Ex-Combatants’ Voices: Transitioning from War to Peace in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka (Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict) [1st ed. 2021] 3030615650, 9783030615659

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN COMPROMISE AFTER CONFLICT

Ex-Combatants’ Voices

Transitioning from War to Peace in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka Edited by  John D. Brewer · Azrini Wahidin

Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict

Series Editor John D. Brewer Queen’s University Belfast Belfast, UK

This series aims to bring together in one series scholars from around the world who are researching the dynamics of post-conflict transformation in societies emerging from communal conflict and collective violence. The series welcomes studies of particular transitional societies emerging from conflict, comparative work that is cross-national, and theoretical and conceptual contributions that focus on some of the key processes in post-conflict transformation. The series is purposely interdisciplinary and addresses the range of issues involved in compromise, reconciliation and societal healing. It focuses on interpersonal and institutional questions, and the connections between them. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14641

John D. Brewer  •  Azrini Wahidin Editors

Ex-Combatants’ Voices Transitioning from War to Peace in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka

Editors John D. Brewer Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice Queen’s University Belfast Belfast, UK

Azrini Wahidin Department of Sociology University of Warwick Coventry, UK

Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict ISBN 978-3-030-61565-9    ISBN 978-3-030-61566-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

For John’s grandchildren Matilda, Tobias, Merryn, Juliet and Theo In the hope they never have to live through what their parents and grandparents did and For Azrini’s mother Che Mah Wahidin and her sister Wan-Nita, for their love and friendship.

Series Editor’s Preface: Palgrave Studies in Compromise After Conflict

Compromise is a much used but little understood term. There is a sense in which it describes a set of feelings (the so-called spirit of compromise) that involve reciprocity, representing the agreement to make mutual concessions towards each other from now on: no matter what we did to each other in the past, we will act towards each other in the future differently as set out in the agreement between us. The compromise settlement can be a spit and a handshake, much beloved in folklore, or a legally binding statute with hundreds of clauses. As such, it is clear that compromise enters into conflict transformation at two distinct phases. The first is during the conflict resolution process itself, where compromise represents a willingness amongst parties to negotiate a peace agreement that represents a second-best preference in which they give up their first preference (victory) in order to cut a deal. A great deal of literature has been produced in Peace Studies and International Relations on the dynamics of the negotiation process and the institutional and governance structures necessary to consolidate the agreement afterwards. Just as important, however, is compromise in the second phase, when compromise is part of post-conflict reconstruction, in which protagonists come to learn to live together despite their former enmity and in face of the atrocities perpetrated during the conflict itself. In the first phase, compromise describes reciprocal agreements between parties to the negotiations in order to make political concessions vii

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sufficient to end conflict; in the second phase, compromise involves victims and perpetrators developing ways of living together in which concessions are made as part of shared social life. The first is about compromises between political groups and the state in the process of state-building (or re-building) after the political upheavals of communal conflict, and the second is about compromises between individuals and communities in the process of social healing after the cultural trauma provoked by the conflict. This book series primarily concerns itself with the second process, the often messy and difficult job of reconciliation, restoration and repair in social and cultural relations following communal conflict. Communal conflicts and civil wars tend to suffer from the narcissism of minor differences, to coin Freud’s phrase, leaving little to be split halfway and compromise on, and thus are usually especially bitter. The series therefore addresses itself to the meaning, manufacture and management of compromise in one of its most difficult settings. This book series is cross-­ national and cross-disciplinary, with attention paid to inter-personal reconciliation at the level of everyday life, as well as culturally between social groups, and the many sorts of institutional, inter-personal, psychological, sociological, anthropological and cultural factors that assist and inhibit societal healing in all post-conflict societies, historically and in the present. It focuses on what compromise means when people have to come to terms with past enmity and the memories of the conflict itself and relate to former protagonists in ways that consolidate the wider political agreement. This sort of focus has special resonance and significance for peace agreements is usually very fragile. Societies emerging out of conflict are subject to ongoing violence from spoiler groups who are reluctant to give up on first preferences, constant threats from the outbreak of renewed violence, institutional instability, weakened economies and a wealth of problems around transitional justice, memory, truth recovery and victimhood, amongst others. Not surprisingly therefore, reconciliation and healing in social and cultural relations are difficult to achieve, not least because inter-personal compromise between erstwhile enemies is difficult. Lay discourse picks up on the ambivalent nature of compromise after conflict. It is talked about in common sense in one of two ways, in which

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compromise is either a virtue or a vice, taking its place among the angels or in Hades. One form of lay discourse likens concessions to former protagonists with the idea of restoration of broken relationships and societal and cultural reconciliation, in which there is a sense of becoming (or returning) to wholeness and completeness. The other form of lay discourse invokes ideas of appeasement, of being compromised by the concessions, which constitute a form of surrender and reproduce (or disguise) continued brokenness and division. People feel they continue to be beaten by the sticks which the concessions have allowed others to keep; with restoration, however, weapons are turned truly in ploughshares. Lay discourse suggests, therefore, that these are issues that the Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict series must begin to problematise, so that the process of societal healing is better understood and can be assisted and facilitated by public policy and intervention. The contribution of one significant stakeholder to this process of compromise—that of ex-combatants—goes mostly unheralded. To their supporters they are martyrs and heroes; to their detractors they are demons. What this volume calls the ‘martyr-hero-demon syndrome’ is, the editors’ point out, an unfruitful lens through which to understand ex-­combatants, and the volume advocates a more nuanced moral framework to locate the transition they have made from war to peace. It is a compelling book because it deals with the messy and complex issue of the morality of political violence and the social and emotional reintegration of those responsible for it. This gives the volume a high level of originality. The ‘martyr-hero-demon syndrome’ also fails to capture that most people do not emotionally engage them as martyrs, heroes or demons, but are simply indifferent to ex-combatants. There is an understandable sense in which ordinary people’s indifference makes them reluctant to applaud those who give up on the military struggle, since, they argue, they should never have taken up arms in the first place. This view is naïve and misplaced. Violence can be virtuous and necessary, especially in the context of decolonisation, human rights abuses, extreme structural inequality and repression. This naivety does mean, however, that militant groups never get the credit they deserve for shifting to a political strategy. In cases where they win, the new regime can quickly move on from war economies and war politics, finding ex-combatants an inconvenience, in

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much the same way they find victims problematic. Post-apartheid South Africa comes closest to this case. When they lose, ex-combatants face a double bind, since criminalisation, social ostracism, rejection and neglect are added to the loss, as in Sri Lanka. In cases where there is a negotiated second-preference political settlement, ex-combatants have an ambiguous status as a painful reminder of the legacy of war. This ambiguity is especially problematic where the mutually agreed settlement is fragile and contested. Ex-combatants in these circumstances become the focus of the contestation over the morality of the war and whether the violence was worth it. Northern Ireland represents such a case. The latest volume in this series, which addresses ex-combatants in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka, therefore has unusual pertinence since the position and status of ex-combatants in each country are quite different. Another significant contribution made by this book is the way it complements two earlier volumes in the series that captured the voices of victims in the same three case countries. Cross-national comparisons are useful in peace research but rarely attempted, often because peace processes are quite different, and the comparisons made here with respect to the status and position of ex-combatants in these three countries allow contrasts to be drawn between the perspectives of victims and combatants in the three places, and their differences. Another theme of the volume makes for an even stronger justification for addressing ex-combatants, which is its focus on the transition many ex-combatants make toward engagement with peace. They can become, in the words of some authors, ‘peace warriors’, struggling as hard to consolidate conflict transformation as they once did in combat. Ex-combatants are often a significant constituency in support of political solutions and many become active in the search for compromise. Their involvement in ‘bottom up’ restorative justice programmes is well documented. It often takes someone who fights a war to see its emotional costs; bystanders can be the most belligerent and uncompromising. For this reason, many of the chapters in this volume address the emotional landscape of ex-­ combatants and give voice to the costs ex-combatants’ military engagements caused them and to their desire for peace. Ex-combatants are very heterogeneous as a category, and a further strength of this volume is the distinction it makes between types of former

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combatants, including, for perhaps the first time, a comparison between the lived experiences of state veterans and non-state combatants. Significant differences are shown to exist in the re-integration process back into society of former girl child soldiers, men, women and state veterans, as well as between the three case countries themselves. The parallels and the differences the authors identify on all these points of comparison make this a very useful volume and readers will find very much of interest in it. A purple thread running throughout is the importance of considering gender when capturing the voices of ex-combatants; the editors make no apology for this. As the chapters richly show, militarised hyper-­ masculinities are a feature of most male combatants, and women ex-­ combatants tend to be silenced as a result. It is thus important to hear the voices of both men and women. Readers should be warned that this book deals with issues that are controversial. Arguing that political violence can be both virtuous and necessary will be troublesome to pacifists and to political opponents, but this volume does not focus only on the revolutionary ‘voice’ but on all those who have taken up arms, including state veterans. It is original to consider non-state veterans and state veterans together. This book is also pioneering in bringing together experiences from the Global North and the Global South, without giving preference to either one. This volume therefore collects together researchers from across the generations and the Global North-South divide, in a way that promotes excellent scholarship from young researchers in the Global South. The editors are aware that one of the weaknesses of edited collections is that they can be disjointed inasmuch as the individual chapters are written independently. To facilitate cross-referencing, the editors have provided a conclusion that draws the arguments together and added an introductory note to each chapter that ‘frames’ the issues it raises in the light of other contributions. As Series Editor I very warmly welcome this latest addition to the Series. Belfast, UK September 2020

John D. Brewer

Contents

1 Introduction  1 John D. Brewer and Azrini Wahidin 2 Listening to Ex-combatants’ Voices 11 John D. Brewer Part I Voices from Northern Ireland and Britain  35 3 Female Ex-combatants in the Irish Republican Army and the Rocky Road to Peace 37 Azrini Wahidin 4 The Experiences of Loyalist Ex-combatants on Their Journey from Conflict to Peace 63 David Magee 5 ‘Sin by Silence’: The Claims to Moral Legitimacy Amongst Northern Irish Paramilitaries 93 John D. Brewer

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6 British Counter-Insurgency Veterans in Afghanistan123 John D. Brewer and Stephen Herron Part II Voices from South Africa 149 7 Contested Voices of Former Combatants in PostApartheid South Africa151 Malose Langa, Godfrey Maringira, and Modiefe Merafe 8 The Lives of Women Ex-combatants in Post-Apartheid South Africa179 Siphokazi Magadla 9 ‘Why Did I Die?’: South African Defence Force Conscripts Pre- and Post-1994207 Wilhelm Verwoerd and Theresa Edlmann 10 An African Comparison: Girl Soldiers Returning from a Rebel Group in Northern Uganda237 Allen Kiconco Part III Voices from Sri Lanka 263 11 Reflections on the Role of Female Cadres in the LTTE265 Bhavani Fonseka 12 Media Representations of Women Ex-combatants in Sri Lanka287 Ashleigh McFeeters 13 Concluding Reflections315 Azrini Wahidin Index341

Notes on Contributors

John  D.  Brewer  is Professor of Post-Conflict Studies in the Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice at Queen’s University Belfast and Honorary Professor Extraordinary at Stellenbosch University. He is a member of the Royal Irish Academy, a fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, the Academy of Social Sciences and the Royal Society of Arts. He is also a member of the UN Roster of Global Experts and former President of the British Sociological Association. He has been awarded an honorary doctorate by Brunel University for services to social science. He is author or co-author of 16 books and editor or co-editor of a further six. He is writing a commissioned introduction to the sociology of peace processes for Edward Elgar Publishers, and with Stephen Herron a volume on the emotional labour of counter-insurgency soldiering. Theresa Edlmann  is National Programmes Manager at the Black Sash Trust in Cape Town and a research associate in the History Department at Stellenbosch University, South Africa. Her most recent publication is Zonnebloem College and the Genesis of an African Intelligentsia (1857–1933), which she co-authored with Janet Hodgson. Theresa’s PhD, Negotiating Historical Continuities in Contested Terrain: A Narrative-Based Reflection on the Post-Apartheid Psychosocial Legacies of Conscription into the South African Defence Force, was based at Rhodes University. While busy with xv

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her PhD, she established the interdisciplinary Legacies of Apartheid Wars Project, with the aim of facilitating dialogues between people caught up in apartheid era violence in Southern Africa. Prior to that she was involved in teaching, supervising and facilitating a range of programmes and courses at Rhodes, incorporating Drama, Education, History and Psychology, as well as founding and directing an NGO called The Spirals Trust. Using creative narrative-based approaches as the core focus of her professional career, she has also worked in the fields of human rights, transformation and inclusivity, community development, transitional justice, teacher training, alternatives to violence, mentoring emerging leaders and organisational development. Bhavani  Fonseka  is a senior researcher and attorney at Law with the Centre for Policy Alternatives, a think tank in Sri Lanka, with a focus on research, national and international advocacy and public interest litigation. Her work has revolved around assisting victims and affected populations across Sri Lanka, legal and policy reforms and public interest litigation (PIL) cases. She is the editor of the book Transitional Justice in Sri Lanka: Moving Beyond Promises. She was an adviser to the Consultation Taskforce appointed by the Government of Sri Lanka in 2016 and a member of the drafting committee to formulate the National Human Rights Action Plan for Sri Lanka for the period 2017–2021. Stephen Herron  is an anthropologist specialising in the study of conflict, military and veterans’ issues. He is a Post-Doctoral Research Fellow at the Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice at Queen’s University Belfast. Dr Herron is co-investigator on a project led by John Brewer, which is researching the reintegration experiences of UK ex-armed forces personnel who have experienced ‘negative transitioning’, namely, those who have suffered mental health issues, been in prison and/or been homeless. This research, the first major UK wide qualitative study of its kind on negative transitioning veterans, follows on from a previous project involving Herron as co-­investigator which examined how counter-insurgency warfare impacts on the postdeployment reintegration experiences of British land-based military personnel, also led by John Brewer.

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Allen  Kiconco is a postdoctoral fellow at the University of Witwatersrand. She holds a PhD in African Studies (2015) from the University of Birmingham. Allen works on the lived experiences of women and girls in both conflict and post-conflict settings of Africa, including abduction, sexual violence and forced marriage. Her work includes extensive fieldwork with ex-combatants and sexual violence survivors in Uganda and Sierra Leone. Her monograph ‘Conflict, Reintegration and Gender in Uganda: Returning Home?’ is under contract with Routledge. Malose  Langa is an associate professor and a senior lecturer in Department of Psychology at the University of Witwatersrand. He is also a senior researcher at the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation (CSVR), as well as an associate researcher at the Society, Work and Development Institute (SWOP) at the University of Witwatersrand. His research interests include collective trauma, violence, masculinity and youth at risk. He is the author of the book, Becoming Men: Black Masculinities in a New South African Township. Siphokazi Magadla  is Senior Lecturer in the Political and International Studies department at Rhodes University, Makhanda, South Africa. She worked previously as a research consultant for the Security Sector Governance programme of the Institute for Security Studies in Pretoria, focusing on the role of women in peace and security. She holds a BA (Hons) in Political and International Studies from Rhodes University. She was awarded the Fulbright Scholarship to pursue a Master’s Degree in International Affairs at Ohio University, USA. Her PhD examined the state-assisted integration of women ex-combatants into civilian life in post-apartheid South Africa. She was a fellow of the Social Science Research Council’s Next Generation Social Sciences in Africa Fellowship Program in 2013–2014. She is a Board Member and Book Review Editor of the Journal of Contemporary African Studies (JCAS). She is the 2018 recipient of the Rhodes University Vice-Chancellor’s Distinguished Teaching Award. David Magee  works for the Joseph Rowntree Charitable Trust, where he has responsibilities for the Peace and Security and Northern Ireland

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grant programme, although he writes here in a private capacity. Before taking this role, he worked for the International Committee of the Red Cross, after being awarded a PhD from the University of Aberdeen in 2013, which explored the deconstruction of Loyalist military masculinities. David’s earlier career includes over a decade working in the community and voluntary sectors in Northern Ireland. He has worked with young people, women’s groups, migrant workers, restorative justice groups and in cross-community education. His experience includes working formally and informally with both Loyalist and Republican armed groups for humanitarian and peacebuilding purposes. David studied Theology and Psychology at the University of Southampton, and completed an MPhil from Queen’s University Belfast on Martin Luther King’s Philosophy of Nonviolence. This interest in Kingian nonviolence continues to inform his work. David’s other interests include Northern Ireland, masculinities, social transformation and peace processes. Godfrey Maringira  is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Sol Plaatje University, Kimberley, Northern Cape, South Africa. He is a research associate at the University of Johannesburg, South Africa, Anthropology and Development Department. He is a senior research fellow at Volkswagen Stiftung Foundation and is also a principal investigator of the International Development Research Center (IDRC) research on gang violence in South Africa. His areas of research include armed violence in Africa with a specific focus on the military in post-­colonial Africa. His 2017 African Affairs Journal article ‘Politicisation and resistance in the Zimbabwe national Army’ was awarded the best author price in 2018. In 2020, he was awarded the Benedict Vilakazi best author price, African Studies Journal (Routledge), for his article titled: ‘When combatants became peaceful: Azania People Liberation Army ex-­combatants in postapartheid South Africa’. He is the author of Soldiers and the State in Zimbabwe (2019). Ashleigh  McFeeters is postdoctoral fellow on the ESRC project Apologies, Abuses and Dealing with the Past at The Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice and School of Law at Queen’s University Belfast. This project examines the role of apologies for victims of institutional child sex abuse, the Troubles and the

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banking crisis on the island of Ireland. Ashleigh received her PhD from Queen’s in Sociology under the supervision of Prof John Brewer and Dr Julia Paul. Her thesis investigated the role of the news in peace-­building by examining representations of female ex-combatants in Northern Ireland and Sri Lanka and is being published as Gender and Conflict Transformation in the News—A Study of Northern Ireland and Sri Lanka by Palgrave Macmillan. She holds an MA in Comparative Ethnic Conflict from Queen’s and a BA (Hons) in English Studies from Trinity College Dublin. Modiefe Merafe  is a senior community facilitator at the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation (CSVR). He has worked with communities in preventing violence and addressing its consequences. Modiefe has worked mainly with, among others, the South African ex-­combatants, ordinary men, women and unemployed youth. The focus of his work has been around gender-based violence (GBV), state-sponsored violence, youth violence, collective violence and peacebuilding. Modiefe studied Community Development at the University of South Africa (UNISA). Wilhelm  Verwoerd  is a senior research associate and a facilitator at Studies in Historical Trauma and Transformation, Stellenbosch University, and a teaching associate at Trinity College, Dublin. As a white, Afrikaans, speaking South African, a former researcher within the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (1995–1998) and a peace practitioner in (Northern) Ireland (2001–2012), Wilhelm is devoted to (re) humanisation/reconciliation in contexts of deep political division. He is working on a book based on an international ‘Beyond Dehumanisation’ reflective learning project with ex-combatants and survivors from the conflict in and about Northern Ireland, Israel-­Palestine, South Africa and the USA. His main research interests include the (incomplete legacy of the) South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission; shared historical responsibility of white South Africans for apartheid and colonialism; relational processes to transform (white) resistance to social justice in post-1994 South Africa; embodied spirituality of authentic reconciliation. Many of these interests feature in a recent memoir, Verwoerd: My Journey through Family Betrayals (2019).

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Azrini  Wahidin is Professor of Sociology and Criminology at the University of Warwick and a visiting professor in the Faculty of Law, University of Malaya. She is a fellow of the Academy of Social Sciences and the Royal Society of Arts. She is author, co-author and editor of 15 books. She is the Programme Director for the Sociology and Criminology Programme at the University of Warwick and the Director for Internationalisation, Chair of the Ethics Committee for the British Society of Criminology and REF panel member for UOA 20: Social Policy. Her latest single-­authored book, Ex-Combatants, Gender and Peace in Northern Ireland—Women, Political Protest and the Prison Experience, focused on female former politically motivated prisoners and the role of transitional justice. It was the largest study to be conducted on the experiences of former members of the Irish Republican Army (IRA).

1 Introduction John D. Brewer and Azrini Wahidin

Introduction This edited collection is a compendium volume to two books published by Palgrave in 2018 from the Leverhulme Trust-funded research programme called Compromise after Conflict, which covered Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka. The books in different ways addressed the voices of victims. The Sociology of Everyday Life Peacebuilding (Brewer 2018b) and The Sociology of Compromise after Conflict (Brewer et  al. 2018a) used victims’ voices to claim that victims had an ‘absent presence’ in peace processes; talked about aplenty but rarely heard from directly.

J. D. Brewer (*) Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice, Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected] A. Wahidin Department of Sociology, University of Warwick, Coventry, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_1

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These volumes argued that victims needed to be mainstreamed in peace processes because they have a remarkable—and largely unexpected— capacity to be moral beacons, able to engage in modes of reasoning and everyday practices that supported peacebuilding in the three case countries covered by the research programme. The two volumes made a strong case that victims’ voices should be heard above those who deign to speak on their behalf, for when we listen to ordinary victims, the majority have an emotional empathy with the erstwhile enemy that makes them an example of everyday peacebuilding and compromise that others might follow. We might call this the dignity of ordinary victims. The current volume is complementary because it seeks to give voice to ex-combatants from the same three case countries, with one comparative case from elsewhere in the Global South. It has not emerged from the Leverhulme-funded research team, which was led by John Brewer as Principal Investigator, but from an idea suggested to him by Azrini Wahidin, whose pioneering work on women in the IRA was published as part of the Palgrave Studies in Compromise After Conflict Book Series (Wahidin 2016), which grew from the Leverhulme Trust research programme. The two editors have a long-time friendship and collaboration. This volume on the voices of ex-combatants therefore owes its impulse to the two compendium volumes on victims’ voices, for the two editors of this volume aspire to give the same voice to ex-combatants as the earlier volumes did to victims. This volume has the same intellectual interest and motivation of its predecessors, therefore, in centring ex-combatants’ voices, their lived experiences, emotional landscape and their contributions to the respective peace processes in the three cases and elsewhere. However, this volume is much more than a compendium. The focus on ex-combatants in South Africa, Northern Ireland and South Africa has value in its own right. There is intellectual coherence in the comparison. Ex-combatant issues in these three societies operate within a common legacy: the shadow of empire, a long political struggle of decolonisation, the material struggle against social injustice and inequality that marks the colonial experience, and the long and violent nature of their respective wars of independence and decolonisation. Each experienced conflict over what are alleged to be absolutist social cleavages, such as ethnicity (Sri Lanka), ‘race’ (South Africa) and religion (Northern

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Ireland), although in all cases the real division was political and revolved around the legitimacy of the state (for the debate about the political role that religion played in Northern Ireland, see Brewer and Higgins 1998; McGarry and O’Leary 1995; Mitchell 2006). The differences in their respective peace processes—the colonial model of regime change at the top with little change at the bottom (South Africa), a victor’s peace (Sri Lanka) and a negotiated second preference settlement (Northern Ireland)—afford the opportunity also to see whether this has an impact on the lived experiences of former combatants. A comparison of ex-combatant issues in these three societies therefore throws into high relief some key questions about the motivations for engagement in military struggle, what the lived experiences are of the various categories of people who fought in these different kinds of war, and what legacy has been left for former combatants as each country moves forward on different paths. A number of common themes emerge from their comparison which focus the current volume: the nature of their respective demobilisation, demilitarisation and reintegration programmes, and their effectiveness; the effect of ongoing material inequalities faced by ex-combatants as a legacy of colonialism; the impact of masculinity and gender differences on the lived experiences of ex-combatants; the contested victim status of state veterans and ex-combatants’ ambivalent engagements with peace. However, our readers will inevitably ask one question, which was not raised against the earlier two volumes on victims. Why a book on ex-combatants, considered by some as the least morally deserving stakeholder in a peace process? In this Introduction, we want to explain why we need a book on ex-combatants and to outline what is distinctive about this volume. The late Christopher Hill, famous historian of the English civil war and a former Master of Baliol College, Oxford, put it better than we can when he remarked that history has to be rewritten for every generation, for while the past does not change, the present does, and each generation asks new questions and finds new areas of sympathy as it relives different aspects of the experiences of its predecessors. More than a quarter of a century has passed since the ending of apartheid in South Africa; it is nearly as long since the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in Belfast,

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and it is 11 years since the massacre that annihilated the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, bringing an end to its civil war. It is time, thus, for new generations to seek to understand its predecessors who went to war. As Christopher Hill might have put it, are there grounds for new understandings, if not sympathy, for the men, women and children who were combatants in each country’s war? To learn more about these combatants, all this time later, is the purpose of this book.

The Rationale for the Book A book on ex-combatants is important for two reasons: because it is challenging, and the challenge motivates us; but primarily because theirs is a voice relatively neglected, and they need to be heard as much as other stakeholders. Let us deal first with the challenge. Ex-combatants pose a special problem for academic researchers. They invoke moral questions from which academics usually shy away. Whether we like it or not, the very language used to describe ex-combatants is morally loaded—terrorists, perpetrators, victimisers, wrongdoers—and is laden with moral judgement. As perpetrators, they have blood on their hands, forcing upon academics a moral dilemma about whether to engage with them or not. They are not normally, of course, the only ones to have killed; and thus they pose a moral dilemma of a different kind in forcing academics to distinguish between different kinds of perpetrators, choosing which to address and which to ignore. The fact that most perpetrators make moral claims about their motivation for involvement in armed struggle, which form part of the additional claims they make to be considered as victims, also obscures the moral debate surrounding perpetrators. Moreover, the label ‘ex-combatant’ is not solely an abstract one; it refers to living, breathing people, with motivations, hopes, aspirations, fears and problems that are no less real because of the moral judgements made about them. For academics to treat these issues at face value, suspending moral considerations, and to consider ex-combatants as people with voices that need to be heard, is likely to open up researchers to all the moral contempt that some people reserve for certain perpetrators.

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Research on ex-combatants requires otherwise tender academics to have thicker skins than they normally possess, since it is important to move beyond simple moral judgements and assumptions and to hear the voices of those coping on the ground with these problems. The hostility researchers face from a public opinion that resists hearing ex-combatants’ voices only reinforces the need for such an approach. Research work on ex-combatants therefore pales in comparison to that on victims; their voice tends to be even more silent and ignored than victims. In one sense, of course, the field is already saturated with ex-combatants’ voices. A Google search will throw up many tens of thousands of references, but these will be disparate, hard to access, be of widely variable quality and be of multiple different kinds, only a proportion of which will be serious academic treatment. There are biographies aplenty by ex-combatants that glorify, aggrandise and romanticise their lives. YouTube has put these voices also to video and screen. The value of this edited collection is that it draws this focus together between the covers of one volume in a dispassionate manner. Much of the literature on the internet also reflects what in Chap. 2 Brewer calls the ‘martyr-hero-demon syndrome’, making either saints or devils out of combatants. Much of what is written by ex-combatants themselves is so self-aggrandising as to the meaningless to new generations who want to learn something of the life experiences of their predecessors. This syndrome is an inadequate moral framework to capture ex-combatants’ voices. The syndrome is offered as a formula for critiquing public representations of ex-combatants and the whole volume is designed to show the syndrome’s inadequacies as a way of understanding ex-combatants. The politics of victimhood often contests, on moral and political grounds, that perpetrators be considered as moral agents. Their claims to victim status are particularly disputed. It is for this reason that ex-combatants rarely get the credit they deserve for giving up on violence, or for the moral courage they show in face of the threats they face from erstwhile colleagues who continue the military struggle. McEvoy and Shirlow (2009) described ex-combatants as ‘moral agents’ for their engagement with conflict transformation, whereas some victims complain about them receiving credit for something that was wrong in the first

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place. Three points are worth making about this disjuncture. The first concerns perspective. Ex-combatants should be perceived as much in terms of what they do to assist a peaceful future as what they did in the violent past. Secondly, as we shall emphasise shortly, ex-combatants make moral claims that in part deal with culpability, arguing there was little choice but to take up arms. Thirdly, the distinction between victims and perpetrators is rarely simple, for multiple victimhood (Brewer 2010, p. 123ff) can result in groups being victims and perpetrators at the same time (also see Borer 2003). As Jankowitz (2018, p.  97ff) argues with respect to Northern Ireland, the ‘victim-perpetrator paradigm’, as she calls it, constructs them as binary and mutually exclusive categories, when in practice the categories are much more complex and interlinked. While the politics of victimhood leads some stakeholders to deny this penetration and complexity, viewing the categories in morally unambiguous terms between their ‘preferred victims’ and ‘dispreferred perpetrators’ (see Brewer et al. 2018b, p. 38ff for this distinction), this is not how perpetrators—or many victims—view themselves. The aim of this book therefore is to contribute to the developing discourse on the experiences of ex-combatants by bringing together in one volume empirical research on the experiences of different types of former combatants from Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka (with one comparative case from Uganda). The categories of ex-combatant we address here are men, women, child soldiers and state veterans, in the belief that they each have different lived experiences in the transition to peace. This approach helps us isolate the impact on masculinity and gender on ex-combatants’ lives, to explore the stigma faced by child soldiers, and to discuss the problematic status of state veterans. State veterans are not normally considered as ex-combatants in this sense, with the focus usually on combatants from non-state armed groups. Our three case countries throw up interesting questions about state veterans however, about how new regimes treat the state forces of now collapsed governments, and how democratic governments treat soldiers in peacetime. In many ways the lived experiences of state veterans after conflict can be as difficult as are those of non-state actors. Setting their experiences alongside categories more readily recognised as ex-combatants

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allows us to broaden the understanding that new generations can have of their predecessors who were at war. This volume aims to make the reader aware of the experiences of former ex-combatants transitioning from war to peace and to highlight a series of issues this transition throws up for each category. These issues include: their motivations for participation in the military struggle; their lived experiences in transitioning from war to peace; the emotional legacies, if any, of their former involvement in conflict; other social reintegration issues back into civilian status (material, economic, social, cultural, etc.); their ‘techniques of neutralisation’ in their accounts of their involvement as they look back, and the moral claims they make to victimhood status now; their engagement or not with reconciliation and peace today; and their feelings towards the peace process in their case country, such as the enduring legacy of colonialism, trauma and ambivalence towards the settlement. This gives the volume a distinctive focus. It is designed to: • Capture directly the voices of different kinds of ex-combatant in their own words. • Provide the voice of those from below, the rank and file rather than political leaders. • Provide insight into the transition issues facing former ex-combatants across their life course. • Highlight the cultural, societal and emotional issues in the transition from war to peace as they affect ex-combatants. • Explore the various contributions former combatants have made to post-conflict compromise, reconciliation and peacebuilding. • Locate in a single framework the contrasting transition experiences of state veterans and other forms of ex-combatant. • Isolate the gendered and post-colonial legacies of warfare as they continue to impinge on some forms of ex-combatant. In what follows, we iterate the importance of these themes and validate them for different categories of ex-combatants in different national conflicts. While there are numerous cases that could have been chosen to highlight ex-combatants’ voices, we deliberately sought continuity with

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the publications on victims’ voices in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka so as to be able to place the respective voices alongside each other. The chapters therefore take a case study format focusing on our case countries, since this reflects the regional areas of expertise of contributors. We therefore have explicitly not organised this book according to themes, as authors are mostly familiar with their own region of expertise. It is our job as editors in the Conclusion to draw together the themes as they emerge from the individual contributions. Chapters have been specially commissioned from recognised authorities with expertise in the case country. We deliberately neglected to invite some internationally well-known authors however, in order to ensure demographic diversity amongst our contributors, in terms of gender, ethnicity, stage of career and location. We were particularly concerned to invite authors in the Global South from amongst the formerly dispossessed and disadvantaged groups, as well as women. Nonetheless, there are some international scholars of renown amongst the contributors, allowing early career researchers to be published alongside them. Some chapters are written by practitioners in human rights groups, NGOs and in civil society groups, giving the volume the special perspective of that sector.

Bibliography Borer, T. (2003). A Taxonomy of Victims and Perpetrators. Human Rights Quarterly, 25, 1088–1116. Brewer, J. D. (2010). Peace Processes: A Sociological Approach. Cambridge: Polity. Brewer, J. D., Hayes, B., & Teeney, F. (2018a). The Sociology of Compromise after Conflict. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Brewer, J.  D., Hayes, B., Teeney, F., Dudgeon, K., Mueller-Hirth, N., & Wijesinghe, S. (2018b). The Sociology of Everyday Life Peacebuilding. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Brewer, J.  D., & Higgins, G. (1998). Anti-Catholicism in Northern Ireland 1600–1998. London: Macmillan. Jankowitz, S. (2018). The Order of Victimhood. London: Palgrave Macmillan. McEvoy, K., & Shirlow, P. (2009). Re-imagining DDR: Ex-combatants, Leadership and Moral Agency in Conflict Transformation. Theoretical Criminology, 13(1), 31–59.

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McGarry, J., & O’Leary, B. (1995). Explaining Northern Ireland. Oxford: Blackwell. Mitchell, C. (2006). Religion, Identity and Politics in Northern Ireland. Aldershot: Ashgate. Wahidin, A. (2016). Ex-combatants, Gender and Peace in Northern Ireland. London: Palgrave Macmillan.

2 Listening to Ex-combatants’ Voices John D. Brewer

Introduction The focus of this volume is on ex-combatants who have transitioned from war to peace; it does not address combatants who still seek military solutions to political conflicts. This book’s originality lies in the focus on representing ex-combatants’ voices from the wide range of types of former combatant it addresses within the one cover. This chapter elaborates, however, on the challenges that come with writing such a book. The moral contestation around the category means ex-combatants are rarely approached dispassionately. This chapter identifies what it calls the ‘martyr-­hero-demon syndrome’ and suggests that this syndrome is a distorting moral framework with which to capture the lived experiences of ex-combatants transitioning to peace. Just as we now recognise the

J. D. Brewer (*) Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice, Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_2

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complexity of victims’ voices and the positive contribution ordinary victims make as moral beacons to everyday life peacebuilding and compromise, there is need to explore the complexity of ex-combatants’ voices and to establish their contribution or not to peacebuilding. This chapter therefore interrogates the complexity of ex-combatants’ voices by isolating different categories of ex-combatant in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka—men, women, child soldiers and state veterans. The inclusion of state veterans is important, for their lived experiences, reintegration problems, emotional landscape and moral ambiguities are normally overlooked in the ex-combatant literature. State veterans have some parallels with the conventional category of ex-combatants that dominates the research agenda. It is no doubt true that the Andy McNab style of memoir exists aplenty for state veterans, full of self-­aggrandisement and sensationalism, but it is original for us here to include academic research on state veterans alongside the narratives of other categories of militarist.

Research on Ex-combatants There is now a growing academic literature on ex-combatants’ motivations to armed struggle (e.g., Brewer et  al. 2013; Elster 2004) and to commit genocide (Waller 2002), as well as the emotional and material costs of social reintegration back into civilian life after the war is over (e.g., McMullin 2013). Ex-combatants share with victims a personal legacy from the war. Most people in peace processes wish to move on, to ‘get on with their lives’, but ex-combatants and victims alike are often unable to consign their experiences to the past; their lived experiences of transition reflect an ongoing legacy that remains with them. Reintegration is a dominant concern in the ex-combatant literature. Demilitarisation, demobilisation and reintegration (DDR) policies are widely proffered as ways to deal with ex-combatants’ reintegration needs (see Schnabel and Ehrhart 2005). In some cases of regime change after war, a select number of ex-combatants can be absorbed into the defence forces or police, as benefitted some ANC militants in South Africa and ZANUPF in Zimbabwe. This rarely affects them all, leaving some

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resentment from those who do not gain from this reintegration strategy (for the views of one ANC militant in South Africa, see Brewer et  al. 2018b, p.  126). In cases where the regime does not change and ex-­ combatants lose under a victor’s peace, they can be excluded from DDR policies and from material and symbolic reparations, affecting pension rights and rights to memorialisation, amongst many other things (on the case of DDR policies for the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam—LTTE— see Hoglund and Orjuela 2011). In cases where there has been a hotly contested negotiated peace deal, that leaves many unresolved legacy issues, such as in Northern Ireland, ex-combatants tend to become wrapped up in the politics of victimhood and be subjected to considerable hostility from those who oppose the deal. This political opposition adds to their social reintegration difficulties at the level of state policy, affecting employment and education rights and access to material reparations like pensions, although they can be valorised by the community on whose behalf they fought (on the reintegration problems of ex-­combatants in Northern Ireland see as a selection: Gormally 1995; Jamieson 2011; McEvoy and Shirlow 2009; McEvoy et al. 2004; Rolston 2007). This is regardless of the positive contribution to the Good Friday Agreement that is widely acclaimed for Republican ex-combatants in the literature (see McKeown 2001; Shirlow and McEvoy 2008; Shirlow et al. 2012) and the support they receive from nationalist communities (on which see Brewer and Hayes 2015). This is consistent with John Paul Lederach’s claim that ex-combatants as ‘insider partials’, as distinct from ‘outsider neutrals’ as he calls them (1997), have the legitimacy and insider knowledge within the armed struggle to move the whole power base of a militant organisation towards peace. Insider partials form one of the most important constituencies in a peace process when they shift from a military and security mindset towards politics (for an evaluation of the role of insider partials see Svensson and Lindgren 2013). This is one of the reasons why ex-combatants feature so much in ‘bottom up’ restorative justice programmes working with young offenders. Much of this reintegration and DDR literature, however, focuses on male ex-combatants and child soldiers in the Global South. This focus under-emphasises the large number of female ex-combatants who participated in military struggle, as well as conflicts in the Global North,

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such as Nazism and the Holocaust, the Spanish Civil War, the Balkans and Northern Ireland’s so-called Troubles, a euphemism that undervalues the degree of conflict. Female ex-combatants transgress social stereotypes and experience unusual hostility for offending cultural gender norms in addition to whatever criticism they experience for their military engagement. Their challenge to masculinity can marginalise them even amongst their comrades (on sexual violence against female combatants in Colombia for example, see Schwitalla and Dietrich 2007). Accordingly, women ex-­ combatants experience both the war and the peace very differently from men. Some pioneering studies, however, have documented women’s participation in armed struggle (Alison 2009; Cohen 2013; Shekhawat 2015; Thomas and Bond 2015; Wahidin 2016), including in Islamic State (Chatterjee 2016), Northern Ireland (Wahidin 2016), Colombia (Tabak 2011) and Sri Lanka (Alexander 2014; Alison 2004). Shekhawat’s (2015) edited collection on female combatants covers several cases in the Global South, and Gilmartin (2018), by asking what happens to combatant women after the war, argues they are ‘lost in transition’. The impact of cultural norms about gender on transition experiences is addressed in Ashleigh McFeeters’s (2018) analysis of media treatment of female ex-­ combatants in Sri Lanka and Northern Ireland. McFeeters shows how much better represented are LTTE women by the Sri Lankan press than are Republican women in Northern Ireland’s media, affecting both the public perception of their post-conflict contribution and the opportunity to participate in state DDR policies. Child soldiers transgress cultural norms of childhood in the Global North, as well as the indigenous and traditional authority of the elders in the Global South, giving them double sources of stigma (for the case of the double stigma faced by child soldiers in Sierra Leone see Anderson 2018). However, perhaps because child soldiers represent a greater offence to cultural norms in the Global North, they have been of greater interest in the past than female ex-combatants. The literature on child soldiers is extensive (e.g., see Brocklehurst 2006; Denov 2010; Honwana 2007; Lyons 2004; Ozerdem and Podder 2011; Rosen 2007; Trawick 2007). There is even a bibliographic resource collating work on child soldiers (see https://www.questia.com/library/psychology/relationships-and-the-

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family/children/child-soldiers), and an international NGO, Child Soldiers International, advocates on their behalf and produces Annual Global Reports. There is special interest in their reintegration (Wessells 2009) and their processing afterwards through supportive transitional justice mechanisms (Fisher 2013; Nylund 2016; Steinl 2017). Issues of masculinity intrude here as well, but it works out quite differently than for female ex-combatants. Male child soldiers are seen as resolving the transition to manhood through military engagement, while for female ex-combatants, masculinity is something they have to resist from male fighters who themselves treat female ex-combatants unequally. Girl child soldiers are thus one of the most interesting categories of child soldier because masculinity cannot be the explanatory variable. This is why many girl child soldiers were not fighters as such but used as sex objects and mothers, although this is not true for all. This tends to make girl child soldiers the most forgotten of the ‘hidden victims’ of war. However, the ex-combatant literature also excludes another important category. Namely, state veterans, working in the security forces or in pro-­ government militias and paramilitary groups co-opted on behalf of the state, who also experience material and emotional problems in the transition to peace. Kuldip Kaur’s (2003, pp. 61–62) analysis of the Guatemalan peace process, for example, argues that religious conversion by state soldiers to evangelical Protestantism was done to manage the emotional baggage of their former violence by wiping it away under the process of being ‘born again’, blaming it on their former pre-conversion self. As another example of this type of work, Breaking the Silence (2012) collated the testimonies of over a hundred Israeli soldiers in the Occupied Territories revealing opposition to the violence and to Israeli state policy towards Palestinians. If the regime they supported survives the war, state veterans can be treated generously by a grateful state, receiving reparations through pensions and many symbolic forms of commemoration and memorialisation. Tamils in Sri Lanka, for example, are not allowed to memorialise LTTE dead, while memorials to Sinhalese soldiers dominate the landscape in the Tamil regions; and while state veterans get generous pensions, the Tigers do not. This might suggest better reintegration experiences for state veterans than other types of ex-combatant, but state

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veterans often have an ambivalent relationship with the state they served, and can feel insufficiently supported, or even rejected by the state. This is especially so with regime change, in which they now form the vanquished and defeated, such as Afrikaners in South Africa, or are reminders of a dirty war of counter-insurgency, such as pro-government militias in Northern Ireland in the various Loyalist paramilitary groups. Members of pro-government militias can sometimes resist the label of state veteran precisely because the state was always conditional in its co-option, since deniability by the state is necessary to disguise the clandestine links with militias through collusion. Occasionally in the post-conflict phase, the state comes to no longer value the former connection through embarrassment, thus deniability is mobilised in this case to ensure political distance. State veterans in counter-insurgency warfare, the special features of which distinguish them from veterans in conventional forms, are particularly prone to feel they are neglected by a state whose counter-insurgency warfare ended with no resolution and is publicly unpopular. Members of the disbanded Ulster Defence Regiment in Northern Ireland, for example, express such views (see Herron 2014, 2015), and veterans from Britain’s Afghanistan war experience severe reintegration problems (Brewer and Herron 2018). The literature on ex-combatants is thus very uneven in the former combatants it isolates and the issues it addresses. We need to know more about the lived experiences of the different kinds of ex-combatants— men, women, children and state veterans—for differences in how they experience the transition to peace are worth differentiating. This gives merit to the focus on voice and in capturing ex-combatants’ transition experiences in their own words.

Ex-combatant Voices A striking feature of the ex-combatant literature is its focus on men. This is only partly due to the fact that the majority of combatants were male. The patriarchal nature of most social and political systems often provides barriers to women’s involvement in political violence, and when women do engage militarily, this engagement is denied, neglected or explained

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away as abnormal. Having crossed the public-private divide by entering the public sphere and transgressed cultural gender stereotypes, female ex-­ combatants are caricatured and greatly misrepresented. In examining women’s military behaviour and their political activism, research shows that women engage in combative activities for myriad reasons. As Cockburn (2007) attests for feminism generally, female ex-combatants see their engagement as systematic, not contingent or incidental. It is thus very important to isolate the lived experiences of female ex-­ combatants, their transition experiences and their contribution to post-­ conflict recovery. Attention to the lived experiences of male ex-combatants needs to address their involvement in military and political organisation and to tease out the discourses they use to explain their military engagement, the moral and political claims they make to be understood as rational beings rather than as demons, and to be seen in their own way as victims. It is necessary to move beyond the gendered lens that explains men’s involvement as part of ‘toxic’ or ‘hyper’ masculinity, in order to stress the moral and political claims male ex-combatants make to ennoble their participation in the military campaign. The focus must be on their transition experiences as well as their subsequent involvement in peacebuilding, and the moral and political motivations they proffer for their peace making. A central feature of their lived experience under the transition to peace is the enduring legacy of colonialism, as male ex-combatants continue to struggle against the inequalities and injustices that remain despite decolonisation. Children have formed an army of the young in many conflicts and it is necessary to isolate the experiences and difficulties facing child soldiers as they move from a situation of warfare to peace. Child soldiers make two transitions. The obvious one is from war to peace, but the difficulties in this transition are compounded and complicated by the rapid transition from childhood to adulthood provoked by their military involvement. Notions of childhood innocence in the Global North form a cultural and political frame used by Western governments and NGOs to generously assist former child soldiers in their post-war transition to peace, but local cultural notions of adulthood in the Global South, and the status accorded to elders, often cause former child soldiers problems

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in transitioning into adulthood, resulting in various forms of stigma. Local cultural practices in the Global South can restrict male child soldiers’ participation in the public sphere, including in peacebuilding. There are also differences between male and female child soldiers, in that traditional gendered stereotypes often push female child soldiers back into the private domestic sphere, limiting their opportunity to avail social reintegration policies and education, as well as engagement in peace making. It is thus important to represent the quite different lived experiences of child soldiers in transitioning to peace, especially the gendered experiences of male and female child soldiers. Local cultural practices can limit their subsequent engagement in the public sphere, especially with regard to peacebuilding. A post-colonial and gender perspective helps us understand the continuing impact of these local cultural practices on child soldiers. A category that is rarely considered in comparison to the usual types of ex-combatant are state veterans. State veterans are rarely thought of as ex-combatants, and their transition experiences tend to be the most neglected. The transition experiences of state veterans are greatly affected by whether they are formal ex-security force personnel or co-opted paramilitary surrogates and pro-government militias, and whether the state regime remains intact or not after the conflict. If the transition has left the state regime in power, formal ex-security personnel are often lionised as heroes and treated generously in material and symbolic forms afterwards. Paramilitary surrogates less so. The same heroic status can confer on paramilitary members when there is a regime change to which they have contributed. It is important therefore to isolate the different transition experiences of the varying kinds of state veterans and explore the contrasting opportunities they have for subsequent engagement with peace. Their voices need to be heard alongside other types of ex-combatant.

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Isolating the ‘Voice’ of Ex-combatants In recent work on first-generation victims in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka, Brewer et al. (2018b, p. 1) refer to them as having an absent presence, in that they are talked about a great deal but rarely heard from directly themselves. This absent presence applies also to ex-­ combatants. Their voices are rarely heard directly. Their voices tend to be filtered through the political and moral frameworks that make subsequent sense of the conflict, giving others the power to speak on their behalf. Who the winners and losers were in the conflict determines whether those who speak about ex-combatants do so negatively or positively. In most cases, this silences the voice of ex-combatants, since their voice is either lost in a victor’s peace, such that their narratives are unacknowledged and unrecognised, or quickly become an embarrassment and are seen as dysfunctional to the shared future moving forward. There are other reasons for the voicelessness of ex-combatants. Some ex-­combatants are silenced because their war is ongoing or they are subjected to continuing threats and human rights abuses, making it difficult politically to be heard. Others are silenced because the peace is contested, and moral debates about the legitimacy of the conflict distort serious engagement with the perspective of those who fought in it. This is true for state and non-state veterans. Specific groups of ex-combatants are silenced on cultural grounds, in that their participation in military struggle was represented as culturally abnormal and unusual, offending the likes of gender notions of ‘nurturing women’ or notions around the ‘innocence of childhood’ which pervade the Global North. Female ex-combatants are particularly subject to processes of silencing, as indeed are women victims generally (Selimovic 2018; Simic 2018). These cultural frames for understanding female ex-combatants and child soldiers disguise rather than illuminate. Ex-combatants can thus be overlooked and ignored in the post-­conflict search for memory, resulting in their voice being excluded or distorted as a result of the moral and political frameworks through which they are perceived. The ‘martyr-hero-demon syndrome’, as I call it, can result in

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privileging some ex-combatant voices and ignoring others. These differing moral and political frameworks mean that in some cases it is as hard to hear the voices of state veterans as it is to hear in other cases the voices of those labelled ‘terrorists’. It is worth exploring this martyr-hero-demon syndrome further. Its lens is opaque, shedding little light on the lived experiences of ex-combatants, but it is useful for characterising the moral contestation that surrounds their public representation.

The Martyr-Hero-Demon Syndrome The lived experience of ex-combatants is largely shaped by the nature of the regime they fought for or against, and the outcome of the war. While winners and losers is not an appropriate analytical frame for understanding differences in these lived experiences, although it is part of popular culture, it does matter whether they are victors or vanquished. Stalemate and impasse in the peace process is much the same as being defeated in its negative effects on the lived experience of ex-combatants. Even in victory, however, there can be competing moral frameworks through which the past conflict is emotionally and politically processed, which bestows opposite virtues on types of ex-combatant. The victim literature, for example, emphasises the idea of competitive victimhood, which imposes a victim hierarchy with one’s own group victims at the apex as the most heinously treated and the most innocent. The martyr-hero-demon syndrome is its equivalent for ex-combatants. They can be lionised or demonised in equal measure where competing moral frameworks survive, regardless of the outcome of the war. State veterans can be seen as murderers, and terrorists as freedom fighters. These moral judgements rarely take into account the level and depth of military involvement; the categories are thought to be homogeneous and all deserving the same acclaim or opprobrium. Some dead combatants are readily turned into martyrs. States memorialise their veterans in official acts of commemoration, sometimes very selectively, most notably the restrictions on memorialising the dead amongst Sri Lankan Tamils or Hutu perpetrators of the Rwandan genocide. Regime change after war reverses those who are considered martyrs,

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turning demons into heroes, and vice versa. However, sociological processes are also important in socially constructing martyrdom. Some cultures, particularly many post-colonial societies, tend to valorise the tradition of the long dead, making the burden of self-sacrifice, spilled blood and martyrdom of previous generations literally a dead weight on the future. The Revolution sets the nation in stone. This tendency can be a burden in peace processes, which explains Reiff’s (2016) argument in praise of forgetting. However, the burden of memory, as Soyinka (2000) calls it, is not easily avoided, and Ignatieff calls this tendency, the warrior’s honour of ‘keeping faith with the dead’ (1998), and Blustein the fidelity and loyalty of the living to the dead (2014, p. 189). It results in what Misztal (2004) calls the ‘sacralisation of memory’. Such cultural honour can be bestowed both on state veterans and members of paramilitary groups. The very opening sentence of the 1916 Proclamation of the Irish Republic, the so-called Easter Rising, for example, signed by those fighting against British colonialism in Ireland, refers to the dead generations through which Ireland gets her tradition of nationhood. The Northern Irish Unionist Rev. Ian Paisley, who when he was alive strongly supported the colonial link to Britain, also regularly invoked the blood of the martyrs in his evocative evangelical preaching style; his main Belfast church is even called Martyrs Memorial. Martyrdom thus deliberately speaks to the present. Martyrs embolden current combatants, refreshing recruitment with the reassurance that sacrifice is never forgotten, whether in poetry, song, oral tradition or in local and official rituals of commemoration. Martyrs also keep the conflict alive, always in memory, sometimes also in practice, turning commemoration political (see McDowell and Braniff 2014), as Brown (2013) shows with respect to some acts of local, community commemoration in Northern Ireland. Commemoration of martyrs can be a way of continuing the conflict, at least in symbolic form that in effect weaponises memory. However, martyrdom is not without its issues. The question of who owns the dead is problematic in conflicts that are kept alive in part through martyrdom. Steve Biko’s widow, for example, Mamphele Ramphele (1997), has reflected on the tensions between herself, her family and the liberation movement in South Africa on who owned Biko’s life and death, and the use the liberation movement made of his memory.

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As leader of the Black Consciousness movement in apartheid South Africa and viciously tortured to death in prison (on which see Brewer 1986, pp. 12–14), Ramphele describes the personal strain caused by the way her partner was socially constructed into a martyr for a cause that interfered with her grief. She contrasts the personal memories of the human being that was Biko behind the idealised martyr he was turned into, and poses the question of which Biko she is allowed to remember. Some members of the family of Bobby Sands, the first Hunger Striker to die in Northern Ireland in 1981, have issued the same complaint about Irish Republicans. The dead, of course, have no say in how some are subsequently turned into martyrs. An interesting sociological question is why martyrdom is selected for only some dead combatants. What shapes their social construction into martyrs is only in part their status in life. Some iconic ex-combatants become martyrs because of the manner of their death. Indeed, photographs that capture the symbolism of the death can bequeath it to perpetuity. We remember Hector Peterson because he was the first child shot in the back in the 1976 Soweto uprising and a photograph survives of his tearful friend carrying him in vain to safety. Important questions also need to asked about who socially constructs martyrs. States sometime turn symbolic deaths into iconic martyrs, reflected in stone statues that reinforce their martyrdom—Lord Admiral Nelson’s column in London or various monuments to General Gordon’s ‘honourable’ death in Sudan in Victorian Britain—but Tennyson’s famous poem to the ‘valiant’ six hundred killed in the Charge of the Light Brigade shows how martyrdom can also be constructed in symbolic form. Paramilitary groups fighting against colonial regimes are more prone to this than imperial states, since their relative powerlessness means they struggle to get recognition of the death of their comrade and hence turn to martyrdom as a way to honour their sacrifice. The manner of the death is often turned into a political weapon against those allegedly responsible for it, whether the perpetrator be a state regime or groups labelled ‘terrorists’. Again, the relative powerlessness of those fighting wars of decolonisation means their deaths at the hands of imperial powers are more commonly weaponised. This tendency to use martyrdom as political critique against the state keeps alive, for example,

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all those victims in Northern Ireland killed as a result of collusion between the British state and Loyalist pro-government militias (on which see, e.g., Cadwallader 2013; Unwin 2016). Combatants’ role in life as well as their role in death helps in the social construction of martyrdom. Martyrdom is thus determined in large part by the use to which the iconic status can be put in the present. Martyrdom is dependent on death; without death, the past does not speak to the present. Heroes and demons, however, as distinct from martyrs, can be alive or dead. Living heroes can become martyrs when they die but while they are alive, they are socially constructed as pre-eminent figures, champions of the cause, as major protagonists or defenders. After the conflict or during it, they can become celebrity-like in the way they feature in the media or in politics and become objects of cultural and political devotion. In recent work by Bergia (2019), she adds to the factors that give heroic status to male ex-combatants by isolating the ‘seductive capital’, as she calls it, that turns some male ex-combatants into sex objects. This is a process, she remarks, that tends not to apply to female ex-combatants, the response to which is mostly to try to domesticate them back to the home and the private sphere (see McFeeters 2018, who compares the media representation of female ex-combatants in Northern Ireland and Sri Lanka). Heroism is a highly gendered attribution. The same is true for demons. Heroes and demons form a couplet; someone’s hero is invariably another’s demon. As a couplet, they are ascribed opposing virtues and qualities: love-hate, respect-contempt, honour-dishonour, reverence-­ derision, veneration-neglect and so on. Human rights discourse is used differently for each. Those who wish to demonise them are very hard on ex-combatants and allege them to be amongst the chief abusers of human rights, while those who want to hero worship them are softer towards them, portraying them as resistance fighters against human rights abuses. This ‘dualistic thinking’ simplifies the categories, when what is needed is ‘complexity thinking’ that unpacks them and shows their intricacies. It might be suggested that in the Global North dualistic thinking dominates with respect to ex-combatants, rendering the hero-demon distinction into simple oppositional, right and wrong terms, whereas in the Global South, where most of the conflicts take place, the terms are seen

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as more complex, less clear cut and not mutually exclusive. In the Global South, the victim-perpetrator distinction is deconstructed and experienced as ambiguous, so that the moral virtues ascribed do not render them into mutually exclusive heroes and demons. Everyday experiences in the midst of the conflict in the Global South work against the construction of this dualism. There tends to be greater moral confusion— and rightly so—in the Global South about categories like martyr, hero and demon. Demonisation is also sociologically interesting, for example, when deconstructed. The criminological literature on probation officers’ responsibilities to prisoners emphasises relational and practical duties, summed up in the trinity ‘advise, assist and befriend’.1 This encourages probation officers to see beyond the abstract category ‘prisoner’ to view the human being within and to establish an interpersonal relationship. The befriending is for a purpose, such as to build trust, gain their confidence, assist their reintegration and avoid recidivism. The extensive literature on ‘talking to terrorists’, an evocative title used as a marketing ploy by publishers (for a selection see Bew et  al. 2009; Powell 2015; Speckhard 2015; Taylor 2011) also emphasises the relational and practical effects of so doing for ex-combatants. Humanising the ex-combatant by looking beyond the dualisms associated with the category is the beginning of relationship and trust building, the practical effects of which can be ex-combatants’ imprimatur for a negotiated peace deal. ‘Advise, assist and befriend’ is as much the watchword for ex-combatants as non-­ political prisoners, regardless of the attributes associated with them as demons. Looking beyond the demonisation to see human beings allows ex-combatants’ voices to disclose human stories (see Brewer et al. 2018b for similar human stories from victims). There is a certain dignity in the ordinariness of the lives of most ex-combatants transitioning from war to peace that matches the ordinary dignity of victims. This dualistic, oppositional categorisation of ex-combatants who survived, as either demons or heroes, occurs independently of the outcome of the war; it is explained by the continuance of competing moral frameworks that survive into the peace. Peace processes that are settled  I owe this insight to Azrini Wahidin.

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with a compromise deal do not necessarily change people’s private personal feelings towards killers, even if in the public sphere they practise tolerance (see Brewer et al. 2018a). In fact, the true measure of reconciliation, regardless of political progress, is when people in transitioning societies no longer use mutually exclusive moral frameworks to denigrate opposing perpetrators or hero worship their own combatants. The point I wish to argue is that martyr-hero-demon syndrome that venerates or denigrates ex-combatants in equal measure is not the best frame through which to understand their lived experiences. It misrepresents them through vainglorious attempts to put them on the side of the angels or the devil, and it is very selective in the ex-combatants whose voice is heard in the process. Ex-combatants are neither cherubs nor Satanists; and all have a right to be heard at face value. We need, therefore, to hear the voice of ex-combatants directly so as to capture their lived experiences in their own words without the moral clamour that so often surrounds their representation by others. In this respect, it is necessary to hear the moral claims that ex-combatants give voice to.

Ex-combatants as a Moral Category One of the limits of the parallel with the criminological literature on probation officers’ engagement with prisoners is that it is restricted to relational and practical dimensions. I contend there is a moral dimension to the engagement with ex-combatants. The ex-combatant category is political and legal, but it is also a moral one. There are two sides to this moral dimension: the competing moral frameworks through which ex-­ combatants are understood by subsequent generations; and the moral claims to legitimacy made by ex-combatants themselves. I will briefly look at both in turn. Severe moral judgements about ex-combatants, which turn them into martyrs, heroes or demons, are affected by three factors: the repressive nature of the regime, which can legitimise resistance against it; the moral virtues embedded in cultural norms in the Global North that offer excuses and mediating factors for some ex-combatants, notably women and children; and the moral claims that ex-combatants themselves make. These

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mediating processes further diminish the value and relevance of the martyr-­hero-demon syndrome for understanding the lived experience of ex-combatants. Colonial, authoritarian and autocratic regimes, and regimes that abuse human rights, tend to resolve most of the moral ambiguities that affect ex-combatants when there is regime change, affording them the status of ‘freedom fighter’, for perpetrators experience daily moral humiliation in everyday life under repressive regimes. In these instances, the moral dilemma is posed for state veterans rather than resistance fighters. State veterans who fought in support of Nazism, the Latin American dictatorships or apartheid, for example, are severely judged morally after regime change, leaving resistance fighters to recoup moral legitimacy. In his excellent account of what he refers to as ‘wrongdoers’, Jon Elster (2004, p. 149) describes the retrospective ‘instrumental justifications’ that state veterans of autocratic regimes sometimes offer. These include the claim that working for the regime was necessary under duress for fear of reprisal or death, that it could not be resisted, or was a necessity in order to be able to work against the regime from the inside. Instrumental justifications like these can be flipped for members of pro-government militias. Killings through acts of collusion with militias can be instrumentally justified by the state, for example, as a necessary strategy in order to stop further killings. This ends up as a ‘lesser evil’ moral claim. It is used often by pro-state militias to subsequently rationalise and justify their acts of violence on behalf of non-democratic and repressive regimes. To be able to hear moral claims such as these is one of the reasons why it is necessary to consider state veterans alongside other forms of ex-­ combatant; the nature of the regime ex-combatants fought for or against is important to the moral claims that ex-combatants subsequently make, as well as our response to them. The view that Nelson Mandela was a terrorist shows that international supporters of failed regimes can carry on the morally charged language to denigrate, but failed regimes usually and quickly lose their international supporters. Perhaps the collapse of the Soviet Union is the exception, given that many people in Russia today view the privations of the present through the rose-tinted glasses of the communist past.

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A further complication that clouds simplistic moral judgements of ex-­ combatants is the excuses and mitigations that are inherent in cultural norms in the Global North towards certain types of combatant. Women ex-combatants and child soldiers carry moral virtues in the Global North because of Western conceptions of gender and childhood that contain inbuilt excuses and mitigations. Women and children, the argument goes, must have inevitably been functioning under duress. We therefore hear, for example, about the LTTE forcing women and children to be fighters in Sri Lanka’s war, with little ability to resist, as if the intent to want to fight is inconceivable because it is contrary to how cultural norms in the Global North perceive womanhood and childhood. Gender- and age-related excuses—they were young, they were raped, they were drugged—constitute the moral framework that mitigates severe moral judgements in the Global North about these categories of ex-combatant. By corollary, the severest moral judgements are reserved for adult males who supposedly carry the moral agency to have understood what they were doing. Sexist assessments like this are worth testing in case studies, such as those within this volume. The different cultural norms in the Global North that impinge on the moral virtues of types of ex-combatant deserve interrogation, including how these cultural norms compare to cultural norms in the Global South, which can give different moral meaning to female gender and childhood. In some cases, patriarchal norms in the Global South are the most repressive, severely affecting the lived experiences of female ex-combatants. The status afforded elders in some traditional societies has a parallel effect on increasing the stigma experienced by former child soldiers, especially girls. The final source of moral confusion concerns the moral claims that ex-combatants themselves make. These moral claims function as techniques of neutralisation, as the old sociology of deviancy literature puts it. They are different from excuses and justifications; excuses and justifications entail admission of wrongdoing and recognition of the need to take responsibility. Moral claims, however, transcend culpability. Moral claims make the choice to fight a rational means-end decision, avoiding having to accept their actions as wrong and in need of excuse.

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In particular, contested peace processes leave competing moral frameworks that socially construct layers of additional meanings to the victim and ex-combatant categories, and which attribute to specific victims and specific ex-combatants quite different moral virtues, moral rights and moral claims. This ends up with not only a victim hierarchy but also an ex-combatant hierarchy, in which some perpetrators are seen as morally legitimate in what they did, others not. The moral claims that ex-­ combatants themselves make intrude into this moral confusion, for ex-­ combatants stake their own claim to moral virtue. There is a prior question left begging here, which needs to be asked beforehand: does the use of violence in the military struggle deny any claim to moral virtue, whether by state veterans or other former combatants? Ian Atack’s (2005) discourse on the ethics of peace and war is a philosophical and theological engagement that suggests violence can be justified on these grounds. However, I want to come at an answer from the perspective of ex-combatants. It is worth remembering it is not just nation states that benefit from the ‘just war’ thesis, especially when the nation state does not adhere to the rule of law. Ex-combatants themselves tend to think that violence does not deny their claim to moral virtue. The moral claims that ex-combatants voice reflect in at least six themes, as follows: • • • •

They were reluctant combatants; They were protecting their own community; They have been heavily involved in subsequent conflict transformation; The decision to take up arms and to continue was emotionally problematic and not lightly taken; • The legacy of that decision leaves heavy suffering and costs to this day; • People should be judged on what they do now for conflict transformation, not on the past. In a subsequent chapter, I expand on these claims and will not go into detail here other than to say that it is important to recognise that ex-­ combatants make moral claims which move the debate beyond the simplicity of the martyr-hero-demon syndrome. In one sense, we can see these six claims as legitimation strategies, or as simple excuses. On the

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other hand, from the perspective of the ex-combatants who voice them, they give moral virtue to the choice to take up the military struggle, neutralising the impact of their past behaviour by seeing it as the morally right thing, the necessary thing, to do. Ex-combatants urge that they be seen as the people they are now, not what they once were. What matters, they argue, is what they do now to realise a better and more peaceful future, rather than what they did in the past. Conflict transformation leaves few hands unbloodied, so criticism of the unbowed moral claims of ex-combatants, rather than, say, the security forces and soldiers, ends up as partisan. These moral claims do not wipe away the past, as does, for example, religious conversion in prison or afterwards (on religious conversation of Loyalist ex-combatants in prison see Brewer et al. 2013, p. 76ff). They are not strategies for evading the past but for reinterpreting it; they own the past rather than deny it but own it through a moral lens that reconfigures it in the light of the present and future. These moral claims are more than neutralisation technique because in making moral claims it is easier for ex-combatants to respond morally when engaging with reconciliation, reparative work and peacebuilding. The moral commitment to bridge building within a vision of a better future is in many ex-combatants grounded in their own claims to moral legitimacy. This is why it is important to address the theme of their subsequent engagement with peace.

Conclusion Capturing the voices of ex-combatants in their own words is important in order to move beyond the ‘martyr-hero-demon syndrome’. The politics surrounding the ex-combatant category, like that which envelops the victim category, makes it difficult to take a morally neutral position to allow ex-combatants from a variety of different conflicts to speak directly. However, just as it is important to transcend the politics of victimhood, it is necessary to disclose something of the lived experience of ex-­ combatants who have made the transition from war to peace, and to understand from their perspective, some of the difficulties they have encountered in social and emotional reintegration afterwards. In many

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cases, ex-combatants are ‘hidden victims’, whose military engagement brings material and emotional costs but whose victimhood is deliberately denied or ignored. In capturing this lived experience it is important to isolate the views ‘from below’; ordinary ex-combatants rather than leaders, people whose participation in the military struggle came without leadership responsibilities and perhaps without their leaders’ zeal; the people who did the fighting and, in many cases, carried its material and emotional costs. The emphasis on ‘voice’ is important. The lived experiences of ordinary ex-­ combatants differ on many grounds, including according to the ex-­ combatant category to which they belonged, and these differences need to be addressed. Such is the ambition of this volume.

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Part I Voices from Northern Ireland and Britain

3 Female Ex-combatants in the Irish Republican Army and the Rocky Road to Peace Azrini Wahidin

Editorial Comment The previous two chapters have introduced the theoretical and conceptual themes that give coherence to this volume, and which structure the content of subsequent chapters in our case studies. Each chapter covers in rich ethnographic detail the unique and special features of the case study, but each also raises general issues that repeat throughout our cases. These theoretical and conceptual themes include gender and the associated silencing of women ex-combatants’ voices; the role of hyper militarised masculinities in giving motivation to some men’s participation in violence; the different lived experiences of men, women, children and state veterans in transitioning from war to peace, especially experiences like stigma, silencing and material inequalities and emotional legacies; severe reintegration problems, in part because of the failures of DDR policies, but also because of the differentiated experiences of ex-combatants due to A. Wahidin (*) Department of Sociology, University of Warwick, Coventry, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_3

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poverty, structural inequality and colonial appropriation, gender and their emotional landscape and legacies; the competing moral frameworks through which ex-combatants and state veterans are perceived by the public and treated at the policy level by governments; the inadequacies of the martyr-hero-demon syndrome in understanding the moral questions around the decision to engage in war; and the moral claims that ex-­ combatants themselves make to be understood as moral agents. The following chapter draws on some of these themes in addressing the role of Irish Republican women prisoners, showing how they challenged gender stereotypes in Ireland by committing themselves to military struggle. This chapter describes the lived experiences of political protest inside the prison, in which the body was weaponised, used both as a strategy of resistance by the women and as a means of punishment by warders. Their commitment to peace after protest is also evident.

Introduction Wars are mostly carried out by men, and it’s very much a male-dominated environment. I suppose society doesn’t particularly expect women to be involved on the frontline. It’s expected that men will do that, not women. (Female Volunteer)

This chapter addresses the experiences of imprisonment of female combatants in the Irish Republican Army (IRA) during the period known as ‘the Conflict’, euphemistically understated as ‘the Troubles’. Although much has been written about the recent political struggles in Northern Ireland, the experiences of women engaged in political violence, legally referred to as ‘terrorist’1 related activity, have too often been silenced. By tracing female ex-combatants’ experiences of political protest, this chapter highlights why women became involved in the IRA (Aretxaga 1997; McWilliams 1995), their travails of imprisonment and the prison’s power to punish. Leading women activists in Northern Ireland have died  Terrorism and Terrorist will be placed in inverted commas to denote its contested meanings. For a critique of the term, see Douglas and Zulaika (1996); Von Tangen Page (1998). 1

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leaving little of the written material which has, in other struggles, so often been of use by the next generation of activists to support the process of healing, remembering and reconciliation in the transition to peace (see Brewer et al. 2018, pp. 42–43). A general theme running throughout the literature capturing the experiences of women former combatants is the paradox of an activism which defies stereotypical notions of womanhood and one which serves to break the confines of the domestic caring roles conventionally viewed as the ‘private’ sphere. Yet, at the same time, this paradox becomes rooted largely in the experience of defending that sphere from attack, as the British military presence turned Republican homes and communities into political and military battlegrounds, and therefore had effects partially specific to them in their roles and subjectivities as women. The purpose of this chapter is to allow the voices of female ex-­ combatants to disturb and interrupt the silence surrounding former women IRA prisoners. Similar to other political movements that align themselves with the IRA, such as ETA (Euskadi ta Askatasuna), women volunteers represent a small percentage of those on active service compared to male volunteers. The percentage of women involved in ETA falls between 10 and 15 per cent (Hamilton 2007). In comparison, women accounted for 1 in 20 IRA volunteers (Gill and Horgan 2013, p. 443). As one woman volunteer stated: Numerically, women were smaller. I also don’t think that people are quite comfortable with the thought of a woman with a gun. The stereotypical picture of Ireland is Mother Ireland and her sons will protect her. Well, didn’t she have any daughters? Because they were there for her too. Don’t get me wrong, women prisoners had a lot of support and sympathy from people when they were in jail. But when they were out, those same people may not have been so keen to support them because they felt there was something not quite right about a woman with a gun, much less a woman with a gun who had used it. It challenged this image of the Irish Colleen, who was always supposed to be a victim but was never supposed to stand up for herself and say no more. (Emphasis in original)

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Methodology The research methodology was primarily qualitative in order to elicit the memories deriving from a hidden population in Armagh Prison. Community activist ex-prisoner groups provided contacts in which the snowballing approach was used. In the process of gaining access, contact was made with Voices: Republican Women Ex-Prisoners Group, Tar Anall and Coiste na nIachmí. The 28 women and 20 men interviewed in the course of this research came from across Ireland, rural and urban. Some had spent time in prisons in the UK and others served time in the Republic of Ireland or in the North of Ireland. Interviews were conducted individually in a separate room and tape-recorded. Ethical approval was granted from the Queens University Research Committee. In following the life story format, the narrator was prompted with specific interview questions, a process that allowed the interviews to be shaped by the narrators’ experiences. In order to maintain the ‘orality’ of the original interviews, I transcribed in full all the interviews. The spoken nature of the original texts (included laughter, tears, pauses and so on) formed a rich and important part of the analysis. All the names of the ex-combatants and any identifying variables have been changed to ensure anonymity. Confidentiality and full informed consent was an important variable in gaining participation and developing trust among the participants. Such an approach was important with regard to validating the nature of the research with a hard-to-reach group (Grounds and Jamieson 2003). The women and the men had the opportunity to read, amend and comment on the process through the period of the research. The data was derived from applying a grounded theory approach and participants were given the content of the analysis to comment upon. This process was participatory, transgressing traditional power relationships between those who are researched and the researcher (Galtung 1975). It allowed ex-combatants as much ownership over the material, so ‘the issue of what [was to] be disclosed [remains] under the control of the interviewee’ (Jamieson and Grounds 2002, p. 10).

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 ut with the Old and in with the New: O Women on the Frontline The ‘Troubles’ continued unabated from 1969, when armed troops were called to respond to the escalating violence (Adams 1986; Bowyer Bell 1991; McKearney 2011). Tensions peaked in 1972 with increasing entropic cycles, which culminated in what became known as ‘Bloody Sunday’.2 Thirteen protestors at a civil rights march were shot dead by the British Army. This incident is often marked ‘as the start of the most intensely violent period’ (Mitchell 2011, p.  52) of the Conflict.3 Between 1969 and 1999, 3636 people died in the Conflict; 2037 of whom were civilians (McKittrick et al. 1999), a number distinctive, first, by the length of time over which the Conflict has been sustained and, secondly, by the relatively small size of the country (Amnesty International 1991; Brewer et al. 2018, p. 57). In this context, it is worth addressing the motivations for women joining the IRA. From the beginning of the Conflict in 1969, women began to mobilise, taking on more public and politicised roles within and beyond their own communities. There were many reasons that prompted women into collective action. This poignant account of one young woman’s political awakening was not atypical: I was seventeen. All I had ever thought of was that I wanted to go to university but that night I kept thinking somebody, somebody’s going to come along. You know the police will have to come along and arrest these soldiers and stop them from shooting. There were ten shots fired. I stood there, and people lay wounded for hours and no one could help them. No  Bloody Sunday. On 30th January 1972 in the Bogside area of Derry: Northern Ireland, British soldiers shot 26 unarmed civilians during a protest march against internment. The march had been organised by the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association and the soldiers involved were mostly members of the 1st Battalion, Parachute Regiment, also known as ‘1st Para’. 3  The use of the term ‘Conflict’ rather than ‘The Troubles’ will be used to refer to the period of armed conflict involving state and non-state groups. The Conflict involved the suspension of normal powers of law enforcement and the due process of the law, and the internment and incarceration of politically affiliated prisoners. Eventual ceasefires and the initiation of the Peace Process led to the 1998 Good Friday (Belfast) Agreement and political devolution to the Northern Ireland Assembly. 2

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one could get near them. You know, they’re [the British government] are supposed to be making the laws and they’re [the British government] were breaking the laws. Well, they were their fucking laws and I went and joined the Republican Movement.

From as early as 1970–1972, women were joining the IRA and from 1973, the number of women internees grew. As more women joined the IRA, their expertise in warfare and in combat became highly specialised and necessary. However, the women found that they still had to fight for equal treatment within the IRA. Unlike their male comrades, the women had to prove their ability in situations of warfare (Alison 2009). They were there, because the men had granted permission to (or even co-opted) them, not because they were entitled to be there. Ward writes: While women were undoubtedly valuable and valiant fighters within the Nationalist movement, one important qualification needs to be kept in mind … the high points of women’s participation were also moments of exceptional political crisis, when women were either drawn into the movement because of the temporary (enforced), absence of men, or they were encouraged to participate because a strong, united front was needed and because women, when the military struggle began, were also needed for essential back-up service. (1982, p. 2; see Cockburn 2001, p. 21)

Drawing on his own personal records, Monsignor Murray (prison Catholic priest from the period between the 1970s and the 1980s) showed that some ‘400 women political prisoners were jailed at various times in the 1970s and 1980s for political offences’ (Brady et al. 2011). By 1975, Armagh Prison held up to 120 Republican women; over 60 internees and the rest were sentenced prisoners. The last internee left Armagh in mid-1975, leaving behind between 60 and 70 prisoners. As the number of female prisoners grew, a series of events occurred that were to become a catalyst for political protest both within and beyond the walls of Armagh Prison. The following sections will examine the role of the no wash protest, the hunger strike and the role of strip searching used by the prison authorities not only to punish the political prisoners but also to bring order to the prison regime.

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The events that triggered the women’s involvement in the no wash protest began with what was seen to be a normal day in Armagh Prison culminating in the violent events of 7 February 1980. One woman recalls: The whole level of atmosphere of the prison was changing because of the loss of political status,4 and you’ve had hostility rising among the prison officers. You had vigorous [strip] searching you know, not only as you came in but when you were going out, and going from one wing to another and all that. So that was beginning to affect the atmosphere. We refused to do prison work with the result that you were locked in your cell during the working hours.

The events of that February day were an indication of the ongoing struggle for political status symbolised by the wearing of the paramilitary clothing. It is important to bear in mind that women prisoners were allowed to wear their own clothes, and that Republican prisoners would use these to fashion a black paramilitary-style uniform which served to differentiate themselves from the other women in prison and their involvement in the IRA. It was common practice for both the female and male political prisoners to pay respects to volunteers lost in combat. The women held a commemorative parade, wearing clothes, approved by the prison authorities. This act of resistance in the encoded world of the prison not only signified to the prison authorities the women’s defiance towards the prison regime, but also served to assert their political status and their collective identity as soldiers in the IRA. This technique of resistance was a tactic used to subvert and undermine the prison regime and by extension the British State (Wahidin and Powell 2017). As one woman states: So it was all about us being soldiers. It was about us being an army faction. We would always remind them [the prison officers] that we were an army within the prison, and that they had to negotiate and respect that structure as political prisoners. They [the prison officers] always thought they knew

 The Gardiner Report of 1975 recommended the removal of political status for those convicted before the courts, introducing a new policy of criminalisation. 4

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better and then they would go up against us and then you had a game of survival. You know, Azrini, it was just a constant battle.

The wearing of the uniform had a symbiotic relationship with the women. It served to reinforce a collective identity as soldiers and provided a tangible link to the IRA outside. The maintenance of an army structure reinforced discipline (McEvoy 2001; Shirlow et al. 2005) and in turn strengthened an identity that the British government sought to strip from them with the removal of special category status. As Eileen Hickey5 comments (Women in Struggle/Mná I Streachailt 1994, p. 12), ‘it kept [the POWs] aware that they were soldiers. In Armagh you could feel so removed from the movement, from the struggle outside’. They, like the men, incurred disciplinary punishments (Brún 1988) for wearing black clothing. Several of the women were assaulted by male prison officers who forcibly dragged them across the wings in varying degrees of nudity down to the prison Governor’s office for adjudication (Coogan 1980). One woman recounts the ordeal: They charged with full riot gear equipped with shields. I was suddenly pinned to the bed by a shield and the weight of a male [prison officer], on top of me. Then my shoes were dragged off my feet. I was bodily assaulted, thumped, trailed, and kicked. I was then trailed out of my cell, and during the course of being dragged and hauled from the wing both my breasts were exposed to the jeering and mocking eyes of all the [prison officers]. There must have been about twenty of them. While being carried, I received punches to the back of my head and my stomach. I was eventually carried into the Governor’s [office]. My breasts were still exposed. While I was held by the [prison officers], the Governor carried out the adjudication, and I was trailed back and thrown into a cell.

 Eileen Hickey was arrested in 1973 and sentenced to nine years’ imprisonment. She was a volunteer in Óglaigh na hÉireann (Irish Volunteers), 2nd Battalion Belfast Brigade, and was an active member of ‘D’ company. She was released in 1977. She was the Officer in Command from 1973 to 1977. 5

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 he Power to Punish and the Role of Bodily T Resistance: The No Wash Protest This section explores the way in which prison violence was gender specific. The no wash protest was an extraordinary form of political action—coupled, on the one hand, with the strong emotional reactions that it provoked and, on the other, with its gendered character—makes the no wash protest a particularly suitable case for the exploration of how subjectivity, gender subversion, the corporeal body, resistance and power are articulated in situations of heightened political violence (Bosworth and Carrabine 2001). One female volunteer recounts of the no wash protest: I mean, you see a few months previous the first time they’d allowed TV cameras on the Blocks [H Block, HM Maze Prison] and we’d seen the men on the no wash protest on the news. God. And I was personally, sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, how are they [the Blanket men] living like that? God love them, how can they do that? Who would have thought, that a couple of months later I’d be doing the same thing.

The testimonies of the women reveal how the Republican women in Armagh Prison felt forced into the position of joining their male comrades in the no wash protest. Up to this point, the women had also been resisting the change of status from political prisoners to criminals since 1976 by refusing to do mandatory prison work, and were also enduring similar disciplinary punishments that their male comrades were facing. The accounts show that there was a growing tension between the prison officers and the politically motivated prisoners. Different levels of punishment were employed against the women and the withdrawal of privileges depended on whether the women were on remand, sentenced, on the no work and the no wash protest. A woman in the study explains her account of the differences between women on remand and how small luxuries that were sent in to the prison by families and friends were stopped once the protests started.

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On remand you were allowed cigarettes and you were allowed foodstuffs and toiletries. On the no work protest, you were still allowed a parcel a month, but it was fruit and toiletries, tissues and that was it. Once the no wash protest began, there were no parcels. AW: Nothing? No, just one visit a month.

The aftermath of the event on 7 February, as depicted in the women’s testimonies, illustrates the level of state violence in the attempt to resume control. As another woman states: The prison authorities refused to let us use toilet facilities. They beat us up. We had been lying in the cells during that time with cuts and bruises, battered basically, and … you know … And then they moved us from ‘B’ Wing at that time back to A1. I mean we didn’t go on it. We were forced on it because the bathrooms were locked. AW: For those who are not aware of what the no wash protest is, could you just explain how and why you went on it and what it involved? It wasn’t a decision that we made to go on it. It was forced upon us. From the 7th of February, we were locked in our cells. We weren’t unlocked to wash. We weren’t unlocked to go to the bathrooms.

Father Faul (1980), a member of chaplaincy, described the no wash protest as follows: Once you walked into the wing and you were just met with the smell of urine and excrement and all that sort of thing and in the early stages there were pools of urine where the girls had thrown it out the cell door when they were let out for one hour. When I visited the cells there was all the hardened excrement on the walls. They [the prison officers] had blocked the windows to a great extent because they thought the girls would throw it out of the window, so the girls were in semi-darkness. They were locked in for 23 hours a day. They had no showers. No washing.

Although the women were living in semi-darkness, the women found ways to subvert and reclaim the punishment of isolation by writing on the walls with their excrement, talking and singing in Gaelic. By

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reclaiming the faecal cell and reclaiming the body through dirt, the women created a context of cultural separatism (Turner 1984). This act separated the prisoners from the sign systems of captivity and that of their captors. The prison cell, already imprinted with a scatological writing of the political prisoners, relinquished part of its wall space to the graphics of Gaelic language acquisition. The prisoners scratched their accumulated learning alongside the faecal matter on the walls. Alongside the scatological history of domination, the prison cell now bore the secret history of language acquisition, political identity and of the lives of other women before them. The prisoners who were physically absent from each other, who may have never seen each other, were present with each other through the writings on the cell wall. Thus, the ‘use of the Irish language as a means of resistance had a “transcendental power” that was first and foremost directed at the prison itself ’, transforming ‘the cell into a pedagogical space’ in an ‘act of personalised political appropriation’ as strong as that of the defilement of the cell with excreta (Mac Ionnrachtaigh 2013, p. 195). The reading of old Gaelic graffiti on the cell wall by each new inhabitant and the addition of new inscriptions became an act of sociation and a means for reproducing knowledge that defied and circumvented the disciplinary gaze, transforming the prison space into a spectacle of alternative representation, meaning and political power. One woman recalls with humour. ‘Yeah, we all made designs. We drew wee flowers. We did flowers or we wrote up the IRA and we had our names on the back of the door and stuff’. The act of drawing and writing on the cell walls gave meanings and told stories of a life before confinement. Identity management was a vital technique of resisting the identity of the ‘inmate’, by providing a means to recede from the prison gaze. This tacit knowledge recreates the prisoner as a knowing agent within a system which attempts to suppress the sense of self by recreating meaning with the aim of ‘producing and shaping an obedient subject’ (Foucault 1977, p. 152). Another describes the politics of resistance: During the no wash protest they wouldn’t let us associate and at one point the only way to do it was to take the iron bed off the bottom part of the

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bed and dig it into the wall during the night until we all had holes from one cell to the next one.

Although their world was reduced to four cramped walls, within that tiny space, self was everywhere (Ellman 1993, p. 99). The smearing of cells represented an attempt to take greater control over space and territory, albeit within the limited confines of the cell. Resistance was enacted by re-territorialising and by recreating space in order to transform the prison cell into a space of messages, covert communication albeit within the limits of the disciplinary gaze. A woman explains: What would have happened was that … you see when a cell was covered in shit, and even part of that, I mean after a while myself and X thought we can’t live like this. So we would decorate the cells and we used to decorate it with lovely scenes of Donegal and we used to use the poo … because our diet was so bad the poo was like hard crayons, you know what I mean?

As the voices of the women illustrate, through the use of Gaelic and the scatological writing, the cell became a historical membrane that secreted a record of women’s experience whilst on the no wash protest. The cell ceased to separate, isolate and de-socialise the political prisoners. The Gaelic writings had become an archaeological artefact, a liberation of memory, comradeship and solidarity. An entire genealogy of resistance was etched with pain and endurance into the material of the prison walls (Arendt 1970), as both the minds and the bodies of the prisoners passed into this cell membrane through the medium of their writing and faecal transcription of their political condition was recorded (Wahidin 2016, 2019). Through this act of resistance, in time, the cell became the extended body of the prisoners and their bodies become their temporary prisons. The no wash protest lasted 13 months, during which more attention was focused on Armagh Prison than at any other time during the decade (Armagh Co-ordinating Group 1981). The no wash protest embraced the struggle for better prison conditions and shared with the protest of the men in the Maze (also known as Long Kesh) the united objective of winning the five central demands:

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• The right not to wear a prison uniform (applied to the male prisoners only); • The right not to do prison work; • The right of free association with other prisoners, and to organise educational and recreational pursuits; • The right to one visit, one letter and one parcel per week; • Full restoration of remission lost through the protest. While in many ways the women’s protest mirrored that of the men, representing the shared objective of asserting their political status and identity, the voices of the women clearly illustrated the gendered responses they received by going on the no wash protest. The use of excreta and menstruation as a weapon of resistance against the prison was not, however, the only bodily weapon available to the prisoners (Wheelan 2007). The no wash was by any standard of political culture, and certainly by that of Ireland, an unusual political action for women to participate in. The no wash protest provoked an inexpressible level of disgust and during this period a rising spiral of violence inside and outside of the jails became a marked feature. If the men’s no wash protest was incomprehensible, for women it was unthinkable, generating in many men, reactions of denial, even among the ranks of supporting Republicans. It was no doubt a form of warfare, a violent contest of power, as Feldman (1991) has noted. But why this form and not another? Excrement was used as a direct critique of the State’s pretensions of homogenising the women and the ‘civilising process’ happening within the prisons. As Elias (1998) has argued, there is a link between the development of manners, and ‘toilette etiquette’ regarding the removal of bodily functions from a private to a visible public space (Edwards and McKie 1996) and the evolution of the modern State. As Aretxaga (1995, p.  135) suggests, the image of the prisoners living amongst their own excrement, menstrual blood and bloodied sanitary towels created an image of the ‘other’, the ‘uncivilised’, intertwined with the fluid, leaky, unruly deviant female body, of which female bodies are deemed as dangerous, dirty and in need of control. In the women’s accounts this movement from the hidden to the public was not one of choice but became interpolated as the movement away from the ‘civilising process’ (Elias 1994, 1998). While menstruation is an element of

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women’s lives, it remains hidden, ‘dirty’ and not discussed (Scrambler and Scrambler 1993; Wahidin 2019). Menstrual blood was no longer a marginal filthy substance but was central to political protest, making the hidden seen and at the same time highlighting the terrible conditions. Menstrual blood became a weapon of political protest which created alternative spaces to resist the power of punishment. Socialised to see menstruation as ‘unpleasant’ and in some cultures as ‘unclean’ and polluting (Weideger 1975), the discourse of dirt was used to support anti-Catholic sentiments. Although McEvoy (2001, p. 243) focuses on the experiences of male Republicans at Long Kesh, his argument can be applied to how the women of Armagh on the no wash protest were constructed in that: ‘it resonated with sectarian anti-Catholic discourses concerning dirtiness and immorality’ (2001, p.  245). Peter Robinson, later to be leader of Rev. Ian Paisley’s Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), wrote in a DUP pamphlet published at the time stating ‘if cleanliness is next to Godliness, then to whom are these men [or women] close?’ (Robinson 1981, p. 40). Women on the no wash protest challenged the norms of femininity and therefore had the secondary effect of challenging aspects of the Republican cultural identity itself, which found much of its expression through idealised notions of womanhood (largely as promoted by the Catholic Church). As the bodies of the male and female prisoners were reappropriated, through their weaponising of the ‘dirty’ body, the racist notion of the Irish as ‘primitive’ and animalistic (see Neti 2003) subverted the ideals of feminine modesty, cleanliness and, indeed, invoked the female ‘sexed’ body back into the military struggle from which the gendered body had largely been erased. The women could be seen both as doubly ‘victimised’ not only by the forced dismantling of their ‘feminine’ identity, but also as being necessarily and unintentionally drawn into a confrontation with the cultural misogyny of both their own communities and the dominant culture of the imperial power. The process of being stripped-searched and internally examined is as Scarry (1985, p. 143) argues ‘language destroying’, rendering direct testimony of personal experience particularly difficult. This is eloquently and poignantly articulated in the following testimonial:

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My brother was in prison the same time as I was, for the same reasons actually and he went mad when he heard I’d been strip searched—them bastards put their hands on you and I know why he was upset. I know he was thinking right—searching his anus, right, and he knew that a woman had a vagina as well and, but he would never say those words ‘vagina’, being stripped—our people know. It’s just to go into those details of your body orifices women just don’t do it. I think it’s a shaming thing. I mean I used to say I was strip searched. But the physical side is that you’re anally and vaginally searched. People just don’t want to talk about it, and it is a very hard—it’s a difficult thing actually. This is the first time when I’ve been interviewed I’ve said yeah someone put their fingers inside my body. You were frightened of getting torn down there or getting hurt down there.

Throughout the interviews there is a clear difference in how acts of state violence and the role of sexuality and gender difference inform the experiences of political affiliated activity during times of Conflict. This is not to deny that men involved in politically affiliated activity were not sexually violated. The act of sexual violence during times of Conflict is aimed at feminising the victim, ‘in the cultural understanding of the feminine as penetrable’ (Taylor 1997, pp.  152–153). Such acts reflect the literature whereupon enemies of the state are constructed as ‘feminine’ in relation to the colonial power.

Hunger Strikes and the Politics of Resistance The next example is the hunger strike. On 1 December 1980, three women went on hunger strike for 19 days: Mary Doyle, Mairéad Nugent and Mairéad Farrell. Mary Doyle had been charged with possessing incendiary devices and sentenced to eight years’ imprisonment. Mairéad Nugent was convicted of attempting to bomb the house of the then Governor of Armagh Prison, and Mairéad Farrell was sentenced to imprisonment for possession of explosives and membership of the IRA. This was the second and the last of the hunger strikes the women were to undertake. Farrell believed that the involvement of women in the hunger strike would ‘create an additional source of pressure on the prison

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authorities’, and would place ‘a moral pressure’ on the British government to concede to the demands of the Republican prisoners (Farrell 1980). As this testimonial clearly articulates: The screws [the prison officers] were stepping things up, the Governor was getting worse, and they [the prison officers] didn’t care. And we thought we have to step this up. But when the men went on the hunger strike, the women then began discussing with the men and also with the leadership whether they should follow. We decided that the women should join as well. We were there for the same reason as the men. We’d went through the same conditions at that time as the men and we felt that we needed to be taking the same road.

The women came off the hunger strike on the 19th night when they heard that the men’s hunger strike was over. The British reneged on the settlement and, on 1 March 1981, Bobby Sands, then Officer in Command of the H-Blocks, began the hunger strike which ultimately resulted in the death of 10 men. By September 1981, with 23 men still on hunger strike, some of the families had begun to authorise medical intervention. On 3 October 1981, the end of the hunger strike was announced. The outcome of the second hunger strike was that one of the five demands—the right not to wear the prison uniform—was met. The process of entering the closed world of the prison immediately serves to reinforce an awareness of powerlessness through the loss of privacy and bodily integrity (Elias 1994; Kowalski and Chapple 2000; Laws 1985). The prisons of Northern Ireland during this period were shaken by successive waves of prison protests. The testimonies shared in this chapter demonstrate the deliberate intensification of prison violence and control, in an ongoing power struggle centred on the control of women’s bodies and the identity as political prisoners and the legitimacy of the prisons power to punish. The extreme nature of the form of prison protests that took place at Armagh and Long Kesh is as Žižek (2008, p. 25) pointedly argues: the extreme nature of violence against oneself arises out of the need to bring ‘about radical change in conditions that will not admit it; by destroying what is most valuable to oneself, one may leave one’s enemy empty handed and without an object to control’.

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This chapter clearly demonstrates that women’s involvement in the IRA and their motivations for participating in armed activism are not different from those of men. What has differed is the historical and social conditions that prohibit or encourage political activism on an equal footing to develop. There is significant evidence in the case of the women of the IRA that they are subject to different treatment not only in the press, but also by the security forces and by some of their male comrades. It can be argued that the violence and torture the women endured demonstrates that the self extends beyond the boundaries of the body (Calamati 2002, p.  87). Their bodies become potent weapons of war, demonstrating women’s resistance, the centrality of their role in the Republican movement and the processes whereby collective consciousness and communal suffering transgress the carceral walls of the prisons. One woman recounts a strip search: After having listened to the screams of [name deleted] as she was being brutally attacked and stripped, my cell-door was flung open and the riot squad surged forward. Three or four of them wore visors and wielded shields and batons, the other two, clad in overalls. A shield was rammed straight into my face, forcing me back against the bars on my window, while another two attacked me from either side. I was seized, flung face down on the floor and sat upon, while my arms were twisted and locked up my back. Having satisfied themselves that I’d been immobilised, my assailants proceeded to pull my clothes off from the waist down. They then proceeded to pull all the clothes from my upper body before getting up and leaving me. As I raised myself onto my elbows, feeling shocked and disorientated, I looked at my clothes strewn all around my cell and saw the backs of my attackers passing out through the door.

While strip searches became ‘normalised’ within the prison regimes, prisoners, especially female prisoners, experience them as a form of sexual violence of coercion (Riches 1986). The routine use of strip searches against prisoners, particularly female prisoners, means that ‘[s]exual abuse is surreptitiously incorporated into the most habitual aspects of women’s imprisonment’ (Davis 2003, p. 81). The state, therefore, is directly implicated in this routinisation of sexual abuse, both in permitting such

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conditions that render women vulnerable to explicit sexual coercion carried out by guards and other prison staff and by incorporating into routine policy such practices as the strip search. Outside of the prisoner–prison officer relationship, the coercive removal of clothes would constitute sexual assault (George 1992, 1993). Redefined as sexual assault, the strip and/or cavity search constitutes one of several interlinked ‘circuits of violence’ connecting the ‘ordinary’ to the ‘extraordinary’. The ‘ordinary’ is characterised by the routine violence permeating all prisons: the ‘extraordinary’ extends the continuum of state violence to sexual violence to state torture.

 ttainable Peace and the Inclusion A of Women Prisoners Given these experiences, it is necessary to acknowledge that despite the humiliations, the women made a significant contribution to the Good Friday Agreement (GFA) and to the transition to peace. They gave their imprimatur to the GFA, along with the men, when consulted by Sinn Féin, and since release, many have become active in  local community politics and at the national level in Sinn Féin’s peace strategy. The 1998 GFA set in train a whole series of transformative possibilities for how justice is seen to be done in Northern Ireland and, to a lesser extent, in the Republic of Ireland (Vaughan and Kilcommins 2008). Only 1 per cent of the Northern Irish Catholic electorate voted against the Agreement in the 1998 referendum (Hayes and McAllister 2001, p. 81), reflecting an acknowledgement not only of the legacy of the past, but also of the social and political trajectory of a society in transition. This is echoed in the following statement from the Agreement: The tragedies of the past have left a deep and profound regrettable legacy of suffering. We must never forget those who have died or been injured, and the impact on their families. But we can best honour them through a fresh start, in which we firmly dedicate ourselves to the achievement of reconciliation, tolerance, and mutual trust, and to the protection and vindication of human rights for all.

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Lasting peace cannot be imposed by physical force or the physical relocation of the population. Peace can only be achieved by a series of negotiated settlements that form a compromise deal. It thus involves both negative peace (the cessation of violence) and positive peace (social redistribution, the pursuit of equality, fairness, and a sense of flourishing and well-being). War and peace are situated within a relational nexus, in which, through conflict, the conditions for peace may become attainable (see Brewer et al. 2013). In the move for justice and equity, women’s marginalisation in positions of political power is intimately tied to their exclusion in formal political processes (Ní Aoláin et al. 2011). However, in the emboldened transition to peace, the GFA provided women on both sides of the political spectrum a space whereupon ‘women [can and] are beginning to be play a greater part in big “P” politics’ (Donahoe 2017, p. 47). The growing recognition of women’s involvement in conflict is producing a body of expertise and informing approaches to the Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration programmes (Brewer 2003). In relation to periods of conflict, the Fourth World conference of Women, held in Beijing in 1995, brought to the attention of world leaders the specific impact of war on women’s lives. Five years later, the United Nations Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) was adopted (El-Bushra 2000). Resolution 1325 has become a powerful tool for those advocating for gender equality and sensitivity to gender issues during and after times of war. Ex-combatants have been, and continue to be, active in grassroots peacebuilding but peace (Brewer 2003) can only be achieved if on this rocky road of change women have the opportunity to play a greater part in societal change in their post-prison roles at the level of formal politics and by sustaining cross-community cooperation (Ní Aoláin et al. 2011; O’Rourke 2012). As Brewer et al. (2013, p. 24) quite rightly state, ‘the contribution of [female] ex-combatants to conflict transformation on the ground has been significant, under-sung and eclectic’.

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Conclusion In the process of making the invisible present, this chapter contributes to the gendering of the history of the IRA through a study of women’s involvement in political affiliated activities. Women played an important role in the transition from war to peace and it would be remiss not to recognise how the Conflict impacted everyday life. It is clear from the voices of the women in this chapter that their role in this process of societal change has been underestimated. The voices of the women illustrate that violence was not only inculcated into the very fabric of everyday life but also found spaces in the ‘lacerations in the memory’ (Passerini 1992, p.  161) between the subject and the acts of political violence. One woman, speaking for them all, reiterated: ‘After a while an abnormal situation becomes the norm of everyday life: so being stopped and searched was like the norm. There’s nothing normal about it. But Azrini, it was the norm of our Conflict’. The above testimonies challenge the discourses of political violence that target and affect women in different ways (Enloe 1988). Although much of the literature has focused on women as victims in places of conflict, there is extensive evidence of women’s involvement in political violence. The voices of the women in this chapter offer explanations in which political violence is not only gendered but can remain in the subjectivity of self as communities, even if in the process of reconciliation their voices remain unheard. What this chapter demonstrates by focusing on the experiences of imprisonment, to quote Goffman (1961/1968, p. 47), is that ‘total institutions disrupt or defile precisely those actions that in civil society have the role of attesting to the actor and those in his [her] presence that he [she] has some command over his [her] world—that he [she] is a person with ‘adult’ self-determination, autonomy and freedom of action’. Although Goffman (1961/1968, p.  42) did not distinguish between political prisoners and ‘ordinary decent criminals’, he wrote that prisoners occupy the lowest rung in ‘echelon’ society. Prisoners, particularly political prisoners, relate incidents of extreme cruelty, violence and threatening isolation while reflecting that whatever the assault on the

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body or the restriction on movement, their freedom to think, reason and project remains intact (see McKeown 2001). The conscious rejection of victimhood, the refusal to be cowed and the commitment to question and disobey authority together contribute to an often formidable, oppositional and collectivised force. Yet, what the voices of the women testimonies illustrate is the fear and reality of physical and psychological harm (see Moore and Scraton 2014; Scraton 1987, 2009). The journey from war to peace has to take account of and address the management of emotional dynamics. It must be accountable to past pains arising from historic social injustice and, so, must address issues such as social redistribution, the introduction or restoration of equality and fairness in the allocation of scarce resources, and the opening up of life opportunities that were once closed to some groups. UNESCO declared: ‘peace is more than an absence of war. It means justice and equity for all as the basis for living together in harmony and free from violence’ (Matsuura 2002, p. 2). Women were affected by the Conflict at every stage, from the actual outbreak of violence to participating in the process of resolving the Conflict. Evidence suggests that ‘multi-dimensional’ peacebuilding approaches, embracing social justice, political equality and human rights are often only made possible in the presence of a strong feminist movement (Roseneil 1995). Thus, by ensuring that the voices of women are heard, by acknowledging the contribution of women to the peace process, we are not only fostering an inclusive democracy but also advancing gender equity for women across the political and economic divide.

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4 The Experiences of Loyalist Ex-combatants on Their Journey from Conflict to Peace David Magee

Editorial Comment This chapter features a distinct type of state veteran, the pro-state militia member, co-opted to fight clandestinely against non-state actors who resist the state. The case study is that of Ulster Loyalism. Their loyalty to the British state is ambiguous, in that their co-option by the state was tactical and strategic, conveniently deniable by the British and mediated by the British government’s political and military self-interest. Ulster Loyalists thus feel unrecognised and unrewarded by the state. The ambivalent status of pro-state paramilitarism reflects in many Ulster Loyalists, who feel unwanted and unrecognised by the state they helped to protect, although they nonetheless had widescale community support. This chapter reflects on the high levels of hyper militarised masculinity that grounded Loyalists’ participation in the war, as well as their service to the community. This theme of duty to the community is a counterweight to

D. Magee (*) Joseph Rowntree Trust, York, UK © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_4

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the emphasis on militarised masculinity. The strength of Ulster Loyalism in times of war is thus its weakness in times of peace. Some Loyalists persist with militarised masculinities in a peace process that finds Loyalist violence problematic, and some Loyalists find it difficult to develop non-­ violent forms of masculinity in changed times. This chapter points to the difficulties experienced by Loyalists with DDR policies and with the real material inequalities they suffer. The emotional legacies of their involvement are vividly and richly portrayed through in-depth interviews. This contradiction in male ex-combatant voices between the valorisation of hyper militarised masculinity and the emotional costs of the war which expressed it will be a recurring theme in similar chapters.

Introduction Loyalist paramilitary organizations were directly responsible for 991 deaths between 1969 and 1998, which amounted to 29 per cent of the total of conflict-related deaths in the period known colloquially as ‘the Troubles’ in Northern Ireland (Hayes and McAllister 2001). Very few of their victims were members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA); most were Catholic civilians. In the post-ceasefire period between 1994 and 2010 Loyalists were responsible for 98 deaths (Monaghan and Shirlow 2011), and well over half of the 155 conflict-related deaths since the signing of the Good Friday Agreement (GFA) in 1998. Loyalist paramilitaries never possessed a substantial political mandate, being devoted primarily to combat, but they did possess wide support from the communities in which they were rooted (Hayes and McAllister 2001). Loyalist paramilitarism is a collection of several semi-­autonomous non-state paramilitary groups with top-down and bottom-up clandestine links to British state security services (see Cadwallader 2013; McGovern 2019). They were pro-state and pro-Union with Britain. These links to the British state were complex and at times contradictory. While some elements within the state forces covertly supported and actively colluded with Loyalist paramilitaries, other elements of the state pursued Loyalists paramilitaries to the full extent of the law (see Shirlow 2012). As a result, many thousands of Loyalists went to prison during the course of the ‘dirty war’ (Shirlow and McEvoy 2008, p. 2).

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This chapter draws on first-hand accounts from Loyalist ex-­combatants collected during an ethnographic study carried out in Loyalist communities (see Magee 2013), which included twenty-nine interviews and two focus groups with Loyalist men and women. Many participants were members or former members of Loyalist paramilitary groups, some in senior leadership positions. Some had been imprisoned for paramilitary activities. All locations and identities were anonymized during transcription, and original recordings have been destroyed. In this chapter I explore Loyalist paramilitary members and former members’ experiences of the conflict and the subsequent peace process in Northern Ireland.1 In so doing, I aim to avoid the extremes of demonizing or glamorizing paramilitary groups, but instead to help the reader understand the lived experience of one of the most neglected stakeholders in ‘the Troubles’. Loyalist paramilitary combatants feel themselves misunderstood and neglected by the state to which they professed loyalty and engaged in combat in order to defend. As Lawther (2017) notes, they thus had a complex and confused understanding of loyalty. This chapter will highlight the significance of class and gender in the making and remaking of these paramilitary men.

Motivations to Participation in Loyalist Militarism Loyalism is a broad umbrella term that includes multiple identities, which makes it difficult to define (see Burgess and Mulvenna 2015). Loyalist identity can be mapped on to a broad range of political and sociocultural markers. In addition to these shared commonalities, there are, however, differences, tensions, and factions. Furthermore, the separate Loyalist paramilitary organizations, such as the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) and Ulster Defence Association (UDA), are not homogeneous. Internal divisions, for example, mean there is constant tension between geographic areas and between progressive and regressive  I refer to Northern Ireland because it is the internationally recognized legal jurisdiction. I am aware that some who may read this will prefer ‘the North of Ireland’. 1

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voices. Shirlow (2012) observes that this is not a new phenomenon but was always the case during the period of ‘the Troubles’. McAuley (2010, p. 109) argues that what Loyalist paramilitaries share is a sense of existential threat—both ideological and physical—at the prospect of Northern Ireland being subsumed into a united Ireland. With this threat comes the willingness to use violence: ‘Although the histories, tactics and leadership values of Loyalist paramilitaries differ, all expressed the common concern that Northern Ireland’s constitutional position was under direct threat from militant Republicanism, and made clear a willingness to counter this with physical force if deemed necessary’. Thirty years of violence in Northern Ireland created a set of extraordinary circumstances that resulted in tens of thousands of people joining Loyalist paramilitary groups. There were many factors that contributed to this, including the feeling of an existential threat posed by Irish Republicanism; a lack of formal political power and representation; the effects of social and economic deprivation; the exposure to violence in Loyalist communities; the vacuum created by lack of ‘normal’ policing during the conflict; and the appeal and status associated with Loyalist masculinities. However, two factors that particularly motivated participation in Loyalist paramilitarism are class and gender. Working-class masculinities help explain a great deal about their motivation to join. The ranks of Loyalist paramilitaries were filled with men and women recruited mostly from working-class areas across Northern Ireland. Paramilitary murals to mark territory were painted on gable walls in Loyalist working-class communities across Northern Ireland (see Smithey 2011). A UDA ex-prisoner described how the geography of an area would often be split up between the UDA and UVF. This contested territory was almost exclusively in working-class areas: You had a hundred per cent UDA estates, you had a hundred per cent UVF estates. You’d UVF parts of [name of area deleted], you’d UDA parts of [the same neighbouring area]. It was broke up into all different areas, you know? The UDA just had, in every area of [name of a wider area deleted], working class area of [the same wider area] there would be UDA battalions, in every area then, and UVF as well. (UDA ex-prisoner)

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During ‘the Troubles’, highly militarized forms of working-class masculinities emerged in deprived Loyalist communities. Loyalist military masculinities reinforced a culture where patriarchal masculine ideals and behaviour became the norm. However, masculinities are neither fixed nor permanent. They are multiple, fluid, and evolve over time. For example, Loyalist masculinities differed by geographic region. Rural Loyalist masculinities were different to Loyalist urban masculinities. One rural UVF leader refused to describe himself as a Loyalist, preferring the term ‘British’, because he did not want to associate himself with urban Loyalism, which he perceived to be linked to organized crime. The appeal of Loyalist paramilitary masculinities in Loyalist working-­ class communities was significant. Levels of educational disadvantage are high in working-class Protestant areas, particularly for Protestant males (see Purvis 2011; McManus 2015; Brewer 2018a), and for many boys and young men their ambition was to join a paramilitary group to confer status and identity. The following two interviewees describe the sense of pride they felt from joining a Loyalist paramilitary organization: How did you feel whenever that happened? When I got swore in? Truth? Proudest day of my life. Honest to God I thought I was the bee’s knees. It was like, something I’d always wanted to be. I always looked up to these ones. You know, and it was like, ‘Finally, I’m old enough, and I’m joining it.’ I just felt, this is what, I dunno, I was always heading that way, and I finally got there. (UVF ex-combatant) How did you feel when you joined up or whatever? I felt proud as punch. And I felt almost as if I’d achieved something just doing that, taking that step. (UVF ex-prisoner)

However, Loyalist paramilitary masculinities are an untidy fit within the broad category of military masculinities. Despite being described as ‘pro-state’ (Bruce 2004), unlike official state militaries, Loyalist paramilitary groups are illegal proscribed organizations under United Kingdom (UK) law. Higate (2003, p. 29) points out that the term ‘military masculinity’ usually refers to gender performances that are attached to the state sanctioned armed forces. Loyalist paramilitary masculinities have some

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features in common with state sanctioned military masculinities but are also distinct as non-state armed groups. Loyalist members feel this ambivalence as a lived experience. A UDA leader described how the UDA attempted to organize and emulate many of the structures and roles in the British Army: Once the Provisional IRA came into being, and they started attacking and went on the offensive, then people had to decide if they were going to be vigilantes or were they gonna be more part of a paramilitary organization that was based on the same sort of principles and guidelines as the British Army. And many of the men had been in the British Army, so they formed the Ulster Defence Association. (UDA leader)

Some viewed the option of joining the paramilitaries as another opportunity to serve their country, similar to joining the Army, Navy, or Police. However, there were also Loyalists who viewed the British Army with contempt and regarded paramilitaries as more elite than the British Army. One UVF leader stated how he once challenged a British soldier that he should try to do a full day’s work and then go out to serve his country ‘at night’. In his view, the real soldiers were those in the paramilitaries and not the British Army. The same leader described the paradoxical nature of Loyalist violence; they were prepared to break the laws of the British state they wished to remain part of: ‘It takes a lot of conviction to go and lift a gun outside of the law, to break the law, in defence of the law. It’s not like putting on a uniform in the British Army’ (UVF leader). Loyalist paramilitary membership, however, was not only about war. Respondents stressed multiple forms of service. State militaries require multiple personnel to perform a range of roles to function effectively. These include training, support, administration, intelligence, medics, chefs, chaplains, and so on. Similarly, multiple roles existed in Loyalist paramilitary organizations. An incomplete list of such roles includes gunmen; community policing (including violent ‘punishment’ attacks); hiding and moving weapons; intelligence; events organizing; fundraising; nurses; honeytraps (a practice where Loyalist women lured suspected Republican men from bars); organizing flags and murals; looking after widows; organizing tombstones and maintaining graves; and conducting

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religious ceremonies. These multiple roles were broadly organized in two wider categories—‘military’ and ‘welfare’. The distinction between them is crucial in understanding how Loyalist paramilitaries functioned and the gendered hierarchy of masculinities that sustained them. One UVF ex-prisoner explained the difference between military and welfare roles: You did join the military side of things or the welfare side of things. Was there a very specific difference? They didn’t overlap? You were one or the other? Absolutely. Yep. You would never have the two, like say there was a welfare team and a military team, you never really had them in the same room, because the welfare men got on with what they done and the military men got on with what they done. Obviously the less people that knew about the military operations the better.

Another UVF leader explained the two sides to the organization: There’s two sides to the organization…welfare would consist of people who would go out and raise money. Who would look after murals. Who would put flags up and stuff like that there. That would be their main goal. On the other side of things, now, would be persons who if there was internal things to be sorted out, the military side would sort it out.

He went on to explain how he viewed the difference between those in welfare and those in the military: I would say military ones would have been more like proper hard men, working class men who had jobs. Going back…who were known as, if there was a row to fight each other out in the street and stuff like that. To me, that’s the way I look at it. These would be men who would have had jobs, who would be respected, had families. The welfare would be people who would be, not in that same mould as being hard, if you understand?… ‘Ah, he can go and collect money no problem.’ And stuff like that there. ‘You could sell a ballot.’ That’s the way I look at it.

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A UVF ex-prisoner described how ‘welfare men’ were aware of their perceived lack of status compared to those in the military, and how they tried to compensate for this: I always found, they could sing every song. See the welfare ones? They could sing every song. And I’m not running them down cause they did do a job but what I’m saying is, some of them would have been super Prods [protestants]. They’d have been more hard line than say somebody who’s been through a bit… They were looked at as, umm, while they did a good job, they were poked fun at. You know, ‘Ahh, they’re welfare.’ In other words, not dismissing, but, ‘Ahh, they’re welfare.’ Would the military ones have thought of themselves as a cut above like? Oh aye, definitely, definitely. Like they’re the harder men? That’s exactly right…I suppose if they looked at themselves, they’d have seen themselves as more important, more valuable or more elite than the welfare workers. They thought they were sort of the crème.

The distinction between militarism and welfare not only describes diversities in motivations to join but also helps explain some of the differences militaristic Loyalists have had in re-thinking their masculine identity since the GFA. We turn to this question now.

 trengths and Weaknesses of Social S Reintegration Policies According to the UK Home Office, there are currently fourteen proscribed groups in the UK ‘linked to Northern Ireland related terrorism’ (Home Office 2020, p.  21), seven of which are linked to Loyalism. Estimating the membership of proscribed groups is difficult but approximate numbers include several thousand for both the UDA (which also includes the Ulster Freedom Fighters) and UVF, while numbers for the Red Hand Commando (RHC) are estimated to be in the low hundreds. Others are even smaller. Under UK law, membership and support of these groups carries a maximum sentence of ten years in prison. Proscribed

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organizations continue to function within Loyalism and Republicanism despite the peace process. Their continued existence was confirmed in a Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) and MI5 Report in October 2015 on Paramilitary Groups in Northern Ireland. The report suggested, however, that there have been positive changes within Loyalist paramilitary organizations: ‘None of these groups is planning or conducting terrorist attacks. Members of the UDA and UVF have been directed towards community engagement including conflict resolution initiatives’ (MI5 & PSNI 2015, p. 1). Nonetheless, Loyalist paramilitaries struggle to restrain the violence of their members, such are some still wedded to military masculinities. The report continued: ‘Members of these paramilitary groups continue to engage in violent activity, both directed by local leadership and conducted without sanction. Violence and intimidation are used to exercise control at a community level’ (p. 1). It added: ‘Members of these paramilitary groups, to different degrees, are also involved in other serious criminal activity’ (p. 1). It is interesting to note the emphasis on ‘local leadership’ rather than central leadership. This may be an acknowledgement that paramilitary brigades operate with a degree of autonomy and that local leadership is at times out of step with central leadership. In the case of the UDA they have no overall leader, but have six traditional brigade areas. Some brigades are fraught with tensions and violent feuding. The UVF does have a central commander, but in recent years has struggled to control all of its brigades, particularly in East Belfast. Engagement by Loyalists in official disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration (DDR) policies is thus ambivalent and patchy, largely because these have been so limited in scope and ambition (for a discussion of DDR in Northern Ireland see McEvoy and Shirlow 2009). The signing of the GFA in 1998 included a number of initiatives that involved paramilitary groups, including paramilitary prisoners being released from prison. Of the 449 prisoners released under the terms of the GFA, 196 were Loyalists. Shirlow and McEvoy (2008, p. 2) state that ‘as in other conflicts, amongst the most controversial elements of the process of conflict transformation has been the release and reintegration of politically motivated prisoners’. The GFA saw the establishment of an Independent International Commission on Decommissioning, to oversee the

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decommissioning of paramilitary weapons, and an Independent Commission for the Location of Victims Remains. These commissions took time to work but played a significant role in the peace process. However, the GFA did not establish an independent international body to deal with the structures of paramilitary organizations. There was no formal plan to demobilize paramilitary groups or to reintegrate paramilitary ex-combatants. Although Loyalist paramilitaries eventually engaged in formal decommissioning in 2008, some Loyalists were disappointed that there was no formal demobilization or reintegration process alongside it. One Loyalist ex-prisoner, who played a key role in the decommissioning process, stated: ‘We didn’t get DDR, we just got D. Decommissioning’. Rolston’s (2007) comparison of Northern Ireland’s DDR initiatives, alongside international examples, led him to conclude that in some ways the Northern Irish case study is an example of how not to do DDR (also see Shirlow et al. 2010). In making no provision for paramilitaries to be formally demobilized and reintegrated into civil society, the peace process not only left militarized masculinities unhindered in some Loyalists but also led to significant material and psychological barriers to social reintegration. The following sections expand on two other significant difficulties faced by Loyalist ex-combatants: finding psychological support and achieving education and training.

 aterial Difficulties Experienced M in Social Reintegration Despite the special status conferred on paramilitary prisoners by the GFA, resulting in early release from prison, they continue to experience various restrictions. These include difficulties when applying for certain jobs, and in obtaining insurance, mortgages, and travel visas. Some Loyalist ex-paramilitaries also report that their children’s applications to the British Army or PSNI have been refused. In particular, ex-prisoners sometimes have limited statutory pension provision in older age.

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Psychological support is also mostly absent. Legal obligations under the UK’s 2000 Terrorism Act mean that psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists are unable to treat people who might make disclosures about something that they have not been prosecuted for. This seriously limits ex-combatants talking about their activities in a professional setting without fear of prosecution. For this reason, ex-prisoners find themselves in a more privileged position than ex-combatants, since they were prosecuted, although it is likely that the things ex-prisoners were prosecuted for are not those they now need therapy for, putting them in a similar position. The consequences of this unresolved trauma are real. During my research one Loyalist ex-combatant shared how his sleep is haunted by nightmares. One told me of another Loyalist ex-combatant who set himself on fire. Legal difficulties aside, the main reason ex-combatants do not seek therapeutic help is culturally dominant masculine norms and values. Appearing emotionally vulnerable is unacceptable to militarized masculinity. Ex-combatants have therefore developed a range of individual coping mechanisms for dealing with trauma. One UVF ex-combatant described the variety of these methods: So do you think a lot of the guys who would have been involved twenty or thirty years ago are still carrying a lot of that today? Some are and some aren’t. Some have been able to deal with it, others have bottled [it up] and it affects them. I dunno. Others go to them Glencrees [Peace residential centre] and that there and talk their arse out. They think that does them. It all depends on the individual’s make up. What works for one doesn’t necessarily transfer onto another. (UVF ex-combatant)

The issue of self-medication was a common theme when talking to ex-­ combatants and ex-prisoners. One UVF ex-prisoner described how he preferred self-medication: And again, due to the conflict, that’s why so many people in this country are on prescribed drugs, Valium or other anti-depressants, you know. Because what people went through, what they seen, what was going on

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around them at the time. I prefer to self medicate [in this case he meant cannabis] rather than taking sleeping tablets or prescription drugs or anti-­ depressants or what not, you know? (UVF ex-prisoner)

The inability to talk about the past, due to shame, trauma, or fear of prosecution, means that therapeutic help is out of the reach of many former Loyalist paramilitary members. However, one UDA ex-prisoner described how some support is available through highly localized transitional justice groups based amongst ex-combatants. This is not widely available or widely known about. We in [name of ex-prisoners group], we’ve got a thing [programme], which is a mental health project for ex-combatants and ex-prisoners. Basically, anybody that’s been involved with the conflict. If you wanna talk there is counsellors there and you go in and talk confidentially. A good ten per cent of people—because they get referred to us through the doctor’s surgeries and stuff like that you know…it’s funded by the [name of Health Trust] you know, it’s a proper thing, but it’s only for people from within our community. Maybe ten per cent of the men use it. The other ninety don’t. Loads and loads of them self medicate. Like, you know, drink, drink, drink, drink. Loads of them drink, loads of them take drugs. Just, prescription pills now. That’s the way they deal with it. Loads of them. Loads of people don’t. Loads of people work. Working normal jobs, now, just working away and that’s keeping them sane…And there is people like to talk about it but most people don’t like to talk about it. There is sometimes I would like to go in and go [makes breathing out sound], and get it right out of me, just [makes whoosh sound]. (UDA ex-prisoner)

For many Loyalist paramilitary members, the end of ‘the Troubles’ meant that they were afforded the opportunity of a more ‘normal’ family life without the pressures and stresses associated with combat. The lack of inter-community violence means paramilitary activity reduced, and some have retrained to pursue a career or gone back to education. Some Loyalist ex-prisoners have completed degrees and PhDs. Some are active in transitional justice programmes to help other ex-combatants. However, this is not the norm. Loyalist communities, particularly men, have traditionally experienced high levels of educational underachievement (see Purvis

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2011; McManus 2015; Brewer 2018a). The demise of traditional blue-­ collar work that once informed working-class Loyalist ideas of masculinity and occupational identity has changed the value that many Loyalists now place on education and work skills. In the following extract, a UDA leader, using homophobic language, recalls that when he was young, guns were more lauded than education: ‘When we grew up, “Education’s for fruits!” You know? It was for gays. You know, “Oaff, don’t touch that, we want guns! Aww, gimme guns! Gimme guns!”’. It is precisely this change that makes other Loyalists resist education. Some ex-combatants do not want to give up the material benefits, social status, and recognition they gain from their role in a paramilitary organization. Giving this up means having to look for alternative careers in an economy where employment opportunities are limited. One Loyalist woman described how the lack of opportunities in Loyalist working-class communities encouraged men to continue to participate in paramilitary activities, including in paramilitary-linked organized crime: You know, if they’ve prospects it’s a major success if somebody gets a job in a factory. Why would you wanna aspire to that? I’m not saying there is anything wrong with working in a factory but you know, if that is your life goal, and that would be a major success story, well, it’s not great is it? So people underneath that, drug dealer, paramilitary, it’s life chances. There isn’t many life chances in areas like this. (Loyalist woman)

The Emotional Legacies of the Conflict The transformation of emotions in ex-combatants takes place on two levels, in terms of what ex-combatants actually feel, and what emotions they are prepared to perform. Hochschild (1979, 2003) made the distinction between surface emotions and deep emotions. Certain groups find themselves in situations where they have to perform emotions that they do not necessarily feel (on emotions in peace processes see Elster 2004; Brewer 2010, 2018b). Ex-combatants may feel like they are still at war despite publicly performing peacetime roles. In this sense, the performance of emotions is a skilful, manipulative art-form, in which different

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images of self are presented in different settings. Initial conflict transformation may come in the form of a change in the public performance of emotions, but complete transformation requires change to both deep and surface, and private and public, emotions. This raises the question of what emotions Loyalist men feel able to display. The Loyalist men in my research, with only a few exceptions, were unwilling or unable to share much about their emotional experiences related to the conflict. It was interviews with Loyalist women that revealed most about the emotional landscape of male Loyalist ex-­ combatants. The following extract from a focus group with Loyalist women describes the emotional impact of the conflict on some Loyalist men (each line represents a different participant): What do you think [the conflict] did to the men emotionally, their emotional lives? Did they have an emotional life? What sort of emotions would they have expressed? I think probably desensitized to it. I look at some people now and I think they’re dead behind the eyes. Oh yeah I would agree. Sometimes you think dead behind the eyes as in thick, but dead behind the eyes as in. Closed, shut. But you would see that more with the ones that maybe committed murder or something like that more, wouldn’t ya? There’s a few that I would know and sometimes I would look in their eyes and go, ‘There’s nothing there.’ And you would see their mental health and all’s been affected. Paranoid. Or just switched off. Haunted. Desensitized. But there’s one in particular, you know who I mean? Aye You know, haunted I would say, nearly. A wee bit. Would sit up all night. Up all night watching. All the time. Always watching over his shoulder. (Focus Group with Loyalist Women)

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Hooks (2004) describes this type of emotional desensitization as a hallmark of patriarchal masculinity. A UDA ex-prisoner described his own battle with his memories and the emotions associated with them: I would forget about 90 per cent of the stuff. I’m lying in bed and all sometimes at night and go, something comes into my head and I go [breathes out] ‘I done that’. That’s the way it comes back to you, like. I’ve forgot, I’ve forgot about loads of stuff, loads of things just come back to you and you go, ‘Fuck me’. How do you deal with that when it happens? That’s it, ‘Fuck me’, and then it’s away again mate. Honestly, I don’t dwell on it. I do not dwell on it. I do not dwell on it at all. You know? (UDA ex-prisoner)

All this constrains the display and performance of emotions. Within military masculinities, certain displays of emotion are only tolerated in exceptional circumstances. Hockey (2003, p.  23) writes: ‘In the aftermath of horrific instances, small subcultural spaces emerge, and the emotions described become expressible and acceptable….Such displays, traditionally seen as non-masculine, are then categorized as exceptional and are tolerated because of the exceptional circumstances that generate them’. A UDA leader described how similar restricted spaces for emotional displays exist within Loyalist paramilitarism: Well I know people, some young lads were killing people before they were old enough to have legal sex. You know? And they shouldn’t have been allowed to. You know? I think there was responsible people there should’ve made sure that didn’t happen. But there was young lads in their mid-teens, late-teens, were killing people. Were involved in very, very serious crimes. That’s maybe twenty years ago. In some cases it might have been twenty-­ five years ago. And I know these people. I know some of them. And their lives are ruined, completely destroyed. Some of them have had maybe five or six relationships over recent years. And out of those relationships there might be three or four or five kids. And they’ve all moved on and distanced themselves from each other. They can’t live a normal life. They’ve too many demons. And it’s the same on the Republican side. Republicans have told me that they would go into a pub, some of them are ex-combatants and

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ex-prisoners, and they’d go into a pub, sit and watch the football, have a pint, laugh and carry on and everybody thinks they’re normal. And they go home to an empty flat and they’re in depression. That happens on both sides. I’ve had experiences in my house, in my own house, some of these lads have come to me and I’ve hugged them while they’ve sobbed. Because some of them has never been caught for what they did. And they’re in a worse position than the ones that were caught. At least the ones that were caught, if they’ve got life for murdering somebody at least they can talk about it. They can get it out of them. There’s people, fellas, who were very young at the time, who weren’t caught for what they did and they can’t tell anybody except the people who they were involved with maybe. They have a massive problem with that. Their lives have been ruined. They are completely dependent on prescription drugs or drugs or alcohol to get them to sleep at night. And it annoys me when some people come on the radio or the TV and they say, ‘These are callous killers.’ They’re talking now about their records being expunged and somehow giving them a chance to start over again, which is part of the Good Friday Agreement, you know, that they would be accepted back into society. When I hear them talking about these killers, it’s not like that. Their lives are ruined in many ways. (UDA ex-prisoner)

Loyalist masculinities demanded that men be in control of their emotions in public. However, in private Loyalist men sometimes vent their emotions. The family home was often the place where Loyalist men would perform their deepest private emotions. Hooks (2004) suggests that anger and rage are the only emotions that patriarchal masculinity allows men to express. Loyalist men were typically reluctant to talk about domestic violence in the home but those who did admitted that violence against women and children took place. Women who were interviewed were much more open and many of them recalled domestic violence in the home as routine. Some made excuses that the men were ‘under pressure’ (for a longitudinal study on intimate partner violence in Northern Ireland, see Doyle and McWilliams 2018). One UVF ex-prisoner described the effect that emotional desensitization had on his relationships with family and friends:

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If you harden your heart, well that’s gonna be hardened towards your relationships and other areas, whether it be your wife, your kids or even the way you talk and treat your friends, you know? In them days you didn’t wanna show sign of weakness. Everybody was fucking John Wayne. You know, so you mightn’t have thought it but it would have affected your relationships.

 aking Sense of the Past and the Future M of Loyalism In May 2007 the UVF and RHC announced that they would assume non-military roles. The UDA made a similar announcement in November of that year. In June 2009 the UVF and RHC decommissioned their weapons. This was again followed by the UDA, which completed the process by January 2010. While not all Loyalist weapons were decommissioned, one Loyalist involved in the process estimated that as much as 70 per cent were given up. Despite this progress, all the main Loyalist paramilitary groups continue to exist and intra-community paramilitary violence continues in the form of feuding and ‘punishment’ attacks (see PSNI 2018). Such recourse to violence proffers a threat to the future. While the peace process has advanced politically, many Loyalist ex-­ combatants feel dissatisfied that their contribution has gone unrecognized. A number of factors contribute to this feeling. Beyond the confines of their local areas they are perceived as an embarrassment to middle-class and liberal Unionism (see Brewer et al. 2013). Paramilitary leaders feel like they do not get credit for ‘holding the line’ and preventing a violent response to dissident Republican violence. Loyalist ex-prisoners find training opportunities limited and employment difficult to obtain. Loyalism has few elected political representatives, and some view the electoral success of Sinn Fein with envy and resentment. This has left sections of Loyalism feeling disempowered and that they have missed out on the peace dividend. Although the principle of consent is enshrined in the GFA, some still fear the loss of their British identity and that the peace process has required them to compromise their identity and culture (see McAuley 2004, 2010).

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With this ambivalence to the peace process, Loyalist ex-combatants have had to re-evaluate the narratives they utilize to reconcile their past and to frame the future for Loyalism in peacetime. For example, one young UVF leader stated that although he thought violence at this time was not appropriate, this was a purely tactical decision: Shooting and bombing at this particular time would be pointless because it just doesn’t work, so the only way to fight them is through community organization, is through politics, is through getting young people educated how to fight on this new battlefield. It’s no use educating a young fella how to shoot a gun or fire a bomb because at the end of the day…in World War Two people were running about with tanks. They didn’t teach people to run over the trenches, you know what I mean? So we need to learn this new battlefield and become more adapt to it and hopefully preserve what’s left of our culture because we are becoming an oppressed people. I truly believe that…So if the time’s there to shoot and kill well we need to be prepared to do that to fight for our country and our people but if it’s political and we’re under attack well we also need to be able to fight politically.

For others, however, peace is real not just tactical. One older UVF ex-­ combatant reflected on what transformation meant for him and how he saw the future: So do you think after a period of conflict where violence would have been used, was there ever a period where men had to undergo a transformation? Almost like they learn a new set of skills? Definitely. One hundred per cent. And that happens over many years. You can’t wake up one morning and go, ‘pacifist’, or something like that there. When the Troubles stopped and it all sorta died down and the ceasefires, myself and a lot of other people sat down and went, ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ I’m being serious. You know? People died. What the fuck was that all about? You know? Then you look at it, say some kid’s got shot or busted legs. See when you look at it, you’re brutalizing your own kids. There was probably people had them thoughts a lot sooner or a lot earlier but weren’t comfortable or confident enough to bring them to the fore. There has to be a better way of dealing with this here than brutalizing our young people. But slowly it got through and got through. (UVF ex-combatant)

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However, the relative failure of political Loyalism through the lack of electoral success of Loyalist political parties like the PUP has resulted in a sense of voicelessness and powerlessness (see Novosel 2013). Long (2017, p. 54) writes: ‘The paradox for loyalist political representatives was that legitimacy gained from violence action and more important the legitimacy from ending violence, did not convert into legitimacy in the political arena’. Some Loyalists therefore feel that the only power they have to ‘be heard’ is through the preservation of Loyalist militarism on the streets; after all, many Loyalists say that it was the violence of the PIRA that was the decisive factor in the political rise of Sinn Fein. One UVF ex-combatant agreed and described what he views now as a political vacuum that brings risks: It’s hard for the likes of the PUP or UDP [Ulster Democratic Party], the UDA’s political wing at the time, it was hard for them because you still had the likes of Paisley and Robinson saying, ‘Listen, if you don’t vote for us and don’t get us elected, you’re on the road to the Republic of Ireland.’ You know? Doom and gloom. So it makes it harder for those people who want to represent now where the vacuum’s been left by the DUP, which was the working class party. There’s a vacuum now there, which is disenfranchising those people who are not represented. If they’re not represented and if they’re left to their own devices, a lot of the times people will go back to doing what they’ve done before and to what they know can achieve results. And that’s back to violence. Because a lot of people out there would say that Sinn Fein only got to Stormont through the violence over the years that they had created. (UVF ex-combatant)

However, the narratives Loyalists use to make sense of the past and to discuss potential futures for Loyalism are as divided as the organizations themselves. One disagreement is over whether their ‘war’ was with the Provisional IRA or with Irish Republicanism in general. For those who argue the first position, it is easier for them to be part of the peace process, since the PIRA has decommissioned and Sinn Fein is in government. For those who believe their war was with Irish Republicanism, it is more difficult as mainstream Irish Republicanism has advanced politically and some dissident Republican armed groups remain committed to

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violence. There is the feeling among some Loyalists that they are being asked to ‘leave the stage’, while there is still a threat from violent dissident Republicans. Some Loyalists, who believe they were ‘defenders of the community’ or ‘the people’s army’, thus do not want to leave their communities defenceless. While most Loyalist paramilitaries are content to let the security forces handle the threat of dissident Republican armed groups, some are reluctant to dismantle their own paramilitary structures. This contains an implied threat that Loyalism itself will become violent again. However, there are also significant voices within the Loyalist leadership who are willing to engage in a process of demobilization under the right circumstances. The pressure to maintain militaristic roles, however, also comes from other sources. Paramilitary figures and their families enjoy privileges that come with their status as members of paramilitary bodies, the loss of which is a source of concern. Paramilitary leaders may have moderated their views, but they are surrounded by some with more extreme views, putting their leadership at risk. One Loyalist woman remarked about her husband: ‘He’s certainly mellowed big style. But don’t get me wrong, he said if the Troubles ever started back up he’d be back out there. But you see, he reckons the war’s over. I personally don’t. I think it’s gonna start up again’ (Loyalist woman). Tensions within Loyalism are further illustrated by a crisis of identity for young Loyalist men. One UDA ex-prisoner regretted the UDA stopping recruitment, and believes that this has contributed to the lack of political identity for young radicals and a growing interest in criminality and renewed violence. This radicalization has served to malign young men in the eyes of many older Loyalist women, who said younger Loyalist men were not worthy to be called ‘soldiers’, and instead referred to them as ‘stupid wee boys’. This is illustrative of the pressures experienced by Loyalist men from within their community. While some want to prevent them from becoming involved in militarism, others criticize them for not being militant enough.

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The Transformation of Loyalist Ex-combatants The peace process has required Loyalist ex-combatants to adapt and to come to terms with changes in their social and political environment. This process of transformation is incomplete. Transformation carries its own contradictions and paradoxes, and is never straightforward. It includes periods of progress and regression; it is neither smooth nor linear. It is not inevitable; it is ambiguous, uneven, discontinuous, and at times breaks down. Particular individuals or groups may occupy different stages of the process and understand their own transformation differently. They may not even recognize it as such. One UVF respondent explained: ‘Violence was part of your life. And that’s where, it’s not like a light. You can’t just switch it off. As I say, it’s not as easy as just walking in and switching off a light, and switch off to it’ (UVF ex-prisoner). Brewer (2010, p.  73) highlights the problem of transforming violent masculinities: ‘Peace processes require the transformation of violent masculinities in two senses: reducing the brutalization of masculinity amongst non-combatant males; and finding alternative nonviolent masculinities for former male combatants. But if the problem is known, the solution is not’. Loyalist masculinities have slowly transformed from violent patriarchal masculinities to alternative ‘peacetime’ masculinities. These alternative ‘peacetime’ masculinities range from traditional patriarchal masculinities, more benevolent forms of patriarchal ‘nice guy’ military masculinities, to reconstructed masculinities that transcend the will to dominate (see Hooks 2004). Hooks (2004) and Ashe (2012) have observed that the transformation of violent men tends to produce benevolent patriarchs rather than men who have fully transcended patriarchy. This is often the case with Loyalism. Some older Loyalist men have been on a process of transformation for some time. One ex-UVF combatant commented: I see change in their thinking. What they originally thought they were doing, they’re disillusioned now, or they’ve moderated their views….The ones who are a longer time, have come to realise, “Right this is never about

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religion”. You know, it started off, it’s nationalism, it’s to do with nationalism more than it is religion. And maybe ‘cause they’re older or whatever else their views… are more realistic’. (UVF ex-combatant)

He dated this change to some time ago: Oh, the first I would have ever heard talk of would have been very, very, late eighties, early nineties. You know, five years before the ceasefire, before I could see a change in people’s thinkings. It might have happened earlier, but I’m telling ye, when I first sorta could detect it, that there. (UVF ex-combatant)

A UDA leader also observed this process within his organization: Obviously the ceasefires are called, the conflict is over, we have a body of men there, that we need, I don’t like the word, but normalize like, we need to normalize them to say the least, you know? Show them where the real power is, it’s in civic society, you know? There is a peaceful way to express your views instead of with a gun now. (UDA Regional leader)

A significant indicator of transformation in Loyalism is that there are sections of the Loyalist paramilitary leadership who now have meaningful relationships with Irish Republican leaders. Some were involved with Prison to Peace, an educational programme for schools developed by Community Foundation for Northern Ireland and the School of Education at Queen’s University, along with political ex-prisoners from the UVF, UDA, PIRA, the Irish National Liberation Army, and the Official IRA (see Emerson 2012). Political ex-prisoners from across the community divide who share the prison experience are well ahead of some victim groups in their willingness to dialogue with each other. These lines of communication are vital in developing goodwill and mutual understanding. Not all sections of Loyalism support the development of improved relationships with Republicans, but those involved saw it positively. One UDA leader stated: They’ve [the PIRA] decommissioned. They’re right into civic society now. No punishment beatings. They’re not recruiting. The IRA is dismantled.

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What more do we want? Do you know what I mean? What more do we want? Ya know? So, what do you want them to crucify them all now? You know, that’s just silly. You know? So, time’s a great healer. (UDA ex-prisoner)

One UVF leader described his experience of mixing with ex-prisoners groups on peace programmes as a ‘big, big thing’: We went, I went, to a seminar, conference, for a weekend in Londonderry with Prisoners for Peace, myself and two others from the [group], and you’re talking about maybe three hundred, four hundred people, at a conference for the weekend. INLA, UDA, IRA, UVF, I mean, sitting doing working classes for the weekend. I mean, first night, after you got your dinner, went into the bar, that was your free night, and to see people from the IRA, UVF, UDA sitting in the bar drinking, talking and telling jokes, it proves to me that things are changing. You know what I mean? People can get on, you know what I mean? And to me that was a big, big thing. (UVF leader)

Another indicator of change for Loyalists has been their relationships with the PSNI.  While paramilitary threats and violent ‘punishment’ attacks remain a problem in many areas, some Loyalist paramilitaries have gone from carrying out these very attacks to working together with the police to tackle criminality. Regional leaders from the UDA and the UVF described to me how they are in regular contact with the PSNI in their areas and are actively involved in working with them to stop drug dealing and antisocial behaviour. A UDA leader described this transformation: So in the old days what would have happened to those guys? Drug dealers? Shot dead. Shot dead? Oh aye. Shot dead. Shot dead. Shot dead. If we’d have caught a drug dealer, five, six years ago in [name of local area deleted]? He’d have got his arms and his legs broke if he was lucky. If he was lucky. If he was lucky, and that would have been it, you know? That’s if he was lucky. He’d have been shot, put out of his house. Just in a heartbeat. Depends how bad he was.

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Depends if he was defiant or not. He would have got done in. That was that. That would have been that. So, the drug dealers nowadays, say if you found a drug dealer now. What would be the tactic? Give his name to the police then? Yeah, total pressure. So within a few years, your relationship with the police has completely transformed then? Completely turned around. Completely turned around, so it has. From being the enforcers you are now working alongside them? Oh aye. I’m helping them. I’m doing a lot of work. I’m doing a lot of good work for the police in the ground. Full stop, period. You know? If the peelers [slang for the police] are looking to serve a warrant in [name of local area deleted] they’ll give me a ring and say ‘[name deleted] can you get him to come down we don’t wanna go in there and kick his door in.’ ‘Right, okay.’ And we would go and get the wee lad to go down and hand himself in or whatever, you know what I mean? …Things like that, you know what I mean? Just wee things that they can’t do that we can do better. (UDA leader)

McEvoy and Shirlow (2009, p.  49) encourage the utilization of ex-­ prisoners to address violence in societies seeking to resolve conflict, arguing that their former militarized masculinities can be turned to advantage to assist transformation in others. They conclude: ‘Deploying people who get violence to do peacemaking work in such contexts is just good sense’. This approach has resulted in leadership roles for Loyalist ex-combatants in addressing ongoing inter- and intra-community violence. This is illustrated by the positive contribution of ex-combatants and ex-prisoners to community-based restorative justice groups and in other initiatives, such as Action for Community Transformation, or ACT, a grassroots civilianization project working with the UVF. Drawing on ex-combatants’ background in militarism in this way helps to shape identity change towards non-violent forms of patriarchal masculinity, forms which McEvoy and Shirlow (2009) refer to as ‘peacetime warriors’. This toning down of violent masculinities in post-conflict societies is an important part of a peace process. The Loyalist feuds that erupted after the GFA and lasted the best part of a decade are a good example of why this is essential. Peacetime warriors are a more benign form of patriarchal masculinity and do not represent a total

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transcendence of patriarchal values and military masculinities. Hooks (2004, p. 133) writes that the identity shift must be more than a move from ‘violent dominator patriarch to benevolent nice-guy patriarch’. Transformation must not just involve a repackaging of patriarchal military masculinity for peacetime.

Conclusion This chapter has given voice to Loyalist paramilitary members and ex-­ combatants about their experiences of Loyalist militarism and their journey through the peace process. A number of points stand out. In exploring Loyalist motivations to participate in militarism, we saw that their motivations were multiple, mediated by people’s different histories, and by different social and cultural environments. Motivations were characterized by a sense of threat to the constitutional Union with Britain and a willingness to engage in violence to protect it. Class and gender were significant motivators to Loyalist forms of working-class, militarized masculinities, which largely explains the absence of significant numbers of Loyalist women ex-combatants compared to Irish Republicanism and militant groups elsewhere. In examining the Loyalist experience of social integration, this chapter has shown that no formal independent process for demobilization or reintegration has been developed. This has several consequences. Some Loyalist paramilitaries continue to be involved in intra-community violence, despite the best efforts of community-based restorative justice projects to prevent this, because DDR has not decommissioned their militarized masculinity. Above all, the failure to progress DDR policies results in a range of material difficulties. Many Loyalist ex-combatants and ex-prisoners struggle with poverty, unemployment, and lack of educational qualifications. The barriers to social reintegration are legal, political, and cultural. Some barriers, however, are imposed by ex-combatants themselves, especially by their unwillingness to give up the social and material advantages of paramilitary membership and to shift their identity away from militarized masculinity.

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This chapter has described, largely for the first time, the emotional legacy of conflict for Loyalist ex-combatants. The working-class, militarized masculinity that so characterizes Loyalism has closed off such a discussion in the past, but the research discussed here shows that for many ex-combatants, the emotional labour of active service in the conflict has left a legacy that haunts them. Significantly, dealing with these hauntings from the past is done within a context where the peace process imposes its own emotional labour costs. The ambivalence many feel towards the peace process prevents them ‘closing the book’ on their past. This is made worse for those whose active service has made them emotionally disconnected. Some employ coping mechanisms that emotionally desensitize them, such as the abuse of alcohol, prescription or recreational drugs, or, in other cases, becoming workaholics. This explains why some are unable to maintain normal relationships, and continue to display harmful behaviours associated with trauma and post-traumatic stress. This chapter has also shown that the ‘framing narratives’ or ‘the redemptive scripts’ as Brewer et al. call them (2011, pp. 105–106), which Loyalists use to explain their role in ‘the Troubles’, also imply a vision for the future of Loyalism. Traditional forms of Loyalism have responded with more harden narratives, promising a return to violence should certain circumstances arise. On the other hand, many paramilitary leaders have embraced the opportunity for a new beginning and are now ambivalent about their former combatant roles. The divide between some younger members, with their hardened attitudes, and the tolerance evident in most leaders is a worrisome trend for the future of Loyalism. This divide, however, should not divert us from the involvement of many Loyalist ex-combatants in peacebuilding. The transformation some Loyalists made from combatant to peacemaker was a difficult journey but some Loyalists are travelling it. Such a transformation requires a change in the performance of masculine identities, and while identity change takes time, there is evidence of Loyalist men turning into ‘peacetime warriors’, using their background in militarized masculinity to encourage others to change. Despite the difficulties in this journey, some Loyalist ex-combatants are embracing the role of peacemaker on Northern Ireland’s fragile road to peace.

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Bibliography Ashe, F. (2012). Gendering War and Peace: Militarized Masculinities in Northern Ireland. Men and Masculinities, 15(3), 230–248. Brewer, J. (2010). Peace Processes: A Sociological Approach. Cambridge: Polity Press. Brewer, J. (2018a). The Sociology of the Northern Irish Peace Process. In C.  Armstrong, D.  Herbert, & J.  Mustad (Eds.), The Legacies of 1998 (pp. 271–290). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Brewer, J. (2018b). Towards a Sociology of Compromise. In J. Brewer, B. Hayes, & F.  Teeney (Eds.), The Sociology of Compromise after Conflict (pp.  1–30). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Brewer, J., Higgins, G., & Teeney, F. (2011). Religion, Civil Society and Peace in Northern Ireland. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brewer, J., Mitchell, D., & Leavey, G. (2013). Ex-combatants, Religion and Peace in Northern Ireland. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Bruce, S. (2004). Turf War and Peace: Loyalist Paramilitaries since 1994. Terrorism and Political Violence, 16(3), 501–521. Burgess, T. P., & Mulvenna, G. (Eds.). (2015). The Contested Identities of Ulster Protestants. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Cadwallader, A. (2013). Lethal Allies: British Collusion in Ireland. Cork: Mercier Press. Doyle, J., & McWilliams, M. (2018). Intimate Partner Violence in Conflict and Post-conflict Societies: Insights and Lessons from Northern Ireland. Political Settlements Research Programme. University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh. Elster, J. (2004). Closing the Book. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Emerson, L. (2012). Conflict, Transition and Education for “Political Generosity”: Learning from the Experience of Ex-combatants in Northern Ireland. Journal of Peace Education, 9(3), 277–295. Hayes, B. C., & McAllister, I. (2001). Sowing Dragon’s Teeth: Public Support for Political Violence and Paramilitarism in Northern Ireland. Political Studies, 40, 910–922. Hochschild, A. R. (1979). Emotion Work, Feeling Rules, and Social Structures. American Journal of Sociology, 85(3), 551–575. Higate, P. (2003) ‘”Soft Clerks” and “Hard Civies”: Pluralizing Military Masculinities’, in Higate (ed.) Military Masculinities: Identity and the State. Westport: Praeger.

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Hochschild, A.  R. (2003). The Managed Heart. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hockey, J. (2003). No more Heroes: Masculinity and the Infantry. In P. Higate (Ed.), Military Masculinities: Identity and the State. Westport: Praeger. Home Office. (2020). Proscribed Terrorist Organisations. Retrieved from https:// assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/ attachment_data/file/869496/20200228_Proscription.pdf Hooks, B. (2004). The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love. New York: Washington Square Press. Lawther, C. (2017). The Truth about Loyalty: Emotions, Ex-combatants, and Transitioning from the Past. International Journal of Transitional Justice, 11, 484–504. Long, S. (2017). An Investigation into Ulster Loyalism and the Politics of Misrecognition. Unpublished PhD thesis, Queen’s University. Magee, D. G., (2013) The Deconstruction of Violent Masculinities among Ulster Loyalists. Unpublished PhD thesis, Aberdeen University. Retrieved from http://ethos.bl.uk/OrderDetails.do?uin=uk.bl.ethos.577663 McAuley, J. W. (2004). Peace and Progress? Political and Social Change Among Young Loyalists in Northern Ireland. Journal of Social Sciences, 60(3), 541–562. McAuley, J.  W. (2010). Ulster’s Last Stand? Reconstructing Unionism after the Peace Process. Dublin: Irish Academic Press. McEvoy, K., & Shirlow, P. (2009). Re-imagining DDR: Ex-combatants, Leadership and Moral Agency in Conflict Transformation. Theoretical Criminology, 13(1), 31–59; 1362–4806. McGovern, M. (2019). Counterinsurgency and Collusion in Northern Ireland. London: Pluto Press. McManus, C. (2015). “Bound in Darkness and Idolatry”? Protestant Working Class Underachievement and Unionist Hegemony. Irish Studies Review, 23(1), 48–67. MI5 & PSNI. (2015). Paramilitary Groups in Northern Ireland. Retrieved from https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/ uploads/attachment_data/file/469548/Paramilitary_Groups_in_Northern_ Ireland_-_20_Oct_2015.pdf Monaghan, R., & Shirlow, P. (2011). Forward to the Past? Loyalist Paramilitarism in Northern Ireland Since 1994. Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, 34(8), 649–665. Novosel, T. (2013). Northern Ireland’s Lost Opportunity. London: Pluto Press.

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PSNI. (2018). Police Recorded Security Situation Statistics, Belfast. Retrieved from https://www.psni.police.uk/globalassets/inside-the-psni/our-statistics/ security-situation-statistics/2018/annual-security-situation-statisticsreport-2017-18.pdf Purvis, D. (2011). Educational Disadvantage and the Protestant Working Class: A Call to Action. Retrieved from http://www.nicva.org/sites/default/ files/A-Call-to-Action-FINAL-March2011_0.pdf Rolston, B. (2007). Demobilization and Reintegration of Ex-combatants: The Irish Case in International Perspective. Social and Legal Studies, 16(2), 259–280. Shirlow, P. (2012). The End of Ulster Loyalism? Manchester: Manchester University Press. Shirlow, P., & McEvoy, K. (2008). Beyond the Wire: Former Prisoners and Conflict Transformation in Northern Ireland. London: Pluto Press. Shirlow, P., Tonge, J., McAuley, J., & McGlynn, C. (Eds.). (2010). Abandoning Historical Conflict? Former Political Prisoners and Reconciliation in Northern Ireland. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Smithey, L. A. (2011). Unionists, Loyalists & Conflict Transformation in Northern Ireland. New York: Oxford University Press.

5 ‘Sin by Silence’: The Claims to Moral Legitimacy Amongst Northern Irish Paramilitaries John D. Brewer

Editorial Comment This chapter isolates the moral ambivalence facing ex-combatants in Northern Ireland’s civil war. Supported strongly by the communities they protected and defended as martyrs and heroes, they are nonetheless demons to others. The limitations of the martyr-hero-demon syndrome are no better elaborated than in the Northern Irish case. The morality of warfare is much more nuanced than the syndrome represents. Political violence can sometimes be virtuous and necessary, and can draw on notions of legitimacy that transcend simple legal questions of what it is lawful to do in war. Profound differences between the governance and

J. D. Brewer (*) Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice, Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_5

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community models of legitimacy mean that simplistic moral judgements about the morality of war confuse rather than illuminate the reasons why some combatants turned to military struggle. Moral frameworks are affected by how repressive the Northern Irish state was perceived to be, by the excuses and mitigating circumstances ex-combatants use to neutralize their engagement in war, and by the moral claims they accord themselves as moral agents who acted reasonably. These claims are illustrated with data from Irish Republican men and women, and from Ulster Loyalist men. This chapter thus references back to Wahidin’s chapter on IRA women prisoners and to Magee’s on Ulster Loyalist men. It supplements their chapters by adding discussion of the moral question of what in their eyes made their political violence legitimate. It is a matter of speculation whether these sorts of moral claims are generally made by ex-­combatants or are unique to Northern Irish paramilitaries. Something of them, however, appears in the comments of ex-combatants made throughout the case countries.

Introduction Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850–1919) was a minor US poet who penned a famous stanza that ended up on many civil rights placards in the 1960s: ‘to sin by silence when we should protest makes cowards of men’. It is wrongly attributed to Abraham Lincoln, reflecting perhaps Wilcox’s status as a woman and Lincoln’s as a pre-eminent fighter for racial justice. The second stanza is normally omitted but it explains the message of the first: ‘the human race has climbed on protest/had no voice been raised against injustice, ignorance and lust’. I take this to mean that political protest has been universal throughout history, and regardless of the morality of interpersonal violence, what Kleinman (2001, p. 226) calls private violence, public violence can be morally motivated when it fights against injustice, oppression and human rights abuses. Many ordinary people, of course, object to political protest; as some are doing to the protests over the killing, on 26 May 2020, of George Floyd by US police who kneeled on his neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds until he suffocated, and to those protesting to defend the principle

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that Black Lives Matter. Ironically for those in the USA who dislike protest, without protest the US would still be a colony of Great Britain. Without protest, many nations would still be in servitude to imperial powers, and many peoples subjugated. Without protest, those who object to it on principle would not be able to do so. Killing for peace and justice, however, seems not to make sense, but what Fiske and Rai (2015) refer to as ‘virtuous violence’ is sometimes necessary and instrumental (also see English 2016; Shanahan 2008). The different moral frameworks through which people approach the virtuousness of political violence, however, mean that they mostly object to the violence used against them and those with whom they identify, never to their own. ‘Senseless violence’, as de Haan (2011, pp. 37–38) argues, can be made to make sense, but objections to it are often hypocritical because moral outrage is one-sided. If I might evoke Bob Dylan, who turned placards into protest songs in the 1960s, god is always on our side, never on the side of our opponents. There is significant moral ambiguity here that bears upon the question of ex-combatants. The relativity of the moral standard which judges the virtuousness of one’s own violent acts against the moral wickedness of opponents’ violence is actually amoral. This relativity fails to recognise that most political violence is morally bound and conducted under moral frameworks, not just the violence we support. If this were not so, the Nuremberg Court would not have happened, the Geneva Convention would not exist, and the International Criminal Court and other humanitarian laws would be meaningless. Political violence is mostly rule bound. Those whose violence we oppose are alleged, however, to conduct their violence without rules and moral limits; our own is supposedly always rule bound and morally justified. The amorality of this relative moral standard is obscured, however, by what Martha Nussbaum (2001, p. 10) refers to as the emotional response people make to violence. She argues that a ‘norm of reasonableness’ mediates people’s emotional response to violence; anger, protest and violence which are thought reasonable are responded to more positively than when thought unreasonable. However, this normally results in people being incapable of seeing the reasonableness of their opponents’ violence. But their blindness to it does not denude its reasonableness.

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This does not mean that violence is always moral. There are some moral absolutes that make some forms of political violence immoral. It is easy to think of the grounds which make it so. There is, however, a moral obligation that comes with this realisation. People have an equally important moral responsibility to think of grounds which make some political violence virtuous. The founder of Peace Studies, Johan Galtung (1969), summarised these conditions under the term ‘structural violence’, which describes circumstances redolent of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s second stanza: social injustice, extremes of economic inequality and structural disadvantage, poverty, impoverishment, atrocious human rights abuses and colonial oppression, amongst many more. The Harvard medical anthropologist Arthur Kleinman (2001, p. 226ff) referred once to the many and multiple ‘violences of everyday life’ that should not be silently endured. As Sir Adam Roberts (2006, p.  58) reminded us therefore, justice can sometimes conflict with peace, and the claim to non-violence should not always take precedence, especially when all other non-violent avenues have been exhausted or have failed. Hoffmann (2006, p. 13) notes that violence aimed at ending massive human rights violations falls into this category. Indeed, Hoffman argued it can be unjust not to try to intervene to protect human rights. Or as Ella Wheeler Wilcox put, it is sinful to be silent. The moral backcloth to the use of political violence that I have just illustrated makes it necessary to investigate the moral claims to legitimacy that perpetrators proffer in order to defend, justify and rationalise their recourse to political violence. This requires taking the perpetrator’s perspective to dispassionately analyse their own accounts. The data discussed in this chapter is drawn from a 2013 qualitative study of 17 Republican and 12 Loyalist paramilitary members (see Brewer et al. 2013).1 Twenty-­ six were men. All were former combatants; all but one served time in prison. The sample included 15 from the Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA), which included the three women, and two from the Official Irish Republican Army. Eleven of the Loyalists were in the Ulster  John Brewer wishes to thank David Mitchell, who did the interviews for that research, and for the contribution he and Gerard Leavey made to the earlier book, interview extracts from which are used here. The usual caveats apply. They share no responsibility for the argument advanced in this chapter or for the interpretations of the data employed here. 1

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Volunteer Force (UVF), one in the Ulster Defence Association (UDA) (for greater methodological detail, see Brewer et al. 2013, pp. 5–7). All names used here are pseudonyms and are in quotation marks. The original data has been destroyed after the expiry of our legal obligations under data protection. Ex-combatants are what the victim literature calls ‘complex victims’, meaning that they do not fit the public perception of the ‘ideal victim’, which is of ‘innocent’ civilians killed or injured by others. Interestingly, this ideal includes state veterans who themselves used violence, sometimes without moral limit; it excludes only non-state combatants regardless of the rule bound nature of their violence. There is thus a combatant hierarchy as much as a victim hierarchy, with some ‘preferred’ combatants at its apex, with their violence thought of as reasonable in Nussbaum’s terms. The moral opprobrium reserved for non-state combatants meant that in his account of what he called ‘wrongdoers’, Elster (2004, pp. 136–137) felt the need to issue a caveat which I have to repeat. Some of these claims to moral legitimacy are clearly self-serving, while others are compelling and plausible, but my focus is not on their normative validity, whether or not they are true. My ambition is to catalogue the claims in order to understand the grounds on which they saw their recourse to political violence as reasonable. It is very important to note at the outset that these claims to moral legitimacy do not constitute denial, nor are they intended to denigrate and demean victims. Ex-combatants did not falsify the past. In asserting the moral validity of their political violence, these ex-combatants did not sanitise their accounts. The moral nature of these claims in fact facilitated a high level of honesty. People mostly conceal when they think they have done something wrong and shameful. Ex-combatants’ claims about the moral legitimacy of their actions resulted in candour and veracity because they saw their conduct as right. Before interrogating these claims, it is thus necessary to discuss the conception of legitimacy that underlies them.

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The Concept of Legitimacy The concept of legitimacy has a long history (see Beetham 1991) but most social scientists begin with the writings of the German sociologist Max Weber at the beginning of the twentieth century, who defined legitimacy as a belief in the validity of authority and thus acceptance of the decisions that come from it (see Giddens 1977, p.  92). This has positioned the debate about legitimacy entirely to be about governance and law. We might call this the governance model of legitimacy. Things are legitimate according to the extent to which they conform to established rules as determined by law. Weber saw authority as based on one or other of three grounds: on people’s emotional affectivities and affinities; on culture and tradition; and on rational-legal governance and bureaucracy operating through law. Modern industrialised society comes to be dominated by the third. Legitimacy is no longer provided by emotional attachments to charismatic individuals or by ancient traditions and cultural practices that determine divine or hereditary rule, but is based on established governance procedures enshrined in law. The governance model of legitimacy constitutes the rule of law, standards which are external to the person claiming legitimacy, as Giddens puts it (1977, p. 92). That is to say, people cannot confer legitimacy on themselves; it comes from the office or position they hold and the rule bound and lawful practices that define what office holders can and cannot do legally. Legitimacy in the governance model has its weaknesses. It can be undermined from within. Where rational-legal authority fails to conform to its own rules of legal validity it is illegitimate (see Sparks 1994, p. 15). The so-called ‘crisis of legitimacy’ has dominated social scientists in recent times as states act evermore irresponsibly. As Beetham (1991, p.  20) argues, where authority is no longer seen as legitimate there is a legitimacy deficit; where people withdraw consent from such authority, there is delegitimation. There are many grounds on which consent can be withdrawn. The rise of identity politics in late modernity replaces rational-­ legal authority with emotional authenticity as the principle of rule, where what matters is loyalty to the identity not to rule-bounded decision-­ making, whether this identity is ethnic (‘make American great’), racial

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(‘white lives matter too’) or religious (‘god votes for Trump’). Rules can be brushed aside by office holders in order to guarantee and protect the identity. In Weberian terms, it is almost like a return to charismatic authority embedded in emotional attachments to particular individuals, the bending of the rules by whom is less important than the authenticity of their identity politics. Opponents allege this against many modern leaders to whom they object—Trump, Johnson, Farage, Le Pen, Mugabe, Putin—sometimes with good cause. By their own actions, states can also erode the consent of their citizens. Some states are not beyond abusing their rational-legal authority to resort to legalised oppression. Human rights abuse can be legal under law. Apartheid in South Africa, Jim Crow racism in the Deep South of the USA, extermination camps in Nazi Germany and genocide of the Rohingya peoples in Myanmar are examples that come to mind. Less extreme examples include police brutality towards peaceful protestors, torture and deaths in custody. ‘Disrespectful loyalty’ to a state that abuses people is the beginning of delegitimation. Other states lose legitimacy by the impact of their policies on specific groups of citizens that are unfairly treated, whether intentionally or unintentionally, especially where this inequality is enduring, systematic and extreme. The treatment of indigenous peoples by long-established settler groups, particularly where these indigenous peoples have been subjected to cultural annihilation, tends to discourage feelings of legitimacy amongst indigenous peoples. This gives delegitimation racial, class and colonial dimensions. However, rather than multiply the examples that provoke delegitimation of rational-legal authority, I want to move to what I call an external threat to the governance model. This proffers an entirely different conception of legitimacy, which I call the community model of legitimacy. The community model of legitimacy grounds authority in the normative standards of an ethical community. Legitimacy is again external to the person claiming it; its external source is now the community from whom people take their authority. An ethical community transcends geography. It is not neighbourhood based or territorial but shaped by a shared value system that unites the people with these beliefs regardless of other differences. Weber’s idea of traditional authority was geographically

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bounded to a tight knit group who shared space, like tribal groups and neighbourhood gangs. Modernity has replaced space as the marker of community with symbolic communities, which share culture, symbols, beliefs and values not territory. Symbolic communities can be virtual, as well as physical, united in values without ever encountering each other in person. They can be based around environmental issues, diet, leisure, LGBT and sexuality and many more cleavages. In the community model of legitimacy, people take their authority from the validity they possess in representing the ethical standards, practices, values and beliefs of this symbolic community. Members of symbolic communities need not accept as legitimate decisions, practices and behaviours that are out of kilter with their ethical standards but which are nonetheless legal under the governance model. Environmental activists, LGBT protesters, ‘meat is murder’ vegan activists and Black Lives Matter protesters, for example, have their own notions of what is legitimate regardless of the law. Likewise, despite the legality of decisions derived by rational-legal authority, people whose ethical standards have been offended, undermined and refuted by these decisions can feel it legitimate to protest and to take action according to the ethical values of their symbolic community. This is, after all, what inspires many new social movements, where the clash between the rational-legal authority of the state and the ethical standards of their symbolic community often results in violence. Describing these communities as symbolic, in as much as they transcend space, does not make them any less material. Symbolic communities can experience real material inequalities. They can also suffer from cultural ostracism and marginality. Where structural disadvantage, inequality, discrimination, poverty and legal and cultural oppression coincide with symbolic differentiation, differences in community ethical standards are given an economic and material dimension that reinforces opposition to the rational-legal authority of the state. The divide between the two conceptions of legitimacy can constitute a gulf and give legitimacy to many actions that the governance model sees as lawless but which are nonetheless given validity by the symbolic community. The relevance of these two conceptions of legitimacy for a discussion about ex-combatants should now be obvious. These two models exist in

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tension with respect to a whole number of issues. The first is accountability; the two models see themselves accountable to entirely different standards. The community model provides ex-combatants with legitimation strategies to justify actions that are beyond the law. The governance model provides state veterans with moral and legal cover when their unlawful actions are sanctioned by the state. There is tension between them also in terms of popular support for political violence. The governance model assumes people will turn against those who use violence because of respect for the law, but this often misrecognises the level of popular support for violence within communities where very strong grievances lend it legitimacy. Tension exists also between the two models in terms of criminal justice response to the use of political violence. The governance model uses criminal law to truncate combatants—by imprisonment, internment, even execution—but this never works when combatants have community support. Throughout history, the imprisonment, internment and execution of combatants have recruited others to step up to replace them where communities see protest and violence as legitimate. It also tends to politicise the prisons, which become sites of resistance (on which see Buntman 2019), exemplified so well by the Irish Republican Hunger Strikes in 1980–1981. This reflects a further tension between the two models in how they perceive lawbreakers. The governance model misrecognises combatants as ordinary criminals acting outside the law like every other lawbreaker, while the community model sees its protagonists as moral agents acting politically. This tension in how lawbreakers are perceived is conditioned by a greater tension in how the two models perceive the morality of the law. The governance model sees bending the rules as acceptable when done to defend the law. The community model, on the other hand, argues that when those who make the law, break the law, there is no law, as Bobby Sands, the first PIRA hunger striker to die, once said. And without law there is no morality. To opponents of the state, this adjourns normal moral judgements because the state has suspended morality. This suspension makes opponents’ actions which are outside the law legitimate, on grounds that the law has no moral persuasion because the state has broken its own laws.

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This leads to one further difference. When state veterans break the rules they are supposed to defend, there can be public shock, creating divisions of opinion and support within advocates of the governance model. Advocates of the community model seize on these divisions as propaganda opportunities. The two models, in other words, exist in tension also with respect to how they mobilise world public opinion. There is one final area of tension between the two models concerning the morality of the methods of warfare. This gets to the central complaint against the moral claims made by ex-combatants and it is necessary to discuss this tension at greater length. Advocates of the governance model see the state as having the monopoly on the use of force, a position derived from Max Weber. Under this model therefore, when non-state actors use any force at all, they are said to do so illegitimately. What adds further moral opprobrium to non-state actors’ use of force is the allegation that it is without moral limit and is not rule bound. What Mary Kaldor (1999) refers to as ‘new wars’ are distinguished by the absence of a set battlefield, turning everyday life into a battle site, the disappearance of the distinction between civilian and combatant, turning civilian bodies into objects to harm, and the use of de-technological and indiscriminate forms of warfare, such as the bomb, the machete and the sword. The human body becomes both a weapon, through the use of suicide bombers, and a battlefield for the degradation and defilement of the enemy. Moral claims to legitimacy by non-state combatants can thus be easily undercut by referencing the moral illegitimacy of their methods of warfare. Accusations of the dehumanisation of the enemy are not, however, only made against non-state actors. The state and state veterans can morally enervate communities, minorities and social groups who challenge it by the use of force. Cultures of violence can exist in some repressive societies where the resort to violence by the state is the first choice and where minorities survive under weakness, powerlessness and human rights abuse. In this regard, political violence by the oppressed is virtuous as Fiske and Rai (2015) term it. They list some of the conditions that make political violence virtuous (2015, p.  260ff), including the attempt to restore social relationships broken by others, including presumably the state, when there has been transgression against them, when they are

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seeking redress or protection and when people have no viable alternative to the use of violence. The key to this virtuousness, however, is missed in such a listing. It lies in the power asymmetry between state and non-state actors’ recourse to violence. The weapons of the weak and powerless (on which see Scott 1985) pale in comparison to those of the state. Seamus Heaney’s poem Requiem for the Croppies, for example, tells of poor people ‘shaking scythes at cannon’. Violence is often the last resort by the weak because of unequal resources, fear, fatalism and defeatism and poor access to ordinance and personnel, amongst others, and mostly leads to what Heaney describes in his poem as a ‘fateful conclave’ of their destruction and death. Protests by the weak are often hollow rebellions for this very reason. Scott (1985) lists an array of ‘weapons of the weak’ that fall short of the use of violence and which explain why most protests fail. When violence is eventually used by the powerless there tends to be reliance on de-­ technological forms of weaponry that are inevitably more crude and unsophisticated compared to those of the state. Accusations from the governance model against the use of supposedly dehumanised forms of weaponry by the weak, which fuel the complaint that the violence of the weak is without moral limit, have to be seen in the context of the asymmetry of power between the state and its weak opponents. Advocates of the community model of legitimacy thus tend to rely on a simple moral response: there was no other choice. It constitutes the morality of the last resort of the weak. This tension between how the community and governance models frame the moral claims to legitimacy made by ex-combatants is reflected in the accounts former combatants give. Before we address the accounts of the 29 ex-combatants discussed in this chapter, however, it is necessary to briefly discuss two further issues which help us properly ‘hear’ them.

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Hearing Ex-combatants Claims Two prior issues need to be addressed if we are to move beyond the ‘martyr-­hero-demon’ syndrome, which I discussed in Chap. 1, when ‘hearing’ the accounts of ex-combatants. The first is anger, the second punishment. Everyone gets angry but not everyone resorts to violence because of it. Muldoon (2008) argues that anger can have moral legitimacy, and not all types of anger are dysfunctional in peace processes (see Brewer 2018, pp.  243–244) but being angry is not enough legitimation for political violence. Most ex-combatants when giving accounts of their recourse to it, therefore, felt under a moral impulse to explain the reasonableness of their anger and of their response to it. However, a paradox for ex-­ combatants who subsequently became active in peacebuilding is that their peace activism becomes a condition under which they are made reflexively aware of the negative effects of their former violence (see Giddens 1977, p.  156 for the importance of such reflexive moments). This paradox is transformative for them. This reflexivity reinforces the moral impulse to describe their actions as reasonable and to accord them legitimacy, forcing them to confront the tension between the governance and community models of legitimacy. Acting outside the law required them to challenge the very legitimacy of the law and to ground the reasonableness of their actions in other values. This was true even for Loyalists as pro-state militias, since reflexive awareness later of the unlawfulness of their actions meant they could not rely on the governance model of legitimacy, despite supporting the state whose laws they broke. ‘Disrespectful loyalty’ still needs to be accounted for by Loyalists when making moral claims to the legitimacy of their actions, when the governance model does not serve the purpose. If it is necessary to dissuade ourselves of the perception that ex-­ combatants are just angry people if we are to hear their accounts dispassionately, it is equally important to be dissuaded of the view that they have not been punished. The idea that ex-combatants have not been punished is false. Conditions for amnesty, licence and early release only apply after they have served time in prison. Those who have never been

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imprisoned have not had their guilt and culpability proven and do not deserve punishment even under rational-legal authority and the governance model of legitimacy. The idea thus is that such culprits were just lucky enough not to get caught; they deserve punishment anyway. Punishing those even not charged, let alone found guilty, attests to the real issue behind the concern with punishment. It is that ex-combatants have not been punished enough. In his account of punishment for atrocities, Duff (2009, p. 81) poses the relevant moral question. If the purpose of punishment is to inflict the kind and degree of suffering that the wrongdoer deserves, could we ever punish them enough? No human punishment seems enough to those who want retribution. What punishment is it that ex-combatants ‘deserve’? These are moral questions not legal ones. The answers tend to be resolved by applying the competing and relative moral frameworks discussed earlier through which most people approach the debate about ex-combatants. This turns them into heroes or demons according to one’s moral framework. This syndrome, however, prevents us ‘hearing’ ex-­ combatants in the way we should when they give ‘voice’ to their conduct. There is, however, another way of framing the question of punishment that moves us beyond the martyr-hero-demon syndrome. The ex-­ combatants in this study who voluntarily exposed themselves to interrogation by researchers made a choice to give an account of their alleged ‘wrongdoing’. They need not have done so. In the light of the Boston College Affair (on its implications for research see Brewer 2016) they probably would not do so now. In submitting to academic interrogation they laid claim to cultural values that were theirs as well as ours. This reminds us that those we seek to punish are citizens, fellow members of a normative culture. They are not outside society; they are not beyond the pale. They deserve to be heard as fellow members of society regardless of our moral approach to the question of punishment (Shanahan 2008 makes a similar point with respect to Irish Republicans and the ‘morality of terrorism’). It is to their voices that I now turn.

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 he Moral Claims to Legitimacy by Irish T Republicans and Ulster Loyalists The moral claims that ex-combatants make do not denude them of moral responsibility for their actions; they do not wipe them away like a religious conversion to being ‘born again’ does that eradicates the past. Their actions are not denied; these moral claims instead frame their actions as reasonable. Six claims to moral legitimacy are made: they were reluctant combatants; the decision to take up arms and to continue was emotionally problematic and not lightly taken; they were protecting their own community; they have been heavily involved in subsequent conflict transformation; the legacy of that decision leaves heavy suffering and costs to this day; and people should be judged on what they do now for conflict transformation, not on the past.

Reluctant Combatants Regardless of how an unsympathetic public or political opponents portray them, ex-combatants do not see themselves as psychopathic killers and mass murderers. They are aware, however, that this is often their public image. This implicates the need to stress their military involvement was reluctant, reasoned and principled, not headstrong. ‘I was fighting for a better world’, said ‘Gerry’, a Republican ex-combatant, ‘and if we can finish it now—Ireland’s been fighting for hundreds of years—if we could finish it, that would be it over. The wounds between England and Ireland would be healed’ (cited in Brewer et  al. 2013, p.  1–2). ‘Deirdre’, who had been in the Republican wing of Armagh’s Women Jail, said, ‘I don’t believe Jesus ever meant for the whole of society to turn the other cheek on injustice’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 53). Turning the other cheek is for individuals; ‘it’s not as an oppression of society’. ‘For any country to take over another country and be invaded and claim it as their own, that’s unjust’. She elaborated: The goal at the end of any war should be peace and to go into that in all clear conscience and believe that it was aiming for something better at the

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end of it, I believe it justified. I think it’ a just war when people decide ‘okay, enough is enough’, and it’s time to have a tactical, strategic war to stop oppression of our people. (Cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, pp. 52–53)

‘It was a just war’, she said later, ‘I mean, we weren’t on British land. The Irish didn’t invade Britain’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 120). ‘David’ also reminds us of this: ‘Not that I went to war; the war came to me. I didn’t go and invade England, they came into my country’ (cited Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 125). ‘Bríd’, another female Republican ex-combatant, said that she was never blasé about her involvement. ‘The first thing we were always told was “this is how your life is going to end: you are going to go to jail or you will be killed”, and that was reiterated a million times. It would have nearly been easier to become a Catholic priest than it was to get into the IRA’ (Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, pp. 120–121). The claim to reluctance is common also to Loyalists. ‘Philip’, an ardent Loyalist, referred to the fact that most of the prisoners he knew were young and had little realisation of what they were getting themselves involved with. ‘They were all young people, young kids, myself included. We didn’t get the schooling that maybe we should have and it wasn’t until we had the time to think for yourself ’ (cited Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 56). ‘Bobby’ remarked, ‘if someone had said to me “[real name deleted] what you’re doing is wrong”, I mean, I would have made my choice then. But there was no one that said to me, “the road you’re going down is wrong”’ (cited Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p.  109). ‘Harry’ repeated this ambivalence towards his military activity. When referring to Protestant churches he said, ‘they were trying to save me but maybe they should have been trying to stop me. Don’t worry about my soul, worry about what I’m doing to other people’s souls’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 110). While it is clear that expressions of reluctance involve the displacement of blame, ex-combatants were also aware that their eventual choice was not taken lightly and that it came with extreme emotional costs.

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An Emotionally Costly Decision Not Taken Lightly ‘Alistair’, a Loyalist who underwent a religious conversion in prison, remarked that ‘I always knew that what I was doing was wrong in the eyes of the law and in the eyes of God—probably never sat really and had big deep thoughts about it—but you knew’ (Brewer et al. 2013, p. 85). He now has to live, he says, knowing that he was a sinful person. ‘Bobby’, on the other hand, as a secular Loyalist, has to confront ‘skeletons in his closet’ without religion. ‘There are things that aren’t nice and there’s nights that I lie and think about this and that’. He went on: ‘I know my community got a lot of hurt and pain but it doesn’t nullify what I ended up involved in’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 136). ‘Bríd’ showed remarkable honesty—and eloquence—when describing the emotional legacy of her decision to join the PIRA and she is worth quoting at length. The one thing that anyone will tell you who has been through a war is that They never want to see another one. It’s horrific. You spend your time trying to find ways to kill people and half your time trying not to get killed. That’s not the way you want for anyone, least of all the next generation. So you know, war is horrible from start to finish. There’s nothing good about it. But you feel it had to be done? You could have stepped back from it Why? How could I have lived with me then? My community would have been left and it would have been genocidal. (Cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 49)

‘Gerry’ repeated this view. ‘I don’t want war, never did. I was never gleeful, but I mean, I’ve been to confession and priests were a bit harsh with me. What have I to do then, lie down and let them walk all over us? I was fighting for a better world’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p.  53). ‘Liam’ acknowledged the difficulty of his decision to join the PIRA and its emotional cost but felt he had reluctantly to become a volunteer. ‘You look back and a lot of horrible things happened and they shouldn’t have, and it was unfortunate. But at the end of the day, you can’t really pick and choose’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 54).

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These remarks, from both sets of paramilitaries, comment on what they saw as their main motivation to fight, despite knowing the emotional costs: to protect their communities. This gave their conduct higher moral meaning, but protection from what differed in both cases.

Protecting Their Communities ‘I am an internationalist’, ‘Bríd’ said, ‘I will always be on the side of the oppressed and I will always resist the oppressor’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 47). As ‘David’, a Republican prisoner, reminds us: ‘I was discriminated against because I was a Catholic. Catholics should have equal rights’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p.  47). ‘The way I look at it’, remarked ‘Francis’, ‘someone forced violence upon me and I thought I had a right to return it’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 48). ‘Conor’ shared this view. ‘We had no option in this. I’m not violent by nature. I was not brought up violent. I was made violent. See what I saw, you’d peelers [slang for police], you’d Brits [slang for British Army], Loyalists attacking these areas. What do you do?’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 48). Republican political violence, in other words, was reactive. ‘The British Army came onto the streets’, ‘Liam’ said, ‘and I looked on them as bullies. They were shooting live rounds’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 49). To ‘Bríd’ this defined the whole ethos of Republicanism. ‘Republicanism is servitude to the community; it’s about serving our people’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 73), and as most Republican ex-combatants commented, colonisation ensured that they felt they did not go to war, the war came to them. Their language is redolent of decolonisation. As ‘David’ said: ‘I didn’t go and invade England, they came into my country’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 125). Pro-state militias cannot use the language of decolonisation. This constrains the moral claims they are able to make. Loyalists’ response is to claim they were defending their communities from Republican attacks. Their violence is still presented as reactive, provoked by others. ‘Gary’, a UDA man from a rural part of Northern Ireland, expressed this view in terms redolent of Ulster Protestants’ historic sense of siege and existential

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threat (on which see Brewer 2003; Brewer and Higgins 1998; Dunlop 1995). ‘I think we were defending it [Protestantism]. Whenever people in our Church had been shot, this is like the Covenanters who had to fight to defend their faith. If it wasn’t for people’s involvement in the conflict, the chances are there wouldn’t be a Protestant Church or anything cos you’d have been wiped out’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, pp. 58–59). As an evangelical Christian, ‘Gary’ said that he saw himself doing ‘nothing different to what the Israeli people done, and other peoples done, within the Scriptures, defending what was theirs’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 60). ‘I have no conscience through the conflict’, ‘Gary’ said, ‘because I believed in my heart in what I was doing. I am not a trouble maker, it was only defence’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 138). Loyalists’ reliance on the idea of defence is problematic for three reasons. First, much of their violence was proactive and was not aimed against people who were attacking their communities. Second, in making this claim about defence, Loyalists are confronted with their awareness that their military involvement was illegal in terms of the very state they were defending. Third, they had to confront the realisation that legal means already existed to defend their communities through the state’s own security forces. Republicans could draw on alternative ethical standards rooted in Irish nationalism that rejected British law; Loyalists fought to defend the state but could not lay claim to support for the rule of rule as justification for doing so. After all, the British state’s security forces were fighting the PIRA; Loyalists could have joined up, as many Unionists did. This forced upon Loyalist ex-combatants the need to explain why they preferred instead to act outside British law to defend British law. Loyalist interviewees stressed that their primary goal was to stop the PIRA and to use methods that security forces were supposedly not allowed to. ‘The security forces’ hands were tied’, ‘Alistair’ said, ‘and were not actually able to engage with these people [Irish Republicans], they couldn’t do it for propaganda reasons’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 61). Some Loyalists referred thus to the tacit support they got from the security forces, who turned a blind eye. This is what is commonly called collusion, much denied by Unionists. ‘Ronnie’, a UVF ex-prisoner, admitted

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it in order to be lent the authority that comes from the governance model of legitimacy. He said ‘you justify it because you’re doing something and there’s a policeman along with you helping you or there’s people who are going “I’m turning a blind eye to this, you go and do that”. That’s the kind of times it was’ (cited in Brewer et  al. 2013, pp.  65–66). ‘Jackie’ described how he applied to join the police but was rejected for being too short, so he joined the UVF (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 68). The fine line between acting within and outside the law was mentioned by many Loyalists. ‘You just got drawn in’, said ‘Philip’, a UVF ex-prisoner, ‘the old adage—the fork in the road. Some went into the security forces and some went into paramilitarism, and that’s the way it went’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 68). ‘Alistair’ explained that he was recruited into the UVF in the second form at school. ‘I was, you could say, groomed for that’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 68). However, none of this rationalisation stops the realisation that the decision to take up arms causes them harm to this day. This is true as much for pro-state Loyalist ex-­combatants as for Republicans.

The Enduring Legacy of Military Involvement Ex-combatants in the North of Ireland experience an array of personal, financial, legal, health and social reintegration problems (Crothers 1998; Gormally 1995, 2001; Jamieson et al. 2010; McEvoy et al. 2004; Shirlow and McEvoy 2008). Jamieson and colleagues found high levels of mental ill-health, symptoms of post-traumatic distress disorder and alcohol and drug misuse (2010, p. 8). This legacy is made worse by the internecine turf war between Loyalist organisations that continues, meaning they now kill each other; and dissident Republicans regularly threaten supporters of Sinn Fein’s peace strategy. Some ex-combatants live under death threats. There is no easy escape from the legacy of the past and the suggestion that they got off ‘scot free’ is erroneous—they are as much victims as are non-combatants but in different ways—although they bear the added burden that many perceive them as not suffering enough. To these people, the death threats and reintegration problems are less than they deserve.

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Therefore, an important part of ex-combatants’ moral claims to legitimacy is to stress that the reluctant but nonetheless honourable decision to defend their communities has brought costs that bystanders have been fortunate to evade. ‘Deirdre’, a Republican woman, felt her conscience could not permit her to be a bystander. ‘I often wonder how much harm bystanders do by not having a point of view, if they have a conscience?’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 53). Being a person of conscience, however, brings consequences. ‘Aiden’, a member of the Official IRA, told of how he was ‘chased’ by a priest after hearing his confession, ‘he told me to fuck off’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 104). ‘Gerry’, on the other hand, was only told by his confessor to forgive himself (cited in Brewer et  al. 2013, p.  104). Rejection in some parts of the community from which they derive their legitimacy is the darker side of the reliance on community ethical standards. When asked if her conscience made her uncomfortable with some PIRA actions, ‘Deirdre’ was emphatic. ‘No. I believed it was a just war. I mean, we weren’t on Britain’s land. It’s Ireland, we’re Irish. To me, we shouldn’t be just a colony and another part of the United Kingdom. We’re entitled to our own independence’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 120). ‘Gerry’ was less emphatic despite his strong anti-colonialism. ‘Certain things I just felt deep inside me, yes, it’s wrong. There’s nothing good about war. But the thing is, if you’re going to succumb and just say “right, OK, that’s it, I’m not Irish”. Or you can say, “I want to change things here, things have to be changed”’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 121). The anti-colonial positions of ‘Deirdre’ and ‘Gerry’, that project moral blame on to the British, still come with the realisation that they have emerged from the war changed. ‘Cathal’ described himself as lucky for coming through it unscathed, describing how many Republican ex-­ combatants did not. ‘Quite a few people close to me have issues and have got to deal with them’. ‘Aiden’, from the Official IRA, described how he has suffered from participating in the war. I go to a therapist about conflict related issues, a lot of ex-prisoners do. There’s guys I know who are heavily into drink, see things climbing up the wall at night. My wife tells me I still have nightmares. I believe sometimes that I have this attitude that I really try to be a better person each day.

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Sometimes I fail but the majority of times, if I can do a small turn, no matter how small, that makes me feel good, that makes me feel I am not that person. (Cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 123)

Loyalists are no different. ‘Ronnie’ described how sometimes his conscience was pricked. ‘I regret lots of things that I have been involved in; and I have been involved in a lot of things. But I don’t lose sleep over it because that was the way it was’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 137). He went on: ‘I knew what I was doing was wrong. It was wrong in one context and right in the context of there is a war going on. Breaking the law, I didn’t do it just for the sake of it. I did it for reasons. There was a logic behind it. But it’s done and dusted now’. But then he added, ‘I haven’t been too well. It would be an interesting question to [ask] how many ex-­ combatants suffer from depression and post-traumatic stress’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 137). As ‘Alistair’ commented about his Loyalist comrades, ‘I think so many ex-prisoners, they’re trying to say it was all worthwhile. You’ve all these people, they’re social, mental wrecks, down at the DHSS [Department of Health and Social Services] and drinking every weekend’ (cited in Brewer et  al. 2013, p.  139). No matter how much they conceive of their actions as honourable, and for the ‘good’ of their community as they saw it, a legacy endures that victimises them. This is true even for those who became active in the peace process.

Involvement in Conflict Transformation A significant moral claim from both sets of ex-combatants is that their military involvement persuaded them to subsequently engage politically in the peace process. Loyalist ex-prisoners who underwent a religious conversion in prison distinguished their new, ‘born again’, life precisely by their later engagement with peace. ‘It’s a good thing to try and make peace in biblical terms’, ‘Clive’ said. ‘It was difficult for us to get our head around the peace process at the start but we’ve come to see that the conflict had to be brought to an end. You can’t live like that forever’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 134). Secular Loyalists also agreed. ‘Philip’ described how engagement with community development for young people could be undermined by critics who reminded him of his past.

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Especially here in Northern Ireland, people are always pointing the finger. We’ve all done bad things, we’ve all done things we shouldn’t have. But if you’re trying to do things for the better now, then I think you should be encouraged and helped to do that. Whilst you can’t forget about what happened in the past, if I can help steer people on the path I’m trying to walk, then that’s what I’m trying to do. (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 135)

‘Alan’ said that for him ‘it’s all about conflict transformation, about how we move society forwards, and sometimes that means, you know, you have to gloss over things. I see it as common sense, and it’s part of a conflict transformation process, it’s about transforming the conflict’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 142). As I argued earlier, having reflexively to confront the impact of former violence was transformative for ex-combatants who are now active in community development. ‘Alistair’, a Loyalist who now works with Republican peace activists, recognised that as Loyalist ex-combatants ‘we couldn’t intrinsically think there was something wrong with negotiating with them [Irish Republicans] because then that would mean we were just as bad’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 142). ‘Gary’ works now with Republicans and reflected on his transformation. ‘Up to probably a wee while ago, I would have had a problem sitting with Sinn Fein, cos I seen them as the enemy, but now I think, the only way there’ll be peace is if the people fighting each other talk’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 146). Republican ex-combatants in the sample showed a similar personal transformation. ‘Bríd’, a committed atheist, and ‘Mary’, a devout practising Catholic, said similar things. The Adams/McGuinness strategy, as ‘Bríd’ described it, ‘was always pragmatic. The realisation that the British Army can’t beat us [and] we can’t beat the British Army, does throw up a moral dilemma because it would be immoral to continue with a struggle that you know you can’t win and in which more people were going to die’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 122). ‘Mary’ expressed equal contentment with the peace process. ‘You have to speak peace. This is the right road’ (cited in Brewer et al 2013, p. 122). What matters, they argued, is what ex-combatants do now for peace, not what circumstances once led them to do in war.

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Being Judged on the Here-and-Now, Not the Past ‘Mary’, a female Republican activist, when reflecting on her commitment to peace now, began to say, ‘who wants to tell their grandchildren’; she never completed the sentence, too overcome by the prospect of completing it. Here and now is what was important to her, and, she thought, to her grandchildren. ‘See for these dissidents’, she went on to say, ‘we’ve been down that road’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 122); she broke off once again unable to contemplate the logic of her argument about dissidents’ return to violence. ‘Bríd’ reflected on her civic activities now, proudly listing her commitment to improve the lives of ordinary people: I lead a fairly austere life because there is so much of my waking time taken up with my community. It’s either elections, it’s training programmes, it’s community safety, it’s being available at nights to patrol the area or go out and try to dissuade youth from engaging in anti-community behaviour. In terms of service to our community, we’ve a deep and abiding love for our people. (Cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 103)

This comment is in part a form of atonement, but in greater measure it is about a life’s commitment to social justice. ‘David’ talked about an encounter with a Catholic priest who decried him as a communist for his comments about wealth inequalities and social injustices. ‘That’s not communism’, ‘David’ replied, ‘it’s true Christianity. True Christianity is about sharing. That was my politics’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 102). ‘Philip’, a Loyalist ex-prisoner now heavily involved in local politics and community regeneration, perhaps put this best when he said, ‘judge me for who I am now and where I’m going as opposed to what I was’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 135).

Conclusion Ex-combatants feel under an obligation to present themselves as moral agents. Republicans are able to ground these moral claims in a community model of legitimacy that provides alternative ethical standards,

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giving them the authority to engage in a war of decolonisation. The language of decolonisation in Republicans allowed some ex-combatants to be emphatic in thinking their actions justified, although some expressed sorrow that colonisation had forced regretful things upon them. Loyalists’ moral claims are more ambiguous, having to rely solely on the idea of defence against external provocateurs, which implicates the obligation to account for why they acted outside the laws of the state they were defending and not from within the state’s own security forces. Loyalists resolve this challenge to the governance model of legitimacy by suggesting they were co-opted and given licence to employ methods that the rational-­ legal authority of the state prevented conventional forces from using. Some Loyalists said they knew what they were doing was wrong for being outside the law, but felt it justified anyway. These moral claims to legitimacy show ex-combatants in the sample to be reluctant combatants, and while they tempered this reluctance with a sense that military engagement was honourable in terms of protecting their community, their decision to go to war was not taken lightly and had caused them enduring victimisation, in some cases emotional suffering and mental ill-health. Their involvement in military activities was offset morally by active engagement now in conflict transformation, a better ethical standard, they felt, to judge them by than their past. This was articulated best by ‘Philip’, a Loyalist: ‘Whilst you can’t forget about what happened in the past, if I can help steer people on the path I’m trying to walk, then that’s what I’m trying to do’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 135). Northern Ireland’s ex-combatants garner little public sympathy outside their own communities. They are revered within their own and despised without. If, however, new generations are to understand why ordinary men and women went to war over half-a-century ago in some cases, it is necessary to transcend the martyr-hero-demon syndrome. Whilst the past does not change, as the historian Christopher Hill once said, the present does. The new questions that need to be asked in the present about this war generation are many but these new questions include the need to understand how the former combatants themselves make moral sense of their actions. Their accounts evidence four things.

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First, they show the situatedness of the structural conditions that made their violence reasonable, tying their moral claims to the context in which they were recruited into war; conditions such as structural inequality, social injustice, the denial of civil rights, the British army presence on North Irish streets, attacks on communities by one set of combatants or the other and so on. ‘We were’, the Republican ‘David’ said, ‘a product of those days’ (cited in Brewer et  al. 2013, pp.  125–126). Most ex-­ combatants therefore committed themselves to the peace process in the hope of change in the conditions that made violence in their eyes honourable and inevitable, and they expressed fear about the recruitment of young people to new waves of violence. Second, their accounts show their violence not to have been a first choice. It was a reluctant choice, a choice not taken lightly; a choice that has brought them victimisation, harm and suffering. In most cases, however, it is a choice they felt they had to make given the situated structural conditions they faced. ‘Born again’ Loyalists would make a different choice; the rest, Republican and Loyalist alike, felt they had no choice. Most people facing the same structural conditions did not take up arms and it can be difficult for many people to sympathise with the problems this choice now causes ex-combatants. The key to resolving this moral dilemma for ex-combatants thus is to give account to the reluctance of their decision not lightly taken. The third feature of their accounts concerns the denial that they have been dehumanised and brutalised by their military service and that they morally enervated their opponent. This is the mark of them remaining as moral agents despite their use of violence. Most Republicans and some Loyalists were eager to claim they did not enervate their enemy or dehumanise them; although some thought that is precisely what their enemy had done to them. Since this is the crux of the moral complaint made against ex-combatants, it is worth giving more attention to this feature of their accounts. ‘Gerry’ was perhaps remarkable amongst Republican ex-prisoners in explaining that before he went out on active service, he prayed for the soldiers and police he was to encounter. ‘Lord have mercy on their souls and comfort their families’, he prayed (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p.  36). More common among his peers is the empathy

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towards the enemy that comes from sharing similar combat experiences. ‘Gerry’ said: ‘I met good soldiers, good cops. People that were kind and gentle to you. I’m a soldier and he’s a soldier. The only difference is he was wearing a uniform. I saw him a human being’ (cited in Brewer et  al. 2013, pp.  36–37). The allegation that Republican actions were anti-­ Protestant was thus strongly denied. ‘Conor’ said: ‘we were never brought up to be anti-Protestant. I never heard that in my life’ (cited in Brewer et  al. 2013, p.  51). ‘Martin’ reiterated this point. ‘A thing that never played any part in my life was hate. I didn’t hate. What motivated me was the conviction that the British didn’t have any right to be here in Ireland, and the desire to create a better future than what the past had been’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, pp. 119–120). A few Loyalist ex-combatants, on the other hand, dehumanised Catholics. ‘Harry’, a Loyalist ex-combatant who became ‘born again’ in prison, described how he grew up hating Catholics but denied being sectarian. ‘Jackie’, also a religious convert in prison who had described how he prayed ‘for the Provies’ despite the criticism of his Loyalists inmates, nonetheless drew a fine distinction between killing innocent Catholics for sectarian reasons and attacking the community that harboured the PIRA. ‘We terrorised the Nationalists to shun the IRA. So if it meant putting a bomb in a bar, I totally agreed with that’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p.  62). ‘Clive’ walked the same fine line. ‘I certainly can’t say I hated my Catholic neighbours but I certainly hated at times the community and anything we [the UVF] were doing was acceptable’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 62). Loyalists who underwent a religious conversion, however, later expressed relief when military engagements went wrong and when bombs under cars did not go off. Indeed, many mentioned these botched actions as the start of their encounter with god, puzzling as to why they had failed and the person survived. ‘We didn’t get the guy’, ‘Alistair’ said, asking himself ‘were we not meant to then? And that got me thinking. Does it mean there’s a purpose for my life?’ (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 80). Inasmuch as the distinction between Catholic civilian and PIRA member is not visibly marked, it was inevitably harder for Loyalists to identify the attacker that their ‘defensive’ activities were targeted on. There was no

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equivalent uniform that marked out police and British army personnel as enemy combatants. Accordingly, very few PIRA members were killed by Loyalists; most of their victims were innocent Catholic civilians. This reflects a serious problem for pro-state paramilitaries. Who do pro-state militias kill to defend the state when targets are unidentifiable? When later calling their activities to account, it is thus understandable that Loyalist ex-combatants denied being sectarian even though there was no one else to kill but Catholics. Republican ex-combatants, on the other hand, with an anti-colonial mentality, saw themselves attacking the British state not Protestants, although Protestant victims saw this as an equally fine line. Even so, when later accounting for their conduct, decolonisation at least gave Republican ex-combatants stronger grounds to argue that they did not morally enervate their enemy; and it was a claim more likely to be made by Republicans than Loyalists, save for Loyalists who were ‘born again’. The governance model of legitimacy gave Loyalists no rationale for acting outside the rule of law and it was difficult for them to rationalise their attacks on Catholics, as the nearest identifiable target, other than by the idea of defence. Republican ex-combatants were at least able to draw on the community model of legitimacy to argue they were in a war of decolonisation against the British state. This, however, is not the place to end my encounter with the moral claims to legitimacy made by ex-combatants. The fourth feature of their accounts is more appropriate as a concluding comment. It is that violence, they all realised, did not in the end work. It can be virtuous, it can be instrumental (see English 2016), sometimes it is necessary, but it always comes at a significant cost. Regardless of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s suggestion that silence is sinful and cowardice, the people who fight wars in protest mostly end up thinking war is bad. ‘Harry’, a Loyalist who described how much he hated Catholics before his religious conversion in prison, made this point clearly. He could no longer support violence, even if the conflict ‘kicked off again’, because history shows that ‘violence does not work’. ‘Never again’, he said of his military service (cited in Brewer et al. 2013, p. 143). Most Republicans, as we have seen, shared the view that peace is preferable. ‘Bríd’, a strident atheist and ardent Republican woman, is worth quoting on this again. ‘The one thing that

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anyone will tell you who has been through a war, is they never want to see another one. It’s horrific’ (cited in Brewer, Mitchell and Leavey 2013, p. 49). Let that stand as the chief moral lesson ex-combatants can teach new generations about Northern Ireland’s conflict. Acknowledgment  I am grateful for the comments of Richard English, who bears no responsibility for the final argument

Bibliography Beetham, D. (1991). The Legitimation of Power. London: Macmillan. Brewer, J.  D. (2003). ‘Contesting Ulster. In R.  Robin & B.  Strath (Eds.), Homelands: Poetic Power and the Politics of Space (pp.  283–304). Brussels: Peter Lang. Brewer, J.  D. (2016). The Ethics of Ethical Debates in Peace and Conflict Research: Notes Towards a Research Covenant. Methodological Innovations Online, 9, 1–11. Online Journal. Retrieved from http://mio.sagepub.com/ content/9/2059799116630657.full. Brewer, J. D. (2018). Afterward on the Sociology of Compromise. In J. D. Brewer, B. C. Hayes, & F. Teeney (Eds.), The Sociology of Compromise After Conflict (pp. 229–256). London: Palgrave. Brewer, J.  D., & Higgins, G. (1998). Anti-Catholicism in Northern Ireland 1600–1998. London: Palgrave. Brewer, J. D., Mitchell, D., & Leavey, G. (2013). Ex-Combatants, Religion and Peace in Northern Ireland: The Role of Religion in Transitional Justice. London: Palgrave. Buntman, F. (2019). Prisons and Law, Repression and Resistance: Colonialism and Beyond. Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 47(2), 213–246. Crothers, J. (1998). Reintegration: The Problems and Issues. Belfast: EPIC Research Document No. 2, Available at the Northern Ireland Political Collection. Linenhall Library. De Haan, W. (2011). ‘Making Sense of Senseless Violence. In S.  Karstedt, I.  Loader, & H.  Strang (Eds.), Emotions, Crime and Justice (pp.  37–54). Oxford: Hart Publications.

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Duff, A. (2009). Can we Punish the Perpetrators of Atrocities? In T. Brudholm & T. Cushman (Eds.), The Religious Response to Mass Atrocity (pp. 79–104). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dunlop, J. (1995). A Precarious Belonging: Presbyterians and the Conflict in Ireland. Belfast: Blackstaff. Elster, J. (2004). Closing the Book. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. English, R. (2016). Does Terrorism Work? Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fiske, A.  P., & Rai, T.  S. (2015). Virtuous Violence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Galtung, J. (1969). Violence, Peace and Peace Research. Journal of Peace Research, 6, 167–191. Giddens, A. (1977). Studies in Social and Political Theory. London: Hutchinson. Gormally, B. (1995). Release and Reintegration of Politically Motivated Prisoners in Northern Ireland: A Comparative Study of South Africa, Israel/Palestine, Italy, Spain, the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. Belfast: NIACRO. Gormally, B. (2001). Conversion From War to Peace: Reintegration of Ex-prisoners in Northern Ireland. Bonn: Bonn International Centre for Conversion. Hoffman, S. (2006). Peace and Justice: A Prologue. In P.  Allan & A.  Keller (Eds.), What Is a Just Peace? (pp. 12–18). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jamieson, R., Shirlow, P., & Grounds, A. (2010). Ageing and Social Exclusion Among Former Politically Motivated Prisoners in Northern Ireland: Report for the Changing Ageing Partnership (CAP). Belfast: Institute of Governance, School of Law, Queen’s University Belfast. Kaldor, M. (1999). New and Old Wars. Cambridge: Polity Press. Kleinman, A. (2001). The Violences of Everyday Life. In V. Das, A. Kleinman, M.  Ramphele, & P.  Reynolds (Eds.), Violence and Subjectivity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McEvoy, K., Shirlow, P., & McElrath, K. (2004). Resistance, Transition and Exclusion: Politically Motivated Ex-Prisoners and Conflict Transformation in Northern Ireland. Terrorism and Political Violence, 16(3), 646–670. Muldoon, P. (2008). The Moral Legitimacy of Violence. European Journal of Social Theory, 11(3), 299–314. Nussbaum, M. (2001). Upheavals of Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Roberts, A. (2006). Just Peace: A Cause Worth Fighting For. In P.  Allan & A.  Keller (Eds.), What Is a Just Peace? (pp.  52–89). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Scott, J. (1985). Weapons of the Weak. New Haven: Yale University Press. Shanahan, T. (2008). The Provisional IRA and the Morality of Terrorism. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Shirlow, P., & McEvoy, K. (2008). Beyond the Wire: Former Prisoners and Conflict Transformation in Northern Ireland. London: Pluto. Sparks, R. (1994). Can Prisons Be Legitimate? British Journal of Criminology, 34, 14–28.

6 British Counter-Insurgency Veterans in Afghanistan John D. Brewer and Stephen Herron

Editorial Comment Northern Ireland’s conflict was a war of counter-insurgency. Counter-­ insurgency is a distinct form of warfare that contrasts in virtually all respects with conventional warfare, having particularly high emotional labour costs which make it noticeably difficult to reintegrate back into civilian life. This chapter addresses state veterans and while it does not focus on British security forces who served in Northern Ireland’s civil war, it features a tangential case of counter-insurgency warfare by British

J. D. Brewer (*) Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice, Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected] S. Herron Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice, Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_6

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armed services in Afghanistan. It provokes an immediate contrast with Magee’s chapter on pro-state militia as a different kind of state veteran. The lived experiences of the two in reintegration are remarkably similar despite Afghanistan veterans being official and formal. Counter-­ insurgency warfare reinforces some of the worst features of institutionalised life in total institutions like the army, distorting the autonomous self, increasing senses of mistrust and encouraging an overreliance on comrades within the occupational culture. This can make reintegration back into ‘normal’ civilian life difficult by perpetuating the ‘institutional self ’. Afghanistan veterans can feel unwanted by a public that misunderstands the purpose of this form of warfare, they can feel unrecognised by a government that finds the politics of the military intervention an embarrassment and a financial burden, and they can experience difficulties in finding civilian employment and in returning to ‘normal’ domestic life. The limitations of DDR policies apply as much to official veterans as to pro-state militias, as do the emotional labour costs of fighting this form of war. While some Afghan veterans reintegrate successfully, others do not. Understanding what differentiates them is important when describing their lived experiences as ex-combatants.

Introduction This chapter isolates one specific set of state veterans, British land-based troops who were deployed in counter-insurgency warfare (COIN) in Afghanistan, to explore their reintegration experiences in their own words COIN operations, like the Vietnam War, various wars of decolonisation and the Afghanistan war, contrast with conventional warfare in terms of the nature of the enemy, the army’s operational objectives and role, which in COIN warfare is said to be to ‘win hearts and minds’ as well as defeat to the ‘enemy’, and the higher levels of unpredictability and risk. This form of warfare intensifies the emotional labour involved, particularly in terms of trust, identity and stress, worsening the veterans’ transition experiences. We argue that reintegration back into civilian life should be seen as a continuum, at one end represented by the successful management of the transition and at the other unsuccessful reintegration. Most COIN

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veterans can be placed somewhere along this continuum, which is why we refer to it as the continuum of normal transition. Locations along the continuum are not fixed and unchanging because life events can increase or inhibit veterans’ success in managing the transition. These life events are normal. The key issue therefore is the resilience of veterans towards them. Psychological resilience to overcome reintegration problems is a major theme in military research arising from the attention now given to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) (see Finley 2011). Kings College London (2010), for example, estimated that over 61,000 regular veterans would suffer from mental health issues at some point, with those in combat roles more at risk of developing PTSD (also see Hotopf et al. 2006). We argue that COIN veterans’ sense of identity is crucially important in managing resilience to life events during the transition. There are special features in COIN warfare that intensifies over-identification, making the process of reintegration back into civilian life fraught with difficulties. The qualitative research on which this chapter is based was funded by the Forces in Mind Trust, between 2016 and 2018, and focused on full-­ time or reserve personnel who had served in Afghanistan, as well as respondents from two earlier counter-insurgency wars; the colonial wars of independence in the British Empire in the 1950s and 1960s, and those who had served in the Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR) in Northern Ireland in the 1970s and 1980s. We used in-depth and focus group interviews, collecting over 90 hours of data, interviewing 129 state veterans across the UK, including 70 Afghanistan veterans, 30 from the UDR and 20 from earlier wars of decolonisation (see Brewer and Herron 2018). We also interviewed a control group of nine soldiers still in service. Veterans were accessed via a large group of stakeholders and gatekeepers; this did not include the Ministry of Defence (MOD). We were aware of the sensitivity of the interviews and took precautions to avoid the risk of re-traumatisation.

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Counter-Insurgency Warfare COIN operations are different from conventional warfare between nation states because they involve dealing with internal, civilian insurgency while also trying to militarily defeat several disconnected armed groups rather than formal armies. The British Army Field Manual (Ministry of Defence 2009, p. 1) defines counter-insurgency as: ‘Those military, law enforcement, political, economic, psychological and civic actions taken to defeat insurgency, while addressing the root causes’. This is similar to other international definitions. The US Department of the Army, for example, defines counter-insurgency as follows (2006, p. 4): ‘Those military, paramilitary, economic, psychological, and civic actions taken by a government to defeat insurgency’. As Moore (2007, p. 14) points out, the emphasis on defeating an enemy betrays a military bias in such definitions, and he offers his own definition: ‘Counterinsurgency is an integrated set of political, economic, social, and security measures intended to end and prevent the recurrence of armed violence, create and maintain stable political, economic, and social structures, and resolve the underlying causes of an insurgency in order to establish and sustain the conditions necessary for lasting stability’. What these technical definitions lack, however, is a sense of the nature of the warfare involved and thus the form the deployment takes. We can obtain a sense of this from the literature that charts the forms of psychological stress from COIN operations. The unique dangers posed by COIN warfare were discussed by Hogancamp and Figley (1983) in their analysis of Vietnam veterans. They argue that the combat experience of Vietnam veterans made it particularly traumatic, emphasising that the warfare was dangerous with a high number of casualties, that the enemy was ‘hidden’ and that veterans felt a sense of helplessness, with no control over their fate from moment to moment (see Applewhite et al. 2012, for a study of the mental health of US soldiers in Iraq). According to Chaudhury et al. (2006) three contributory factors add to stress arising from COIN operations: the low intensity nature of the conflict; the support given to insurgents by known and unknown numbers in the local population; and the elusiveness of the enemy. The fighting of an elusive

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enemy is coupled, they argue, with the lack of reliable intelligence and co-operation from the local population, and the ambiguity of operational aims. The lack of visible measures of success, when combined with high casualty rates, can all impact upon the morale of the COIN soldier. For these reasons, they argue that stress levels are much higher than in conventional conflicts (this view is supported by Tovy 2012). Previous research has highlighted how exposure to counter-insurgency conflict can affect former soldiers’ recovery, rehabilitation and reintegration into civilian life (Vivod 2009). Combat-related trauma has the capacity to shatter ‘the meaningfulness of the self and the world’ (Robben and Suarez-­ Orozco 2000, p. 20), forcing its sufferers to be in a constant state of alert, while also becoming distrustful of others, and of their own memories and visual perceptions. We contend, therefore, that the following features are critical to a fuller understanding of counter-insurgency warfare: • There is no identifiable enemy, or at least, the enemy is indistinguishable from the local population. • The distinction between enemy combatant and friendly civilian is unclear and opaque. • The enemy is not necessarily a professional soldier but can be universalised to include women and children. • Enemy warfare is conducted with highly technologically sophisticated weaponry but is also de-technological, with everyday implements used as weapons, such that implements of harm are unpredictable, such as knives, swords and cars. • Enemy combatants are unpredictable in their warfare, no longer necessarily with escape routes to protect themselves but content to be human suicides, to inflict maximum damage. • Enemy warfare has intensified in its level of moral enervation, resulting in degradations and atrocities against the human body to symbolise the lack of dignity and rights now accorded British combat personnel. • The operational role includes both combat and winning ‘hearts and minds’, requiring engagement with enemy combatants and promoting wider political, cultural and socioeconomic objectives.

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• Military personnel are required to switch between short but intense levels of armed conflict, confidence-building strategies with the untrustworthy local population and long periods of boredom. • Risk and danger are ever present but are unpredictable. • With ambiguous operational aims and unclear indicators of success, what constitutes victory is uncertain, so exit strategies to bring the conflict to an end are unclear. • The lack of clarity around what victory means can impact public attitudes towards COIN operations, making the public more ambivalent than towards conventional warfare. The emotional labour costs of COIN warfare and the difficulties in reintegration afterwards can be explained by these special operational demands.

 he Continuum of Normal Transition T for Afghanistan Veterans We suggest that reintegration should be seen as akin to a continuum, with one pole represented by successful reintegration, the other unsuccessful. Most COIN veterans can be placed somewhere along this continuum, which is why we refer to it as the continuum of normal transition. There are some veterans whose lack of success is so extreme that they drop off the continuum of normal transition completely, represented by those who are in prison, homeless, and hospitalised with stress, mental health issues or failed suicide attempts. They are qualitatively different from those veterans who are at the unsuccessful pole on the continuum of normal transition. These veterans, while not transitioning as successfully as others, were nonetheless continuing to struggle to achieve successful management of the reintegration process; they had not given up on the idea of a normal transition. By considering successful transition as a continuum that the majority of COIN veterans continue to try to achieve, we are able to accommodate the obvious reality that the struggle to reintegrate is harder for some

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than for others. Another advantage of conceptualising transition as a continuum is that we are able to explain how locations along it vary, not only between different COIN personnel, but across the life span of individual veterans, as circumstances arise that reposition them. COIN soldiers bring different experiences with them on retirement from Service, which means they start at different places along the continuum, but for most respondents the direction of travel is forward. However, the position of veterans on the continuum is always changing. It is therefore necessary to understand why, in individual cases, backwards regression can occur. We argue that locations along the continuum are fluid, changing in response to life events that are either planned or unplanned.

The Role of Life Events Life events, such as divorce, unemployment, marriage and the birth of a child, can assist or prohibit successful reintegration. Some veterans indicated that these life events made their transition more difficult and they provided many examples of relationship problems, family breakdowns and financial stress, amongst others, as indicators of transition difficulties. As a former Special Forces veteran said: ‘My first wife couldn’t hack it, my second wife, it was hard as she had to bring up children on her own’. The level and adequacy of support is therefore significant but the key issue is the resilience of veterans towards life events. We argue that understanding resilience in state veterans is essential; and identity is key to resilience. COIN operations have the tendency to distort identity formation as a result of a process we call ‘the bubble mentality’.

The ‘Bubble’ of Counter-Insurgency Over-identification with the army and with the combatant role predisposes veterans to an inability to cope in civilian life. There are two special features in counter-insurgency warfare that intensify over-identification to hamper successful reintegration:

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• the public controversy surrounding the combatant role in counter-­ insurgency warfare can increase ‘the quest to belong’ with former comrades as an escape from public criticism at worst or public indifference at best; • the combatant role in counter-insurgency, where there is uncertainty about whom to trust and who the enemy is. This unique situation increases reliance on comrades, intensifies the sense of camaraderie, narrows the boundaries of the trusted in-group and enhances the tight-knitted nature of friendships whose very lives in a combat situation are in the group’s hands. Survival is dependent on each looking after the other. It is thus conceptually useful to propose that counter-insurgency warfare creates a ‘bubble’ environment for veterans, isolating them as if in suspension. The phrase ‘bubble’ was used regularly by veterans, which suggests it is part of the language of their occupational culture. The ‘bubble’ effect of counter-insurgency is both a strength and a weakness. On operations, survival depends on close-knitted camaraderie, where looking after the squad is the same as protecting oneself, but in civilian life it can be problematic by retaining an over-identification with the army. The bubble is also closely tied to the issue of trust. Counter-insurgency warfare narrows the boundaries of trust, restricts the number of those who can be trusted and increases the emotional emphasis soldiers place on another’s trustworthiness. Reliance on others’ trustworthiness is very important in counter-insurgency, and can create a mutually reinforcing community of people who ‘understand what it is like’: they understand why they are fighting where they are, doing what they are doing, needing no justification or explanation that requires to be made accountable. However, narrow boundaries of trust and anxiety about another’s trustworthiness in civilian life are problematic, making normal social relations and human social interaction difficult, which can increase feelings of isolation and withdrawal outside the army. The mutually reinforcing trusted community suddenly disappears, and unless the boundaries of trust are broadened and the emotional priority placed on people’s trustworthiness is rebalanced, veterans can have difficulties in adjusting. Mistrust, in

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other words, forces a reliance on the identity as a soldier since comrades are the only ones capable of being trusted. Veterans themselves link the problem of trust to the nature of COIN warfare. A former male regular officer remarked on the problem of winning the local population’s trust: ‘if you made a mistake you weren’t going to win the trust of the population back so there was a great deal of pressure on our shoulders’. Other soldiers commented on the unpredictability of the operation that impacted trust: It didn’t matter where you were it always had a very disorganised feel about it, it was reactive you didn’t know what was around the next corner, even the orders sheet that went out the window as soon as you left the gates because you would have faced something unexpected everyday (former regular, male).

One notable example of the current issues surrounding trust in counter-­ insurgency was the concern that some Afghanistan veterans had in revealing their identity as a former soldier to the wider civilian population: ‘my friend was clear, he doesn’t hang his uniform up, he doesn’t come home in uniform, no one in the nice complex of flats he lives in has seen him in uniform, seen him with a military bag or knows what he does for a living’ (former regular soldier, male). This has traditionally been a major concern for UDR veterans as a result of anxiety over personal security. This fear still remains for many UDR veterans. As one UDR veteran described ‘it’s like leading a double life’. This fear still remains for many UDR veterans as shown in the comments of this veteran: I would’ve been very quiet and I still am [about membership of the UDR]. I have to say there would have been people who didn’t want to associate with you because you were in the regiment. I remember getting my car serviced one time and a friend come across and took the car over, but whoever else was over there recognised the car and said what are you doing helping that boy so he came back and said that I couldn’t get my car serviced there again (former UDR soldier, part time, male).

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The infiltration of fear into everyday life threatens the transition from the military bubble to civilian life. UDR veterans’ experiences provide examples of the dangers that fear, suspicion and mistrust of others can have on restricting their ability to lead a normal everyday life. Hyper vigilance, irrational fear and reluctance to engage with others are very real problems for some UDR and Afghanistan veterans.

 he ‘Ontological Crisis’ and ‘Techniques T of Neutralisation’ When veterans described their reintegration experiences, we found a broad spectrum along the continuum of normal transition. Some veterans were able to compartmentalise their former self in what we describe as the bubble, hermetically sealing it in the past, transferring identity in civilian life on to their family, work, leisure and the like. These veterans rarely questioned their former role, nor reflected on it. They cut themselves off from the public ambivalence to the counter-insurgency war and its purpose, and did not tend to participate in army-based alternative communities. Those who were unable to make the distinction between military and civilian life after transition, nor mentally escape the bubble, found it much more difficult to transition and were more susceptible to reintegration problems. They tended to be much more reflexive, questioning their role in an unpopular counter-insurgency war, to be more sensitive towards the public’s ambivalence towards the war, and to reflect more on their experiences and the harrowing scenes that were kept vivid in their memory. This internal reflexivity existed to such a level in some Afghanistan veterans as to constitute what we call an ‘ontological crisis’, which intensified their inability to manage in civilian life. Veterans from earlier counter-­insurgency conflicts did not articulate this ontological crisis. In the case of the UDR, the veterans justified and gave meaning to their involvement (to defeat an ‘illegal terror campaign by the IRA’). This justification was upheld by the British state and supported in many forms by the local Unionist media. In the case of the colonial wars of

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independence, this can be explained because there were no media campaigns at the time to suggest their role was unnecessary. ‘Techniques of neutralisation’ are important in mediating this reflexivity and in managing any ontological crisis that might occur. By ‘techniques of neutralisation’, we mean the strategies veterans use to make ‘normal’ their deployment. This strategy enables them to justify their actions to themselves and to others, counter the wider cultural ambivalence to conflicts and to come to terms with the sacrifices provoked by their harrowing experiences. Thus, in addition to personal traits that mediate resilience, external factors are also important, like broader societal attitudes and opinions that support or undercut these techniques of neutralisation. Thus, the lack of clarity from the public in terms of its support and understanding of counter-insurgency was a common theme in veterans’ responses.

Compartmentalising Military Life We also found a distinction between those who strategised their time in the military and those who did not. Those soldiers who viewed their time in the military as a career, as an opportunity to develop as a person, learn new skills and experiences, were on the whole much more able to compartmentalise their experiences as part of ‘the job’. Viewing their time in the military from a purely instrumental perspective, rather than as part of a collective identity, meant it was much more likely they could distance themselves from the bubble and make sense of their military experiences. As described by one former recruit, ‘I used the military for my benefit rather than being used by the military for their benefit’ (former regular officer, male). A fundamental part of military training and culture is to instil within the recruit that they are part of a collective machine where individuality is deemed secondary in importance to the functioning of the military as a unit (Newlands 2012 has analysed British army training in terms of control over the body). This is what is meant by the military being a ‘total institution’ (Goffman 1968). While primarily referring to asylums, Goffman recognised that many other institutions become ‘total’ by

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creating a regimented and docile self, including the military and prison (Jervis 2007 uses the idea of ‘total institution’ to analyse military wives’ response to residential relocation). Foucault’s ideas on surveillance in the panopticon of prisons (1975) apply equally well to the military (e.g., Higate 2001, p. 449), describing the incarceration of the body and mind of veterans. Foucault’s three dynamics that define the panopticon— power, punishment and surveillance—are clearly seen in the structure of the military. Military researchers thus refer to the double-edged sword of military culture (Adler and Sowden 2018), in which one part subsumes individuality so as to absorb individual identity to the demands of the army. This mortification of personal self can create problems when transitioning to civilian life, causing over-identification with the military and lack of individual identity. Over-identification with the military made it more difficult for veterans to escape the bubble, with continued over-­ identification impacting on other fundamental parts of their identity, such as that of husband, wife, father, mother, employee and the like. This balance between an institutional self and the personal self encourages soldiers to view the military as an instrumental career path rather than the central feature of their identity. One former soldier who had a positive transition commented on his regrets with respect to the impact on the family, but balanced this with the opportunities and benefits he felt military life had given him. The only regrets I have are from a family perspective, not regrets having joined, I may have done some things differently, but essentially no great regrets because I had the most extraordinary experiences which tied in with what I wanted to do, working in some of the most incredible parts of the world, involved in some of the most serious conflicts rather than some mundane operation and hopefully making a contribution to peace (former male regular officer).

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The ‘Institutional Self’ and the ‘Transition Self’ A successful transition requires veterans to re-familiarise themselves with the cultural expectations of civilian life so as to reclaim the cultural awareness that is associated with a civilian identity. The ‘institutional self ’ that the army requires as a ‘total institution’ can deplete the skills and cultural awareness needed to live again as a civilian. The cultural awareness needed for civilian life is linked to broader skill sets, especially those needed for a return to employment, to ‘normal’ family life, and for reintegration back into an identity as a civilian. State veterans’ expectations of co-workers, family members and the general public need to accommodate the public’s lack of familiarity with the nature and demands of the institutional self that army life has imposed on state veterans. Those who transition better are veterans who never fully absorbed or adopted the army’s institutional self but retained some personal identity throughout, such as by seeing the army instrumentally as ‘just a job’ rather than as a way of life into which they fully integrated. Veterans in the regular rather than reserve army are at greater risk. Reserve personnel adeptly switch between the institutional and personal self and are used to managing this disjuncture, but regular personnel adjust better when back in civilian life when their personal self was set in balance with the institutional one of the army. Instrumentality always exists in degree but some deployment experiences and circumstances can limit the retention of a personal self. Frontline combat roles in particular encourage the ‘bubble’ mentality. The ‘transitional self ’ is a transitional identity in between the institutional self of the army and an identity as a civilian. The ‘transitional self ’ should be a temporary identity; however, the transitional self can persist if the adjustment back is problematic. A number of veterans described the difficulty in moving from the transitional self into a civilian self, such as this former male regular soldier who had experienced conflict in Kosovo, Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan: I couldn’t do it [reintegrate]. I conducted myself as if I was still in the military and they don’t mix, I struggled a lot and ended up having to set up my own business as I couldn’t work for anyone. I developed this hyper v­ igilance,

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hyper awareness thing and it just grew on me and I had nowhere to turn to and I struggled and still do now (former regular soldier, male).

The development of a transitional self, therefore, should be an object of MOD policy, something prepared and trained for before ex-servicemen and women leave the army. It should be an object of reinforcement and consolidation by voluntary sector support providers. One of the critical processes that prolongs the ‘transitional self ’ is what we call the ‘transition vacuum’, where state veterans are left to cope with transition alone. As one former regular male soldier described it: ‘If a person was showing issues when serving once they leave they’re on their own. Even if we could get the top ten per cent [of those in most need] handed over to someone and they have someone visit them once every two weeks but it goes from the military bubble to nothing’. We acknowledge that the MOD has strived to provide more information to state veterans. Resettlement packages exist and information leaflets are made widely available on issues ranging from welfare to finances. There are also opportunities to obtain qualifications, such as Career Transitioning Partnership resettlement courses. The vast majority of veterans recognised such improvements. However, the fragmentary and uncoordinated nature of the information provided, and lack of consistency with respect to transitional support, complicates veterans’ expectations and realities of what they receive. Thus, an issue for the MOD is whether there is anything it can do to diminish the bubble as part of a planned programme of ‘decompression’ for soldiers, both when immediately leaving operations right through to when they are about to retire. The level and nature of MOD intervention, however, need to be carefully considered; the balance between too little and too much intervention is a delicate one.

The Balance Between Support and Co-dependency Many of the veterans from earlier COIN campaigns, and some Afghanistan veterans, referred to a problem we have termed ‘co-­ dependency’, where those state veterans not doing so well were thought to be overly reliant on support services that encouraged dependency. The

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use of these services was thought to be a slippery slope to non-­management of the transition. Co-dependency was seen as a risk that they sought to avoid by means of their own resilience or the use of support structures that did not create co-dependency. Support providers might thus ask themselves whether they resist the development of resilience by creating over-dependency. Numerous veterans we spoke to, while wanting additional support, were pragmatic in their expectations. A major concern was what they perceived as a lack of emotional care and ongoing acknowledgement from the MOD once they were out of the army. They feared being forgotten and neglected. As one former soldier commented: ‘I think more attention needs to be paid to the significance of being discharged and civilianised. I don’t think a lot of soldiers feel appreciated. Many soldiers feel they’ve just been thrown out’ (former regular soldier, male). On many occasions, respondents, including those who had transitioned effectively, felt the military removed themselves from care and support too soon. A former soldier highlighted this by commenting: ‘once you inform your superiors of your decisions to leave the army you are effectively ostracised and isolated from the wider military community. The army spends money on those who are in and want to be in the armed forces, not on those who are going to leave them as they are of no benefit to them’ (former regular soldier, male). Many veterans thought that the MOD feels it should not assist ‘too much’ in the transition of soldiers because they perceived that the MOD did not see it as their problem once soldiers leave. This perception is a measure of how much state veterans can think themselves expendable by the state they once served loyally.

Media, Social Attitudes and Public Perceptions Veterans from earlier counter-insurgency conflicts expressed sympathy for recent Afghanistan veterans due to the saturated media coverage of the conflict. As one former male Malaya veteran described it: Each soldier is different, a different human being with different physical and mental strengths and weaknesses and that’s the hard side of it, we know

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from the Second World War many of them just blocked it off they did not speak about it, they shut it off, they need never come up with it and that’s how you dealt with it. Today the fashion is to open everything up and discuss but of course the press and social media is going to play it all out and they [Afghanistan veterans] are under much more pressure, it will come down to how individually strong the person is.

They felt that blanket coverage on both traditional and new media meant that recent veterans would find it more difficult to put the memories of conflict behind them. Veterans from earlier counter-insurgency conflicts felt the lack of media coverage for their conflicts put them in a better position to compartmentalise their actions in battle and to leave them back in the bubble of the war zone. Some veterans from earlier campaigns did not take their own advice and still found it difficult after all these years to leave the conflict behind them. This was particularly the case for UDR soldiers, where reminders of the conflict penetrate their daily lives. A ‘micro language of terror’ (Feldman 2001, p. 66) sinks into the lived body where it becomes part of everyday life. One former male UDR soldier in Northern Ireland expressed this as follows. ‘You had to be careful because you couldn’t walk about in your uniform, you couldn’t say what you done. We live in an abnormal society here and it’s very sad. That is so, so wrong, they should be no different than mainland UK’. However, none of these veterans from earlier campaigns face the same issues around the negative public image of their war that Afghanistan veterans confront. Afghanistan veterans face constant exposure to emotionally challenging circumstances in a context where the cause of such psychologically debilitating feelings—the COIN war in Afghanistan— lacks general public acclaim and support. As we noted above, while the UDR has almost universal opprobrium from the Nationalist community, it can lay claim to almost universal honour from Unionists. The low level of public support for Afghanistan leads to avoidance actions taken by affected veterans in order to cope with a level of stress that receives little empathy and support. The avoidance mechanisms adopted by veterans range from self-medication, alcohol abuse, various forms of social withdrawal and the refusal of counselling. The increasing inability to escape

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the images and memories of an unpopular conflict, enhanced through increased communication and social networking tools on a global scale, means that there is a real danger that avoidance mechanisms can become the norm for affected veterans. As one Afghanistan veteran commented: ‘I don’t like to have reminders, even if there is something comes on the TV, the picture of a coffin draped in the Union flag or a documentary on Afghanistan or something, I’ll switch it over straight away or leave the room all together’ (former regular soldier, male). These experiences highlight the truism that counter-insurgency warfare exists in tension with public opinion. Veterans reproduced this tension, veering between feelings of being unloved and forgotten, yet craving public recognition and affection. Some veterans complained of being forgotten; this might be expected from veterans from the 1950s and 1960s, but some Afghanistan veterans felt their war would also be soon forgotten. In contrast, others complained about the high level of public attention given to the Afghanistan war, in fear that this reinforced its public illegitimacy and thus added to their ontological crisis. There was accordingly a high level of cynicism overall towards the public. As one former male regular soldier remarked: I think that’s part of the frustration when soldiers go out into civilian life, we’ve been to war you haven’t [civilians], you’ve no idea what it was like, don’t even talk to me about it and this is where I think PTSD is going to happen later in life because you can forget about things but they start settling and even though I feel myself at times up here and down here, I definitely changed as a person.

The public were thought to be fickle, oscillating between moments of neglect and sympathy; sympathy often provoked by a media campaign that quickly became yesterday’s news. Public fickleness increased veterans’ sense of cynicism. The interplay of feelings about their participation in forgotten wars, wrongly remembered wars and unpopular wars, and their sense of being unloved, made many veterans highly cynical towards public opinion. Cynicism is part of the tension between counter-insurgency operations and public opinion: veterans wanted greater public acclaim, yet rejected any public affirmation

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as in itself reflecting the cynicism of the public whose support at base is seen as not even half-hearted. The lack of a definitive winner in the Afghanistan conflict (as happens in much of counter-insurgency conflict), coupled with the lack of a cultural narrative of celebration or victory, meant that Afghanistan veterans did not feel the same sense of pride and respect from the broader public as veterans from conventional wars. Etched in the memories of our Afghanistan veterans are the national commemorations in Britain of two world wars. Having to cope with what they see as public indifference, even rejection, of their war experience, while craving the sort of public narratives of honour and celebration experienced by the soldiers returning from these conventional wars, increases the tension between counter-insurgency warfare and public opinion. This accordingly intensifies their cynicism. One of the tensions between counter-insurgency warfare and public opinion for veterans is whether or not the trauma that is experienced from this type of warfare is publicly acknowledged. There is occasional media attention on trauma and PTSD, but many veterans see this as dissipating all too quickly. The media is also thought to give pejorative portrayals of former soldiers, ranging from negative stereotypes of them as homeless, drunks, in prison or as domestic violence abusers, to people who over-emphasise trauma and cultivate victimhood status through ‘chosen trauma’. As one male Malaya veteran described, ‘the military is run down too much now, if there is anything wrong blame the military and that’s not fair’. This view was replicated across all respondents, including those still in service, as one current soldier described: We need to see the strong side of the military and its soldiers, not a [expletive deleted] advertising campaign where you see a soldier with a gun sitting in the corner like he’s gonna kill himself. Instead you would see something where the soldier is seen as strong. The government has spent millions on where they make it seem as if you have a problem, there should be great pride as if they done well, the days of negativity have gone. A more positive approach is needed, even in terms of training positive thinking works way better (current soldier, male, previous experience in Afghanistan).

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‘Chosen Trauma’ and Victimhood Since the Afghanistan conflict, increasing public attention has been placed on the emotional costs of COIN operations. This is coupled with increased participation by the public in commemorations and memorialisations. There are also increased opportunities for former soldiers to retell their experiences. These participatory frameworks have been designed both at national and local community levels. For example, with respect to Northern Ireland, former UDR soldiers have been involved in a variety of activities from oral history projects, to campaigns by victim groups for truth and justice. Similarly, veterans of Afghanistan have become part of a boarder national narrative which has debated the validity of British engagement in the war and its role. This public profile, however, has three contradictory consequences. First, it reminds veterans of the ambivalence of public support for their war service. Second, it increases veterans’ cynicism at the fickleness of public opinion. Third, it brings back memories of painful things that most would prefer to forget. This is the tension we referred to above in wanting acknowledgement and respect but fearing its consequence for their mental well-being should they receive it. Set within this tension is an approach to understanding trauma. According to Svašek (2005, p. 195) ‘trauma itself is a culturally and historically specific interpretation of human suffering’. From this viewpoint we argue that some counter-insurgency veterans use discourses and practices of collective victimhood in an attempt to gain political influence and claim compensation for their suffering. Current public attention is primarily focused on constructing a public narrative which places the state veterans in a position of suffering as a victim of actions carried out by a dispassionate and uncaring state. This has created a separation between the individual veteran, who is seen as a victim, and the military hierarchy and government, which is seen as culpable and responsible. Lack of a cultural narrative of celebration and victory, coupled with public opposition to the Afghanistan conflict, places former soldiers in a state of ambiguity in the public consciousness, betwixt and between the polar positions of martyr, hero and demon.

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Victimhood status has thus been appropriated by a number of veteran support groups, which seek to both collectivise memories and install a particular narrative in order to claim resources based on the empathy accorded to ex-soldiers as victims. Organisations that have emerged in the voluntary sector to support former soldiers and their families have been very active in seeking to define their members as victims in the conflict. This represents the politicisation of emotion through the way COIN soldiers are remembered as victims. It constitutes a form of ‘chosen trauma’. This is not just a public narrative employed as a resource mechanism by support groups, some successful transitioners also refer to chosen trauma, believing that those who have transitioned less successfully have succumbed to what they refer to as the over-medicalisation of the transition experience. The wider therapy culture of late modern society combines with a media focus on PTSD to almost encourage, they believe, the choice of a traumatised self.

Conclusion We have focused here on capturing the lived experiences of COIN veterans in their own words. This gives them a voice when theirs is usually the one unspoken and unheard. In this conclusion we intend to isolate the transition experiences of counter-insurgency soldiers in order to understand the peculiar emotional labour costs of this form of warfare. Modern warfare is changing. Conventional wars between nation states are declining and different battlefields and enemies reflect the new forms of war in late modernity (Kaldor 1999), with vastly different sorts of counter-insurgents, at home and abroad. Counter-insurgents recognise no rules of war and aim to inflict levels of atrocity that reflect the absolute moral enervation of their opponents. Meanwhile, those from within the British Armed Forces who militarily engage with counter-insurgents remain rule bound and are quite rightly held to account for their conduct, unless specifically exempted. This form of asymmetrical war is becoming the norm. COIN warfare imposes a significant emotional cost on this kind of state veteran that we describe as ‘emotional labour’. It is unusual to apply

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this concept to soldiering (e.g., see Hochschild 2003), given that the military is usually conceptualised through the lens of hyper-masculinity which rules out engagement with emotions and investigating the emotional costs of army life (e.g., see Harrison 2006). Masculinity is a dominant theme in military research (for a review see Higate 2001). However, late modernity is a risk society (Beck 1992, 2009), with increased vulnerabilities and sensitivity to risk. Misztal (2011) documents ‘the challenge of vulnerability’, which has manifested itself in a cultural form that is variously described as a ‘therapy culture’ or a ‘psy-culture’ (on which see Furedi 2003). The military is not immune to this cultural change. The increased public awareness and attention generally to mental health issues, mental well-being and trauma, intersects with public recognition of the emotional labour of modern COIN warfare, to generate a public discourse about Afghanistan veterans that has medicalised the transition process, prioritised the topic of trauma and cast veterans with a victim status. While most COIN veterans transition well and resist the medicalisation of their transition, vociferously objecting to the trauma narrative, they are nonetheless fully aware of the public discourse about them and the language through which their transition is understood in the public sphere. Voluntary sector bodies that help less fortunate transitioners unintendedly contribute to this victim narrative by the way they campaign to mobilise for extra resources by evoking sympathy based on trauma. Veterans who reintegrated well expressed their fear that this evocation of sympathy gives the false impression that Afghanistan veterans have a ‘chosen trauma’ and that they are ‘psychologically damaged goods’. The trauma narrative tends not to be balanced in the public sphere, they argued, with media attention on the successful transitioners. This public debate is a resource that individual veterans feel obliged to engage with to shape the terms of their private narratives, so that even successful transitioners see the trauma narrative as a constraint that impacts their own accounts of the transition. Structural and cultural factors thus combine to give attention to the emotional labour of COIN warfare in soldiers’ accounts of their transition. This is why we argue that ‘emotional labour’ is a useful conceptual tool through which to understand the particularities of the transitional experience of COIN veterans.

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However, COIN warfare evinces general patterns and unique features at the same time. The transition experiences of state veterans in Britain’s wars of decolonisation in the 1950s and 1960s are different. Malaya veterans use a technique of neutralisation that thinks of themselves as being perceived positively by locals in British Malaya; and the Malaya Emergency is now wholly forgotten as a conflict. UDR soldiers are different again because they were from the communities they policed, and while they are reviled in the Nationalist-Republican community, they are honoured in the Unionist-Loyalist one. Their operational role was also more clearly defined and articulated; and they had a victory of sorts in the resolution to the Northern Ireland conflict, in which they claim a part. These profound differences aside however, earlier cohorts of COIN veterans are similar to Afghanistan veterans, for they too had to transition back into civilian life, and emotionally deal with the peculiarities of COIN warfare at the personal level. What we have learned from these different transition experiences is the distinctiveness of the Afghanistan veterans’ reintegration. Cultural change has medicalised the transition process, increased Afghanistan veterans’ sensitivity towards risk and trauma and cast them as victims. The unpopularity of the Afghanistan war mixes with this to denude them of public pride, while reinforcing in the public domain a victim narrative that gives them no sense of national honour and celebration. This can rob them of the resilience needed to cope with normal life events, which repositions them backwards along the continuum of normal transitioning. Lack of resilience impacts employment, family life, alcohol use, identity and social withdrawal, compounding the negative effects of life events to potentially create a spiralling circle downwards. It is for this reason that veterans from earlier COIN operations saw themselves as having, in silence and in private, to develop their own resilience to transition successfully, for there was no other choice. ‘Getting on with it’ through their own resources was necessary as they were largely neglected by the MOD and ignored publicly. While some now bemoan being forgotten about, the absence of a public narrative was beneficial in the sense that their transition was not medicalised and they were not turned into victims. Their ‘transitional self ’ could progress into a civilian identity unencumbered, influenced only by levels of personal resilience.

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The UDR, of course, can draw on a public narrative of honour if they choose to be deaf to Nationalist-Republican contempt. It is for this reason also that veterans of earlier COIN warfare criticise the medicalisation of Afghanistan veterans and think it a ‘chosen trauma’, reflecting over-­ sensitivity to health and safety. It is almost as if there is ‘competitive veteranhood’ amongst our three groups of state veterans, with the ideal of earlier veterans to ‘toughing it out’ and not succumbing to ‘chosen trauma’. This, of course, places these earlier veterans at the apex of their own hierarchy. It is worth remembering, however, that their accounts involve looking back, in some cases, over several decades, from the vantage point of time having healed and glossed over the worst of the past. Their accounts may well have differed if they were being asked about transition in the immediate aftermath of their wars and were suffering, as a contemporaneous lived experience, the emotional labour of their deployment. Time, however, is unlikely to heal for Afghanistan veterans, as the old adage goes, because their veteran status is located by them in the cultural and political shifts of late modernity that give it, in public narrative at least, a different meaning than for earlier COIN veterans. Social change in late modern Britain has fundamentally altered the narratives surrounding state veterans who served in Afghanistan.

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Part II Voices from South Africa

7 Contested Voices of Former Combatants in Post-Apartheid South Africa Malose Langa, Godfrey Maringira, and Modiefe Merafe

Editorial Comment This chapter addresses non-state actors who through successful regime change find themselves trying to reintegrate while the new state deals with the problems of the huge disparities, injustices and inequalities left by the defeated regime. This does not necessarily result in heroic status or material largesse, and they can feel embittered, neglected and unrewarded. The case study used to address this theme is post-apartheid

M. Langa (*) University of Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] G. Maringira Sol Plaatje University, Kimberley, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] M. Merafe Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, Johannesburg, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_7

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South Africa. It contrasts the reintegration experiences of ANC members compared to members of other anti-apartheid organisations whose political wings did not win electorally, it further compares the lived experiences of those ANC members incorporated into the new defence force and police with those who were not so privileged, and it contrasts the lived experiences of women who fought in the liberation struggle with those of men. This differentiated landscape results in political contestation surrounding the categorisation of ex-combatants, with political, legal and moral disputes over who qualifies as an ex-combatant in South Africa. This is common to all the transitioning societies covered by this volume. The persistence of militarised masculinities in many within the ANC, a problem evident in Ulster Loyalism, is seen as a significant constraint on gender empowerment in the new post-apartheid society, and constitutes a specific problem for the public recognition of the contribution of women ex-combatants. The silencing of women ex-combatant experiences is voiced by many women in the anti-apartheid movement, similar to IRA women who felt their contribution to the Good Friday Agreement was under-acknowledged. The marginalisation of women excombatant voices is treated in this chapter as a critical measure of the new society’s commitment to gender equality and of the extent of genuine social and political change. This yardstick is relevant also to Sri Lanka, as subsequent chapters will show.

Introduction Victors define the history of warfare, in part by what they write but also by whom they silence. This chapter examines the identities of those ex-­ combatants marginalised and ostracised by the dominance of African National Congress (ANC) cadres in the discussion of ex-combatant issues, mainly members of competing paramilitary groups but also women in the ANC’s armed wing. They struggle for recognition and they experience considerable social marginalisation. Ex-combatant issues in post-apartheid South Africa are thus politicised by the sort of transition South Africa underwent, in which the ANC holds political power but where racial, gender and class inequalities remain as part of the

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ambivalent process of change in South Africa. These silenced ex-­ combatants serve as a lens into understanding the nature of this change. In the past we have conducted interviews, both individual and focus groups, with a large number of different sorts of former combatants in South Africa over a period of 11 years, between 2007 and 2018. These include individuals who participated in one role or another within the national liberation armed structures in exile, in the informal paramilitary structures attached to liberation movements in South African townships, as well as state veterans who were part of the security forces for the apartheid regime. As a diverse group of individuals, former combatants are characterised by differences in status and in their lived experiences. Many suffer social, economic and political exclusion. This chapter, however, will examine a particular subset of ex-combatants who fall outside the usual attention given to ANC veterans. Their interest, however, lies in something greater than their relative neglect. There are two particular features that justify isolating their lived experiences. The exclusion of women activists in the ANC reflects the social construction of militarised masculine identities during the liberation struggle that persists a quarter of a century later in a form we call ‘struggle masculinities’ that are patriarchal and dismissive of women’s contribution to national liberation. Female combatants are placed on the margins in which their experiences as combatants in the fight for a more just society remain forgotten. Members of the armed liberation struggle from outside the ANC experience a sense of betrayal, feeling excluded from political power and from the economic benefits that post-apartheid South Africa has bestowed on some—but not all—ANC activists. Divisions of gender, class and race persist in post-apartheid South Africa, and this negatively affects these particular subsets of hidden and silenced ex-combatants. These are the voices, in other words, of ex-combatants from outside the victorious faction, who in one sense won in their cause of freedom but who also feel they lost in the peace dividend.

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Who Is an Ex-combatant in South Africa? One of the difficulties which surround the understanding of ex-­ combatants is that of definition. Who is an ex-combatant? In this regard Gear (2005) acknowledged that the term is quite fluid and difficult to define. The main challenge is that the category is highly politicised. This is a worldwide problem but it has immense local significance in South Africa. What it means to be ex-combatants in South Africa needs to be understood within the historical context of the liberation struggle against apartheid. The liberation struggle from the 1960s was not only conducted by the ANC, but also the Pan African Congress (PAC) and the Azanian People’s Organisation (AZAPO), all of whom were committed anti-­ apartheid organisations and all adopted the armed struggle as one of their strategies to defeat the apartheid regime. Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), the Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA) and the Azanian National Liberation Army (AZANLA) were formed as military structures to pursue armed struggle. The turn to armed struggle by the national liberation organisations was in response to the intransigence of the apartheid regime and the intensification of oppression and exploitation under the increasingly totalitarian apartheid military-industrial complex. Consequently, many people, including young people, left the country to join the liberation movements and in turn placed themselves in exile. Some of these got trained as soldiers (e.g., in Angola, Mozambique, Namibia, Russia, Uganda and so forth). Some returned to South Africa during the apartheid years to form paramilitary structures in townships, where their key objective was to organise and participate in public protests, organise boycotts and undertake guerrilla attacks on public and socio-economic institutions (Mashike and Makalobe 2003; Motumi and McKenzie 1998). Competition between the different paramilitary and armed formations has led to contested understandings of what constitutes a ‘real’ combatant in South Africa. The ANC was by far the largest liberation organisation and the most popular and it has held political power since the first non-racial election in 1994. It has privileged some—but not all—of its former combatants, and members of APLA and AZANLA felt silenced

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and ignored, and entirely excluded from beneficial programmes targeting former combatants. Young men who were part of community Self-­ Defence Units (SDUs), designed to protect community and political leaders during the internecine protests during the 1980s and 1990s, are also today not regarded as former combatants, despite most being aligned to the ANC and having received paramilitary training from the ANC whilst in exile. After some contentious debate, the term ‘former combatant’ was extended, however, to include township youth active in the protests in the aftermath of the Soweto uprising and in to the 1980s (Brewer 1986; Gear 2002; Mashike and Makalobe 2003). Amongst members of the main liberation movements, former combatants in APLA and AZANLA feel that MK combatants often received preferential treatment, given their close association with the ANC as the governing party. It is hard for many APLA or AZANLA to get any pension money for our struggle against apartheid. It is only MK members who are getting houses and pension money (Former APLA member). We as APLA are not seen as freedom fighters. Today we hear ANC and MK liberated us. You don’t hear anything about PAC or APLA. We also deserve some recognition (Former APLA member).

The extracts above reveal interesting issues around the politics of recognition and misrecognition. The power dynamics of competition between the ANC, PAC and AZAPO during the political negotiations in the early 1990s has continued to play out after 1994, affecting those ex-­combatants not aligned to the ANC. We can attest to this with respect to a case study of former combatants in APLA.

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 he Politics of Recognition: T Dehumanising APLA APLA members interviewed feel they were subjected to criminal procedures after the war that MK members were protected from. The suggestion was made that the arrest and imprisonment of APLA ex-combatants was a political strategy for the ANC to assert power and domination over the PAC. The APLA ex-combatants maintain that some of their comrades died in prison without any accountability because their relatives were not told about their arrest. We know some of our comrades were just arrested in the 1990s. Our view as APLA is that ANC had a hand in the arrest of our comrades to please the boers (Afrikaans speaking people). Some just died mysteriously (Former APLA combatant). You see today when people talk about liberation. They always think ANC, ANC, but nothing about PAC because ANC just wanted to kill PAC by removing and eliminating all our comrades (Former APLA combatant).

Even by the late 2000s, we were told in an interview that some APLA and AZANLA members are still serving prison sentences for military engagements during the apartheid period, while MK members have been released unconditionally as part of the negotiation leading to the 1994 elections. As one APLA ex-combatant, who was imprisoned in 1993 for politically motivated offences, noted: We were just arrested when we were escorting our commanders, and we were incarcerated. Personally, I was told that I had 27 charges. They took time to take us to court. When we were told it was now court time, we were escorted with a convoy of cars, we were guarded like we are killers (Former APLA combatant).

The excerpt above reveals the ways in which APLA ex-combatants were treated. For APLA ex-combatants, they feel they were viewed as criminals rather than freedom fighters, being treated differently to Nelson Mandela

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and the many ANC cadres. The arrest of APLA members during political negotiations was viewed as a way of dehumanising these combatants in order to privilege the ANC and its combatants. An APLA combatant talked about his prison experience during this period. I was given my own dark cell. In that cell water could be flowing in. The cell was always wet. The idea was to make me die in that cell. They did not want me to live again. It was only one day when I wrote a piece of letter and I sneaked it out through the prison officers. I told them to go and give it to my comrades outside so that it can be given to my commanders, to tell them that we are in the prison for political reasons. They visited me, and that is when they negotiated so that I can start living with other prisoners (Former APLA combatant).

This was not the mere arrest of APLA members; it was political punishment as well. Some APLA members were kept in prison and their plea for amnesty ignored. A recent example is that of Kenny Motsamai, who was former APLA member convicted of the murder of a traffic officer in 1989 and who served 28 years sentence until he was released on parole in 2017, after repeated attempts to get amnesty over a period of 28 years. Although there are no statistics available on how many former combatants are serving prison sentences, there are numerous reports of APLA and AZANLA combatants who are still in jail, serving sentences for politically motivated crimes committed during the struggle against apartheid. Therefore, it matters a great deal where there are competing liberation movements, which faction wins; winning a national liberation struggle can still bring losers. The persistence of these old political divisions within South Africa’s national liberation movements is not the only form of continuity with the apartheid past in post-1994 South Africa. Racism remains endemic. This is measured with respect to the lived experiences of ex-combatants in the problems around the integration of former combatants into the new South African National Defence Force (SANDF). Where there has been regime change after war, this form of employment opportunity is widely adopted to assist former combatants in their social reintegration, as well

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as permitting the state’s security forces to reflect the realities of regime change. South Africa’s experiences are revealing.

Integration into the New Army Many ex-combatants in APLA and AZANLA feel the reintegration process into the SANDF, created after 1994, was unjust and unfair. Allegations cover complaints of favouritism, exclusion, discrimination and racism (for further details see Mashike and Mokalobe 2003; Mashike 2004). The whole process of taking people into the new force was a sham my man. You know ANC officials just hijacked the whole process for their members only. You know even people who were not [MK] soldiers we just taken and joined the army (Former AZANLA combatant) Joining of the new force was just job creation for people in the ANC. Many of the people who joined were not soldiers. Some are very young to even in exile. Many former combatants still do not have jobs as we speak right now (Former AZANLA combatant).

On top of these complaints, many incidents of infighting were reported to us in interviews between former combatants and former national defence force members. Levels of mistrust are high between former security officers who made the transition to the SADNF and their new colleagues from the former liberation movements. Interviews conducted with two former combatants who are currently working in the newly integrated SANDF disclosed significant problems still, even for former MK members. Your enemy will always be your enemy. I cannot safely say I trust these former apartheid soldiers although we work together you see. I won’t say that even after this democracy (Former Mk combatant).

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You will always not trust I’m telling you. You can’t fully trust really speaking because we were fighting not so long ago (Former Mk combatant).

A few APLA ex-combatants were integrated into the new SANDF but their experiences are much the same. My first day in the canteen, I found all whites in one corner, and black soldiers on the other corner. I felt that, I was totally lost. When I looked around I found that blacks were eating fast so that they can leave the canteen. It was not their place to eat. No one will tell you that, this is not your place, but you have to sense it on your own (Former APLA combatant).

The politics of social space in the canteen is hugely significant since it is a private space behind the official mask. It helps us to understand the continuing deep racial divide in the new SANDF, rooted in the racial history of the country. Many former combatants do not feel a sense of belonging in the new SANDF. One of the APLA ex-combatants talked about his experience of being posted to the Navy Unit, which is the specialised unit of SANDF. On the first day, he was told: Blacks cannot swim. Navy is for white soldiers. Guerrillas live in the bush (Former APLA combatant).

Racial categorisation is prominent here: the former APLA combatant was depicted as a black soldier, but not just black, he was a useless black soldier in a white navy, fit for the bush not for the navy, because it was assumed he was unable to swim. The categories of black and white, or able or unable to swim, reveal that some people in the SANDF still held racist attitudes. It is important to note that these examples of racism, discrimination and exclusion were experienced not only by APLA and AZANLA but also by MK members (Gear 2002). It is a matter of much significance to establish whether these integration problems persist or were temporary teething problems. If racism is a characteristic of the social structure that marked apartheid and still persists, so too is gender. Apartheid was patriarchal and women experienced significant gendered violence, from separated

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families as a result of the migrant labour system to sexual assaults and domestic violence. The liberation struggle, however, made its own contribution to patriarchy by encouraging militarised masculinities in combatants and in township protestors. In the next section we explore the problem of militarised masculinities before addressing its implications for the perception and treatment of female ex-combatants.

The Construction of Militarised Identities The military ‘make’ men in a particular way which serves the purpose of war. This applies in particular to nation states, which, as Max Weber argued at the turn of the twentieth century, have the monopoly in modern times of the use of legitimate force. It also applies, however, to nonstate actors. State armies and non-state armies are, in Segal’s term (Segal 1986), ‘greed institutions’ which build identities that are difficult to leave behind in post-army life. The identity of ‘soldier’ is made through the military training process, dominating even the soldier’s perception of physical landscapes (Woodward 1998). The interdependence of masculinity and militarisation has been recognised by many social scientists working in the field of peacebuilding (e.g., Whitehead and Barrett 1994). A central contention is that traditional masculine ideology, while not necessarily the sole cause of war, is often used to socialise young men into the dictates of combat and war (Dolan 2002; Whitehead and Barrett 1994). Studies of masculinity have shown that the military and war play a primary role in shaping images of masculinity (Dolan 2002; Gagnon 2003; Whitehead and Barrett 1994). The military socialises boys and men to comply with hegemonic norms of masculinity. Hegemonic masculinity is defined as the ‘legitimacy of patriarchy which guarantees the dominant position of men and the subordination of women’ (Connell 1995, p.  77). Across all military institutions, state and non-state, the ideal image of masculinity that is constructed and perpetuated includes physical toughness, endurance of hardship, aggression, the requirement to be unemotional and to be heterosexual (Whitehead and Barrett 1994, p. 81).

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In keeping with some of this literature, one of the key dimensions of being a young SDU member involved a willingness to engage in violent activities as a mark of masculinity. Young people, recruited from the townships but trained by MK in exile, dominated SDUs and they were responsible for considerable violence as internecine conflicts, the so-­ called black-on-black violence, marked the final years of the apartheid regime. As one SDU member commented: They taught us you see how to kill and carry out attacks against hostel dwellers. Yeah you know I remember this other day we caught emhlwembe (Zulu guy-thug). I said yeah, I want to kill him myself. Yeah I killed him. You see to kill emhlwembe was something very special, yeah you see now you are Indoda (you are a man) because you killed the enemy. You see those people were enemies and killing our people (Former SDU member). If you kill emhlwembe you become iskhokho (a real man). A hero my friend (Former SDU member).

The narratives here show something significant about military violence and manhood. It was legitimate to kill him in order to be a man. It is through man-to-man violence that men are able to demonstrate manhood (Goldstein 2003; Whitehead 2005). The man who is defeated or killed in combat loses his status as a man. It seems that the killing of the enemy affirmed the attackers’ manhood on the township battlefield. It was implied that the more ‘cold-blooded’ the attack, the more masculine the individual male soldier was seen to be. It is evident in the interviews we conducted with former combatants that the killings for which they were responsible appeared to be retrospectively justified, and even celebrated. It was as if the violent demonstration of manhood embodied in the killing remained a marker of entry into manhood and was justified as a political project as part of the political construction of the ‘enemy’ at the time. Hyper-masculine militarised identities not only involve displaying extraordinary bravery but also reflect a willingness to die in combat, even if they feel they have to skill to prevent it.

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I was not afraid of anything. When they [enemies] shot I knew how to handle the situation (Former SDU). Many guys [other SDU members] were killed but we were all prepared to die for our community. It was a war. War is war. You kill or get killed (Former SDU).

Showing a lack of fear of death is part of hyper-masculinity. They did not want to be seen as cowards, and there was considerable pride associated with dying in combat; only the enemy loses his status as a man on death. The comments of the interviewees seem to give substance to the premise that manhood is not proven until one has engaged in a collective, violent, physical struggle against someone categorised as the ‘the enemy’. It is only in combat where a man’s masculinity is truly tested (Goldstein 2003). The ability to kill an enemy is an expression of ‘real’ (i.e., militarised) masculinity. Many of these narratives were shared across interviews with all the different categories of former combatants in our research. The interviews also revealed a sense of male belonging and a spirit of brotherhood amongst male combatants. They began to identify themselves as ‘comrades’, an identity that gave them a sense of togetherness and belonging in relation to other young men. As comrades we were always together (Former SDU). We were like brothers because we were fighting the same enemy (Focus group 5 with SDU members). So you remember; hi comrade! Hi comrade! And if you don’t say comrade then you are in trouble (Focus group 2 with SDU members).

Comradeship, of course, is two-sided, involving exclusion as well as inclusion. People who were not comrades were at risk of being accused as impimpi (a spy) and killed at times. I myself have seen so many people being killed. They had to be killed because they are sell-outs, impimpis (spies), they are taking information to the other side (Focus Group 2 with SDU members).

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The narratives suggested that former SDU members felt that every young male person in the township in the 1970s and 1980s was expected to become a ‘comrade’, emphasising a type of social interaction between men whose underlying objective was a specific kind of male ‘bonding’. To be a comrade meant that one belonged to an in-group that excluded others, and this belonging was rigidly policed, often by means of violence. A particular kind of male camaraderie underpinned their militarised masculinity. To be recognised as a ‘comrade’ was a form of social status in an apartheid society that otherwise offered few forms of social prestige for black youth; and active involvement in the anti-apartheid struggle gave them plentiful opportunities to win such prestige. Furthermore, the social construction of ‘comradeship’ became intertwined with ‘legitimating violence’ against non-comrades and those outside the brotherhood. To be perceived as a non-comrade made the person politically illegitimate and vulnerable to violent attacks. Those who were labelled in this way were often suspected of being informers and were often killed by the infamous ‘necklace’, where a tyre was put on their neck and set alight, after non-judicial trials by the so-called people’s courts (Brewer 1986; Marks 2002), one of the most brutal expressions of hyper, militarised masculinities. In this way, the identity of ‘comrade’ was also a ‘group masculine identity’, where allegiance was to the group against competing groups, including opponents within the liberation struggle and alleged informers. This bond, argues Horrocks (1994), developed due to the immediacy of life and death experience in the townships, as well as a result of fighting a common enemy, where the enemy included, of course, all political opponents not just apartheid apologists. The implications of hyper-masculine militarised identities affected not just the extreme level of violence in South Africa, where more people were killed in the interregnum between the banning of the liberation movements in 1990 and the first non-racial election in 1994 than in the whole period from the Sharpeville massacre in 1961–1990 (Brewer 1994); it affects how women ex-combatants are perceived. Gendered and patriarchal relations persist to negatively affect the lived experiences of women ex-combatants. We turn to this issue now.

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Female Comrades Remain Voiceless The voices of female combatants remain absent in South Africa. It is important to understand this void in the context of the struggle against apartheid that was highly masculinised. Campbell (1994) describes the three main activities associated with comrade membership in the following ways: violent confrontation with political enemies (mainly with the state security forces); the operation of the people’s courts (against black political opponents); and ensuring compulsory attendance at political meetings. Female activists were excluded from many of these kinds of political activities. Out of our whole sample of interviews, we only managed three with former female combatants, all from the MK: It was not easy for us as women to be comrades. Many men thought we cannot have women here in the bush with us. They wanted us to continue being women like cooking and cleaning, but we refused (Former MK combatant). Women and men were treated in the same way when we were in the bush. Women were always discriminated and undermined (Former MK combatant).

Many young male comrades held extremely patriarchal views, believing that men and women should not be treated as equals. In the interviews conducted with former female activists by Monique Marks (2002), she found that women and girls were excluded from occupying leadership positions in anti-apartheid groupings. A number of reasons were offered by young men for the exclusion of females; one of the main reasons given was that females were temperamentally unsuited to cope with the demands of political leadership and participation. Furthermore, females were seen as too emotional; as irrational, shallow and unreliable to be part of political activities (Campbell 1994; Marks 2002; Oxlund 2008). Men were viewed as being strong, rational, aggressive and violent and these ‘masculine virtues’ were described to be more suited to warfare. The militarisation of township boys reproduced an ideology of restrictive and conventional gender roles. Young boys saw their roles as ‘defenders’

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and ‘protectors’ of their communities and these roles gave them the status ascribed to heroes and, if posthumously, as martyrs. Female activists were only allowed to perform peripheral roles, such as cooking for the young males who were actively involved in policing and patrolling their communities. Male comrades defined the political terrain in terms of danger, conflict and violence, all of which were demarcated as a male domain that excluded females. Significantly, the exclusion of women has continued after 1994. Former female comrades continue to be silenced, irrespective of whether they served within or outside the ANC. Every time when people talk about freedom fighters in South Africa, they always think about men and men. It is if women were not freedom fighters (Former MK combatant). All stories of freedom are stories of men. Check all these books written about freedom. It is men‘s stories. Women are simply included as wives. Look at Winnie Mandela. Everyone talks about Mandela and Mandela but nothing much about Winnie, who was tortured and tortured [again] by the police. It is high time that we hear stories of women and women in the struggle against apartheid (Former MK combatant).

These gendered experiences tend to be common for female fighters in liberation movements, and the ambition to gender equality is common amongst successful liberation movements throughout the world. Since 1994, South African government policies have been aimed at reducing some of the inequalities that previously separated women and men (Morrell 2001), based on the ideal of shifting from a male-dominated patriarchal society to a new social order of equality between women and men. It is official ANC policy to increase the number of women in leadership positions in government structures. However, rhetoric and reality are often different. Women continue to be placed on the margins within ANC and government structures. For example, our fieldwork conducted within one community clearly highlighted this point for many ANC members refused to be led by a female mayor.

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We can’t be led by a woman. Women are stubborn (Focus group with protestors). Women are not good leaders. We don’t want women as mayors or councillors (Focus group with protestors).

The ‘othering’ of female comrades within the political field effectively re-inscribes symbolic domination that legitimates political spaces as the exclusive domain of men. Women’s participation as citizens within the body politic is still disrupted through the reassertion of hegemonic masculinity.

 he Lived Experience of Former Combatants T Since the Advent of Democracy Several studies have been conducted with former combatants in South Africa (Gear 2002; Langa and Eagle 2008; Marks 2002; Mashike and Mokalobe 2003), all of which show that many find it hard to be gainfully employed. The inability of former combatants to secure employment is attributed to a range of factors. One of the main factors is that many former young combatants dropped out of school and many left the country to go into exile when they were very young, forfeiting the opportunity to complete their educational studies. You know this thing that does not make sense. Suddenly we are told we cannot hire you because you don’t have work experience. Yes, I don’t have work experience because I left the country [to] fight for us. Now I can’t work because I don’t have work experience. So angry about this. I feel [that the] government has forgotten us (Former SDU member). We need special programmes to give us skills because you are being unfair now to say degree or diploma. You know when we went to exile people did not ask about degrees but suddenly they want all these things. I just think this is the strategy to discriminate us (Former MK member).

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So immediately after all these had happened …they want certain qualifications. You don’t have any qualifications. The only thing that you have is the experience to fight, you can shoot. You know how to shoot, you know use a gun, and you know how to command people. Those are skills you have. Because that situation, the circumstances you are coming from they were pushing you do to something. [This] is what is happening, the government now did not come up with things to help those people who had problems by then. Right now people are suffering because of the past. They don’t have qualifications (Focus group 3 with SDU members).

Given their lack of qualifications and relevant market-related skills, many former combatants have been unable to secure jobs in the current, highly competitive labour market, and feel politically marginalised and betrayed by the ANC-led government. I think [it] is [a] very frustrating moment; because we were fighting. In our heads we thought we are gonna die, but before I die I want to fight for my community. Suddenly there is change of heart now, there is a future, ANC has won the votes, and now the ANC is in the government (Former SDU). And now there are lots of challenges now, we have to go back to school… many problems. And this time I used to have a gun every time…but now I need to go to back to school to register (Former SDU). Now it’s like we were in a war, now we have to change and start all over again…fit into the social arenas (Former SDU).

The inability of the economy to absorb unemployed former combatants results in many having to rely on their families for financial support, which only adds both to their feelings of helplessness, resentment and frustration, and to their disillusion with the process and pace of change in post-1994 South Africa. Most former combatants had expectations of receiving special treatment in recognition of the sacrifices they had made in the struggle against apartheid, which have gone unfilled. The story of Simon Sibiya, who is a former combatant, illustrates this point well. Some freedom fighters have yet to taste the fruits of the ‘new South Africa’. Simon Sibiya is a 54-year-old man who had dedicated

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most of his life to the anti-apartheid struggle. He joined the Azanian Liberation Army in 1980, while in his early 20s. ‘Our mission was to organize and empower people politically in order to topple and overcome the apartheid regime’, Sibiya told us. After joining AZANLA, Sibiya underwent military training in Botswana and spent some time in Zimbabwe. After 1994, Sibiya, like many other combatants, became redundant and was left without a cause. ‘I’m unemployable’, Sibya says. He says many soldiers who fought for this country are illiterate because they spent half their lives in the army and the army is all they know. Sibiya notes wryly that democracy has not been very sympathetic to former combatants. ‘Former combatants have succumbed to diseases. They cannot afford treatment or take their children to school’, he says. ‘Government officials are misusing public funds every day, wasting millions that could benefit us and other poor people’. Sibiya laments the current political leadership. ‘Black politicians have become elites’, he notes. Sibiya further observes that often ‘former combatants have trouble sustaining relationships and they tend to be aggressive. They need counselling. What happened in the army is not part of your life you can chuck away easily and start afresh’. Today many former combatants feel they have no role to play in the politics of the ‘new era’ since their militarised masculine identity is not valued anymore. Township men were forced to develop a particular masculine identity within the liberation struggle that with the new democratic dispensation is no longer appropriate as young men adopt to different life scripts and develop new masculine identities. These violent masculine identities remain intractable and unchangeable for some former combatants. This points to the problems post-apartheid South Africa has around demobilisation of military mind-sets. Some of the military identities which were highly celebrated are now demeaned and derogated (see Xaba 2001), although according to Maringira (2015, 2018) some communities still expect them to use their military skills to protect the communities given the rise in the crime rate. Since 1994, several initiatives have been developed by the South African government to reintegrate and demilitarise former combatants. Despite this, some former combatants continue to feel excluded and marginalised. One consequence of their

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economic exclusion and political disillusion has been a turn to violent crime (on crime in South Africa see Brewer 1994). Some former combatants have carried their militarised masculinities into the new democracy by using military skills to commit ordinary crime in post-apartheid South Africa. This was acknowledged, and even rationalised and defended by some of the interviewees. We have been left out. Then we went to enquire, they said put your name here. After seven months we came back to enquire again at the Shell House [ANC head office]; we were putting our names on some lists, different kinds of lists. And then I gave up. When I gave up some of my guys started doing crime in terms of stealing cars. I thought no, my guys are doing this, I better join them. I joined sometimes. As a man I need to eat and support myself (Former SDU). If you follow the [criminal] case[s], you’d hear that one of the members is a former [SDU]. We are hungry and as a man you can’t sleep with an empty stomach. The hungry stomach knows no law (SDU Focus group 4). We are not bringing [decommissioning] guns, because the guns are helping us to have food because there [are] no jobs. These guns are our food (Former SDU). Obviously these people [ordinary criminals] had military training. They used that strategy to [make] food. They knew where the guns were. They went back to where they hid their guns; they took those [for] criminal activities. Idota eya sipandala [a man always makes a plan] (SDU Focus group 4).

While former combatants explain their involvement in crime as a legitimate response to feelings of marginalisation and exclusion, interviewees were aware of the social illegitimacy of this behaviour in a new context, and therefore felt they had to provide some excuse or justification for it. They depict crime as a rational sequence of means-ends in response to immediate economic pressures; it is a necessary way of life. A former SDU member is quoted by Gear (2002, p. 69) as saying: ‘Some of our parents are not working and some of us have lost parents. We have got to

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support our siblings and children—they must eat. That’s why you find them doing crime because they don’t have jobs’. According to Gear (2002) the reasons provided by some former combatants for their involvement in crime are intertwined with their sense of betrayal and unmet expectations of living out a heroic, warrior masculinity. Gear warns that the potential for criminal involvement should not only be viewed as a likely outcome of certain former combatants’ marginalised status or military skills, for criminal behaviour is associated with other factors, such as poverty, unemployment and consumerism, which exert pressures on many groupings other than former combatants. It seems that uncertainties about their role in the new democracy have pushed some former combatants to hold on to entrenched, outmoded and violent masculine identities. These may be expressed as a way of protesting against their undervalued and unrecognised contribution to the liberation struggle. The war has been part of their life identity and remains so. Reconstructing new positive masculine identities requires being willing to dismantle or ‘knock down’ old militarised masculinities and replace them with something more valued. Social interventions need to recognise that this process is very challenging, particularly given the compelling nature of a militarised identity. What makes feelings of economic exclusion and political marginalisation worse for those former combatants who have turned to crime as a rational response is that some former combatants have come to occupy positions of power in public offices and obtain considerable economic advancement. Their forms of conspicuous consumption reinforce the economic, social and political divide between ex-combatants. Posel (2010) asserts that consumption in post-apartheid South Africa must be read within a historically constitutive relation that regulates consumption differently across the groups. The conspicuous consumption of wealth enjoyed by a small elite of the emerging black middle class and the aspirations to the same by marginalised black men and women is at the core of current meanings attached to liberation and freedom. Hence in 2007, the then head of communications in the South African Presidency, Smuts Ngonyama, also official spokesperson for the ANC and former anti-­ apartheid activist, proclaimed in the midst of increased accusations of corruption that he ‘didn’t join the struggle to be poor’ (Posel 2010,

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p.  157). Posel refers to this structural misappropriation of wealth as embodying a kind of ‘politics of consumption’ (Posel 2010, p. 160) that has fostered the idea of freedom and liberation as tantamount to wealth acquisition. While we would not deny the legitimate and legal wealth acquisition of those ex-combatants who have benefitted under the ANC government, the growing class inequalities with those former combatants who remain poor and impoverished is a problem not just for criminology but for the stability of the new South Africa. If this political and economic marginality distinguishes the material conditions of most ex-combatants, it is worth exploring their emotional landscape as the struggle with feelings of disillusion, anger and disappointment. Trauma narratives dominate their emotional landscape.

The Lived Experience of Trauma Trauma narratives are complex. Ex-combatants understand the pain of the past as part of their duty to service in the cause of national liberation. Trauma narratives are also a way to claim compensation. They also afford state and community recognition. According to Mashike and Mokalobe (2003) former combatants self-report symptoms similar to those described under the diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Some symptoms suggestive of PTSD were identified in our interviews with the former combatants. The period of violence is still in people’s minds—‘I remember such and such a period when we used to hang out with so and so and killed people.’ You can see that I grew up with that thing, I can’t forget it. So there is a need for counselling to heal their wounds. So there is that [connection] with that period. So if there could be some form of [education] that they understand that they killed and what made them kill—so that thing could come out of their minds. So since he killed—if you are a killer, no matter how you killed a person, the thing is you killed a person (Focus group 5).

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And then I realized later that I can’t sleep at all. I only slept for few hours. And the only time I needed to sleep I had to drink. To sleep I have to drink. I know many of our comrades (former SDUs) also use drugs (Former SDU2). I saw about four people being killed in front of eyes, and as a young person I never got any counselling (Focus group 4). You know it is sad story the things happen [place name deleted] in this location. I will never forget them. People were dying like flies (Focus group 3).

Some interviewees recognised a need for some form of counselling with regard to trauma-related stress, particularly since they were involved in some very violent situations. It was notable that in discussing the current impact of their experiences in terms of their mental health, some informants described great distress at having been involved in killing, and had become ambivalent about their past involvement in acts of violence. And sometimes I would see faces of some of the guys whom we executed. I can’t sleep during the night (Former SDU).

One of Gear’s respondents who had been in the SDU said, ‘I need counselling. When you think about all those things that happened to you and you were treated, you can go mad…inside I am boiling…it’s killing my mind’ (Gear 2002, p. 93). Former combatants have seen people being killed, some have killed people themselves, and many are affected by these memories now. Some find it difficult to sleep at night because of terrifying nightmares and some have resorted to drug abuse to numb PTSD-related symptoms. The suppression of these feelings of distress is linked with expressions of aggression, anger and other explosive emotions (Goldstein 2003). The comment that ‘inside I’m boiling’ reflects a potential for violent discharge. Mashike (2004) refers to the emotional state of many former combatants as a ‘time bomb’ waiting to explode. Left unresolved, these feelings can be unbearable; ‘it’s killing my mind’, as one interviewee said. Something needs to be done to help former combatants deal with the traumas of the past. Very few former combatants have received trauma

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counselling. This is in part due to a lack of counselling services but, significantly, many see counselling as an admission of weakness and vulnerability. This connects back to the notion of identity. Counselling is seen as anathema to the ideals of traditional, militarised masculinity. To admit to the need for counselling can lead former combatants to develop what Whitehead (2005) calls ‘masculine anxiety’, which is caused by the collapse in self-identity as a man. We are soldiers and they told us, soldiers don’t cry (Former SDU). Yeah you see I told my friends that yeah I’m seeing a counsellor, yeah you see because I want to leave the past. I told them that they also need to see counsellors and talk about those issues. Yeah they laughed at me. They said I’m becoming a sissy boy (Former SDU). Some people they don’t even know that they were traumatized by the war, by the riots. Some people they don’t even know that they are being traumatized; some people they think you go to counselling because you are sick or you are having problems (Focus group 4). Indoda ayi khali (a man does not cry) (Former SDU).

Some former combatants who seek counselling fear being marginalised and stigmatised through loss of their hyper-masculine identity. Being called derogatory names, such as ‘sissy boy’, appears worse to them than the symptoms of PTSD. It is highly common for militarised men, whether state veterans or non-state veterans, not to seek help and seeking, to do so contradicts their masculine identities. This is as much a cultural problem as a medical one. We argue, however, that the state needs to find appropriate styles of intervention which take account of the allegiance to outdated notions of militarised masculinity whilst simultaneously allowing former combatants to seek psychological treatment and other kinds of rehabilitative and developmental support. It is also important that these interventions address the economic and social challenges that many former combatants face daily in their lives.

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Conclusion This chapter has had a dual purpose. First, it sought to isolate the lived experiences of those ex-combatants who are subjected to processes of silencing in post-1994 South Africa because they served outside the hegemonic dominance of the ANC. This includes members of other liberation movements, young militants in the informal and extremely violent SDUs and women in the armed wing of the ANC. Its second ambition was to interrogate how these ex-combatants understand, all these years later, their identity in the context of the hyper-masculine militarised identities that combat experiences inevitably provoke. Nearly a quarter-of-a-century after non-racial democracy was established in 1994, the legacy of apartheid lingers on in the continuance of gendered, racial and class inequalities that affect the majority of black South Africans, including most ex-combatants. One other legacy, however, is the persistence of hyper-masculine militarised identities. Militarised identities survive in part because some ex-combatants have moved into ordinary crime as a way to survive. More importantly, however, militarised identities survive because of the search for recognition and acknowledgement, holding on to ‘struggle masculinities’ in the search for recognition as freedom fighters. Their identity as a combatant persists because their contribution to national liberation has never been acknowledged. This is a particular problem for members of other national liberation movements who have lost recognition as a result of the political dominance of the ANC. The persistence of these militarised identities causes particular gendered problems for women in MK because they leave no political space for honouring the contribution of women, whose voices thereby remain silent. It is through the persistence of these militarised identities that also causes problems because it prevents some former combatants seeking the psycho-therapeutic help and support they need. Ex-combatant identities are contextually defined and configured. In post-1994 South Africa, the contextual pressures on women ex-­ combatants, and on former militants in the SDUs and other national liberation movements, reflect in their struggle for recognition. The voices of these former combatants reveal that they have been discriminated

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against, and denied access to basic necessities of shelter, food and employment opportunities that would help them restore their sense of dignity. Many former combatants feel rejected by the ANC by belonging to different liberation movements, or by being women ex-combatants. Feelings of anger, bitterness and betrayal were evident during interviews with former combatants; this is true even for ANC members who have been excluded from the economic benefits of political change. The ex-combatant category is an extensive one in South Africa, including former female soldiers, those who fought on behalf of the apartheid regime and those who fought in other liberation movements than the ANC. The hegemony of the ANC in post-1994 South Africa means there is a huge gap in exploring the lived experiences of the different kinds of ex-combatants that make up the category in South Africa today to ensure all voices are heard, recognised and documented.

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Horrocks, R. (1994). Masculinity in crisis: Myths, fantasies and realities. London: Macmillan. Langa, M., & Eagle, G. (2008). The Intractability of Militarized Masculinity: Interviews with Former Combatants in East Rand. South African Journal of Psychology, 38(1), 152–175. Maringira, G. (2015). Militarised Minds: The Lives of Ex-combatants in South Africa. Sociology, 49(1), 72–87. Maringira, G. (2018). When Ex-combatants Became Peaceful: Azania People’s Liberation Army Ex-combatants in Post-apartheid South Africa. African Studies, 77(1), 53–66. Marks, M. (2002). Young Warriors: Youth Politics, Identity and Violence in South Africa. Johannesburg: University of Witwatersrand Press. Mashike, L. (2004). ‘You are a time bomb…’ Ex-combatants in Post-conflict South Africa. Society in Transition, 35(1), 1–18. Mashike, L., & Mokalobe, M. (2003). Reintegration into Civilian Life: The Case of Former MK and APLA Combatants. Centre for Conflict Resolution: University of Cape Town. Morrell, R. (2001). Changing Men in Southern Africa. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal. Motumi, T., & McKenzie, P. (1998). After the War: Demobilisation in South Africa. In J.  Cock & P.  McKenzie (Eds.), From Defence to Development: Redirecting Military Resources in South Africa (pp.  167–178). Cape Town: David Philip. Oxlund. (2008). Masculinities in Student Politics: Gendered Discourses of Struggle and Liberation at the University of Limpopo. Psychology in Society, 36, 60–76. Posel, D. (2010). Races to Consume: Revisiting South Africa’s History of Race, Consumption and the Struggle for Freedom. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 33(2), 157–175. Segal, M. W. (1986). The Military and the Family as Greedy Institutions. Armed Forces & Society, 13(1), 9–38. Whitehead, A. (2005). Man to Man Violence: How Masculinity May Work as a Dynamic Risk Factor. The Howard Journal, 44(4), 411–420. Whitehead, S.  M., & Barrett, F. (1994). The Masculine Reader. London: Polity press.

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Woodward, R. (1998). ‘It’s a Man’s Life!’: Soldiers, Masculinity and the Countryside. Gender, Place and Culture: A Journal of Feminist Geography, 5(3), 277–300. Xaba, T. (2001). Masculinity and Its Malcontents: The Confrontation Between ‘struggle masculinity’ and ‘post-struggle masculinity’ (1990–1997). In R.  Morrell (Ed.), Changing Men in Southern Africa (pp.  105–124). Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal.

8 The Lives of Women Ex-combatants in Post-Apartheid South Africa Siphokazi Magadla

Editorial Comment This chapter fully expands on the previous chapter’s occasional references to the marginalisation of women ex-combatants in the new South Africa by making this theme its central argument. Through detailed in-depth interviews with women of different age cohorts, in different combat organisations, with differing levels of seniority within the ANC, and markedly contrasting class positions in post-apartheid society, it isolates the process of silencing. Silence is in part self-imposed as a strategic response to deal with the stigma women ex-combatants feel from the wider patriarchal society, but silencing is also the result of power imbalances that give others the ability to silence women specifically. Silence is a recurring theme of ex-combatant women recounting their lived experiences of reintegration, common to all three case countries in this volume,

S. Magadla (*) Rhodes University, Makhanda, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_8

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although particularly South Africa and Sri Lanka which are affected by the solid patriarchy that exists in the Global South. Silencing reflects in the limitations of DDR policies in South Africa and Sri Lanka, most of which are highly gendered in their application and outcomes. What is significant about the arguments in this chapter, however, is that women ex-combatants are not passive, but respond as agents by developing resistance strategies to stigmatisation and silencing. Hustling on the margins of post-apartheid society is a resistance strategy that marks women excombatants as assertive. This strategy also empowers them in dealing with the emotional legacy of their military service. This makes an interesting contrast to the accounts in previous chapters of the way male ex-combatants deal more passively with the emotional landscape within which war has located them. The agency of women ex-combatants features also in Northern Ireland and Sri Lanka.

Introduction The citizen who is willing to offer their body in armed conflict, whether in defence of the state or for national liberation, justifiably expects recognition. Not all receive it. This recognition, in particular, is missing for women former combatants in South Africa’s liberation from apartheid. This chapter captures some of the lived experiences of women ex-­ combatants in post-apartheid South Africa as they struggle for recognition and economic stability in a society that does not adequately acknowledge, support and protect them. The release of Nelson Mandela on 11 February 1990 led to the decriminalization of national liberation movements, such as the African National Congress (ANC), Pan Africanist Congress (PAC) and the South African Communist Party (SACP). Some members of the guerrilla armies of the ANC, uMkhonto Wesizwe (MK), the PAC’s Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA) were integrated into the new South African National Defence Force (SANDF), along with the defence forces of four of the ten Bantustan homelands. It was clear, however, that the shape and size of the new defence force would far outweigh the needs and material capabilities

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of the new democratic state committed to a demilitarized society and to downsizing the military. Thousands of former combatants were thus released back to civilian life. The establishment of the Department of Military Veterans in 2009 by the Jacob Zuma administration, and the subsequent adoption of the Military Veterans Act No. 18 of 2011, signalled a re-emergence of the combatant as a legislative category. This reopened debate in South African public culture concerning the legacies of the armed struggle, the nature of the war and the status of various liberation movements involved in dismantling apartheid. Importantly, it revived questions about the combatants who fought in that war and the forms of recognition and benefits owed to them in the aftermath. It was clear in this debate, however, that, as Mashike (2007, p. 442) notes, ‘there is no universally accepted definition of a combatant in South Africa’. This chapter therefore addresses a number of issues around South Africa’s Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration (DDR) policies and their gendered nature. It locates South Africa’s DDR experiences within a specifically African approach to post-war demobilization and civilian reintegration. The literature on demobilized combatants in South Africa is heavily focused on the experiences of men, and shows that the majority of them live in poverty despite having contributed significantly to the anti-apartheid struggle (Liebenberg and Roefs 2001; Mokalobe 2001; Gear 2002; Centre for Conflict Resolution 2003; Cock 2004; Mashike 2004; Everatt and Ross 2006: Mashike 2007; Maringira and Brankovic 2013; Heinecken and Bwalya 2013). This literature focuses on male combatant violence because it reflects the gendered assumptions about male participation in violence. It reproduces gendered tropes about men and war and about women and peace. This literature therefore tends to neglect women former combatants and their own lived experiences of destitution, mis-recognizing the real material needs of women ex-combatants who have been forced into poverty, and it fails to explain why women ex-combatants have largely not used their military training to hold their communities to account for their post-war marginalization. Drawing on interviews with the women who participated in the national liberation movement in South Africa, I argue that women have been expected to silently transition back into civilian life, aligning with gendered stereotypes about ‘passive women’ which persist after the end of

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apartheid. The interviews reveal, however, that women ex-combatants do practice silence in a form of strategic agency, but that they articulate their silence as evidence of their resilience, inner strength and better overall coping capacity compared to their male counterparts. I argue that it is important for feminists to theorize this ‘language of silence’, and in turn acknowledge this silence as both a form of resistance by women ex-­ combatants and a reflection of  failure of the state to acknowledge and support their needs. First, it is important to outline the quality of the data on which this chapter is based. It draws on findings from my doctoral research that examined the role of women in the armed struggle against apartheid and the experiences of reintegration into post-apartheid civilian life in South Africa (see Magadla 2017). The study is based on interviews with the former Director General of the South African Military Veterans Department, a former Chief of the South African Defence Force and life history interviews with 38 women who participated in different military formations that were aligned with the national liberation movements, MK, APLA and Amabutho, a Self Defence Unit (SDU) based in Port Elizabeth. The interviews were conducted from July 2013 to November 2014, between May-June 2018, and again in March 2019, in Port Elizabeth, Makhanda/Grahamstown, East London, Umthatha, Johannesburg and Pretoria. The interviews included five telephone interviews with participants in Mpumalanga and the Eastern Cape.

South African DDR Policies in Context It is important to begin with the new government’s general approach to DDR.  Although DDR processes are associated with late twentieth-­ century civil wars, mostly in the Global South, concerns about the well-­ being of demobilized soldiers can be traced to the aftermath of the world wars, where governments veered between the binary construct of returning soldiers as either heroes or potential misfits (see Ford 2012). Writing about the civilian integration of disabled veterans after WWII, Gerber (1994, p. 546) argues that there is a ‘divided consciousness’ in the public perception of veterans: ‘On the one hand, the veteran’s heroism and

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sacrifices are celebrated and memorialized and debts of gratitude, both symbolic and material, are paid to him [or her]. On the other hand, the veteran also inspires anxiety and fear and is seen as a threat to social order and political stability’. The conception of DDR in South Africa has shaped the African debates about the place of veterans in post-war societies. The civil war cases largely seen in Africa (and Latin America) reshaped the conception of demobilization in dramatic ways. What is unique about DDR processes in Africa is the blurring of the lines between combatant and non-combatant. Many fighting forces included high numbers of combatants who were children but also those without military training. Furthermore, DDR has the added element of being part of post-war reconciliation and healing. In contexts of intra-state conflict, the process of disarming, demobilizing and integrating combatants into either civilian society or security institutions, such as the military or police, ‘forms part of peace negotiations’ and is part of ‘a wider peace settlement’ (Cilliers 1995, p. 4). In Africa and elsewhere, ‘there is a general agreement that ex-combatants are a key target group for preferential state assistance to facilitate their reintegration into sustainable civilian post-war livelihoods’ (Dzinesa 2009). As Muggah and O’Donnell (2015, p. 2) note, ‘no fewer than 60 separate DDR initiatives were fielded around the world since the late 1980s’. In the 1990s, DDR processes became a central aspect of the reconfiguration of liberal peacebuilding, as the rise of intra-state wars in Africa and Eastern Europe erupted, creating a new ‘agenda for peace’ (Boutros-Ghali 1992) in the post-Cold War international order, with DDR as one of its core features. As Muggah and O’Donnell argue, ‘by the late 1990s, DDR assumed a kind of orthodoxy in the peace, security and development communities, especially amongst representatives of the United Nations agencies, the World Bank and a number of bilateral aid agencies’ (Muggah and O’Donnell 2015, p. 2). This attributes huge importance to DDR. As Wahidin (2016, p. 213) points out, the UN model of DDR ‘generally regards former combatants as a threat whereby ex-combatant dissatisfaction can return a country to a war’. The 1993 seven-country case study undertaken by the World Bank (which covered Zimbabwe, Namibia, Mozambique, Angola, Uganda, Chad and one non-African country, Nicaragua) was amongst the earliest

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studies exposing the potential security dangers of not assisting ex-­ combatants into civilian life, especially those with limited education and professional skills (World Bank 1995, p.  24). Muggah and O’Donnell (2015, p. 2) argue that even though this study emphasized the importance of context, the ‘modus operandi’ of these processes was ‘comparatively straightforward’ in the sense that ‘whether soldiers or rebels, it was generally clear who was eligible for reinsertion and reintegration assistance (and who was not)’. In the case of Zimbabwe, Musemwa (1995) argued that a neglected vulnerable sector of veterans can easily become a serious political problem. Former combatants were implicated in the political collapse of Zimbabwe, the militarized nature of the land reform process and the violent authoritarian rule of ZANU-PF (Sachikonye 2002; Rupiya 2003; Dzinesa 2007; Chitiyo 2009). In Namibia, Metsola (2006, p.  1120) notes that ‘ex-combatants have been seen both as heroes and as a threat’, arguing (2006, p. 1123) that in Namibia, state assisted integration has been framed as a ‘moral issue at the centre of the nation’s historical identity’. Metsola portrayed (2006, pp. 1123-1124) the nationalist rhetoric on veterans as both ‘a form of recognition and containment’, in the sense that the recognition also limits the agency of ex-combatants because in the end ‘the only form of agency that ex-combatants have is that of potential social disruption if left on their own’. Munive (2013, p. 588) argues that despite the multiple and complex dynamics that inform intra-state wars, a ‘central assumption in DDR programmes is that combatants can be distinguished from civilians in a straightforward manner during the disarmament phase’. However, the African experience of intra-state wars blurred the distinction between ‘combatant’ and ‘civilian’, with implications for how to construct a fair and durable post-conflict peace settlement (Muggah and O’Donnell 2015, p. 3). Munive (2013, p. 598) argues that the case of South Sudan, for example, challenges the notion that former combatants have special needs compared to the rest of their community because, ‘on the ground it seems difficult to disaggregate the reintegration needs of ex-combatants or special needs groups from the general needs of the population’. The distinction between these two categories, however, is not the only problem in implementing DDR policies. Gender is also a critical

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variable. In what follows, I argue that even though women and girls participate in state and non-state armed formations and have largely been formally recognized in the demobilization process, it is clear from my research that the implementation of such processes is framed to respond more urgently to the needs of male ex-combatants. More broadly, demobilization processes have also made visible the extent to which, in the aftermath of war, women who participated in fighting forces face pressure to not only disassociate themselves from their past combat history through non-disclosure, but have learnt that through their muting of their experiences of combat, their silence is a form of survival. This non-­ disclosure allows them to transition back into community life, becoming invisible in order to comply with the gendered expectations of their community. The tangible costs of muting their combatant identity, is that they forego the symbolic and material benefits that veterans stand to access in a post-war society.

Women and DDR Cynthia Enloe, one of the foremost to recognize women’s military involvement, once asked a pertinent question. What happens to a liberation army or guerilla force after the war, if it manages to topple the old state? Does the revolutionary ‘post-war’ era deal with gender any differently to conventional ‘post-war’ eras? Is the demobilisation of women an integral part of post-war transformation? In state-­ building, state defending process, do women lose the status they enjoyed during the war of liberation? (Enloe 1983, p. 160 emphasis original)

Gerber (1994, p. 50) notes that in the aftermath of WWII in the USA, the state went to great efforts to frame the integration of returning soldiers as the ‘restoration of the status quo antebellum in gender relations’. Women were placed under pressure ‘to give up their employment and their independence and to devote themselves to the domestication of the returning men’ (Gerber 1994, p. 550). Feminist literature on demobilization also makes visible the fact that irrespective of whether women

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participate in orthodox and unorthodox combat, there is pressure to be ‘re-inscribed in more domestic roles in order to be accepted by society’ (Lyons 2004, p. xxiii). This is because there is a tendency for female ex-­ combatants to be sidelined in the aftermath of wars, because ‘“soldier” comes to mean male, and unemployed soldiers are seen to take precedence over married women (even where they are ex-soldiers themselves, or war widows and heads of households)’ (Lyons 2004, p. xxiii). As part of this problem, McKay and Mazurana (2004) argue that the numbers of women in fighting forces are routinely underestimated. This occurs in part because the emphasis on their roles as ‘wives’, ‘sexual slaves’ and ‘camp-followers’ obscures the multiple, diverse and important roles women historically have played in times of conflict. In Sierra Leone, for example, the DDR process focused on ‘disarming male fighters, and as girls and women had played different roles in the war, the narrow classification of them as dependents or “bush wives” effectively excluded them from the process’ (Coulter 2008, p. 158). In the case of Zimbabwe, Lyons (2004, p.  229) argues that ‘most women did not benefit from post-independence rehabilitation programs designed to integrate women ex-combatants into society’. Instead, women were often ‘labelled as prostitutes and thus not deserving of demobilization pay-outs’ (Lyons 2004, p. xxi). Nhongo-Simbanegavi (2000, p. xxii), in For Better Or Worse? Women And ZANLA In Zimbabwe’s Liberation Struggle, argues that many women lost their status as guerrilla fighters and were instead designated the category of refugee and thus were ‘excluded from the benefits extended to veterans of the war’. She notes that hardly any women ex-combatants were visible in the land reform programme in Zimbabwe. Weber’s (2011) comparative study of women in the Eritrean Liberation Front and the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA) in South Sudan found that in the aftermath of war the ideological commitment for gender equality was disbanded, even though 40 per cent of the fighting force were women. The admiration, support, and legitimization of female fighters, of women in arms was quickly devalued after demobilization. The emergency phase of war was over, now the reconstruction of state and society needed women

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to become normal, feminine, obedient members of society again, so that the society would not feel alienated and would continue to support the struggle despite hardships. (Weber 2011, p. 363)

Weber further points to the high rates of divorces between the ‘male and female fighters in post-war Eritrea, with the men marrying non-­fighter women instead’ (2011, p.  361). This is an example of the ‘re-­ traditionalization’ of society in post-war societies which places pressure on women to perform a specific kind of femininity. Women composed 7 per cent of the SPLA, but ‘hardly any women are listed on the SPLA payroll and therefore ineligible for a proper DDR package, a pension, or continued employment in the armed forces’ (Weber 2011, p. 362). In the Democratic Republic of Congo, Baaz and Stern (2011, p.  569) argue that the DDR process privileged ‘only combatants carrying a gun [to] qualify for this process’. They point out that: Since many of the women in the armed groups do not possess a firearm of their own (often sharing with others, or performing duties other than active combat), they have been largely ‘auto-demobilized’ and do not reach the DDR/military integration centres at all, or leave them without completing the DDR process. Moreover, many commanders also do not consider women as real combatants and have not encouraged/brought them with them in the process (assuming that many women in the ranks would not enhance their status and power within the new military structure). Hence, the ways in which the processes of military integration and DDR have been designed have resulted in a steady decrease of women’s participation in the armed forces. (Baaz and Stern 2011, p. 559)

Feminists have argued that the invisibility of women’s role in military discourses in International Relations Studies has contributed to the privileging of the needs of male ex-combatants in post-war adjustment interventions (Turshen & Twagiramariya 1998). The cases above demonstrate the need for states to expand DDR programmes to reflect the gendered dynamics of conflict. A key argument of this chapter, therefore, is that the literature on the demobilized ex-­ combatant in South Africa fails to provide a rigorous understanding of

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the lived experiences of female ex-combatants. It is to this that we now turn, dealing first with women’s motivations to engage in armed struggle.

 omen’s Motivations for Joining W the Armed Struggle The narratives expressed by women combatants in this study are that they did so because of personal and communal experiences of daily violence. Thus, for them they were driven to participate in armed struggle to end injustice. This is a common motivation. In Wahidin’s (2016) study on women in the Irish  Republican  Army, and Alison’s study (2003) of women who joined the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, they found that the women were motivated not only by the ‘“nationalist sentiment” but that the “meta-reason” for enlisting was [the] communal perception of suffering, oppression and injustice…related to personal experience’ (Alison 2003, p. 40). The narratives of South African women combatants show that they joined the armed struggle to fight against personal and communal violence under apartheid.  Former MK member Belinda Martin, whose MK nom de guerre was ‘Gloria Mtungwa’, was born in 1952 in Kliptown. She spoke about the separation of her racially mixed family because of the 1950 Group Areas Act, which divided her racially mixed family into the so-called Coloured and African residential areas. She was particularly affected by the separation from her grandmother, who was forcibly moved to Soweto. I grew up in Kliptown, it was a township of diverse cultures, and we were happy, we saw no difference in each other. We valued each other’s cultures, you know, and that is what made us such a happy community. And a thriving community, rich in culture… It was apartheid that destroyed our communities…It’s when we started having criminals, it’s when we started having racial hate, everything, because now people were indoctrinated, made to feel better in my community, given privileges over people that they lived with before, and you know, everything just became a racial mess… it’s because of that reason and because of hating human suffering

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and because of hating segregation and apartheid that I decided I am going to join the struggle. (Belinda Martin, Interview in Pretoria, May, 2014)

Martin became active as part of a youth organization called Anti-­ Collaborationist Front Group, formed by high school students in Coronation High School. According to Martin, the group was affiliated with the Black People’s Convention and was mentored by the activist-­ poet and journalist, Don Mattera. She was detained in 1975 after leaking information to Don Mattera, who was then working as a journalist for The Star newspaper. She left the country to join MK following detention and solitary confinement in John Vorster Square jail. Martin’s experiences speak for many of her generation affected by the township school protests that culminated in the 1976 Soweto Uprising (see Brewer 1986). In this regard, the communities of solidarity that they found in school legitimized their objections to the actions of the apartheid government and its impact on their families and communities. This personal experience radicalized Martin and many in her generation. In her case study of Diepkloof in Soweto, Monique Marks (2001, p. 49) argues that it was a nationwide phenomenon that ‘most township youth who joined political organizations in the ’80s, were at school, and many of the leaders of these organizations were still at school’. She argues that schools provided a ‘base for a common experience and also a geographical space for meeting and organizing’ (Marks 2001, p.  49). The Congress of South African Students (COSAS) was launched in 1979 as a ‘response to the crisis in the schools’ (Marks 2001, p. 35). For Martin and the generation of young women who eventually left the country or were activists inside it, schools became a core site of mobilization. This is reflected in my interview with Brenda Badela. Brenda Badela, whose MK nom de guerre was ‘Thoko Matthews’, was born in 1962 and grew up in New Brighton. Badela was a regional executive member of COSAS between 1980 and 1983, during her time in Newell High School in Port Elizabeth. She notes that she was born into a political household. Her father Mono Badela gave political leadership to the community and her house was a space for activists to meet. He was a well-known activist-journalist working for the Evening Post and later

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City Press newspapers and was respected for his support of trade unions and civic movements in Port Elizabeth. Brenda Badela spoke about going to different schools to talk to other students about the history of the ANC, the use of Afrikaans in schools and Bantu Education, as well as opposing the introduction of the tricameral parliamentary system (a bogus form of power sharing introduced in 1981 which excluded black South Africans). Between 1981 and 1983, Badela was in and out of detention. Badela’s family home was petrol bombed in 1985, allegedly by members of the Azanian People’s Organization in the ‘inter-organisational conflict in the Port Elizabeth-­ Uitenhage area’ (TRC Final Report 1998, p. 96). Badela narrates about her time in solitary confinement and how she learnt about the bombing of her home: During detention I was in solitary confinement in Algoa. That’s where my home is now. Every time I pass that police station, I laugh. I was all by myself, solitary confinement, all of us, because we were regarded as the most influential and most dangerous COSAS leaders at the time. You know, the treatment was very bad, because one of the guys who was torturing me is actually late now, [Gideon] Nieuwoudt… And then sometimes they are going to wake you up, and I remember one Friday they called me and said, ‘Yho, but your house was bombed, petrol bombed’, and I thought they were joking. My dad was in detention, but my dad was in another police station. But I thought they were joking. ‘Ja, your house was petrol bombed’, you know and I’m like, ‘Yho, wow! And then what happened?’ ‘No, nobody died, nobody was hurt.’ And I’m telling you, Siphokazi, I didn’t know about it until I was out after three months. And when I asked my mom, my mom said, ‘yes, that’s what they did’. Fortunately, you know, that we grew up in three-roomed house, so they threw the petrol bomb in my room. But we had two single rooms, myself and my brother, the one who comes after me. So, it just, it landed on top of my brother’s bed, but fortunately, because me and my dad were in detention. So, my mom and my two brothers were sleeping in the main bedroom. Now, if Phiko had slept there, it would have been something else. (Brenda Badela interview, Grahamstown, October 2013)

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At the time, Badela had two cases brought against her by the apartheid state. She had been caught in Queenstown coming back from a COSAS congress meeting in Durban carrying banned literature. The second case involved the arrest of the COSAS Executive that became known as the COSAS Nine. Badela escaped the country with her fellow COSAS Nine accused, who joined her in Johannesburg. They first stayed at Winnie Madikizela-Mandela’s home of banishment in Brandfort. It was Winnie Madikizela-Mandela who organized their escape to Lesotho. Badela told me that she decided to leave the country because ‘[she] was in and out of detention, and the fact that [her] home was burned down. [She] could see that the system at the time really meant something; they really wanted to kill [her] family at the time’ (Brenda Badela interview, Grahamstown, October 2013). Badela and Martin were young members radicalized by the student protests in the 1970s and 1980s. A third interviewee, Nondwe Mankahla, was, on the other hand, born on 28 August 1935, in the Red Location in Port Elizabeth. Her radicalization is owed to earlier periods of protest. She told me that she first heard of the ANC in 1952 during the time of the Defiance Campaign. She points out though that as a 17-year-old at the time, she was not clear about the content of the Defiance Campaign. At the time, she says, ‘it was like playing ropes. When we were called as young people, we just went’. In 1959, she was employed by Real Printing and Publishing, working with anti-apartheid journalists in New Age, like Brian Bunting, Fred Carnerson, Govan Mbeki, Sonia Bunting and others. Her job there was to collect the New Age newspaper, which arrived in Port Elizabeth on Thursdays, and distribute it. She was still working with Govan Mbeki when MK was launched, although she was never given any details about the activities of MK. She was asked by Mbeki and Raymond Mhlaba to courier parcels, as she did with the New Age, and only later learnt that the parcel was equipment to assemble a bomb: I became involved with MK just after its launch. They started meeting here in PE. Since I worked at that office, Mr Mbeki and Raymond Mhlaba used to meet at that office and ask me to carry a parcel to some place. And this parcel is fruit. I would fetch the parcel from a place called Crack in the Wall, here in Govan Mbeki; I did not know what I was carrying. I would take the

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parcel to them… I would learn later that the equipment was actually explosives… The MK then was focused on targeting certain areas. They were targeting the area known as Sheya Kulata. That place was targeted. There were offices there then, municipal offices. The target was successful. (Nondwe Mankahla interview, Port Elizabeth, July 2013)

She says that when Mbeki disappeared in 1962, she worked with Vuyisile Mini, who was also part of the MK Eastern Cape High Command. But the apartheid regime had heightened its suppression, which eventually led to Mbeki and Mhlaba’s arrest, and Mini’s arrest and execution. Mankahla was jailed for three years. She was arrested again in 1969. Her story forms part of the archive entitled The Road to Democracy: South Africans Telling their Stories (see Mankahla 2008). In this she revealed that after her release from prison in 1970, she was ‘not well in the head. [She] suffered with nerves’ (Mankahla 2008, p. 233). Despite these mental well-being issues, Mankahla revealed in her interview with me that she received no reparations by the new post-1994 government. In order to receive military veterans’ benefits, she had been asked to produce a force number, which would prove her MK membership, but as a combatant who was not trained and never left South Africa, she was not eligible under this criterion and was excluded from the DDR process. She felt forgotten. However, in April 2017, at the age of 85 years, Mankahla was awarded the ‘Presidential Order of Luthuli’, by former President Jacob Zuma. Mankahla told the Port Elizabeth Herald newspaper: We thought we had been forgotten, especially the 22 of us who were involved in the 1969 trial. We have been through great difficulties, but we appreciate that we have been recognised with these certificates… My children and grandchildren will know that I was once somebody who fought for this country.1

There is a deep connection between the generations of women active in the ANC in the 1950s and 1960s, and in the student protests of the 1970s and 1980s connected to the Black Consciousness movement and  ‘Forgotten’ Nondwe Mankahla, 85, thrilled to have Order of Luthuli bestowed: http://www.heraldlive.co.za/news/2017/04/29/forgotten-nondwe-mankahla-85-thrilled-order-luthuli-bestowed/ 1

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COSAS, among others, only some of whom went on to join MK. There is significant work that has located women’s role in different spaces within armed groups, such as MK (Cock 1991), the ANC underground (Suttner 2003, 2007, 2008), in Self Defence Units and civic organizations (Marks 2001; Cherry 2007; Reynolds 2013). Participation in armed struggle is much wider than this, however. We can delineate highly gendered spaces in which women were affected by apartheid as women, which resulted in the use of different methods of resistance to push back against the apartheid violence. I categorize these women combatants  as ‘guerrilla girls’, ‘combative mothers’ and ‘in-­ betweeners’ (also see Magadla 2015, 2017, 2020) These transcend and unite the generations of women who fought against apartheid. There were multiple terrains where women, in different locations and in different historical periods, emerged as foundational combatants. I argue that the majority of women in South Africa participated in the armed struggle without military training. The internationally trained ‘guerilla girls’ are the exception, not the rule. It is worth explaining these categories. In defining combative motherhood, I examined APLA women’s role against Bantustan authorities in Transkei in the 1960s and township mothers’ actions in the 1970s and 1980s. The women’s accounts of their experiences in fighting along with APLA in the 1960s (known as Poqo between 1960 and 1968) show that older women, wives and mothers were at the forefront of the strategies that Poqo became known for, especially within the context of the Bantustans. Kondlo (2009, p. 237) argues that Poqo was formed ‘on the idea that the armed struggle was a necessity in order to mobilise the rural poor who the PAC regarded as the peasantry’. Lodge (1986, p. 1) argues that ‘Poqo conspiracies of 1962-1968 represent the largest and most sustained African insurrectionary movement since the inception of modern African political organisations in South Africa’. He points out that the ‘Cape Province and the Transkei contained the main centres of PAC activity’ (1986, p. 10). I interviewed women who were Poqo members, who were arrested in 1963, at the ‘peak’ of Poqo activity. In the 1980s, as the state violence escalated, women in townships found spaces from which to mobilize against a force that threatened their children in their homes, schools, churches, funerals and elsewhere. The category of

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combative motherhood shows that ‘women used domesticity… to map the interpolations of violence in their lives’ (Ross 2003, p.  42). These women are written out of the dominant narrative of the armed struggle and excluded from the material and symbolic benefits that are afforded other former internationally trained combatants in post-apartheid South Africa. I define the young women of school-going age, who remained in South Africa throughout the anti-apartheid struggle as the ‘in-betweeners’. Cherry (2007) argues that the literature on the young lions who were central in realizing the ANC’s call for ungovernability is often represented in gender neutral terms, or in specifically masculine terms. These young women, together with their male peers (‘young lions’) at the forefront of ungovernability, are not recognized as combatants due to their lack of formal military training. Consequently, they have collectively not benefitted from state processes on demobilization and civilian reintegration. They live with palpable traumas of the war, and with little to no rewards for their contribution. What is interesting from my research is that even the so-called exile trained ‘guerrilla girls’ from MK and APLA have not had an easy reintegration, and their post-military life is one of hustling to survive. On demobilization, a life in armed struggle turned into a life of civilian struggle. We turn to this problem now.

Ex-combatant Civilian Life The lived experiences articulated by women combatants reflect similar themes to those expressed by male participants (on men see Liebenberg and Roefs 2001; Mokalobe 2001; Gear 2002; Centre for Conflict Resolution 2003; Cock 2004; Mashike 2004; Everatt and Ross 2006, Mashike 2007; Maringira and Brankovic 2013; Heinecken and Bwalya 2013). These include the feeling that members of the non-statutory (or non-state) forces were not properly treated in the process, and complaints about their integration into the SANDF, particularly in terms of the educational requirement, rank allocation and the persistence of its racist occupational culture. Like their male counterparts, women combatants

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felt that the one-off payment they received for their years in the guerrilla army was inadequate for the personal sacrifices. Like male counterparts, few female ex-combatants feel they benefitted from the compensation and economic advancement policies introduced by the government. Poverty and impoverishment are the direct result, with the majority finding themselves with few resources to rebuild their lives in a post-apartheid society. They also found the facilities that were designed to assist them with attaining new skills for civilian life, such as the Service Corps, wholly inadequate. There are, however, also significant differences between the experiences of men and women ex-combatants. Some of these differences are clearly gendered. Some women combatants articulated that they joined the armed struggle as a political end and did not see themselves as career soldiers, and that with the end of apartheid, they looked forward to the opportunity to raise their children and be with family. This desire to return to ordinary everyday lives meant that they had no desire to join the SANDF. Age and health reasons also persuaded some women to opt to reintegrate into civilian life. Many had no choice but to do so. What I referred to as ‘guerrilla girls’ had the documentation to join the Certified Personal Register (CPR) administered by the Ministry of Defence, which enabled them automatically to be employed in the SANDF. The main qualification for placement on the CPR was that membership of MK and APLA could be verified by military training and a formal membership number. Nearly 29,000 MK members joined; 6000 APLA members did so (see Motumi & Hudson 1995, p. 114). Of the women in my sample who fought in exile, none of those from MK and APLA experienced any issues with finding their names on the CPR list. A total of 14 women who were interviewed for this study were integrated into the SANDF, 12 from MK and 2 from APLA. Two MK women briefly integrated into the SANDF and then quickly demobilized. Another three stayed in the SANDF until retirement. MK and APLA members with formal certification received a one-off sum on demobilization, which varied according to the length of time on active service (see Motumi and Hudson 1995, p.  120). Eleven of my participants received the demobilization amount of R20,201 (US$5519), the standard amount for up to six years’ service. One participant received

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R42,058 (US$11,491), which is the amount that was awarded to those who served up to 23 years. It was not a surprise that the many of the women who qualified to receive the one-off demobilization payment felt that it was an inadequate amount of compensation for the sacrifices they had made. The money was considered insufficient for people who needed to rebuild their lives from scratch and to meet the pressure to financially support their extended family. I received the demobilisation [amount] … but you should realise what I received was not worth what I went through. The [problem] being the recognition of all the years that I spent, the training that I went through, and what I went through. Now R21, 000! Really. I mean, I didn’t enjoy my youth; I went through what I went through. We were living under conditions that were not safe. From time to time we were attacked; from time to time we had to run away, to go to alternative bases, because the Boers [Afrikaners] might attack. (Pamela Daniels interview, Johannesburg, May 2014)

One of my respondents, Nomfundiso Kulati, explained the problems of inadequate reparations when faced with the financial demands of having children and the expectations of financial support for her extended family: [W]ith family, things are kind of fine, although they have great expectations because: 1) you have sacrificed your life at a young age, and at times, they look up to you to improve their socio-economic situations. Remember, because we as Africans have all these, you know, extended family, and you can’t provide. And you discover that: 1) I was entitled to…… when I came back there was no United Nations, UNHCR, so I never got all the benefits of those who came back earlier than me. So, I had no money, I had a child, I did not integrate. Okay, I decided to take a minimum amount of a demobilization fund, which was R20,000, which ended within few days, few months or so. (Nomfundiso Kulati interview, Port Elizabeth, September 2013)

The one-off payment that demobilized combatants were given to assist them to navigate the socio-economic transition to civilian life did not

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take into account the multiple transitions these women were making, from guerrilla to civilian, and from life-in-exile, to life-at-home. Nor did they reflect the multiple financial demands on them from often very poor extended family members who felt that they had borne some of the burden of their exile. The central issue thus becomes that of the agency these women develop to cope with these lived experiences. Such women are not passive. After all, they went into exile in military service in MK or APLA, and in response to now finding themselves impoverished and poor, develop strategies to survive that reflect their agency as former militarized women. On demobilization, a life in armed struggle turned into a life of civilian struggle, but it is one in which they try to survive. Levels of education are the key mediator in the impact on the socio-economic well-being of the women interviewed for this study. The women with tertiary education had more job security than those who left after high school, or who had no education at all. Of the 38 women interviewed in this study, 14 are currently employed, of which 11 are former MK, 1 from Amabutho (an SDU), 1 from an SDU in Mamelodi and 1 from APLA. Their employments include as a former member of parliament, a former Minister of Health in the Eastern Cape, a teacher, five civil servants, a chief executive officer, self-employment in their own businesses, and work in the private sector. Seven are currently unemployed, of which three are members of Amabutho, three MK and one APLA. About 15 are of pensionable age, including three retired from the SANDF. Most of the women in this sample, employed or not, are the ‘breadwinners’ of their families. Most of them are responsible for their immediate and extended family. Many of the women who are receiving old-age pensions support unemployed children and grandchildren. Many of these women have to find different ways of making ends meet. In the main, women ex-combatants, young and old, MK or APLA, have to ‘hustle’ to keep the family afloat. ‘Hustling’ in isiXhosa is expressed in the word ‘ukuphanta’, used interchangeably in isiXhosa with ‘ukutabalaza’ and ‘ukuphanda’, and refers to ‘finding a way in order to survive’, ‘getting by’ and ‘making ends meet’ (Motsemme 2011, p.  104). Motsemme argues that this is a social concept that can be found in several communities, particularly the working class, throughout the world, noting that the

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process of ‘hustling’ ‘involves a set of skills, a way of doing something to create opportunities for income to achieve often provisional results, such as acquiring groceries, school-fees, clothing, toiletries, beauty products, fast-food, entertainment, cover transport costs, airtime and other everyday household necessities’ (Motsemme 2011, p.  106). In poverty, the needs of the poor always outnumber the available resources, and she notes that the poor are often forced to resign themselves to a hand-to-­ mouth existence. The point is that hustling is a strategy of survival. While the theme of trauma was salient in the women’s articulations of the emotional and psychological challenges they face in recreating their lives at the end of apartheid, the women repeatedly said they were emotionally and psychologically stronger than their male counterparts in MK and APLA appeared to be, which enabled them to better withstand the legacy of the war compared to men. Former Eastern Cape provincial Minister of Health and current ANC National Member of Parliament, Dr Pumza Patricia Dyantyi, used the idea of emotional strength as a way of explaining why destitute women ex-combatants did not turn to alcoholism or crime, as did their male counterparts: Lots of people are destitute, MK, both women and men. That’s why there is not much difference, but men tend to be more accepted than women. I suppose we are stronger than them…Psychologically strong than them, because you find a woman that has been exiled who is not working, who is trying to make ends meet who is not a drunkard and an alcoholic. But you’ll find men, most of them are alcoholics. I think it’s a matter of them being strong psychologically. (Pumza Dyantyi telephone interview, September 2013)

Another MK ex-combatant also argued that women may be perceived to be physically weaker than men, but held that they are psychologically stronger than them: I believe that men are naturally weaker that women. We may be weaker physically, neh, because we are called ‘the weaker sex’. Physically we may be

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weak, but in terms of our mind set, we are stronger than men and we are used to dealing with pain. I think we are also designed to take care of others, and men are not designed for that, hence they break so easy. And they bottle things inside, we talk about things when they bother us, you know. We cry and most men still believe that men are not supposed to cry. It’s a healing process to cry. So, I didn’t really have to go through the counselling process. (Anonymous interview, Port Elizabeth, September, 2013)

Former MK and former member of parliament, Pamela Daniels, reiterated this point: The male character is different from ours. We are children bearers. We are home builders. We are the ones who are supposed to be strong for the family. We are caring for the families. And I would think that we are supposed to be having the same responsibility. But what I have experienced is that our male counterparts they abuse alcohol, not that we don’t have those challenges as women, but it’s at a much rather controllable rate than our male counterparts. Maybe because also we stayed with them in these camps in exile; they got married to foreign women; we were just brothers, even though we were women, we were soldiers; they did not look our way. But when we came back, our families were there. Families did not accept the women that they came back with, and it created a lot of tension, and they become targets to women (of course, no offence), women inside the ­country with this belief that they are having money; they have all these benefits, and every other thing that is happening. As you can see, we live in a society where you are who you are, because of what you have. So, I think these are the challenges that we are facing, that we are seeing in our counterparts of course. We also have challenges, but we are in a much better place than our male counterparts—MK women, that is (Pamela Daniels interview, Johannesburg, May 2014).

There is a danger in this kind of analysis of imposing stereotypical and mythologized gender traits to explain real gender differences, reproducing patriarchal cultural norms: women cope better because they are nurturers, childbearing and more caring. In the African-American context, Harris-Perry (2011, p. 2) argues that celebrated image of the strong black woman is a misrecognition of African-American women because this

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image of ‘super strength’ obscures the day-to-day suffering of black woman against structural poverty and discrimination by ‘defining endurance as natural’, and thereby robbing African-American women of the ability to engage freely in the public sphere and to ‘demand resources to meet their individual needs’. As Hill Collins (2000, p. 188) also points out in Black Feminist Thought, ‘the controlling image of the “superstrong Black mother” praises Black women’s resiliency…yet, in order to remain on their pedestal, these superstrong Black mothers must continue to place their needs behind those of everyone else’. As Motsemme (2011, p. 116) argues in the South African context, The stoic figure is, of course, a very common one in African women’s iconography. A stoic person is basically someone who appears unaffected by emotions and is generally admired for showing patience in the face of adversity…themes of resignation, endurance, and grief so memorably embodied in women’s stoic bodies, are strong themes in surviving oppression and poverty. In this sense stoicism is then strongly associated with performing dignity in the midst of hardship (Motsemme 2011, p.  116, emphasis in original).

As she points out, the ‘strong woman myth’ has contributed to the limited understanding of ‘women’s notion of pain, suffering, humiliation and joy remain limited within the social sciences’ (Motsemme 2004, p.  924). The image of the stoical, sacrificial African woman-mother becomes amplified with that of the historic image of the sacrificial soldier to become intertwined for South African women ex-combatants, leaving little room for these women to articulate their personal challenges and their need for state assistance. Thus, when Enloe (1983) asks if women are an integral part of post-war transformation, the answer depends on whether the state is embedded with patriarchal understandings of armed conflict, sacrifice and martyrdom, since these will privilege men. Patriarchal understandings of violence, sacrifice and martyrdom silence women ex-combatants. In these circumstances, the sacrifices women make on behalf of the national liberation struggle are not only deemed secondary to those of men, but women’s achievements become subsumed by the activities of men.

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Conclusion This chapter has focused primarily on women in the MK and APLA, what I have called ‘guerrilla girls’, and while there were other forms of military engagement that did not involve military training, the post-war experiences of MK and APLA women reveal an uneasy and difficult transition from combatant to civilian and from life-in-exile to life-at-home. The armed struggle has turned for most of them into a struggle in civilian life. Feminist analyses of demobilization processes have made visible that women’s contribution to combat does not guarantee access to veteran benefits in the aftermath of war. Instead, as multiple case studies have shown, women combatants are at risk of losing their status as combatants and of being erased in post-war narratives. This chapter has argued that it is important for feminists to pay attention to the echoing neglect surrounding the well-being of women ex-combatants in post-apartheid South Africa. The argument is that this neglect is in part the result of a misrecognition of the silence of women ex-combatants about their lived experiences. It is perceived to reflect cultural notions of the stoical, strong African woman. This cultural notion is deeply embedded in patriarchy and in the colonial subjugation of black women. However, these cultural notions ignore the material and psychological challenges that women ex-combatants have faced in almost three decades of South Africa’s democratic transition. The  narratives of the women show that  silence operates in multiple ways, both positively and negatively. It demonstrates fortitude and resistance against forms of multiple oppressions, but it also serves to erode the important contributions and sacrifices made in name of national liberation. In turn they become forgotten and dismissed by the state when meeting the real material and symbolic needs of women ex-combatants. This chapter has demonstrated that while demobilization and civilian reintegration occurs within complex post-war contexts, these processes are also highly gendered. The legacy of war has the ability to reconfigure all spaces of social life, and in post-war transformation it is therefore important that women’s contributions become central to its

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conceptualization (Elshtain 1987; Enloe 1983; Tickner 1992; Hendricks 2011; Mama & Okazawa-Rey 2012). As Enloe (1983, p. 160) noted, failure to do so is a measure of the new society’s commitment to equality and justice.

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9 ‘Why Did I Die?’: South African Defence Force Conscripts Pre- and Post-1994 Wilhelm Verwoerd and Theresa Edlmann

Editorial Comment It is a signal achievement of this volume that it contrasts the lived experiences and reintegration problems of non-state ex-combatants with state veterans. Both can have reasonable claims to be victims of the conflict under certain circumstances regardless of their role as perpetrators. Official state veterans and pro-state militias are as much victims as are non-state combatants. However, previous chapters that have isolated the experiences of state veterans did so in a markedly different context to this chapter. What makes White conscripts to the old South African Defence Force so interesting is that they have to confront the disjuncture of making their military engagement personally meaningful within a situation of social and political change that constitutes a defeat for White minority rule. As conscripts they can lay claim to being victims, as perpetrators they have to deal with the emotional costs of military warfare, and as citizens of the new South Africa they have to resolve what it means to be a

W. Verwoerd (*) • T. Edlmann Stellenbosch University, Stellenbosch, South Africa © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_9

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state veteran that tried to resist the change. The children of Afrikaner ex-conscripts feel this disjuncture to an even greater extent, as represented in many South African films in which there is both a generational and political gap between father and teenager. A contrast between Afrikaner male conscripts and male Sinhalese soldiers in the Sri Lankan armed forces would have been relevant here but the COVID-19 pandemic prevented the nominated authors from undertaking research on the latter. It is nonetheless interesting to speculate on what impact outright victory might have on state veterans’ reintegration experiences. Defeat reinforces the claim to victim status of Afrikaner conscripts in the same way that the absence of victory (as distinct from defeat) does for Ulster Loyalists in Northern Ireland’s second preference mutually agreed deal. It is very difficult, however, for victims of repressive regimes to ‘hear’ these claims to victimhood from state veterans.

Introduction My name is Matthew William Wallace McGregor.1 My brother is dead today and I can think of no good reason why, he was just a child. What did he know about politics? All he knew was the lies. He was told that there were 40-thousand Cuban soldiers, wanting to invade South Africa. He was told that [the Cubans] joined SWAPO [South West Africa People’s Organisation] in their invasion, in their fight, and if they do not stop them at the Angolan border, we will have to fight them at the South African border, just north of Upington, which is quite close to Nieuwoudtville, where he grew up. He was told that there was Russian involvement as well and that America was on our side, and that together we fought communism, which the NG Kerk [Dutch Reformed Church] said was from the devil. He was taught that SWAPO not only wanted the then South West Africa, but also South Africa. All he knew was that he must go to the army and protect his country and the people he loves. He was taught that he will also be defending the black  See http://www.justice.gov.za/Trc/hrvtrans/wineland/mcgregor.htm September 2019). 1

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people from this outside evil. They do not fight with us, because they cannot be trained as good soldiers, and will only be a hassle in a war situation, and will kill more of their own people because they cannot shoot straight. This outside evil also infiltrated South Africa somehow and was a little group called the ANC [African National Congress]. In the township he had to defend the black people against this group. He was taught that people were easily influenced and it was his duty as a Christian to defend the blacks against these evil communist radicals. This was all he had time for to learn before he was killed. He did not have time to learn that it was all lies. According to him he died a hero because that’s all he knew. I regret that he did not live long enough—my brother—to know that the Cubans never fought against us but against UNITA [National Union for the Total Independence of Angola], for the Angolan Government. SWAPO was the people of South West Africa, [which] got its independence three years after you died and is now called Namibia. They were never interested in South Africa, they just wanted their country back. And the NG Kerk that said communism is from the devil, they didn’t allow Antjie [the black woman who brought you up] into the church at your funeral. The people you defended against the ANC all along supported them. The ANC was never a little rebel group, it was the people of South Africa. They also got their independence [in 1994] and the National Party2 is now the opposition. I want to ask the National Party if they thought they could get away with these lies? I want them to know that we all know the truth today. To [Pres.] PW Botha3 and his cabinet of those days, why did my brother die? Explain to my mother and my father and to all South Africans how and why my brother died. Why did I die? Regards Wallace

 Ruling white, Afrikaner dominated, ‘Christian Nationalist’ party from 1948 to 1994.  P.W. Botha was South African Prime Minister from 1978 to 1984 and Executive State President from 1984 to 1989. He expanded and strengthened the apartheid era military system, and instituted a centralised and autocratic leadership style within the apartheid government during his time as a national leader. 2 3

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This extract from a written statement presented at a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) hearing on 12 October 1996 highlights the key themes we will be addressing in this chapter. Firstly, it opens a window on the historical context and socio-political conditioning of a generation of white South African youth between 1968 and 1994, a period when the South African government—led with increasing electoral majorities by the National Party, strongly supported by the de facto state church, the Dutch Reformed Church—instituted compulsory military conscription (Giliomee 2003; Van der Westhuizen 2007; Baines 2008). Secondly, it draws attention to the complex place of hundreds of thousands of white male conscripts and their families in post-1994 South Africa. Owen McGregor’s statement was the only of its kind to be made at a TRC Human Rights Violations Hearing. However, those who died while serving within the former South African Defence Force (SADF) would generally be seen by anti-apartheid, mostly black, South Africans as ‘perpetrators’ and certainly not as ‘victims’. At least not in the strong sense of being victims of a gross human rights violation. Subsequent to this hearing the TRC struggled to find a conceptual and institutional place for (apartheid state) ‘combatants’ like Wallace and his family. This contested search culminated in a single, one day, Special Hearing on Compulsory Military Service (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 4:220-247). In our experience as facilitators of racial reconciliation in South Africa, the TRC’s limited, conflicted struggle to include white conscripts is a telling reflection of a relatively neglected but nevertheless an ongoing strand in South Africa’s faltering search for sustainable peace and inclusive reconciliation, which comprises the third theme of this chapter (Baines 2014; Hamilton 1999). The statement in the name of William Wallace, in combination with a number of related statements during the TRC process, also provides a revealing point of entry into a key post-1994 challenge faced by SADF conscripts and their families: how to make meaning of what they believed and were involved in before the transition to (political) democracy in

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1994.4 It is significant that the 12 October 1996 statement was actually written by Owen McGregor, on behalf of his brother, Wallace, who was killed in northern Namibia on 9 March 1987. In the preface to the statement Owen explained his decision to reverse roles—imagining what Wallace would have said at this TRC hearing if it was him, Owen, who was killed. Only in the last sentence of this imaginary statement is there an unexpected return to the haunting, symbolic voice of Wallace, still searching, from the other side of the grave, for the meaning of his death: ‘Why did I die?’ In this moment, Wallace’s personal and his family’s collective stories fuse into a complex space of complicity, questions and confusion regarding the system that the state imposed on all white South Africans to varying extents. In addressing these three themes, we will draw on Edlmann’s research into the psychosocial legacies of conscription and her role as Director of the Legacies of Apartheid Wars (LAWS) project at Rhodes University (2012, 2014)5, Verwoerd’s work as a researcher within the TRC (Verwoerd and Mabizela 2000; Verwoerd 2007) and international facilitator (Verwoerd and Little 2018)6, as well as our joint work as facilitators of racial reconciliation in a context where the ideas and language of there being a ‘post-apartheid’ South Africa are increasingly rejected as a lie, especially amongst impoverished, young black South Africans. The reality is that apartheid is still deeply etched in South African life.  There is a large and growing number of books written by former conscripts, in Afrikaans and English. For a sampling of the latter, see Morris (2014), Blake (2009), Ramsden (2007), and Holt (2005). For an influential collection of conscript narratives, see Thompson (2006) and for examples of more reflective writings, see Liebenberg and Hayes (2010), Batley (2007), Gibson (2010), Williams (2008). 5  The Legacies of Apartheid Wars Project was established in 2011 in response to the growing public debate about the current implications of apartheid era conflicts. The two primary catalysts for this initiative were the 2009 End Conscription Campaign 25th anniversary celebrations and Anglican Archbishop Thabo Makgoba’s public call in 2010 for the dehumanising effects of conscription to be addressed. For more detail see www.ru.ac.za/history/projects 6  Verwoerd was heavily involved in drafting sections of the TRC Report, such as chapter 4 (‘Mandate’) and chapter 5 (‘Concepts and Principles’) in Volume 1, chapter 8 (‘Compulsory Military Service’) in Volume 4 and chapter 9 (‘Reconciliation’) in Volume 5. Between 2002 and 2012 he worked with former combatants of the conflict in and about Northern Ireland, as a joint programme co-ordinator of and co-facilitator within the Glencree Survivors and Former Combatants Programme (www.glencree.ie). His main mentor and closest colleague during this time was a former loyalist paramilitary, Alistair Little (see Little and Verwoerd, 2013). 4

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Pre-1994: ‘National Service’ in the SADF One of the key questions posed by those who participated in the TRC Special Hearing on conscription into the SADF was perhaps best articulated by Reverend Neels du Plooy, a leading former military chaplain from a DRC background: Why did the overwhelming majority of healthy, young and motivated South African White males of good standing, Afrikaans and English-­ speaking unconditionally do national service, more even, look forward to it? Why did parents accept national service as a necessity and a general way of life? (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 4:226)

The historical background to this troubling question about ‘national service’ is that, for a period of roughly 25 years from 1968 until 1993, all school-leaving white men in South Africa were issued with a compulsory call-up to serve in the SADF, the apartheid state’s military system. The primary purpose of this call-up was to support the National Party government’s efforts to resist the perceived threats of communism and African nationalism. The initial time period that men served was nine months, but this rapidly increased to two years of service and a series of short-term camps (Edlmann 2014). Until the mid-1980s, the options for men who did not want to serve in the military were limited; refusing to serve meant they were likely to be sentenced to up to six years in prison. It is not known how many men opted for other ways of avoiding the call-up—staying in the country but living below the official radar, using tertiary studies as a reason to avoid serving, or leaving the country and going into exile. While some conscientious objectors did serve prison sentences during the 1970s and 1980s, the growth of the End Conscription Campaign (ECC) in the mid-1980s led to increasing numbers of men being permitted to serve an extended period of community service as an alternative to serving in the military. They could do so if they could prove that they were objecting to serving in the SADF on religious pacifist rather than moral grounds. It was only in 1992, when significant changes were already under way in South Africa that an amendment to the Defence Act allowed for objection to serving

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in the military on moral, ethical or religious grounds (Edlmann 2014; Conway 2012; Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 4:228-231). It is estimated that roughly 600 000 white South African men participated in military training and sometimes intense combat during the time the compulsory military conscription was in place. Most of the combat took place in Namibia (then known as South West Africa) and Angola. However, some also fought in Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia) and Mozambique, although not on the same scale or for the same length of time (Edlmann 2012, 2014). The military conflicts in neighbouring countries have been rather vaguely described as the ‘Border War’, both at the time and in contemporary literature (Baines 2014). The Border War was fought against the perceived communist threat to the apartheid state, and consisted of both conventional warfare and counter-insurgency measures—especially in Namibia and Angola (Williams 2008; Scholtz 2013). However, a fact that is largely ignored in memoirs about conscription is that conscripts also served alongside the police in South Africa’s townships, the length and breadth of the country, as the government sought to quell the uprisings of the Mass Democratic Movement (Sandler 1989; Edlmann 2014). Regardless of where and when conscripts served, most (white) South African civilians lived in ignorance of the details of conscripts’ day-to-day lives, their whereabouts and their activities. The lack of information about, and understanding of, what conscripts experienced was enforced through the requirement that every conscript sign compliance with the Official Secrets Act. This sense of being silenced has continued in post-1994 South African society, as conscripts have been widely regarded as agents of the apartheid state whose delegitimised stories belong in the past. For every one of the men who received a call-up from the government of the day to serve in the military, there is a personal and particular story to be told. But each man’s story was shaped by being registered as white under the apartheid system’s Population Registration Act,7 and being  This Act, introduced in 1950, required every South African to be registered and classified according to racial categories that were based on their physical characteristics. A person’s racial classification determined every part of their lives—whether they were recognised as citizens of the country, 7

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identified as a man. The system grouped men in ways that flattened and blurred personal identities—a process that became even more extreme in the stripping of individuality that any military training entails. Collective identities were central to the logic of the apartheid era; allegiances were both enforced and assumed. As reflected in the Afrikaans word ‘diensplig’ (duty to serve), the National Party’s system of conscription was premised on the belief that it was the place of men to protect ‘their’ country from perceived threats, and that white men were duty-bound to protect the interests of the minority white regime that governed South Africa at the time. This system put in place conflated understandings of duty, gender and race that have shaped not only the white men who were caught up in this system, but also their families, workplaces and religious communities—and continue to affect succeeding generations (Cock 1991; Conway 2012). The government of the day recruited churches, schools, cultural organisations and political structures to develop a set of beliefs and practices that oiled the wheels of its military system. Each conscript was taught from before school to aspire to a militarised, macho, heterosexual masculinity which protected white homes and families from the threats of both black people and communists. Some mainline churches were key role-players in framing ‘communists’ as ‘godless’, which justified going to war against these ‘forces of evil’, which were very effectively portrayed as launching a ‘total onslaught’ on South Africa. The scale of the military interventions driven by the apartheid government required the inculcation of ideologies shaped and driven by sustained political, social and religious propaganda (Bezuidenhout 2015; Verwoerd 2019). During the TRC’s conscription hearing Reverend Neels du Plooy described how the mainstream Afrikaans churches were supporting the government’s propaganda campaign: … one needs to keep in mind that, especially as far as the mainstream Afrikaans churches were concerned, the church … co-operated fully with whether they could vote or not, what health and other public facilities they used, where they lived, went to school, participated in recreational activities, and worshiped.

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the SADF on issues of military and national service. The church accepted the advice of the leadership of the NP government and Defence Council as far as defence matters were concerned… Through the idea of the total onslaught, the church immediately became an ally in the war. The total onslaught concept assumed that only 20 per cent of the onslaught was of a military nature and the other 80 per cent directed against the economical and spiritual welfare of the people. Therefore the chaplaincy and the church had to be involved in winning the hearts and the minds of the people. The church’s main task was to strengthen the spiritual defensibility of its members (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 4:227).

In the post-1994 context, men who were conscripted into the SADF were assumed to have been puppets of the apartheid state in a similar manner to the police and politicians. There has been little understanding in general public discourse of the very particular and complex nature of the choices that school-leaving white men faced. The following extract from Johan Hattingh’s statement at the TRC Hearing provides some sense of how pervasive the state’s influence on a young man’s life was— and his final sentence provides a clear sense that he (like many others) understood the racially motivated nature of this system: I was conscripted into the Citizens force of South Africa in 1973 after completing my matriculation examination in November of 1972. After an initial stint of basic training in Oudtshoorn as an infantry soldier I was transferred to Heidelberg, Transvaal, to be trained as a junior leader or a Platoon Commander and then on successful completion of this course I stayed on in Heidelberg as a Platoon Commander in the State President’s Guard. After that, after my initial one year of training I went to the regiment of the University of Stellenbosch which was the military unit for lecturers and students mainly at the University of Stellenbosch. During that stage our initial 240 days of conscription were turned over to a 1000 days up until the age of fifty five. I went out of Stellenbosch three times with the Regiment of the University of Stellenbosch to Namibia, three times for training camps, one time up on the border. Subsequently at the beginning of the ‘80’s I was transferred to Stellenbosch commando. [T]hat turned out to be more stressful [than

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b­ order duty] because in a sense we were now in military uniform walking around in your own hometown, in your own backyard. We were in the public eye of our friends and family. Besides Saturday mornings spent away on shooting practices, during the mid ‘80’s there were lots and lots of 24 hour standby’s we were put on. There were roadblocks and you had to do duty during these things over and over again. Another thing, at that stage the Stellenbosch commando was an all-white commando and the perceptions of the enemy was that it was the people on the other side of the colour line. (Hearing Transcript).

‘The colour line’ is a euphemism for the racial delineations of the apartheid state, based on the Population Registration Act, which set in place social engineering premised on the need for people of different races to live, work, pray, study and love separately from each other (Davenport 1986). It is this powerful framing and ongoing legacies of the ‘colour line’ that make processes of reconciliation in South Africa so intractably challenging to this day, especially when it comes to the experiences of former conscripts and their families.

 ost-1994: White Conscripts as Victims, P Perpetrators, Combatants? Owen McGregor’s statement at the TRC Human Rights Violations hearing, on 12 October 1996, was preceded by this statement from Wallace’s mother, Ann-Marie. My son was born on the 31st January 1967. He was 19 years old when he was called up in January 1986… I didn’t know much about what would happen to him, or what he would do in the army. We had come to accept that it is the law. Your children get called up for two years and that’s it… On the day I accompanied Wallace to be taken away, my heart was very sore. He carried only a few basic things with him in a small bag. It was strange to see him go like that. In fact the whole thing seemed odd. Your child gets a letter telling him to be at such and such a place. Then you

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accompany him and watch him being loaded with others in a truck, almost like sheep. [A]ll we were told is that our children are going to the border, which meant guarding the South African borders. I didn’t know that my son would be fighting in another country, across the border, which is where his life was taken away. We were conditioned that there was this war. But somehow I didn’t think that my son would be put in the thick of it. And then on Thursday, March 9th [1987], I was confronted with the total shock of the news of his death. I was told that my son was killed a few kilometers off Oshakati [northern Namibia, then South West Africa]. He was brought home wrapped in a thick sealed plastic bag. The instructions were that the plastic bag should not be opened. The only thing I know about the state my son was in is that all his limbs were intact. And this I heard from his uncle, who could only establish this by running his hands over his plastic bag. Again I accepted this as Military law. You are not allowed to have the last glimpse of your own child. Even as he laid there, lifeless. On the day of Wallace’s funeral, his coffin wasn’t opened. It is ten years since I last laid eyes on my child. Nine years since he was laid to rest. But in these nine years I’ve been struggling to complete the process of mourning for Wallace. A part of me wonders if in fact it was him in that plastic bag. [I]n my struggle with my grief, I would like to know where exactly he died. How it had happened. Who was there with him when it happened? Did anybody help him to prevent it from happening? Who was the doctor who attended to him? I’ve never had the opportunity to ask these questions. Nobody has ever explained anything to me about my son’s death. I sometimes see Wallace in the streets. I remember two distinct occasions when I thought I was seeing him. And it turned out to be somebody who looked like him. My grief becomes more intense on the anniversaries of my son’s death and on his birthday. He would have turned thirty in January. I’ve kept an album of all his photographs as a way of dealing with the many feelings I have about the loss. But it is very hard, when there are so many things you are not sure about (TRC Report IV:239-40).

When heard at the individual, human level—as the testimony of a heart-sore mother, stuck in an agonising limbo of incomplete grieving, haunted by so many questions about the death of a beloved son—it is hard not to have empathy for Ann-Marie McGregor. The fact that her

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testimony was read to the Human Rights Violations Hearing by Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, on Ann-Marie’s request, probably contributed to the universality and humanness of her story catalysing the levels of compassion displayed by members of the overwhelmingly black audience, including some women embracing and comforting Ann-Marie McGregor during the break.8 Reverend Xundu, one of the black TRC Human Rights Violations Committee members listening to her testimony, spoke for many of those present (and listening on national radio), when he told Ann-Marie and Owen McGregor: ‘We share your pain’. However, he also made the historical context very clear, sensitively: ‘…and I want to assure you that among those people who share your pain are mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters who come from the oppressed masses, who because they wanted to defend themselves against that system were mowed down…Your son was a victim of that system and so where those people’. (Hearing transcript) This wide use of the loaded term ‘victim’, even including someone killed while wearing the military uniform of the oppressive apartheid state, eventually found its way into the final TRC Report: Soldiers on either side of the political divide, whether they were permanent force soldiers, conscripts or volunteers, as well as their families and loved ones, were, of course, victims in a more general sense. They were victims of the armed political conflict of the past and their deaths, injuries and losses should be remembered and mourned (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 1:76).9

This statement portrays the inclusive intention of the TRC, guided by the spirit of the new, post-1994 Constitution as exemplified by the statement ‘We, the people of South Africa, recognise the injustices of our past;  Gobodo-Madikizela, a black South African psychologist and member of the TRC HRV Committee, was the chairperson of that hearing. She encouraged the McGregors to participate, well aware of the contestation surrounding the deaths of white conscripts but sensing an opportunity for inclusive mourning as part of her commitment to reconciliation (see Gobodo-Madikizela 2003, 2016). Following this hearing, she took the lead in organising the Special Hearing on Compulsory Military Service. 9  For more on the TRC’s struggle with the language of ‘victims’ and ‘perpetrators’ and a restricted mandate regarding ‘gross human rights violations’, see TRC Report I:59-64. 8

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honour those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land; Respect those who have worked to build and develop our country; and believe that South African belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity’. During the TRC’s Special Hearing on Conscription a prominent anti-­ apartheid activist and leading member of the End Conscription Campaign, Laurie Nathan, added weight to this broad understanding of conscripts as ‘victims’: …they were subjected to relentless propaganda about the virtues of White Christian civilisation and the evils of Black communism and terrorism. Many conscripts served willingly because they believed the propaganda. They were also victims in the sense that they were subjected to physical brutality during their basic military training and some of them suffered and continue to suffer post-traumatic stress, especially where they were deployed in combat situations. (Hearing Transcript)

On the other hand, Nathan stressed that conscripts were also ‘perpetrators’ since those ‘who served were actively engaged in defending apartheid and maintaining South Africa’s illegal occupation of Namibia and Southern Angola’ and ‘many of them committed atrocities’. To illustrate this claim he quoted from a conscript’s statement from the mid-1980s, published in the anti-apartheid Frontline magazine. (He first offered a warning about the offensive language, stating that censoring would impact on the statement’s ‘authenticity and integrity’): I haven’t got sorrow and pain about what we did up there [in Northern Namibia and Southern Angola]. Some of the things were stupid I can see that now but it doesn’t cause me grief. [Once we found] three of the okes [men] going with a woman there, they were like raping them. We beat them up, they were lowering our name. There was a lot of rape, we had some low guys with us. You didn’t know what they were fighting for. Me, I was fighting for the protection of my country, I was fighting to stop the ters [terrorists] coming down. Sometimes you think what the hell the ters are already in Soweto anyway so what’s the diff. [I]f we saw a well-built Kaffir10 we’d know he was a ter. We’d interrogate him and if he was stubborn he 10

 Extremely derogatory term for black people.

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could have some trouble, maybe we would tie him to the front of the Buffel [army patrol vehicle] and do a little bundu bashing. Feel it? Why should I feel it, I wasn’t on the front of the Buffel. Sometimes they shout and shout and complain and then we have no choice we have to finish them off. I feel no skaam [shame]. Now and then I have dreams. About twice in the last six months I woke up shivering and sweating and thinking about what might have happened to me, but it has not changed my life. Sooner or later the Kaffirs are going to win but I have helped keep us going for a few more years. (Hearing Transcript)

The extreme offensiveness of this conscript’s language and the graphic brutality of their actions is what most South Africans of colour would associate with the SADF and the South African Police Force, especially from the 1980s when the distant ‘Border War’ also came home with the deployment of troops in the townships. Given these associations, it is not surprising that any attempt to include conscripts in the TRC, outside the Amnesty Committee, was met with a lot of resistance. As the TRC researcher with a particular responsibility for conceptual and mandate clarification, Verwoerd was involved in months and months of intense discussions amongst staff and commissioners. There was a strong sense amongst anti-apartheid members of the TRC that SADF soldiers killed or injured during the ‘Border War’ cannot be declared as victims of a gross human rights violation.11 On the other hand, there was a strong commitment to impartiality at the individual level, to inclusive remembering and mourning of human loss. The following paragraph in the Report summarises months of contestation within the TRC: The political conflicts of the past were not only of a ‘civilian’ nature. Several of the political groupings had an armed wing. The state used its armed forces to put down resistance and to engage in military actions in the southern African region. The Commission had particular difficulty in attempting to define and reach consensus on its mandate in this respect.  These discussions took place in the context of the first 18 months of the TRC, amidst growing public criticism that the TRC was ‘too perpetrator friendly’. Most of those who testified before the HRV Committee were black South Africans and most of those who applied for amnesty at that stage were white security police, see Verwoerd and Mabizela (2000) and Verwoerd (2007). 11

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Some argued that all killed and injured combatants should be included as victims of gross human rights violations. Others wanted to maintain a distinction between those defending the apartheid state and those seeking to bring it down. It was noted that members of the armed forces involved in these combat situations did not expect to be treated as victims of gross violations of human rights. [I]n the end, the Commission decided to follow the guidelines provided by the body of norms and rules contained in international humanitarian law. (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 1:73)

The TRC specifically defined ‘[c]onscripted soldiers in the SADF’ as ‘combatants, even where the system of conscription obliged them to perform military service against their will, threatening heavy penalties if they did not do so’, while stressing that ‘[l]ike all combatants, they may have qualified as victims of a gross violation of human rights in certain circumstances, such as being subjected to torture or killed when injured’ (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 1:76). Thus, the following decision was also applied to conscripts: SADF soldiers or SAP members acting as soldiers (for example members of the Koevoet Unit) who were killed or seriously injured in combat (during, for example, the Namibian and Angolan ‘border wars’) and Umkhonto weSizwe (MK) or Azanian Peoples Liberation Army (APLA) soldiers killed or seriously injured in combat were not viewed as victims of gross violations of human rights as defined by the Act. This is consistent with the position taken in the submissions made to the Commission by the NP, FF [Freedom Front], the [post-1994] South African National Defence Force (SANDF) and the ANC. (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 1:76)

These brief extracts from the TRC process not only highlight the contested role of conscripts in pre- and post-1994. Some of the serious limitations of this high profile transitional process are also brought to the fore. There is some reference to those ‘killed or seriously injured in combat’, including ‘during the Namibian and Angolan “border wars”’ (sic). But investigating and making findings about conscripts as perpetrators during the Border War (e.g. of the tortures, killings and rapes that Nathan drew attention to) fell outside the mandate of the TRC. And even when the TRC made findings and recommendations about the prosecution of

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(military and police) state agents for acts within the borders of South Africa the ANC-led government did also not take these recommendations seriously. The sense of betrayal amongst many black South Africans, whose family members were tortured and killed and who are still waiting for justice, is evocatively captured in the title of a recent book by Lukhanyo Calata, the son of a member of the Cradock Four, Fort Calata, titled My Father Died for This (2018).12 Calata poses a similar question to Owen McGregor’s TRC testimony: ‘when I look at post-1994 South Africa, what is the meaning of the death of my family member pre-1994?’ The TRC’s definition of conscripts-as-combatants meant that someone like Wallace McGregor was not formally found to be a victim of a gross human rights violation as defined in the TRC’s mandate. This finding also resulted in his family not receiving the (extremely) limited reparation payments belatedly agreed to by the ANC government.13 But, unlike the majority of desperately impoverished formal victims, Ann-Marie and Owen McGregor were not so much interested in reparations. They were looking for answers to that long list of questions preventing them from completing their mourning process for a son and a brother—‘I would like to know where exactly he died. How it had happened. Who was there with him when it happened?’. Around those specific questions loomed Wallace’s question from the other side of his grave: ‘why did I die?’ In our experience this deep, soul-troubled question of meaning is also haunting many former conscripts and their families in the so-called ‘new South Africa’. This unanswered question, we begin to point out in the next section, is a strong root of resistance amongst white South Africans for meaningful, reparative racial reconciliation.

 Fort Calata was a prominent anti-apartheid activist, brutally tortured and killed with three comrades in 1985. They became known as the Cradock Four. 13  The Promotion of Truth and Reconciliation Act of 1995 made provision for people who had been recognised as victims of gross violations of human rights by the TRC to receive some form of symbolic or material reparations for their suffering and loss. Sadly, the recommendations made in the TRC Report have not been implemented. See www.khulumani.net for more on this. 12

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F rom Post-1994 to Post-Apartheid: Towards Narrative Repair We start with a few examples of former conscripts demonstrating the way to uproot persistent apartheid, 25 years after our transition to democracy. In concluding his statement at the TRC Special Hearing on Compulsory Military Service Johan Hattingh said the following: In hindsight it is clear that I have collaborated with a military machine that has permeated throughout society and penetrated it very deeply. Insofar as this is the case I share responsibility for the pain, suffering and death inflicted by that military machine within South Africa but also far outside of its borders. Looking back on the sad history related above there is nothing that I am and can be proud of. On the contrary I am humbled by a deep sense of shame for the fact that it only slowly dawned upon me that I was participating in and then virtually did nothing about the system that I described. The way in which I tried to compensate for this moral insensitivity is now currently to actively participate in community initiatives, striving towards the reconstruction and development of our country. It gives me a deep sense of satisfaction to work with people who have formerly been the declared enemies of the SADF or Citizen’s Force towards seemingly small goals such as securing a shelter for street children in Stellenbosch or helping community organisations to articulate their needs and translate it into viable development programmes.

At the same hearing, Craig Botha described a similar journey beyond being conscripted into the apartheid army: [M]y involvement in the SADF began initially as a conscript in January 1978 where I was deployed at seventeen years of age to Bloemfontein to serve in 1SSB Battalion. However after basic training I realised that I would not cope emotionally with two years in the army in the Free State and did not wish to serve on the border. I then proceeded to join the S.A.  Navy and was transferred from Bloemfontein to Saldanha where I re-did my basic training in the Navy and subsequently did a radar course and was deployed upon a strike

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craft which was based at Salisbury Island in Durban. My Navy number was 76237825PE, Permanent Force. I remained in the Navy for a period of four and a half years, first as a Radar Operator and later on as a diver. …As I look back upon this period it is with deep shame and regret that I took part in acts of sabotage and violent destabilisation [in neighbouring states]. The struggles that our neighbouring states have had to undergo, even to this time, is partially attributable to these missions. [S]ince that time I was converted to Christianity…and God began to reveal to me the inhumanity of apartheid. This was in the early ‘80’s. Many years ago I repented of furthering the aims of apartheid, I dealt with issues of racism in my own heart. I joined the ANC in 1990 and began to support the democratic process already underway within the country. Amongst other things I also mobilised our church to stand for justice and peace. Along with our church…we also began to work actively towards reconciliation involving seeking forgiveness for the evil of apartheid and making financial restitution. To cut a long story short we are at present extensively involved in Khayelitsha in the Western Cape. We have planted a non-racial church. The White folk that are part of this church have committed themselves to racial reconciliation in a practical way, not just in theory. We are involved in two pre-schools and are seeking to launch projects to empower the community. We are also involved in a housing project in Tambo Square, Tambo Village and have seen the hand of God really moving in terms of bringing together White and Black and healing the divisions and enmity of the past. I did not feel I needed to apply for amnesty for I personally did not kill anyone. I do feel however that I was part of the overall strategy of destabilisation during the apartheid years and it was because of that, that I’ve come forward with this account and I’ve also made the information available because I have been very disappointed to see the lack of courage that has been shown by many in the defence force in terms of owning up to deeds like this in the past. (Report of the TRC 1998 Vol 4:231-2)

More than 20 years after these encouraging statements, we share Botha’s strong disappointment about ‘many in the defence force’ and many in the mainstream Afrikaner churches and many former supporters of the National Party and generations of beneficiaries of systemic racial privileging not really accepting shared responsibility for addressing the ongoing,

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unjust legacies of pre-1994 South Africa (Lefko-Everett et  al. 2017; Swartz 2016).14 Part of this denialism in white circles has to do, we would argue, with the ongoing impact of the militarised ‘total onslaught’ ideological socialisation we referred to in Section “Pre-1994: ‘National Service’ in the SADF” of this chapter. Many former conscripts and their children would still not agree with Owen McGregor’s list of lies.15 As TRC Commissioner, Mary Burton, aptly put it at the end of Conscription hearing: We heard from people who were opposed to conscription from the beginning or who through their experiences were brought face to face with things that changed their minds, but there are many, many citizens of South Africa who did their military service and who still view themselves as having fought a good fight, as having upheld the safety of the State, as having opposed communism in a broad sense and who are still part of our country and who have to be taken into account as we move into a process of reconciliation and unity.

Edlmann’s (2014) language of ‘narrative reinforcement’ versus ‘narrative repair’ hints at these contrasting ways in which many conscripts interpret and make meaning of their experiences. Narrative reinforcement applies to those, referred to by Mary Burton, who generally follow the argument that fighting communism was the right thing to do, and that the apartheid state’s strategies at the time are justified by the current South African situation. In other words, a largely uninterrogated reinforcement of the ideologies and doctrines of the period that conscription was in place which, in its most extreme form, manifests in divisive, insulting and oppressive language and behaviour. Narrative repair describes the kinds of shifts of which the testimonies of Hattingh and Botha provide an indication. It is an attempt to explain the ways in which many conscripts and other white South Africans have deconstructed old ideologies,  For more on this, see the Institute for Justice and Reconciliation’s (IJR) South African Reconciliation Barometer Survey 2019 available on www.ijr.org.za. 15  For more on contestations within the Afrikaans community about the legacies of apartheid see Pieter Bezuidenhout’s PhD thesis Die Diensplig-SAW generasie en die soeke na heling, versoening en sosiale geregtigheid / The SADF-National Service generation: the question for healing and reconciliation (Bezuidenhout 2015). 14

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beliefs and interpretations of their context, and sought in various ways to build new narratives more consistent with the values and principles of social transformation and healing. Edlmann’s doctoral research and her facilitation work with Verwoerd suggests that engaging in processes of narrative repair is not given enough attention in white circles and the broader South African society, and that there is much still to be done in this regard. One of the roots of the tendency towards narrative reinforcement rather than narrative repair can be found in the previous section’s focus on the TRC’s struggle to come to terms with the role of conscripts. Underlying this case study of conceptual and moral contestation is the complex issue of trauma and violence. It is clear to us that the violence and suffering caused by conscription have resulted in trauma for many men in uniform, as well as their families—then and now (Bezuidenhout 2015; Feinstein 2011; Edlmann 2015).16 A key challenge is how to understand and work through this suffering and trauma, without becoming stuck in problematic victim-perpetrator binaries (Borer 2003; Govier and Verwoerd 2004; Eyerman 2018; Benjamin 2018; Rothberg 2019). We still need to find clearer ways of articulating the complexities of traumatic stress for apartheid era soldiers, particularly conscripts. One promising route is the language of ‘moral injury’, which has become prominent in the US, to try and capture an inner wounding that cannot fully be addressed by psychological diagnoses and interventions associated with ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’. ‘Moral injury’ usually designates ‘the violation, by oneself or another, of a personally embedded moral code or value resulting in deep injury to the psyche or soul. It is what used to be called sin’ (Meagher 2014, xvi-xvii). At stake is a soul-­ scarring that goes deeper than psychological damage. Addressing and transforming moral woundedness amongst SADF conscripts (and their families) includes working through the difficult moral emotions of guilt and especially ‘deep shame’ elicited by facing ‘the  As an indication of the rawness of this issue—‘the lingering, unspoken pain of white youth who fought for apartheid’—it is worth noting that Edlmann’s 2015 contribution to The Conversation under this title, as of the beginning of December 2019, has had 1,238,165 online readers and been republished 83 times. See The Conversation http://theconversation.com/ the-lingering-unspoken-pain-of-white-youth-who-fought-for-apartheid-46218 16

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inhumanity of apartheid’ (Botha), by accepting complicity for the what Hattingh described as ‘pain, suffering and death inflicted by [the] military machine within South Africa but also far outside of its borders’ (Baines 2008; Steyn 2004; Klaassen 2001). Given the strong religious, anti-communist pre-1994 socialisation, particularly in the white Afrikaner ‘Christian Nationalist’ community (Giliomee 2003; De Gruchy 1991), the language of moral injury furthermore points us to a profound and unarticulated sense of having participated in ‘national service’ that, ultimately, amounted to a violation, a betrayal of one’s deepest values such as respect for human dignity (Korf and Malan 2002; Van der Westhuizen 2016). In this regard, we would argue, there is a similarity between the narrative repair challenges faced by US veterans, especially those returning from Vietnam, and many white conscripts in post-1994 South Africa— struggling to find meaning in what they experienced (and suffered) during the war, while also confronted with an unwelcoming, highly critical political and moral landscape back home (Baines 2008; Gibson 2009; Hamilton 1999). The language of moral injury draws attention to the depth of intrapersonal journeying that is required for narrative repair amongst conscripts. It is work that can only be undertaken by an individual, in an effort to address the personal impact and consequences of the social, political and moral system they grew up in. However, this kind of inner ‘repairing of the irreparable’ also has serious ramifications within (strong) intragroup relationships. In our personal and professional experience, working through the sense of self-betrayal accompanying the acknowledgement of moral injury, typically includes multi-layered dynamics of betrayal. There is not only a deeply personal process of accounting for betraying the moral codes of respecting humanity, but there is often also an intragroup backlash in which the person seeking to grapple with moral injury and accountability is accused by group members of betraying ‘our’ cause, ‘our’ community and, especially, ‘our fallen heroes’ (Verwoerd and Little 2018; Verwoerd 2019; Margalit 2017). To move beyond these dynamics of betrayal we find it helpful to draw on Margalit’s distinction between ‘thick’ and ‘thin’ human relationships. The latter refers to the basic, unconditional respect one owes to all

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persons in their capacity as human beings; the former points to the multidimensional, limited nature of relationships of mutual care. These ‘thick’ relations are characterised by a strong sense of belonging and existential meaning, interwoven with shared memories, as illustrated by the paradigms of family and friendship. Margalit’s central claim is that the home of betrayal is thick relationships; betrayal involves the undermining, the breaking of thick relationships. In other words, it is the ‘thickness’ of the intragroup relationships that are under threat when a member of a tightly knit group reaches out to those perceived as enemies. The key point for this brief reflection on some of the roots of resistance to narrative repair amongst SADF conscripts is this: at stake in racial reconciliation in post-1994 South Africa is the transformation of thick intragroup relationships, especially with ‘brothers-in-arms’, and with one’s (literal and/or figurative) family and friends, including the living and the dead. This intragroup focus is, arguably, neglected in mainstream reconciliation discourse with its typical focus on restoring or healing interpersonal or intergroup relations between relatively clearly defined ‘victims’ and ‘perpetrators’.17 The intrapersonal and intragroup dynamics of family type betrayal therefore requires those involved in bridge-building between conflicted groups to give careful attention to bridges that need to be rebuild within individuals and within families and groups. In the South African context, the (understandable) tendency is to focus mostly on reconciliation between white and black South Africans. In pursuit of creative processes to uproot (relational) apartheid Edlmann and Verwoerd have also facilitated bridge-re-building work within white communities, especially between pre-1994 and post-1994 generations within the Afrikaner community, linked to the Dutch Reformed Church. In working with a younger, post-1994 generation of white South Africans over the last two years, we have been struck by how often the untransformed pain of their fathers’ conscription and militarised masculinity features prominently in young people’s sense of themselves. The gendered nature of military systems inevitably means that both young women and men have been  On some of the implications for the language of forgiveness and apology when one focuses on veterans (without presupposing a victim-perpetrator paradigm), see Verwoerd and Little (2018). 17

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affected by the often silent ways in which women in their families have endured the militarised masculinities present in their homes, churches and social spaces. While there is clearly significant work required within the white community to address these issues, a huge pitfall with this kind of intragroup focus is, of course, that it becomes a (narcissistic) goal in itself, rather than the intended means towards the real transformation of apartheid (Church et al. 2004).

‘Wishing Us Away’:18 Beyond SADF Conscripts A large question hanging over this chapter’s exploration of some of the complexity surrounding SADF conscription is how to avoid it becoming ‘self-referential’ (Liebenberg and Hayes 2010, p. 12) to the exclusion of other contexts and experiences. Drawing attention to the negative and intergenerational consequences for many white men who were conscripted into fighting the ‘Border War’ or doing their compulsory ‘military service’ in the townships should not minimise the much wider destructive impacts of these men’s actions on black communities in South Africa and neighbouring countries. There is an ongoing need to bring Southern Africans of all backgrounds together in making sense of apartheid-era wars. As initiatives such as the Legacies of Apartheid Wars Project and various initiatives by veterans themselves have demonstrated, veterans from across the political spectrum are grappling, from different socio-economic positions, with the challenge of being ‘wished away’ (Gear 2002; Baines 2008). These dialogues need to include former conscripts and their liberation struggle enemies during the apartheid era. Silenced stories about the struggle for liberation need to be brought to the surface, as well as silences about the effects of apartheid era violence on communities in Namibia, Angola, Mozambique and South Africa. This work needs to be respectful of each person involved in it, but also constantly seek to stretch boundaries in striving for inclusivity, healing, addressing moral injury, and a dismantling of oppressions of all kinds. 18

 This phrase is drawn from Gear (2002)—a direct quote from one of her research participants.

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Conclusion: Beyond Victims and Perpetrators South Africans are faced with an ongoing need to engage in reckoning with the past in order to make sense of the present and construct a less violent future. One sector of South African society which faces profound complexities in doing this is the white men who were conscripted into the apartheid era military. As the TRC Special Hearing on Compulsory Military Service demonstrated, this was a sector of society that was privileged by apartheid legislation. However, the ways in which the sons of white families were used as political pawns in fighting the perceived threats of African nationalism and communism have yet to be fully understood or reckoned with. On a daily basis, SADF conscripts and their families are faced with questions about their roles in the apartheid system, what choices they made in the face of the draconian system of conscription, and to what extent they live in denial or have been agents of change in the post-1994 era. Finding answers to these questions requires grappling with both personal responsibility and systemic coercion and violence. At personal, political and systemic levels, South African veterans—and especially conscripts—live in deeply fractured spaces in which inward and relational reconciliation is a lifelong process. At a more conceptual level, the difficulties of fitting experiences of SADF conscripts and their families within the TRC process and the post 1994 South African context can be seen as a confirmation of the need to go beyond the (individualistic, legalistic) ‘victim-perpetrator imaginary’ (Rothberg 2019) in dealing with the legacies of large scale political violence. Leaving aside evidence of conscripts having been involved in/ affected by war crimes, the ‘figure’, the analytical category, of veterans or ex-combatants, and specifically conscripts, require their own complex theoretical space. Former soldiers, such as SADF veterans, whose actions were legally sanctioned by state and morally sanctified by society, do not really fit into either the broad categories of ‘victim’ or ‘perpetrator’. This need for conceptual expansion applies even more clearly to conscripts. They were not professional soldiers who chose to undergo military training and possible combat. They faced very constrained choices when

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confronted with a call-up to serve in the military, because of the indoctrination they had been subjected to and because of the harsh legal consequences of choosing not to obey the system’s call. There were attempts within the TRC to use the term ‘victim’ in a broad sense to capture the suffering of conscripts and their families, but our inclination is that it will be better to use other terms like ‘moral injury’, ‘hurt’, ‘trauma’ to point to the suffering of, in this case, SADF conscripts. The language of ‘perpetrators’, by contrast, has strong criminal, individualising connotations and contributes to a too narrow, legalistic understanding of historical, restitutional responsibility. The terms ‘victim’ and ‘perpetrator’ therefore fit more clearly into a legal framework or formal system of accountability, such as the TRC process. The important conceptual feature of those involved in military conscription (and soldiers more generally) is that one is clearly dealing with a more systemic phenomenon, and with individual actions (in combat situations) of ‘armed parties to the conflict’ which are not open to legal liability. As highlighted by various contributors at the TRC Conscription Hearing, one cannot make sense of the story of the McGregors without looking at the systems that shaped them, including the National Party, the Dutch Reformed Church, the ‘Christian Nationalist’ education system they grew up in. The category of ‘conscripts’ highlights different layers of institutional ‘implication’ (Rothberg 2019), which points to the need for a much wider shared moral and political responsibility amongst those they were obliged to ‘serve’. The TRC’s Institutional Hearings brought this multi-layered historical moral and political responsibility to the fore. In the light of this, it is highly significant that the Compulsory Military Service chapter in the TRC Report is located in the volume dedicated to institutional (rather than victim or amnesty) hearings. In our experience as facilitators, even as conscripts and their families are regarded as a group of white people who shared a common political role and set of personal experiences, shaped by both colonialism and apartheid, white South Africans are far from being a homogenous group. There are significant ideological, psychological, moral, ethnic and generational dynamics at work. We have noticed, for example, differences between the (intergenerationally transmitted) experiences of Afrikaans-­ speaking and English-speaking white South Africans. Healing processes

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also need to be sensitive to these nuances. Any work that seeks to address the legacies of the apartheid military system needs to take account of how layered and complex the historical and current personal and collective dynamics of this context are. The ultimate goal is to use intrapersonal and intragroup interventions as preparation for deeper, sustainable engagement of white South Africans across the racialised divides in ways that visibly address socio-economic apartheid. To help unlock widespread white resistance to restitutional responsibility, we have argued in this chapter that more careful and critical attention needs to be given to addressing Owen-Wallace’s haunting question: ‘why did I die?’

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Gobodo-Madikizela, P. (2016). What Does It Mean to be Human in the Aftermath of Mass Trauma and Violence? Towards the Horizon of an Ethics of Care. Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics, 36(2), 64–91. Govier, T., & Verwoerd, W.  J. (2004). How Not to Polarize ‘Victims’ and ‘Perpetrators’. Peace Review, 16(3), 371–377. Hamilton, C. (1999). Where Is the Border Now?: The New Politics of Identity in South Africa. In M. Rosler & T. Wendell (Eds.), Frontiers and Borderlands: Anthropological Perspectives. Berlin: Peter Lang. Holt, C. (2005). At Thy Call We Did Not Falter: A Frontline Account of the 1988 Angolan War, as Seen Through the Eyes of a Conscripted Soldier. Cape Town: Zebra Press. Klaassen, J.  A. (2001). The Taint of Shame: Failure, Self-Distress, and Moral Growth. Journal of Social Philosophy, 32(2), 174–196. Korf, L., & Malan, J. (2002). Threat to Ethnic Identity: The Experience of White Afrikaans-Speaking Participants in Post-apartheid South Africa. The Journal of Social Psychology, 142(2), 149–169. Lefko-Everett, K., Governder, R., & Foster, D. (2017). Rethinking Reconciliation: Evidence from South Africa. Pretoria: Human Sciences Research Council Press. Liebenberg, J., & Hayes, P. (2010). Bush of Ghosts: Life and War in Namibia 1986-90. Cape Town: Umuzi. Little, A. & Verwoerd, W.J. (2013). Journey through Conflict Trail Guide: Introduction. Bloomington: Trafford Publishing. Margalit, A. (2017). On Betrayal. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Meagher, R. E. (2014). Killing from the Inside Out: Moral Injury and Just War. Eugene, OR: Cascade Books. Morris, P. (2014). Back to Angola: A Journey from War to Peace. Cape Town: Zebra Press. Ramsden, T. (2007). Border-Line Insanity: A National Serviceman’s Story. Bloomington, IN: Trafford Publishing. Rothberg, M. (2019). The Implicated Subject: Beyond Victims and Perpetrators. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Report of The Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa. (1998). Vols. 1, 4. Cape Town: Juta Press. Sandler, D. (1989). The Psychological Experiences of White Conscripts in the Black Townships. In J.  Cock & L.  Nathan (Eds.), War and Society: The Militarisation of South Africa. Cape Town: David Philip. Scholtz, L. (2013). The SADF in the Border War 1966-1989. Cape Town: Tafelberg.

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10 An African Comparison: Girl Soldiers Returning from a Rebel Group in Northern Uganda Allen Kiconco

Editorial Comments The gendered nature of South Africa’s DDR policies discussed in Chap. 8 is contextualised in Chap. 10 by locating them within the African experience. The comparison with Uganda provides this regional dimension. However, the comparison has even further added value by isolating the lived experiences of girl child soldiers in the Northern Uganda conflict. It is a characteristic of most non-state combatants that they are young; indeed, as we argued earlier, their youth is often claimed as a mitigating circumstance. The female ex-combatants discussed later in the two chapters on Sri Lanka included some who were young. None of the interviewees, however, could be classed as girl child soldiers. The Uganda chapter therefore enables us to isolate this category. While continuing the emphasis on gender, this comparative case allows for a fruitful comparison between the gendered experiences of adult women ex-combatants in all three case countries with girl A. Kiconco (*) University of Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_10

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child soldiers in Uganda. It is significant that the same conceptual language and approach is applied independently by authors. The lived experiences and reintegration problems of these two categories of female ex-combatant are perceived through the same lens of stigma and silencing. However, while there is thought to be too little recognition and acknowledgement of adult women ex-­combatants in our three case countries, girl child soldiers in Uganda feel there is too much focus on them. Age has a bearing that is absent in South Africa, Northern Ireland and Sri Lanka. Uganda has cultural practices and values that respect elders, giving too much attention to young people who challenge them, and the youth of girl child soldiers rebounds with their gender to extenuate their ostracism and marginalisation. Again, however, like women ex-combatants in South Africa, girl child soldiers in Uganda are not passive and have a number of resistance strategies to manage the stigma and silencing they experience.

Introduction Girls have been widely recruited in recent African wars, including in Libera, Sierra Leone, Sudan, Uganda, Democratic Republic of Congo and Nigeria, among others. In most of these wars, as in Northern Uganda, armed opposition groups targeted and forcibly recruited girls to join their campaign of violence against their governments (see McKay and Mazurana 2004). Their experiences have attracted substantial research and policy analysis from researchers, practitioners and the international community, contributing to bringing the experiences of girl soldiering to the forefront of international debate. However, this analysis tends to focus on experiences during the war and the immediate aftermath rather than the longer term. For example, researchers have examined: how girls are recruited; life with the rebel groups; participation in Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration; experiences of daily life in Internally Displaced Peoples (IDPs) camps; and their initial experiences upon returning to society (e.g. Coulter 2009; Baines 2016). There is a paucity of research about the day-to-day experiences of resettlement and reintegration of former girl soldiers, the effects of abduction, the processes of recruitment, forced labour, sexual exploitation and sexual violence. A further gap in the literature is on the long-term effects on victims returning from a period of forced captivity, the changing social

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relations in families their return imposes and the relational dynamics between the returnees and their communities. This chapter focuses on Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) girl ex-soldiers and their lived experiences in Acholi sub-region of Northern Uganda upon return. It provides an analysis of the experiences of reintegration and resettlement, with a focus on the processes of re-establishing social relation networks during the post-conflict situation. It argues that the girl ex-soldiers encountered challenges that hindered the process of reintegration. They experienced what Goffman (1963) termed ‘stigma’. This concept will be used as the main analytical tool to understand how girl ex-soldiers are denied equal status as women and as community members. Their time spent with the LRA rebels has led to no easy reintegration arising from problems associated with their stigmatised identity, both as women and as former soldiers. The ‘never-abducted’ populations, as we might call them, viewed the girl ex-soldiers with suspicion and placed them on the periphery of community life. There are, however, three sources of their marginalisation, based on being women, on having been soldiers, and of carrying evil spirits. They experience a traditional patriarchal culture that takes offence at their ‘despoiling’ of local cultural ideals of femininity, their status as former soldiers places them outside notions of ‘normal’ Acholi social behaviour, which emphasises social harmony, and local religious beliefs about evil spirits render them as a threat. This treble marginalisation means their identity is viewed by the non-abducted community as ‘spoiled’, as Goffman termed it. They were feared because of the gendered, cultural and spiritual beliefs held in the wider community. These frameworks of belief became a barrier to successful reintegration and assimilation into community life. This chapter therefore explores some of the challenges facing girl ex-­ soldiers by using the analytical lens of stigma. It also identifies the coping strategies used by the girl ex-soldiers to challenge the stigma and discrimination associated with their past activities and the techniques used to assist with reintegration (for similar work on stigma among male child soldiers in Sierra Leone, see Anderson 2018). The chapter begins with a brief discussion of the conflict in Northern Uganda and the conceptual framework used to inform the analysis. The chapter then discusses the

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research methodology adopted, before it turns to the exploration of the role of local spiritual and cultural beliefs and practices that adversely affect the processes of reintegration and which, in turn, negatively affect the lived experiences of girl ex-soldiers. It is by focusing on stigmatisation and the relationship between local spiritual and cultural beliefs and practices that this chapter will illustrate how stigmatisation hinders the process of recovery and reintegration. It concludes with a discussion of coping strategies utilised by the girl ex-soldiers to support the process of reintegration.

 he Lord’s Resistance Army Insurgency T in Northern Uganda The Acholi area is one of the seven sub-regions of Uganda (for a detailed political history of Acholi people and culture, see Atkinson 1994). For two decades, between 1986 and 2006, the area was the scene of the conflict between the government of Uganda and the LRA. While the conflict escalated to affect other parts of Northern, North-Eastern Uganda and Southern Sudan, the primary victims have been the Acholi people. The LRA emerged in 1987, in response to the seizure of power by the southern-based National Resistance Army (NRA), renamed in 1995, Uganda People’s Defence Force (UPDF). The LRA tried to recruit volunteers to fight against government forces. Since they failed to enlist, the LRA resorted to abducting children and young people to fight for their cause. The group also changed their operations from collaborating with community elders to being involved in large-scale murder, maiming civilians and looting, among other activities. Efforts to achieve a peace agreement in 1994–95 failed. The LRA retreated into the bush and engaged in talks with the Sudanese government, asking for support and permission to use specific locations in South Sudan for LRA camps (see Dolan 2009; Branch 2011). For many years, the LRA rebellion abducted tens of thousands of children who were inducted by force into a systematic campaign of violence against the government of Uganda. It is estimated that the group abducted 54,000 to 75,000 people, including 25,000 to 38,000

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children (Pham et al. 2007; see also Annan et al. 2008). Approximately 30 per cent of the group were girls (McKay and Mazurana 2004). The majority of the girls came from the Acholi and Lango sub-regions. They were held captive in the LRA camps or military units for prolonged periods of time (see Pham et al. 2007). During their captivity, they endured horrendous levels of physical, psychological and sexual violence at the hands of LRA captors (see Human Rights Watch 2003). The government of Uganda resolved to prevent the LRA from forcibly recruiting child combatants into their guerrilla army by establishing Internally Displaced People’s (IDPs) Camps in Northern Uganda (Branch 2011). Over half a million civilians were provided with shelter in IDP camps. By 2001, about 1.7 million civilians were forced by the government to relocate to these camps (see Dolan 2009). The IDPs catered for two cohorts: the majority who had been moved by government forces from communities in Northern Uganda, and those who had escaped, been released by the LRA fighters or captured by the Ugandan army. Later on, when other peace efforts also failed, the LRA relocated itself to the vast bushy region between Uganda, South Sudan, the Democratic Republic of Congo and the Central Africa Republic. Thus, a period of relative peace followed in Northern Uganda resulting in movements from IDP camps back to people’s communities. The reintegration of ex-­ combatants returning from the LRA is an ongoing process. Early research suggested that by the end of the war in 2006, the majority of girl ex-­ soldiers returned to their communities and became productive members of society (e.g. Annan et al. 2008). A longer-term perspective shows the situation to be very different, which significant problems around their reintegration as a result of stigmatisation.

The Problem of Reintegration Guiding all Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration (DDR) programmes in Northern Uganda, is the Integrated DDR Standards (IDDRS) strategy which defined reintegration as:

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the process by which ex-combatants acquire civilian status and gain sustainable employment and income. Reintegration is essentially a social and economical process with an open time-frame, primarily taking place in communities at the local level. It is part of the general development of a country and national responsibility and often necessitates long-term external assistance (IDDRS 2006, 1.10).

Examining linkages and challenges of reintegration and long-term development, Julia Buxton unpacks this definition further and argues that reintegration is a: complex, long-term process through which ex-soldiers and their dependants are assisted to (re)settle in post-war communities (the social element), become part of the decision-making process (the political element), engage in sustainable civilian employment and livelihoods (the economic aspect) as well as adjust to attitudes and expectations and/or deal with their war-related mental trauma (Buxton 2008, p. 5).

This approach to reintegration has been criticised for being paternalistic, viewing ex-soldiers as the ‘problem in need of reintegration’ (Metsola 2006, p. 119), rather than problems with the reintegration programmes themselves (e.g. Bowd and Ozerdem 2013). Experience shows that reintegration is broader and longer than the life span of project activities and in many cases, occurring independently after the project programmes finish (e.g. Nussio 2012; Sendabo 2004). My study in Northern Uganda shows that reintegration takes several trajectories. These include social, economic, political, cultural and spiritual processes of adjustment. Indeed, my data supports Torjesen’s (2013, p.  2) position that research efforts should concentrate on fostering an ‘understanding of reintegration where many causal factors are assessed, including how particular combinations of factors may account for why and how the process of reintegration has unfolded in the way that it has for different groups of combatants’. I have found that while relying on reintegration programmes as a departure in defining and analysing girl ex-soldiers’ reintegration in Northern Uganda may be helpful, the approach directs attention away from the larger and long-term social,

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economic, cultural and spiritual processes, and moves towards a narrow and short-term programme of activities. The approach also fails to address many of the themes that surface when following their reintegration trajectories. Therefore, I have applied a ‘bottom-up’ analytical framework that focuses less on project activities and places the experiences of women at the forefront of the reintegration analysis. Reintegration in this chapter will therefore refer to the process girl ex-­ soldiers use in transitioning from soldier to civilian, and how they changed their behaviour to conform to the social mores of a post-war society. The process is dynamic, transformative and is a process which would connect the individual to the structural, cognitive elements of the community, facilitate the re-establishment of familial/kinship ties and re-establish community networks. I apply this approach because it gives voice to the processes, experiences and challenges these women have encountered as they reintegrate back into society.

Stigmatisation This chapter will apply the concept of stigma to illustrate how the process of marginalisation and ‘othering’ prevents the successful social reintegration of girl ex-soldiers in Northern Uganda. According to Erving Goffman, stigma is an ‘attribute that is deeply discrediting’ (1963, p. 12). Therefore, the stigmatised person possesses (or is believed to possess) ‘some attribute or characteristic that conveys a social identity that is devalued in a particular social context’ (Crocker et  al. 1998, p.  505). Experience shows ‘stigma might be best considered to be the negative perceptions and behaviours of so called-normal people to all individuals who are different from themselves’ (English 1971, p.  5). The non-­ stigmatised person views the discrediting attribute and reduces the stigmatised person’s attribute or character to that which is deemed ‘stained’, ‘polluted’, ‘devalued’, ‘spoiled’, ‘flawed’ and ‘inferior’ (Crocker et  al. 1998). Such stigma is widely recognised as a problem for ex-combatants. Referring to girl ex-soldiers, the Paris Principles (2007) observed that stigma, ‘is one of the greatest barriers to reintegration (pp.32)…stigma

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facing [them] is fundamentally different in kind—it lasts much longer, is critically more difficult to reduce and is more severe’ (p.36). Equally, my research with girl ex-soldiers in Northern Uganda shows that this population faces social stigma several years after returning to their communities. My data suggests, however, that the length of time spent back in the community is not the most important determining factor in the social acceptance of girl ex-soldiers, as was previously thought (for similar work on stigmatisation and reintegration among former female soldiers in Liberia, see Vastapuu 2018). What matters are local, contextual belief systems and norms. Therefore, this chapter analyses stigma as embedded in the contextual experiences of social disapproval and discrimination against girl ex-soldiers based on local belief systems, values and cultural practices that distinguish them from community members and treat them as ‘spoiled’ and as ‘the other’. Former girl soldiers are thus denied full social acceptance and must strive to adjust to their new precarious ‘spoiled’ social identities (see Macdonald and Kerali 2020). For the purposes of this chapter, stigmatisation will mean ‘the process by which an individual’s or group’s character or identity is negatively responded on the basis of the individual’s or group’s association with a past, imagined, or currently present deviant condition, often with harmful physical or psychological consequences for the individual or group’ (Dijker and Koomen 2007, p. 6). It thus involves two processes: ‘stigma promotion’ by the wider community that display negative outward feelings of hostility towards the female ex-soldier, and ‘stigma management’ by the ex-soldiers as a way of coping with such rejection. There is a strong gendered element to this stigmatisation. When girl soldiers exited the LRA militia and returned to their home communities in the Acholi region, they returned to a patriarchal and traditional system of values, beliefs and behaviours, which it was believed they had violated. They had offended gendered norms of appropriate behaviour for women. However, gender alone cannot explain the lived experiences of the returnees. The girl ex-soldiers also offended community norms of appropriate social behaviour for villagers, which they understood through the cultural value placed on ‘social harmony’. Their ‘spoiled’ identity was thus both as a woman and as a community member. The effect of this ‘spoiled’ identity was to turn them into another source of threat. According to

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local religious beliefs, the girl ex-soldiers carried ‘evil spirits’ that placed the entire community at risk. Through these means, the stigma rendered them as the fearful and ostracised ‘other’. The level of ostracism experienced by the former girl-soldiers as a result of these triple transgressions hindered their attempts to reintegrate, re-establish social relations, and engage in livelihood recovery activities. Over time, the discrimination and stigmatisation reinforced their ongoing victimhood and marginality as women and as community members. Stigma is thus a useful concept to understand girl ex-soldiers’ everyday lived experience and the challenges they faced in their attempt to reintegrate as women and as community members. The following sections, therefore, analyse the extent of stigmatisation faced by the girl ex-soldiers, the strategies used to respond to it, and the techniques employed to support the process of reintegration. However, a comment on the validity of the data is necessary first.

Research Methodology As a Ugandan, I conducted six months of ethnographic research, from September 2012 to February 2013, six to seven years after the war ended in Northern Uganda in 2006.1 I conducted both structured and semi-­ structured interviews with groups and individuals in four districts of the Acholi region, including Gulu, Kitgum, Lamwo and Pader. In total, I interviewed and held conversations with 170 participants on issues relating to LRA abductions, reintegration and post-war reconstruction of which 50 interviewees were girl ex-soldiers. Two specific criteria guided selection for interviews: a) the participant was under the age of 18 at the time of the abduction, b) the length of time in captivity was over one year. The demographic information varied among the participants. The average age of abduction was 14 years old, and at the age of abduction ranged from 6 to 18 years of age. The participants lived with the rebels for varying periods, ranging between 3 months and 12 years (an average  I undertook this research for my doctoral thesis at the University of Birmingham. The research received ethical approval from the University of Birmingham (Ref: ERN_12-0579) and Uganda National Council for Science and Technology (UNCST), the governing ethics body in the country. 1

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of 7 years). Age at the time of the interviews ranged between 18 and 30 years (26 years on average), and most of the participants had returned home for at least 6 years or more (6–10 years). Therefore, for the purposes of this chapter, ‘long term’ means five years of reintegration and above. All quotations have been stripped of identity markers. Names and places have been anonymised to protect the participants.

The Lived Experience of Stigmatisation The participants emerged from the LRA rebel group with different experiences, which, in turn, influenced different choices and varying abilities to re-settle and readjust to community life. While reintegration into their communities took different trajectories, many of the women found ways to mitigate the effects of stigmatisation. They sought to re-establish social relations, join communal groups and aspire for a better future. One way to understand this is through the practice of social harmony. This chapter adds to the analysis of the lived experiences of girl soldiering and its societal consequences by using the concept of social harmony in the Acholi culture (see Porter 2017). Understanding the profound value and need attaching to maintaining social harmony in the Acholi community yields a more nuanced analysis of the participants’ experience of stigmatisation by their communities. However, the value placed on social harmony in Acholi culture is as much a problem as a solution. It is a motivation to the girls to reintegrate but it is a source of stigmatisation by the community at the same time. Before their rebel abduction, all the participants lived in their birth communities. Therefore, after leaving the LRA rebel group, many returned to their communities to re-establish familial and kinship ties. Almost all the participants in the study returned to their communities. Many relied on their families for psychological and economic support. One woman stated: When I returned home, my family was supportive. They were telling me things I could or could not do. I did not find many friends immediately after returning, but all I had were my family members, my mother and

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other people in the family. They encouraged me to live freely with other people in the community. This [family support] helped me in coping and relating with other people as well.

Interviews show that families created the initial reintegration space for their returning children from the LRA rebellion. From the safety of their family unit, they were supported in participating in neighbourly activities, going to church, and in some cases encouraged to go back to school, work with NGOs and in turn engage with the wider community. The participants and their families understood that the socio-cultural organisation and conceptions of personhood in Acholi communities are interdependently constructed (see also p’Bitek 1986; Finnström 2008; Oloya 2010; Porter 2017). Social structures, institutions and processes emphasise the role of interdependence. In these contexts, a person is not viewed as closed and independent but as an open field that others contribute to. Thus, significant self-representation includes relationship to and interaction with others. People in Acholi society view ‘selfhood’ as interdependent with surrounding contexts, and relationships, and it is the ‘other’ or the ‘self-in-relation-to-other’ that is focal in individual experience. Writing about the Acholi people’s socio-cultural organisation and personhood conception, Ofumbi (2012) noted: [T]he keyword defining their [Acholi people] lives is ‘connectedness’ … that describes their ethnic group, relationships between people humans and God, and relationships with the rest of creation (p. 116). (…). Most Acholi people derive their wellbeing by caring for the wellbeing of others first (…) the human condition of the Acholi people collectively is secondary to their human relationships…their common humanity dictate their actions regardless of the human conditions pertaining on the ground (p. 117).

Thus, an Acholi person is not defined as an independent individual self but in terms of social relations and groups one functions within, from family and clan, and spreading out to the relationships within the wider community (see also p’Bitek 1986; Oloya 2010; Porter 2017). Acknowledging that the fullness of ‘self ’ exists only within bonds of

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familial, kinship and other societal relations, the late Acholi anthropologist p’Bitek (1986, p. 19) wrote, ‘man [woman] is not born free. [S]/he cannot be free. [S]/he is incapable of being free. For only by being in chains, can s/he be and remain “human.” What constitutes these chains? Man [woman] has a bundle of duties which are expected from him/her by society, as well as a bundle of rights and privileges that the society owes him/her’. Therefore, to appreciate the paradox of stigmatisation in the Acholi region, one needs to understand the profound value and meaning attached to this independent construct of ‘self ’ and the importance of maintaining social harmony in Acholi culture. A person in the Acholi region is deeply rooted in their family, clan and society. A person’s good health, happiness and spiritual welfare are based on the harmony between them, their clans and community, with ancestral spirits guiding how to maintain this social harmony (Porter 2017, pp. 3–4). A study by the Liu Institute and Gulu NGO Forum (2005, p.  11) looked at restoring relations in post-war Acholi and found that: ‘historically, the good health and happiness of the Acholi individual was always situated in the context of the harmony and well-being of the clan. The ancestral and spiritual spirit worlds provided guidance to the Acholi people, maintaining the unity of the clan’. Because ‘[social harmony] denotes a state of normal relations among the living and the dead, linked to an idea of cosmological equilibrium and a social balance of power and moral order’ (Porter 2013, p.  15), ‘social harmony is the highest goal of the Acholi community’ (Ofumbi 2012, p. 116). Equally, if an individual disrupts this harmony by failing to observe societal and moral codes, it is believed that this failure angers the ancestral spirits leading them to visit retribution on the individual, as well as their clan and wider society. According to Bernstein (2009, p. 20), ‘social suffering is a result of the deliberate attempt to disrespect Acholi culture, values and spirituality’. The Liu Institute and Gulu NGO Forum (2005, p. 11) found that ‘conflicts misfortune and poor health could be “sent” by angry spirits and extended not only to the violators of the moral codes but to his or her family or clan. Thus, one person’s actions always had ramifications for his or her family and clan who in turn assumed collective responsibility for the offence’. Acholi people believe that retribution

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from angry spirits manifests in the form of misfortune or illness. The most familiar spirit is cen (‘vengeance or angry spirit’, p’Bitek 1986). I return to this phenomenon later on. Therefore, an individual’s life in Acholi culture should be lived in line with achieving social harmony and moral order. However, following the LRA insurgency, social harmony is ‘difficult to achieve and even harder to maintain’ (Porter 2013, p. 15). The Acholi people believe that LRA ex-soldiers have transgressed the boundaries of social harmony and their mere presence ‘threatens’ the Acholi community’s sense of harmony and well-being. By returning home, they bring discord and misfortune to their community. This causes social, cultural and spiritual confusion and tension between them and the never-abducted identities, leading to stigmatisation, discrimination and ostracism in their communities. Indeed, the interviews indicate that stigmatisation was one of the major problems encountered by the participants when they first returned home. More than 80 per cent in the study reported facing some form of stigmatisation from their communities. While some were accepted into their immediate family and surroundings, many faced stigmatisation in the broader community, finding difficulties to re-establish social relations and gain access to community networks. In the next section, I will illustrate how the process of stigmatisation affected their daily lives, hindering the process of reintegration, as a result of religious norms and values.

 tigma and Ex-soldiers as Potential S Carriers of Cen Examination of the issues within the Acholi region demonstrates that many assumptions shape the region’s negative perception of girl ex-­ soldiers. For example, a commonly held belief was that girl ex-soldiers possessed the ability to transfer negative spirits and this was a key reason for their exclusion. The Acholi culture suggests that by participation in these killings, they carry vengeful spirits of the dead. Thus, it is common

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practice for appropriate spiritual cleansing to be done to free those afflicted. Indeed, a male participant in a focus group discussion reported: [LRA] returnees must respect the cleansing rituals. For example, in the past, as per Acholi culture, if someone went for hunting and then killed an enemy or a wild animal, the person needed cleansing upon return. A ritual was performed for the person, and people danced to a traditional dance called Otole. That person would have freed him/herself from angry spirits.

Such group participants emphasised that the failure to ritualise girl ex-­ soldiers would lead vengeful spirits to attack their family and the entire community, including the spirit of the dead, known as cen. The Liu Institute and Gulu NGO Forum (2005, p. 12) found that cen is viewed as: …the entrance of an angry spirit into the physical body of a person or persons that seeks appeasement, usually in the form of sacrifice or, in the case of a ‘wrongful death', compensation and reconciliation between the clan of the offended and offender. The spirit manifests as cen, which will ‘haunt’ the wrongdoers by entering their mind or body in the form of visions and nightmares that may result in mental illness and sickness until the wrong is made right. Cen can also send nightmares and sickness to the rest of the family of the individual involved, so threatens not only the individual but the family and community.

Cen is visible in an individual who participated in an unresolved murder or accidental death or has come across the body of someone, or even a huge wild animal, killed violently.2 According to Acholi beliefs, the spirits of such dead people or huge wild animals will haunt the area to avenge their death, so cen may possess an individual who passes through such an area (Liu Institute and Gulu NGO Forum 2005; Harlacher 2009). Communities also believed that places where the LRA occupied were inhabited by wandering vengeful spirits of the dead. Therefore, roaming

 Interviews suggest that in addition to human cen, often the Acholi concept of cen or polluting spirits also include spirits of large wild animals in the bushes and can afflict human beings the same way human cen does. 2

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and living in these areas transformed the participants into being potential vehicles of cen. It is difficult to determine from the interviews the impact of cen, but it seems the more cen one experiences, the greater its consequence. The latter becomes manifest when the person who is deemed to have been exposed to cen starts behaving in a manner which is considered to be socially and morally wrong, before becoming violent and eventually lapsing into insanity (see Finnström 2008, p. 160). Cen does not only target someone’s personality, but also affects his or her social and economic well-being. Cen is thought to be contagious and transferable to the second generation of the ‘possessed’. For example, a baby can be born with cen, if either parent was possessed. If not exorcised or cleansed, cen can be transmitted down the generations of the lineage of a carrier (see Liu Institute and Gulu NGO Forum 2005, p. 12; Finnström 2008, p. 160). Stigmatisation, in this sense, targeted the participants because their communities perceived them as having contracted the potentially deadly cen. There was a belief in the community that due to this contamination, those possessed by this ‘vengeful spirit’ could be harmful and unknowingly wreak havoc on their communities. Therefore, some community members avoided them so that cen did not attack, kill or be transferred to them. Responses by the girl ex-soldiers suggest that local culture was both a solution and a problem for them in the Acholi region. The participants were aware that they needed the acceptance of their community to achieve successful reintegration, and at the same time, they understood that people’s resentment and fear, and that local belief systems and traditions prevented the development of meaningful social relations. While there was a general acceptance in the community that the LRA rebels recruited this population by force, the participants were viewed as being ‘stained’, ‘dirty’ and ‘polluted’. This came with accompanying behavioural traits, such as an unpredictable personality, which was perceived as a symptom of being possessed by vengeful spirits. Many participants therefore felt stigmatised by their community who saw them as outwith femininity, as defiled and ‘other’ to non-combatant women. They were stigmatised in part because they were seen as having deviated from the

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gendered norms of womanhood, cultural notions of socially harmonious behaviour, and local religious beliefs. LRA girl ex-soldiers were described in derogatory terms such as, ‘rebel’, ‘bush behaviour [and] mental’ and ‘evil spirit possessed’. This language was not only demeaning but reinforced the label of the spoiled identity and shaped the experiences of reintegration. One participant states: I feel and live like a stranger in my community. Life at home has become an entirely new thing (….). I regard all this treatment [stigmatisation] as a serious insult because I never joined the LRA willingly. All this stigmatisation makes me wonder why I returned home.

In the Acholi culture, lum means ‘bush’—denoting an unsafe, fearful and mysterious place that should not be visited without good reason. The bush is a place where wild animals, criminals and polluting spirits live. Therefore, there is a tension between the bush and the community and home spaces in the Acholi area (see Oloya 2010). At the beginning of the war in Northern Uganda, Acholi people coined the term olum-olum to refer to people that had entered the bush to wage a rebellion against the government. Over the years, olum olum came to mean ‘people who live in the bush—as in the case of the LRA rebels’, considered to be dangerous, mentally unsound or criminal. Moreover, some participants reported that they were not seen in their community as whole individuals, but as persons whose being was ‘stained’, ‘confused’ and ‘mentally unsound’. One respondent recalled: some people said because I had spent six long years in the bush, I could be mentally unstable. It did not go down so well with me because I knew I was mentally sound despite the bad things I had been forced to do while in the bush [captivity].

It was apparent during my field research, that people distrusted girl ex-­ soldiers, believing the LRA left them ‘contaminated’ as women and as members of the local community. It was a community belief that their association with the rebel group left them with a ‘bush mentality’, that is, dangerous, unintelligent, offensive, intolerant, terrible and uncivilised

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mindsets or behaviour. A participant reported an incidence of stigmatisation she had witnessed a few weeks before our interview. ‘Recently, the Community Health Team was given bicycles, and this caused a saga. The community members were saying that one of the people [an ex-LRA soldier] who got a bicycle was an individual with two personalities—a “bush” and a “normal man”. The participant’s story suggests two parallel worlds of ‘the bush’ and ‘normal people’. Many returning girl soldiers thus found themselves isolated from their community and discredited by the unaccepting society. Girls in this study therefore faced resistance in their attempts to re-establish social relations and to back into enter community networks. Some community members perceived them to be dangerous or to be feared. They were feared because they were from an ‘unknown’, ‘suspicious’ and ‘stained’ background, and significant numbers of people from their communities believed they were prone to repeating habits learned from rebel captivity. Humanitarian workers, development workers and researchers have perceived this population in Northern Uganda as innocent victims and as casualties of war. However, a significant section of their communities failed to adequately consider the circumstances of their forced abduction to the LRA and the violations they experienced and was thus unwilling to accept them back as equal members of their society. We develop this point in the next section.

Stigmatisation as a Hindrance to Reintegration The never-abducted population viewed girl ex-soldiers (and other LRA soldiers) as persons lacking in moral status in a society where moral standing is determined by the local, gendered, social, cultural and spiritual world. Thus, stigma hampered the participants’ opportunities to establish meaningful social networks (see Kiconco and Nthakomwa 2018). The participants were forced to disengage from community activities because of the treatment they received from the non-abducted communities. They were aware that friends, families and communities associated them with past activities. Consequently, these experiences reinforced the belief among the girl ex-soldiers, that despite attempts to reintegrate,

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there existed few opportunities of being able to lead a normal life in light of the exclusion they faced. Through personal and social experiences, they were highly conscious of the stigmatising labels that were constantly being applied to them. Despite not having been physically rejected for returning to their home communities, some participants were aware that their society had not fully accepted them. The stigmatisation experience resulted in emotional and psychological distress by generating a sense of exclusion triggering feelings of helplessness, loneliness and depression. As girl ex-soldiers, they could not protect themselves from the process of stigmatisation, reinforcing their sense of isolation. It was evident from the voices of the participants that the above hindered psychological recovery from war trauma and in turn the process of successful reintegration. Transitional justice literature shows that for successful reintegration to occur acceptance at the family and community level is needed (e.g. Annan et al. 2008; Betancourt et al. 2008; Boothby 2006; McKay and Mazurana 2004). Accordingly, the participants saw that complete acceptance by their community, free from stigmatisation, was important for successful social reintegration. A participant remarked that at the point where an individual ‘no longer experiences any form of stigma, that person would confidently say, “I have successfully reintegrated”’. Inasmuch as the absence of stigma assists positive recovery, its continuance rekindles the traumatic memories of war and captivity. It is assumed in DDR programmes that progressive reintegration ensures that communities of origin assist with the transitioning from military to civilian life. In my focus group interviews with the ‘never-­ abducted’ members in the Acholi community, they implied that the LRA ex-soldiers would always be stigmatised. Therefore, social reintegration depended on the LRA ex-soldiers accepted their treatment and lived with it. One of the focus group participants stated: …the way they [LRA ex-soldiers] react when they are stigmatised will show if they are fitting well in the community or not. If they take [stigmatising] comments lightly, it will show they are changing attitudes and moving on well. I remember in the days when they had just returned from the bush; they reacted with extreme violence. Some used to move around with panga or knife [machete], and if you stigmatised them, they would physically

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attack you. This is changing, and it shows they are moving away from their bush mentality.

The implications of this view are profound for DDR as a strategy. The never-abducted members of the Acholi cited that ‘lack of reaction by LRA ex-soldiers to daily abuse’, is the litmus test to whether LRA ex-­ soldiers can finally experience meaningful reintegration. The onus is placed on them to accept hostility and rejection rather than the community afford them acceptance. In Acholi, reintegration is a one-way process, whereby the LRA ex-soldiers had to ignore feelings of exclusion. As one former soldier put it, ‘it was not our choice to be abducted. People behave as if they do not know that. The Government should sensitize people in communities so that they stop stigmatising us’. Reintegration is thus experienced as a problem that only they can resolve. It is worth exploring how girl ex-soldiers coped with this. It is worth noting that these coping strategies can bring their own problems and deliver very little emotional well-being.

 trategies for Coping with Stigmatisation S and Engaging in Reintegration Against the cultural and stigmatising experiences discussed above, the participants developed a range of strategies to try to cope with stigmatisation. The following were the main strategies; each carries its own problems.

Information Control The participants lived in rural communities where most people knew their neighbours and their backgrounds. These contexts and lifestyles mean that the participants were easily identifiable by neighbours. Therefore, the stigma they experienced was perpetuated by the community’s collective culture. However, some participants indicated that they coped with their predicament by censoring personal information to avoid

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stigmatisation. They strongly guarded their privacy and never fully disclosed their life with the rebel group. A constant veil of shame surrounded their stories, resulting in strident efforts at information control. This respondent’s remark is useful in articulating the shame they feel: ‘I often bend my head down in shame when someone asks me about my bush experience …or every time I hear people talking about us [LRA ex-­ soldiers]’. Disclosure can be difficult to protect against in close-knit communities.

Secrecy Some participants identified secrecy as a common strategy for coping with stigma, which involved attempts to prevent disclosure of the past life. They felt that they needed to live in secrecy and feared that one day their identity might be revealed. This experience was clearly expressed by one of the participants: ‘You [interview team] should not tell community members that we [interviewees] were abducted because they will start talking about us. I have never told anybody in this area [marital home] that I am from the bush'. Secrecy, of course, can be difficult to maintain when information is readily known, which is why secrecy is best practised when ex-soldiers do not return to their home community. Significantly, the above person moved away to her marital home.

Silence The participants also utilised silence to respond to stigmatisation from their communities. Many said that in most cases, they simply ignored their stigmatisers. Many women suggested that they mostly reacted meekly rather than aggressively, thus avoiding confrontations. Such women relied on ‘good’ behaviour to complement the silence strategy, which often involved conforming to gendered stereotypes of the ‘appropriate’ mode of behaviour for women. ‘I try not to demonstrate any bad behaviour which could compromise my relationship and welfare with

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them [family and community members]. I always try as much as possible to demonstrate a high standard of discipline and respect towards all of them'. Yet, silence itself was subject to misconceptions by the wider community. One participant reported that silence was wrongly interpreted by neighbours that she was harbouring cen: ‘at times I just sit here [at the doorstep] in silence. Then my neighbours will start saying that, “now cen has come upon her; she might harm people”, yet I am even thinking about something different from what they are talking about’. Such experiences illustrate that adopting silence as a survival mechanism did not protect them from threats or win them acceptance. Oral cultures can see silence as problematic, so too socially gregarious ones.

Adopting Solitary Lives Some participants sought solace in self-isolation as a means to escape stigmatisation. One of them reported that: All I am doing now is to concentrate on things I can do with minimal interaction with others. I isolate myself from those abusive people. I no longer attend some of the community gatherings. I prefer to spend my time alone in my home. To avoid being a bother to the sub-county leaders, I have also stopped visiting them to follow up on my complaints.

Confined to their families, these participants stayed away from community gatherings or events that would normally provide the necessary environment to bring people closer together. The isolation experienced was perhaps best encapsulated through the then 20-year-old participant, abducted at the age of 11 and held captive for 10 years. In those years of captivity, she had two children fathered by an LRA soldier. In order to survive community life, she relied on isolation as a means of mitigating the effects of social stigma. When I met her, she only left her father's compound on Sundays for prayers. To avoid mixing with her community, she would walk for almost two hours to the neighbouring town

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rather than go to her local church. Social isolation, however, has its costs in placing the women solely in private domestic space, hiding them away, which can be even more damaging when local culture is socially gregarious and lived mostly in public space.

Reporting Stigmatisers to Authorities The reaction from some community members led to some of the participants fearing that their lives would be in danger if their identity were revealed. Rather than confronting the individuals, some participants would simply report their stigmatisers to local authorities. One participant explained the vulnerable position in which many of this population found themselves upon return home: ‘I am a peaceful person. If someone tries to provoke me with insults, asking for a fight or quarrel, I keep quiet or will simply go to the local leader so that the community does not say that I am aggressive and offensive because I was in the bush, and I have the bush mentality’. However, some participants who had reported their stigmatisers to the authorities reported disappointment with their local justice system. They expressed frustration, as one of them reported: ‘the challenge remains to get someone who can help me to get justice so that those behaving in unkind manners to me are punished. When we [LRA ex-soldiers] report our cases to community authorities, we do not get justice’.

Conclusion When girl ex-soldiers exited the LRA, they returned in the Acholi region to traditional patriarchal communities, which viewed them as not only violating traditional gender and social norms, but as possessing the power to bring evil spirits into their community. They offended patriarchal norms of womanhood, transgressed cultural norms of social harmony, and provoked religious beliefs about evil spirits. The women were both rejected and feared. A useful analytical lens with which to understand this situation is the concept of stigma. Stigma is double-edged. It draws

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attention to what is alleged to be ‘spoiled’ about the person’s character and it highlights the community’s response to such ‘faults’, involving practises of ‘stigma promotion’ by the community and ‘stigma management’ by the ‘despoiled’ to cope with it. Girl ex-soldiers in Acholi had a social status as women and former soldiers that caused them to be marginalised and ostracised. Their lived experiences were dominated by such stigmatisation, the strategies with which to cope caused as many problems as they solved. It is within this context that attempts at their reintegration takes place. The participants lived under close scrutiny by their communities and their accounts show stigmatisation hinders the processes of reintegration. Stigmatisation is rooted in the collective culture, the social system and cultural signs of the Acholi people. Thus, for any meaningful and productive reintegration and recovery to occur in Acholi, reintegration programmes must address the marginalisation, exclusion and feelings of vulnerability that stigmatisation causes. This requires understanding the structural underpinnings to stigmatisation. In Acholi society, the stigma experienced by girl ex-soldiers needs to be located in contextual factors that include religious beliefs about evil spirits, a social system that emphasises social harmony, and a gendered hierarchy that marginalises women combatants.

Bibliography Anderson, R. (2018). Compromise without Virtue: Male Child Soldier Reintegration in Sierra Leone. In J.  D. Brewer, B.  C. Hayes, & F.  Teeney (Eds.), The Sociology of Compromise After Conflict (pp.  179–206). London: Palgrave. Annan, J., Blattman, C., Carlson, K., & Mazurana, D. (2008). The State of Female Youth in Northern Uganda: Findings from the Survey of War-affected Youth (SWAY). Phase II. Somerville, MA: Feinstein International Center, Tufts University. Atkinson, R. R. (1994). The Roots of Ethnicity: The Origins of the Acholi of Uganda Before 1800. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

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Baines, E. (2016). Buried in the Heart: Women, Complex Victimhood and the War in Northern Uganda. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bernstein, E. (2009). Social Suffering in Northern Uganda. Senior Thesis Projects. The University of Tennessee. Betancourt, T.  S., Borisova, I., Rubin-Smith, J., Gingerich, T., Williams, T., Agnew-Blais, J. (2008). Psychosocial Adjustment and Social Reintegration of Children Associated with Armed Forces and Armed Groups: The State of the Field and Future Directions. Psychology Beyond Borders, Austin, TX. Boothby, N. (2006). When Former Child Soldiers Grow Up: The Keys to Reintegration and Reconciliation. In N. Boothby, A. Strang, & M. Wessells (Eds.), A World Turned Upside Down: Social Ecological Approaches to Children in War Zones (pp. 155–179). Bloomfield, CT: Kumarian Press. Bowd, R., & Ozerdem, A. (2013). How to Assess Social Reintegration of Ex-combatants. Journal of Intervention and State Building, 7(4), 453–475. https://doi.org/10.1080/17502977.2012.727537. Branch, A. (2011). Displacing Human Rights: War and Intervention in Northern Uganda. New York: Oxford University Press. Buxton, J. (2008). Reintegration and Long-term Development: Linkages and Challenges. (Working paper). Bradford: University of Bradford. Coulter, C. (2009). Bush Wives and Girl Soldiers: Women’s Lives Through War and Peace in Sierra Leone. Cornell: Cornell University Press. Crocker, J., Major, B., & Steele, C. (1998). Social Stigma. In S. Fiske, D. Gilbert, & G. Lindzey (Eds.), Handbook of Social Psychology Volume 2 (pp. 504–553). Boston, MA: McGraw-Hill. Dijker, A. J. M., & Koomen, W. (2007). Stigmatisation, Tolerance and Repair: An Integrative Psychological Analysis of Responses to Deviance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dolan, C. G. (2009). Social Torture: The Case of Northern Uganda, 1986-2006. New York: Berghahn Books. English, R.  W. (1971). Correlates of Stigma Towards Physically Disabled Persons. Rehabilitation Research & Practice Review, 2(4), 1–17. Finnström, S. (2008). Living with Bad Surroundings. War, History, and Everyday Moments in Northern Uganda. London: Duke University Press. Goffman, E. (1963). Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity. London: Simon and Schuster. Harlacher, T. (2009). Traditional Ways of Coping with Consequences of Traumatic Stress in Acholiland: Northern Ugandan Ethnography from a Western Psychological Perspective. PhD Dissertation. Switzerland: University of Freiburg

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Human Rights Watch. (2003). Stolen children: Abduction and Recruitment in Northern Uganda. Author, 15(7A), 1-24. Available https://www.hrw.org/ reports/2003/uganda0303/. IDDRS. (2006). Integrated Disarmament Demobilisation and Disarmament Standard: National Institutions for DDR. Available at http://www.unddr.org/ iddrs/03/download/IDDRS_330.pdf. Kiconco, A., & Nthakomwa, M. (2018). Marriage for the ‘New Woman’ from the Lord’s Resistance Army: Experiences of Female Ex-abductees in the Acholi Region of Uganda. Women’s Studies International Forum, 68(May– June), 65–74. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.wsif.2018.02.008. Liu Institute for Global Issues and Gulu District NGO Forum. (2005). Roco Wat I Acoli. Restoring Relations in Acholi-land: Traditional Approaches to Reintegration and Justice. Authors, Gulu. Macdonald, A., & Kerali, R. (2020). Being Normal: Stigmatization of Lord’s Resistance Army Returnees as ‘Moral Experience’ in Post-war Northern Uganda. Journal of Refugee Studies, 1, 1–25. https://doi.org/10.1093/ jrs/fez117. McKay, S., & Mazurana, D. (2004). Where Are the Girls? Girls in Fighting Forces in Northern Uganda, Sierra Leone and Mozambique: Their Lives During and After the War. Montreal: Rights & Democracy. Metsola, L. (2006). ‘Reintegration’ of Ex-soldiers and Former Fighters. A Lens into State Formation and Citizenship in Namibia. Third World Quarterly, 27(6), 61119–61135. https://doi.org/10.1080/01436590600842407. Nussio, E. (2012). Emotional Legacies of War Among Former Colombian Paramilitaries. Peace and Conflict: Journal of Peace Psychology, 28(4), 369. Ofumbi, D.  W. (2012). Identity and Transformation: Study of Significance of African Christianity in Christian Transforming Transformation. USA: Xulon Press. Oloya, O. (2010). Becoming a Child Soldier: A Cultural Perspective from the Autobiographical Voices. PhD Dissertation, York University, Toronto. p’Bitek, O. (1986). Artist the Ruler: Essays on Art, Culture and Values. Nairobi: East African Educational Publishers. Pham, N.  P., Vinck, P., & Stover, E. (2007). Abduction: The Lord’s Resistance Army and Forced Conscription in Northern Uganda. California: The University of California, Berkeley Human Rights Centre and Tulane University centre for International Development. Porter, H. (2013). After Rape: Justice and Social Harmony in Northern Uganda. PhD Dissertation, London School of Economics, London.

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Porter, H. (2017). After Rape: Violence, Justice, and Social Harmony in Uganda. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sendabo, T. (2004). Child Soldiers: Rehabilitation and Social Reintegration in Liberia. Uppsala: Life &Peace Institute. Torjesen, S. (2013). Towards a Theory of Ex-Combatant Reintegration. Stability: International Journal of Security and Development, 2(3), 63. https://doi. org/10.5334/sta.cx. Vastapuu, L. (2018). Liberia’s Women Veterans: War, Roles and Reintegration. London: Zed Books.

Part III Voices from Sri Lanka

11 Reflections on the Role of Female Cadres in the LTTE Bhavani Fonseka

Editorial Comments An ‘absent-presence’ in the next two chapters on Sri Lanka is the lived experience and reintegration problems faced by its male ex-combatants, since in their different ways both chapters focus on the gendered experiences of women. This is deliberate. Sri Lanka’s was a victor’s peace. The Sinhala armed services, men and women, were rewarded with relatively generous pensions, suitable medical care, and material and symbolic reparations and memorialisation. The defeated non-state Tamil actors face a double victimhood in being vanquished as an ethic group on top of whatever emotional and physical injuries they suffered. Most male former Tamil Tigers disappeared, were killed or detained and presently live under heavy surveillance. Female former tigers also faced similar prospects as the male combatants. Both male and female former Tamil Tigers went through DDR, leading to the reintegration of some of them.

B. Fonseka (*) Centre for Policy Alternatives, Colombo, Sri Lanka © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_11

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Despite fighting for gender liberation as much as territorial independence, the patriarchal nature of Sri Lankan society shapes their lived experiences in a way that gives special merit to the focus on women excombatants from the LTTE. Rather than marginalisation through ostracism, stigma and silencing, as we saw in South Africa and Uganda, they are subjected to re-­domestication policies which seek to return them to the private sphere of the home and to traditional feminine gender roles. Re-domestication is a peculiarly Sri Lankan policy in the context of its victor’s peace that justifies the focus on the gendered experiences of women ex-combatants. This focus, however, should not blind us to the lost generation of Tamil males who fought and died or who fled.

Introduction The history in Sri Lanka has been littered by multiple conflicts that have spanned decades with tensions largely between the Sinhalese majority and Tamil minority festering since the British colonial period. Ethnic tensions suppressed during the immediate post-independence period witnessed the introduction of discriminatory policies, such as making Sinhala the official language and introducing ethnic quotas. The structural inequalities and discrimination faced by the minorities resulted in the strengthening of Tamil nationalism and the emergence of several armed groups (Hoole et al. 1990). The most prominent is the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) emerging as the most powerful counter-­ insurgency group. In 1983, the LTTE killed thirteen soldiers which resulted in the unleashing of near three decades of violence attributed to both state and non-state actors, massacres and persecution of civilians of all ethnic groups and the displacement of tens of thousands. The war between the government of Sri Lanka and the LTTE saw nearly three decades of hostilities and numerous violations from both sides. During this period, there were several attempts for a negotiated peace settlement but none succeeded. The Ceasefire Agreement (CFA) facilitated by the Norwegian government saw a respite in hostilities from 2001 to 2006, but this was short-lived due to continuous violations of the CFA by both

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parties.1 A hawkish government under the leadership of the then President Mahinda Rajapaksa (2005–2015) opted for a military strategy over a negotiated peace settlement that ultimately witnessed the capitulation of the LTTE in May 2009. This chapter examines the experiences of female cadres in the LTTE who challenged traditional and cultural norms in Tamil society by joining the movement. It will look at the roles female cadres played in the LTTE, including participating in active combat. These former cadres challenged the essential beliefs of women in Sri Lanka (and elsewhere) as nurturers, carers, peace makers and as non-combative. They resisted the societal expectations of marriage and children for a life of active combat. Training for combat including suicide missions, being in combat gear, carrying arms and living in military camps which was a complete reversal of what was expected of Tamil women. This chapter also briefly examines the emergence of female cadres in the LTTE, their role in the movement, the challenges faced during war and the role of former ex-combatants in post-war Sri Lanka. Whilst this chapter is not an exhaustive study, it highlights some of the issues and challenges faced by female cadres, the contradictions and complexities they face as they make the transition from a society of war to one of peace.

J oining the LTTE: A Question of Choice or Coercion? Several reasons are attributed for joining the LTTE and it is worth examining the choices women had at the time of joining. Existing literature and interviews (see Brewer et al. 2018; Gowrinathan 2010, 2017) demonstrate a complex picture with some making an informed choice to join while others experienced different forms of coercion. Multiple motivations were present as to why women joined the LTTE, but this chapter also demonstrates a non-linear trajectory behind such motivations. Some joined the LTTE because of their political beliefs and support for Tamil  It was also during the CFA period that the Gender Sub Committee was appointed discussed later in the chapter. 1

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nationalist ideals. Others opted to join for the opportunities the movement offered to women and for the level of security it afforded them. In other cases, forms of coercion were evident: some joined out of fear or to prevent a family member being forcibly conscripted (Gowrinathan 2017). Further, during the early years of the LTTE, it seemed that people had a greater degree of choice as to whether to join or not, but as the war continued and the number of casualties increased, different techniques were mobilised to ensure that the LTTE had the human capacity to continue military actions. In the early days of the movement, women played ancillary roles and were given non-combative roles. As the war continued, the need arose for military trained personnel and with it women were recruited into combative roles. In 1983, the Vituthalai Pulikal Munani (Women’s Front of the Liberation Tigers) was formed with female cadres being trained in both Tamil Nadu in India and Jaffna in Sri Lanka (Alison 2004). They battled the Sri Lankan forces in 1986 and with this witnessed an increase in the recruitment of female cadres. There is no exact figure as to the number of female cadres in the LTTE, but it is estimated they constituted around 15–20 per cent of the fighting forces (Alison 2004). A few interviewed during the course of the research indicated that there was no coercion into joining and that they voluntarily signed up to fight for Tamil nationalism. During the early years, the LTTE also attempted to show that they were a social movement that addressed the needs of the community. It is reported that some women joined the LTTE to escape traditional Tamil culture and to bring about long-lasting gender equality and societal change. For some the motivation to join the LTTE was due to an oppressive Sinhala Buddhist state, its discriminatory policies and the taking up of arms was a recourse to the injustices they witnessed. As Adele Balasingham averred: ‘The decision to break out of this cycle of suffocating control is a refreshing expression and articulation of their new aspirations and independence. It could perhaps be one of the biggest decisions of their lives. Such a decision makes a social statement about the characters of the young women. It tells society that they are not satisfied with the social status quo; it means they are young women capable of defying authority; it means they are women with independent

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thoughts…Such young women fly in the face of tradition, but they are the women who are the catalyst for social change’ (Balasingham 1993, pp. 8–9). An attraction for women to join the LTTE was the fact that it provided a space for women to escape the oppressive and restrictions placed on women by Tamil traditions. With the war, certain spaces opened up for women to challenge socially constructed gender norms and values. Further, some women also joined to prevent falling victim to gendered violence at the hands of government forces and also the Indian Peace Keeping Forces (IPKF). A former cadre interviewed mentioned that the LTTE had visited several schools to entice the youth to join during the late 1980s but she had not been interested at that time.2 Soon after, the Sri Lankan military had conducted operations in the area that resulted in the killing of civilians, disappearances and the rape of young women. Witnessing such violence had made her join the LTTE voluntarily. The resulting impact of the war was not merely limited to physical violence to one’s body but also psychological. As a result of the war, thousands of people were displaced over the years and some multiple times moving from one place of refuge to another. Sri Lanka has a significant refugee population in South India and an even bigger diaspora in Europe, North America, Australia and other places. Many fled overseas over the decades, escaping the violence and destruction, leaving behind their home and kinship network. A significant number was also displaced within Sri Lanka. Displacement had a direct impact in fracturing social and familial networks, livelihoods and education (Fonseka 2010). The war also displaced social hierarchies and dislodged traditional cultural practices based on a caste and class system. Gender norms and cultural traditions took a secondary position as a result of the uncertainties caused by displacement. For instance, during the cycles of displacement, communities from different backgrounds, beliefs and social strata were forced to co-exist in displacement camps. In such a context, identities and practices changed and new formed freedoms created. Women who were forced to play more traditional roles were placed in a situation where they  Interview 7th September 2019.

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become decision makers and were economically responsible for the family unit. Young women and girls were exposed to the violence of war and the dangers around them. Although displacement alone may not have resulted in large numbers joining the LTTE, the uncertainty and upheaval created as a result of the displacement and the level of gendered violence were contributing factors. The disruptions to education and life in general as a result of the war were also another factor that resulted in some joining the LTTE. One former cadre stated that with schools closing there was encouragement to join the LTTE so that they could be occupied and were not left idle.3 Whilst most women were trained to use weaponry and combat, some were selected by the LTTE into other roles, such as administration, public relations and social services, such as education and health.4 By joining the LTTE, they were enlisting to fight an oppressive state and in support for Tamil Eelam, the Tamil Nation. The interviewees believed that they were fighting for freedom, fighting to bring about societal transformation. They were challenging patriarchal power, traditional practices and fighting for the emancipation of all women. The complexities arising from fighting for change were captured in the book The Broken Palmyra (Hoole et al. 1990, pp. 325–326): ‘One could see the nationalist fervour and the romantic vision of women in arms defending the nation. This becomes a great draw for other women to join the militant movement. Our social set up, its restriction on creative expressions for women and the evils of the dowry system, are some of the social factors that led to their initial recruitment. Moreover, the political climate created by the struggle in the past decade, and the increasing loss of men to state terrorism and the world at large as refugees and emigrants, are some of the contributory factors necessitating women’s recruitment. However, it would be an over-statement to say that it is the climate of “liberation”, the kind of literature that is available, the knowledge of the experience of women in other struggles from far flung corners of the world, or the rebelliousness against being kept out of the centre of the struggle, that was drawing the fertile minds of young women to active participation’.  Interview 7th September 2019.  Interview 7th September 2019.

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As mentioned, coercion in different forms was also very present. A former female cadre who is presently residing in Jaffna and rebuilding her life spoke of not having a choice to join the LTTE. She spoke of the pressures applied on her parents by the LTTE and that while there was no physical force used, she had joined as there was little to no choice.5 This is a reminder that during the war years, the LTTE was a formidable presence in the North and East and civilians had limited choice. Another former cadre shared that she joined as the LTTE kept visiting her school and her village and she joined to pre-empt her siblings being taken by force.6 Such experiences are not isolated, with some joining the LTTE to prevent younger siblings or other family members from being forcibly recruited. The LTTE may not in some instances have used physical force to recruit but narratives suggest to different forms of coercion being used (see UTHRJ 2000).

The Lived Experiences of Female Cadres During the LTTE’s dominance, female cadres played an increasingly critical role in combat. According to interviews conducted and existing literature, female cadres were in military and non-military roles. The former category included roles in combat including in the Black Tigers (LTTE suicide squad) and Sea Tigers (LTTE naval force). Women learnt how to use weapons, explosives and guerrilla warfare techniques. Other important roles the women cadres had included logistics, communications, administration, political, medical and other services. They lived in their own camps and were known as ‘Birds of Freedom’. The number of women in leadership roles in the LTTE was nominal compared to the men. According to Thamilini, head of the LTTE’s political wing for women, the LTTE central committee had twelve members, out of which five were women (Alison 2004). Despite Thamilini, as a woman, being in a senior position within the LTTE central committee, the decisions on military strategy remained with LTTE’s Supreme Leader  Interview 7th September 2019.  Interview 8th September 2019.

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Prabakaran and a few other male leaders. In political matters too, the men seemed to have played a primary role. For instance, despite the appointment of the Gender Sub-Committee during the CFA period, the pace in which the peace talks took place were driven by men (Samuel 2011). The Gender Sub-Committee appointed during the CFA period comprised of the government delegation which nominated five women, and the LTTE had five women. The LTTE delegation was headed by Thamilini. While the Gender Sub-Committee had several meetings and were able to commence discussions into several issues, much was dependent on the overall progression of the talks. And thus, while the women had some leadership roles in the LTTE, this space was defined by men, demonstrating the gendered hierarchies in the movement. This raises the question as to whether the process of assigning women to specific roles was a token gesture rather than a serious attempt for women to have the same degree of decision-making power as men. In addition, a few of the interviewees spoke of a monthly meeting held by the female cadres and other women in the LTTE where they were able to discuss issues confronting them.7 These meetings were sometimes attended by Prabakaran. His speeches at these gatherings apparently spoke of equality within the ranks and that women were equal to men, which seems to have been believed by the women. However, there is no literature to suggest such gatherings provided the space to criticise or question the leadership and decisions taken by men (De Mel 2001). Whilst some women claimed there was no distinction being a female cadre in the LTTE, hierarchies seem to be present in the LTTE. It must also be noted that in the liberation struggle, the Tamil cause is given priority and the emancipation of women was secondary to the nationalist question. The impact of this is keenly felt in post-war Sri Lanka where some women have reverted back to their traditional roles of home maker and primary carer. Thus, a key argument here is that while individual transformation took place, with women leaving behind traditional roles to join the LTTE, the impact of societal transformation is limited by the persistence of gendered norms and values. There is also a lack of preparedness in Tamil women. A consequence of the war has seen some  Interview 8th September 2019.

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women being thrust into the public domain with new responsibilities and in turn having to navigate new spaces that were once within the purview of men. The previous section discussed some of the reasons women joined the LTTE with existing literature capturing some of the motivations for being involved in the movement. The sense of honour of being in the LTTE was captured by Thamilin herself in her book In the Shadow of a Sharp Sword, where she states: ‘I felt as if a sense of prestige and arrogance creeping into me when I first wore the LTTE’s striped military uniform and the shoes’ (cited in a review by Ayub 2016). But this pride in the uniform must also be contrasted with the masculine warrior in a feminine guise that captures the paradoxical identities of the protector, nurturer and fighter (Herath 2014, p. 47). In the LTTE, as in any army, discipline was paramount. For example, there were strict rules regarding relationships, and the LTTE initially banned marriage. This ban was lifted when Prabakaran married his wife Malathy. With Prabakaran’s marriage, there was an acceptance of marriage which could only occur after five years of joining (Herath 2014). For female cadres, having children was also permissible as the LTTE provided care for children whilst their parents were on duty. This demonstrates that an important feature in the LTTE was kinship and camaraderie. Herath writes of the close familial relationships formed whilst on active service between many of the LTTE female cadres she interviewed which provided the stability, security and support system for them (Herath 2014, p. 123). Those interviewed all spoke of close friendships formed and affection towards their fellow soldiers. For many, the LTTE became a revolutionary family where the women felt safe and accepted and one in which they were all fighting for the same political cause. The LTTE also provided a safe space during times of violence by state forces, and during the disruption of wider societal change. The societal transformation meant leaving behind the practices of a traditional Tamil society to charter a new course, defined by the LTTE.  In the LTTE family, Prabakaran was called ‘Anna’ or elder brother and many looked for direction under his leadership. Ultimately, their loyalty to the LTTE was not only to the organisation but also directly to Prabakaran.

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For some, the kinship formed during the war has transcended into the post-war context.8 As discussed below, multiple challenges were faced by former cadres in post-war Sri Lanka, including security, economic well-­ being and psychosocial needs, as well as being ostracised and marginalised by sections of society. The bonds created while in the LTTE have supported many in facing these challenges. There were also female cadres who were injured or disabled during the war. Those interviewed for this chapter spoke of being released from active combat duties with some retiring completely from the LTTE due to injury.9 While some injuries were permanent, others received less serious injuries and they were able to re-join the movement either in the same capacity or in a different role depending on the nature of their injuries. There is presently a network of disabled veterans who were combatants or who had other roles in the LTTE. The possibility of having to face death and violence was ingrained into the training. Female cadres wore, as did their male cadres, a cyanide capsule around their neck. Cadres were shown images of violence committed by the opposing forces and were trained to take the cyanide if captured by the government forces to prevent torture and other forms of violence. Reports indicate that the LTTE cadre Malathy was the first female cadre to take the cyanide capsule. This propelled her to martyrdom creating a legacy for others not to be captured by enemy forces. In the last stage of the war, reports document many LTTE cadres surrendering to the government security forces. A few interviewed spoke of surrendering and being taken to camps for what has been termed as ‘rehabilitation’.10 The fact that cadres were forced to surrender or face imminent death will need to be studied further. Thamilini writes of the last stage of the war, where regular cadres in the battle front were isolated from the leadership with no instructions. Many surrendered to the military and she was one to surrender. The surrender of so many LTTE cadres raises several issues including allegations of thousands of disappearances (Kodikara 2019).  Interview 7th September 2019.  Interviews 7th and 8th September 2019. 10  Interview 7th and 8th September 2019. 8 9

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Female Suicide Cadres The suicide-bombers from the LTTE had gained notoriety worldwide and were viewed as one of LTTE’s deadliest weapons. Over the course of the years, they were known for extreme military actions sacrificing their lives to achieve the aims of Tamil Eelam. This particular arm of the LTTE was known as the ‘Black Tigers’. They were the LTTE’s elite cadres who were trained for the most sensitive operations. In 1987, the first suicide operation by the LTTE took place which killed 40 personnel of the security forces (Jayatunge 2009). The most well-known female suicide cadre was Dhanu, when in 1991 she blew herself up at an election rally in India. Her successful target was Rajiv Gandhi, the former Prime Minister of India who was contesting elections and had earlier played a key part in the Indo Sri Lanka Accord of 1987. Gandhi and several others were killed as the blast occurred in a busy election campaign rally. Dhanu’s suicide mission soon made her one of the most well-known individuals in the LTTE, becoming a hero for many in the LTTE and to others who were Tamil Nationalist sympathisers, and a demon to others. Women were used as suicide-bombers for several reasons. In a highly militarised war setting, women were able to access targets easily as security forces focused more on the traditional stereotypes of male combatants. Women were socially constructed to be less violent in Sri Lanka and the belief that a woman would blow herself up was still incongruous to many during the war years. During the Sri Lankan war, several instances saw LTTE female suicide-bombers being able to enter high security areas and public spaces.11 There were also instances where female suicide cadres appeared as pregnant women which allowed even less surveillance as some government personnel would be reluctant to perform a full body search on a seemingly pregnant woman. Whilst there may be criticism of their choice to become a suicide-­ bomber, there was also a belief that female suicide-bombers were sacrificing their lives for a larger and nobler cause—that of a Tamil Nation.  This included suicide attempts targeting then Army Commander Sarath Fonseka in 2006 and EPDP leader Douglas Devananda in 2004. 11

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Whilst many speak of a sacrifice, commenters also note that this is also seen as a ‘gift’ to the larger struggle (Herath 2014, pp. 11, 183). They were also identified as ‘Suicide Warriors’ to ensure they were not linked with terrorism but seen as fighting for a larger cause (Herath 2014, p. 166). They were also given special status and training in the LTTE, with Prabakaran reportedly having a meal with the selected suicide cadre before a mission, reinforcing the important status of the selected individual. The presence of Prabakaran was perceived as exceptional within the LTTE. Families of suicide cadres were also provided with financial and other support by the LTTE. There were also days to commemorate the sacrifices and lives of suicide cadres or cadres who died in combat. Despite the special status given to suicide cadres, it must be noted that their role was intrinsically linked with death, which challenges society’s stereotypical ideas of womanhood. As noted by Arjuna Gunawardena (2006, p. 87): ‘Women are traditionally seen as “life-givers” rather than “life-takers”: the LTTE has turned them into human bombs’. It is for this reason that some instances were reported where the detonation was done by a remote control (De Mel 2001), raising questions as to the extent of choice a female suicide-bombers had whilst in the LTTE. Such a lack of choice absolves them of moral culpability and restores their socially stereotypical ‘feminine’ characteristics, making their combat role more explicable in terms of these stereotypes.

 as There Real Transformation for the Women W in the LTTE? There is debate as to whether joining the LTTE was a positive transformation and questions have been raised as to whether women were actually empowered and treated as equals by their male comrades and ultimately by the movement. This section briefly examines the nature and levels of personal as well as societal transformation. When discussing this, it must be noted at the outset that one cannot generalise experiences. Some women viewed joining the LTTE as a positive transformation in

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the move to gain equality and to break from the traditional roles that had in the past served to restrict women’s opportunities. The movement opened up spaces for women to assume new roles, both in combat and in other positions in the LTTE. Some commenters have indicated that joining the LTTE was empowering for the women (Shalk 1994; Balasingham 1993, 2001). Shalk, for example, says that the LTTE had its own form of feminism called ‘martial feminism’ and that being part of the LTTE had a positive contribution to women, making them equal to men (Shalk 1994). In her book The Will to Freedom: An Inside View of Tamil Resistance, Adele Balasingham (2001) speaks of the numerous roles, including leadership roles, of LTTE women. She gave several examples from across the spectrum of the LTTE (see Balasingham 2001, pp. 294–295). For example, in the judicial system in LTTE controlled areas there were female judges, including Supreme Court judges. Female lawyers represented cases on behalf of women. Balsingham notes that in the medical section, a woman was the first doctor to join the LTTE and she trained hundreds of male and female nurses in the organisation. Women assumed enormous responsibility in managing the finances of the LTTE. An entire section of women collectively chose topics and directed their own films and news programmes. A newspaper was written, edited and produced by the women cadres. An important example of women’s participation in decision-making is found in the administration of the LTTE controlled territory. Some of the interviewees stated that former female cadres joined the LTTE with the hope of gaining emancipation from the restrictions of traditional life: to have new opportunities afforded to them and to be able to counter the deeply rooted gender stereotype in Tamil society.12 However, women’s emancipation was seen as secondary to the Tamil nationalist question with the primary focus being of Tamil Eelam. Being in the LTTE also meant being put in a highly militarised and controlled setting where violence was encouraged and accepted. Critics argue that the use of women suicide cadre is in effect not empowering but is a tool left in the hands of men where they use the women as a form of human shield to further the nationalist cause. Radhika Coomaraswamy (1997), 12

 Interview August 2019.

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who is critical of the LTTE women, called the process ‘cogs in the wheel’ of a nationalist project that had no real agenda to empower women. She goes on to say that female suicide-bombers were the complete annihilation and mutilation of the female body in pursuit of a political cause. Another point is that women in the LTTE had to abide by LTTE rules and restrictions including their form of dress, physical appearance, when to marry, and obtaining permission to visit home, among other things. These rules were drawn up by men with women having no choice but to follow, raising questions as to whether the movement was a champion for women’s rights or whether the LTTE mirrored similar practices found in Tamil society, where decisions were mostly taken by men. Neloufer De Mel notes that ‘it (LTTE) ushers the woman from the private to public and empowers her in an idea of militancy. But these shifts also always incorporate the continuing subordination of women even as they are invested, as political participants and combatants, with an agency that is unavailable to them in conventional society’ (De Mel 2001, pp. 216–217). Miranda Alison, though, sees this as ‘ambivalent empowerment’ and that the ‘the debate over whether LTTE women are agents or victims, liberated or subjugated, emancipated or oppressed strikes me as an unnecessary and unsophisticated binary’ (Alison 2003, p. 53). Transformation also seems to be noted in their conduct in post-war Sri Lanka, though questions also remained as to how far the transformation was realised. An activist working with former cadres in the North of Sri Lanka recounted the agency of women who worked in the LTTE, including former cadres, and ways they were challenging Tamil traditions.13 She narrated how they are independent and not reliant on financial support of family members. There are also incidents where they challenged Tamil traditional practices, such as funerals where the practice is for males to play a lead role. With some former female cadres, they have taken the role to bury their parents, contrary to usual practices of the son or another male relative playing that role. Despite this, with the end of the war many women returned to more traditional roles. Several sought the sanctity of family life and the apparent safety this brings with it in a patriarchal society. This raises questions  Interview August 2019.

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of whether there was actual transformation and whether the road to gender equality is temporary. It must be noted that some of the women interviewed for this chapter did not see anything negative, regressive or disempowering in returning back to traditional roles and practices. There have been instances in post-war Sri Lanka where some former female cadres have questioned their former roles. Whilst there was limited space to question and debate their roles during the war, with many who were seen as critical of the LTTE facing reprisals, space has slowly opened up in post-war Sri Lanka for reflection and debate. For example, Thamilini herself raises specific concerns: ‘I was pondering as to what basically made me a militant as well as a terrorist. It was the politics. It was the politics that taught us that the gun would bring us freedom. It was the same politics that branded me as a terrorist. I was brought up as one who loved the lives of others during my childhood. It was the belief that I would be able to protect the future of the people that pushed me into the struggle. But I have been responsible for the deaths and destructions carried out in the name of freedom. It is a treachery against my conscience to deny or conceal it’ (cited in Ayub 2016). Such questioning and reflection are slowly taking place, demonstrating mixed views within former cadres and society in general. Considering that more than a decade has passed since the end of the war, there is no denying that the empowerment claimed by some commentators has not been fully realised, though this will require further study.

Post-War Challenges Former female cadres have had to face numerous challenges in post-war Sri Lanka. Whilst active hostilities have ended, the security situation for many is tenuous. Several interviewees spoke of the continuing security issues faced as a result of being former cadres or for other roles they played in the LTTE. Despite a decade since the war ended, several spoke of continuing surveillance, police harassment and regular visits by the military to their homes. Some interviewees also spoke of being ostracised by their community and feeling that the community held them with suspicion. This led to some participants in the study feeling vulnerable and some

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had experienced sexual exploitation, physical harassment and violence because of their former involvement. Some former female cadres also experienced discrimination, and found it difficult to secure permanent employment. Some were also refused financial assistance, such as loans, because of their involvement in the LTTE. Those who were able to obtain loans also had the added burden of having to stick to strict repayment plans and failure to do so led to severe financial penalty and further debt. This said, those who were not directly involved in hostilities indicated some promise with livelihoods. A few who were not directly involved in combat spoke of being able to find work in their local areas. Notably, in the post-war context a few who were involved in the LTTE have published their memoirs and other literature, with some highlighting to the tensions in the movement. For example, Thamilini’s book is a critical appraisal of her role in the LTTE.  Some former female cadres interviewed for this chapter were critical of what is captured in Thamilini’s book, stating that these are unlikely to be the real views of Thamilini, as the book contains criticism of the LTTE. Thamilini passed away in 2015, prior to the publication of her book. The war had made some strides in terms of women’s emancipation and women taking a greater economic responsibility, especially with the emergence of the large number of women headed households (WHH). They are the sole breadwinners and carers in their family and challenge traditional practices of having a male as the head of household. But some spoke of continuous challenges faced by former female cadres. The LTTE provided a space where women had evolved to be an important player in combat and had roles in other duties in the movement. With the end of the war, some of these women who had no traditional strictures imposed on them while in the LTTE had to revert back to some forms of traditional notions of domesticity. Some out of choice were keen to be married and have children, an attempt to conform as well as to have security. Thus, different experiences and choices are evident and their impact will require further attention. The marginalisation faced by former female cadres in the post-war context also demonstrates that the status enjoyed by them during the war may not be a sustained practice and is likely be a temporary measure during times of violence and uncertainty. This may mean that women who

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were treated as equals while in the LTTE may not face the same experience in the post-war context. Several former female cadres spoke of the practical challenges of security and livelihood and societal pressures of having to ‘conform’ to traditional notions of femininity. As Alison notes, ‘existing research suggests that female combatants are often perceived as a necessary but temporary aberration in a time of national crisis and need, rather than as representative of a fundamental societal change in gender roles’ (Alison 2004, p. 458). Decades after the emergence of the female cadre, and the resistance to the gendered stereotypes there seems to be an emerging trend of former cadres acquiescing to the traditional roles yet continuing to face new challenges in a militarised and polarised post-war context.

Challenges with Reintegration When examining the status of former female cadres in post-war Sri Lanka, a focus must be on what was introduced to facilitate their reintegration into society. The Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration (DDR) programme in post-war Sri Lanka differs from most other such programmes. A victorious Sri Lankan government introduced the DDR programme after the military defeat of its opponent and many of the programmes and policy frameworks were not grounded in human rights. For example, the DDR programme came under severe criticism from human rights activists and from civil society for failing to protect those undergoing what was termed ‘screening’14 or to investigate allegations of brutality and disappearances after surrendering. The government of Sri Lanka introduced a National Action Plan for the reintegration of ex-­ combatants back to civilian life but this plan is faced with multiple challenges, including bureaucratic hurdles and the lack of a clear policy direction. The DDR programme was also focused on the last component—reintegration—as opposed to disarmament and demobilisation. In terms of the framework, the Bureau of the Commissioner General of  This was a process to gather the role the former cadre had in the LTTE but it was criticised for not having an independent entity monitor the process and not being transparent. 14

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Rehabilitation (BCGR) was created in September 2006, responsible for those who surrendered voluntarily and for the rehabilitation of former cadres. Protective Accommodation and Rehabilitation Centers (PARCs) were created to provide vocational, technical and other training for a period of 12 months. Former cadres underwent ‘rehabilitation’ in PARCs, though concerns have been raised as to the true nature of rehabilitation, and whether they were subsequently reintegrated into communities. The DDR faced criticism for the lack of transparency, lack of access to independent monitors, and being heavily militarised due to the lead being taken by the defence establishment. Criticism has also been made regarding the lack of sensitivity towards the numerous social issues facing former female cadres upon returning to their communities. Another gap is the lack of comprehensive psychosocial care for former cadres. Further, criticism was made of the failure to build on the skills of former female cadres with the training focused on domestic homelife, such as cooking, sewing, and rearing livestock, rather than learning skills which would make them economically independent. There were no initiatives to build on the skills acquired during their time in the LTTE which raises the question as to whether initiatives in the post-war context is a means to erase the history and skills acquired while in the movement. As noted by one activist working with former cadres, the skills training focused on areas of sewing and beauty care with the expectation that women would return to the same gender roles that many had resisted. These gendered programmes served to also reinforce women’s secondary position in society. There was also limited investment and training provided to those who had a disability as a consequence of the war. Another challenge with the reintegration into society is with the limited support provided by the state and others. Several interviewed spoke of economic difficulties finding suitable employment as they carried a societal stigma of being LTTE cadres. Whilst many spoke of their families and communities supporting their reintegration, a few had no family to return to. What was notable was that the kinship created during their time in the LTTE had resonance in post-war times. Several spoke of fellow former cadres as their family, who looked out for each other and were a support system.

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Conclusion Female cadres have diverse and complex experiences. As this chapter highlights, women joined the LTTE for several reasons ranging from voluntarily joining as a rational choice to support change to various forms of coercion. For former female cadres, their post-war experiences are also complex. Some interviewed spoke of being able to reintegrate back whilst others faced numerous challenges when returning to war affected and fractured communities. When examining the role of former female cadres, a central question worth posing is whether they are victims or perpetrators, which gets to the core of their claims to moral legitimacy. Can those who perpetrated violence be considered victims? Should those who were forcibly recruited be considered victims? The answer is complicated by the imposition of a binary distinction between victim and perpetrator. The victim-­perpetrator binary is a complex one with no easy answer, but claims to victimhood need to be examined in the local context with a nuanced understanding of the politics of victimhood (McEvoy & McConnachie 2012, p. 534). It is what Kimberly Theidon calls the ‘politics of victimhood’ which can impact ex-combatants and further polarise relationships and exacerbate further tensions (Theidon 2010). Former female cadres have their lived experiences in combat and cannot simply erase the past, their work and what they were fighting for. This will also have a bearing in their own reintegration back into their community. A few interviewed spoke of having the support of their family and community in their reintegration but others spoke of difficulties of resettling back into civilian life. The literature and the interviews also show how some have been victims of discrimination because of their past involvement and being placed under heightened surveillance. Despite fighting in the name of liberation, the narratives of former cadres show a more complex situation where they lived by military rules imposed on them while in the LTTE. Now as a civilian they continue to face scrutiny and are in some instances regulated and disciplined by the Sri Lankan state. It can be argued that women in the LTTE lived through a different

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type of framework of control but with one similarity that the restrictions even within a liberation framework were imposed by men. These complexities are evident in their narratives. Some interviewees spoke of how their lived experiences had been silenced, sidelined and demonised, by the representations and re-configurations of the war by the Sri Lankan state. The state has shaped much of Sri Lanka’s narrative about the war, trying to erase much of the LTTE’s presence in the areas they occupied. This includes the erasing of LTTE memorials and cemeteries. Further, the skills offered to the former cadres at the reintegration centres are also another indicator of attempts by the state to denigrate and ultimately erase the skills acquired by former members of the LTTE. The attempts serve to render the lived experiences of former cadres as simply as the Sri Lankan state’s ‘enemy’. This approach fails to consider the context of what led to the LTTE forming and the motivations behind enlisting. The labelling takes away the nuances required from such situations and it is important to ensure there is space to recognise the complex and sometimes contradictory histories and experiences of those involved and affected by conflict. In understanding their motivations to join the LTTE, it is worth noting that the war changed and challenged gender inequality and state oppression. As men disappeared and the war casualties increased, women had no choice but to take on new roles in the family, in society and in the LTTE. In the post-war context, with the large number of WHHs, new norms have emerged, and some women have become the main bread winners and the primary carers. The changes over the years challenged gender roles that were previously seen within the male domain, creating new roles and shifting power relations between the genders. For some former female members of the LTTE, in addition to new societal roles opening up, re-negotiating their identities as former female cadres, they are also haunted by the horrors of war. The chapter has spoken of the experiences of former female cadres undergoing a personal transformation by leaving behind traditional lives and joining a movement which introduced them to new roles and responsibilities under a military organisational framework. The experiences and narratives of former female cadres are complex and not linear. The process of reintegration in post-war Sri Lanka is also complex and disjointed.

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The chapter is not an exhaustive study of female cadres in the LTTE, but it has attempted to capture some of the complexities, contradictions and challenges they as female members of the LTTE face on a daily level. It also questions whether the transformation for gender equality was temporary, created by the conflict itself or has had a lasting research in the formation of a more gender equal society transitioning from war to peace. More than a decade since the end of the war, Sri Lanka is yet again on the cusp of further change. Increasing nationalist sentiments across Sri Lanka and the 2019 Easter Sunday attacks brought to the fore ethnic tensions serving as a reminder of how the journey to peace is fractured and precarious. The elections in 2019 and 2020 has ushered in a majoritarian government raising concerns for reconciliation, coexistence, the rule of law and space for dissent. In such a context, the experiences and status of former cadres will be an uncertain one and it is yet to be seen how they find a place in the political future of Sri Lanka.

Bibliography Alison, M. (2003). Cogs in the Wheel? Women in the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam. Civil Wars, 6(4), 37–54. Alison, M. (2004). Women as Agents of Political Violence: Gendering Security. Security Dialogue, 35(4), 447–463. Ayub, M.  S. M. (2016, September 2). Why Did the LTTE Fail? Thamilini’s Answers Daily Mirror (Review in the Daily Mirror Newspaper). Balasingham, A. (1993). Women Fighters of the Liberation Tigers. Thasan Printers. Balasingham, A. (2001). The Will to Freedom: An Inside View of Tamil Resistance. Fairmax Publishing Ltd. Brewer, J.  D., Hayes, B.  C., Teeney, F., Dudgeon, K., Mueller-Hirth, N., & Wijesinghe, S.  L. (2018). The Sociology of Everyday Life Peacebuilding. London: Palgrave. Bureau of the Commissioner General of Rehabilitation, Department of Government Information (2013). Rehabilitation of Ex Combatants. Coomaraswamy, R. (1997, January 5). LTTE Women: Is This Liberation? The Sunday Times. De Mel, N. (2001). Women and the Nation’s Narrative: Gender and Nationalism in Twentieth Century Sri Lanka. Social Scientists Association.

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Fonseka, B. (2010). Commentary on Returns, Resettlement and Land Issues in the North of Sri Lanka. Centre for Policy Alternatives. Gowrinathan, N. (2010). Why Do Women Rebel? Understanding State Repression and Female Participation in Sri Lanka. UCLA: Center for the Study of Women. Retrieved from https://escholarship.org/uc/item/2hk943xk. Gowrinathan, N. (2017). The Committed Female Fighter: The Political Identities of Tamil Women in the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam. International Feminist Journal of Politics, 19(3), 327–341. Gunawardena, A. (2006). Female Black Tigers: A Different Breed of Cat? In Y.  Schweitzer (Ed.), Female Suicide Bombers: Dying for Equality? Tel Aviv: Jaffee Center for Strategic Studies. Herath, T. (2014). Women Combatants and Gender Identity in Contemporary Conflicts: The Case of the LTTE. PhD Thesis. Hoole, R., Somasundaram, D., Sritharan, K., & Thiranagama, R. (1990). The Broken Palmyra. The Sri Lankan Studies Institute. Jayatunge, R.  M. (2009). The Psychopathology of the LTTE Suicide Bombers. Retrieved from https://groundviews.org/2009/02/20/the-psychopathologyof-the-ltte-suicide-bombers/. Kodikara, C. (2019). What Is the Question? The Matter of Surrendees and Gotabaya Rajapaksa’s Response. Retrieved from https://groundviews.org/2019/10/17/ what-is-the-question-the-matter-of-surrendees-and-gotabaya-rajapaksasresponse/. McEvoy, K., & McConnachie, K. (2012). Victimology in Transitional Justice: Victimhood, Innocence and Hierarchy. European Journal of Criminology, 9(5), 527–538. Ministry of Disaster Management and Human Rights. (2009). National Framework Proposal for Reintegration of Ex Combatants into Civilian Life in Sri Lanka. Samuel, K. (2011). Women in the Sri Lankan Peace Process: Included But Unequal. In G. Ore Aguilar & F. Gomez Isa (Eds.), Rethinking Transitions: Equality and Social Justice in Societies Emerging from Conflict (pp. 67–100). Intersentia. Shalk, P. (1994). Women Fighters of the Liberation Tigers in Tamil Ilam. The Martial Feminism of Atel Palacinkam. South Asia Research, 14(2), 163–195. Theidon, K. (2010). Histories of Innocence: Post-War Stories in Peru. In R.  Shaw, L.  Waldorf, & P.  Hazan (Eds.), Localizing Transitional Justice (pp. 92–110). Stanford University Press. UTHRJ. (2000, July 11). The Sun God’s Children & The Big Lie. Retrieved from http://www.uthr.org/bulletins/bul23.htm.

12 Media Representations of Women Ex-combatants in Sri Lanka Ashleigh McFeeters

Editorial Comments Independently of each other, the authors of the last chapter and the next operate with the same conceptual framework, which results in the same analysis. Re-domestication of women ex-combatants in Sri Lanka is political; it is cultural practice put to the service of politics. While Chap. 11 explored the political strategy of re-domestication, Chap. 12 explores in greater depth the sociological features of re-domestication. It looks at the social processes through which re-domestication works. The primary attention is on media representations of female LTTE members and the heavy emphasis media representations place on re-domestication and traditional feminine gender roles. These media representations valorise domesticity and very skilfully disempower LTTE women through manipulating social processes like marriage and motherhood to suggest that

A. McFeeters (*) Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security and Justice, Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_12

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women ex-combatants are unfulfilled and should return to the home. The Sri Lankan case does, however, sit easily with others instances because of the gendered nature of its DDR policies. DDR is, though, remarkably gendered. Former LTTE women are given training in gendered work as seamstresses, care workers and the like. Sri Lankan DDR policies do not isolate girl child soldiers as a category however, unlike the Ugandan case, and there is no constraint on the re-domestication of girl child soldiers as a result of an elder culture, which is largely absent in Sri Lanka, although there are some special resettlement camps run by Western NGOs for girl soldiers who became mothers and their children.

Introduction A strong feature of most national liberation movements is that female combatants are granted similar status as men during conflict, but these rights are reversed once independence is achieved. Conflict opens up ‘intended and unintended spaces for empowering women, effecting social, economic and political realities that redefine gender…’ (Das cited in Manchanda 2001, p. 99), but participation in liberation movements is not a surety of equal rights post-conflict (Wilford 1998). Female combatants merely disrupt and trouble patriarchal gender roles but do not deconstruct or transform them (Brunner 2005, p. 48). This is amplified in ethno-national conflicts where women symbolise the nation and are the cultural and biological reproducers of nationhood (Yuval-Davis 1997). To change women’s status permanently would trouble the very essence of nationalism as a masculine concern (Day and Thompson 2004; Enloe 2000). Therefore, the socio-political and economic advancements gained during conflict are swiftly lost when the war is over and traditional notions of gender roles are reinstated (Ní Aoláin et al. 2011). Sri Lanka is a case in point. The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) was a paramilitary group founded to combat the erosion of Tamil rights by the majority Sinhalese government (Hellmann-Rajanayagam 1994). In its beginning, women were relegated to non-combat roles, but as the conflict escalated women began to move into positions conventionally reserved for men, and in 1984 the LTTE created a female-only

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combat unit called the ‘Freedom Birds’ (Stack-O’Connor 2007, p. 45). An estimated figure for female combatants in the LTTE is around 15–20 per cent (Alison 2003, p. 39). This chapter analyses the experiences of female combatants in the LTTE after the war, focusing on their post-­ conflict lived experiences, particularly with respect to how they have been portrayed and treated by society generally, as measured through their news media representation and narratives. It addresses how they have experienced the transition as a disappointment in terms of its potential for transforming gender roles. It is generally recognised that women tend to participate in domestic conflicts which affect their personal lives because these focus on restructuring national society, giving space to renegotiate women’s place in society (Alison 2009, p. 114). This allows women, through conflict, to bring about socio-cultural change. However, herein lies an unfortunate generalisation; it is perceived that men are motivated by national emancipation or religious fanaticism, which is emblematic of political agency, whilst women take up arms for gendered reasons, related to their femininity, traditional marital values, infertility, maternalism, revenge, rape and other personal reasons (Bloom 2005a, b, 2011; O’Rourke 2009). This generalisation depoliticises combatant women, suggesting that the personal triumphs over the political. In this way, women’s participation in violence is not ‘terrorism but women’s terrorism, and women terrorists are at once characterised as aberrant, personally motivated, and beyond the agency of the female perpetrator’ (Gentry and Sjoberg 2016, p. 145 original emphasis). In practice combatant women make choices in which the personal and the political converge. Alison’s interviews with female ex-combatants revealed that the principal reason for women enlisting in the LTTE was concurrent to men’s; namely, support for Tamil nationalism (2009, p. 128). They were not aware of women rights and equality before they joined the LTTE. Only once they joined the movement, was their cognizance and commitment to women’s rights sparked (Alison 2003, pp. 43–44; also see 2009, pp. 138, 175). Empirical research shows that the women had a strong ideological commitment to nationalism and their political identities were developed by their experiences of militarisation before the LTTE began recruiting. Whilst in the LTTE, these

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political identities were mobilised through socialisation processes which heightened their commitment (Gowrinathan 2017, p. 337). In addition to the cause of national emancipation, women did, however, join the LTTE for gender-specific motives. Stack-O’Connor states that women cited past sexual attacks as reasons for joining the LTTE (2007, p.  55). It is important to note therefore that combatants of all genders are motivated by a myriad of reasons that are both individual and collective (O’Rourke 2009, p. 701), with no single motivation being universal (Gentry and Sjoberg 2015). Combatants of all genders are personal and political actors (Gentry and Sjoberg 2016, p. 150), and Alison notes that there was no one single common reason given by women ex-­ combatant interviewees for enlisting (2009, p. 128). Individual women had numerous motives for enlisting which changed over time (Gowrinathan 2017, p. 334). The LTTE strategically made use of the existing Tamil gender conventions because women came under less suspicion from state forces and hence could move unhindered as they were considered non-threatening (O’Rourke 2009). Lack of female security officers meant that LTTE women could transport explosives and weapons unchecked. Moreover, LTTE attacks could be justified as retaliation for rape (Stack-O’Connor 2007, p. 47, 55), and the image of the female fighter was valued propaganda. She could be exploited either as an armed virginal warrior or as a victim for recruitment to draw media attention (de Alwis 2002; Gonsalves 2005; O’Rourke 2009; Stack-O’Connor 2007). Women’s incorporation into nationalist regimes is not always a deliberate step towards gender equality but can be a desperate measure to bolster numbers due to a shortage of male recruits (Stack-O’Connor 2007, p.  47). ‘Declining manpower’ was a problem for the LTTE (Manchanda 2001, p. 114), which explains the recruitment of child soldiers. Alison mentions that female combatants were viewed as ‘a necessary but temporary aberration’, rather than as representing a fundamental shift in societal gender roles and relations (2009, pp. 111, 116). This is echoed by Wahidin who comments that female combatants are often understood as anomalies in a time of crisis (2016, p. 101). Due to the persistence of gendered norms, women do not always benefit from national independence, as it often offers the same patriarchal strictures

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and restraints but in a different guise. Nagel calls this ‘re-­traditionalisation’ (1998, p. 254). These debates are relevant because the tendency towards re-­ traditionalisation of gender roles after conflict shapes the lived experiences of female ex-combatants and determines the nature of their social reintegration. The issue of re-traditionalisation of gender roles in post-­ war Sri Lanka constitutes the focus of this chapter. The topic is approached, however, in an original manner, through the media representations of LTTE women rather than through their own voices directly. Media representations reflect cultural norms, including patriarchal power relations, and the way in which these structures interacted with the politics of LTTE’s military defeat in 2009, offers a novel way in which to document the lived experiences of female ex-combatants in Sri Lanka. First, it is necessary to explain the methodology and approach to media representations on which the data are based.

Methodology and Approach Gender is a social construct that is based on culturally, socially and historically specific practices; it is rooted in unequal power relations. Representations of gender, in the media and elsewhere, create the social construct, draw upon it and maintain it, and consequently preserve unequal socio-political power dynamics between the genders. As Sjoberg (2013, p.  47) argues, gender is ‘first, fundamentally social; second, an expression of power; and third, an organising principle’. The interpretation of gender in the news media influences how one perceives oneself and others, since gender is a ‘factor that structures identity and experience’ (Steiner 2014, p.  359). Previous studies have indicated that the news media reiterate gender stereotypes and under-represent women (Berrington and Honkatukia 2002; O’Neill and Mulready 2015; Venäläinen 2016a, b) and this contributes to women’s marginalisation in society, especially in positions of power, because ‘gendering has tangible effects’ (Sjoberg and Gentry 2007, p. 55). Consequently, gendered portrayals strengthen and buttress male dominance on the cultural level (Stockard and Johnson 1992, p. 10).

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Media discourse is powerful; it not only mediates reality, but also has a role in the construction of that reality. Furthermore, discourse constitutes knowledge through its representations and narratives (Foucault 1972; Hall 1997). Narratives are linked to the dominant social power structure, whose ideological content is embedded within discourse and reproduced by language (Fairclough 1995; Fowler 1991; Halliday 1975). This is important because dominant narratives are internalised by news consumers through socialisation, so these narratives become part of their belief system (Berger and Luckmann 1979). Narratives that are culturally resonant and congruent with consumers’ own beliefs become recognisable and understandable, and have maximum capability for influence, making them more likely to be accepted with ‘virtually no cognitive cost’ as a habitual response (Entman 2004, pp.  6, 14–15). Their significance is compounded when the news media play a legitimising role through constant repetition and where there is an absence of alternative narratives (Happer and Philo 2013, p. 333). This is most potently so in the Sri Lankan case, where the government of Sri Lanka owns media outlets and routinely harasses journalists who openly criticise the state. In this circumstance, the representation of female ex-combatants in the news media is a key factor in the production and perpetuation of gendered social roles which are harmful to women. Without identification and modification of this discourse, structural harms will continue to the detriment of women. This impacts detrimentally as well on the peace process. Peace may mean a cessation of physical, armed violence, but structural and discriminatory violence against women continues. Cuomo stresses that women continuously experience conflict through the ‘meshed continua’ of ‘systemic patriarchal…violence’ (1996, p.  36). LTTE female ex-combatants therefore face a sequence of violence—literal violence during warfare and structural violence and discrimination afterwards. The retrenchment of the advances gained through the LTTE is referred to by Pankhurst as the ‘post-war backlash against women’ (2009, pp. 3–4). This retrenchment is evident in public discourses that emphasise returning women to pre-conflict notions of motherhood, domesticity and femininity. This chapter uses a feminist methodology to understand how the lived experiences of female ex-combatant are refracted through the news media.

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Feminist methodology emphasises that social life is gendered (Ramazanoğlu and Holland 2002, p. 3) and power is skewed in favour of men. By using feminist critical discourse analysis, this chapter makes visible the pre-conflict residual patriarchal power hierarchies which continue to oppress and disenfranchise ex-LTTE female fighters during their so-called social reintegration. The focus is ‘on how gender ideology…[is] reproduced, negotiated and contested in representations of social practices, in social relationships between people, and in people’s social and personal identities in texts and talk’ (Lazar 2005, p. 11). This approach is used to elucidate gender and power as they are represented in discourse and to expose the discursive practices of gendered constructions, representations and subordination, which constitutes patriarchal power structures. During conflict, gendered narratives such as ‘the mother’, ‘monster’ and ‘whore’ (Gentry and Sjoberg 2015; Sjoberg and Gentry 2007) were evoked, and these characterisations of female combatants serve to deny women agency. This interprets women’s participation in violence as apolitical (Gentry and Sjoberg 2015, p. 149). This chapter therefore applies a critical gendered lens to post-war news media discourse about female former combatants, in order to understand how such women are represented in the media, to analyse the purpose of these narratives in postconflict Sri Lanka and to show their effect in shaping the lived experiences of former LTTE women. From the online newspaper database Nexis, 526 articles were gathered from the mainstream English-language newspapers in Sri Lanka (Table 12.1), which contained mentions of female ex-combatants from the LTTE. It is important to note the ownership of these newspapers, since some parts of Sri Lanka’s news media are controlled by the government and all Table 12.1   Sri Lanka newspapers Newspaper

Information

Daily Financial Times Daily Mirror Sunday Times Daily News Sunday Observer

Private, English language, daily Private, English language, daily Private, English language, weekly State-owned, English language, daily State-owned, English language, weekly

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sections are closely monitored. Dissension risks severe punishment and even the death of journalists (Amnesty International 2013; Amnesty International UK 2009, 2013). With this caveat in mind, each newspaper was searched for key words that were either names of known female ex-combatants or general terms relating to female members of the LTTE. The names of known female combatants used as search terms were Adele Balasingham, Bagrathy Murugesu, Birds of Freedom, Jeyakumary Balendaran, Niromi de Soyza, Subramaniam Sivakamy, Suthanthirapparavaigal, Thamilini and Urmila Kandiah. Clearly, not all names were known, so general search terms were also used, as follows: Ex-Black Tiger, Ex-Black Tigress, Ex-cadre, Ex-combatant, Ex-comrade, Ex-fighter, Ex-insurgent, Ex-LTTE, Ex-militant, Ex-rebel, Ex-Tamil, Ex-Tamil Tiger, Ex-terrorist, Ex-Tiger, Ex-Tigress, Former Black Tiger, Former Black Tigress, Former cadre, Former combatant, Former comrade, Former fighter, Former insurgent, Former LTTE, Former militant, Former rebel, Former Tamil Tiger, Former terrorist, Former Tiger and Former Tigress (for greater detail see McFeeters 2018, Forthcoming). In the sections that follow, this chapter interrogates the gendered discourses and representations that are used to characterise female ex-­ combatants in the news media, as a lens into understanding their lived experiences of gender discrimination and the limited nature of their rehabilitation and social reintegration.

Gendered Work and Economic Status Scholars have noted that female combatants are frequently excluded from disarmament, demobilisation, rehabilitation and reintegration programmes. This has led to their marginalisation, a failure to cater for women’s distinct needs, and the withdrawal of women from such programmes through fear of stigmatisation (Mazurana 2013; Mazurana and Eckerbom Cole 2013). The concept of rehabilitation is a major theme in the newspaper articles about female former combatants. The way rehabilitation is understood, however, oppresses women by re-establishing traditional, conservative gender roles and occupations which either disenfranchise

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women or diminish autonomy altogether (McFeeters 2018, Forthcoming). In the news articles, it is noticeable that the rehabilitation programmes focus on skills based on conventional female trades such as sewing, beauty and hairdressing, which is ‘re-traditionalising’ these women (Nagel 1998, p. 254). The Daily News reports: Special attention needs to be given to children and women who have suffered from terrorism. We have taken steps to strengthen them physically and mentally through rehabilitation programs. The Tiger terrorists cared nothing for our traditional consideration for women and children. They gave weapons to children and pushed them to war, and they transformed women into suicide cadres. Those who have surrendered to the government reveal all these hardships they faced. (Unattributed 2009)

The special attention awarded to women exemplifies the anomalous nature of female ex-combatants (Bloom 2011) as their womanhood is recognised, not integrated (Sjoberg and Gentry 2007, p. 9), so rehabilitation programmes seek to restore pre-conflict traditionalism. The Sri Lankan news media only report on re-training which reinforces gender inequality. In the Daily Financial Times, it was reported that ‘Malathi [a well-known former combatant] learnt sewing during her rehabilitation and earns a small income undertaking orders to support her husband’ (Unattributed 2015b). This domestic craft keeps female former combatants in the traditional gender roles of women in Sri Lanka. The Daily News reported similarly on other cases. Lakshmi and Sangeetha [former combatants] are at the Poontottam rehabilitation centre in Vavuniya set up for female ex-Tigers. The female cadres are offered various vocational training opportunities suited to their professions, skills and preferences. Ironically, for the once deadly soldiers, the beautician course is one of the most popular because of a growing demand for fashion, skin care, hair style and beauty products in the North. The LTTE had discouraged women from such indulgences. Some of the inmates plan to open beauty parlours when they go back home. (Unattributed 2012)

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The metamorphic shift provoked by this form of rehabilitation juxtaposes the lethal fighter with the beautician, in which the former has been defused. Rehabilitation in Sri Lanka is a ‘re-feminising’ process (Martin 2017), where female ex-combatants are re-domesticated, ‘normalising’ them to news consumers and making them ‘familiar’ again as women. Laster and Erez note that ‘the most convincing stories, especially in the media, are those that fit within the context of preconceived popular ideas about human behaviour generally, often grounded in gender stereotypes’ (2015, p. 92). This is evident in the presuppositions made by the newspapers, which assumes the patriarchal common-sense notion that women belong in the home and are most fulfilled in feminine roles. Therefore, by framing the female ex-combatants in the context of domesticity and traditional gender norms, the media aim to persuade the reader that the women have been defeated and are neutralised, thus no longer posing a threat to Sinhalese society. Moreover, the re-domestication means that female ex-combatants do not threaten the patriarchal dominion, since they have been domesticated again. Whilst the newspapers advocate a future-focused doctrine of reconciliation and healing (see McFeeters Forthcoming), rehabilitation is in fact concentrating on returning the women to the pre-war period, where they occupied only feminine roles. A Report from the Colin Powell School for Civic and Global Leadership writes: interventions by the international community…[offered] programs that reinforce the dependent and subordinate position of Tamil women, by restricting them to traditionally ‘feminine’ roles. In their efforts to restore women, from the ‘damage’ of war to the ‘normalcy’ of their pre-war position, they have failed to consider that this amounts to returning to the decades-old gender roles of 1970s Tamil society…Beyond the inefficiency of such programs, in their task to restore ‘normalcy’ or allow for financial independence, they are often gendered in a supposedly ‘culturally sensitive’ way. Local activists say that, in fact, international actors impose even heavier gender restrictions than conservative Tamil society does: ‘Their programs are feminizing. All they offer women are things like selling pastries.’ This focus on traditionally ‘feminine’ activities comes at the cost of women’s long-term economic prospects. As one woman complains: ‘What are these livelihoods for women tailoring, beauty parlors, candle-making? Why are

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women not given skill-development trainings in areas where they can get secure jobs?’…Further, having been socialized within the LTTE, many of these women balk at the idea of doing traditionally ‘feminine’ tasks. One ex-­ combatant explains: ‘The state’s goal was to train us. My goal was to learn something useful. There is no purpose for the training they give you. I did the training for icing cakes, making hairstyles. These are things I have no interest in.’ Another recounts trying to purchase a photocopy machine to start her own business but being asked to come back with her father or brother, as she was not qualified to own one. Beyond the feminizing impact, the livelihoods approach is overtly de-politicizing, ignoring the political opinions, and often the active political identities of Tamil women. In the case of ex-­ combatants this actively plays into the agenda of the state. One senior military commander in July 2015 insists that they are responsible for helping Tamil women find their femininity again. Another army official proudly described how a female combatant has ‘beautiful fingers’ as she is put on display in a bridal dress with full make-up, juxtaposed to an earlier photo of her in the movement holding a gun. (cited in Gowrinathan and Cronin-­ Furman 2015, pp. 13, 15, 17, 18)

This is evidence that the rehabilitation programmes are re-feminising and re-domesticating ex-combatant women, preventing them from becoming economically independent and from procuring sustainable livelihoods. These ‘feminine tasks’ do not offer much security because they are jobs traditionally done by women, and thus have a lesser economic and cultural value than men’s roles. This causes women to be disadvantaged economically as the only trades that they are trained in are undervalued in society. Moreover, these poorly paid trades tie them to dependency on men as breadwinners. The government of Sri Lanka has purposefully trained the women in skills which will not allow them to succeed beyond the realms of traditional Tamil womanhood, thus confining them to the domestic sphere. Rehabilitation may be forward-thinking in its claims to foster peace and reconciliation, but it is past-focused in its effects on women. Otto writes that if the representation of women is constituted by their womanliness, then their political agency will be limited to feminised tasks (2006, p. 135). This is the case in Sri Lanka. In the Sri Lankan news media, the representation of the female ex-combatants is restricted to traditional

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feminine occupations, which have been compounded by gendered forms of rehabilitation training. The potent imagery from the news media is loaded with re-feminising ideology, and since media representations contribute to the social construction of reality, the traditional depictions of these women bolster patriarchy by lauding the female ex-combatants’ return to domesticity. Government strategy is thus to reassign ex-­ combatant women to traditional gender roles. This is not unusual. The return to domesticity occurred in the case of Algeria (Qazi 2011), and Goswami (2015) shows that female Maoist ex-combatants in Nepal did not gain the equality they sought in the post-conflict period. The post-­ war period is a transformative moment where gendered power hierarchies have the opportunity to be redefined more equitably, but most typically it falls back to the status quo (Goswami 2015, p. 9). Sri Lankan English-language newspapers assist in such a process for ex-LTTE women. The Sunday Observer reports on the traditional feminine employments and skills encouraged in rehabilitation programmes in Sr Lanka. ‘Women were trained in sewing, cookery, beauty culture, computers and horticulture. The hands which were carrying lethal weapons and meddling with cyanide capsules began to do useful and constructive things. The training programs were mainly carried out with assistance received locally’ (Unattributed 2010a). The same newspaper quoted a commissioner who stated that women-specific beauty courses are available for female former combatants. Major General K.J. Wijetilleke, the Commissioner General of Rehabilitation, when asked about what requirements ex-combatants must meet in order to procure a loan, replies that they are given vocational training during rehabilitation and ‘[e]ven for women there are certain courses such as beautician programs’ (Unattributed 2013a). This media discourse sends the message that women involved in political violence are not useful or constructive; they are more useful when sewing or cooking. Semiotic analysis of the word ‘meddling’, used in the report, denotes being nosey, which is a trait, like gossip, that is attributed to women. Additionally, meddling connotes interfering where one is not needed or wanted, which means that the women were not in their rightful place; that is, not in the home and kitchen. Furthermore, the connotations of ‘meddle’ assume that the women are unskilled and incompetent,

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which strengthens the social order in which women should be restricted to the private sphere. Newspaper coverage such as this suggests that the conflict in Sri Lanka has not shifted the prospects for women occupying roles outside of the home. In order to facilitate public acceptance of female ex-combatants who are re-entering society, the media emphasis is on them being trained in feminine tasks and returning to the role of housewife. The re-feminising mission of the rehabilitation programmes serves to diminish or erase the independence gained through the occupation of non-traditional positions within the LTTE, which defied the expectations and assumptions of womanhood. This parallels Martin’s research, which states, ‘[t]hrough psychosocial programmes and mentoring, women’s identities were reconstructed and re-feminised to fit into contemporary Tamil/Sri Lankan society to facilitate ex-combatant reintegration’ (2017, p. 79). Female ex-combatants have lost the autonomy which they enjoyed during the LTTE and are now denied the opportunities to transfer their knowledge and skill base acquired during warfare. Peace has thus come to mean a reversion to traditional social and gender dynamics. Sjoberg reasons that gender disruption is perceived as correlating with socio-political disruption, disorder, unsettledness and general chaos. Thus, the re-establishment of conventional patriarchal gender roles signifies a return to normalcy (2014, p.  94). Marriageability has particular pertinence in patriarchal systems and its implications for female ex-cadres are discussed below.

Marriage As we have seen, often when conflict ends, women experience internal and external pressure to return to their conventional, stratified, domestic responsibilities. This rapid assimilation frustrates access to political and social platforms and triggers backsliding on the economic gains and autonomy secured during conflict (Ní Aoláin et al. 2011, pp. 137, 44, 271). Participation in LTTE’s armed conflict allowed women to transgress beyond inhibitive, conventional gender roles. Normally in Tamil culture, families provided education for sons and procured advantageous

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marriages for daughters. As Stack-O’Connor (2007, p.  46) notes, ‘a woman’s chance for a good marriage was tied to many factors, notably the family’s ability to provide a good dowry and the woman’s “reputation”. To preserve reputation, families kept a close watch on female children and encouraged them to stay home’. Damage to marriage prospects is thus a powerful trope in media representations of former LTTE women. In the media’s news narratives, female former combatants supposedly lament the lack of opportunity for marriage, since men and their families allegedly do not want wives who have been involved in political violence: ‘[h]er husband’s parents opposed him marrying Malathi [a female cadre] as they came to know that she was a suicide cadre’ (Unattributed 2015b). ‘Tamil society is very traditional. Parents do not want their sons to marry women ex-fighters…noting how important marriage is to being accepted in the community’ (Unattributed 2011). ‘People feel that women who have been through rehabilitation are sullied, there is no looking into their position, they are rejected automatically, said Rev. S.  K. Daniel, from Killinochchi [Killinochi]’ (Unattributed 2015c). Media representations thus seek to punish ex-combatant women by claiming their marriage prospects are tarnished; they are castigated because they deviated from socio-cultural expectations about gender and marriage. Instead of undertaking the traditional female role of being the biological reproducer and maintainer of the socio-cultural order, the ‘guardians of culture’ as Yuval-Davis puts it (1997, p. 116), these women entered the masculine realm of political violence. Thus, in order for these women to be eligible for the marriage market, their time in the LTTE must be silenced, whitewashed and omitted altogether, with ‘rehabilitation’ supposedly helping them to find their femininity again (see Gowrinathan and Cronin-Furman 2015, p. 17). Hence, the emphasis in the news media on the importance of ex-combatant women forgetting their past (McFeeters Forthcoming). Silencing the past is crucial to changing the perception of them from ex-cadres into potential brides and mothers. Emphasis is accordingly laid in the press on the alleged stigma that female ex-combatants are supposed to face when they return to civilian life. Former LTTE female combatants ‘face a tough time returning to

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civilian life’, one newspaper reported, ‘with fewer marriage, education and job prospects due to stigma’ (Unattributed 2011). Social stigma still prevails in the Northern villagers. For most of them, who are in their mid-30s, with battlefield scars on their bodies and no means to pay a dowry, marriage is a distant dream. “I have wasted my youth. I have no education or skill to get a job. No one is interested in marrying me”. (Unattributed 2012)

Marriage is said to list as the number one priority for female ex-­ combatants, with education and employment following afterwards. An article from the Sunday Observer portrayed the wishes of the child ex-­ combatants in Sri Lanka in stereotypical terms: [q]uite a lot of the boys wanted to go abroad but they cannot go until they are 18. The girls were “easier” actually. They were happier to go back. Some of them were getting ready to marry. (Unattributed 2010b)

The female ex-combatants were ‘easier’ to rehabilitate as they did not have aspirations which were outside of the accepted norms of gendered behaviour. Newspapers thus pick on alleged issues around the lack of dowry for female ex-combatants, which poses problems for marriage as traditionally the bride’s family provided a dowry for the husband’s family. Due to the war, parents were killed, their whereabouts unknown or else they did not have land or money to give as a dowry. This meant that female ex-combatants were alleged to face the double social stigma of being former fighters, without means for marriage. This media representation of former LTTE women has them seeking redemption through a return to domesticity. This portrayal fits uneasily with those ex-combatant women who, having been independent and fearless warriors, are not women easily relegated back to the kitchen as domestic carers and child bearers. The emergence of this new type of women does not feature in newspaper articles, with the emphasis being on warrior women being transformed by rehabilitation, wanting now to ease their reintegration into civilian life by becoming subordinate domestic women. ‘They asked me’, one former female combatant is quoted as

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saying, ‘how a woman committed to die would become a good housewife and a mother, but the rehabilitation has convinced them…’ (Unattributed 2015b). Another newspaper article reported: Earlier the female ex-combatants faced a problem of getting married as people had a perception that girls who were LTTE cadres were tough and couldn’t be controlled when they were married. But now how people look at them has changed a lot and most of the female ex-combatants are married, having children and leading a good family life. (Unattributed 2015b added emphasis)

The ‘ideal wife’ is thus one that can be controlled. It appears that a ‘good family life’ may not be good for women’s autonomy. The news media’s emphasis on the transformative quality of rehabilitation acts to persuade readers that the female ex-combatants have been converted from dangerous fighters to domestic housewives: A visibly emotional Thamilini [a female ex-fighter], spoke briefly thanking all the authorities who helped her to freedom through rehabilitation. She said she had learnt a bitter lesson and would never join an extremist organisation again. All that she wanted was to stay with her mother and family and then hopefully marry and lead a normal life, said Thamilini with voice quivering and eyes tearing. (Unattributed 2013b)

The status of women ex-combatants is therefore changing under rehabilitation from a ‘Tigress’ or a ‘Bird of Freedom’ to a domestic care-giver. The signifier ‘Tigress’ denotes a strong, dangerous female, and ‘Bird of Freedom’ suggests an independent fighter for freedom. The animal metaphors connote an atavistic quality which must be neutralised in order to recreate ‘civilised’ wives and mothers. The news articles therefore serve to disempower and deactivate, bringing these women back to pre-LTTE behaviour, in order to make them eligible on the marriage market. In patriarchal societies, a woman’s worth is in her ability to bear children, and her status is attached to her husband, thus any obstacle to obtaining a husband and having a family is portrayed as devastating for a

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woman’s social standing. This is used against ex-combatant women as a means of social control. It is evident in the following excerpt. When she walked into a government-run rehabilitation camp in mid-2009, Selvi [a former cadre], harboured faint hopes for a better life. When she left the rehabilitation camp a year-and-a-half later, those hopes were ­galvanised. She returned to Killinochchi [Killinochi], her hometown, like a teenager, not like a 24-year-old rehabilitated former combatant. She was giddy with new hopes, new dreams—a home, a husband, children. But she was in for a rude shock. Her own villagers rejected her, she was used commodity. For some, she was a former cadre with the Tamil Tigers, sullied by blood and gore; for others she was a woman brainwashed by the Government. All of them rejected her; some even called her a whore. In my life, the life that we have known, a woman’s life is not complete without marriage, without children, but everyone looks at me with suspicion, Selvi said, her eyes blank. (Unattributed 2015c added emphasis)

The media report confined Selvi’s dreams to ones of domesticity and muliebral servitude where her value is defined in relation to a man or children, not to herself. The frequent repetition of this media message encourages its internalisation by news consumers, and when it is not contradicted by other information sources, it legitimises and naturalises women’s domesticity as the common-sense choice for a meaningful life. This is compounded when the article alleges that villagers called Selvi a ‘whore’. Her agency as a female combatant is explained away by a psycho-biological malfunction of womanhood—in this case, hyper-sexuality, which has tainted her sexual morality. The ‘whore’ narrative sexualises women’s political violence and conceives of it as stemming from sexual deviancy (Gentry and Sjoberg 2015; Sjoberg and Gentry 2007). As violence is not deemed ‘normal’ within feminine behaviour, the female combatants who partook in LTTE political violence are denounced vigorously in the news media. This does not happen with men. When men are violent, they are not described as promiscuous and sexual morality is not impugned. Men’s participation in combat is mostly seen as a response to political circumstance (Boyle 2005, pp.  120–121). Female

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ex-combatants in the LTTE, on the other hand, are said to have distorted feminine virtues, acted against their psycho-biological nature, and have threatened their ability to lead a happy life, something which is portrayed as only possible by being married with children. This representation serves to condemn the female ex-combatant as it portrays her as ‘damaged goods’ due to her time in the LTTE. Significantly, however, this narrative of the ‘abnormal’ warrior woman acts as a challenge to all women. These narratives are a rulebook for what ‘normal’ women are and how they should behave. Sjoberg and Gentry (2007, p. 222) suggest that these narratives marginalise all women by setting up a ‘polarity’ between those who fit the ‘mould of idealized femininity’ and those who do not. Media representations are never neutral, but imbued with ideology, and in condemning ex-combatant women as ‘failed’ women, newspapers advocate traditional Sri Lankan cultural norms, where chastity and sexual virtue are paramount for women. This symbolically captures the asymmetrical power paradigm of women in society (Tuchman 1979, p. 533), limiting women’s participation in the public sphere and serving to warn all women should they deviate from the norm. Another critical element of the domesticity trope in media representations of ex-LTTE women is the depiction of the women as sorry and regretful for their time in the Tamil Tigers for its alleged impact on their womanhood and marriageability. They are seen as wanting to return to their parental homes to care for their families, and to get married and have children. They have been ‘purified’ of their time as combatants by going through rehabilitation, with evidence of redemption being the desire to return to domesticity. They supposedly speak of putting their time in the LTTE behind them and moving on by returning to domesticity. This kind of newspaper coverage does not celebrate women’s independence or the progression towards gender equality but serves to reverse the advancement of women in society. A feminist critical discourse analysis of this media coverage is therefore useful for revealing that language which evokes the traditional values of marriage and domesticity is a social practice which underpins patriarchal societal power relations. Female combatants challenged the patriarchal societal values of Sri Lanka and struck against the stereotype that

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militarism is a masculine realm (Alison 2003, 2004, 2009; Enloe 1993, 2000; Gentry and Sjoberg 2015). This challenge to patriarchy is met by media coverage that reasserts its primacy. Combatant women are ‘failed’, ‘abnormal’ as women. The ideology interwoven in media representations of combatant women in Sri Lanka reverts society back to feminine notions and values that prioritise domestic, married life. Their rehabilitation therefore is gendered. From the media characterisations of female ex-­combatants, it appears that the goal of rehabilitation is to instil traditional family values which stress the virtues of motherhood, femininity and domesticity. Media discourse about ex-LTTE women therefore constructs a version of reality in which women are subjugated. This is shown clearly in media depictions of ex-LTTE women and motherhood.

Motherhood Motherhood acts as a signifier of the socio-gendered ordering of Sri Lankan society, and the desire for motherhood is reported by the media as a draw for ex-combatant women and the reason why they chose to leave the LTTE. The socio-cultural approval provided by the role of motherhood gives women a distinct and meaningful social status; motherhood is a marker of identity and status. It can facilitate social mobility. The desire to be mothers is alleged by English-language newspapers to be strong amongst ex-combatant women to indemnify them against the loss of their social identity as ex-combatants. The Daily Financial Times, for example, quotes that ‘a woman’s life is not complete without marriage, without children’ (Unattributed 2015c), indicating what ‘normal’ women want, and by default, what ‘abnormal’ women do not. It defines what ‘abnormality’ means by making ‘natural’ and ‘normal’ the social ideology of childbearing as a woman’s fundamental goal. Passages which glorify the ex-combatants reuniting with their children—Malathi is depicted ‘embracing her two girls’ (Unattributed 2015b)—endeavour to show ex-­ combatant women as deep-down caring, maternal figures, who have returned to their senses, and to their socio-biological purpose. In the Daily News, Lakshmi yearns to be reunited with her son, after the conflict had supposedly come between them:

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unfolding her story of transforming from a hardcore terrorist to an ordinary woman who now dreams of seeing her four-year-old son. ‘I am lucky. My aunt who was taking care of my son when I was in the battle front had fled the government-controlled areas with my son. I want to be with my baby soon’, Lakshmi’s voice quivers with longing. (Unattributed 2012)

This passage naturalises the bond between mother and child and portrays the lack when the two are separated. These reunifications were exalted. In the Sunday Times, for example, a female cadre is reported as saying, ‘I’m very grateful for everyone who [has] stood for my release. I am happy to be with my daughter again’ (Unattributed 2015a). The women’s time in the LTTE is represented as a barrier to ‘natural’ womanhood, imposing the norm that women can lead satisfying and meaningful lives only as wives and mothers. Lakshmi was portrayed as an ‘unnatural’ mother, who abandoned her son in favour of fighting, whereas her ‘re-­traditionalisation’ in the reunion of mother and child has ‘naturalised’ her again. The virtues commonly associated with motherhood of nurturing, caregiving and maternal bonding sit uneasily with the notion of warrior women, so the innate ‘peacefulness’ of former combatant women is emphasised in media representations. The Daily News, for example, referred directly to ‘peacefulness’ as being connected to motherhood: ‘As women they hate violence and do not want their children to be exposed in deadly battles in which they fought as children’ (Unattributed 2012). As fighters not mothers, these women were therefore non-women, flawed and anomalous. Their rehabilitation is measured by their return to motherhood. Through media representations of motherhood and marriage, ideologically derived and culturally gravid narratives advertise that the reformed combatant women receive the ‘social reward’ (Sjoberg 2014, p. 6) of domesticity, marriage and stability only by conforming to pre-­ conflict notions of how a woman should behave.

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Conclusion This chapter has critically interrogated newspaper representations of female ex-combatants in Sri Lanka to highlight the discursive power of ideologically laden narratives in shaping the gendered nature of their lived experiences and the gendered lens through which their social reintegration is understood by the media. It identifies oppressive, gendered narratives about ex-combatant women, which limit their life choices, impugn their political agency and call into question their very nature as women. Media accounts are representations; they represent rather than give direct voice to the women themselves. Self-certification by ex-combatant women is low in the media (McFeeters Forthcoming). Media representations are useful, however, as a lens into the way ex-combatant women are perceived. The media’s perception of ex-LTTE women portrays them as ‘abnormal’ and ‘failed’ women, with state-sponsored rehabilitation programmes being the means for their ‘re-traditionalisation’ as women, wives and mothers. ‘Re-traditonalisation’ is not only the means to their redemption from past violence, it reaffirms the cultural validity of Sri Lanka’s traditional, pre-war patriarchal norms and values. This chapter has argued that the news media are a crucial factor in the reconstruction of deeply gendered social norms which confine ex-­ combatant women to restrictive, disenfranchising, disempowering and harmful roles and expectations, which close down the transformative space of their military engagement, undo advances and jettison gains derived from the conflict. In the Sri Lankan news media, there is evidence of a re-feminising mission where female ex-combatants are re-­ domesticated, depoliticised, neutralised and re-humanised into muliebral non-violent women. The gendered discursive constructs have material consequences in the continued subordination, oppression and inequality of female ex-combatants, and that of women in general. These gendered representations and narratives about female ex-­ combatants, which has them reclaiming domestic bliss, function to restore gender norms to what they were before the war. During the war, traditional gender roles were destabilised by women becoming fighters.

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Sjoberg reasons that gender disruption is perceived as correlating with socio-political disruption, disorder, unsettledness and general chaos. Thus, the re-establishment of conventional, patriarchal gender roles signifies a return to normalcy (2014, p. 94). That is, peace in Sri Lanka is understood in part as a return to traditional gender norms. The news narratives about ex-combatant women becoming wives and mothers represent a synecdoche of society and are used to symbolise a return to ‘civility’ and ‘peace’ through the restoration of traditional femininity (Manchanda 2001, p.  100). It bears saying strongly, therefore, that this is not peace as women themselves might want it, let alone as ex-LTTE women would want it. The continued structural violence experienced by all women, especially Tamil women, needs to be addressed by challenging the dominant narratives that subordinate women and ex-combatant women in particular.

Bibliography Alison, M. (2003). Cogs in the Wheel? Women in the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam. Civil Wars, 6(4), 37–54. Alison, M. (2004). Women as Agents of Political Violence: Gendering Security. Security Dialogue, 35(4), 447–463. Alison, M. (2009). Women and Political Violence Female Combatants in Ethno-­ national Conflict. Abingdon: Routledge. Amnesty International. (2013, November 15). The Dangers of Reporting on Human Rights in Sri Lanka. Retrieved August 6, 2019, from Amnesty International website: https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2013/11/ dangers-reporting-human-rights-sri-lanka/ Amnesty International UK. (2009, March 6). Sri Lanka: Amnesty Condemns ‘War Without Witnesses’ as Journalists Prevented from Reporting the Conflict. Retrieved August 6, 2019, from Amnesty International UK website: https:// www.amnesty.org.uk/press-releases/sri-lanka-amnesty-condemnswar-without-witnesses-journalists-prevented-reporting Amnesty International UK. (2013, November 27). Let’s Not Forget the Stories of the Disappeared in Sri Lanka—Prageeth Eknaligoda’s Wife Visits Amnesty. Retrieved August 6, 2019, from Urgent Action Network blog Amnesty International UK website: https://www.amnesty.org.uk/blogs/urgent-action-

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13 Concluding Reflections Azrini Wahidin

A map of the world which does not include Utopia is not even worth glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always arriving. —Oscar Wilde So our campaign slogan must be: reform of consciousness, not through dogma, but through the analysis of that mystical consciousness which has not yet become clear to itself. It will then turn out that the world has long dreamt of that which it had only to have a clear idea to possess. It will turn out that it is not a question of any conceptual rupture between past and future, but rather of the completion of the thoughts of the past. —Karl Marx

Introduction These concluding reflections serve two purposes. The first is to summarise the main arguments of the volume; the second is to draw out their general implications. This Conclusion therefore reflects on generic issues as A. Wahidin (*) Department of Sociology, University of Warwick, Coventry, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6_13

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well as country-specific ones. Both elements support the claims to originality made by the editors. The chapters in this edited collection attest to the experiences of ex-combatants and to the forgotten voices of state veterans, and draws out the sinews of the mutable concept of ‘victim’, because ex-combatants can be victims too, even if the context of victimhood is different. This book charts the twists and turns of the transformational journey from war to peace that ex-combatants have made. The chapters together show that they are as much casualties of war as victims, but the chapters also demonstrate many were also agents of change (see Sharoni 2000). I begin first with a reminder of the arguments of the individual chapters, following the sequence of the cases covered, dealing with Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka in that order.

Summary of Key Arguments In Chap. 2, Brewer navigated the reader through the key theoretical issues within the literature and contextualised the importance of moving the emphasis from victims’ voices to listening to the voices of ex-­ combatants. It is by giving voice to those combatants whose identities have been obscured by politics and policy that this chapter illustrated how moral judgements surrounding the role of the ‘deserving/non-­ deserving’ combatant influence the process of reintegration. It was argued that the ‘deserving/non-deserving’ framework creates a hierarchy of ex-­ combatants and within that hierarchy there are a number of hidden combatants and neglected voices. This chapter examined Brewer’s conceptual fulcrum whereupon the focus pivots from the ‘martyr-hero-demon’ syndrome, as he calls it, to ex-combatants’ role in peace (also see Brewer 2010; Brewer et al. 2018a, b). The importance of hearing ex-combatants’ voices is emphasised as the signal contribution of the volume. Without voice, ex-combatants are hidden. When hidden, future generations are unable to ask the relevant questions of ex-combatants that enable future generations to learn lessons from the war. Elsewhere Brewer (2019, p. 9) noted three measures of hiddenness for those people involuntarily silenced: hiddenness as neglect; hiddenness as survival; and hiddenness as resistance. This gives the motivation for the entire volume as explained in

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this chapter: that ex-combatants’ voices are relatively neglected, and they need to be heard as much as other stakeholders in a peace process. In Chap. 3, Wahidin details the experiences of former female members of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), in Northern Ireland, during the period known as ‘the Conflict’, euphemistically understated as ‘the Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. By tracing former female ex-combatants’ experiences of political protest, this chapter highlighted their engagement in liberation from British colonial rule and addressed why women became involved in the IRA (also see Aretxaga 1995; McWilliams 1995; Wahidin 2016). The chapter focused as much on gender emancipation as national liberation, arguing that in the transition from conflict to peace, gender equality has not been fully realised. It is clear that the participants in this study especially resented their social and economic exclusion in the light of what they saw as their central role as peacebuilders. In contrast to Wahidin’s chapter, in Chap. 4 Magee examines male members of Ulster Loyalist paramilitary organisations, addressing their experiences of the ‘the Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. Magee was not focused on the politics of Ulster Loyalism but gave one of the first sociological accounts by exploring the motivations behind their involvement in military struggle, their lived experiences of social reintegration policies, and the challenges they face as working-class men with militarised masculine identities. The attention given to gender rather than political identity amongst Loyalists marks the originality of Magee’s chapter. Militarised masculinities, sometimes referred to as hyper masculinity, pose a significant problem when transitioning from conflict to peace, and it is difficult for these men to reconfigure their place in the changed realities. This problem is generic, and points towards the difficulties gender equality can pose in post-conflict societies, as well as to difficulties women ex-combatants can face in having their contribution recognised and acknowledged. Chapter 5 continues the attention given to the Northern Irish case by addressing the claims that Irish Republicans and Ulster Loyalists make to give themselves moral legitimacy, but it is also something of a pause or detour. Brewer suggests pausing to consider the meaning and role of ‘legitimacy’ and ‘legitimate’ actions in relation to warfare. Through in-­ depth interviews, the chapter teases out the sinews of the intersubjective

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discourses employed by former combatants, in responding to the ontological and existential questions raised by their involvement in conflict. The issues of denial, acceptance, exclusion and silence(s) were important themes that attest to the lived experiences of combatants that are found elsewhere in the pages of this edited book. The chapter raised generic issues about moral legitimacy not restricted to the North of Ireland. What is critically important about this chapter is that by beginning to pause, we are able to interrogate the philosophical interpellations underpinning the explanations made by former combatants in their reflexive accounts. These claims do not denude former combatants of culpability or vindicate their actions, but provide a gateway to understanding the moral claims of those involved in political violence (also see Shanahan 2008; Tutu 1990). This chapter provides a space for voices to be heard so that they are no longer sinned by silence in the struggle for justice. The accounts of the combatants show that the journey to peace is a dynamic process and so too is their personal journey of reparation, healing and peacebuilding. The generic issues it raised include the need to deconstruct the hierarchy between the ‘deserving/non-deserving’ victim and the venerated/vilified combatant; the importance of recognising that the tragedy of war holds everyone to sufferance; and that ex-combatants face many travails with respect to identity management, the failures in the process to support their social and economic reintegration, and the absence of appropriate psychological and economic support. In Chap. 6, Brewer and Herron addressed the role of state veterans, who form a spectre-like presence within the literature. They are rarely thought of as ex-combatants, and their experiences of transitioning tend to be the most neglected. Brewer and Herron carefully crafted a new lens to the literature, isolating one specific set of state veterans, British land-­ based troops who were deployed in counter-insurgency warfare (COIN) in Afghanistan. COIN operations pose significant reintegration problems arising from the emotionally demanding nature of its warfare and the chapter examined the reintegration experiences of British Afghanistan veterans, poignantly contextualising the ambivalent and problematic status of some state veterans. The chapter echoed the themes found in many of the chapters in this book, raising generic issues around the ambiguous

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socio-positioning of state veterans and the problematic cultural assumptions surrounding the state veteran. Brewer and Herron’s chapter captured the lived experience of Afghanistan COIN veterans in their own words, sharing the many obstacles they face as a result of the emotional, psychological and physical demands of counter-insurgency operations. It explores the multitude of emotions of state veterans as they begin the reintegration journey. Chapter 7 moved cases towards South Africa. The chapter by Langa, Maringira and Merafe repeated a number of themes found in Northern Ireland, notably how militarised masculine identities are embedded in techniques of silencing that stifles the claims of women combatants to be commemorated in the narrative of liberation movements in South Africa. What is clear from Chap. 7 is that the language of militarised masculinity subjugates female combatants and their activities. This in turn contributes to silencing the role of women in the fight for liberation, reflecting how post-apartheid South Africa remains a highly patriarchal and gendered society. This is a generic problem. The narratives of women involved in other national liberation movements show that women remain on the periphery of what can be remembered, memorialised and celebrated. An important feature of this chapter is that it provided a space to hear the voices of other paramilitary groups outside of the African National Congress (ANC) and uMkhonto we Sizwe (MK), contributing to the kaleidoscopic lens through which to understand the experiences of those who have been left behind in the struggle for change in South Africa. The references in Chap. 7 to the unequal and unfair treatment of women in the anti-apartheid struggle are significantly extended in Chap. 8, where Magadla identifies the structural forces which socially construct the ex-combatant category in South Africa. The chapter illustrated how state responses reflected the cultural and gendered scripts rooted in the inextricable relationship between femininities, masculinities, ethnonationalism, ethno-cultural practices and anti-apartheid groupings. The silencing and re-marginalisation of female ex-combatants demonstrated how the women’s claims to ex-combatant status and to state reparation is restricted by masculine combatant criteria. It argued that the recourse to legitimate state financial assistance is limited by the framing of violence, which is understood to be masculine, buttressed by the perceived

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normative male combatant role. This shapes the process of transitioning to reproduce ‘traditional’ femininities for women ex-­ combatants. Magadla centres the voices of the women to show how the reproduction of gendered understandings of conflict are reproduced and embedded within the new South African state and within post-apartheid civil society. The ambiguity of the socially constructed ex-combatant category in post-1994 South Africa was attested to further in Verwoerd and Edlmann’s chapter, which addressed the fluid and complex positioning that hundreds of thousands of white male conscripts and their families found themselves in when the country transitioned to a non-racial democracy in 1994. The authors drew on the testimonies at the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission made by Afrikaner state veterans from the South African Defence Force (SADF) and their families, including from families who had loved ones killed in the war. They are ‘state combatants’, rather than non-state combatants, but nevertheless, the families of the dead SADF have become a type of victim of the settler-­colonialism1 of Afrikaner Nationalist apartheid policy. The complexities of their victimhood are vividly drawn. As members of a former dominant group having lost its dominance but having been victimised in their defeat, they now have to compete for emotional and material recognition in a society still suffering immensely from the legacy of their former dominance. The chapter expands the notion of victim in South Africa to include many white males conscripted to fight a war, with political change that now robs them of legitimacy, raising deeply emotional questions about how they can make sense of their combatant role. This poses a problematic dilemma for Afrikaners in how they respond to political change while not diminishing their former military engagements as meaningless.

 According to Veracini, in theoretical terms, one crucial distinction between colonialism and settler colonialism as separate formations is that the first aims to perpetuate itself whereas the latter aims to supersede itself. The difference is absolutely critical. A colonial society is successful only if the separation between coloniser and colonised is retained; a settler colonial project is ultimately successful only when it extinguishes itself—that is, when the settlers cease to be defined as such and become ‘natives’, and their position becomes normalised (2013, p. 28). 1

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Chapter 10 offers an African detour. In one sense it widened the cross-­ national comparison between our three cases, but primarily it functioned to enable the interrogation of African approaches to Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration (DDR), serving as a comparison to throw the South African example into higher relief. Kiconco provides a compelling account of the lived experiences faced by former girl soldiers in the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in Northern Uganda, as they return and resettle back to their home communities. It critically outlines the difficulties in re-establishing a new identity and of reconnecting to a former life that they were forcibly taken from. Through the voices of girls who have now become women, the accounts capture how wider society in Northern Uganda fails to acknowledge that the ex-combatants were forcibly abducted as children. There is a disconnect between the non-­ abductees’ understanding of the experiences of life in the LRA and the lived experiences of the former girl soldiers. The stigma surrounding former girl soldiers’ involvement leads to a level of community exclusion, marginalisation and fear. Misperceptions by communities about the children’s own volition in participating in the LRA leads the abductees to be held with suspicion and contempt. They are viewed as the stranger/foreigner, an uninvited guest (see also Camus 2013) who has brought shame and dishonour to the community. For Simmel in his essay The Stranger, the stranger ‘is the man [or woman] who comes today and stays tomorrow’ (Levine 1971, p. 143). Bauman argues that the stranger has forced an encounter with members of the community that is resistant to strangers, challenging the community’s ability to make sense of the person. This cultural ‘otherness’: is a notorious mark of the enemy. Yet, unlike other, ‘straight-forward’ enemies, s/he is not kept at a secure distance, nor on the other side of the battle-line. Worse still, s/he claims a right to be an object of responsibility—the well-known attribute of the friend. If we press upon his/her the friend/enemy opposition, s/he would come out simultaneously under and overdetermined. And thus, by proxy, s/he would expose the failing of the opposition itself. S/he is a constant threat to the world order. (Bauman 1991, p. 59)

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The chapter focused on how the children were forcibly abducted and recruited, as well as their lives within the rebel group. It addressed their participation in DDR, their experiences of daily life in Internally Displaced Peoples (IDPs) camps, and their initial experiences upon returning to society (for comparisons see Coulter 2009, Baines 2016). The chapter outlines how returnee girl soldiers are re-silenced, vilified and humiliated by the community’s traditional and patriarchal systems of belief. This chapter distinguishes between the engendering of silence, and its types, and the consequences of silencing, as a form of ‘othering’. In contrast to Magadla’s Chap. 8, Kiconco drew a clear difference between the process of being silenced and the process of silencing. The voicelessness of the abductees is clearly both ‘self ’ and ‘other’ imposed (see Brewer 2019). Self-imposed silence is a form of involuntary silence. Silence becomes a form of survival, reducing the risk of possible disclosure. By using Goffman’s concept of stigma (1963), Kiconco illustrates the ways in which community-led practices of exclusion create markers of stigma that influence the shaping of post-conflict intercommunity relations. The non-abducted community believe that the ex-girl soldiers are tainted with the evil spirit, known as ‘Cen’. Therefore, to remove the fear of contamination and grant re-admittance into their community, the young women must be exorcised through rituals led by the traditional healers (Sangomas). In this instance, the ‘ex-combatants do not reintegrate; but that communities reintegrate them’ (UNDP p. 34). Chapter 11 marks the beginning of coverage of the Sri Lankan case. Fonseka examines the role of female combatants in the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE). This chapter draws out the motivations behind women joining the LTTE, the internecine of war, and how their involvement in directly opposing the Sinhala Buddhist state led the women to challenge traditional and essentialist conceptions of patriarchy. After almost three decades of war in which the LTTE were defeated, the former female cadres were required to denounce their involvement in the LTTE, to renounce their military skills, and to elect for a return to patriarchal dominance. They are expected to hide within the shadows of the domestic sphere. It was argued that former female combatants were being punished for transgressing the confines of the patriarchal constructions of femininity in a manner that is not applied to former male cadres.

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Furthermore, in a post-conflict society, to prove that they have successfully resettled and have abandoned their military affiliation, they have had to embrace aspects of traditional domesticity and marriage. By visibly embracing traditional roles of femininity, they are no longer in the position to challenge gender inequality, the very motivation that influenced some of the women to join the LTTE. McFeeters takes a different approach in Chap. 12 and provides a critical account of how female ex-combatants involved in the LTTE have been portrayed in the news media. The research draws on an in-depth analysis of 526 articles gathered from mainstream English-language newspapers in Sri Lanka which mention female ex-combatants. The discussion demonstrates how reintegration programmes are centred on ‘correcting’ former ex-combatants by re-training them into ‘acceptable’ societal roles, reflecting the traditional nomenclature of Sinhalese patriarchal society. Her analysis illustrated that although female combatants are granted similar status as men during conflict, these rights were reversed once the war was over. In the Sri Lankan context, the rehabilitation of female ex-combatants consists of techniques that produce and shape the obedient female subject. Women are compelled to revert to the pre-war period of muliebrity, femininity and domesticity—that of wife and mother. This chapter contrasted their reintegration with that of male ex-­ combatants, whose gender is unproblematic because of the discursive elision of violence, maleness and personhood, which ‘normalises’ their military involvement. By contrast, the gender of female ex-combatants is constantly problematised and made a central issue to ‘correct’ in state reintegration programmes. This chapter raised generic issues, illustrating how media representations of combatant women embed deeply gendered social norms which confine ex-combatant women to restrictive and harmful roles. The women’s experiences are derided, silenced and their military engagement denied. This serves to regress any advances made for gender equality and abandoned gains derived from the conflict. The gendered discursive constructs have material consequences in continued subordination, the derogation of human rights, and the oppression and inequality of female ex-combatants and that of women in general. As a general point, this chapter showed that the lived experiences of some types of

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ex-­combatants—especially women and state veterans—remain shrouded in a nexus of silence and silencing, and that the transformative ambitions for gender equality in the fight for national liberation has been unsuccessful in some post-conflict settings.

 he Wider Relevance of Hearing T Ex-combatants’ Voices While this book can make only a very small contribution from a selected number of countries, we set out with the hope that readers will join us on the journey to bridge together the divide between the Global North and Global South, at least in terms of scholarship. The volume contributes to the developing discourse on the experiences of ex-combatants by bringing together in one volume empirical research on the experiences of former combatants from a Global North/South perspective. The chapters have gone beyond the populist thinking about former combatants by rejecting the martyr-hero-demon syndrome (see Brewer, Chap. 2) to draw out the nuanced and fluid relationship between their military and political engagements, exploring their motivations to engage in political violence and the extent of their subsequent peace making. It is through examining three countries of conflict, Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka, that we explored the shadow of war and peace, and excombatants’ responses to the process of Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration. The concept of the ‘South’ underpinning this book is understood not only in terms of geography but also as a metaphor to acknowledge the global inequality in access to wealth, financial resources, knowledge and power. We contend that the contributors in this book have brought together critical understandings of the different dimensions of the legacy of war by acknowledging the shadow of colonialism. Harvey (2004) has called the regime of colonialism the accumulation of dispossession, which has left its imprint in the regimes of dependency and divisions between core and periphery, that continue to play out in global markets of production and exchange. This book takes inspiration from previous attempts

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to decentre and decolonise social sciences (Chakrabarty 2000; Connell 2007; de Sousa Santos 2009/2014), by drawing on different disciplines to produce a multidisciplinary text. Brewer (2010, p. 197) avers, the sorts of concepts that this edited volume has brought together, such as ‘truth’, memory, masculinity, hope, forgiveness, reconciliation, restorative justice, victims, and gender, circulate around and across disciplinary boundaries. Sometimes these concepts are by tradition the domain of one discipline—theology tends to take privilege in the elaboration of ‘truth’ and forgiveness, psychology for victimhood, and criminology for restorative justice. However, they are given intellectual refreshment, when they travel through unfamiliar disciplines. By re-orienting and refocusing the experiences of former ex-­combatants outside the metropolitan North, we sought to develop new ways of understanding the motivations and experiences of former combatants so that the Global South is not only understood in comparison with the Global North but also on its own terms. This is part of a larger project that seeks to incorporate a Global South perspective in the social sciences. It contributes to a more nuanced understanding of the legacy of war, the context and contours of state violence, state impunity, violence, sustainable peace, victimhood, the absent-presence of victims in post-conflict societies, the role of victimhood in the move towards reconciliation, cognitive justice and ultimately peacebuilding. These chapters draw on the relationship between the cultural, physical, psychological and structural forms of violence left by a history of colonialism, and religious and ethnic wars. This book aimed to expand the sociological imagination to critically engage in the repertoire of experiences of former combatants by bridging the divide between the Global North and Global South. We hope that the ‘fascination of sociology lies in the fact that its perspective makes us see in a new light the very world in which we have lived our lives’ (Berger 1963, pp. 32–33 cited in Brewer 2010, p. 207). It is a new light and new understandings that we wished to bring to the kaleidoscopic experiences and motivations of former combatants in the transition to peace. It therefore bears upon us to show what new light a Global North/South perspective sheds on ex-combatant issues.

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A Global North/South Perspective on Ex-combatants The intellectual framework of the Global North/South divide points to the structured inequalities that exist between the privileged Global North and the underprivileged Global South. Wealth flows to the Global North, as does knowledge, capital and power. Colonial expansion into the Global South by imperial powers in the Global North continues as a legacy in the post-imperial, post-colonial period. It is manifest in the form of disproportionately weak governments in the Global South, with weak economies, often war economies, marked social divisions rooted in religion, ethnicity and ‘race’ that were often promoted by the colonial powers to reinforce their own dominance, and a flow of outward migration and population movement that denudes them of human resources, the very people with cultural and knowledge capital needed to sustain the Global South. Levels of wealth inequality, poverty and social disadvantage occur within societies and economies stripped of the resources and human capital to deal with poverty and inequality. The conventional portrayal is thus that organised violence and violent political instability are characteristics of the Global South. There is great substance to such a view. The colonial legacy of rigid and marked religious, ethnic and racial cleavages, through which colonialism survived for so long, continues to reveal itself in internecine conflicts, regional power plays, frequent regime changes, the persistence of traditional cultural practices of differentiation and exclusion, and bouts of organised violence. Wars of independence against the colonial powers, now largely won, often leave a legacy, however, of political instability, ethno-national and religious competition, and political violence. The partisan appropriation of natural resources and the prospect of selective wealth accumulation promote war. It is in these structural conditions that local and regional wars proliferate in the Global South, making ex-combatant issues a problem of the Global South. However, this convention is outdated. The Global North is not without its colonial legacies, as some wars of independence have not yet been fully won, as post-communist fragmentation ferments religious, ethnic and racial divisions, and as deep social cleavages remain part of the lived

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experiences of many marginalised social groups in otherwise wealthy societies. War is not restricted to the Global South, and the Global North has its ex-combatants to deal with. Indeed, the flow of population from the Global South towards the Global North often brings new forms of conflict, as the former colonial powers absorb marginalised and largely poor people, and as they lose their cultural, religious, ethnic and racial homogeneity to become culturally diverse. Violent conflicts in the Global South thus become problems to contend with in the Global North, as the example of Islamic fundamentalism highlights. There are many parallels between the Global North and South therefore, in how ex-combatant issues are dealt with at the policy level, as well as in the lived experience of ex-combatants across these two spaces. The selection of our cases in this volume was made deliberately so as to be able to demonstrate the generic issues faced by ex-combatants in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka, countries which are orthodoxly seen to represent this divide. The chapters in this volume have shown that this divide collapses to some extent when ex-combatants become the scholarly focus. Male ex-combatants face similar problems in reconfiguring their hyper, militarised masculinities, and women in experiencing gender inequality and discrimination. They have common problems in forging new identities, in experiencing economic exclusion, and in suffering the effects of moral judgements that put them beyond the pale for most people outside their own communities. Nonetheless, this argument should not be taken too far; the distinction between the Global North and Global South is real. The cases discussed here from the Global South, including the Northern Uganda comparator, display the difficulties ex-combatants in the Global South face, which differ from ex-combatants in the Global North. The very wealth inequalities, poverty, low cultural and knowledge capital, and social injustice that define the Global South, reflect in the lived experiences of ex-combatants from South Africa and Sri Lanka. DDR policies are underfunded or selectively applied, psychological and trauma support services severely under-resourced, employment opportunities limited, even in post-conflict societies in which they were victors, like South Africa, and where traditional cultural practices around gender, ‘race’, age, religion and ethnicity, mark some ex-combatants as strangers. This is

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most obviously the case for women ex-combatants in patriarchal societies and for children in societies where the culture of elders survives, but it is also the case for ex-combatants from politically unsuccessful and marginal paramilitary groups and those not co-opted by the new regime. The emotional, psychological and economic needs of ex-combatants are more likely to be overlooked as everyone in the society at large fights the daily struggle for subsistence and survival. Social justice is a concern for every dispossessed and powerless person and ex-­combatants can make little mark in isolating their concerns. This is not to say that ex-combatants in Northern Ireland benefit from the wealth that distinguishes the Global North as a space. As we have seen, they too face reintegration problems, economic exclusion and underfunded support structures, as well as the severe moral judgements of those who opposed the war. But their base level is higher and traditional cultural practices that differentiate women and children ex-­ combatants have largely disappeared. While gender and age equality is still to be fully realised in Northern Ireland and the Global North generally, Northern Irish ex-combatants do not face the cultural stigmatisation and isolation of comrades in the Global South. The Global North/South framework is thus a useful lens through which to understand the parallels and differences between ex-­combatants. More importantly, ex-combatant issues serve as an occasion to explore the nature of the Global North/South divide, enabling us to deconstruct the divide and to show it is not a hermetic distinction, in that the similarities in the lived experience of ex-combatants in the two spaces are as real as are the differences.

Other Generic Issues Arising from Our Comparisons The ambition of the book was to provide a broader critical understanding of the post-conflict paradigm that addresses the experiences of former excombatants in the process of peacebuilding. These include constitutional, institutional and structural dimensions, which focuses on successful resettlement of former combatants and the variables that hinder their reintegration. Moreover, the chapters in this book queried the utility of

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war and challenges the reader to ask the question about when does conflict or war becomes ‘just’ and ‘justifiable’? In turn, this requests readers to consider whether the behaviour conducted in the name of conflict or war is ever ‘just’, legitimate and/or measured? This has led to a legal distinction between ‘jus ad bellum’ and ‘jus in bello’—the difference between laws that govern the decision to go to war and laws that govern the conduct of war. It is acknowledged that this edited collection has limitations. Some issues and countries may have been omitted, and other geographical regions given more explicit treatment. The choice of cases was in part to complement earlier volumes that captured the voices of victims in Sri Lanka, South Africa and Northern Ireland (Brewer et al. 2018a, b), but also because, as just argued, they bridge the Global North-South divide which we wished to use the voices of ex-combatants to explore. We hope that for the reader, we will have deepened the understanding of the experiences of ex-combatants in these three cases by highlighting the complex interplay of the differing social, cultural, historical and political variables that motivated them to fight, that strengthen or prohibit the successful reintegration of ex-combatants, that affect their lived experiences in dealing with the legacy of war, and which shape the engagements some later developed with their respective peace process. Inequalities of gender, age, ‘race’ and ethnicity, the persistence of practices of cultural differentiation and exclusion, as well as continued post-­ conflict political differences, marginalised and ostracised some ex-combatants. It is clear from the chapters therefore, that a concerted effort should be made to encourage ex-combatants to play a central part in the building of a post-conflict society regardless to gender or age. The role played by ex-combatants in the process of DDR is widely acknowledged as a prerequisite for post-conflict stability and for preventing the recurrence of armed conflict (McEvoy and Shirlow 2009). The DDR programme as part of the peacebuilding enterprise is structured as a process of transition from war to peace. The UN Integrated Disarmament, Demobilisation, and Reintegration Standards (IDDRS 2006) state simply: The sustainable social and economic reintegration of former combatants should be the ultimate objective of [DDR]. If reintegration fails, the

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achievements of the disarmament and demobilisation phase are undermined, instability increases, and sustainable reconstruction and development are put at risk. (United Nations 2011)

This model of DDR generally regards former combatants as a threat whereby ex-combatant discontent can return a country to war (McMullin 2004, 2013), and treats them as if they were ‘individualised cases of violence in a normal peaceful society’, to be seen as a ‘painful symptom of the violence that needs to be disinfected and normalised’ (van der Merwe and Smith 2006, p. 42). For example, the UN integrated DDR standards refer to DDR as a process that contributes to security and stability in post-conflict recovery contexts by ‘removing weapons from the hands of combatants, taking the combatants out of military structures and supporting them to integrate socially and economically into society by finding civilian livelihoods’ (UN 2006, p. xi). However, with a significant increase in DDR programmes in recent years, it has become evident that more flexible approaches are needed when designing and implementing the various components of the programmes, particularly in terms of taking into account the type of ex-combatant, the type of conflict that has occurred, and the socio-economic and political conditions prevailing in the post-conflict environment. Chapters by Kiconco, Magadla, Langa, Maringira and Merafe, Brewer and Herron, and Magee in this volume have reflected on some of these initiatives, showing confusion over the aims and objectives of reintegration, and their provocation of a range of other issues and problems. This suggests that the way in which DDR is approached is at least as important as the details of designing and implementing DDR activities. There is now increasing consensus that DDR processes are: ‘deeply embedded in the social, political, economic and historical context of post conflict situations, [and must] be understood in relation to the specific environment in which they are implemented’ (Porto and Parsons 2003, p. 6). This environment will determine, to a large extent, ‘what is possible and what is not, why developments follow a certain path rather than a different one, and how effective certain activities are opposed to others’ (Porto and Parsons 2003, p. 6). This has certainly been the case in relation to the

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approach taken throughout the development of the peace process in Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka. In the transitioning from armed conflict to peaceful political struggle, ex-combatants face numerous challenges, all of which can be broadly related to the continuing moral struggle over the definition of their activities as participants in warfare. The moral judgements also reflect the gender and age dynamics of former combatants, that mark them as a ‘strange other’ and outside conventional cultural norms. Ex-combatants have moved from the centre to the margins of policy and economic support, falling foul to the Möbius strip of moral claims that range from martyrdom, heroism to demonisation. In some of the individual chapters (see especially Fonseka, Magadla and Wahidin), ex-combatants were far more than simply fighters; they are often social activists with a strong understanding of the nature and cause of social injustice. They are often the ‘carriers of social memory of struggle taking on the role of preserving the history of the struggle against injustice’ (van der Merwe and Smith 2006, p. 15; emphasis in original). These moral claims were addressed in the chapters by Brewer. Furthermore, these moral claims outline how ambiguous the category of ‘ex-combatant’ is. As Durkheim argued, ‘categories, do not communicate social facts but are themselves socially constructed. It has multiple usages that is distinct from the individuals who are said to belong to the construct’ (Durkheim 1995, p. 441). The chapters showed how the ex-­ combatant category is constructed and is not dissimilar to Foucault’s ‘despot as the “permanent outlaw”, who represents a bundle of threats, unless s/he can be tempted by the post-conflict state under international tutelage’ (Zanotti 2003, p. 152). Different moral judgements about the necessity of the war, however, are only one element in the social construction of the category. The chapters clearly illustrate that there are different types of ex-combatants, and contextual differences between distinct groups of ex-combatants need to be borne in mind (e.g. government soldiers, state co-opted veterans, freedom fighters, non-state opposition fighters, male versus female combatants and adult versus child). These differences call for tailored programmes and resources for the lived experiences of women combatants, children, the victorious and defeated veterans, state veterans and non-state

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combatants. The aforementioned have many differences as well as many similarities. By including state veterans amongst the ex-combatants discussed in this volume, we have showed some similarities in the reintegration problems of state veterans and non-state combatants. These chapters have shown that having a more nuanced understanding of combatants may help in comprehending the true extent of the impact of conflict, the degrees of trauma and the processes of post-conflict reintegration on combatant actors. Various studies have highlighted the difficulties that many of the ex-­ combatants face in term of accessing employment, state-assisted support and so on, and this is no different for former ex-combatants in the case countries addressed by this book. Miriyagalla (2014) discusses the limited employment opportunities for former LTTE combatants, and drawing on research in Northern Ireland. Wahidin (2016), for example, found that ex-combatants are at least four times as likely to be unemployed as others in Northern Ireland (also see Tar Isteach 2010). Their exclusion from certain types of jobs due to their criminal record is difficult to explain when at least 17 members of the Legislative Assembly, local councillors and Special Advisors to Members of the Executive hold ‘conflictrelated convictions’ (Tar Isteach 2010). Similarly, 30–40 per cent of members of the South African government have been convicted for ‘terrorist’ related activities. Ex-combatants continue to be discriminated for their past activities, the extent of which is mediated by factors like ‘race’, age, gender and class. Another important generic issue is how ex-combatants deal with the past. This remains a significant issue in the lived experiences of all types of ex-combatants, regardless of how long ago the war ended. Memory links to trauma, to moral judgements and justifications, and to future reintegration. What this book has demonstrated is there is an intersection between ‘collective memory’, ‘individual memory’, the diverse forms of violence (on which see Walby 2012) and the role of structural inequality in creating the axiomatic tensions between the past, present and future in the Global North and Global South. This intersection gives violence a recursive nature, threatening the risk of renewed outbreaks of violence where social inequalities and social injustice remain to fuel divided memories. It is only by recognising the different histories and contexts of war

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and the different lived experiences of combatants that the fragile process of ‘truth’ recovery, memory reconstruction, social compromise and empathetic understanding between erstwhile enemies can support peace making between and within communities. Archbishop Desmond Tutu (2003), in his Foreword to ‘Reconciliation After Violent Conflict: A Handbook’, echoes the belief that for reconciliation to be achieved, DDR must respond innovatively to the uniqueness of the conflict situations which have been shaped by very different histories, cultures, landscapes and events. We argue that for this seismic change to occur in societies transitioning from conflict, and to repair the ruptures of the past, restoration of sociability and social solidarity must be mediated by social justice. Therefore, it is clear that the discourse of justice and rights must play a central role in a new post-conflict landscape. Especially in times of transition, a focus on social equality and social justice to adjust the mutatis mutandis framework—that is, by changing what is needed to be changed—will only strengthen the process of peacebuilding. Dealing with the past, in other words, principally requires dealing with the future to ensure fairness and justice. In that sense, memory is never just about the past; it is also about the future (see Brewer 2020). Memory and identity are inextricably linked through notions of collective and social memory, where group identity gives central meaning to social memory. For ex-combatants this means they often have identity concerns as well as issues over how to deal with the past. Regardless of the type of ex-combatant discussed here—female, male, child soldier, state veteran, non-state combatant—it is clear from their voices that identity management is a legacy problem of war. Young argues that individual identities are conditioned by group membership, but not determined by it; each individual is enmeshed in different constellations of circumstances and relationships: Social groups do indeed position individuals, but a person’s identity is her/ [his] own, formed in active relation to social positions, among other things, rather than constituted by them. Individual subjects make their own identities, but not under conditions they choose. (Young 2002, p. 99)

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In places where successful negotiated peace accords are in place and where the legacy of conflict is still embedded in the fabric of society, constructions of youth identity, of femininity and masculinity, and of the identities of ‘victor’ and ‘vanquished’, are placed within and beyond their ethno-national group membership, existing outside it but constrained by it. Ex-combatants from amongst Black South Africans, Tamils in Sri Lanka, and Catholics in Northern Ireland construct their identities as former combatants within social structures that constrain as much as enable them. A theme running throughout the book therefore is the tension between the ‘weaponising’ of precisely those traditional constructions of womanhood, masculinity and youth that limit the reintegration opportunities of former combatants. The war challenged cultural norms and practices that allocated traditional roles and opportunities to women, children, ethnic and racial minorities, and cultural outsiders, but these rarely proved to be permanent cultural shifts. This affects the process of identity management for ex-combatants transitioning to peace, since peace can be as difficult as war for them. As Brewer argued (2010, p. 194): Peace can be as costly as violence, as cataclysmic as conflict, and a peace process as protracted and difficult as the conduct of war. Giving up preferred first-choice options for the sake of a negotiated agreement asks as much of the protagonists as the original decision to fight.

Peace is thus no easy option for ex-combatants; it can be as difficult as the original choice to go to war. These travails are not because they deny the idea of peace; most reflected on the costs of their military engagement. What the authors in this edited collection have shown is how moral judgements of ex-combatants reverberate to help shape who they were, who they are and what and who they have become. This is why ex-­ combatants often proffer their own moral justifications to challenge those of society at large. There was a vocational altruism in how many actors saw their own (often dark) activities. Their denial of psychopathology is substantially backed up by terrorism research (see English 2016; Shanahan 2008), and their reluctance to become involved in violence is a key theme of their moral justifications. This is where the actual effect of their

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violence becomes vital. If ex-combatants reluctantly act to protect their community or to end the other’s violence, then the morality of this claim depends on whether their violence actually did that. Our three cases significantly differ in this regard. It did so in South Africa, partly so in Northern Ireland, but had no positive result for Tamils in Sri Lanka.

Conclusion This chapter began with quotes from Oscar Wilde and Karl Marx, which share the irenic sentiments that we wish to conclude with. In a situation of violence, peace becomes the utopic ambition in the transitional journey away from war. This is more salient for those involved in post-­colonial national liberation, as peace presents a blueprint for a transformative agenda. It becomes a programme of possibilities, exposing the interconnected sinews of violence and inequality within the social order of the past. We would argue that the opportunity that the cessation of conflict brings within its reach is hope. It is a hope, a belief, a faith, that envisages change in the social order, that will benefit all members of society (for a sociology of hope, see Brewer et al. 2018a). This resonates with the book The Principle of Hope (Bloch 1988/1954), where a utopian desire brings a notion of ‘something better’, a ‘better future’. The future therefore constitutes a realm of the possible, and the fact that the future is unknown means that not all real possibilities will in fact be actualised; however, these possible futures are seen by Bloch as part of reality. The material world is in a constant state of being and becoming and the future, therefore, has ‘not yet’ been conceived: so, the opportunity avails itself to envision new social structures, new ways of being and a new social order. By drawing on research from Northern Ireland, South Africa and Sri Lanka, this book brought together, in a compelling and unique way, an interrogation of the ‘martyr-hero-demon’ syndrome in order to gain a greater understanding of the difficult societal and redemptive challenges combatants face on this journey to peace. The chapters illustrate that excombatants embody multiple subject positions that are sites of

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contestation, which are fluid and require careful social navigation. A recurrent theme throughout the chapters is the importance of the way in which combatants and victims of war are ‘understood’, and come to understand themselves in the process of creating an environment for sustainable peace to flourish. This process brings to light the importance of truth telling in capturing the wider story of traumatic pasts to facilitate reconciliation, and to support the process of compromise after conflict. The journey to achieving compromise and understanding in the process of post-conflict social reconstruction, recovery and reconciliation, is complex and fraught, and the warscape is difficult to traverse. The role of the state, state violence, and the shadow of colonialism play, ab initio, a part in reconfiguring the landscape of a post-conflict society. The chapters addressed the role of DDR policies and programmes and the gap between policy and delivery in the post-conflict states. They examined the concerns of ex-combatants and explored the complex process of reintegration in the face of tensions between past, present and future reconciliation. The process of DDR is premised on the need to create a firm economic and social foundation while, at the same time, to provide opportunities for former combatants to contribute to and participate in post-conflict peacebuilding and reconstruction. As the chapters in this volume attest, ex-combatants from the Global South and Global North clearly state that these conditions have not been wholly realised. These chapters have clearly shown that there is no reason to assume that the cessation of violence will translate to positive, non-hyper militarised masculinities (see Ashe 2009; Horgan 2009), or deliver social justice and structural and social equality. Positive peace depends on the post-conflict reconstruction and reparation for all combatants across the civil and societal divide. This will be achieved by a reassertion of social justice, human rights and state social responsibility. A commitment to challenging structural violence, social injustice and levels of impoverishment will reinforce reconciliation leading to social transformation. Moreover, the consequences of not incorporating the above will denude social progress, limit hope, and delay reparation and peace for generations to come. As the chapters illustrate, the differentiated implementation of financial support packages for ex-combatants leads to levels of inequality, which discredits, we

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argue, the very ideas of justice and fairness in the day-to-day psychological recovery of ex-combatants and state veterans. This book has shown that there is a formidable pool of theoretical and practical knowledge to be shared across the Global South and the Global North divide in reconfiguring the relationship between state accountability, state reparation, social justice and human rights. The most effective means to stop war or to reduce the possibility for state conflict in future generations is to push social, economic and human rights forward.

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Index1

A

Absent-presence of ex-combatants, 265 of victims, 325 Acholi, Uganda, 249–252, 250n2, 254, 255, 258, 259, 266, 268–271, 279–285 Afghanistan, 16, 123–145, 318, 319 African National Congress (ANC), 12, 13, 152–158, 165, 167, 169–171, 174, 175, 180, 190–194, 198, 209, 221, 222, 224, 319 Afrikaners, 16, 196, 209n2, 224, 227, 228, 320 Afrikaner conscripts, 180 Alison, Miranda, 14, 42, 188, 268, 271, 278, 281, 289, 290, 305

Anti-colonialism, 112 Apartheid, 3, 22, 26, 99, 153–159, 161, 163–165, 167, 168, 174, 175, 180–182, 188, 189, 191–193, 195, 198, 209n3, 210–215, 211n5, 218, 219, 221, 223–232, 225n15, 226n16, 320 Armagh Prison, 40, 42, 43, 45, 48, 51 Armed struggle, 4, 12–14, 154, 181, 182, 188–195, 201 Army British Army, 41, 68, 72, 109, 114, 117, 119, 133 South African Defence Force (SADF), 182, 210, 320 Atack, Ian, 28

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. D. Brewer, A. Wahidin (eds.), Ex-Combatants’ Voices, Palgrave Studies in Compromise after Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61566-6

341

342 Index

Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA), 154–159, 182, 193–195, 197, 198, 201, 221 Azanian People’s Organisation (AZAPO), 154, 155, 190 B

Beetham, David, 98 Biko, Steve, 21, 22 Black Lives Matter campaign, 95, 100 Bloody Sunday, in Northern Ireland, 41, 41n2 Brewer, John D., 1–3, 5, 6, 12, 13, 16, 19, 22, 24, 25, 29, 39, 41, 55, 67, 74, 75, 79, 83, 88, 96, 96n1, 97, 104–120, 125, 155, 163, 169, 189, 267, 316–319, 322, 324, 325, 329–331, 333–335 Buntman, Fran, 101 C

Cadres, 152, 157, 265–285, 294, 295, 300, 302, 303, 306, 322 Catholics, in Northern Ireland, 42, 54, 64, 107, 109, 114, 115, 118, 119, 334 Cen, in Ugandan society, 285, 322 Child soldiers, xi, 6, 12–15, 17–19, 27, 238, 333 Civil war, viii, 3, 4, 14, 93, 123, 182, 183 Cock, Jacklyn, 181, 193, 194, 214 Colonialism, 3, 7, 17, 21, 231, 320n1, 324–326, 336

Combatants ANC, 157, 175 APLA, 154–157, 159 AZANLA, 154, 155, 157, 158 child soldiers, xi, 6, 12, 14, 15, 17–19, 27, 237, 238, 265–285, 288, 290, 333 demobilized combatants, 181, 196 ‘deserving/ non-deserving’ combatants, 316, 318 freedom fighters, 167, 174 IRA, 38 men, 161, 162, 173 non-state combatants, xi, 97, 102, 320, 332, 333 state combatants, 320 Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), 155, 158, 159, 164, 165, 319 women, 188, 194, 195, 201, 259, 319, 331 Compromise, vii–x, 2, 7, 12, 25, 55, 79, 256, 333, 336 Conflict resolution, vii, 71 Conflict transformation, vii, x, 5, 28, 29, 55, 71, 76, 106, 113–114, 116 Counter-insurgency warfare (COIN), 123–131, 139–145, 318 in Afghanistan, 124, 136, 138, 143, 144, 318, 319 in Vietnam, 124, 126 D

Decolonisation, ix, 2, 17, 22, 109, 116, 119, 124, 125, 144

 Index 

Disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration (DDR), 3, 12–14, 37, 64, 71, 72, 87, 124, 181–188, 192, 254, 255, 265–285, 288, 321, 322, 327, 329, 330, 333, 336 See also Reintegration Domesticity, 194, 280, 287, 292, 296, 298, 301, 303, 304, 306, 323 re-domestication, 266, 287, 288, 296 Durkheim, Emile, 331 E

Edlmann, Theresa, 211–213, 225, 226, 226n16, 228, 320 Elster, Jon, 12, 26, 75, 97 Emotional labour, 88, 123, 124, 128, 142, 143, 145 Empire, 2, 125 English, Richard, 95, 119, 276, 334 Enloe, Cynthia, 56, 185, 200, 202, 288, 305 Ethnicity, 2, 8, 326, 327, 329 Euskadi ta Askatasuna (ETA), 39 Ex-prisoners, 40, 66, 67, 69, 70, 72–74, 77–79, 82–87, 110–113, 117 F

Female ex-combatants, 13–15, 17, 19, 23, 27, 37–57, 160, 188, 195, 265, 289, 291, 292, 294–296, 298–305, 307, 319, 323 femininity and, 292, 305, 323

343

Feminism feminist methodology, 292, 293 Floyd, George, 94 Fonseka, Bhavani, 269, 322, 331 Forces in Mind Trust, 125 Foucault, Michel, 47, 134, 292, 331 G

Galtung, Johan, 40, 96 Gender gender in media representation, 23, 287, 289, 291, 298, 300, 301, 304, 305, 323 traditional gender roles, 295, 298, 307 Gendered violence, 159, 269, 270 sexual violence, 14, 51, 53, 54 Girl child soldiers, xi, 15, 238, 265, 266, 288 Global North, xi, 13, 14, 17, 19, 23, 25, 27, 324–329, 332, 336, 337 Global South, xi, 2, 8, 13, 14, 17, 18, 23, 24, 27, 182, 324–329, 332, 336, 337 Gobodo-Madikizela, Pumla, 218, 218n8 Goffman, Erving, 56, 133, 267, 268, 275 Good Friday Agreement (GFA), 3, 13, 54, 55, 64, 70–72, 78, 79, 86, 152 Great Britain, 95 Guerrilla armies, 195, 271

344 Index H

K

Herron, Stephen, 16, 125, 318, 319, 330 Hill Collins, Patricia, 200 Human rights, 8, 23, 26, 54, 57, 96, 210, 218n9, 220–222, 222n13, 281, 323, 336, 337 human rights abuses, ix, 19, 23, 94, 96, 99, 102 Hunger Strikes, in Northern Ireland, 22, 42, 51–54, 101 Hutus, in Rwanda, 20

Kiconco, Allen, 253, 321, 322, 330

I

Identity feminine, 50 Loyalist and, 65 masculine, 70, 88, 153, 163, 168, 170, 173, 317, 319 militarised, 160–163, 170, 174 political, 47, 82, 290, 297, 317 spoiled, 252, 279 Ignatieff, Michael, 21 Internally displaced peoples’ (IDP’s) camps, 266, 272, 274, 322 Irish Republican Army (IRA), 2, 37–57, 68, 81, 84, 85, 94, 107, 112, 118, 132, 152, 188, 317 Irish Republicanism, 66, 81 J

Jankowitz, Sarah, 6

L

Langa, Malose, 166, 319, 330 Lawther, Cheryl, 65 Legitimacy community model of, 94, 99–104, 115, 119 governance model of, 98–105, 111, 116, 119 legitimation crisis and delegitimation, 98, 99 Liberation movements, 21, 153–155, 157, 158, 163, 165, 174, 175, 180–182, 288, 319 Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), 13–15, 27, 188, 265–285, 287–295, 297, 299–306, 322, 323, 332 Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), 249–258, 266, 267, 269, 274, 279–282, 285, 321 M

Magadla, Siphokazi, 182, 193, 319, 320, 322, 330, 331 Magee, David, 65, 94, 124, 317, 330 Mandela-Madikizela, Winnie, 165, 191 Mandela, Nelson, 26, 156, 165, 180 Maringira, Godfrey, 168, 181, 194, 319, 330 Marks, Monique, 163, 164, 166, 189, 193

 Index 

Martyr-hero-demon syndrome, ix, 5, 11, 19–26, 28, 29, 38, 93, 104, 105, 116, 316, 335 Masculinity hyper masculinity, xi, 17, 162, 317 militarised masculinity, 37, 64, 152, 160, 162, 163, 169, 170, 173, 228, 229, 317, 319, 327, 336 struggle masculinities, 153, 174 toxic masculinity, 17 McFeeters, Ashleigh, 14, 23, 294, 296, 300, 307, 323 McKeown, Laurence, 13, 57 McMullin, Jaremey, 12, 330 Media, 14, 23, 132, 133, 137–143, 287–308, 323 Memory, viii, 19, 21, 22, 40, 48, 56, 77, 127, 132, 138–142, 172, 228, 254, 325, 332, 333 memorialisation, 13, 15, 141, 265 Merafe, Modiefe, 319, 330 Military Veterans Act No. 18 of 2011, 181 Moral beacons, 2, 12 Moral legitimacy and ex-combatants, 93, 94, 97, 101–107, 109–119 in warfare, 93, 102, 317 N

Nationalist community, in Northern Ireland, 138 National liberation movements, 157, 174, 180–182, 288, 319

345

Nazism, 14, 26 Non-state combatants, xi, 97, 102, 320, 331–333 Northern Ireland, x, 1–3, 6, 8, 12–14, 16, 19, 21–23, 38, 41n2, 52, 54, 64–66, 65n1, 70–72, 78, 84, 93, 109, 114, 116, 120, 123, 125, 135, 138, 141, 144, 208, 211n6, 238, 316, 317, 319, 324, 327–329, 331, 332, 334, 335 No wash protest, in Northern Ireland, 42, 43, 45–51 P

Paisley, Ian, 21, 50, 81 Pan African Congress (PAC), 154–156, 180, 193 Paramilitarism, 63, 64, 66, 77, 111 Patriarchy patriarchal gender roles, 288, 299, 308 patriarchal power relations, 291 Peacebuilding, 2, 7, 12, 17, 18, 29, 55, 57, 88, 104, 160, 183, 318, 325, 328, 329, 333, 336 Peace warriors, x Peterson, Hector, 22 Political Prisoner Groups in Northern Ireland Coiste na nIachmí, 40 Tar Anall, 40 Political prisoners, 42, 43, 45, 47, 48, 52, 56 Political protests, 38, 42, 50, 94, 317

346 Index

Population Registration Act 1950, 213 Post-conflict reconstruction, 336 Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), 125, 139, 140, 142, 171, 173, 226 Prisons, 22, 29, 38, 40, 42–49, 51–54, 64, 70–72, 84, 96, 101, 104, 108, 113, 118, 119, 128, 134, 140, 156, 157, 192, 212 Protestants, in Northern Ireland, 67, 70, 107, 119 R

Race, 2, 94, 153, 214, 326, 327, 329, 332 Ramphele, Mamphela, 21, 22 Reconciliation, viii, ix, 7, 25, 29, 39, 54, 56, 183, 210, 211, 211n6, 218n8, 222, 224, 225, 225n15, 228, 230, 250, 285, 296, 297, 325, 333, 336 Reintegration, ix, 3, 7, 12, 13, 15, 16, 18, 24, 29, 37, 70–75, 87, 111, 124, 125, 127–129, 132, 135, 144, 152, 157, 158, 181, 182, 184, 194, 201, 207, 249, 251–255, 259, 265–269, 274, 275, 278, 280–284, 291, 293, 294, 299, 301, 307, 316–319, 323, 328–330, 332, 334, 336 Religion, 2, 3, 84, 108, 326, 327 Resistance strategies, 238 Rwandan genocide, 20

S

Sands, Bobby, 22, 52, 101 Sexual violence, 14, 51, 53, 54, 271 Silence and silencing, 324 and hiddenness, 316 Sinhalese, in Sri Lanka, 15, 266, 288, 296, 323 Sinn Féin, 54, 79, 81, 111, 114 South Africa, x, 1–3, 6, 8, 12, 13, 16, 19, 21, 22, 99, 152–155, 157, 158, 163–171, 174, 175, 208–215, 218, 219, 222, 223, 225, 227–229, 238, 265, 266, 316, 319, 320, 324, 327, 329, 331, 335 post-apartheid South Africa, x, 151–175, 211 South African National Defence Force (SANDF), 157–159, 180, 194, 195, 197, 221 South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, 320 Soweto, 22, 155, 188, 189, 219 Soweto Uprising, 22, 155, 189 Spoiler groups, viii Sri Lanka, x, 1–4, 6, 8, 12, 14, 15, 19, 23, 27, 152, 208, 238, 265–269, 272, 274, 275, 278, 279, 281, 284, 285, 287–308, 316, 323, 324, 327, 329, 331, 334, 335 State-building, viii, 185 State combatants, 320 State veterans, xi, 3, 6, 7, 12, 15–16, 18, 20, 21, 26, 28, 37, 38, 63, 97, 101, 102, 123–125, 129,

 Index 

135–137, 141, 142, 144, 145, 153, 173, 180, 316, 318–320, 324, 331–333, 337 Stigma, 6, 14, 18, 27, 37, 238, 249–258, 266–269, 275, 276, 278–280, 282, 300, 301, 321, 322 See also Goffman, Erving Suicide bombers, 102, 275, 276, 278 T

Tamils, in Sri Lanka, 15, 20, 334, 335 Techniques of neutralisation, 7, 27, 132–133 Terrorism, 38n1, 70, 105, 219, 270, 276, 289, 295, 334 Terrorism Act 2000, 73 Thamilini, Colonel, 271, 272, 274, 279, 280, 294, 302 Total institutions, 56, 124, 133–135 See also Goffman, Erving Transitional justice, viii, 15, 74, 254 Trauma post-traumatic stress disorder, 125, 139, 140, 142, 171, 173 trauma narratives, 143, 171 ‘The Troubles’, in Northern Ireland, 38, 41n3, 64, 66, 67, 74, 80, 82, 88, 317 Truth and Reconciliation Act of 1995, in South Africa, 222n13 Truth recovery, viii, 333 Tutu, Archbishop Desmond, 318, 333

347

U

Uganda, 6, 154, 183, 237, 238, 265, 266, 269–271, 274 Ulster Defence Association (UDA), 65, 66, 68, 70, 71, 74, 75, 77–79, 81, 82, 84–86, 97, 109 Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR), 16, 125, 131, 132, 138, 141, 144, 145 Ulster Loyalism, 63, 64, 152, 317 Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), 65–71, 73, 74, 78–81, 83–86, 97, 110, 111, 118 United Kingdom (UK), 40, 67, 70, 73, 112, 125, 138 Utopia, 315 V

Verwoerd, Wilhelm, 211, 211n6, 214, 220, 226–228, 320 Veterans Afghanistan veteran, 124, 125, 128–140, 143–145, 318 ANC veterans, 153 counter-insurgency veterans, 123–145 non-state veterans, xi, 19, 173 state veterans, xi, 3, 6, 7, 12, 15, 16, 18–21, 26, 28, 37, 38, 63, 97, 101, 102, 123–125, 129, 135–137, 141, 142, 144, 145, 153, 173, 316, 318–320, 324, 331–333, 337 women combatants, 319, 331

348 Index

Victims complex victims, 97 ‘deserving and non-­ deserving,’ 318 ideal, 97 victimhood, viii, 5–7, 13, 20, 29, 30, 57, 140–142, 265, 280, 283, 316, 320, 325 victim-perpetrator paradigm, 6, 228n17 Victor’s peace, in Sri Lanka, 3, 13, 19, 265, 266 Violence cultures of violence, 102 gender violence, 45, 159 interpersonal violence, 94 political violence, ix, xi, 16, 38, 45, 56, 93–97, 101, 102, 104, 109, 230, 298, 300, 303, 318, 324, 326 private vs. public, 94 senseless violence, 95 structural violence, 96, 292, 308, 336 virtuous violence, 95 Vituthalai Pulikal Munani (Women’s Front of the Liberation Tigers), 268 Voice, ex-combatants and, x, xi, 2, 5, 7, 11–30, 37, 39, 105, 152, 153, 316, 324–325, 329

W

Wahidin, Azrini, 2, 14, 24n1, 43, 48, 50, 94, 183, 188, 290, 317, 331, 332 War, ix, x, 3, 4, 7, 11, 12, 14–17, 19, 20, 24, 27–29, 37, 38, 53, 55–57, 64, 68, 75, 81, 93, 94, 106–109, 111–114, 116, 117, 119, 120, 123, 124, 132, 138–142, 144, 156, 157, 160, 162, 167, 170, 173, 181, 183, 185–187, 198, 201, 209, 214, 215, 217, 227, 230, 252–254, 266–272, 274, 275, 278–280, 282–285, 288, 289, 295, 296, 301, 307, 316, 318, 320, 322–337 emotional legacy of, 7, 37, 64 Weber, Max, 98, 99, 102, 160, 187 Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 94, 96, 119 Wilde, Oscar, 335 Women combatants, 188, 194, 195, 201, 259, 319, 331 ex-combatants, xi, 14, 27, 37, 87, 152, 163, 174, 175, 238, 266, 287–308, 317, 328 involvement in liberation movement, 165, 175, 319 as political prisoners, 42, 43, 52 silencing of, 19, 37, 152, 319 stigmatisation of, 253, 254, 256, 257, 259, 278–281, 294