace talks, to guarantees of financial help and moral and logistical support from friendly donor countries and private individuals.33 Recognition and highly visible financial support from the UN and international donors did much to bolster the position of the existing leadership within the party during the transitional period.34 The party’s dominant coalition at the end of the war was a small, cohesive group centralized around the leadership of its president, Afonso Dhlakama, in whom organizational leadership was and remains highly personalized. Most of the members of this group had either been captured by RENAMO fighters in raids on secondary schools where they were teaching or, arranged their capture out of frustration or difficulties with local governing authorities. Very few had completed their secondary education.35 This core leadership remained in control of the party’s vital organizational functions after the war ended. It formed the nucleus of the party’s internal hierarchy, controlling most importantly the acquisition and distribution of financial resources for party use, the allocation of positions within the party hierarchy, communication within the organization, and relations with external actors. Yet while continuing control of access to financial resources for the party allowed the core leadership in place at the end of the war to transition smoothly into positions in the party’s postwar internal hierarchy, the party had to recruit new people to fill out its candidate lists for parliamentary elections, and this caused considerable tension within the party hierarchy. These were, for the most part, either new recruits or people who had supported RENAMO during the war through membership in clandestine

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urban cells. Either way, they were largely unknown and untested from the point of view of the party’s core leadership. In the first legislature, only 18 of the 112 deputies elected for RENAMO had been “in the bush” during the war.36 Thus while a handful of trusted leaders from the war headed up the parliamentary delegation, the majority of wartime party leadership looked on from their unpaid positions of leader of party departments, while newer recruits enjoyed the salaries and “perks” of parliamentary deputies. In response, the party hierarchy, led by Dhlakama, has systematically sought to limit the independence of the parliamentary bench, with negative effects on its parliamentary performance and on the consolidation of the parliament as a whole. While the peace agreement meant that the use of force was no longer a viable option for securing support, the polarization of the social and political arenas created by the war carried over into the postwar period, enabling RENAMO to bypass any serious internal struggle over party identity. Organizational survival required participation in elections, but winning votes did not require a major adjustment in party leaders’ existing conceptions of what the party stood for or how to appeal to voters. RENAMO has been able to continue to bill itself as a “coalition of the marginalized,” victimized by regional socioeconomic and political bias built into the FRELIMO governing system.37 These disequilibria continue to coincide with longstanding ethnoregional divisions, offering support for RENAMO’s argument that FRELIMO is deliberately seeking to exclude certain parts of the country from full participation in national political and economic life. Structural constraints on FRELIMO’s ability to improve living conditions for those in the most economically depressed areas, from which RENAMO draws much support, reinforce RENAMO’s political position. Finally, the fact that RENAMO has been in opposition throughout the postwar period means that it has not had to adjust its wartime rallying cries to conform with the real constraints on effective change in Mozambique. Effects of Power While FRELIMO and RENAMO entered politics in different eras, they both confronted the adaptation to electoral politics at the same time. Although each party faced challenges peculiar to its organizational history and resource constraints—both human and financial—the essential tasks were similar for both parties. Leaders in both parties faced the multiple challenge of securing organizational survival, protecting their own positions at the head of the party, and pursuing electoral support for the party.

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Among the major differences between the two parties as they confronted the challenges of electoral politics was the degree to which internal party politics were institutionalized or personalized. At the onset of democratic politics in 1994, FRELIMO was the more advanced in terms of its institutional development. Decision-making structures existed at all levels of the party. Internal party elections were held for candidate selection and for party hierarchy, with increasing transparency. While Samora Machel and Joaquim Chissano, the men who presided over FRELIMO’s two adaptation periods—in 1975 and in 1994—loomed large in their times and exercised significant authority as party leader, FRELIMO has never been a personal party. This has to do, in part, with its history as a movement formed out of a number of disparate organizations. The decisionmaking structures forged during the war and during the first 16 years of post-independence rule were further tested and strengthened in the years after the transition to multiparty rule. These internal structures matter in FRELIMO, and with the separation of party and state, FRELIMO’s party leaders who are not in government have become more insistent on them than ever as a tool for reinforcing party influence over some of its more technocratically inclined representatives in government, as we shall see below. FRELIMO’s internal decision making and conflict management structures were strengthened as a direct result of the establishment of competitive multiparty politics and institutions like parliament, which created a highly visible platform on which critics and potential rivals to the party leadership could build a support base.38 Competitive multi-party elections generate internal tensions within parties. Each electoral period requires a party to make choices about how it will represent itself to the public, about whom it will attempt to mobilize for support and how it will do so. These periodic opportunities for strategic planning are likely to bring tensions to the fore between rival elites within the party, since much is riding on the selection of a successful strategy. Parliaments, municipal governments, and other political arenas within the system offer many resources to internal rivals, including visibility, financial resources, and the ability to build a support base of their own. In addition, politicians competing for seats in parliament may have very different ideas about electoral strategy than those competing for a place in municipal government, or those banking on a cabinet position in the national government. From 1994 on, FRELIMO party leaders faced an increasingly capable, vocal, and publicly visible internal opposition that made skilful use of long-established party statutes and decision-making structures to advance their own agenda.

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The FRELIMO party hierarchy, for example, successfully used the National Assembly to help it form its own identity and niche in the political system after the separation of party and state. At the time the Assembly was first seated at the end of 1994, FRELIMO party officials were engaged in a struggle to keep the party relevant vis-à-vis the state, and to obtain some measure of control over state policies and orientations. The Assembly offered an opportunity to do so. From the perspective of FRELIMO’s more technocratic party-in-government, the legislature offered an ideal repository for the party’s ideologically minded “historic generation.” These were party militants who had led the party through the independence struggle and the early years of independence, but they were increasingly out of step with the technocratic and liberal economic vision of many party leaders in government. Another important consideration is the fact that most of the party’s top leaders who are not in the government executive are prominent members of parliament. (Deputies may not simultaneously hold posts in government). Of 15 Political Commission members, all but five were members of parliament, and four of the five who were not deputies held positions that are incompatible with being a deputy—including president, prime minister, and governor. This includes some members of the “historic generation” who had previously been retired from top party posts but were subsequently brought back in. The party hierarchy sought to increase the overlap with the parliamentary bench by bringing some of its young parliamentary bench members in to the party Central Committee. With the exception of Mozambique’s president and prime minister, then, the leadership of FRELIMO’s party bench in the Assembly comprises the party’s own internal leadership. One of the clearest examples of challenges to the government from the FRELIMO bench can be found in the Assembly’s involvement in the debates over privatisation and the cashew industry. In December 1995, the FRELIMO-chaired Planning and Budget Commission attacked the government on both issues, voicing resentment at being presented with privatisations as “faits accomplis” and demanding that the government prioritize local investors over foreign companies in the sale of state owned enterprises. Sergio Vieira, speaking as the bench’s rapporteur, voiced particularly strong opposition to the privatization of Mozambican banks. This session also marked the beginning of the Assembly’s extended campaign against what one leading FRELIMO deputy called the “liquidation” of the cashew industry.39 During the next session (Spring 1996), the FRELIMO Central Committee issued a statement which expressly opposed privatization of “strategic”

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sectors, including banking, insurance, air transport, ports and railways, energy, water and communications. The statement called on the government to use caution in proceeding with privatization, and urged the state “to improve its coordination with the party and with the FRELIMO parliamentary group.”40 At the time, the government was finalizing the sale of two of the country’s major banks, the Banco Comercial de Mocambique (BCM, Commercial Bank of Mozambique) and Banco Popular para Desenvolvimento (BPD, People’s Development Bank). Prime Minister Pascoal Mocumbi announced that he would not suspend the deals, and privatization of the banking sector was followed in short order by sales of state enterprises in other strategic sectors, including air travel and telecommunications. When parliament next met, the Planning and Budget Commission summoned the minister of finance to discuss the privatization of BCM. In response to parliamentarians’ concerns to ensure that privatized banks continued to act in the best interests of the state, the minister replied that it was not the government’s job to monitor the commercial banks. The chair of the commission, Virginia Videira (F) was not satisfied, and announced that in light of the government’s lack of concern, “we shall define the strategic sector, and remit our decision to the plenary session of parliament in October.”41 In the same session, RENAMO found unexpected allies in the FRELIMO bench for a bill that would have limited the mechanisms the government could use to sell off public enterprises and require post-sale inspections to ensure private companies honored the terms of their purchase agreement with the state. The Planning and Budget Commission rejected the bill on the grounds that the sale restrictions were unnecessary and potential harmful, but the (RENAMO-chaired) Commission on Economic Activities and Services supported the provision for guaranteeing that new owners respect agreements made at the time of purchase to guarantee workers’ rights or to keep factories running. On this point the Assembly reached broad agreement. In the end RENAMO decided to withdraw its bill in favor of a resolution that expressed “the concern of all three parliamentary groups at anomalies in privatisations.”42 By the following September, and in the wake of repeated complaints by trade unions, the government had begun to crack down on companies that broke their privatization agreements by firing workers or replacing factories with warehouses.43 FRELIMO’s parliamentary group has thus demonstrated its desire to exert influence over government policy. While the government still initiates most bills in the Assembly, the FRELIMO bench has put the government on notice that it will not act merely as a rubber stamp.44 Thus, the

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ruling party hierarchy has found in parliament an instrument for asserting a party identity and has explored ways of exerting party control over government through the institutions of multiparty democracies. For RENAMO, by contrast, the absence of well-established party decision-making structures at the onset of the democratic transition was never remedied. While the party had the requisite structures and by-laws on paper, they never really functioned. The extremely centralized and personalized nature of RENAMO has changed little since the end of the war. For eight years after the 1994 elections, there were no all-party congresses, only two smaller scale party conferences in which national leaders met with their counterparts at provincial and district levels. There is little evidence to suggest that these meetings have any impact in terms of binding “party policy” that could serve as a foundation for a more two-sided conversation within the party about the strategic and substantive issues the party faces in parliament.45 These organizational weaknesses persisted in large part because Dhlakama had no strong incentive to remedy them. Owing to the polarization of the Mozambican political arena, as discussed above, RENAMO found that it could keep winning a substantial share of votes whether or not the party strengthened itself as an organization. Moreover, the party’s long-centralized, personalized structure had set no precedent for internal party debate over, for example, ways the party could improve electoral performance. From Dhlakama’s point of view, any attempt to establish authoritative decision making structures only undermined his control over the party. The failure to develop such structures, however, has weakened the party’s ability to perform effectively in the one arena where it has gained a measure of political power—the national legislature. Thus, for RENAMO participation in the legislature has increased the distrust between the party in parliament and the party hierarchy and has induced an attempt by the party hierarchy to centralize control even further as party leadership outside of parliament struggles to retain control. Part of the explanation for this must be sought in the party’s structure and in the balance of power between the party sub-units. While in FRELIMO, the party bureaucracy and the party’s most militant members are members of parliament and share an interest in making parliament an effective counterweight to the executive so as to further their own struggle for power within the party, the situation in RENAMO is completely different. There, the party’s top leadership is outside of parliament and feels threatened by it. Contrary to what has happened in FRELIMO, the selfinterest of the RENAMO party hierarchy leads it to seek to minimize the

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effectiveness of its deputies in parliament. The RENAMO party hierarchy’s relationship with its parliamentary representatives recalls Duverger’s discussion of the relationship between these two subunits in communist and fascist parties. As Duverger points out, the question of how to subordinate members of parliament to the party hierarchy is one that has long preoccupied parties of all kinds. The prestige of office and the ability to deliver services to constituents allows members of parliament to build a power base for themselves. Parties have devised a number of mechanisms to deal with this problem, almost all of which have been used by RENAMO. However, to understand why parliament poses a threat to the RENAMO party hierarchy, we need to understand the party’s internal organization. First, RENAMO made the transition from a rural-based armed insurgency to a political party in very short order. As noted above, finding a sufficient number of loyal, qualified personnel was a problem for an organization whose top wartime leadership had been “recruited” largely through sweeps of secondary schools, or from among disaffected primary school teachers and low level civil servants.46 Most members of parliament were recruited after the war ended, in response to the party’s keenly felt need to bolster its slim wartime elite ranks with well-educated recruits who had some higher education or experience more relevant to governance. Unlike rural-based insurgencies in Sierra Leone, Liberia, or Angola, RENAMO had no independent resource base after the end of the war. RENAMO had been funded in wartime by the South African apartheid regime and then by parts of the South African security establishment, as well as by the odd private supporter. Its participation in the implementation of the peace accord and the first elections was funded by a $17 million trust fund provided by international donors. After the transitional elections, support from external sources dried up. Patronage was in short supply, and seats in parliament provided the party’s largest and most important source of patronage. In addition to providing a decent salary for 112 of the party’s deputies, seats in parliament also bring a modest state subsidy to the party. The distribution of 112 enviable salaries is a matter of no small concern to the party, whose resource base has always depended upon contributions from external donors. But the allocation of the patronage resources parliament represents has exacerbated divisions between the party bureaucracy at all levels, most of whom were wartime members of RENAMO and many of whom were not being paid by the party, and the new recruits enjoying the benefits of parliamentary membership. As a result, for the second legislature (elected in December 1999), RENAMO made a concerted effort to include all of its

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provincial and as many district delegates as possible on the parliamentary lists, in an effort to alleviate these tensions.47 Another factor which both complicates RENAMO’s performance in parliament and increases tensions between the party bench and the party hierarchy outside parliament is the fact that the party’s leader is not a member of parliament, as he would be under a parliamentary system. Not only is Dhlakama not in parliament now, but neither he nor his party has any comparable experience in government or representative bodies like the AR. Given the extremely centralized and personalized nature of the party, Dhlakama’s absence from parliament constrains the decision-making power of the party’s parliamentary leadership. It also accounts for some of RENAMO’s frequent reversals on important issues. Parliamentary leaders make commitments which are then often overturned by the extra-parliamentary leadership. The fact that Dhlakama is outside of parliament exacerbates the loyalty question. RENAMO has always been fairly insecure about the loyalty of its personnel. As noted above, parliament creates a potential platform from which individual deputies might build a power base to challenge party leadership. The party’s management of its bench in the Assembly demonstrates that Dhlakama is keenly aware of the challenge. The “systematic uprooting of parliamentary representatives,” the “elimination of celebrities,” the requirement that all decisions be vetted with the party leadership outside of parliament, all strategies identified by Duverger as classic strategies by which parties seek to control the power of their parliamentary representatives, are all part of RENAMO’s tool kit. The replacement of Raul Domingos, the articulate and well respected party bench leader, with a relative unknown from Nampula province, (followed by Domingos’ expulsion from the party by a rank and file “commission of inquiry”) and the exclusion from winnable positions of leading jurists in the second legislature are indications of the degree to which this concern affects the party’s participation in parliament.48 Conclusion What conclusions can we draw about the adaptation processes of these two very different parties, both of which were formed out of armed opposition groups? What are the implications for politics in Mozambique more broadly? First, there are some major differences in the circumstances of their respective moves from battlefield to political arena, presenting more formidable challenges for RENAMO than for FRELIMO. Second, these differences were reinforced by the degree of organizational development

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each party enjoyed at the onset of competitive democratic politics. In part as a result of these differences, adaptation to democratic politics has been somewhat lopsided, with FRELIMO exhibiting fuller and more effective adaptation to democratic politics than RENAMO. FRELIMO transitioned initially into an authoritarian political environment where it immediately became the ruling party. Its major difficulties during this period stemmed from the party’s extremely ambitious project to transform Mozambican society on a political, economic, and even cultural level. Internal challenges to this project, whether from within the party or from society at large were dealt with through a combination of ideological discourse and persuasion and blunt force. These strategies proved inadequate, however, particularly in the face of an increasingly effective armed insurgency led by RENAMO. By 1990, FRELIMO had made the decision to shift to a formally democratic, multiparty political system. In the difficult years between 1975 and 1990, FRELIMO was forced to question and ultimately discard the ideological project that had prevailed at independence. At the same time, over the course of six party congresses (three before independence, and three after), by 1994 the FRELIMO had developed functioning structures to manage internal conflict and to make and enforce difficult decisions. Although these structures were perhaps not always as democratic in their selection or functioning as the party claimed, and although the ultimate authority of the party’s president was certainly never endangered by them, it is true that party leaders have never felt at liberty to disregard them. On the contrary, FRELIMO’s history is one of painstakingly documented, if at times well-orchestrated, self-examination. Each congress is preceded by months of preparation in the form of meetings from local levels to the top, and is followed by the publication of lengthy documents analyzing the party’s program, platform, and achievements, and explaining and justifying any changes that have been made. Key decision-making bodies like the political bureau and, to a lesser extent, the central committee, have been the object of struggle by rival tendencies within the party, suggesting that they play a real part in the life of the party. Major changes in FRELIMO party policy are routinely accompanied by changes in the composition of the central committee and/or political bureau.49 RENAMO, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of adjusting first to civilian life, and then to democratic politics. And at the time of its transition from armed opposition group to political party, its internal organizational structures were extremely underdeveloped in comparison to FRELIMO’s. RENAMO was a personalized, highly centralized party run by a handful of leaders personally loyal to Afonso Dhlakama. The party

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had held one party congress in 1991, which was for many of the attending delegates the first time they had laid eyes on Dhlakama. RENAMO’s move to the political arena meant undertaking a number of transformations simultaneously—laying down arms and preparing to compete through political institutions; appropriating the language of democracy in order to legitimate itself as a movement to the outside world; abandoning military means of organizational discipline and identifying material and ideological incentives to satisfy internal critics of the move toward peace; finding new ways to ensure loyalty; recruiting new personnel to fill political positions without alienating loyal soldiers and officers; moving headquarters from friendly territory to “enemy” territory in the capital; and generally transforming itself from an organization entirely oriented to operating in the bush to one capable of operating comfortably in the city, with all that that implies for procedural norms, recruitment procedures, resource allocation, and provision of incentives for leaders and rank and file. FRELIMO’s adaptation to the new system also required an adaptation to the language of democracy and to ease out many party members, now that the separation of party and state had reduced party funds substantially. It also had to find a way to justify its newfound willingness to work with RENAMO and to define a new role for itself as party rather than party-state. This meant not only giving up future control over resources and state assets, but also giving up the party’s absolute control over government policy. Thus for both sides, the end of the war meant a significant loss of control, a surrender to the considerable uncertainties of multiparty politics. The degree to which each organization has successfully weathered this loss of control has depended in part on the degree of organizational development at the onset. The first two general elections, in 1994 and 1999, provided little evidence that RENAMO’s electoral performance was suffering from the party’s lagging institutional development and consequent refusal to invest significantly in improving its ability to perform in democratic institutions like the legislature. The 2004 election, however, gave FRELIMO a more substantial margin of victory in both the presidential and legislative elections than it had previously enjoyed. Perhaps even more telling, in RENAMO’s heartland in the central provinces, voter turnout was quite low.50 In the past, RENAMO has sought to compensate its shortcomings in organizational development through backroom negotiations with FRELIMO party leaders and donors whenever possible.51 However, these strategies appear to yield decreasing returns for RENAMO the farther away Mozambique moves from the civil war. Further weakening of RENAMO’s electoral performance could well leave FRELIMO without any effective

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opposition, at least during some interim period as alternative parties develop the capacity to fill the gap. Notes 1. For a recent and comprehensive analysis of the economic liberalization process in Mozambique, with an excellent discussion of linkages between the state andprivate sector, see Anne Pitcher, Transforming Mozambique: The Politics of Privatization, 1975–2000 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 2. See for example José Luis Cabaço, “A Longa Estrada da Democracia Moçambicana” in Moçambique: Eleições, Democracia e Desenvolvimento, ed. Brazão Mazula (Maputo, Mozambique: Inter-Africa Group, 1995), pp. 79–114. See also José Magode, “A Formação das Élites e do Estado e a Questão Nacional em Moçambique: O Contexto Social, a Legitimidade ou a Ilegitimação de uma Prática,” paper presented at the Seminário sobre a Transição Política em Moçambique, sponsored by the state-linked Instituto Superior de Relações Internacionais and the Centro de Estudos Estratégicos e Internacionais, Maputo, April 19–21, 1996. 3. For studies of the economic and social impact of colonialism in different regions, as well as attempts in different areas to resist colonialism, see Departamento de História-Faculdade de Letras, Universidade Eduardo Mondlane, História da Moçambique: Moçambique no Auge do Colonialismo, 1930–1961 (Maputo, Mozambique: Imprensa de Universidade Eduardo Mondlane, 1993); Leroy Vail and Landeg White, Capitalism and Colonialism in Mozambique (London: Heinemann, 1980); Allen Isaacman and Barbara Isaacman, Moçambique: From Colonialism to Revolution, 1900–1982 (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1983); Thomas H. Henriksen, Revolution and Counter Revolution: Mozambique’s War of Independence, 1964–1974 (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1983); Margaret Hall and Tom Young, Confronting Leviathan: Mozambique since Independence, (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1997); Malyn Newitt, A History of Mozambique (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995). 4. Magode, “A Formação das Elites,” p. 12. 5. Magode, “A Formação das Elites,” p. 14. 6. Newitt, A History of Mozambique, pp. 524–525. 7. See Barry Munslow, “The Liberation Struggle in Mozambique and the Origins of Post Independence Political and Economic Policy” in Mozambique, Proceedings of a seminar held in the Centre of African Studies, University of Edinburgh, December 1–2, 1978. 8. Isaacman and Isaacman, Mozambique, p. 98. 9. Cited in Mondlane, História de Moçambique, p. 191. 10. For details, see Isaacman and Isaacman, Mozambique, pp. 95–100, and Paul Fauvet, “Roots of Counter-Revolution: The Mozambique National Resistance,” Review of African Political Economy 11, no. 29 (1984), p. 112.

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11. The “double administration” issue, a major sticking point during the peace process, illustrates RENAMO’s desire to demonstrate its governing ability as well as its claims to a share in administrative positions. For a detailed discussion, see Carrie Manning, “Democratic Transition in Mozambique, 1992–1995: Beginning at the End?” PhD dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, 1997. RENAMO also engaged various American and South African advisers for services ranging from public relations, training in what amounted to statesmanlike conduct and basic political education for Dhlakama and some of his top deputies, and drafting of party campaign documents and constitutional revision proposals. 12. See for example Alex Vines, RENAMO: Terrorism in Mozambique (London: James Currey 1991); Fauvet, “Roots of Counter-Revolution”; Ken Flower, Serving Secretly: An Intelligence Chief on Record, Rhodesia into Zimbabwe, 1964–1981 (London: John Murray, 1987), William Minter, Apartheid’s Contras: An Inquiry into the Roots of War in Angola and Mozambique (Johannesburg, South Africa: Witwatersrand University Press, 1994); Hall and Young, Confronting Leviathan; Joao Cabrita, Mozambique: The Tortuous Road to Democracy (London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2001). 13. For a detailed discussion, see Manning, “Democratic Transition in Mozambique.” 14. Gorongosa Documents (extracts), Bureau de Informação Pública, Maputo, Mozambique, September 1985, (Mimeo). 15. For an analysis of RENAMO’s behavior during the negotiation and signing of the Nkomati Accord, see Vines, RENAMO: Terrorism in Mozambique, pp. 21–26. 16. Vines, RENAMO: Terrorism in Mozambique, p. 25. 17. For a detailed discussion, see Carrie Manning, “Constructing Opposition in Mozambique: RENAMO as Political Party,” Journal of Southern African Studies 24, no. 1 (March 1988), pp. 161–189. 18. Manning, “Constructing Opposition in Mozambique,” pp. 161–189. 19. Fauvet, “Roots of Counter-Revolution,” p. 112. 20. Cabaço, “A Longa Estrada,” p. 82. 21. Cabaço, “A Longa Estrada,” p. 85. 22. See FRELIMO, “Programa da FRELIMO,” Colecção III Congresso, Maputo, Mozambique, 1977, p. 7. 23. Author Interview, Hermenegildo Infante, Chief of Mobilization and Propaganda, FRELIMO Central Committee, Maputo, Mozambique, October 5, 1995. 24. Barry Munslow, “Mozambique: Marxism-Leninism in Reverse: The Fifth Party Congress of Frelimo,” Journal of Communist Studies 6, no. 1 (March 1990), p. 110. 25. Luis de Brito, “State and Multiparty Democracy in Mozambique,” Southern Africa Political and Economic Monthly (February 1994), p. 62.

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26. This section is adapted from Carrie Manning, “Armed Opposition Groups into Political Parties: Comparing Bosnia, Kosovo, and Mozambique,” Studies in Comparative International Development 39, 1 (Spring 2004), pp. 54–76. 27. Richard Synge, Mozambique: UN Peacekeeping in Action (Washington, DC: US Institute of Peace, 1997). 28. Radio Mozambique, September 28, 1994, Agence France Press, October 17, 1994, Voz da RENAMO, October 25, 1994. 29. See Dennis Jett, Why Peacekeeping Fails (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2000) and Manning, “Democratic Transition in Mozambique.” 30. Radio Mozambique, October 28, 1994. 31. Afonso Dhlakama, letter to Ambassador of Spain in Mozambique, Maputo, July 11, 1995. 32. Noticias, October 14, 1995. This is a daily paper in Maputo. 33. On coaching, personal communication to author from Thomashausen and others involved in RENAMO’s political education efforts at the time. For discussion, see Manning, “Democratic Transition in Mozambique.” On U.S. and Italian support during the peace process, see Cameron Hume, Ending Mozambique’s War: The Role of Mediation and Good Offices (Washington, DC: US Institute of Peace, 1994). 34. For accounts of the role of the UN and donors in Mozambique’s peace process in general and their interaction with RENAMO in particular, see Alex Vines, No Democracy Without Money (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1994); Jett, Why Peacekeeping Fails; Chris Alden, Mozambique and the Construction of the New African State: From Negotiations to Nation-Building (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2001); Stephen Chan and Moises Venancio, War and Peace in Mozambique (London: MacMillan, 1998); Carrie Manning, The Politics of Peace in Mozambique (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2002); Cameron Hume, Ending Mozambique’s War: The Role of Mediation and Good Offices (Washington, DC: US Institute of Peace, 1994); Synge, UN Peacekeeping in Action; Aldo Ajello, “Mozambique: Implementation of the 1992 Peace Agreement” in Herding Cats: Multiparty Mediation in a Complex World, ed. Chester A. Crocker, Fen Osler Hampson, and Pamela R. Aall (Washington, DC: U.S. Institute of Peace Press, 1999). 35. This section draws on structured personal interviews with seventy-two RENAMO officials at national, provincial, and local levels from 1994–1996. The group included 22 national level officials, including most core members of the party’s top executive organs as well as a majority of department heads, 5 of the party’s 10 provincial representatives, and 45 district and local personnel. For fuller accounts of RENAMO during wartime and afterwards, see Vines, RENAMO: Terrorism in Mozambique; Christian Geffray, A Causa das Armas: Antropologia da Guerra Contemporânea em Moçambique (Porto, Portugal: Edições Afrontamento, 1991); Manning, “Constructing Opposition in Mozambique”; Minter, Apartheid’s Contras; Hall and Young, Confronting Leviathan.

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36. Manning, “Constructing Opposition in Mozambique,” pp. 161–189. 37. This apt phrase was coined in relation to RENAMO by Michel Cahen. See Cahen, “Dhlakama é Maningue Nice: An Atypical Former Guerrilla in the Mozambican Presidential Race,” L’Afrique Politique (Paris: Karthala, 1995). 38. This section draws heavily on Carrie Manning, “Elite Habituation to Democracy in Mozambique: The View from Parliament, 1994–2000,” Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics 40, 1 (March 2002), 61–80; and Manning, “Assessing Adaptation to Democratic Politics in Mozambique” in Leonardo Villalon and Peter VonDoepp, The Fate of Africa’s Democratic Experiments: Elites and Institutions (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005). 39. AIM, Mozambiquefile, January 1996. This is a monthly news bulletin put out by the Mozambique News Agency in English. 40. AIM, Mozambiquefile, June 1996. 41. AIM, Mozambiquefile, September 1996. 42. AIM, Mozambiquefile, April 1996. 43. AIM, Mozambiquefile, October 1996. 44. For a detailed discussion, see Manning, “Elite Habituation to Democracy in Mozambique.” 45. For an account and analysis of the first national party conference, immediately following the 1994 general elections, see Manning, “Democratization in Mozambique.” 46. Manning, “Constructing Opposition in Mozambique.” 47. Author interview, Raul Domingos, Maputo, Mozambique, May 12, 2000. 48. For a fuller discussion, see Manning, “Elite Habituation to Democracy in Mozambique.” 49. The Mozambique Information Agency provides the most consistent documentation of these processes over time with its monthly bulletins. Much can also be gleaned by consulting party documentation and newspaper coverage for each conference. These documents provide the basis for the assertions made here. 50. For an excellent discussion of the last election, as well as party development in Mozambique, see Giovanni M. Carbone, “Continuidade na renovação? Ten Years of Multiparty Politics in Mozambique: Roots, Evolution and Stabilisation of the FRELIMO–RENAMO Party System,” Journal of Modern African Studies 43, 3 (September 2005), pp. 417–442. 51. For an in-depth discussion of this dynamic, see Carrie Manning, “Conflict Management and Elite Habituation to Post-War Democracy: The Case of Mozambique,” Comparative Politics 35, 1 (October 2002), pp. 63–84.

CHAPTER 10

Angola: From Revolutionary Movement to Reactionary Regime Assis Malaquias

Introduction Angola’s four decades of conflict ended in 2002 shortly after the death of rebel leader Jonas Savimbi in combat. In important ways, Savimbi’s death marked the final victory of the revolutionary forces that participated in the various phases of Angola’s complex and interrelated conflicts that started in 1961 with the anticolonial war and then evolved into a long and protracted postcolonial civil war. The length and violence of the conflict are related to various factors—the way the colony was constructed, its resource endowment, the nationalist forces’ inability to agree both on a common front against colonialism and on a framework for the post-colonial state-building project, and Angola’s role as an important Cold War battleground. These factors, in turn, conditioned and complicated the revolutionary forces’ seizure and ultimate consolidation of power in Angola. During the anticolonial struggle, the underlying premise of the programs that guided the main revolutionary force in Angola, Movimento Popular para Libertação de Angola (MPLA, the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola) was that, upon liberation, it would carry out a fundamental and revolutionary societal transformation instead of simply replacing the colonial elites with indigenous elites without significant changes in the political and economic orders. In reality, however, this vision was abandoned shortly after independence. Instead, the new order became characterized by excessive centralization of power, elite privilege and

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extravagance, kleptocracy, repression, and widespread economic collapse outside the oil and diamonds sectors. Before analyzing the main reasons for the abandonment of the revolutionary ideals, this chapter first reviews the trajectory of the MPLA and identifies the key factors that enabled it to survive the various stages of the conflict and achieve the dominant position within the postcolonial political landscape. The Revolutionary Movement The MPLA emerged in 1956 as an umbrella organization for various revolutionary groups, including the Partido Comunista de Angola (PCA, Communist Party of Angola) and the Partido da Luta Unida dos Africanos de Angola (PLUA, Party of the United Struggle of Angola’s Africans) that had been agitating to end Portuguese colonialism in Angola. The MPLA’s main base of support emanated from the Mbundu ethnic group, representing about 25 percent of the population, that have traditionally inhabited the areas around the capital city, Luanda, and east as far as the Cassange area of Malanje province. The MPLA also drew support from the embryonic African intellectual elite in the Luanda area, including influential mulattos—or mixed-race Angolans—and a small number of liberal descendants of Portuguese settlers. The MPLA claims credit for having started the anticolonial war of national liberation on February 4, 1961. The immediate events leading to the outbreak of the war can be traced back to 1960 when the colonial administration imprisoned Agostinho Neto, the young Angolan medical doctor and president of the MPLA Steering Committee, who later became postcolonial Angola’s first president. The imprisonment of Agostinho Neto led to a mass demonstration by the villagers of his native Icolo e Bengo to which the Portuguese authorities responded violently, killing 30 villagers and wounding 200.1 This was followed in January 1961 by the Baixa de Kassanje massacre, the result of another brutal military response by the colonial authorities against local cottongrowers demanding fair prices. Within this context of tension and violence, a group of MPLA militants attacked the central Luanda prison where many nationalist leaders were imprisoned, marking the beginning of the national anticolonial war. The onset of the armed nationalist resistance against Portuguese colonialism brought serious challenges for the MPLA. Within a year of the start of the liberation war this revolutionary movement was in political and military disarray mainly owing to its inability to achieve a leading role in the incipient anticolonial struggle as well as the failure to create a united front

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with the more powerful União dos Povos de Angola (UPA, Union of the Peoples of Angola) and the difficulties surrounding its attempts to establish a viable military presence in Angola. The resulting leadership crisis, which erupted in May 1962, led to the dismissal of Viriato da Cruz as the movement’s secretary-general, a post he had held since helping to create the MPLA in 1956. MPLA then attempted to settle its internal divisions by holding its First National Conference in December 1962 in Leopoldville (present-day Kinshasa) to elect a new party executive. Although Agostinho Neto was confirmed as president of the movement at this meeting 2, within six months this new leadership faced an open revolt. On July 5, 1963, several key MPLA members, headed by former secretary-general Viriato da Cruz, temporarily “dismissed” the movement’s new leadership. Expectedly, the leadership crisis had crucial negative repercussions on the ground where the liberation “war” was supposed to be taking place. Demoralized by infighting at the leadership level, military commanders on the “eastern front,” led by Daniel Chipenda, broke away to carry out their own “Eastern Revolt.” Compounding the effects of internal turmoil, the MPLA also faced a challenging regional environment. In 1963, the OAU (Organization of African Unity) asserted that the “continued separate existence of another minor front such as the MPLA” was unhelpful to the rapid achievement of independence by the Angolan peoples.3 Partly as a result of the OAU’s position, Congo (Leopoldville) expelled Neto’s group from its territory, forcing the Angolan revolutionaries to set up bases across the Congo river in Brazzaville where a coup had brought to power a left-wing government sympathetic to the MPLA. From this new base, the MPLA penetrated the Cabinda enclave—a territory separated from Angola by Congolese territory but claimed by colonial and post-colonial authorities as belonging to Angola—to set up its first military region. This peculiar situation made the MPLA guerrilla operations in Cabinda and penetration further south into the main land very problematic because the separatist Frente de Libertação do Enclave de Cabinda (FLEC, Front for the Liberation of the Cabinda Enclave) was already active in Cabinda and the Congolese government was ill-disposed toward the MPLA. Similarly, the Frente Nacional de Libertação de Angola (FNLA, National Front for the Liberation of Angola) was active in northern Angola—the Bakongo region, from where this movement originated—and had developed a lethal antagonism toward the MPLA owing to major ideological, ethnic, racial, regional, cultural, and various other differences. Problematic penetration through northern borders, forced the MPLA to change its military strategy in the mid-1960s in favor of military operations

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along the long eastern border with Zambia, a country that gained independence in October 1964. But the eastern front was equally problematic because another nationalist movement, the União Nacional para Independência Total de Angola (UNITA, National Union for the Total Independence of Angola) had also established itself there. Mirroring the relationship between the MPLA and the FNLA, important ethnic, racial, and ideological differences also prevented the MPLA from cooperating with UNITA to face a common enemy. Instead, both movements spent much of their precious resources fighting each other. As Minter4 points out, “as early as 1967–1968 UNITA clashes with the MPLA were at least as common as its confrontations with Portuguese troops.” For the MPLA in eastern Angola in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the consequences of both Portuguese operations and UNITA activities were militarily devastating. Thus, by the end of 1972, the MPLA had at best a symbolic military presence in eastern Angola. Visibly debilitated politically and militarily owing to internal squabbles while facing various enemies on the ground, the MPLA struggled to remain a dominant presence in the last stages of liberation war. It eventually survived and developed into the dominant political force in Angola mainly because of external factors. Key to Survival: The External Connection An important key to the MPLA’s survival and eventual success was its ability to remain connected with key revolutionary forces around the world, notably the former USSR. Within the cold war context and the equally significant Sino-Soviet rivalry, the USSR was willing to support the MPLA both for purely ideological reasons and because China was providing the MPLA’s archenemy, the FNLA, with considerable resources including war materiel and military trainers.5 For the USSR, an MPLA victory in postcolonial Angola would constitute a significant ideological and geostrategic coup. It would mean that the much anticipated triumph of revolutionary movements around the world was proceeding at good pace. Furthermore, Angola could provide the frontline bases for an eventual liberation of the entire Southern African subcontinent and its immense natural resources under pro-Soviet regimes. Equally important, the opportunity to inflict important setbacks to its main global adversaries—the United States and China—proved irresistible for the former Soviet Union. Thus, in August 1974, the former USSR delivered $6 million to its Angolan benefactors,6 marking a significant boost in Soviet engagement in the Angolan conflict

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that increased with the intensity of the civil war. Soviet support was later complemented by assistance from Cuba and ultimately enabled the MPLA to prevail over its main internal adversaries and take over the government from the departing settlers on November 11, 1975. But neither the former USSR nor Cuba could help the MPLA deal with its enormous postindependence challenges. Equally significant, neither could sustain the MPLA’s revolutionary agenda much beyond the first few years of independence. Revolutionaries in Power: The Struggle to Survive Internal Opposition In early 1975, the FNLA made several moves that accelerated the onset of the postcolonial civil war and cemented its popular view as a nonrevolutionary movement. Buoyed by increased American help, the FNLA attempted to establish a firm foothold in Luanda by acquiring a major newspaper and a TV station in preparation for what was expected to be a difficult electoral campaign. More ominously, the FNLA moved into Luanda several hundred notoriously undisciplined soldiers from Zaire who, with little delay, proceeded to harass the civilian population and MPLA installations. Since the MPLA had been in even greater military disarray at the time of the coup in Portugal, it attempted to close the military gap visà-vis the FNLA by creating “People’s Power committees”—grassroot structures scattered around Luanda’s peri-urban belt, where the bulk of the MPLA’s supporters resided. These structures had important political and military roles. At the political level, they served as key channels for disseminating the MPLA’s political program and were ideally suited for canvassing the local populations. But they also had a more menacing military component because the MPLA transformed them into powerful paramilitary bases by arming its militants who operated them. For the FNLA, these committees, not the recently returning MPLA leaders and their guerrillas, presented the greatest political and military challenge. In the context of the zero-sum competition that had characterized FNLA-MPLA relations since the early 1960s, the “People’s Power committees” loomed increasingly larger for the survival or demise of the liberation movements in late 1974 and early 1975. In other words, the MPLA’s survival in the critical months leading to independence depended significantly on the strengths of these committees. Conversely, the FNLA’s hopes of

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controlling the capital city by independence depended on its ability to cage in, if not destroy, these same committees. The FNLA’s strategy of harassment culminated in the killing of 50 MPLA recruits in Caxito on March 23, 1975. However, the FNLA’s strategy backfired horrendously because, within months, the MPLA’s committees had sufficient means to drive the FNLA out of the capital. External Intervention After the collapse of the colonial regime in Portugal as a result of the April 25, 1974 military coup in Lisbon, the MPLA tolerated sharing the political arena with UNITA and the FNLA simply because it was necessary to negotiate the modalities of decolonization leading to independence on November 11, 1975. But the political framework for independence avoided the fundamental issues that had divided the nationalist movement for much of the anticolonial war. Predictably, these perennial divisions resurfaced and ignited a civil war that quickly became internationalized: Cuban troops intervened on the side of the MPLA while the South African Defense Forces (SADF) supported UNITA and the Zairian Army fought alongside FNLA soldiers. The MPLA/Cuba eventually prevailed with the help of significant deployment of Soviet weapons and military advisers. Demoralized and humiliated for failing to install their respective allies in power, both the South African and the Zairian Armies retreated within months of independence. However, independence and the defeat of the UNITA/SADF and FNLA/Zairian Armies in 1976 constituted a short pause in the civil war. It continued with greater intensity, albeit now in the form of a protracted guerrilla war. The withdrawal of the invading South African troops from Angola in February 1976 after failing to prevent a postcolonial MPLA takeover left UNITA virtually destroyed. But although the MPLA had prevailed over invading armies and internal enemies such as UNITA, it had been traumatized by the complex and violent birth of the new state. It was also cognizant of the fact that surrounded by enemies like South Africa and Zaire it would indefinitely remain on life-support. Thus, since independence, the MPLA regime viewed its long-term security as being intrinsically tied to its ability to foster a friendlier regional environment. Thus, the new Angolan government provided open and unconditional military and diplomatic support for South Africa’s African National Congress (ANC), Namibia’s South West Africa Peoples Organization (SWAPO), and Zaire’s Front National pour la Libération du Congo (FNLC, National Front for the Liberation of Congo). Both South Africa and Zaire’s regimes responded by supporting

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their own proxies in Angola. With the FNLA out of commission as a military force, UNITA became the proxy of choice. South Africa’s response to the perceived threats emanating from the new Angolan state came in the form of the so-called total strategy that involved a set of policies aimed at ensuring the survival of the apartheid system through a combination of reform and repression at home and coercive regional intervention. Consequently, from the late 1970s through the 1980s, Angola suffered the brunt of the apartheid regime’s total strategy. South Africa used two main instruments to threaten Angola’s territorial integrity: first, frequent and well-planned military invasions deep into Angolan territory and, second, the instrumentalisation of UNITA as a proxy in its regional destabilization policies. UNITA in the mid-1970s, faced with a situation peculiarly similar to its predicament a decade earlier, willingly accepted a new proxy role as a means of ensuring its own survival. Between its withdrawal in 1976 and its final disengagement in 1988, the SADF carried out 12 major military operations in Angola. These actions were crucial for UNITA’s development as a major military force. Although virtually destroyed by the MPLA and Cuban troops in 1975–1976, UNITA was reorganized into a significant military force by 1979. According to Conchiglia7 since 1980, UNITA was restructured “by the South Africans along the lines of a conventional army with the ability to take advantage of South Africa’s regular incursions to advance behind SADF, occupy ‘liberated’ territory and defend it with weapons captured by the South African army.” This seriously disrupted food production in rural areas, brought the vital Benguela Railway to a standstill, and threatened to disrupt onshore oil production and diamond exploration. By the end of the 1980s, the MPLA faced important pressures to find a political end to the war. Apartheid South Africa’s twin strategies toward Angola—regular military invasions and support for UNITA—convinced the Angolan government that a regional settlement with South Africa was in its best interest. Thus, the MPLA accepted the Reagan Administration’s “linkage” policy tying the withdrawal of Cuban troops from Angola to Namibia’s independence on the basis of UN Security Council (UNSC) Resolution 435 of September 29, 1978. This resolution reaffirmed the legal responsibility of the United Nations over Namibia and approved a UN Secretary-General report containing a proposal for a settlement of the issue based on the withdrawal of South Africa’s illegal administration from Namibia and the transfer of power to the people of Namibia. The New York Accord of December 22, 1988 was the culmination of this process. The Peace Accord signed by Angola, Cuba, and South Africa

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provided for the removal of Cuban troops from Angola in exchange for South African commitment to implement UNSC Resolution 435. Angola saw this accord as a major foreign policy victory inasmuch as it was expected to bring the MPLA closer to finally achieving a measure of domestic security. The Angolan regime believed that full implementation of UNSC Resolution 435 would bring two important benefits: first, remove the South African threat from its southern border,. second, lead to the collapse of UNITA as a military threat because its main supply routes via Namibia would be cut off by a SWAPO-led government. Alas, the optimistic scenario whereby UNITA would disappear owing to discontinued South African support did not materialize because UNITA was also a proxy within a wider global ideological war—an important instrument in the implementation of the “Reagan Doctrine.” This relationship lasted until the rebels’ decision to return to war after losing both parliamentary and presidential elections held in September 1992. Self-inflicted Wounds Although the MPLA prevailed over its adversaries and seized power, several factors complicated the MPLA´s “victory.” Some of these factors were visible soon after the euphoria of independence subsided. As the political and military dust from the struggle for independence settled, the widening gulf between the new regime and society became apparent. This schism was the result of various domestic conflicts related to class, race, ethnicity, and overall inability to cope with the administrative challenges of post-colonial governance that resulted, in no small extent, from the precipitous departure of the settler population that had hitherto controlled the economy and dominated colonial society. This destabilizing exodus notwithstanding, the MPLA’s major post-colonial challenges were primarily political. In a classic example of “statist” approaches to African development in the 1970s, the postcolonial policies implemented by the MPLA tended to emphasize an exclusivist vision of politics where a single party sought to represent the diverse aspirations of a highly fragmented society. The ideological underpinnings of the new system drew heavily on Soviet rhetoric, theories of development and underdevelopment, and the revolutionary experiences of other third world countries. It was seen as a way to prevent the development of neocolonial dependency that characterized the relationships between many African countries and the West. Theoretically, the MPLA hoped to carry out a fundamental and revolutionary transformation instead of simply replacing the colonial elites with indigenous ones without significant changes in the

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socioeconomic order. In reality, however, this new ideology proved to be little more than rhetoric. The repressive colonial order was not replaced by popular and effective democratic institutions and governance. Instead—as elsewhere in one-party Africa at the time—the new order became characterized by excessive centralization, elite privilege, extravagance, corruption, repression, and economic collapse. The MPLA’s abandonment of its former revolutionary ideals were a result of a series of fundamental misconceptions, including the illusion that the many and complex political problems it was inheriting from the long colonial overlay—particularly the critical questions relating to how individuals with multiple identities and groups with unfulfilled political aspirations would relate to the new state—could be solved by instituting a one-party regime. Second, a further misconception rested on the belief that new institutions, upon which the post-colonial state would be erected, could be created virtually overnight. The handful of committed revolutionaries who undertook to create the new state soon realized that it was an unmanageable task, particularly because those skilled Angolans who did not belong to the governing party were excluded from any relevant participation in the erection of this embryonic state. Thus, the government became overstretched—unable to fulfill the expectations of a populace emerging from colonial oppression—and, therefore vulnerable to accusations of incompetence. Even worse politically, this systematic exclusion of nonMPLA members from important positions within the new state—even if only in symbolic roles—made the governing party appear illegitimate to a significant portion of the population, especially those individuals who supported the two defeated liberation movements. In other words, unwittingly, the MPLA´s policies after independence created an important disconnect between the governing party—still including a disproportionate number of mulattos in the years immediately after independence—and society. Predictably, many Angolans deeply resented the fact that, even after independence, European descendants could still live comfortably—now as members of the ruling elite—while the majority of the population suffered the consequences of the regime’s economic policies. This dissatisfaction caused major dissensions even within the ruling party and exploded into a violent coup attempt led by Nito Alves, the powerful and popular interior minister, on May 27, 1977. Although the coup was crushed with the help of Cuban troops, it marked the beginning of the end of the MPLA’s revolutionary vision. Significantly, in the aftermath of the coup, the MPLA became a more exclusive, secretive, and less accountable organization. The hunt for the coup organizers provided an ideal opportunity for the governing elite to rid

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itself of those MPLA members who, whether or not sympathetic to the coup plotters, defended a people-centered approach to post-colonial politics. Thus, besides the coup leaders, tens of thousands of mostly MPLA sympathizers—some of the few educated Angolans who remained in the country—were killed. Additional steps taken by the MPLA to regain its political balance further accentuated the cleavage between state and society. For example, the governing party underwent a “rectification campaign” that ensured that only chosen militants, not just sympathizers, could qualify for positions of relevance within the state apparatus. In effect, a few hundred individuals literally controlled the state without accountability. As a result, corruption greased with vast sums of oil money quickly evolved into the defining feature of the state with the new elites brazenly using state resources for their personal enrichment. This was part of a generalized system that included the country’s notorious “Bermuda triangle” comprising the state oil giant Sonangol, the National Bank of Angola and the Futungo de Belas presidential palace into which most of the revenues generated from oil exploration seem to vanish. Corruption has become such a way of life for the elite that some of its more powerful members no longer make an effort to disguise it even when the vast majority of the population survives amidst widespread misery. As a result, most citizens—destitute and helpless—now regard the elite’s grip on the state as a nightmarish throwback to colonial times when power, prestige, and privilege were closely associated with class and race. Revolutionaries have in many ways become the new reactionaries. What accounts for the abandonment of the MPLA’s revolutionary program? The Political Dimension As mentioned above, the MPLA did not fully appreciate the complexity of the political problems inherited by the post-colonial state. It attempted to address, if not resolve, those political challenges within or through the oneparty system. This was an important misconception. A further misconception rested on the belief that new institutions, upon which the post-colonial state would be erected, could be swiftly knocked together. The early postindependence hopes that the MPLA would make good on its promises to govern as a “movement of the masses” gradually succumbed to the realities of corrupt elite governance where members of the new ruling class used its superior education, political skills, and economic power to take control of the governing party and other sources of state power. Instead of building on the connections with workers and peasants initiated during the anticolonial struggle, the new ruling class grew increasingly detached from the common citizen and—not unlike the settler elite it replaced—used the

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repressive means of the state to preserve its privileged political status and enhance its control over growing oil revenues while society’s main demands were left largely unattended. Angolan society—emerging from a bruising encounter with colonialism whose last years involved repression and war— was unprepared to find peaceful and constructive alternatives to postcolonial violence. As a result, a widespread sense of powerlessness set in as the average citizen’s life became consumed with the essential tasks of survival— the search for personal security and other basic needs. As the state acquired traits of violence—both physical, as administered through its security apparatus and structural owing to growing corruption and unaccountability—most segments of society were inclined to disengage from the political activities thus further widening the gap between state and society. This gap also has an important economic component. Economic Dimensions Many of the unique distortions characterizing the Angolan economy and society today can be attributed to the length and nature of the Portuguese colonial presence as well as to Portugal’s own position as a peripheral player in the global political economy. In particular, the reliance on forced labor and foreign capital for Angola’s colonial “development” had lasting negative consequences. The main consequence for Angola, beyond the variety of social traumas caused by the reliance on forced labor for much of the colonial overlay, was that much of its productive labor was relegated to activities that created few, if any, opportunities for accumulation of capital by the local, nonsettler populations. Portuguese settlers were the key intermediaries of foreign capital and owned the plantations and, later, factories while colonial labor laws ensured a reliable supply of low-cost labor. Unsurprisingly, therefore, at the time of independence, Angolans owned little capital. Equally deplorable was the fact that as a society newly independent Angola lacked a critical mass of individuals with the skills necessary for capital accumulation at the level to sustain a viable economy. Furthermore, as colonial Angola was little more than a rich source of imperial wealth, Portugal did not undertake to create an indigenous institutional framework for managing a modern economy. Thus, at independence, Angola lacked the expertise and the institutional framework to erect a viable economy with the capacity to meet its citizens’ aspirations for material well being. In addition to these factors, however, postcolonial policies contributed significantly to the rickety nature of the new state. After winning a power struggle against its rivals, the MPLA undertook to build a postcolonial “socialist” Angola. A new constitution was drafted, subordinating state organs to the ruling party. Thus, the basic decisions

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concerning the organization of the economic system—from economic strategy to the choice of instruments for its implementation—were made by the governing party. It was the party, therefore, that adopted centralized planning, large-scale nationalization of productive enterprises, and strict state control of economic activities as key policy measures designed to help Angola establish a socialist economic system. A National Planning Commission was established soon after independence as an organ of the Council of Ministers to coordinate economic planning. By 1978, state monopolies had been established in foreign trade, banking, and insurance. Furthermore, the widespread nationalization of enterprises after independence provided the state with a virtual monopoly in the most other productive sectors of the economy, including coffee and diamond mining. At its First Party Congress in 1977, the MPLA reviewed the country’s economic performance since independence and concluded that the drive toward building a socialist economy should be accelerated through improvements in centralized planning and supervision of the economy, continuing nationalizations and confiscations, and the establishment of rural cooperatives. In 1980, a year after Neto´s death, the MPLA held an extraordinary congress. Besides confirming the position of José Eduardo dos Santos as its new leader, this congress also attempted to come to grips with the immense difficulties of undertaking a fundamental restructuring of the economy away from colonial character and hinted at some of the critical problems ahead. Thus, while announcing that progress had been made on the road to creating structures for building a socialist society, it also recognized that faster progress had been hampered by delays in drawing up the all-important national plan. Without the plan the state could not reestablish links between industry and agriculture and thus reduce rural-urban migration. Furthermore, the MPLA faced the daunting task of establishing a viable postcolonial economic framework while simultaneously averting the economic collapse that the settlers’ exodus threatened to precipitate. The Second MPLA Party Congress of December 1985 reaffirmed Angola’s choice of socialist development and adopted the national plan as the main instrument of economic management. It recognized, however, that the economic results achieved in the first 10 years of independence had not been entirely satisfactory. The Congress indicated that important changes were needed in economic policy and called for an improvement in the methods of socialist planning. All institutions created in the postcolonial period would thenceforth be designed to comply with three principles: unified management, centralism, and planning. First, through “unified management” the governing party attempted to safeguard its role

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in directing all facets of the country’s economic life—from central to local levels. This was further reinforced by the second principle of centralism ensuring that all decisions made at the top party and government levels would be implemented by lower units. Third, through planning, the MPLA attempted to harmonize the economic system by defining national priorities and ensuring intersectoral as well as interregional cooperation while identifying the most efficient uses of scarce factors of production. The bureaucratic administrative structures created on the basis of these principles faced severe problems including high levels of inefficiency and a culture of dependency. Given the omnipresence of the party, all authority was subordinated to its political power. Consequently, little or nothing was decided at the lower levels without proper consultation and approval from the overseeing party and government departments resulting in very slow decision-making and implementation of policies at all levels. Moreover, the new Angolan state, not unlike its colonial predecessor, was being erected on a mound of regulations and government interventions in the main areas of economic policy including price controls, licensing, investments, banking, and so on. The resulting bureaucratic structure of economic management was, at best, rigid, complex, and distorted. Thus, despite a vibrant oil sector, Angola’s economy remained comatose for much of the postcolonial era. Beginning in the mid-1980s, the Angolan government undertook major restorative efforts to nurse its economy back to health with mostly disappointing results. Economic Reforms: The Final Break with the Revolutionary Past By the mid-1980s, the economy was on the verge of collapse. Economic activity in all sectors outside the oil enclave suffered dramatic declines owing to a combination of factors including the mass flight of skilled Portuguese workers, the difficulties arising from the introduction of central planning, and the rising intensity of the civil war. The economic pain was felt mostly in the form of hyperinflation and through rationing of essential goods. In addition, the government had to contend with severe balance of payment deficits caused by collapsing exports, a result of both declining economic activity and the arbitrary setting of foreign exchange rates at artificially high levels. If precarious domestic conditions pointed to the necessity of rapid reform, a changing global environment facilitated the probing of possibilities for such reforms. Ironically, Angola’s main patron, the former USSR, was also confronted in the mid-1980s with difficult choices regarding ways to

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rescue a collapsing economy. In many respects, therefore, Gorbachev’s rise to power in the former USSR in 1985 and the belated attempt to rescue a moribund Soviet economy provided the necessary inspiration, if not ideological justification, for the MPLA’s own attempts to restructure Angola’s economy. But there was another unavoidable reality. A sharp drop in oil prices in 1987 severely shook the fiscal foundation of a government almost totally dependent on oil revenues. That drop in oil prices, combined with a rise of war-related expenditures, forced the Angolan government into a period of deficit spending for more than a decade. Given the quickly deteriorating military and economic conditions in the 1980s, the regime was faced with two options for initiating the unavoidable transformation process. The first option was mainly political and involved ending the war through a peace process involving constitutional changes leading to free multiparty elections. The second choice involved liberalizing the economy. Either choice, whatever the sequence, would go a long way to strengthen the regime. The first option was not particularly appealing to the ruling class because it might take the form of a national constitutional assembly, as in other parts of Africa, with the authority to restrict or take away some powers of the regime. Furthermore, if the government allowed itself to become one of various participants in the peace process, its power and legitimacy would be diluted by the structures emanating from civil society to oversee the transition to peace and democratic government. This would prevent the government from taking full credit for the anticipated peaceful settlement of the civil war and reaping the political benefits in a future multiparty election. Second, popular dissatisfaction with the regime was attributable mainly to the economic system’s inability to produce goods and services in sufficient quantities and adequate quality to meet domestic demand. As a result, Angola opted to implement structural adjustment programs ahead of political liberalization. To counter immediate economic difficulties and with an eye to begin addressing the wider structural dysfunctions in the economy in anticipation of admission into the IMF and the World Bank, in 1987 the MPLA government introduced its first International Financial Institution (IFI)– inspired, if not yet prescribed, structural adjustment program. The Program for Financial and Economic Reorganization (SEF, Programa de Saneamento Económico e Financeiro) was designed to transform Angola into a market economy. This overly ambitious goal could not realistically be met owing to the absence of the critical institutional and legal environments that would make such transition possible and the escalation of the civil war that made such radical transformations even riskier politically for President dos Santos. In the end, other than convincing the IFIs of its commitment to

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change—and thus winning membership within these institutions—the SEF was an unmitigated failure. Since the SEF’s demise, Angola implemented a series of other adjustment programs, all ambitiously designed and poorly implemented. Not surprisingly, much like the original program, most attempts to reform Angola’s economy failed. In 1990, a year after joining the IFIs, Angola introduced the Program of Action for the Government (PAG, Programa de Acção do Governo) aimed mainly at controlling inflation through strict monetary policy and a currency change. But given the political context—imminent peace with UNITA and the prospects of the first multiparty elections in the near future—the government was unwilling to take the short-term political risks inherent in fully implementing a program that included freezing 95 percent of the value of all bank accounts. Consequently, PAG was abandoned in 1991. In the decade between the Bicesse peace process of 1991 and the end of the civil war in 2002, the government implemented several other adjustment programs: Program for Economic Stability (PEG, Programa de Estabilização Económica) of 1993; Economic and Social Program (PES, Programa Económico e Social) of 1994 and 1995; Program “New Life” (PNV, Programa Vida Nova) of 1996; and Program for Medium-term Economic Stability and Revival (PEREMP, Programa de Estabilização e Recuperação Económica de Médio Prazo) of 1998. The only thing common to all these programs was that all ended without success. Aimed at arresting and, more optimistically, reversing the decay of its ailing economy through of a series of liberalizing mechanisms, “economic reform” proved highly problematic in Angola, as elsewhere in Africa. Specifically, measures to liberalize the economy through privatization and currency and exchange rate reform produced mixed results and succeeded mainly in entrenching the elite’s stranglehold on the economy. This was particularly the case with the policy of privatizing public assets. The MPLA regime conveniently used privatization as a means of transferring the ownership of public enterprises into the hands of top officials as well as their families and friends in the party, government, and the military. Thus, privatization benefited primarily those already close to the center of a complex patrimonial set of relationships lubricated by oil revenues. Using oil revenues, these individuals could then “buy” newly privatized assets. This was the main “success” of economic reform in Angola. Conclusion During its fifty year history, the MPLA has moved away from its initial character as a liberation movement to the pragmatism that ensured its survival and its descent into kleptocratic governance. Internal struggles in

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its early years dashed the revolutionary movement’s chances of achieving a dominant position within the liberation struggle. Thus, it came to power fundamentally weak inside. To put it bluntly, external intervention by its allies—not internal factors unique to its historical trajectory, ideological orientation, organizational structure, or popular base of support—played the decisive role in enabling the MPLA to seize power at independence. But external interventions by the Western allies of the MPLA’s internal nemeses in the immediate postindependence period meant that the new revolutionary movement did not have the opportunity to develop the necessary traction to consolidate its power and begin to implement its revolutionary program. Instead, it existed on survival mode for nearly the first three decades in power. Survival for the regime required embracing pragmatism at all levels. Thus, for example, the new regime did not find it contradictory to welcome major American oil companies while the U.S. government was overtly supporting UNITA rebels’ attempts to overthrow it. Nor did it reject prescriptions from the IFIs to liberalize the economy. As a result, the initial flirtation with the Socialist economic model was slowly abandoned through the late 1980s and into the 1990s and is now a distant memory. In sum, the revolutionary movement may have succeeded in seizing political power in Angola but the revolution never materialized. Notes 1. Ronald H. Chilcote, Emerging Nationalism in Portuguese Africa: Documents (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1972), p. 181. 2. John Marcum, The Angolan Revolution. Volume II: Exile Politics and Guerrilla Warfare, 1962–1976 (Cambridge, The MIT Press, 1978), p. 30. 3. Marcum, The Angolan Revolution, p. 307. 4. William Minter, Operation Timber: Pages from the Savimbi Dossier (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press), p. 13. 5. Marcum, The Angolan Revolution, p. 30; Gillian Gunn, “The Legacy of Angola” in The Suffering Grass: Superpowers and Regional Conflict in Southern Africa and the Caribbean, ed. Thomas G. Weiss and James G. Blight (Boulder, CO and London: Lynne Rienner, 1992), p. 41; Suzanne Katsikas, The Arc of Socialist Revolutions: Angola to Afghanistan (Cambridge: Schenkman, 1982), p. 66. 6. Gunn “The Legacy of Angola,” p. 41. 7. Augusta Conchiglia, UNITA, Myth and Reality (London: ECASAAMA/UK, 1990), p. 45.

CHAPTER 11

Revolutionaries to Politicians: Can the Transition Succeed? Kalowatie Deonandan

Introduction Revolutionaries to politicians, how successful have they been at pursuing revolutionary goals in the electoral context? According to Marxist journalists Jorge Martin and William Sanabria (whose observations are derived from the Venezuelan experiment), the odds on success are not high as “the electoral front is not the most favorable field for the revolution to advance.”1 Daniel Hellinger expands on this arguing that, “[e]lections usually focus the attention of political leaders on the task of winning or holding onto office, not social transformation.”2 While electoral politics contain inherent challenges for revolutionaries, the revolutionary struggles carry with them the potential to limit the democratic conduct amongst politicians who were formerly guerrillas. The process of armed struggle, the discipline demanded of the guerrilla fighter and the adherence to a hierarchical leadership structure “may generate political practices that prefigure undemocratic outcomes in the wake of revolutionary success.”3 How successful have the revolutionaries in our case studies been in overcoming the challenges inherent in the electoral route and those stemming from their experiences on the battlefield? While generalizations about such a panoply of cases are difficult given the diversity in national contexts, conditions, histories, and in the personalities involved, nevertheless, some common and cross-cutting themes have emerged that help to shed some light on these questions. It is through the lens of these themes that this final chapter will revisit the case studies. First however, it will present an overview of the

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various movements and discuss some of the general factors which influenced the transition from revolutions to elections. Since the latter half of the twentieth century, leftist armed movements from the Americas to Africa have been fighting to overthrow entrenched elites, corrupt military strongmen, caudillos, dictators, and other authoritarian types and to establish more just and egalitarian societies in conformity with the principles of socialism. They promised liberation for the masses marginalized by poverty, hunger, oppression, racism, and exploitation. However, by the end of the century, the armed route had been abandoned by almost all (Colombia being an exception amongst the cases in this study) and the electoral option embraced. Such a dramatic change in course demanded, as Carlos Figueroa Ibarra and Salvador Martí i Puig’s chapter on Guatemala tells us “a drastic reformulation of the ends of the revolutionary Left. It demanded accepting representative democracy as the starting point for social transformation, instead of continuing to assume that revolutionary transformation was the point of departure for social transformation” (53). In this volume that examines 10 revolutionary movements, spanning two continents, that have transformed themselves into formal political parties, we ask several questions: What factors compelled them to opt for electoralism? Is their electoral political program different from that of established parties with no revolutionary history? In other words, do they continue to pursue their revolutionary agenda within the electoral context? Have their political strategies been affected by their revolutionary histories, primarily the armed struggle? If they are able to continue pursuing revolutionary goals, what has made this possible and what has been the cost? If not, what are some of the factors that can account for this, and what is the alternative path chosen? The nature of the cases being examined are described in the Introductory chapter by David Close and Gary Prevost They fall into four broad groupings and this bears repeating briefly. First, all are revolutionary movements which embraced socialism, though their specific circumstances may have dictated modifications of the theory to fit their condition. Second, all were armed movements, with one exception, the case of Guyana and the People’s Progressive Party (PPP) that has always embraced the electoral route, à la Allende, to socialism. Third, some of these movements have won state power, and they have done so either by insurrection or by negotiated settlements. Amongst those in the former category are Angola’s Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA, Movimento Popular para Liberação de Angola), Mozambique’s Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (FRELIMO, Frente de Libertação de Moçambique), Eritrea’s People’s Front for Democracy and Justice (PFDJ) and Nicaragua’s

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Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN, Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional), though this last case has some twists and turns and Close explains. In the latter grouping are revolutionaries who have captured state power through negotiated agreements and they are South Africa’s African National Congress (ANC) and Zimbabwe’s African National Union (ZANU). The Tupamaros of Uruguay and PPP can also be included within this grouping. While the PPP was never a guerrilla movement, its electoral success was largely a result of negotiations that eventually culminated in free and fair elections. The Tupamaros are included somewhat cautiously here as they recently took office as part of a coalition, the Frente Amplio (Broad Front). They did not win state power as a former revolutionary organization, but as a part of a broader alliance of center-left groups. Finally, there are those revolutionary movements that were neither defeated militarily, nor successful in capturing state power, but have laid down their arms through peace talks and are contesting elections as members of party organizations. Amongst these are the Guatemalan National Revolutionary Union (URNG, Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca) and the Armed Revolutionary Forces of Colombia (FARC, Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia–Ejército del Pueblo).4 Caveats should be noted with respect to the classification of the FARC in this final category. In the mid-1980s, as a result of peace talks with the government, it experimented with electoralism by forming the Patriotic Union (UP, Unión Patriótica) with other leftist parties and contested elections. While some degree of electoral success was achieved, this strategy eventually collapsed in the wake of opposition from the elites and the military and from the ongoing cycle of violence. Eventually the FARC abandoned the electoral experiment and the UP and has since continued its unsurgency. Having summarized the various categories of cases in terms of the methods by which they achieved power or joined the electoral process, the next section of this chapter examines the forces, both international and national that impelled the former guerrillas to lay down their arms. Explaining the Transition from Revolutionaries to Politicians The International Context The international context has been important for almost all the case studies. For some it was important in their winning state power, and for others it was critical in their decision to opt for the electoral option. First, there are the armed insurgents, such as Angola’s MPLA who were able to endure and

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seize state power due to the assistance they received from international allies. According to Malaquias, a key factor in explaining the survival of the organization was its ability to maintain relations with revolutionary groups around the globe, especially the former Soviet Union and Cuba. It was the moral, military and financial support from these two states that enabled the MPLA to prevail over internal and external enemies. The same holds true for Nicaragua’s FSLN which was able to defeat the Somocista dictatorship in part because of the moral and material support provided by these two states. Of course the level of involvement in Nicaragua, in terms of military commitment for example, was to a much lesser degree than it was in Angola. For others, international developments, in particular the seismic shift that occurred in the global power structure with the demise of the former USSR, rendered them vulnerable. Having lost a key ally, they were forced to consider alternative routes to realizing their objectives. This was true, for example, of the ANC in South Africa that was forced to consider a negotiated settlement with the apartheid regime since military victory did not seem feasible in light of the changed global configuration. The ANC’s decision was also influenced by the fact that negotiated settlements had occurred in neighboring Namibia and Angola, states which had been included in the ANC’s calculations as part of its strategic strengths. The same logic that governed the ANC’s shift also impelled others such as Guatemala’s URNG to explore the nonviolent route and to sign peace agreements with the dictatorships they had been fighting for decades. In the URNG’s case, it was given added impetus by international players such as the United Nations which helped to broker the peace talks and supervise the implementation of the agreements. Loosely fitting in this category is also the case of the PPP in Guyana. Basking in capitalism’s victory over communism, Western leaders were willing to contemplate the return to power of the Marxist Cheddi Jagan, whom they had ousted in the 1960s. With democracy (that is electoral democracy) being the currency in vogue, the U.S. and the international organizations affiliated with it, were now willing to work to ensure free and fair elections in Guyana. Domestic Context Inlfluential too in aiding the transition from revolutions to elections were many factors within the domestic contexts. Military exhaustion was one of them. After decades of warfare, many insurgent movements eventually came to the conclusion that they were at a stalemate. Neither they nor the counterinsurgency state they were battling could claim victory, despite the

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lapse of decades, changing military tactics, new and better weapons, and the constant examination and reexamination of the theoretical bases for their struggles. In Guatemala, the URNG and the Guatemalan armed forces had fought each other to a stand still, with neither side being able to claim victory after almost 30 years of civil war and over a quarter of a million dead. Furthermore, not only were the insurgents themselves exhausted but so too were the masses who supported them. Following this logic and speculating about the future of the Colombian situation, Wilson and Carroll suggest that a peace settlement and an end to the ongoing insurgency in that country might come about if both sides fight each other to a stalemate and to a state of exhaustion. Economics also played a role in bringing an end to insurgency in many cases. Domestic economic instability combined with a global economic downturn seriously aggravated elite insecurity in the various states leading them to entertain the possibility of negotiating with their nemesis. In the case of South Africa, the unrest in the townships hindered the apartheid government’s ability to secure international credits and this was aggravated by falling world prices for the country’s commodity exports. Compounding these problems were the international boycotts, which after the United States and Britain joined, seriously aggravated the already deteriorating economic conditions and contributed to the De Klerk regime’s willingness to negotiate apartheid’s end. Similarly, in the Guatemalan case, the global recession combined with the fact that Guatemala was deemed a pariah state for its human rights violations convinced the dominant elites that an alternative approach was necessary. Negotiations with the guerrillas were tactical measures to address the economic crisis and restore international confidence in the Guatemalan state and economy. While neither the military nor the guerrillas may have entered the process fully intending to end the war, enough momentum was achieved that the negotiations eventually culminated in genuine peace agreements and in the transition to free and fair elections. Likewise, with Guyana, the country’s dire economic status compelled the ruling People’s National Congress (PNC) to sign an International Monetary International Fund’s (IMF) Economic Recovery Package. This in turn meant that the regime was vulnerable to international pressures to restore multiparty democracy. In many cases, civil society forces also played a role in the transition. Churches, women’s groups, NGOs, and other organizations of the masses, which before may have been operating clandestinely now openly added to the momentum towards transition. In Guatemala for example, the Assembly of Civil Society (ASC), a forum representing virtually all sectors of civil society (except big business) demanded and gained input into the peace

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talks. International NGOs were also influential. The Carter Center was instrumental in Guyana not only in the negotiations towards democratic transition but also in overseeing the actual implementation of the process through its electoral monitoring commissions. Even divisions within civil society were instrumental. In South Africa, in the wake of the unrest in the townships, the white population became divided over how to handle this crisis and this schism helped to open up the space for negotiations Revolutionaries to Politicians: Evaluating the Transition With the transition from guerrillas to politicians made, the question becomes how successful has it been? To assess this across the various cases, a thematic approach has been adopted. Specifically, this chapter evaluates the various transitions in terms of the following criteria: (1) the degree to which the party has tried to maintain its original ideological commitment; (2) the extent to which the party has democratized internally and has allowed space for opposition (if it controls state power); (3) the strategies of the party to rejuvenate its leadership; and (4) finally, the factors which help to explain electoral successes or lack thereof. Ideological Commitment Revolutionaries to Power through Insurrection In her study of postliberation politics in Africa, Sara Dorman observed that, “[m]any liberation movements have a clear and well articulated ideology that has been honed in the bush to attract recruits and civilian supporters as well as for presentation to the media and academics.”5 It is also the ideology that is supposed to guide policies which in turn should lead to the establishment of a more just and inclusive social order. What becomes of this well articulated ideology (and in all our cases the reference is to socialism) once former guerrillas enter the formal political arena? To simplify, in general, the evidence shows two possible outcomes and these depend partly on the means of arrival to power, by the barrel of a gun or through negotiations. The first outcome is that the revolutionary ideology becomes hegemonic. Unfortunately, what this has translated into in practice is that the ideology remains strong at the level of rhetoric, but in practice it is used to advance the interests of the governing elites through statist policies and to guarantee that there are no pretenders to their throne. The poor and marginalized in whose name the revolution was fought, remain so, poor and marginalized.

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This outcome, hegemony of the revolutionary ideology, is more likely in those cases where revolutionaries have militarily defeated the old order outright and thus have fewer or no compromises to make. The second outcome, in keeping with what has been the case generally in competitive party politics, is a modification of the ideological position to woo the largest spectrum of voters and to win the support of the international community. This phenomenon is observed primarily amongst those cases where the transition was a negotiated one. As expected, under these circumstances, compromises had to be forged to end the conflict and this has placed restrictions on the degree to which the revolutionary ideology can be promoted or advocated. Overall, however, despite the differences, a common trait is shared by the cases in both scenarios. While their reasons may vary, both groups have deviated in theory or practice, or both, from their original ideology and goals, and many are opting for the social democratic path, or a variation thereof. Both groups too, practice forms of authoritarianism, though the degree and tactics may vary. The former position, the hegemonic one, is particularly evident in the cases of Eritrea and Angola where the guerrillas secured power through force of arms. As Dorman suggests, with respect to the African context, in those cases where insurgencies or armed liberation movements seized state power, one competing claim was privileged and used to shape postliberation discourse and development. Referring to Eritrea specifically, she points out that “there is no space . . . for the articulation of any alternative viewpoint whether within or outside the ruling party.” (171) While it is expected that former revolutionaries would aim to pursue their original objectives within the changed context, what has become evident in the cases above is that this is done via exclusionary strategies Furthermore, what has been disappointing and disillusioning is not only the authoritarian nature of these new revolutionary regimes, but also the fact that their revolutionary commitment has been merely at the level of language and rhetoric rather than in any comprehensive and substantive way. In other words, policies to benefit those in whose name the revolution was fought have not been a major thrust of these governments. Rather the beneficiaries have been the ruling elites and those who surround them. In the case of Eritrea, having won control of the state militarily, and having done so after having overwhelmed other revolutionary forces (“born powerful” as Dorman suggests) such as the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), the ruling EPLF (Eritrean People’s Liberation Front) has had the political field almost to itself, a status it would like to maintain. To this end it has resorted to a variety of authoritiarian policies to ensure that it faces no challengers to its throne. The result is that the revolutionary ideology still

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dominates though it is frequently used in the service of entrenching party dominance and promoting the interests of party elites rather than advancing the pressing causes of the poor. Similarly, in Angola, as Malaquias writes, the MPLA was committed to creating a socialist state, to transforming fundamentally Angolan society, not just replacing colonial elites with homegrown versions. In pursuit of this goal, it adopted both statist and exclusivist strategies. Central planning, nationalization and strict control of economic activities were some aspects of its statism. In terms of its “exclusivism,” the MPLA adhered to a strategy whereby a single party sought to represent a diverse aspirations of a highly fragmented society.” (218) NonMPLA members were completely excluded from governance in any way. In the end, this approach to building socialism succumbed to the forces of corruption, elite rule, and economic disaster, “creating an important disconnect between the governing party . . . and society.” (219) The demise of the revolution was made more substantive when the MPLA was forced to sign on to a series of IMF restructuring packages to rescue a diving economy. Malaquias summarizes the Angolan transition by saying that “the revolutionary movement may have seized power but the revolution never materialized.” (226) While the Eritrean and Angolan examples illustrate guerrillas to politicians transition resulting in adherence, at least at the level of rhetoric, to the revolutionary ideology, the case of the Nicaragua’s FSLN points to a slight variation. That is, it reveals that guerrillas who have seized power by arms, and have done so in part by making tactical compromises with groups not completely compatible ideologically, will face severe constraints in their efforts to advance their revolutionary goals. Having militarily defeated the Somoza dictatorship in 1979, the former guerrillas eventually entered multiparty elections and were successful until 1990. This loss, however, inaugurated a 16-year political drought for the FSLN. They were not returned to office until 2006. Like that of the Eritrean guerrillas, the program of the FSLN at the time of its seizure of power was revolutionary, as Close discusses (see chapter 2). As he notes, the FSLN “proposed a radical redistribution of economic, political and social power.” (21) Unlike the EPLF, however, while the FSLN was militarily successful, it did not have the same degree of “freedom” as the former once in power. Its victory had been made possible by compromises, such as the incorporation of sectors of the anti-Somoza elite including business leaders and intellectuals, into the campaign against the dictatorship. It was further ideologically constrained by the inclusion of elements of these groups into the ruling revolutionary junta immediately after the revolution. “In other words,”

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writes Close, “the Sandinistas did not have a complete monopoly on political life, even if they were by far the preponderant force.” (23). Evidence of the Frente’s limited control soon became obvious when segments of the anti-Somoza elite quickly abandoned the ruling revolutionary junta and openly campaigned against the revolution in collusion with the United States. Not surprisingly, facing enemies from within and without, and confronted with a devastating social and economic crisis brought about primarily by the machinations of its enemies, the FSLN was forced to temper its radicalism. It did so by endorsing political pluralism and a mixed economic program. Although this toleration of a more pluralistic approach may have rendered the FSLN more democratic, it also led to its removal from office for close to two decades. In the interim, major reversals in the revolutionary program were implemented by successor regimes. One fate the FSLN did share with its African counterparts, such as the guerrillas in Eritrea and Angola who came to power by insurrection, was that it too was tainted by corruption and scandals. Seemingly frustrated by his exclusion from power and driven by political ambition, the party’s perennial leader, Daniel Ortega, entered into an extraordinary pact with President Arnoldo Alemán of the ruling Liberal Party ( the party of Somoza). In essence, the agreement subverted the democratic processes in the country and guaranteed the two men and their parties extensive control over the political system while concomitantly marginalizing other groups. Despite this anti-democratic and glaring power-grab, the FSLN still portrays itself as a revolutionary party. Now that the party is back in power and facing an international environment emphasizing free trade and a national economy heavily directed by IMF dictated structural adjustment measures, it is interesting to speculate whether the FSLN will be able to maintain its leftist rhetoric. At the moment the evidence is mixed. During the recent electoral campaign the party did define for itself a clearly leftist position (though it would be difficult to classify it as revolutionary). It was the only party to have opposed the Central American Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA) with the United States; poverty alleviation is high on its agenda; and Ortega has forged strong links with regional leftist leaders such as Venezuela’s Hugo Chávez and Bolivia’s Evo Morales. A the same time, like Angola’s MPLA, while the FSLN may be in control of state power, it is presiding over an economy that is weak and under the control of the international financial institutions. This goes a long way in explaining why Ortega has been cautious in endorsing the more radical criticisms of U.S. policy emanating from his leftist partners.

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Revolutionaries to Power through Negotiations Other revolutionaries, especially those who became politicians through negotiated settlements are even more constrained in terms of their adherence to a revolutionary ideology. Negotiated transitions involve compromises. Failure to accommodate negotiating partners can result in major economic instability and even violence. The case of the ANC offers insights into the nature of such transitions when it comes to ideological commitments. Unlike its counterpart in Mozambique which also came to power through negotiations with settler rule, the ANC did not seek to eliminate its opponents. Rather it tried to accommodate them (for example by maintaining large segments of the pre-existing bureaucracy). This strategy accounts in part for the party having strayed some distance from the revolutionary ideology. Its adoption of a market oriented economic program and its demobilization of civil society organizations which have been a large part of the party’s support base gives some indication of this ideological departure. As a result, despite the transition to majority rule, white South Africans still dominate the economy. This limits the ANC’s flexibility in terms of the economic policies it can implement to address the concerns of the poor. According to Prevost, while the government has devoted significant resources to the townships, its critics charge that the its priority has been not to address the needs of the impoverished, but to create a black middle. He further went on to argue that what the ANC has done ideologically since 1990 is to move to the political space described as the “Third Way.” This is a more conservative stance than the project of social democracy. However, like revolutionaries elsewhere, despite this shift to the right, the party continues to use the rhetoric of socialism. In Manning’s chapter on Mozambique we see an example of a revolutionary movement, FRELIMO, that cames to power through a negotiated settlement but tried to impose one dominant ideology, through force if necessary, and to pursue development through statist policies. This experiment however failed and the party was forced to modify its ideological position, though it still tried to ensure its dominance. Upon assuming power in 1975, FRELIMO (which officially established itself as a Marxist-Leninist party in 1977) faced significant challenges, both from settler organizations as well as from parties led by former ex-FRELIMO members who had been expelled from the party. FRELIMO’s approach to dealing with these was to “behead” its opposition by eliminating those who challenged it. As Manning explains “The ideals of national unity, social justice and development that were forged during the independence struggle left no room for the consideration of opinions and experiences

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that diverged from them.” (189) Despite this, she adds, there was still strong public support for FRELIMO. However, the party confused enthusiasm for it and for independence with support for its revolutionary agenda. By 1983, the limitations of its Marxist-Leninist strategies were coming to the fore. The economy was in a state of collapse from the centralization policies and FRELIMO’s support base had dramatically narrowed. It was in this context that the party began its ideological shift to the right. It signed on to IMF structural adjustment packages and began to open political spaces. At its Fifth Congress in July 1989, it opened up membership to religious leaders, business owners, and others who had been excluded during the Marxist-Leninist era. By 1990, it had accepted multiparty elections (though FRELIMO continued to dominate as discussed below). Referring to the new orientation, and to the reality versus the rhetoric, one FRELIMO official explained to Manning that for the party claim adherence to a Marxist ideology is to deceive militants because it is not actually following a revolutionary program in practice. In the Guyanese case, a similar shift occurred. Faced with an economy ranked as one of the poorest in the hemisphere, and burdened by a massive debt crisis, the PPP openly admitted its ideological shift to the right. The PPP leader, an avowed Marxist, announced that the conditions in Guyana dictated that the party move to a “national democratic project” which would involve political and ideological pluralism and a mixed economy. The national democratic state, [according to the party program], would be an inclusive one representing all classes and groups. Thus, unlike other cases, the PPP seems to have avoided the disconnect between rhetoric and reality by explicitly shifting its project to the right to accommodate the national conditions. Perhaps, the party was able to do this because it does not really face any other serious electoral challengers on the left (though there are leftist parties they are very weak) which might be able to take advantage of its ideologicial detour and score electoral gains. Revolutionaries in Elections but Not in Power While the above discussion summarizes the cases of revolutionaries in power, what is the situation, in terms of commitment to socialism amongst those guerrilla organizations that are contesting elections but are not in control of the state.? From our examples, they too believe that they must broaden their appeal by moderating their ideological commitments. The Uruguayan Tupamaros and their political party the Movimiento de Participación Popular (MPP) made significant electoral gains in the 2004 elections, but did so by becoming part of the ruling coalition, the Frente Amplio (they were also part of it in the 1970s for a period) which includes

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social democrats, democratic socialists, socialists and communist. However, being in the coalition was only made possible after the guerrillas modified their ideological platform, choosing not socialism, but social democracy. According to Weinstein, the Tupamaros are actually perceived as being less extreme amongst the coalition members and not part of los grupos radicales. For the 2004 elections, they agreed to a joint parliamentary electoral list with the small but respected Nuevo Espacio party and this, says Weinstein, not only displayed their coalition building skills but also contributed to the MPP’s image as a movement which is more moderate than radical. As part of the Frente in the 2004 contest, the Tupamaros made more electoral advances than they had in previous electoral contests. So significant were their gains they garnered two ministerial positions (labor and agriculture) as alliance partners. In Guatemala too, where the transition was through negotiations, there has been a rethinking of the ideological agenda by the URNG after it became a political party. Referring to the party’s program, Figueroa and Martí note that “the terms socialism, communism, and proletariat all disappeared, as did revolution, agrarian reform, and imperialism. The document was actually surprisingly moderate.” (53) However, the party’s disastrous showing at the polls has led to an ideological reformulation that indicates that the struggle will be for social democracy. As the authors note: “There is . . . a broad base of ideological and programmatic agreement within Guatemala’s Left today. It insists that democracy cannot be had without social justice, that the market must regulated and limited in its reach, and that a strong state is necessary to assure that the public interest prevails over the private.” (60) Democratic Practices Within and Without While revolutions are fought for greater democracy, what has been observed from amongst these cases is that most of the revolutionaries who gained power, be it by insurrection or negotiation, tend towards one-party dominance. This phenomenon prevails both in situations where there is an explicit one-party structure, as in Eritrea and Angola, and as in multiparty contexts. One explanation is that the ruling party, in control of state power, adopts explicit strategies to ensure its dominance. These could be exclusionary tactics, including force and the delegitimization of opponents, even those also claiming a revolutionary mantle or they could be inclusionary methods such as absorption of potential challengers into the governing party. In addition, the ethnic composition of the society, as in South Africa and Guyana, can also play a role in promoting one party dominace. Voting

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in these societies is still heavily along racial lines and where one racial group dominates statistically, so will the party it supports. Finally, the weakness of opposition parties to mount an effective challenge must also be considered as a factor. In one-party states suc as Eritrea, this dominance has been exercised through a variety of methods: tolerance for only one dominant ideology, exclusion of opponents by force, and even absorption of potential challengers to limit the need for compromises. Ideologically, using the language of developmentalism,the governing EPLF has made the argument that the state should have the primary role in advancing economic growth and as such, all other players, be they individuals or organizations must submit to its authority. Not only has this translated into the EPLF’s monopolization of the state and the economy through party dominated enterprises, but it has also meant that all challengers to the EPLF’s position, be they within or outside the party are dealt with harshly. In terms of inclusionary tactics, the EPLF has also been able to absorb its opponents thus limiting threats to its supremacy. For example, during the liberation struggles, it succeeded in defeating the other liberationist organization, the ELF, and even brought some of the ELF’s members in to the party. Similarly, in Zimbabwe, both exclusionary and inclusionary tactics were also used to maintain one-party dominance. Both before and after independence, ZANU did consider completely restricting opposition groups but never officially carried though with this though in essence, the country is a one-party dominated state. To maintain its control, especially over the other guerrilla organization, the Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU), ZANU resorted to violence against ZAPU supporters to exclude them from the scene. The language of liberation is also used to ensure the exclusion and delegitimization of opponents, even those with a revolutionary history. ZANU portrays itself as the party of the revolution. When challenged by opposition groups not part of the coalition, “the exclusionary language of liberation reemerges . . . claims are repeatedly made that Zimbabwe cannot be governed by a party that is not rooted in the struggle.”6 Its use of inclusionary tactics was evident when it eventually absorbed ZAPU and renamed itself ZANU(PF) to reflect this. In Angola, an explicitly one-party state, this dominance is ensured through the use of force against opponents (as seen in the aftermath of the coup attempt). It is also guaranteed through exclusivist strategies. For example, the centrally directed policies discussed earlier ensured that only MPLA members were dominant throughout the state apparatus and this safeguarded their control over state resources which in turn is used to reinforce the MPLA’s control.

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In Mozambique there is a variation on the one-party dominance theme. There, and unusually so, the two dominant revolutionary movements have also emerged as the two dominant political forces in the country. As Manning observes, despite many electoral contests, and despite the fact that “more than a dozen parties have competed in all three general elections (1994, 1999, and 2004), in practice Mozambique remains a two-party system” (183) This was not always so she points out: FRELIMO transitioned initially into an authoritarian political environment where it immediately became the ruling party. Its major difficulties during this period stemmed from the party’s extremely ambitious project to transform Mozambican society on a political, economic, and even cultural level. Internal challenges to this project, whether from within the party or from society at large were dealt with through a combination of ideological discourse and persuasion and blunt force. These strategies proved inadequate, however, particularly in the face of an increasingly effective armed insurgency led by RENAMO. By 1990, FRELIMO had made the decision to shift to a formally democratic, multiparty political system. (205)

While the challenges posed by RENAMO have guaranteed a high degree of pluralism in Mozambique, the reality is that FRELIMO is still the dominant of the two parties, and the electoral results of 2004 show that the former’s fortunes are on the wane, at least electorally. Part of the explanation for the position of the two parties is rooted in their respective histories. In comparing the two, Manning tells us that FRELIMO’s history allowed it to develop stronger decision making structures, better mechanisms for managing internal dissension, and despite having had such iconic leaders such as Samora Machel, it does not suffer from personalism. “RENAMO, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of adjusting first to civilian life, and then to democratic politics. And at the time of its transition from armed opposition group to political party, its internal organizational structures were extremely underdeveloped in comparison to FRELIMO’s. RENAMO was a personalized, highly centralized party run by a handful of leaders (193). A related explanation is the length of time in which the ruling party, (FRELIMO) has been in charge of the economy as this has enabled it to entrench its position. Despite extensive privatization, “ access to the state remains an important source of socioeconomic advancement. This increases the stakes of political competition and helps hold the ruling party together, as the opportunity costs of separating oneself from the party are considerable. It also helps keep fledgling parties comparatively resource-poor.”

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(193). This undoubtedly plays into RENAMO’s inability to unseat FRELIMO, though its staying power has helped to ensure the two-party-dominant structure. Elsewhere, as in Guyana and South Africa, ethnicity has played a role in ensuring one-party dominance as voting patterns in these societies are influenced significantly by race. Guyana like South Africa, is a racially divided country and the governing PPP is supported by the majority race. While all the parties in the system speak of plurality and the significance of having a multiracial base, the two dominant parties, the PPP and the PNC (the opposition), still appeal to their racial constituencies during the electoral contests. As long as elections are free and, and as long as race is a factor in voting, the PPP is likely to dominate. As well, in societies such as South Africa and Guyana, one-party dominance has partly resulted from the lack of effective opposition. In the case of South Africa, it was suggested by Gumede that the opposition parties do not offer a more attractive alternative to the ANC and hence the latter can hardly be held responsible for its continued electoral success.7 Similarly, the various opposition parties in Guyana have been unable to mount an effective challenge to the PPP’s dominance. Thus far, they have only been able to garner one or two seats at most in the country’s legislature. Centralization of Leadership Linked to the issue of one-party dominance is that of hierarchical leadership, a pervasive problem amongst for revolutionaries who have made the transition to politicians. All the armed insurrectionary movements followed the classic strategies of the battlefield, strict discipline, rigid hierarchy in the command structure and unbending loyalty from amongst the combatants. For Figueroa Ibarra and Martí i Puig, this rigidity and hierarchy become more entrenched when “crossing Leninism with a politico-military command structure.” (60) However, while this form of leadership may have functioned well on the battle field, it has generated undemocratic behavior in the transition to electoral politics. As Dorman observes, “when confronted with conditions of political crisis and vulnerability, leaders’ concerns with control take precedence over either liberation or democracy, leading to increasing authoritarian or exclusivist politics.”8 In every example that is presented here, revolutionary leadership in the electoral arena have been charged with varying degrees of centralization, whether the movement is in power or out (though in Mozambique, as Manning explains, measures were taken eventually by FRELIMO to

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strengthen democratic decisionmaking within the party). It is exercised through an intolerance of dissension as is seen in the cases of Angola, Eritrea, Zimbabwe, and elsewhere. It can also be done through constitutions which centralize power in the hands of the leader. In Guyana, a centralized constitution, much criticized by Jagan when he was in opposition, was maintained by him when the PPP came to power (though it was abolished a few years after his death). The pact signed by Ortega and Alemán in Nicaragua also falls into this category. Commenting on Ortega’s leadership, Ernesto Cardenal, a revolutionary priest and former minister under Ortega in the revolutionary FSLN government of the 1980s, stated: “There is only one Sandinismo, the Sandinismo that has remained honest and revolutionary. The other is of corrupt millionaires and thieves who have betrayed the revolution, betrayed themselves, and betrayed the people of Nicaragua.”9 Centralization is also maintained through party control of the state institutions as Dorman, Manning and Malaquias explain in their respective chapters. Even if centralization is not necessarily a deliberate strategy, it still represents a challenge for revolutionary movements. The problem is that many of these movements have been founded, or led for most of their existence, by leaders known for their inspirational or charismatic personalities. The demise of such leaders renders the movement vulnerable. Take for example, Uruguay’s Tupamaros. Weinstein argues that while the group has made significant electoral gains in the 2004 elections, becoming part of the ruling coalition, the Frente Amplio, its weakness lies in the fact that the party is identified in the minds of voters with its leader, José Mujica. Mujica was a founding member of the guerrilla organization and a man known for his charisma and pragmatism. Currently the minister of agriculture, he is not in good health and not likely to be able to lead the MPP in the 2009 elections. This raises questions as to the future of the organization. This is not unlike the situation which prevails in Guyana where the PPP is still strongly identified with its founder and leader, the late Cheddi Jagan, and in whose name the party still seeks to justify its actions and policies as a means of legitimizing them. One of the many challenges with centralization of leadership, aside from its undemocratic nature, is that of recruitment of new leaders and rejuvenation of the party. In the case of Guyana, as with South Africa, the PPP and the ANC are likely not to face serious competitors in the short term due to ethnic voting. However, in such cases, electoral victory is not necessarily a reflection of internal party stability or of its democratic nature. If internal democracy is lacking, this will likely lead to internal dissension and weakening of the organization (whether it is in power or not). This is what iPuig

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and Ibarra have argued has been a major factor in the splintering and weakening of the URNG in Guatemala. Revolutionaries and the Lack of Electoral Success While some movements have experienced success in the “guerrillas-topoliticians” transition in that they are either in control of state power or are part of the opposition, there are others which have abandoned the electoral experiment and are once more fighting an insurgency. The FARC is an excellent example of this. In their chapter, Wilson and Carroll argue that while the FARC had participated in the electoral process in the 1980s after a cease-fire agreement with the government, the mistrust between the military and the elites on the one hand, and the guerrillas on the other destroyed the experiment. Following the the cease-fire agreement, the FARC had established its own political organization the Unión Patriótica (UP, Patriotic Union) and made significant electoral gains at various levels (municipal, mayoral, and provincial). However, UP members also faced state brutality as many party members were assassinated, leading to brutal retaliations by the FARC. This process of retaliation and counter retaliation decimated the revolutionary party. With the experiment a failure, FARC guerrillas renewed their insurgency operations and with the current Uribe government’s crackdown on the Left through its strategy of “democratic security,” the authors suggest that the only way out of the FARC-government warfare is either through a negotiated settlement or until both sides have been militarily exhausted and have lost the support of their base due to the civilian death tolls. The FARC example perhaps offers us some insights as to why Guatemala’s URNG has been languishing in the wings, if not fading away completely, when it comes to electoral gains. While the Peace Accords between the military and the guerrillas brought about an end to the war, there still exists in the country a high level of mistrust and hostility between these two groupings and their supporters, reminiscent of the FARC/UP electoral experiment. In Guatemala the military is still a dominant force as exemplified by the fact that former that General Rios Montt, responsible some of the country’s greatest atrocities, ran for the presidency. He is still popular among the peasants whom he had organized as Civil Defense Patrols (PACS, Patrullas de Autodefensa Civil), the forces that helped to carry out the massacres. Furthermore, it has been suggested with reference to El Salvador, but it certainly applies to Guatemala as well, that one of the primary reasons for the lack of electoral success of the revolutionaries is that the elites have been

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very successful in using fear to undermine support for them, raising the specter that a victory by the former guerrillas will return the country to the instability of the war years.10 In this campaign, the media which they control has been a powerful instrument transmitting this message. Conclusion While the case studies in this volume do not cover the entire array of possibilities of revolutionaries to politicians, they do point to some recurring themes amongst these transitions that have contributed to their generally disappointing attempts at pursuing a revolutionary and democratic agenda in an electoral context. Some of the issues revolve around the mode of arrival to power, be it by force of arms or negotiated settlements, some relate to the nature of armed struggle, others are rooted in the constraints of the international system and/or the ongoing threats from the old order, and still others deal with the level of development within the respective national contexts. Unfortunately, one consistent theme seems to be that while revolutionaries may speak the language of democracy, their practices do not always mirror this. Many have become as corrupt as the old orders they have overthrown as they seek to maintain their grasp on power and others have been reluctant or unable to adjust hierarchical battlefield strategies of leadership to governance in the political arena. The majority, however, have been forced or pushed into adopting variations of the free market development strategies, an approach fundamentally antithetical to the liberationist goals for which they struggled. What is the alternative then? It has been suggested that perhaps revolutionaries facing a global context governed by neoliberalism should seek to defend social democracy rather than socialism. As we have seen from the examples, some have been attempting to do just that. However, a social democratic project will also lead to disappointing results if it is accompanied by the same challenges as the socialist one, that is excessive centralization of power, intolerance, exclusion, corruption, mismanagement and elite dominance. What then? Perhaps the Chavista model in Venezuela may offer a modified blue print that may lend guidance to revolutionaries transitioning to politicians. Notes 1. Jorge Martin and William Sanabria, “Venezuela’s Presidential Recall Referendum: Mass Wave of Enthusiasm Must be Used to Complete the Revolution,” In Defense of Marxism, July 4, 2004, (February 2007).

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2. Daniel Hellinger, “When ‘No’ Means ‘Yes’ to Revolution: Electoral Politics in Bolivarian Venezuela,” Latin American Perspectives 32, 3, Issue 142 (May 2005), p. 9. 3. C. Leys and J. Saul, “Liberation Without Democracy? The SWAPO Crisis of 1976” Journal of Southern African Studies 20 (1994), p. 146. 4. While not a formal case study in this volume, El Salvador’s Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front (FMLN) also falls in to this category. 5. Sara Rich Dorman, “Post-liberation Politics in Africa: Examining the Political Legacy of Struggle,” Third World Quarterly 27, 6 (2006), p. 1085. 6. Dorman, “Post-Liberation Politics,” p. 1092. 7. W. M. Gumede, Thabo Mbeki and the Battle for the Soul of the ANC (Cape Town, South Africa: Zebra Press, 2005), p. 234 8. Dorman, “Post-Liberation Politics,” p. 1086. 9. Quoted in Tim Rogers, ““In Nicaragua, Old US Foe Rises Again,” The Christ ian Science Monitor, July 7, 2006, (February 27, 2007). 10. Edelberto Torres Rivas, “Comentario: El Salvador YSUCA-El Cuarto Triunfo de ARENA,” Commentary posted on the listserv of the Latin American Studies Association, March 29, 2004.

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Wilson, Suzanne. “Terrains of Fear: A Comparison of the Colombian Paramilitaries (1997–2002) with the Argentine Death Squads (1976–1983).” Unpublished manuscript, 2006. The World Bank Group. “Guyana: Country Brief.” (February 2, 2007). Zakuta, L. A Protest Movement Becalmed. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1964. ZimRights. Choosing the Path to Peace and Development: Coming to Terms with Human Rights Violations of the 1982–1987 Conflict in Matabeleland and Midlands Provinces. Harare: ZimRights, 1999. Zolberg, Aristide. Creating Political Order: The Party States of West Africa. Chicago: Rand McNally, 1966. Zuluaga Nieto, Jaime. “De Guerrillas a Movimientos Políticos (Análisis de la Experiencia Colombiana: El caso del M-19).” In De las Armas a la Política, edited by Ricardo Peñaranda and Javier Guerrero. Bogotá, Colombia: Tercer Mundo Editores and IEPRI, 1999.

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Notes on the Contributors

Leah A. Carroll is program coordinator of the Haas Scholars Program at University of California, Berkeley and secretary of the Latin American Studies Association’s Colombia Section. Her dissertation (forthcoming as a book by University of Notre Dame Press) addresses the effects of democratization in several of Colombia’s rural war zones that had both active guerrilla fronts and leftist electoral majorities. David Close is professor of political science at the Memorial University of Newfoundland. In addition to several journal articles, he has also published three books on Nicaragua, his two most recent being Undoing Democracy: The Politics of Electoral Caudillismo, 2004 (with Kalowatie Deonandan) and Nicaragua: The Chamorro Years, 1999. Kalowatie Deonandan is an associate professor in the Department of Political Studies at the University of Saskatchewan. She has published on Guyana, Nicaragua, and Cuba. Aside from several journal articles and book chapters, her most recent work is a coedited volume (with David Close), Undoing Democracy: The Politics of Electoral Caudillismo, 2004. Sara Rich Dorman is a lecturer in the School of Social and Political Studies at the University of Edinburgh. She researches on African politics, focusing on postliberation states: Zimbabwe and Eritrea. Her publications include several book chapters as well as articles in journals among others: Commonwealth and Comparative Politics: Journal of Southern African Studies, Third World Quarterly and African Affairs. She is also co-editor of the aforementioned African Affairs. Carlos Figueroa Ibarra is a professor of sociology at the Instituto de Ciencias Sociales y Humanidades, Universidad Autónoma de Puebla, México. He has published extensively on Guatemala, and amongst his works are the following books: El proletariado rural en el agro Guatemalteco, 1980; El recurso del Miedo: Ensayo sobre Estado y terror en Guatemala, 1991; Los que

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siempre estarán en ninguna parte: La desaparición forzada en Guatemala, 1960–1996, 1999; Paz Tejada Militar y Revolucionario, 2001, second edition 2004; and La transformación de la izquierda revolucionaria en Centroamérica, 2006 (coedited with Salvador Martí í Puig). Assis Malaquias is an associate professor of government at St. Lawrence University in Canton, New York. He has published extensively on issues pertaining to security and governance in Africa. His works have appeared in the following: Organization for Social Science Research in Eastern and Southern Africa Bulletin, Journal of International Affairs, Review of African Political Economy and O Mundo em Portugues. Carrie Manning is an associate professor in the Department of Political Science at Georgia State University in Atlanta. She is the author of more than a dozen articles on post-conflict democratization and state-building in Africa and in the Balkans and the book The Politics of Peace in Mozambique, 2002. Her work has appeared among others in the following: Comparative Politics, Journal of Democracy, Studies in Comparative International Development and Democratization. Salvador Martí i Puig is a professor in the Departamento de Ciencia Politica y Derecho Publico of the Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona. Amongst his extensive publications are several books including: La transformación de la izquierda revolucionaria en Centroamérica, 2006 (with Carlos Figueroa); The Origins of the Peasant-Contra in Nicaragua, 1979–1987, 2001; Tiranías, rebeliones y democracia: Itinerarios políticos comparados en Centroamérica, 2004; América Central, las democracias inciertas, 1998; and Nicaragua 1977–1996, La revolución enredada, 1997. Gary Prevost is a professor in the Department of Political Science at Saint John’s University and the College of Saint Benedict in Minnesota, and has written on both the FSLN (Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional) and the ANC (African National Congress). His books include: Politics in Latin America-The Power Game, 2005–2006 (with Harry Vanden); Neoliberalism and Neo panamericanism: The View from Latin America, 2002 (with Carlos Oliva Campos); The Undermining of the Sandinista Revolution, 1997 (with Harry Vanden); The 1990 Elections in Nicaragua and their Aftermath, 1992 (with Vanessa Castro); and Politics and Change in Spain, 1985 (with Thomas D. Lancaster). Martin Weinstein is professor of political science at the William Paterson University of New Jersey. He is the author of over three dozen articles and chapters on Uruguayan politics as well as two books, Uruguay: Democracy

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at the Crossroads, 1988 and The Politics of Failure, 1975. He is the recipient of two Fulbright awards related to his research and teaching in Uruguay. Suzanne Wilson is associate professor of sociology at the Gustavus Adolphus College of Minnesota. She has published articles examining the political economy of the cocaine trade and hate crimes against street children in Colombia. Her research focuses on theorizing right-wing violence in Colombia and elsewhere in Latin America.

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Index

Afewerki, Issais, 230, 234 African National Congress (ANC), 4, 8, 17, 149, 188, 189, 191, 193, 195, 197, 198, 200, 202, 203, 204, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 214, 215, 216, 217, 219, 220, 222, 223, 224, 226, 233, 291, 306, 308, 317, 324, 326, 331, 340, 354, 360 Afro-Guyanese, 152, 153, 154, 157, 160, 177, 179 Alemán, Arnoldo, 21, 23, 37, 39, 41, 45, 47, 48, 49, 58, 60, 316, 326 Arnoldistas, 42 Alianza Democrática M-19 (AD M-19), 111, 118, 119, 120, 122, 124, 126, 128, 132, 133, 134, 135, 139, 140, 142, 144, 334 Alianza Liberal Nicaragüense (ALN), 23, 43, 44, 47, 49, 62 Alianza Nueva Nacíon (ANN), 71, 82, 84, 85, 86 Alliance for a New Nation. See Alianza Nueva Nacíon (ANN) Alliance for Change (AFC), 171, 172, 174 Alternate Way Movement, 126, See Movimiento Vía Alterna Alves, Nito, 296 Andrés Pastrana, 125, 126, 129 Anti-privatization Movement, 217 April 19th Movement. See Movimiento 19 de Abril (M-19)

Armed Revolutionary Forces of Columbia. See Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC) Arzú, Álvaro, 80 Asturias, Rodrigo, 71, 84, 85, 87 AUC. See Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (AUC) Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (AUC), 125, 130 Barama, 168 Barco, Virgilio, 113 Batista, Fulgencio, 1, 203 Batlle, Jorge, 98 Beijing Consensus, 214, 224 Betancur, Belisario, 112, 113, 115, 116, 124, 129, 137, 139, 347 Black Economic Empowerment (BEE), 213 Blair, Tony, 205, 206 Blanco Party (Partido Nacional), 106 Bolaños, Enrique, 38, 39, 60 Bordaberry, Juan Maria, 108 British Labor Party (BLP), 189 Burnham, Linden Sampson Forbes, 151, 154, 155, 156, 157, 160, 168, 172, 174, 176, 182, 184, 354 CACIF. See Comité Coordinador de Cámaras del Agro, Comercio, Industria y Finanzas (CACIF) Calland, Richard, 210, 224, 334

268

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Index

Camilist Union-National Liberation Army See Unión Camilista-Ejército de Liberación Nacional (UC-ELN), 118 Carter Center, 156, 168, 182, 311, 334 Castro, Fidel, 1, 19, 59, 159, 219, 221, 334, 344, 360 centralization, 151, 174, 176, 285, 296, 319, 324, 326, 330 Chamorro, Violeta, 34, 35, 36, 41, 59, 60, 62, 64, 358 charisma, 159, 174, 176, 182, 326, 333, 342 Chávez, Hugo, 48, 49, 50, 57, 62, 64, 97, 316 China, 288 Chipenda, Daniel, 287 churches, 75, 235, 238, 241, 242, 310 Civil Defence Patrols. See Patrullas de Autodefensa Civil (PACs) civilians, 112, 113, 115, 131, 229 Clinton, Bill, 206 cold war, 3, 9, 98, 132, 147, 156, 158, 162, 164, 181, 204, 227, 228, 229, 285, 288, 350 Colom, Álvaro, 82, 85 Colorado Party, 106 Combat Party, 51 Comité Coordinador de Cámaras del Agro, Comercio, Industria y Finanzas (CACIF), 80 Comité de Unidad Campesina (CUC), 67, 74 Communist Party of Angola. See Partido Comunista de Angola (PCA) Communist Party of Colombia. See Partido Comunista de Colombia (PCC) Concerned Citizens Group, 217 Congress of the South African Students (COSAS), 191 Congress of the South African Trade Unions (COSATU), 191, 206,

207, 208, 210, 212, 213, 214, 216, 217, 219, 220, 222, 223, 224, 336 Conservative Party (CP), 193, 214 Constitutionalist Liberal Party. See Partido Liberal Constitucionalista (PLC) Coordinadora Democrática, 32 Corriente de Renovación Socialista (CRS), 118, 122, 127, 128, 134, 139, 141, 144 corruption, 39, 79, 84, 100, 151, 164, 171, 179, 243, 265, 266, 296, 297, 298, 314, 330 COSATU. See Congress of the South African Trade Unions (COSATU) Council of State (Nicaragua), 30, 31, 32 CRS. See Corriente de Renovación Socialista (CRS) Cruz, Arturo, 32 Cuba, 1, 19, 103, 203, 219, 220, 234, 246, 290, 291, 294, 308, 339, 341, 347, 358 Cuito Cuanavale, 220 da Cruz, Viriato, 287 Davos Economic Summit, 206 Davos Economic Summit 2005, 206 DeKlerk, F.W., 193, 195 Demerara Timbers, 168 democracy, 10, 12, 19, 28, 66, 76, 77, 78, 86, 87, 97, 98, 102, 103, 104, 136, 148, 149, 156, 157, 160, 162, 171, 174, 206, 228, 232, 233, 235, 253, 258, 265, 280, 305, 308, 310, 321, 324, 327, 330 anti-democratic, 316 democratization, 35, 75, 77, 136, 171, 202, 253, 358, 359 Democratic Alliance (DA), 111, 203 Democratic Party (DP), 4, 17, 58, 103, 193, 208 Democratic Pole. See Polo Democrático (PD) Development Research Centers, 202

Index Dhlakama, Afonso, 258, 268, 270, 279, 283 dos Santos, José Eduardo, 299, 301 Durban, 195, 217, 222 East Germany, 197 Economic Recovery Programme (ERP), 164, 166 Edgar Ibarra Guerrilla Front. See Frente Guerrillero Edgar Ibarra (FGEI) Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN), 111, 112, 113, 116, 118, 124, 126, 128, 132, 134, 144 Ejército Guerrillero de los Pobres (EGP), 66, 67, 70, 71, 73, 74, 80, 91, 93 Ejército Popular de Liberación (EPL), 112, 113, 118, 120, 124, 127, 128, 132, 134, 140, 142, 144 El Salvador, 4, 13, 20, 55, 65, 67, 72, 77, 82, 88, 90, 149, 198, 331, 354 elections, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 13, 15, 16, 19, 21, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 30, 32, 34, 38, 39, 41, 43, 45, 49, 51, 53, 59, 60, 65, 73, 78, 79, 80, 82, 84, 85, 86, 91, 94, 96, 97, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 110, 111, 112, 113, 115, 116, 119, 120, 123, 125, 126, 127, 128, 131, 132, 137, 138, 139, 140, 144, 145, 146, 151, 154, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 171, 172, 176, 177, 179, 188, 193, 195, 198, 200, 214, 215, 216, 219, 232, 235, 238, 249, 252, 254, 255, 257, 258, 261, 266, 268, 269, 270, 272, 273, 276, 277, 280, 284, 295, 301, 302, 305, 306, 308, 310, 314, 319, 321, 323, 324, 326 Electoral Sandinismo, 32 Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), 230, 313, 322 Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF), 17, 230, 236, 238, 239, 244, 313, 314, 322, 350 Erwin, Alec, 215

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269

Esperanza, Paz y Libertad (EPL), 112, 113, 118, 120, 124, 127, 128, 132, 134, 140, 142, 144 Faku, Nceba, 216, 217 FAR. See Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes (FAR) Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMLN), 4, 13, 14, 77, 87, 88, 90, 94, 149, 331 FARC. See Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC) Fraser-Moleketi, Geraldine, 215 free trade, 15, 107, 168, 316 Freedom Charter, 195, 208, 219 FRELIMO. See Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO) Frente Amplio, 3, 96, 97, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 306, 320, 326 Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO), 4, 7, 13, 14, 17, 19, 55, 151, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276, 278, 279, 280, 282, 284, 305, 318, 319, 323, 324, 325, 339, 342 Frente Democrático Nueva Guatemala (FDNG), 79, 80, 82, 83, 84, 85 Frente Guerrillero Edgar Ibarra (FGEI), 66 Frente Nacional de Libertação de Angola (FNLA), 287, 288, 290, 291, 293 Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional (FSLN), 2, 4, 8, 13, 14, 16, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 45, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 62, 88, 149, 157, 198, 203, 220, 305, 308, 314, 316, 326, 360 Frente Social y Politico (FSP), 126

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Index

Front for the Liberation of Mozambique. See Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO) Front National pour la Libération du Congo (FNLC), 292 FSLN. See Sandinista National Liberation Front FSP. See Frente Social y Politico (FSP) Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes (FAR), 66, 67, 70, 71, 73, 74, 90, 91, 93 Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC), 16, 110, 111, 112, 113, 115, 116, 118, 120, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 128, 130, 132, 134, 144, 198, 306, 328 G-15, 232, 234 Gates, Bill, 206 Gauteng, 213 Gaviria, César, 118, 119, 120, 123, 124, 131 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 197, 301 Governing Council of National Reconstruction. See Junta de Gobierno de Reconstrucción Nacional (JGRN) Growth, Employment and Recovery (GEAR), 202, 208, 210, 212, 223 Guatemalan Labour Party. See Partido Guatemalteco del Trabajo (PGT) Guatemalan National Revolutionary Union. See Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca (URNG) Guatemalan Peace Accords. See Acuerdos de Paz Firme y Duradera, 1996 Guerrilla Army of the Poor. See Ejército Guerrillero de los Pobres (EGP) guerrilla demobilizations, 135 Guevara, Che, 189, 220, 341 Guyana Sugar Corporation (GUYSUCO), 168

GUYSUCO. See Guyana Sugar Corporation (GUYSUCO) Guzmán, Luis Humberto, 36 Heavily Indebted Poor Country Initiative (HIPC), 166 Hinds, Samuel, 172, 174, 176, 177, 186, 342 HIPC. See Heavily Indebted Poor Country Initiative (HIPC) HIV/AIDS, 217, 219 Hope, Peace and Liberty. See Esperanza, Paz y Libertad (EPL) Hoyte, Desmond, 156, 157, 164 Ilón, Gaspar. See Asturias, Rodrigo Independent Democratic Pole. See Polo Democrático Independiente (PDI) Indigenous Social Alliance Movement. See Movimiento Alianza Social Indígena (ASI) Indo-Guyanese, 152, 153, 157, 177, 179, 182, 343 Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP), 200 International Monetary Fund (IMF), 157, 164, 165, 166, 181, 182, 184, 208, 265, 301, 310, 314, 316, 319, 345, 354 Iraq, 198 Irish Republican Army (IRA), 5, 198 Jagan, Cheddi, 3, 25, 149, 151, 153, 156, 159, 164, 176, 179, 181, 182, 184, 308, 326, 342, 343, 353 Janet, 176 Jarquín, Edmundo, 23, 58 Jorge Soto, 71, 84, 87 July 26th Movement (M26J), 203 Junta de Gobierno de Reconstrucción Nacional (JGRN), 28, 30 Kasrils, Ronnie, 215 Kuwait, 198

Index Kwazakele, 215, 220, 224, 225 KwazuNatal, 200 leadership, 13, 17, 22, 35, 37, 41, 53, 60, 65, 71, 87, 94, 104, 112, 113, 131, 151, 153, 159, 171, 174, 176, 177, 179, 189, 191, 193, 195, 199, 200, 202, 209, 210, 213, 216, 219, 229, 230, 232, 255, 257, 258, 260, 261, 262, 263, 270, 272, 273, 274, 276, 277, 278, 287, 304, 311, 324, 326, 330 Lenin, V.I., 206, 212, 224 Lewities, Herty, 47 Lima, Turcios, 66, 91 M-19 Democratic Alliance. See Alianza Democrática M-19 (AD M-19) Mandela, Nelson, 189, 191, 193, 195, 197, 198, 206, 208, 209, 210, 219, 220, 223, 346, 347 Manley, Michael, 159, 179 Manuel, Trevor, 71, 123, 208, 210, 224 Mbeki, Thabo, 189, 195, 197, 204, 206, 210, 214, 215, 220, 222, 224, 331, 340 media, 10, 20, 23, 25, 32, 58, 59, 64, 74, 75, 90, 103, 104, 109, 112, 123, 126, 131, 137, 138, 140, 142, 144, 146, 179, 181, 182, 184, 186, 208, 214, 219, 220, 222, 224, 226, 238, 244, 245, 246, 248, 256, 281, 282, 283, 284, 303, 311, 330, 331, 333, 334, 335, 337, 339, 340, 341, 342, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347, 348, 349, 350, 352, 353, 354, 355, 356, 358 Mitrione, Daniel, 101 Monsanto, Pablo. See Jorge Soto Montealgre, Eduardo, 23 Montenegro, Nineth, 85 Montt, Gen. Efraín Ríos, 93 Morán, Rolando. See Ramírez de León, Ricardo Arnoldo

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271

Movement for Democratic Change (MDC), 232, 240, 241, 249 Movimento Popular da Libertação de Angola (MPLA), 4, 7, 15, 19, 195, 285, 286, 287, 288, 290, 291, 293, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300, 301, 302, 303, 305, 307, 308, 314, 316, 322 Movimento Popular de Libertação de Angola (MPLA), 4, 195, 285, 305 Movimiento 19 de Abril (M-19), 4, 111, 112, 113, 118, 119, 120, 122, 126, 131, 133, 139, 140, 144, 146, 334, 356 Movimiento Alianza Social Indígena (ASI), 122, 128, 130, 131, 134, 135, 140, 144 Movimiento de Liberación Nacional (MLN-Tupamaros), 3, 16, 79, 96, 97, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 108, 109, 306, 319, 321, 326, 344 Movimiento Renovador Sandinista (MRS), 23, 43, 44, 45, 47, 49, 58 Movimiento Vía Alterna, 126 Mozambican National Resistance. See Resistência Nacional Moçambicana (RENAMO) MPLA. See Movimento Popular da Libertação de Angola (MPLA) MRS. See Movimiento Renovador Sandinista Mugabe, Robert, 20, 230 Mujica, José (Pepe), 97 National Constitutional Assembly (NCA), 240, 249 national democracy, 151, 163, 164, 166, 319 National Directorate, FSLN, 35, 55, 59, 73 National Economic Development & Labor Council (NEDLAC), 212

272

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Index

National Front for the Liberation of Angola. See Frente Nacional de Libertação de Angola (FNLA) National Front for the Liberation of Congo. See Front National pour la Libération du Congo (FNLC) National Liberation Army. See Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN) National Liberation Party. See Partido Liberación Nacional (PLN) National Party (NP), 106, 188, 191, 193, 195, 197, 198, 200 National Union for the Total Independence of Angola. See União Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola (UNITA) National Union of the Opposition (UNO), 34, 35, 36, 43, 44, 56 Nationalist Liberal Party, 53 neoliberalism, 9, 19, 79, 87, 120, 149, 151, 168, 179, 208, 213, 217, 219, 258, 330 nepotism, 265 Neto, Agostinho, 286, 287 Netshitenzhe, Joel, 215 New Global Order, 181 New Guatemala Democratic Front. See Frente Democrático Nueva Guatemala (FDNG) New Progressive Agenda, 204 New York Accord, 294 Nicaraguan Liberal Alliance. See Alianza Liberal Nicaragüense (ALN) Nkomo, Joshua, 230 non-governmental organization (NGO), 235, 236, 237, 238, 240, 241, 247, 248, 249, 250, 310, 311, 334, 336, 337 Nqakula, Charles, 215 Obando y Bravo, Cardinal Miguel, 37 Omai, 168, 169 Operación Victoria, 68

Organización del Pueblo en Armas (ORPA), 66, 67, 68, 70, 71, 74, 91, 93 Organization of African Unity (OAU), 229, 287 Organization of the People in Arms. See Organización del Pueblo en Armas (ORPA) Ortega, Daniel, 21, 22, 23, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 45, 47, 49, 53, 57, 58, 60, 316 Danielistas, 42 Ortega-Alemán Pact, 28, 62 Oslo Accord, 75 Pacheco Areco, Jorge, 101, 102 Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), 4, 198 Pan Africanist Congress, 189 Partido Comunista de Angola (PCA), 286 Partido da Luta Unida dos Africanos de Angola (PLUA), 286 Partido Guatemalteco del Trabajo (PGT), 65, 66, 67, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 79, 87, 90, 91, 93 Partido Liberación Nacional (PLN), 26 Partido Liberal Constitucionalista (PLC), 21, 23, 37, 39, 42, 43, 44, 47, 49, 53, 55, 62 Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores (PRT), 118, 122, 127, 128, 134, 141, 144 Patriotic Union. See Unión Patriótica (UP) Patrullas de Autodefensa Civil (PACs), 69, 92, 93, 189, 215, 328 People’s Front for Democracy and Justice (PFDJ), 230, 232, 239, 242, 246, 250, 305 People’s National Congress (PNC), 151, 152, 154, 156, 157, 159, 160, 164, 168, 171, 172, 177, 179, 181, 183, 184, 186, 310, 324 Reform, 151, 156, 177, 181

Index People’s Progressive Party (PPP), 3, 7, 16, 17, 148, 149, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 162, 163, 164, 166, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 174, 176, 177, 179, 181, 182, 184, 305, 306, 308, 319, 324, 326 Civic, 148, 160, 181 Persian Gulf War, 198 Plan 2015, 210 Policy Network, 204 Polo Democrático (PD), 111, 131, 146, 350 Polo Democrático Alternativo (PDA), 111, 131, 132, 134, 135, 137, 146, 147, 350 Polo Democrático Independiente (PDI), 131, 146, 350 Popular Liberation Army. See Ejército Popular de Liberación (EPL) Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola. See Movimento Popular da Libertação de Angola (MPLA) Port Elizabeth, 200, 214, 215, 216, 220, 222, 224, 226 Portugal, 283, 290, 291, 298, 339 Poverty Reduction Strategy, 166 Pretoria, 217 privatization, 19, 168, 217, 255, 274, 275, 302, 323 Proletarian Tendency, 26 Quintín Lame, 118, 140 Ramírez de León, Ricardo Arnoldo, 91, 337 Ramírez, Sergio, 35, 36 Reagan, Ronald, 191 Rebel Armed Forces. See Armadas Rebeldes (FAR) Reconstruction and Development (RDP), 208 Redebe, Jeff, 215 RENAMO. See Resistência Nacional Moçambicana (RENAMO)

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273

Resistência Nacional Moçambicana (RENAMO), 8, 17, 19, 151, 252, 253, 254, 255, 258, 260, 261, 263, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 272, 275, 276, 277, 278, 279, 280, 282, 283, 284, 323, 324, 346, 355 Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. See Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC) rights human, 66, 75, 77, 78, 85, 93, 94, 104, 107, 108, 112, 113, 122, 135, 310 women’s, 20 Rizo, Jose, 23 Rodney, Walter, 172, 184, 344 Russia, 202 Samper, Ernest, 124 Sandinista Assembly, 35, 59 Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) See Sandinista National Liberation Front, 2, 6, 13, 21, 22, 24, 26, 28, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 45, 49, 51, 53, 54, 55, 59, 62, 77, 88, 90, 198, 316 Sandinista Renewal Movement. See Movimiento Renovador Sandinista (MRS) Sanguinetti, Julio Maria, 105 Savimbi, Jonas, 285, 303 Shilowa, Mbhazima, 213 Shining Path of Peru, 198 Sithole, Ndabaningi, 230 Slovo, Joe, 195, 220 Social and Political Front. See Frente Social y Politico (FSP) See Frente Social y Politico (FSP), 126 social democracy, 32, 41, 86, 119, 163, 204, 206, 228, 313, 318, 321, 330 Socialist Renovation Current. See Corriente de Renovación Socialista (CRS)

274

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Index

Solana, Javier, 206 Somoza García, Anastasio, 26, 27, 30, 42, 52, 55, 62, 203, 314, 316 South African Communist Party (SACP), 195, 197, 200, 206, 207, 208, 210, 214, 215, 216, 217, 220, 222 South African Defense Forces (SADF), 291, 293 South African National Civic Organization (SANCO), 200 South West Africa Peoples Organization (SWAPO), 4, 195, 292, 295, 331, 345 Soweto Electricity Crisis Committee, 217 students, 30, 67, 105, 112, 163, 235, 237, 242, 261 SWAPO. See South West Africa Peoples Organization (SWAPO) Swedish Social Democrats, 206 Tambo, Oliver, 189, 193 Terceristas (The Third Way), 17, 26, 204, 206, 219, 222, 318 Third Way, The See Terceristas (The Third Way), 204, 222 Thomas, Clive, 154, 158, 177, 182, 222, 281, 303, 341, 354, 360 Treatment Action Committee (TAC), 217 Tricontinental Conference, Havana, 189, 220 Tripartite Alliance, 223 Tupamaros. See Movimiento de Liberacion Nacional (MLNTupamaros) Turok, Ben, 215, 226 UN Observation Mission in Mozambique (UNOMOZ), 267 União dos Povos de Angola (UPA), 287 União Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola (UNITA), 15, 288

União Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola (UNITA), 7, 15, 288, 291, 293, 295, 302, 303 Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca (URNG), 4, 7, 13, 16, 67, 69, 71, 72, 73, 75, 77, 78, 79, 82, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 91, 93, 94, 149, 306, 308, 310, 321, 328 Unión Camilista-Ejército de Liberación Nacional (UC-ELN), 118 Union of the Peoples of Angola. See União dos Povos de Angola (UPA) Unión Patriótica (UP), 3, 7, 111, 113, 115, 116, 120, 122, 123, 126, 128, 130, 132, 134, 138, 142, 144, 306, 328, 339 UNITA. See União Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola (UNITA) United Democratic Front (UDF), 191 United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia. See Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (AUC) University of the Western Cape, 202 UPA. See União dos Povos de Angola (UPA) URNG. See Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca (URNG) US Government. See USA USA, 22, 38, 48, 49, 55, 57, 59, 62, 64, 96, 101, 107, 108, 130, 137, 139, 144, 156, 157, 160, 182, 186, 191, 197, 198, 204, 219, 220, 224, 249, 283, 288, 310, 316, 333, 334, 335, 336, 337, 339, 342, 353 USSR, 17, 19, 102, 164, 168, 189, 197, 198, 204, 288, 290, 300, 301, 308 Vázquez, Tabaré, 16, 97, 105, 106, 107, 108 Venezuela, 48, 49, 53, 57, 97, 316, 330, 331, 341, 347 verticalism, 10, 11, 17, 41, 53 Vietnam Syndrome, 198 Virgilio Barco, 115, 116, 118

Index Washington. See USA Washington Consensus, 204, 224 West Germany, 197 Wilson, Harold, 16, 110, 137, 139, 142, 206, 310, 328, 334, 335, 339, 356, 360 Workers Revolutionary Party. See Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores (PRT) Working People’s Alliance (WPA), 172, 174, 177 World Bank, 165, 166, 181, 184, 208, 265, 301, 345, 356 Yeltsin, Boris, 198

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275

Zaire, 245, 290, 291 ZANU. See Zimbabwe African National Union—Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF) ZAPU. See Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU) Zimbabwe African National Union— Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF), 8, 17, 20, 230, 232, 233, 235, 238, 239, 240, 241, 249, 306, 322 Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU), 230, 232, 233, 245, 322 Zimbabwe National Liberation War Veterans Association (ZNLWVA), 239