Greed and Grievance: Ex-Militants' Perspectives on the Conflict in Solomon Islands, 1998-2003 0824839226, 9780824839222, 9780824838546

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T O P I C S

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T H E

C O N T E M P O R A R Y

P A C I F I C

Ex-Militants’ Perspectives on the &RQ³LFWLQ6RORPRQ,VODQGV 1998–2003

M A T T H E W

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A L L E N

Greed and Grievance

Brij Lal General Editor

Interpreting Corruption: Culture and Politics in the Pacific Islands Peter Larmour Greed and Grievance: Ex-Militants’ Perspectives on the Conflict in Solomon Islands, 1998–2003 Matthew G. Allen

Greed and Grievance Ex-Militants’ Perspectives on the Conflict in Solomon Islands, 1998–2003

Matthew G. Allen

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2013 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 18 17 16 15 14 13    6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Allen, Matthew G., author. Greed and grievance : ex-militants’ perspectives on the conflict in Solomon Islands, 1998–2003 / Matthew G. Allen. pages cm. — (Topics in the contemporary Pacific) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8248-3854-6 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Ethnic conflict—Solomon Islands.  2. Solomon Islands—­ Ethnic relations.  3. Solomon Islands—Politics and ­government.  4. Solomon Islands—Economic conditions—­ Regional disparities.  I. Title.  II. Series: Topics in the ­contemporary Pacific. DU850.A688 2014 995.93—dc23 2013009173

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.

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Contents

From the General Editor  ◊  vii Preface  ◊  ix Acknowledgments  ◊  xi Bibliographic Conventions  ◊ xv 1 Introduction ◊  1 2  Solomon Islands and the Tension  3  Kastom, Class, and Colonization 

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4  Guadalcanal: The Contested Motherland 

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5  Saving the Solomons: The Malaita Eagle Force  6  Continuities and Symmetries 

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7  The State, Resources, Identity, and Conflict 

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Appendix 1 “A Brief History of Ethnic Tension (South Guadalcanal)”  ◊  189 Appendix 2 “Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief ”  ◊  193 Notes  ◊ 197 References  ◊  217 Index  ◊  235

From the General Editor

Matthew Allen’s Greed and Grievance is the second volume in the Topics in the Contemporary Pacific series published by the University of Hawai‘i Press. The book is about understanding the violence and disorder that gripped Solomon Islands between 1998 and 2003. Much has been written about this tragic episode in the recent history of Solomon Islands, but Allen’s work makes a distinctive contribution to the literature. The book expresses the voices of ex-militants from both sides of the divide about the motivations and modus operandi of the conflict. The interview material is richly complemented by documentary evidence associated with the so-called “Tension Trials” and contextualized by reference to the extensive literature on the history and anthropology of Solomon Islands. Through the prism of the Solomon Islands experience, the book provides important insights into the broader “Melanesian” patterns of thought and behavior. Allen moves beyond the received wisdom about the causes of the conflict by including in his analysis longstanding patterns of economic development, the history of micro-nationalist movements, and the micro-politics of resource access and control. In analyzing ex-militants’ discourses against the backdrop of theoretical debates about the causes of violent conflict in resource-rich developing countries, Allen encourages us to look beyond what he describes as the “new political economy” of resource conflict. He argues a case for its fundamentally political origins, rather than seeing the Solomon Islands conflict in terms of greed and criminal predation. While the role of criminality and greed is not disregarded, Allen shifts attention to other motivating factors which, he argues, were more important. vii

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  From the General Editor

Foremost of these are the ex-militants’ own conceptions of history and of the places of their respective peoples in the historical processes of colonization, development, and nation-building. Both sides draw upon a rich tradition of resisting the state, particularly its perceived imposition upon kastom and local sovereignty over land and resources. Both sides also engage with discourses of development, highlighting perceived inequities in the distribution of primary resource rents, the geographical pattern of development, and the provision of government services. Greed and Grievance is an innovative and historically informed text that sheds criticial new light on the conflict in Solomon Islands and will encourage considerable rethinking about the origins of instability in the western Pacific. The book will be of value to students and scholars of Pacific history, anthropology, and political science, as well as to a wider audience of peace and conflict researchers and practitioners.

Brij V. Lal The Australian National University

Preface

The bulk of the research conducted for this book was carried out between 2004 and 2007. Fieldwork, in the form of interviews and the collection of documentary material, was undertaken in 2005 and 2006. I subsequently returned to Solomon Islands for shorter trips in 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011, none of which were for the explicit purpose of carrying out more research for this book. That said, informal conversations held with Solomon Islanders over the past five years have further corroborated the perspectives that are presented here and have given me greater confidence in elucidating them. To be sure, none of the interviews cited herein was conducted after July 2006. This end date applies also to the material associated with the so-called “Tension Trials,” the legal cases against those who committed or allegedly committed crimes during the period of conflict (1998–2003). These trials have produced an enormous quantity of documentation: police interviews, subpoenas, witness statements, court transcripts, judgments, and so forth. In 2009 it was reported that there had been fifty-five Tension Trials to date. However, difficulties of classification and record keeping mean that this is probably an underestimate. There are thought to be around ten Tension-related cases pending as we go to press in mid-2013. This book considers only a small proportion of the Tension Trials, all of which were held prior to mid-2006. Since the original period of my research, much has been published that is of direct relevance to my subject matter. As far as possible I have attempted to consider and, where appropriate, incorporate this material. However, I have had to draw some arbitrary lines here and there in ix

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the interests of finishing the manuscript. Hence chapters 4 and 5 could perhaps be more “up-to-date,” with the recently released report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission a notable omission. One could follow these new lines indefinitely and never complete the manuscript. An important boundary relates to the Australian-led Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands (RAMSI), an international peacekeeping and state-building intervention that was deployed in July 2003 and started to draw down in 2012. This book is about the causes of the conflict in Solomon Islands, not its resolution, though the two are, of course, inextricably wedded. I hope that the book will offer some insights and guidance to those who seek to build peace in Solomon Islands, be they internal or external actors. However, it is not my purpose to spell out these lessons in relation to the very particular project that is, or was, RAMSI. Doing so would entail another book. Finally, just as there has been more material published over the past six years on the subject of peace and conflict in Solomon Islands, so too have there been new theoretical insights, as well as old ones that I have happily discovered for the first time. While the book is primarily offered as an empirically rich presentation and analysis of ex-militants’ perspectives on the conflict, I have not dispensed entirely with theoretical considerations. I have taken the opportunity to do some rethinking and to draw upon an expanded repertoire of perspectives on developingcountry conflict to assist us to think through the causes of the conflict in Solomon Islands.

Acknowledgments

This book is primarily dedicated to the thirty-nine “ex-militants” who generously shared their stories with me. For reasons of confidentiality, they remain unnamed. I am also grateful to the many other Solomon Islanders who went out of their way to talk to me about their experiences during the years of violence and hardship. A number of Solomon Islands government departments, agencies, and institutions have provided invaluable support for my research. My thanks to the Ministry of Education (especially Brother Timothy Ngele) for permitting the research and to the National Peace Council (NPC) (Paul Tovua, Victor Ngele, and Ronald Fugui) and the Solomon Islands College of Higher Education (Gordon Nanau) for supporting my application for a research permit. I am grateful to the Solomon Islands Prison Service (especially Barry Aspey and George Samuel) for permitting me to interview inmates in Rove Central Prison and to RAMSI for supporting my request to the Prison Service. The staff of the High Court of Solomon Islands, particularly Nelson Laurere and Derrick Manu’ari, provided assistance in accessing judgments, court transcripts, and information from the case registry system. I am also grateful to the former public solicitor, Ken Averre, for assisting with court transcripts and providing guidance about the legal implications of interviewing people who are, or could potentially become, suspects in criminal cases. I am indebted to the following people for providing assistance during my trip around the island of Guadalcanal in April 2006: Joseph Gesimate (NPC Avu Avu), Nelson Sutati (NPC Marau), Cyril Kulusuia (NPC Marau), Israel Manekasi (NPC Marau), Nelson Sabino (NPC Kuma), xi

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  Acknowledgments

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Benedict Pitu (NPC Kuma), Mahlon Leni (Peochakuri), Ellen Leni (Peochakuri), and Nathan Raitoha (NPC Banbanakira). I am especially grateful to Victor Kikiti of the Community Sector Program and Tony Hurua of the NPC for their extraordinary small-boat handling skills and their intimate knowledge of Tasi Mauri (meaning “rough sea”) conditions on the Weather Coast. I would like to thank the following people for assisting with my trip to Malaita in May 2006: Joseph Au and Nelson Puraha (NPC Auki), Israel Mike (NPC Malu’u), Colin Ramo (Auki), and the NPC boat drivers Justin and Benedict. I am grateful to Sinclair Dinnen and John Braithwaite, both of the Australian National University, for accompanying me during parts of my fieldwork on Malaita. Thanks to the following people for assistance with fieldwork in Honiara and in the rural areas to its east and west: Hilda Ki’i, Lucien Ki’i, Jr., Solomon Rakei, George Hilly, Blondie George, Chris Baku, Douglas Mamaka, Craig Bailey, and John King. I am indebted to the staff of the AusAID-funded Community Sector Program for providing accommodation in Honiara, assisting with fieldwork logistics, and sharing their vast knowledge of the Solomons community sector. Special thanks to Frans Arentz, Val Stanley, Josephine Kama, Regina Gatu, David Lawrence, and Michael Lowe. My research has benefited from discussions, conversations, and correspondence with the following people in Solomon Islands and elsewhere: Abel Arambola, Kate Barclay, Ben Breen, Ben Burt, Tom Chevalier, Daniel Evans, Regan Field, Ian Frazer, Nick Gagahe, Ghislain Hachey, Tony Jansen, Johnston Koli, Alan McNeil, Ruben Moli, Mary-Louise O’Callaghan, David Oeta, John Roughan, Paul Roughan, Ian Scales, Tony Stafford, Phil Tagini, Jaap Timmer, Bartholomew Ulufa’alu, Morgan Wairiu, and Lisa Warner. I am particularly indebted to David Akin. I am also especially grateful to my Tikopian friends Solomon Rakei and John Foimua for their tireless efforts to assist my research and for their invaluable companionship. At the Australian National University I would like to thank my Ph.D. supervisors, Ben Reilly, Peter Larmour, and Sinclair Dinnen. I also benefited from discussions with John Braithwaite, Valerie Braithwaite, Hilary Charlesworth, Simon Creek, Jon Fraenkel, David Hegarty, Sango Mahanty, Amrita Malhi, Rebecca Monson, Tony Regan, Maylee Thavat, and Iris Wielders. Thanks to Kay Dancey for drawing the maps and to Jean Bourke and Bojana Ristich for copyediting. I am grateful to the Australian National University for financial assistance and logistical support.

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I am indebted to three anonymous examiners and two anonymous readers. Their comments and suggestions have been extraordinarily valuable. I hope they can see at least some of their advice reflected in these pages. I am also grateful to Masako Ikeda, acquisitions editor at the University of Hawai‘i Press, and Professor Brij Lal, the series editor, for supporting this project. Material from sections of this book has appeared elsewhere, and I am grateful to the relevant editors for their permission to reproduce it here. Earlier versions of chapters 3, 5, and 6 appeared in Oceania under the title “Resisting RAMSI: Intervention, Identity, and Symbolism in Solomon Islands.” Material from chapters 3, 4, 5, and 6 originally appeared in Australian Geographer under the title “Land, Migration, and Conflict on Guadalcanal.” I am grateful to Peter Larmour for helping me to draw a distinction between “new” and “old” political economy and to think about “greed for the group.” I would like to acknowledge Mike Bourke for first introducing me to the wonderful world that is Melanesia. A big thanks also to my fellow student of Melanesia, Marcus Pangerl, and to Eddy Bourke and Sophie Mackinnon. Finally, I wish to thank my parents, John and Sandy, for their unconditional support through yet another extended writing adventure.

Bibliographic Conventions

Where court cases have a commonly used abbreviation within Solomon Islands—for example, the “Father Geve case”—that abbreviation is used in the text. For cases that do not have a commonly used abbreviation, I follow the conventional form of in-text citation for legal authorities. In both cases, the abbreviation and the full citation can be found at the end of the reference list. Judgments of the Solomon Islands High Court and the Solomon Islands Court of Appeal have been accessed from the Pacific Islands Legal Information Institute online database: http://www.paclii.org/.

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C h a pt e r 1

Introduction

Jonwin’s Story Jonwin was born in 1978 at a village on the remote and rugged Weather Coast of Guadalcanal, an area known locally as Tasi Mauri (meaning “rough sea”). He described to me how he was raised in a landscape rich with stories and meaning and how his land was, and still is, contoured by sacred sites and ancestral shrines, a tapestry of places of spiritual, cultural, and historical significance. For Jonwin, his story and his identity are inseparable from the narratives of the land and the people who have lived within its myriad spaces. These narratives are not restricted merely to the environs of his village and the surrounding gardening and hunting lands. The stories of people and places stretch far and wide, encompassing vast swaths of the island of Guadalcanal and beyond, and reaching back in time to when the first white men visited the island, killing some of its warriors and stealing some of its gold. For Jonwin, his knowledge of these stories makes this his island. Its land is sacred to him; it is his mother. Likening himself to the malaghai (traditional warriors) of old, Jonwin believes that it is his duty to protect the people and the land of Guadalcanal. As he was growing up, Jonwin heard many tales of Chief Pelise Moro, who founded, in the late 1950s, a sociopolitical movement that became known as the Moro Movement and is now known as the Gaena’alu Movement. He once visited Moro’s village and heard the old man speak about kastom, development, and the environment.1 He was, 1

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and continues to be, greatly influenced by Moro’s philosophy, as are many of the thousands of people who live on the Weather Coast and in its mountainous hinterland. Moro spoke to his people about the importance of self-sufficiency and maintaining a harmonious relationship with the land and everything on it. Despite his passing in 2006, Moro’s motto, “Preserve and protect,” lives on. Jonwin also recalls how Moro spoke about the time he had boldly asked for “freedom” from the British colonial administration in the 1960s. Jonwin had heard similar stories about arguments with “the government”—that is, the state in both its colonial and postcolonial forms—over land, resources, and the influx of people from other islands to the northern side of Guadalcanal. He knew that in 1988 the indigenous people of Guadalcanal had asked the national government for “state government” for Guadalcanal. Like so many of his contemporaries, Jonwin completed only primary school and three years of secondary school before he was “pushed out” of the education system. And like generations of Weather Coast men before him, his best hope for engaging with the cash economy was to leave his home village to go to the north side of the island, Tasi Mate (meaning “dead sea”). There he could find work in the capital, Honiara, or on the oil palm plantations of the fertile northeast plains, or at the many logging camps that were dotted across the northern part of the island. So at the age of sixteen, Jonwin and a couple of his friends decided to go in search of work. It was the trade-winds season, when small-boat travel is difficult and dangerous, and in the absence of a road linking the Weather Coast to the outside world, they walked the steep muddy paths of the mountainous interior to Honiara, a journey of three days. For several years Jonwin worked in various menial jobs in Honiara, on the plantations, and in the logging camps, occasionally returning to his home village for a stint. What he saw in his travels made him increasingly aware of the relative deprivation and underdevelopment of the Weather Coast and its people. He began to discuss his concerns with some of his friends and relatives, many of whom had similar feelings. Why should the northern side of the island enjoy so much development while the south remained impoverished and neglected? Why wasn’t more of the resource wealth of the island, including that from the Gold Ridge mine, being used to provide much needed infrastructure and government services, not only for the Weather Coast, but for other parts of the island as well? And what about the people from other islands, particularly Malaita, who had settled on the north coast in increasing numbers since World War II? Why should they benefit from the land and resources of Guadalcanal when Weather Coast people did not? Why

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should they be allowed to practice and enforce their kastom ways while disregarding and disrespecting local kastom? Pondering these questions, Jonwin and his friends became increasingly frustrated. When the national government failed to meet the “Bona Fide Demands” that were put to it by the premier of Guadalcanal in late 1998, these frustrations boiled over. Jonwin and his friends believed that they were left with no choice but to take up arms in order to demonstrate their legitimate grievances to the government and to fight for their rights. This is their story. Justin’s Story But it is also the story of Justin and his friends. Justin was born on his ancestral lands in the densely populated To’abaita language area of north Malaita in 1975. Like Jonwin, he was educated only to Form Three—that is, three years of secondary education. And like his countryman from the Weather Coast, he too was forced to leave his home area in order to find paid employment. In some ways Justin regarded going away to work as a rite of passage, an adventurous journey on the path to adulthood. Indeed, temporary labor migration had long been a tradition for men from Malaita, one that stretched back to the overseas labor trade era of the nineteenth century, when thousands of Malaitans went to work on the plantations in Queensland and Fiji. Justin shares with many Malaitans the belief that Malaitans have historically been the workers and builders of Solomon Islands. He believes that this labor migration has been driven by deliberate government neglect of Malaita and the concomitant underdevelopment of the island. Justin believes that Malaitans have had no choice but to sell their labor in foreign lands and that, in the process, they have been exploited by successive waves of outsiders, including, most recently, “the government.” When he was growing up, Justin heard stories about Maasina Rule, a sociopolitical movement that started to the south, in the ’Are’are language area of Malaita, immediately after World War II but quickly spread to encompass the whole island. The movement united Malaitans against a common enemy in the form of the colonial government. Its followers pressed for a Malaita Council under popularly appointed leadership, for local control over “native courts” adjudicating over locally defined kastom law, and for better terms and conditions for Malaitan plantation la-

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borers. Justin learned that despite the colonial government’s attempts to suppress Maasina Rule, arresting and imprisoning its leaders and thousands of its followers, the movement eventually forced major concessions from the government, including the establishment of a Malaita Council over which Malaitans had significant control. Justin has relatives who had been living on Guadalcanal for many years. In the early 1960s one of Justin’s uncles had been invited by a Guale (a person who is indigenous to Guadalcanal) friend, whom his uncle had met in Honiara, to live on a small parcel of the man’s customary land on the fertile plains to the east of Honiara.2 In return, Justin’s uncle regularly gave the man and the man’s clan a portion of the money he earned selling fresh produce at the market in Honiara. Just before his eighteenth birthday, Justin went to stay with his uncle in the hope of finding some paid work on Guadalcanal. Another uncle, who worked at the Ministry of Works in Honiara, was able to secure Justin a government apprenticeship. Justin became a heavy vehicle driver and machine operator, skills which took him out to Western Province, where he worked for a logging company; back to Malaita, where he built and maintained roads; and, eventually, in the late 1990s, to the Gold Ridge mine in the hills east of Honiara. Justin and hundreds of other mine employees were driven from the mine site in late 1998 as a consequence of Guale militant activity. He moved down to Honiara—which was rapidly becoming a Malaitan enclave in a sea of anti-Malaitan hostility—where he joined his wife, children, and other family members at their increasingly crowded rental accommodation. The Guale militants, who eventually became known as the Isatabu Freedom Movement (IFM), had been violently evicting Malaitan settlers from the rural and peri-urban areas east and west of Honiara. One morning in early 1999, Justin was at White River on the western edge of Honiara when he witnessed a bleak procession of Malaitans—men, women, and children—who had been evicted from villages west of Honiara by Guale militants. He was particularly struck by the sight of a family of three who had been stripped by the militants and were being given clothes by Catholic sisters from the nearby Tanagai Mission. The father of the family told Justin that the militants had forced him to have sexual intercourse with his daughter before one of them put his fingers into the girl’s vagina then pushed them into the man’s face saying, “Smell it, that’s how you Malaitans smell.” For Justin, this was the final straw. Swearing and sexual assault, not to mention murder, are grave assaults on Malaitan kastom. Justin had determined that it was time to take direct action to defend and

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protect Malaitans not only from the Guale militants, but also from an incompetent government and a hamstrung police force. Many other Malaitan men had arrived at the same determination. Justin and other former members of the Malaita Eagle Force (MEF) believe that through their actions they saved not only “Malaita,” but also Honiara and, in fact, the entire nation. They saved Solomon Islands, just as they, Malaitans, had built it in the first place. A Different Kind of War Story Jonwin’s and Justin’s narratives are, in very broad terms, representative of the thirty-nine men—all of whom describe themselves as exmilitants—whose stories are told in this book.3 My task is to present their voices, to situate them in the historiography and anthropology of Solomon Islands, and to use them to offer some explanations for the causes of the period commonly referred to by Solomon Islanders as “the Ethnic Tension” or simply “the Tension.” My basic objective will be to demonstrate that the men who joined the rival militant groups during the conflict were fighting for “something” and that this something can be properly explained and understood only with reference to particular cultural-political-ecological-historical nexuses. This book is thus offered as a contribution to our understanding of the recent period of conflict in Solomon Islands. It will present important but hitherto underarticulated perspectives: those of the ex-militants themselves. Government, media, think tanks, and some scholarly portrayals of the men who joined the militant groups during the conflict have tended to emphasize greed and criminality as their main motivating influences. I will demonstrate that while these were indeed salient motives, there were others that were equally, if not more, important. Foremost among these are the ex-militants’ own conceptions of history and the places of their respective “peoples” in the historical processes of colonization, development, and nation building. A central theme for ex-militants on both sides of the conflict is the historical and contemporary relationships between their peoples and the state (expressed as gavman in Solomons Pijin, literally “the government”). Both sides draw upon a rich tradition of resisting the state, particularly its perceived imposition upon kastom law and local sovereignty over land and resources. Both sides also engage with discourses of development, highlighting perceived inequalities in the distribution of primary resource rents, the geographical pattern of development, and the provision of basic govern-

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ment services. In contrast to their portrayal as ignorant and criminally inclined followers of “big-men,” we will see that the ex-militants engage in fundamentally political discourses. Understanding these discourses is critical to our understanding of the origins of the conflict. The ex-militants’ narratives, and the arguments made in relation to them, speak to wider debates about the causes of armed conflict and collective violence in developing countries. What are the respective roles of greed and grievance in these conflicts? What are the relationships between the state, ethnicity, resources, and conflict? What are the most appropriate conceptual and disciplinary lenses to engage in our attempts to explain and understand violent conflict in late-developing postcolonial nations? A useful approach to these questions in the case at hand will be to consider them in terms of three cognate paradigms: “old” political economy, “new” political economy, and political ecology. While all three paradigms offer valuable insights, “new” political economy—manifest in the “resource conflict” theories of political scientists and economists—has recently come to dominate developing-country conflict discourse, perhaps reflecting the broader ascendancy of the disciplines of political science and particularly economics within the social sciences (see Cramer 2002, 2006). It is not my intention to romanticize the narratives and deeds of the ex-militants by glorifying notions of “warriorhood” or by searching for other absolving culturalist explanations for their behavior. Such explanations are deeply contested among Solomon Islanders themselves, most of whom have been happy to see ex-militants, and also former policemen and politicians, tried and convicted for some of the many violent acts, including those of a sexual nature, that were perpetrated during the conflict. It is important that we acknowledge from the outset that many of the men who participated in the Tension engaged in terrible acts of violence, and it was all too often the innocent who were their victims. We cannot, however, entirely ignore culturalist perspectives on male violence in Solomon Islands. Violent “crime” is, after all, and as Durkheim (1997) tells us, constituted in and defined by particular social contexts. We must be cognizant of a range of both indigenous and exogenous cultural influences that inform the types of violent behavior employed by men in Solomon Islands and elsewhere in Melanesia.4 To the extent that I engage in cultural relativism, it is in the pursuit of explanation, understanding, and nuance rather than absolution and exoneration. The interviews with the thirty-nine ex-militants that are the primary source of original data in this book are supplemented with a range of other materials, including a similar number of interviews with non-

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combatants: women, tribal leaders, politicians, and representatives of non-government organizations (NGOs) and the Christian churches. The voices and stories of “ordinary” Solomon Islanders, as well as those of the ex-militants, are also accessed through the voluminous court and police documents associated with the “Tension Trials.” These are the court proceedings against people who committed, and allegedly committed, criminal acts during the conflict. While most of the “high-profile” ex-militants such as Harold Keke and Jimmy “Rasta” Lusibaea have had their cases heard (and in many instances have already served their jail time), the Tension Trials are, at the time of writing, ongoing. Another important source of information is the significant corpus of literature on the history and anthropology of Solomon Islands, which includes a small, but important, number of sources that cover the recent conflict. The text is also interspersed with observations of the “ethnographic present,” which I made during ten periods of fieldwork in the Solomons between 2004 and 2011, the longest being a stint of nine months in 2005–2006. While each of these sources has its limitations, in concert they provide a powerful polychromatic perspective on the conflict in general and on the motives of the men who joined the militant groups in particular. The Conflict in Solomon Islands, 1998–2003 The scale of the conflict in which hundreds of men like Jonwin and Justin fought was regarded as so minor by international standards that it almost became “a forgotten conflict” (Amnesty International 2000). In reality it brought death, suffering, and hardship to many thousands of Solomon Islanders, and it represents the most traumatic period in the modern history of a country once described as the “Happy Isles.” Although battlerelated fatalities were in the hundreds rather than the thousands, almost 10 percent of the country’s population was dislocated as a result of the violence, the provision of basic services ground to a halt (meaning that many people died of normally non-fatal illnesses such as malaria), and the primary commodity-dependent economy collapsed almost entirely.5 In this manner, the deleterious effects of the conflict, which was mostly played out in the capital, Honiara, and in other parts of the island of Guadalcanal, were felt throughout the country.6 Many human rights violations were reported and documented during the conflict, including instances of rape, torture, and abduction (Amnesty International 2004). The temporal focus of the book is primarily upon the Ethnic Ten-

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sion, bookended by the start of the Guale uprising in late 1998 and the signing of the Townsville Peace Agreement (TPA) in October 2000. It was during this time that Guale and Malaitan militant groups organized themselves to engage in collective violence. In the case of Guadalcanal, the focus is extended to examine the schism that developed among Guale militants and the subsequent fighting on the Weather Coast. Throughout the book I will also refer to the broader period of the conflict, extended to July 2003, when the Australian-led RAMSI arrived and rapidly succeeded in restoring law and order. It is important not to overinsulate the pre- and post-TPA periods. The TPA contributed to a diminution of the violence, bringing an end to the open fighting between rival militant groups. However, it also actively contributed to a transformation in the nature of the conflict—a transformation that was already in train before Townsville—that saw it become increasingly characterized by criminality and opportunism. Moreover, on the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal, police and former members of the IFM were fighting Harold Keke, who had refused to sign the TPA, and his Guadalcanal Liberation Front (GLF). Fractures also emerged among former MEF militants. There were regular gun battles between rival factions in Honiara, and on parts of Malaita old land disputes were being revisited with guns and “panel beatings” (physical assaults). The government became increasingly bankrupted by the manipulation of the compensation process, the corruption involved with ex-militants’ demobilization and rehabilitation schemes, the collapse or corruption of state revenue raising, and the direct theft and extortion of state funds (Dinnen 2002; Fraenkel 2004). A large number of material crimes such as robbery, larceny, and demands with menace were committed during the post-TPA period. Although the conflict became increasingly criminalized over time, criminal or greed motives alone cannot account for its durability and certainly not its origins. The interview-based data presented in this book demonstrate that ex-militants on both sides of the Tension believed they were fighting for a cause, and it will be seen that the objective history of Solomon Islands lends considerable weight to their narratives of grievance. Greed or Grievance? Clearly we cannot say that the conflict was driven by either greed, on the one hand, or grievance, on the other. It involved a complex interaction

Introduction 

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of these as well as other motives and desires, and the dynamics of the conflict were constantly changing and evolving. However, a number of factors have conspired to give primacy to a greed- and criminality-based interpretation of the motives of the men who joined the militant groups. One is the fact of what came later, after Townsville, when the actions and motives of many ex-militants and police came to bear little resemblance to what they had been originally fighting for. It is this later period of the conflict that has been freshest in the memories of journalists, policy commentators, and academics. Another factor is the nature of contemporaneous local and regional media portrayals of the uprising on Guadalcanal. The media drew upon statements by Solomon Islands public officials, such as the then minister for state Alfred Sasako, to represent the Guale militants either as “criminals” or as young men who were just looking for a “bit of fun and adventure.” Pacific Islands Monthly, for example, described the Guale “militants” as “vague, ill-defined, philosophy-free groups given to lawlessness” (quoted in Kabutaulaka 2001, 9). A third factor is the influence in the late 1990s and early 2000s of neoclassical economic theories of developing-country conflict that portray rebels and militants as akin to bandits and pirates. The greed of these men, who are assumed to be rational actors, is said to drive civil war as the logic of utility maximization compels them to “predate” upon resource wealth and other such sources of finance that rebellion may afford (Collier 2000; Collier and Hoeffler 2004; Grossman 1999).7 These interpretations are consistent with the wider and more insidious framing of developing-country conflict as a form of malaise, as indicative of an illiberal, aberrant, and unruly “South.” This framing has been described by Cramer (2006) as the liberal interpretation of war (also see Richards 2004). I hope to unsettle this rendering of the motives of the rank-andfile men who joined the rival militant groups. The greed and criminality interpretation strips these men of both political agency and political consciousness. Thus we are denied the opportunity to understand the socioeconomic and political motives that informed their actions and provided the grounds upon which elites were able to mobilize and channel their agency (see Kabutaulaka 2001). This problem is not restricted to the conflict in Solomon Islands. History shows us that government authorities (as well as journalists and academics) have often denied, misrepresented, or simply failed to comprehend the legitimate political motives of those who engage in collective violence and resistance, instead attributing such movements to the ability of unscrupulous leaders to manipulate ignorant, fanatical, or criminally inclined followers.

10 

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  Chapter 1

We will see that in Solomon Islands this phenomenon has an instructive antecedent in the form of Maasina Rule, a political movement that was centered on Malaita but also spread to neighboring islands, including Guadalcanal, from early 1944 to late 1952 (especially see Akin forthcoming). As was the case with Solomon Islands government officials’ portrayals of the motives of militants during the recent conflict, British colonial officers portrayed, and in many respects genuinely perceived, Maasina Rule’s rank and file as ignorant followers who were manipulated by a “vicious clique” of leaders. This fundamental error of interpretation, which betrayed a basic ignorance of the political consciousness of everyday Malaitans, led the British to believe that arresting Maasina Rule’s leaders would bring the movement to an end. This mistake sparked an island-wide revolt among the movement’s rank and file that lasted for several years. In this book, I seek to offer an insight into the political views, ideologies, and agendas of the men who joined the militant groups during the Tension. This viewpoint is counterposed against government, media, and some scholarly accounts that have tended to depoliticize the motives and agency of these important conflict actors. Ethnic Conflict? My colleague Ronald May is fond of saying that ethnicity is a “notoriously slippery concept in Melanesia.” Both Guadalcanal and Malaita are comprised of numerous linguistic and tribal groups, and there are few physical differences between the peoples of the two islands—far fewer than between Bougainvilleans and Papua New Guinea Highlanders, for example.8 Moreover, it will be seen in chapter 2 that island-wide identities such as “Malaita” and “Guadalcanal” are a relatively recent phenomenon, with their origins in the colonial and early contact periods. For most people in the Solomons, and indeed across Melanesia, primary identities and loyalties continue to reside with what can be variously described as kin groups, clans, and tribes. Identity remains indefatigably local in nature. For these reasons, it can be useful to visualize ethnicity in Solomon Islands in terms of Anthony Smith’s “concentric circles of allegiance” (1991, 24). A young man’s primary loyalty may usually be to his clan on, say, north Malaita. However, under certain conditions—for example, those that prevailed during the Ethnic Tension—that loyalty may become refocused upon the wider circle of “Malaita” and its “leaders.” It is

Introduction 

  11

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important that many Solomon Islanders have social ties and loyalties in more than one community, meaning that they have more than one set of concentric circles. When we consider the connections among sets of circles—cross-cutting social ties—the picture starts to become considerably more complex (see Brigg 2009). Completely disregarding these complexities and dynamics, the international media heralded the uprising on Guadalcanal as an “ethnic conflict,” the product of long-standing and deep-seated hostilities between the peoples of Malaita and Guadalcanal, with each group portrayed as a unified, unitary, and homogenous whole.9 Journalists were no doubt influenced by what were then relatively recent events in Rwanda and the Balkans and by the popular writings of Robert Kaplan (“The Coming Anarchy”, 1994) and Samuel Huntington (The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order, 1997). In the words of historian Judith Bennett, the journalists’ imagery came “dripping with blood from the Balkan situation” (2005, 127). The imagery of ethnic polarization also obscures the fracturing that occurred within the militant groups after the TPA, having commenced well before then in the case of the Guale militants. In parts of Guadalcanal and Malaita, both old and new rivalries were played out with modern small armaments, and many local communities were deeply terrorized as a consequence. In contrast to the primordialist approach espoused by the media, policy commentators have tended to adopt what can be described as a more constructivist orientation toward the ethnic dimensions of the conflict, one that falls under the rubric of “new” political economy, which I describe below. This perspective interprets ethnicity as being constructed or mobilized around underlying distributional issues: access to land and employment opportunities in and around Honiara and the distribution of the benefits flowing from the island’s primary resource wealth. Most policy commentators have tended to attribute the origins of the conflict on Guadalcanal to competition between indigenous Guales and Malaitan settlers over land and employment opportunities (see, for example, Fullilove 2006; Sodhi 2008; Wainwright 2003). This ethnic conflict is then seen as having mutated into a situation of rampant criminality and, ultimately, to the prospect of “state failure.” Resources, Ethnicity and “New” Political Economy Was the conflict in Solomon Islands a “resource conflict”? There is a large body of international literature that tells us that this should be the

12 

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case. This literature purports to explain the empirically demonstrated correlations between a country’s relative resource wealth—measured in data such as primary commodity exports as a proportion of Gross Domestic Product (GDP)—and the likelihood that the country will experience violent conflict.10 It seeks to explain why econometric analyses indicate that resource-rich developing countries are statistically more likely to experience internal armed conflict than are resource-poor ones. According to the resource-conflict literature, the socioeconomic characteristics of Solomon Islands make it an ideal candidate for resource conflict. The primary commodity sectors, particularly logging, have accounted for 30–40 percent of GDP since the early 1990s. Moreover, Solomons has plenty of undereducated young men in the populace, a factor that is another important determinant in some of the econometric models of resource conflict. In 2009, the time of the last population census, around 41 percent of Solomon Islanders were under the age of fifteen (Solomon Islands Government 2012). Most of these young people are poorly educated due to the nation’s very low levels of secondary education (see chapter 3). Resource-conflict perspectives have predominantly been employed by political scientists and neoclassical economists. For political scientists the focus has been on the role of the state and, more particularly, state dysfunction. They see a strong link with the notion of the “resource curse,” as resource conflict is hypothesized as a political form of “Dutch disease”: the dominance of resource wealth in the economy somehow corrupts and weakens the state while at the same time inviting rent-seeking behavior and constant challenges to its control (Ross 2004; Rosser 2006). For neoclassical economists we have already seen that causality is explained in terms of methodological individualism: faced with no alternative but poverty and unemployment, young men are driven by economic logic to engage in collective violence in order to “predate” upon “lootable” primary commodities. This is the “greed thesis” of developing-country violence, and it has arguably contributed to the intellectual basis for accounts of the Solomons conflict that have emphasized the role of greed and criminality.11 I characterize these approaches to resource conflict under the rubric of “new” political economy. The emphasis is placed on questions of who benefits in an economic or financial sense, when, and where. The beneficiaries, or those who seek to benefit, may be groups or they may be individuals. The new political economy paradigm has something similar to say about the relationship between ethnicity and conflict (see, for exam-

Introduction 

  13

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ple, Collier 2001). As we saw with the policy commentators referred to above, ethnicity is seen as secondary to, and a by-product of, competition over distributional issues, resource rents, and access to economic opportunities. The role of “ethnic entrepreneurs” is often emphasized. These are elites who seek to benefit, financially or politically, by deliberately stirring up or engineering ethnic conflict. It will be seen that there are some dimensions of the conflict in Solomon Islands that can usefully be understood through the lens of new political economy, albeit with important caveats. These include the manipulation of the compensation and demobilization processes; the material crime that increased in intensity as the conflict progressed; competition for land and jobs between settlers and indigenous people on Guadalcanal; and the desire among some Guales to capture and control the resource wealth of their island. We can also add to this list the rentseeking behavior of political elites in the context of the particular relationship that has developed between the logging industry and nationallevel political culture over the past thirty years. However, while new political economy offers useful insights, an important objective of this book is to move beyond these types of explanations in order to consider other motives and causes and alternative theoretical and conceptual framings. The interviews with ex-militants, in concert with the other material presented, encourage us to engage “old” political economy and political ecology as important additional or alternative explanatory frameworks. “Old” Political Economy Whereas new political economy asks who benefits from conflict, “old” political economy is concerned with how the changing social relations engendered by capitalism contribute to conflict in the first place. Old political economy has its intellectual and ideological base in Marx’s sociology (1978). Marx regarded class as the supreme form of collective identity and class relations as the primary driver of history. This “strong” version of class has not traveled well in Melanesia due to the inappropriateness of classic Marxist categories and the continued importance of the subsistence economy and customary forms of land tenure (Larmour 1992, 1994; Regan 1998). It is, nevertheless, analytically useful to apply weaker formulations of class in the Melanesian context that recognize the existence of socioeconomic inequalities and their role in contributing to conflict, particularly when they coincide with ethnic

14 

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  Chapter 1

and generational cleavages (Wesley-Smith and Ogan 1992). In the case of Solomon Islands, a fundamental distinction can be made between the “Honiara elite” and the vast majority of the population, which resides in rural areas (Frazer 1997a, 1997b; Scales 2003b). We can also speak of a growing urban class of undereducated and unemployed youth, the socalled Masta Liu, as well as increasing stratification within rural communities, particularly those that have been involved in commercial logging activities (Scales 2003b).12 However, most important for our purposes is the history of uneven development in Solomon Islands and its articulation with identity politics at multiple levels of geographic scale. The socioeconomic history of the Solomons, magisterially documented in Judith Bennett’s Wealth of the Solomons (1987), demonstrates how capitalism has created winners and losers along broadly delineated spatial lines. We will see that the places occupied by the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal and Malaita—the geographical areas at the center of the recent conflict—in the history of the nation from the early contact period lend substantial weight to the grievance-based narratives of the ex-militants. For reasons of geography, resource availability, and government policy, their homelands have been historically neglected and isolated vis-à-vis some other parts of the country, and these conditions have contributed, from the 1940s onward, to area-, island-, and region-wide expressions of solidarity and resistance. The socioeconomic and political history of the Solomons demonstrates that there is historical force behind the grievance-based narratives of the ex-militants and the wider communities in which they are embedded. Their grievances did not suddenly appear at the time of the Tension, nor were they manufactured for entirely rhetorical purposes. Political Ecology Since the early 1990s, the field of political ecology has been characterized by local-level studies that have given emphasis to the politics of resource access and control and to environmental knowledge, representation, and symbolism.13 Political ecology has been increasingly engaged as a framework for interpreting so-called “resource conflicts” in developing-country contexts—for example, in the Niger Delta (Watts 2001, 2004), Aceh (McCarthy 2007), Papua New Guinea (Ballard and Banks 2003; Banks 2005, 2008), and New Caledonia (Horowitz 2009).14 These studies have highlighted the articulation of the local with the regional and the global, the locally specific and unique ways in which conflict can emerge from the

Introduction 

  15

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interactions between global capital and particular socio-ecological contexts—“local histories and social relations” (Peluso and Watts 2001a, 5). Political ecologists have also sought to document carefully the range of actors involved in struggles over material practice and meaning, including households, NGOs, communities, social movements, capitalist enterprises, and the state (Peluso and Watts 2001a, 25). In chapter 4, which presents the voices of Guale ex-militants, I demonstrate that the relationships between resources and conflict on Guadalcanal cannot be divorced from the multi-scale social and cultural contexts in which land and resources are constructed and construed. The large-scale appropriation and commercialization of land, and of re­ sources such as gold, have been at odds with local conceptions of environmental custodianship, development, and the relationships among people, place, and identity. The unevenness of development has also disrupted regional-scale social and power relations, contributing, for example, to Weather Coast people’s perceptions of relative deprivation. The interviews with the ex-militants and others, both Guales and Malaitans, also encourage us to consider the relationship between inmigration and conflict in terms of social and cultural disruption, as opposed simply to competition over land and resources. Though not specifically demonstrated by my interview data, other authors have pointed to the intergenerational and internecine conflicts concerning land transactions and the disbursements of rents and royalties flowing from resource development on Guadalcanal and have linked these to the Guale uprising (Kabutaulaka 2001; Maetala 2008; Monson 2012; Naitoro 2003; Nanau 2009). Similar processes of social dislocation, social disintegration, and intergenerational conflict have been deeply implicated in resource-related conflicts in other parts of Melanesia—for example, the Bougainville conflict (Filer 1990, 1992; Regan 1998, 2003)—and they also lend themselves to a political ecology–type interpretation (see Allen 2013; Banks 2008). As has been the case in other parts of Melanesia and elsewhere, “indigeneity” (Li 2000; Watts 2004) and “landownership” (Filer 1997) have been deployed as potent tropes in these multi-scale contests around resource access and control. Micronationalism, Nation Building, and the Postcolonial State Another important objective of this book is to demonstrate how ex-militants from both sides of the Solomons conflict locate their various grievances in the micronationalist narratives of “their people” and how they

16 

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may therefore be seen as contributors to the “ethno-histories” (Smith 1990) that have underscored identity politics in Solomon Islands since World War II and even before.15 The ex-militants are actively engaged in the processes of “creating the past” (Keesing 1989) and constructing identities that exist in opposition to both national discourses of unity and “Other” identities within the boundaries of the state (Dureau 1998). Their testimonies provide evidence of the ongoing strength and pervasiveness of local and regional identities that tend to problematize the nation-building project. The identity narratives articulated by both Guale and Malaitan ex-militants engage with historical issues of socioeconomic justice and resistance to the imposition of foreign or “alien” authority. While anthropologists have given much attention to the antigovernment emphasis of Malaitan kastom (Akin 1999, 2004, forthcoming; Keesing 1982a, 1982b, 1989, 1992), it will be seen that the testimonies of the Guale ex-militants also demonstrate the use of kastom as an ideology of resistance to external forces. A word on the role of kastom in the Tension and my treatment of the term in this book. There can be no doubt that during the conflict, kastom, in particular the practice of compensation, was manipulated by leaders on both “sides,” as well as by many rank-and-file militants, for their personal financial benefit (Fraenkel 2004). However, it is problematic to reify kastom as a purely rhetorical device that is entirely devoid of cultural content or political ideology. While acknowledging that kastom can be and is used rhetorically and that in the process its cultural and historical elements are to greater or lesser degrees “invented,” with anthropologist David Akin I do not see kastom as being entirely divorced from culture (Akin 1999, 2004, 2005; Kwa’ioloa and Burt 2007).16 Nor should kastom be conflated with the English terms “custom” and “tradition,” as cogently argued by Akin in his masterful history of Maasina Rule (forthcoming). To do so would be to deny the overtly political dimensions of kastom—particularly as an ideology of resistance to perceived external domination and exploitation—as it was deployed during Maasina Rule and since then, including, as we shall see, during the recent conflict by both Malaitans and Guales. The words “custom” and “tradition,” by contrast, imply a pre-European way of life that is unadulterated, unchanging, and enduring, yet prone to corrosion and corruption in the face of Westernization. This is how colonial officers and some anthropologists deployed the term “native custom” in Solomon Islands before and after World War II, when they were concerned with establishing native courts that would adjudicate in matters of “custom” in accordance with codified “customary law.”

Introduction 

  17

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Throughout the book the reader should be aware that even in instances where the word kastom is employed by Solomon Islanders ostensibly to mean “custom” or “tradition” (or, sometimes, “culture”), there may be a political subtext informed by the history of the term and the particular context of its use (for example, in discourse about the Tension). Above all we must be cognizant of the pitfalls of interpreting kastom as referring to an unchanging pre-European way of life. To the contrary, kastom has taken on specific historical, political, and place-based meanings and is frequently invoked in ways that emphasize change and adaptation, as well as continuity with the past. Finally, it should be noted that interactions between Christianity and “tradition” are an important dimension of this dynamism, and, in contrast to the frequent rendering by outside observers of a stark separation between Christianity and kastom, many Solomon Islanders see these two realms as being inextricably linked (see, for example, Burt 1982, 1994; McDougall and Kere 2011; Scott 2007; Timmer 2008; White 1991 ).17 To return to the theme of resistance, the recent conflict must be seen in the wider context of the “crisis” of the postcolonial state in Solomon Islands. Since independence from Great Britain in 1978, the list of legitimate grievances against the state, for both Guales and Malaitans (and indeed for all Solomon Islanders), has expanded in the context of an elitist political culture that has been characterized by profligacy and patronage; has been closely associated with “corruption,” particularly in the lucrative logging industry; and has failed to deliver services and local development and employment opportunities to the predominantly rural-based population. The contemporary state in Solomon Islands, as in other parts of Melanesia, is firmly embedded in society (Kabutaulaka 2002a; Kabutaulaka and Dauvergne 1997; Migdal 1998, 2001). Members of parliament and public officials are enmeshed within networks of reciprocity, obligation, and patronage that compel them to access and distribute state resources to their followers and wantoks (Morgan 2005).18 Under such conditions there are few incentives for political elites to work toward the institutionalization of the state and the equitable distribution of public goods. To the contrary, they have sought to informalize politics, a process that has been described, in the sub-Saharan African context, as the “instrumentalization of disorder”: “the profit to be found in the weak institutionalization of political practices” (Chabal and Daloz 1999, 13). For many ex-militants on both sides of the conflict, it is “the government” that is ultimately held accountable for “causing” the war.

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Fear and Loathing on the Interview Trail Marau Sound, April 2006 After several days spent trying to set up a meeting with a man who was said to have been a senior member of the Marau Eagle Force, which “represented” the ’Are’are-speaking people of the Marau Sound area of Guadalcanal during the Tension, I finally found myself alone with him, at night, in my guest house room. In an untimely confluence of errors the guest house generator had run out of diesel, my lamp had run out of kerosene, and my torch had chosen that particular moment to cease functioning. So we were sitting there in pitch darkness in a stuffy little room (the windows had long been boarded over, and I was obliged to keep the door closed to maintain the privacy of our conversation). I had a few warm bottles of beer and offered one to my putative interlocutor, whom I will call Steven. Steven declined politely, saying that he was “under medication for PF,” referring to plasmodium falciparum, one of the two types of malaria that are prevalent in the Solomons. Unable to see anything of Steven’s face in the gloom and finding the entire situation rather disconcerting, I persisted by explaining, as I always did and as my University Ethics Protocol required me to, the issues of confidentiality, informed consent, and so forth pertaining to my research and his potential participation in it. Steven’s response was: “I cannot talk to you because you are Australian and you have come at the wrong time.” It later transpired that I had arrived just days after RAMSI police had conducted a number of raids in the area following the surrender of several former Marau Eagle Force members, some of whom were subsequently charged with murder. My arrival in the wake of these raids evidently generated considerable suspicion. I had indeed come at the wrong time. This story is indicative of the types of problems I encountered with locating ex-militants and convincing them to participate voluntarily in interviews. The arrest and prosecution of a large number of ex-militants since the arrival of RAMSI (see below) had created an atmosphere of fear and suspicion, especially toward Australians. I encountered responses similar to Steven’s from ex-militants, usually communicated to me via third parties, in other parts of Guadalcanal, and when I was conducting fieldwork on north Malaita with my colleague Sinclair Dinnen, a rumor started up after a few days that he and I were “RAMSI Special Forces.” From that point on it became difficult to meet with ex-militants in that particular area. I originally intended to conduct all my interviews in the central

Introduction 

  19

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prison in Honiara (colloquially known as “Rove”), where a large number of ex-militants were being held in custody. After spending several months obtaining the necessary permissions, including those from my university’s Ethics Committee, I started interviewing ex-militants at Rove in early 2006. I conducted three interviews in the prison before deciding, after consulting with various people—including the Solomon Islands public solicitor, whose office was representing most of the exmilitants facing criminal charges—to discontinue the interviews. It had become apparent that I could be subpoenaed by the director of public prosecutions, in which case my material would be admissible as evidence and I would not be protected by any legal privileges or immunities. The underlying issue was that none of the ex-militants who were being held in custody at the time had had all of their matters heard. This was due to the large backlog of cases in the court system as a consequence of RAMSI policing activities. From the outset RAMSI had adopted a criminal justice approach toward dealing with ex-militants. To quote the first head of RAMSI, Nick Warner, in a speech made in March 2004, “Because of the purely criminal nature of most of their activities, it was decided that we would approach the former militants as a policing issue” (2004). Between the inception of RAMSI in July 2003 and mid2006, 6,300 people had been arrested, with a total of 9,100 charges laid against them (Butler 2006, 4). Despite RAMSI’s efforts to strengthen and increase the capacity of the courts, the large number of arrests had created such an enormous backlog of cases that in early 2006 Solomon Islands boasted the secondhighest remand population, as a proportion of the total prison population, in the Pacific region (International Centre for Prison Studies, cited in Averre 2006). Just below 50 percent of prisoners were on remand, second only to East Timor, where 70 percent of prisoners were on remand. According to the public solicitor, Ken Averre, writing in early 2006, “The number of cases in the criminal justice system is without parallel and the infrastructure and personnel are simply not there to deal with it” (2006, 16; also see Averre 2008). Having discontinued the interviews in the central prison, I needed to adopt a new strategy toward finding ex-militants to interview, and I also needed to think of new ways to protect their confidentiality. Fortunately by this stage I had built up quite a substantial network of contacts, and I had established a good relationship with the National Peace Council (NPC). I eventually decided to use the NPC network to conduct trips to the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal and Malaita. The NPC and some of my other contacts also facilitated interviews in east and west

20 

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  Chapter 1

Guadalcanal and in the Marau Sound area. My strategy for protecting the confidentiality of interviewees was to inform my third-party contacts and intermediaries that I did not want to know the real names of the people I was interviewing. Thus if I were asked by the police or by a court, I could honestly say that I did not know their identities. The Interviews As noted, a total of thirty-nine individuals who identified themselves as ex-militants were interviewed for this book, including the three people at Rove. Nineteen of these were ex-MEF (including two former Royal Solomon Islands Police [RSIP] officers); five were ex-Marau Eagle Force; ten were ex-IFM; and five were ex-GLF. Most of these people were interviewed individually, though some were interviewed in pairs or in focus groups of between three and five people. Most of these interviews were recorded on tape and later transcribed in part or in full. As also noted, to protect the confidentiality of my interviewees I have not used their real names, nor do I provide the dates or locations of interviews. When I am confident that interviewees are not the subjects of actual or potential police investigations and they have given permission to use their real names, I have done so and have also provided the dates on which the interviews were conducted. In all such cases the interviewees were from the sample of thirty-nine non-combatants whom I also interviewed as part of this research. Some of the ex-militants whom I interviewed had already served custodial sentences for crimes committed during the conflict, some were still facing court, and one man had been on the run from the police for three years. The majority, however, had not been arrested and were not, as far as they were aware, the subjects of police investigations. In a handful of cases, I had only brief encounters with people identifying themselves as ex-militants: a man who was about to board a ship to the Weather Coast; two young men with whom I briefly took shelter in a church during a downpour near Sughu (Harold Keke’s home village) before they vanished into the adjacent bush. However, in most cases I was able to spend at least an hour or two with my interlocutors. In some instances it was possible to arrange ongoing meetings over a period of days, weeks, or months. The excerpts from interviews presented in chapters 4, 5, and 6 draw upon a core of around twenty interviewees. A small number of interviews were conducted entirely in English. However, most were conducted partly or wholly in Solomons Pijin. In this regard, the reader is solely

Introduction 

  21

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reliant on my translations. With a language as contextual as Pijin, there is an ever-present danger of mistranslation that I have attempted to mitigate by flagging instances when the meaning is uncertain or equivocal. The reader is also reliant on my selection of excerpted material. I have attempted to select excerpts that are both articulate and representative of the views shared by those in the broader sub-sample of ex-militants. In order to provide as much context as possible, I have frequently presented long excerpts, as well as some that include my questions. I had originally hoped to collect standardized socio-demographic information from interviewees. However, this was not possible in all instances. During focus group meetings, for example, participants drifted in and out and would sometimes leave before I could record their information. In other instances, I felt that it would have been inappropriate and counterproductive, in the context of the climate of fear and suspicion described above, to start probing interviewees for personal information. Suffice to say that most of the ex-militants for whom I did record such data were secondary school “push-outs” with checkered employment histories. The average age of the men interviewed was around thirty. In the case of the Malaita sample, all of the men interviewed were from north or central Malaita (with To’abaita being the most represented language group), a sampling that corresponds with what we know about the geographical makeup of the MEF (see chapter 2). In the case of the Guale sample, the interviewees hailed from all regions of the island but particularly the Weather Coast. Dealing with Bias in Oral Testimony It is reasonable to assume that ex-militants will tend to frame their answers to questions concerning their involvement in the Tension in terms of grievance rather than greed or other purely self-serving motives. It is important to reiterate that my interviews were conducted in a general climate of fear and suspicion generated by RAMSI policing activities and that, as an Australian, I was in some instances seen to be associated with RAMSI. These factors may have prejudiced, to varying extents, the responses of my interlocutors. However, on many occasions I felt that I was successfully able to demonstrate my independence from RAMSI. Some of my patterns of behavior were important to demonstrating that independence. For example, I used local forms of travel, including walking between villages. This is in stark contrast to the helicopters, speedboats, four-wheel-drive vehicles, and quad bikes that are the preferred means of travel by RAMSI

22 

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  Chapter 1

personnel. My ability to speak Pijin and my willingness to eat local food, chew betel nut, and sleep in people’s houses—in the Pijin phrase, “come down to the grassroots”—provided further evidence of my independence (or perhaps, more accurately, my difference) from RAMSI. Once people were satisfied that I was indeed who I claimed to be, I felt that they were pleased to have the opportunity to tell their stories free from the threat of arrest and prosecution. We can assume that in many instances the ex-militants will have told me very different stories from those which they had told or would tell a court or a police officer. This being the case, we can perhaps be less cynical about responses that were framed in terms of grievance. In chapter 3 I provide a historical context for the interview material presented in the two subsequent chapters. In doing so, I demonstrate that there is historical force behind the grievance narratives of the exmilitants: they are not grievances that suddenly appeared or were manufactured solely for rhetorical purposes. Moreover, it will be seen that there is much consistency and symmetry, not only among members of the two main militant groups, but also between the two groups. This symmetry and complementarity give us further confidence in delineating and identifying “collective voices” and common grievances from the interview material. Finally, I have, to some extent, been able to crossreference the testimonies of the ex-militants with my observations of the ethnographic present. I have been able to compare what is said in formal interviews with my more casual observations of how ex-militants, as well as their wider societies, talk about issues such as conflict, ethnicity, resources, development, kastom, and the state. In an examination of the materials associated with the Tension Trials, it is important to distinguish materials that present the voices of the ex-militants, such as dock statements and police interviews, from those that pertain to what they actually or allegedly did, such as charge sheets, witness statements, and judgments. The Tension Trials material that I draw upon mostly falls under the former category. I employ the statements of ex-militants made during court proceedings and in police interviews in my exploration of why men became involved in the Tension. The tendency to present motives in terms of grievance is thought to be stronger in these sources than it is in my interview data. However, when these statements are consistent with what is said in interviews and in other sources, they provide a further source of corroboration. The second category of information described above provides an important insight into the practice of violence, how the conflict was actually waged. It provides evidence of the nature and scope of activities,

Introduction 

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viewed under the law as criminal, committed and allegedly committed during the conflict. When this information is viewed alongside other known convictions and other accounts of the practice of violence during the conflict (such as those of Fraenkel 2004 and Moore 2004), we can see a spectrum of acts ranging from organized political violence—such as the orchestrated harassment and eviction of Malaitan settlers and the coup of June 2000—to “criminal” acts such as robbery, larceny, demands with menace, rape, and murder. While some of these acts may be interpreted, at least partly, in terms of the dictates of guerrilla and insurgency warfare and various local and imported cultural influences on male violence (see below), others are better seen as purely criminal in nature. The sheer scale of “material” crime that occurred during the conflict points to the importance of material and pecuniary motives in driving the violence. This sort of predation contributed to financing the conflict and certainly contributed to its durability. However, I reiterate that an important objective of this book is to demonstrate that the origins and causes of the conflict cannot be reduced simply to the greed of those who participated in it. Motivation, Masculinity, and Violence Honiara, February 2006 I was inside Rove prison, waiting to interview a Malaitan ex-militant, when Alex Bartlett—businessman, ex-politician, and self-described “secretary general” of the MEF/RSIP Joint Operation—entered the cellblock in handcuffs, having returned from a successful bail application hearing at the High Court. Dressed in a business suit, Bartlett was well received by the prison officers, who, having removed the handcuffs, shook his hand in hearty congratulations. However, the grandest reception came from the “boys,” the former MEF rank-and-file militants who formed the majority of the cellblock’s population. Bartlett was greeted with clapping, cheering, and all-around adulation. The boys, most of whom were bare-chested, hoisted him above their heads and carried him off into the hidden recesses of the cellblock. Though out of sight, the continuing celebrations could be heard for several more minutes. I noted in my diary at the time that “Bartlett was carried off as if he was some kind of hero.” This incident demonstrates the motivating influence that “bigmen” in Solomon Islands can exert over other, often younger, men in their communities, an influence that is perhaps best described under

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the rubric of political culture. We will see in chapters 4 and 5 that both Guale and Malaitan ex-militants attempt to distance themselves from the actions and influence of their leaders, and I have already noted that an important objective of the book is to elucidate the political motives of the rank-and-file men who joined the militant groups. The influence of the big-man is, however, an undeniably powerful motivating force, driven by the continued informalization of politics and the concomitant primacy of networks of patronage, reciprocity, and obligation. It is useful to again invoke Smith’s imagery of concentric circles of ethnic allegiance and affiliation (1991, 24). Under the conditions of ethnic polarization that prevailed during the Tension, men’s loyalties became focused, albeit temporarily, on the wider circles of “Guadalcanal” and “Malaita” and the big-men who could claim to speak for these islandwide ethnic identities. There are a number of other local and foreign influences on male behavior in Solomon Islands that are important to our interpretation of the motives of those who joined the militant groups during the Tension. These can be dichotomized as indigenous cultural influences (including ethnopsychological motivations) and the “Ramboization effect.” Many aspects of these influences coalesce in the “cultural phenomenon” of the Masta Liu (Jourdan 1995a, 1995b) that is described in greater detail in chapter 3. Before briefly examining each of these influences on violent male behavior, we must first note the importance of the demonstration effects that culminated in force as the conflict progressed. Weather Coast academic Tarcisius Tara Kabutaulaka points to the influence of the tenyear Bougainville conflict (1988–1998), during which as many as nine thousand people from Bougainville came into Solomon Islands, with most of them settling on Guadalcanal for long periods of time (Kabutaulaka 1997, 2001). Kabutaulaka discusses the influence that the Bougainvilleans’ stories about driving the hated “redksins” (Papua New Guinean Highlanders) off their land and closing down the giant Panguna mine had on people on Guadalcanal. No doubt some Guale men were also impressed by Bougainvillean rebels’ tales of guns, status, power, and adventure. Moreover, some of those who joined the Guale militancy once the uprising had already begun would have been at least partly motivated to do so after seeing, firsthand, the material opportunities that it afforded. Some of those who joined the MEF would have been similarly influenced by their observations of the activities of the Guale militants. These demonstration effects multiplied and cascaded over the course of the conflict.

Introduction 

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With regard to ethnopsychological motivations, scholars of the relationship between masculine identities and traditional Melanesian warfare have argued that masculine aggression and sexual antagonism against women are “functional requisites” for societies that are in a state of male warfare (Knauft 1990, 285–289) and that “sexual violence against women was often motivated more by the dictates of male collectivities than individual male passions” (Jolly 2000, 311). Jolly goes on to point out that rape is still deployed as a form of group revenge in tribal fighting in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea. These arguments invite two observations.19 The first is that there has been a much greater rupture from past patterns and forms of warfare in insular and island Melanesia than there has been in the Papua New Guinea Highlands. It will be seen that there are some striking similarities between the recent period of conflict in Solomon Islands and earlier forms of traditional warfare. These relate particularly to the practice of warfare—for example, the use of hit-and-run tactics, the razing of enemy villages, and the indiscriminate targeting of non-combatants in cycles of revenge killings. However, one cannot infer from these continuities of practice that the underlying motivations have also remained constant. Moreover, the practices described above have become common characteristics of so-called “new wars” throughout the world (Kaldor 2007) and may therefore have more to do with the dictates of guerrilla warfare and counterinsurgency than with any sort of continuity with past practices of traditional warfare. A corollary point relates to the ex-militants’ own depictions of themselves as traditional warriors and protectors of their peoples—the malaghai of Guadalcanal and the ramo of Malaita. Given that most parts of Solomon Islands were Christianized and pacified by early in the twentieth century, with the last vestiges of tribal warfare eradicated on parts of Malaita and Choiseul in the late 1920s and early 1930s, the men who have been interviewed for this book have no direct experience of the role of warriors in traditional warfare. While some may have heard stories or songs recounting past fighting, we must again note that the significant ruptures from past patterns and forms of warfare indicate that the meanings and motivations surrounding contemporary “warriorhood” are very different from those ascribed to the warriors of old.20 The second, related, observation is that rape as a strategy in warfare, be it related to collective male identities, revenge, sexual desire, dehumanization, or terror, is not a phenomenon that is unique to Solomon Islands or to Melanesia; it is widely observed in conflicts, both past and present, from all parts of the world. We must take care, therefore, not to

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reify war rape as an essentially Melanesian and, by implication, culturally informed behavior. An ethnopsychological motivation that can be said to be more particularly Melanesian is concerned with the relationship between compensation and/or retribution, on the one hand, and spiritual rejuvenation and male aggression and emotion, on the other. Retribution was an important characteristic of warfare in coastal Melanesia, where raids on enemy communities were generally conducted for the purpose of “avenging past losses” (Knauft 1990, 256). On parts of Malaita, the practice of retribution, in the form of either compensation or revenge killing, was, and to a large extent still is, driven by the need to placate ancestral spirits angered by the initial wrongdoing (Akin 1999; also see Burt 1994, 55–59). Akin argues that as well as being driven by the concept of ancestral placation, the practice of compensation and retribution on Malaita is imbued with ethnopsychological aspects of male aggression and emotion (also see Burt 1994, 46). Compensation is frequently portrayed in a “naturalistic way: dangerous negative emotions are inevitably aroused when one is seriously wronged, and these can only be assuaged by compensation or, alternatively, direct retribution” (Akin 1999, 54).21 It will be seen that compensation and retribution were important factors in the genesis of the MEF and are often expressed by former members of the MEF and other Malaitans in terms of Malaitan kastom. Scholars of the relationship between masculinity and violence in Melanesia have also pointed to the importance of foreign, as well as local, influences on the behavior of young men. Images gleaned from television, videos, and pictures have contributed to “the “Ramboization” of young Melanesian men” (Jolly 2000, 317). Across Melanesia, from Papua New Guinea to Vanuatu, young men “affect militaristic styles of dress and behavior that they think convey an aggressive, confident menacing look” (Macintyre 2002, 9). Macintyre also observes that the behavior of militants during the Solomons conflict was strongly reminiscent of the ways in which Papua New Guinean policemen behaved after returning from “tours of duty” on Bougainville: “men . . . who insisted on swaggering (often drunkenly) around the town wearing their battle fatigues and Rambo-style bandanas, their weapons swung casually over their shoulders” (2002, 10). Other imported cultural influences informing Masta Liu behaviors, including drugs and American gang culture, are examined in chapter 3. In chapter 2, I briefly introduce the society, economy, culture, geography, and history of Solomon Islands. I then provide a factual and chron-

Introduction 

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ological account of the conflict, commencing with the uprising on Guadalcanal in late 1998 and ending with the deployment of RAMSI in July 2003. Two periods are delineated, punctuated by the signing of the TPA in late 2000. However, important continuities between the two periods are highlighted, particularly regarding the role of retribution, the practice of violence, and the manipulation of the compensation process. I finish the chapter with a brief discussion of the academic literature on the “causes” of the conflict. In chapter 3 I employ extant secondary sources to develop a socioeconomic history of Solomon Islands from the early contact period. Particular emphasis is placed on the division of Solomon Islanders into producers and laborers and “haves” and “have nots” (Bennett 1987) and the relationship among economic history, identity politics, and micronationalist movements (in particular Maasina Rule and the Moro Movement). The second part of the chapter examines the history of Malaitan settlement on Guadalcanal and increasing Guale opposition to it. The chapter ends with a description of the emergence of the “cultural phenomenon” of the Masta Liu: the young men who have been “pushed out” of school, struggle to find employment, and oscillate between their home villages and Honiara. Chapter 4 presents and analyzes interviews and discussions with Guale ex-militants. I begin the chapter by describing the Weather Coast, the birthplace of most of the Guale militant leaders. An appreciation of the geography of the Weather Coast is crucial to our understanding of the origins of militancy on Guadalcanal. The questions asked of the ex-militants whose testimonies are presented in this chapter revolve around how and why they mobilized to engage in collective violence against Malaitan settlers on Guadalcanal. The themes that permeate their testimonies are grouped into two broad categories that I label “development equity” and “cultural respect.” Many of the ex-militants articulately locate these grievances in a historical micronationalist narrative of the Guale people, which has as its leitmotif the desire for greater autonomy, expressed as “statehood” under a federal system of government. They also situate their motives in the teachings of either the Moro Movement, on the one hand, or the Christian church, on the other, competing ideologies that were a factor in the split that occurred among the Guale militants and the subsequent “tribal fight” on the Weather Coast. Although the Guale ex-militants identify long-standing grievances with the “government,” rather than with the Malaitans, as the main cause of their disgruntlement, there is undoubtedly an element of retribution in the way in which Malaitan settlers were victimized.

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Chapter 5 presents and analyzes interviews and discussions with Malaitan ex-militants. Once again the discussions were steered toward the reasons why they decided to join the MEF. They frame their actions in terms of the need to “defend”, “secure,” and “protect” the Malaitans who had been the victims of the Guale uprising and, by implication, Honiara, which had become a Malaitan enclave following the land evictions of late 1998 and early 1999. Many believe that if they had not done so, Honiara would have been destroyed, and, as such, they claim to have “saved” the nation. Many of the Malaitan ex-militants locate the objective of saving the nation in a deeper historical narrative of Malaitan inequality and the role of Malaitans in “building” the Solomons. Having built the nation, it was incumbent upon them to save it from the Guale militancy, a hamstrung police force, and an incompetent national government. However, retribution and vengeance were clearly also at play, and some Malaitan ex-militants explicitly point to retribution as an important objective. Chapter 6 draws out salient differences and similarities between the testimonies of the Guale and Malaitan ex-militants. It is argued that in both cases we can regard the ex-militants as narrators of ethnohistory. They evoke old myths and symbols of unity and resistance but in their own words and in new and creative ways. Both sides appealed to socioeconomic inequality and kastom as sources of collective identity, just as their fathers and grandfathers had done. Both sides also blamed “the government” for the conflict, again tapping into a rich tradition of anti-government sentiment, while at the same time problematizing the “ancient ethnic hatreds” interpretation of the conflict presented in media accounts. The chapter demonstrates how kastom continues to be evoked in the ethnographic present, particularly by Malaitans, who have historically found it to be a more reliable and fertile source of unity than have their Guale countrymen. RAMSI is the latest “alien” to have attracted the symbolic resistance of Malaitan kastom. It is further argued that while the “Masta Liu factor” clearly played an important motivating role, the testimonies of the ex-militants encourage us to see them as much more than criminally inclined, unemployed, and undereducated young men who were compelled by rational economic logic to engage in collective violence. The chapter ends by comparing and contrasting Guale and Malaitan micronationalism and considering the future prospects for national unity. I conclude the book by arguing that explanations of the Solomons conflict that emphasize the greed and criminality of those who participated in it confound our understanding of its deeper causes. The testimonies of ex-militants and their contextualization in both the socioeconomic history of the nation and the ethnographic present enable us to

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see the historical grievances of the peoples of Malaita and Guadalcanal as important motivating factors for the men who joined the militant groups. Their motives were also influenced by their peoples’ long tradition of resisting the perceived imposition of the state upon local sovereignty over kastom law, land, and resources. The focus on greed and criminality also obscures the importance of cultural factors in the conflict, such as the enduring role of retribution in Melanesian societies and the value that is given to particular types of violent male behavior in particular social contexts. At the same time, however, some aspects of the greed perspective—which I have characterized as new political economy—usefully enable us to see the importance of broadly defined economic factors in the conflict. The particular nexus of politics, culture, and the logging industry probably influenced the actions and motives of many of the political elites involved in the conflict. Moreover, the opportunity for petty criminal predation cannot be dismissed as a motive for some of the men who joined the militant groups, and financial motives were clearly at play in the manipulation of the compensation process. The testimonies of both the ex-militants and others also highlight the importance of economic motives at the level of the collective, particularly in the case of the Guale statehood agenda, which has been partly driven by the desire for greater economic returns from the resource wealth of Guadalcanal. We could perhaps even regard the Malaitan historical narrative in terms of “greed for the group,” as Malaitans have sought to negotiate with the state about distributional issues. However, it is important that we can also interpret these discourses, embedded as they are in the micronationalist narratives of Guales and Malaitans, in terms of relative deprivation as opposed to “greedy” rent-seeking. We can look at them through the prism of old rather than new political economy. Yet economic and distributional issues cannot, on their own, account for the historical roots of the conflict. Resource development has caused social conflict in Solomon Islands in ways that have been entirely unrelated to distributional issues, having more to do with factors that are better described under the rubric of political ecology. Furthermore, micronationalist movements have sought to resist the imposition of the state, as well as to negotiate with it about economic matters. The politics of identity has been driven by questions of kastom and local sovereignty, as well as by perceptions of socioeconomic inequality. Our elucidation of these social, political, ecological, and cultural factors will enable us to situate the conflict in the “long haul” of state formation and nation building in the Solomons.

C h a pt e r 2

Solomon Islands and the Tension

T

his chapter introduces the social, political, and economic context of Solomon Islands; provides a factual chronological account of the conflict; and briefly examines the differing interpretations of the “causes” of the conflict proposed in the academic literature to date. Some aspects of the socioeconomic history of Solomon Islands that are revisited in the following chapters are introduced here. These include the cleavages that emerged between eastern and western Solomons, the closely related history of labor migration, and the nature of postcolonial political culture and its association with the rapacious logging industry. I also introduce the politics of regional and island-wide identity, which have played an important role in the politics of the nation since World War II. A theme developed over the course of the book is the historical relationship between socioeconomic deprivation and the coalescing of highly fragmented societies into much wider, but mutable, identity groups such as “Guadalcanal” and “Malaita.” Pre-Contact Economy and Sociopolitical Organization Geographically, Solomon Islands is a double archipelago of almost one thousand islands, most of which are uninhabited. These islands are located in the heart of Island Melanesia, between the Bismarck Archipelago to the northwest and Vanuatu to the southeast (see map 2.1).1 The prehistoric record suggests that Solomon Islands was first occupied around 30

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Map 2.1  Solomon Islands showing provincial boundaries

twenty-eight thousand years ago by people who had moved slowly eastward from Southeast Asia (Bennett 1987, 6–7; 2000, 18). A more recent wave of colonizers—speaking the Austronesian languages that now account for most of the sixty-four languages spoken in the Solomons—arrived in the area around three thousand years ago (Spriggs 1997).2 These people were associated with the distinctive dentate-stamped pottery of the Lapita culture, a culture that is believed to have originated in southern China around seven thousand years ago or more certainly in Taiwan around five thousand years ago (Spriggs 1996, 75). “Solomon Islands” was the name given by Spanish cartographers to the islands “discovered” in 1568 by the explorer Alvaro de Mendaña, who believed them to contain the gold of King Solomon’s mines.3 Some of the islands, such as Santa Isabel (now commonly known as Isabel) and Guadalcanal, still bear the names given to them by the Spanish. Prior to the profound changes set in train as a consequence of regular contact with Europeans and other outsiders from around the beginning of the nineteenth century, Solomon Islanders resided in small, dispersed settlements based on social relationships. These social ties were often related to kinship but could also be derived from exchange or simple relationships of friendship. In pre-contact times there was a basic distinction between coastal and inland people—“saltwater people” and “bush people” respectively. In a trend that was common throughout Island Melanesia, the old settlement pattern gradually disappeared in many areas as missionaries en-

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couraged their converts to Christianity to move down to the coast to live in much larger settlements surrounding the missions (Brookfield with Hart 1971, 122). However, in some parts of Solomon Islands, particularly on Malaita and Guadalcanal, the inland/coastal distinction remains important. Prior to the advent of new food crops and imported foodstuffs, the cultivation of the traditional root crops taro (Colocasia esculenta) and yam (particularly Dioscorea alata and D. esculenta) in a swidden, or bush fallow, system provided the bulk of carbohydrate food for Solomon Islanders. These were supplemented by a large range of vegetable, fruit, and nut crops. Domesticated pigs and (depending on location) seafood, insects, and wild game were the main sources of protein. Subsistence agriculture continues to provide an important livelihood base for Solomon Islanders, most of whom reside on customary land in rural areas. The crop register has expanded to include a number of introduced species, the most important of which is the hardy and high-yielding sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas). Introduced during the middle of the nineteenth century, with its ultimate origins in South America, the sweet potato has replaced the blight-ridden taro as the main staple in many areas (Bennett 1987, 2; 2000, 38; also see Allen 2005). The dominant form of political organization in pre-contact times was the big-man system, though chiefly systems also existed, and in some places hereditary title and achieved status were “intertwined or complementary” (Keesing 1985, 237). In some areas, including much of Malaita, a typological distinction was maintained among three different types of leadership (discussed in Keesing 1985). There were the “classic” big-men, whose success lay in their ability to organize and mobilize resources, particularly pigs and root crops, in order to generate and distribute wealth. There were warrior-leaders, chosen for their strength, aggressiveness, and skill in warfare. These men were also expert at raising and leading raiding parties, usually in response to a request from a big-man or from the relatives of a slain person for whom vengeance was sought. The third type of leader was the priest, responsible for maintaining relations between a kin group and its ancestors. Warfare was sporadic and was characterized by constantly shifting alliances (Knauft 1990). Raids, rather than pitched battles, were the norm (though the latter did take place in some areas), the purpose of which was usually to seek retribution for some unavenged or uncompensated past killing. In some parts of western Solomons, such as New Georgia and the Shortland Islands, head-hunting was important for ceremonial and spiritual purposes. There was a dramatic increase in

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the intensity and geographical extent of head-hunting from the 1840s as a consequence not only of the increased “leisure time” brought about by the introduction of iron, but also by the profound social and spiritual disorder that iron produced. According to Bennett, “Excessive headhunting was an attempt to control the new forces unleashed in the western Solomons by the advent of iron” (1987, 35). The intensification and spread of warfare and raiding are thought to have resulted in the extensive depopulation of parts of western and central Solomons. Colonial and Postcolonial Political and Economic History In 1893 the British formally annexed Solomon Islands, which had been under the “loose jurisdiction” of the British High Commission in Fiji since 1877, and established the British Solomon Islands Protectorate (BSIP) (Bennett 1987, 104). The colony was primarily established for strategic purposes—the protection of New Zealand and particularly Australian interests from the perceived threat of German and French expansion in the Pacific.4 The primary economic interest for the colony of Queensland was the Pacific labor trade that had been supplying cheap labor for the sugarcane plantations of Queensland, Fiji, and Samoa since around 1870. The importance of this trade provided the British with a “plausible excuse for ‘protecting’ the Solomons” (cited in Bennett 1987, 105). The establishment of the BSIP was premised on the requirement that the colony would be economically self-sufficient, and self-sufficiency was to be achieved through the establishment of a plantation economy based on copra production (Bennett 1987, 103; 2000, 39). The economic history of Solomon Islands is examined in much greater depth in the next chapter. However, it is important to note here that for reasons of geography and resource disparities, the plantation economy reinforced economic divisions among Solomon Islanders—particularly between those in the east and those in the west—which had already started to develop over the previous forty years or so during the early trading period. This emergence of “island-based deprivation” is closely related to the development of island-wide and regional identities. According to Bennett, In general, the eastern islands, particularly Malaita, had very few products to offer traders. There, islanders could obtain few trade goods until they were able to go to sell their labor on the cane fields of Fiji and Queensland. So began a tradition of migrant labor that

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extended into the plantation era. After World War II the pattern continued, though the destination more often than not was Honiara, the capital. Alongside this pattern existed its obverse—those who had access to trade produce, or later, the land on which to grow cash crops, stayed at home to work and, compared to the eastern Islanders, sacrificed little in satisfying their wants. Inherent in these fundamental differences, intensified by the cash economy, was the genesis of the notion of island-based deprivation. (1987, xvii)

Solomon Islands gained independence in 1978 and inherited the Westminster-style system of government that Britain bequeathed to many of its former colonies. Despite calls from several “federalist” islands and regions for greater devolution (including Guadalcanal and Western), a unitary system was introduced (Ghai 1983, 26). The eight local government councils of the late colonial period became seven provinces under the 1978 Constitution and were later given their own assemblies, executives, and premiers under the Provincial Government Act 1981. The central government, however, retained tight regulatory control over the executive and legislative functions of the provinces. There are now nine provinces, following the separation of Choiseul from Western Province in 1992 and Rennell and Bellona from Central Province in 1996. Heralded by the Western Breakaway Movement on the eve of Independence, the issues of devolution and provincial autonomy have loomed large in the postcolonial politics of the nation. Postcolonial politics has also been characterized by the emergence of an elitist political culture that favors patronage and resource distribution above any commitment to the ideals of transparent and accountable democracy and has been closely associated with the lucrative but notoriously corrupt and weakly regulated logging industry. Moreover, postcolonial governments have suffered from chronic instability due to the weakness of the party system and the prevalence of personalized and parochial politics (Steeves 1996). Governments have often changed between elections due to parliamentary votes of no confidence or, more commonly, the threat thereof. The postcolonial period has seen significant economic diversification, a trend that commenced as a consequence of the colonial administration’s policy of diversifying the export base in the lead up to Independence. In the 1960s copra was still the primary export commodity. By 1977–1978, it accounted for only a quarter of the value of exports, with timber products and fish (mostly tuna) accounting for a quarter each and palm oil contributing 16 percent (Bennett 1987, 330). In the period

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1990–1998, timber exports accounted for around 45 percent of the total value of exports, while fish contributed 27 percent, palm oil 12 percent, and copra and cocoa 5 and 4 percent respectively (Fraenkel 2004, 33). In 1999, the Solomon Islands Plantation Limited (SIPL) oil palm operation and the Gold Ridge mine (which commenced production in June 1998), both on Guadalcanal, contributed 20 and 25 percent of export earnings respectively. It will be seen below that both of these operations were shut down as a direct result of Guale militant activity. Timber exports increased rapidly in the 1980s and 1990s under the governments of Solomon Mamaloni, a product of both the expansion of logging onto customary land after 1981 and the growing collusion between government ministers and Malaysian logging companies (Bennett 2000; Dauvergne 1998/9; Frazer 1997a, 1997b). There have been two peaks in the volume and value of annual log exports. The first occurred in 1996, before the Asian financial crisis caused a marked decline in timber production and export, which continued into the Tension period. The industry has recovered steadily since 2001, and exports are once again at record levels, with logging revenue contributing around 70 percent of export income in 2009 (compared to 50 percent in 1994) and over 15 percent of government revenue. High levels of log production and exports have been largely responsible for the high rates of economic growth experienced by Solomon Islands in recent years.

Figure 2.1  Solomon Islands log production and export, 1990–2011. Sources: Central Bank of Solomon Islands, Quarterly Reviews; Forestry Department Export ­Database; URS 2006.

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Figure 2.2  Solomon Islands GDP growth, 1997–2011 (1985=100). Source: Central Bank of Solomon Islands.

However, log production levels have exceeded estimated sustainable production levels in most years since 1981. The most recent technical assessment estimated that Solomon Islands’ forests were being exploited at four times the sustainable limit and that the natural forest resource would be exhausted by the end of 2015 (URS 2006). While “exhaustion estimates” have been inaccurate in the past, it seems certain that the resource will collapse sooner rather than later. The history of the forestry sector since Independence has been a woeful tale of corruption, greed, profligacy, patronage, tax avoidance, maladministration, incompetence, and environmental destruction. The state has foregone hundreds of millions of Solomon dollars in potential revenue due to tax exemptions and the undervaluing and mis-specification of log exports (Bennett 2000; Duncan 1995; Price Waterhouse 1995).5 Contemporary Society The most recent population census, conducted in November 2009, enumerated 515,870 people living in Solomon Islands (Solomon Islands Government 2012).6 Malaita Province accounted for 27 percent of the total population, while Guadalcanal and Western Provinces accounted for 17 and 15 percent respectively. Malaita is easily the most densely populated of the large islands, with north Malaita being the most dense-

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ly populated part of the island. The average annual population growth rate in Solomon Islands over the inter-census period 1999–2009 was 2.3 percent, having declined from previous inter-census growth rates of 2.8 percent (1986–1999), 3.5 percent (1976–1986), and 3.4 percent (1970–1976). Around 82 percent of the population resides in rural areas. Honiara is easily the largest urban center, accounting for around 78 percent of the total urban population. In 1999 the population of Honiara was around 49,000, but its pre-Tension population was higher because the census recorded 10,712 people as having been displaced from Honiara as a direct consequence of the Tension. Moreover, if we include the periurban areas adjacent to the Honiara town boundaries, the pre-Tension population of “greater Honiara” was possibly as high as 70,000, which is the upper estimate given by Clive Moore for “Honiara and environs before the crisis” (2004, 26). The 2009 census records the population of Honiara as 64,609, which increases to 80,082 when the “urban population” of Guadalcanal—presumably referring to Honiara’s peri-urban fringes—is included. The age structure of the population is very young, even by developing-country standards, with around 41 percent of the population under the age of fifteen in the 2009 census. The majority of Solomon Islanders (around 95 percent) identify themselves as Melanesians. There are small Polynesian communities located on the outliers of Ontong Java, Sikaiana, Tikopia, Anuta, the outer Reef Islands, and Rennell and Bellona. There is also a small Micronesian community consisting of people who were relocated by the British from the overcrowded Gilbert Islands between 1955 and 1971. In the 1999 census, 98 percent of Solomon Islanders described themselves as Christians: 32.8 percent were members of the Anglican (Church of Melanesia) denomination, 19 percent were Roman Catholics, 17 percent were members of the South Sea Evangelical Church (SSEC), 11.2 percent were Seventh-day Adventists, 10.3 percent were Methodists (United Church), 2.4 percent were members of the Christian Fellowship Church, and 1.8 percent were Jehovah’s Witnesses (Solomon Islands Government 2002, 36–39). Of the remaining 5 percent of the population, most followed smaller Christian churches such as the Christian Outreach Church and the Assembly of God. There are also isolated pockets of people who follow ancestral religions in parts of Malaita and Guadalcanal. There is quite a strong geographical pattern to church followings: the Methodist Church dominates in Western and Choiseul Provinces;

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the Anglican Church dominates in Isabel, Central, and Temotu Provinces; almost half of Guadalcanal’s Christians are Roman Catholic; and the SSEC claims the largest number of Christians in Malaita and Rennell and Bellona Provinces, though it is by no means predominant in those provinces. Contemporary forms of “community” in most parts of Solomon Islands are based on a complex interplay of kinship relations, exchange relations, friendships, church membership, and myriad forms of claims to “customary” land, of which genealogy is only one (Burt 1994; Hviding 1996, 2003; Keesing 1970; McDougall 2005; Scott 2007; White 1991, 2007). It is erroneous to assume that the boundaries of settlement pattern (that is, village), community, congregation, landowning group, and clan or tribe are conterminous, for some villages are multi-denominational, and many contain residents who have rights to use land but are not members of the local descent group or groups. Individuals may have rights to land, as well as social affiliations, in more than one locality, and people living in urban areas generally maintain ties to, and identify strongly with, one or more rural communities. There are constant flows of people, goods, and information between rural and urban areas and between different rural localities. Another feature of rural communities in contemporary Solomon Islands is the widely accepted authority of churches and “traditional” leaders in matters of local governance, including dispute resolution. The legitimacy of these non-state institutions stands in stark contrast to that of the formal state, “the government,” which remains “a distant presence with uncertain relevance for everyday life” (White 2007, 4). As has been observed in the case of neighboring Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands state and its institutions do not enjoy automatic legitimacy at the local level, where they compete with a range of non-state entities for popular allegiances (Dinnen 1998; Strathern 1993). While the nature of traditional leadership has changed significantly in most places, the Solomons’ myriad small-scale societies continue to be characterized by an egalitarianism that enables most adults to participate meaningfully in community-level decision-making processes (White 2007, 9–12). In concert, universal access to land for subsistence gardening and smallholder cash-cropping, social and exchange relations of various kinds, opportunities for meaningful participation in village affairs, and the authority of churches and traditional leaders provide the glue that binds rural communities and imbues them with strength and resilience. The stability of contemporary rural society in Solomon Islands was clearly demonstrated during the events of 1998–2003, when most peo-

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ple were able to get on with their lives in relative peace despite the collapse of the state and the national economy (Hviding 2011, 51–52).7 It is also the case that social relations—be they based on kinship, marriage, gift exchange, church membership, or simply friendships—provide what Brigg (2009, 152) describes as “crosscutting ties” or “relationships across difference” that militate against so-called “ethnic conflict” and arguably prevented the number of casualties from being much higher during the five years of unrest. It will be seen in the next section that the churches and traditional leaders played a pivotal role in the peace process leading up to the TPA. The Conflict: 1998–2003 The Ethnic Tension In late 1998, young Guale men initially calling themselves the Guadalcanal Revolutionary Army (GRA), then the Isatabu Freedom Fighters (IFF), and finally the Isatabu Freedom Movement (IFM), commenced a campaign of violence and intimidation aimed at evicting settlers from rural Guadalcanal, the majority of whom were Malaitan.8 The uprising commenced shortly after a speech made by then premier of Guadalcanal Ezekiel Alebua on November 30, 1998. Alebua demanded that the government pay compensation for people who had been murdered by Malaitans over the past twenty years; that rent be paid by the national government for the use of Honiara as the capital; that lands purchased, rented, or occupied by Malaitans be returned; and that settlers from other islands show respect to the Guadalcanal people (Fraenkel 2004, 44–45; Kabutaulaka 2001, 3). These demands were reiterated in January 1999 in a submission to the central government titled “Demands by the Bona Fide and Indigenous People of Guadalcanal” and signed by the members of the Guadalcanal Provincial Assembly (reproduced in Fraenkel 2004, 197–203). The keynote demand was for state government under a federal system of government, as it had been in 1988, when Guadalcanal Province petitioned the central government with a document titled “Petition by the Indigenous People of Guadalcanal” (reproduced in Fraenkel 2004, 189–196). The Guale militants were initially armed with bush knives, licensed firearms, homemade pipe-guns, and refashioned World War II rifles.9 These were soon supplemented by high-powered guns stolen in a raid on the police armory at Yandina in Central Province on December 10, 1998, and by subsequent thefts from police armories. An ultimately unsuc-

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cessful attempt to excavate buried World War II weapons on an island near Tulagi resulted in the first engagement between the GRA/IFM and the Royal Solomon Islands Police (RSIP). Two militants were shot, one fatally. Two militant leaders, Harold Keke, who had suffered a gunshot wound to the head, and his brother, Joseph Sangu, were arrested, along with two other militants. Keke and Sangu both absconded in March 1999 after their bail was paid by Alebua and a Catholic priest (Fraenkel 2004, 44; Moore 2004, 108). Militant activity initially focused on the coastal areas of west Guadalcanal and later spread to the plains east of Honiara, where there were large numbers of Malaitan settlers, many of whom worked for SIPL (see map 2.2). By the time of the census in November 1999, 35,309 people had been displaced from their usual place of residence in Guadalcanal or Honiara as a result of militant activities (Schoorl and Friesen 2002, 128– 129). Around 70 percent of these people were displaced from wards in rural north Guadalcanal. Most of the displacements took place between May and July 1999 (Fraenkel 2004, 78; Moore 2004, 110). Honiara became a Malaitan enclave as refugees poured into the town and took refuge in temporary shelters. The wharf and the market were crowded with people waiting for passage back to Malaita. By November the census recorded 12,675 people who had returned to Malaita, most of whom were enumerated in north Malaita.

Map 2.2  Guadalcanal

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Jolene Stritecky, who was conducting doctoral research at the predominantly Malaitan settlement of Gilbert Camp on the outskirts of Honiara when the Tension began, observes that “While a few thousand Malaitans were forcibly evicted from their homes under direct attack, several thousand more left pre-emptively” (2001, 105–106). Stritecky makes this point not to downplay the trauma and suffering of those who left but rather to emphasize that this “self-evacuation” played a role in diffusing the mounting tension and to challenge the common characterization of Malaitans as aggressive, confrontational, and violent. The Guale uprising reached its climax in the weeks following a government-sponsored public reconciliation ceremony held in late May 1999 (Fraenkel 2004, 66). A raid on SIPL employees’ quarters at Berande on the northern plains resulted in three deaths, scores of injuries, and thousands of people fleeing the area. There were also a number of skirmishes around the Gold Ridge mine site in the mountains east of Honia-

Figure 2.3 An IFM patrol on the Guadalcanal plains, 2000. The man in the lead carries a “tilla” stick, which is believed to deflect bullets and protect the group. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

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ra and ongoing fighting in the hills behind Honiara and at Kakabona on the town’s western outskirts. The government declared a state of emergency, which gave increased powers to the police. The first concerted attempt at peace negotiations culminated in the Honiara Accord of June 28, 1999, brokered by Sitiveni Rabuka, a Commonwealth envoy and former Fiji coup leader. The agreement, which was signed by Prime Minister Bartholomew Ulufa’alu and the premiers of Malaita and Guadalcanal Provinces, acknowledged various demands and grievances of Guadalcanal Province. The national government agreed to make a SI$2.5 million compensation payment to the Guadalcanal Provincial Executive. It also committed to making payments to assist displaced people with relocation expenses. In addition, there was a vaguely worded commitment to establish a mechanism to “pay adequate compensation to those who had suffered loss of properties” (Honiara Peace Accord, cited in Fraenkel 2004, 80). Reluctant to enter Malaitan-dominated Honiara, GRA/IFM leaders were not present at the signing of the Honiara Accord, though three of them (Joseph Sangu, George Gray, and Andrew Te’e) did sign the agreement the following day, when it was taken out to the Guadalcanal plains. They signed on the condition that the government organize “immediate repatriation of displaced and unemployed Malaitans” and provide for “state government” by January 1, 2000 (Fraenkel 2004, 71). It is important to note that their demand for amnesty, which was reportedly included in a draft version of the accord, was removed from the final document. Just days after the Honiara Accord was signed, fighting broke out around Gold Ridge, and there were more incidents on the northern plains. In late July, a three-hour exchange of fire between an estimated two hundred Guale militants and the Police Field Force at Mount Austin (behind Honiara) left four militants dead (Fraenkel 2004, 72). Although the police initially responded to the Guale uprising with “constraint and hesitation,” the Malaitan-dominated paramilitary Police Field Force and Rapid Response Unit (RRU) adopted increasingly heavy-handed tactics against Guadalcanal civilians and suspected militants (Amnesty International 2000, 5). Police Commissioner Frank Short, an Englishman who had previously served in South Africa, resigned in late July in the face of increasing criticism from the international media, Rabuka, and members of the parliamentary opposition. The Panatina Accord of August 1999, which focused on ways to restore law and order, included a commitment to scale back policing activities in Guadalcanal. By September 1999, the RRU was scheduled to be disbanded due to ongoing complaints about its activities.

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The situation on Guadalcanal quieted down in the latter part of 1999, prompting the government to lift the state of emergency on October 15, 1999. However, sporadic fighting between the GRA/IFM and the RRU continued to occur around the Gold Ridge mine site; several Malaitans were killed on the Guadalcanal plains; there were rumors circulating that the Guale militants were planning to contaminate Honiara’s water supply; and there was an ever-present threat that the GRA/IFM would launch an assault on Honiara. The harassment of settlers by the GRA/IFM had also extended to the Marau area, where a large number of ’Are’are speakers had been forced to evacuate to the outer island of Marapa.10 In short, the situation in late 1999 remained tense: “Beneath the surface, the threat of violence was probably greater than in early 1999” (Fraenkel 2004, 73). Estimates of the numbers of people killed during the land evictions vary considerably. Kabutaulaka estimates at least fifty people killed on both sides by June 1999 (2001, 3). Bennett estimates twenty-eight Malaitans killed by August 1999 (2002, 11), a figure also cited by Moore (2004, 110). Amnesty International estimated ten people killed and a further seventeen missing by September 1999 (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 229). In addition to killings, there were many stories of rapes, abductions, beatings, looting, theft, extortion, and the burning down of houses during the land evictions. These acts were carried out not only by the GRA/IFM, but also by the RSIP and Malaitan vigilantes (see in particular Amnesty International 2000, 2004). Malaitan men began to form vigilante groups to “secure” the outskirts of Honiara in the middle part of 1999. They were initially armed with licensed guns and other makeshift weapons, as the GRA/IFM had been at the outset of the uprising on Guadalcanal.11 Rumors were circulating as early as May 1999 that an organized Malaitan militia was forming (Stritecky 2001, 103). Andrew Nori, a university-educated lawyer who had been finance minister in the last Mamaloni government and was later to become spokesman for the MEF/RSIP Joint Operation, was emerging as the mouthpiece for articulations of the Malaitan position, particularly regarding the issue of compensating displaced Malaitan settlers for lost properties. There was also a growing threat in Nori’s statements of the use of violence to achieve these objectives. After the RSIP armory in Auki was raided on January 17, 2000, and thirty-four highpowered rifles, ammunition, and other weapons were seized by a group of masked men and taken to Honiara, Nori announced that he had had communications with the MEF, which had taken responsibility for the so-called “Spirit of Ramos” raid (Fraenkel 2004, 77–82; Moore 2004,

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124–125).12 This appears to have been the first public appearance of the MEF as an organized force. According to “L,” a former member of the MEF, “In 2000, some of us boys in the Malaita Eagle Force, or MEF, first raided the police station in Auki to take up some arms. Then we started to move up to Honiara; every young man in the Malu’u area went across to Honiara to sit down and talk about the need to form the MEF and find guns” (interview with C, L, and others). The rank and file of the MEF consisted of men who had been living on Guadalcanal before the start of the Tension (including many who had returned to Malaita) and men who had come over from Malaita, particularly from north and central Malaita, to join the MEF in Honiara. Some of the men with whom I spoke were still at school in Malaita at the time they decided to join the MEF. By their own admission, many of the men who joined the MEF would loosely fit the description of Masta Liu:

Figure 2.4 An MEF militant patrolling on the outskirts of Honiara, 2000. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

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school “push-outs” who had transient or nonexistent employment histories and were either second- or third-generation settlers on Guadalcanal or had oscillated between Guadalcanal (and other parts of the country) and their villages on Malaita.13 In the interview mentioned above, L also stated that every young man around Malu’u, in the To’abaita language area of north Malaita, went to join the To’abaita “camp” in Honiara, which was named the Central Lions Eagle Force.14 According to L, a total of 1,803 men and boys from north and central Malaita (the To’abaita, Lau, Baelelea, Fataleka, Baegu, and Kwara’ae language groups) joined the MEF (see map 2.3). This assessment is consistent with Moore’s observation that the MEF was mostly drawn from the districts of north and central Malaita (2004, 127).15 Many new recruits came over from Malaita to join the MEF after the national armory was raided on June 5, 2000 (see below) (Fraenkel 2004, 92; C, interview with C, L, and others). By early 2000, the national government was losing control over the police force, which was fracturing along ethnic lines, and the undermanned and unarmed Commonwealth Multinational Police Assistance Group (which had been in the country since early November 1999) was powerless to prevent violence at the hands of the GRA/IFM and MEF. The government’s formal banning of the IFM and MEF in late February 2000 could not be enforced. Commonwealth envoy Rabuka returned in April and facilitated further peace talks at Buala in Isabel Province in early May. These foundered on the refusal of the MEF to participate until the order banning both organizations was lifted, a demand that was met by the government at further peace talks held in Auki on Malaita a week later. Although the Auki Communiqué of May 12, 2000, may have opened the way for cease-fire negotiations, fighting between the MEF and the Guale militants had been intensifying with frequent clashes in the Gold Ridge area and at the Alligator Creek “border” region on the eastern outskirts of Honiara, where each side had established a “bunker.” Due to its increasingly apparent association with the police, the MEF was emerging as a much better equipped and resourced force than the GRA/IFM. With overt police complicity, the MEF seized a number of high-powered guns and ammunition from the Alligator Creek police checkpoint on May 12 and subsequently took control of Honiara’s perimeters. According to Fraenkel, “Government control over the police force had reached its nadir” (2004, 85). In the final weeks of May, Prime Minister Ulufa’alu was embroiled in a controversy surrounding allegations that he was financing a clandestine militant group, the “Seagull Force,” with the inten-

Map 2.3  Language groups of Malaita

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tion of infiltrating the MEF. An increasingly desperate government announced that Malaita and Guadalcanal Provinces were each to be given SI$5 million to be used to compensate their chiefs for incidents of insults and swearing.16 On June 5, 2000, a self-declared “joint operation” between the MEF and the police effectively staged a coup d’état by taking control of Honiara after raiding the national police armory at the Rove Police Headquarters. Prime Minister Ulufa’alu was placed under house arrest and resigned on June 13 under considerable duress. Two weeks later parliament elected the opposition leader, Manasseh Sogavare, as caretaker prime minister. The parliamentary vote was marred by threats and intimidation at the hands of the MEF. Following the MEF’s declaration of “all-out war” on the GRA/IFM two days after the June 5 coup, the international media reported a spate of mass killings and atrocities, including up to one hundred people killed when the Australian-donated RSIP patrol boat Lata was used indiscriminately to shell the hinterland east of Honiara. While many of these reports were heavily exaggerated, there was nevertheless an intensification of the conflict following the raiding of the Rove armory and the formation of the MEF/RSIP Joint Operation. Some of the most lethal encounters occurred in early July on the eastern and western outskirts of Honiara. The MEF used a customized bulldozer, which had been fortified with armor plating, to destroy the IFM’s bunker on the eastern side of the Alligator Creek Bridge, killing six members of the IFM in the process (Fraenkel 2004, 96–97). One of the Australian-donated patrol boats was again used to shell IFM positions during this assault, reportedly with little effect. The fighting had become increasingly characterized by revenge attacks and acts of retribution. The victims of retaliatory attacks were often non-combatants: “Both sides of the conflict were reported by reliable sources to be torturing and beheading captured members of the opposing group, whether or not they were active combatants” (Moore 2004, 141).17 Other characteristics of the fighting that were reminiscent of the traditional Melanesian practice of warfare were the burning down of “enemy” villages and the use of hit-and-run offensives. An example of the former occurred in August 2000, when the MEF set fire to villages from Aruligo to Visale, along the coastal road west of Honiara, in retaliation for the killing of an MEF man at Kakabona (Fraenkel 2004, 97). According to informants in the Marau area, the Marau Eagle Force responded to the torching of houses abandoned by ’Are’are speakers, who fled to the outer island of Marapa, by setting fire to houses in the Birao-

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speaking area adjacent to Makina station, forcing the residents to move to temporary shelters in the bush. The coup produced an outpouring of dissatisfaction from the provinces. Western and Choiseul Provinces declared their intention to form a joint state government. Temotu and Makira Provinces also expressed secessionist sentiments (Dinnen 2002, 288; Fraenkel 2004, 88; Scales 2003b, 31). There were also reports of reprisals against Malaitans in Western Province, where the events of 1998–1999 had already prompted demands for the control of settlers from other provinces and more stringent regulation of land transactions involving settlers, as set forth in the Munda Accord of July 1999 (Scales 2003b, 24). In the post-coup atmosphere of rumors about possible MEF incursions into the West,18 a number of Bougainvillean gunmen “suddenly materialized” in Gizo, where they “publicly announced their intention to protect Western Province in the case of any insurgency by Malaitans or attempt by the MEF to take over the town” (Scales 2003b, 30). The picture was complicated by the involvement of rival Bougainvillean factions, as evidenced by the lethal shooting of four drunk militants, two of whom were Bougainvilleans, at the Gizo Hotel in mid-November, allegedly as a consequence of an operation ordered by the Bougainville Revolutionary Army (BRA) leadership (Fraenkel 2004, 89, 127). The post-coup period also saw an exodus of Malaitans from the West and a corresponding inflow of Westerners from Honiara. In what was referred to by a local observer as the “chequebook” approach to peace negotiations (cited in Dinnen 2002, 289), the Sogavare government commenced its peacemaking efforts by handing out SI$10 million in compensation payments to provincial and militant representatives from both Malaita and Guadalcanal. Andrew Nori’s legal practice, Bridge Lawyers, was paid SI$517,549, allegedly as part of a SI$1 million fee for “legal services” conducted on behalf of the Joint Operation (Fraenkel 2004, 289). Compensation payments were being demanded, and frequently paid, as a condition for participating in peace talks (Dinnen 2002, 289). Following the installation of the Sogavare government, Australia and New Zealand renewed their efforts to broker a peace agreement. A series of talks involving leaders of the MEF and IFM, as well as representatives of church and women’s groups, chiefs, and provincial leaders, were held on HMAS Tobruk in July, culminating in the signing of a ninety-day cease-fire agreement on August 2, 2000. Under the terms of the agreement both sides were to be confined to their respective “areas of influence,” essentially defined as Honiara in the case of the MEF and

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Figure 2.5 An MEF militant and a Christian nun share a trench and talk during a break in fighting on the outskirts of Honiara, 2000. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

rural Guadalcanal (but not Marau) in the case of the IFM. Moreover, responsibility for law and order was to return to the RSIP and a Cease-Fire Monitoring Council was to be established to enforce the terms of the agreement. The ninety-day period of the agreement, which could be extended if necessary, was intended to allow enough time for the negotiation of a full-scale peace agreement (Dinnen 2002, 289–290). A number of breaches of the agreement took place, including the killing of an MEF man inside the MEF’s area of influence and the subsequent retaliatory operation in western Guadalcanal (described above). There were sporadic gun battles both east and west of Honiara, and the Joint Operation continued its patrols within the town boundaries. During this time it was civil society groups who kept the focus on the peace process. The Civil Society Network organized a National Peace Conference aboard the New Zealand frigate Te Kaha in late August. The conference was attended by 150 delegates from throughout the Solomons, including the Solomon Islands Christian Association, Women for Peace, the Chamber of Commerce, and the NGO Peace Committee (Moore 2004, 144). Its communiqué called for greater participation by members of civil society in the peace process and for any amnesty arrangements for ex-militants who had committed crimes to be linked to a truth and

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reconciliation process. The MEF viewed the communiqué as a threat to its control of the peace agenda, and several members of the Peace Office were subsequently intimidated (Dinnen 2002, 290). At the behest of the MEF, civil society groups were excluded from the peace talks held at a military base in Townsville, Queensland, in October 2000. The delegates consisted of militant leaders and spokespersons and provincial and national government representatives. An important absence was Harold Keke, who refused to participate in the talks. Nor did militant groups from the Marau area attend, as they were scheduled to hold separate talks, which eventually culminated in the Marau Peace Agreement of February 2001. In contrast to the New Zealand-facilitated Bougainville peace negotiations several years earlier, the delegates at Townsville were made to stick to a time frame of three days, later extended to four (Fraenkel 2004, 99). Forced to maintain this deadline, the various parties signed the Townsville Peace Agreement (TPA) on October 15, 2000. In return for an amnesty to all militants, including “civilian advisers” and police, for criminal acts committed during the course of the “ethnic crisis,” militants were to surrender all their weapons within thirty days under the supervision of an International Peace Monitoring Team (IPMT). Former militants were to be repatriated and given access to counseling and rehabilitation services (Solomon Islands Government 2000, part 2). The agreement committed the national government to a process of constitutional change that would provide greater autonomy to the provinces. It also committed the government to a range of ambitious infrastructure projects on both Malaita and Guadalcanal and to providing assistance for dispossessed Malaitans (Solomon Islands Government 2000, parts 3 and 4). After Townsville Although the TPA effectively ended the fighting among the rival militant groups, it was unable to deal adequately with important outstanding issues relating to the extensive militarization of society, the collapse of the police force, and the rehabilitation of large numbers of ex-militants. This failure saw an accelerating decline into a situation of “pervasive criminality” (Dinnen 2002, 293). An important weakness of the TPA was its assumption that the two militant groups at the center of the conflict were cohesive and organized units with strong command structures that would enforce the implementation of the terms of the agreement. According to Kabutaulaka, “This was not entirely the case. After the agree-

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ment was signed, divisions emerged within the MEF and the IFM that gave a new dimension and character to the crisis” (2002a, 13–14). The TPA similarly made unrealistic assumptions about the capacity of the government of Solomon Islands to implement its provisions (Dinnen 2002, 291).19 The IPMT, which was charged under the TPA with overseeing, but not enforcing, the disarmament process, departed in June 2002, at which time large numbers of guns, particularly the high-powered guns that had been stolen from police armories, were still outstanding, despite the extension of the amnesty period. The Sogavare government attempted to deal with the ex-militant problem by offering to pay repatriation allowances for some ex-militants and by incorporating others into the police force as “Special Constables” (SC). However, both of these schemes were subjected to financial abuse, and many of the SCs, whose numbers had increased from 1,144 in April 2001 to almost 2,000 by the end of the year, became involved in criminal activities including theft, extortion, intimidation, and fraud. According to Dinnen, The Sogavare administration was in no position to resist the mounting demands of ex-militants and their associates. Demands were backed by threats from those with guns. Individuals could be intimidated at will. Ministers, public servants and business people complained of regular harassment by ex-militants in respect of compensation demands. As the financial situation deteriorated, ex-militants began threatening bank staff over their refusal to accept government cheques. Capitulation to demands for compensation and other payments created divisions among genuine claimants under the Townsville Agreement and fuelled an ever-escalating cycle of demands. (2002, 293)

Former members of the IFM who had become SCs, under the leadership of former IFM leader Andrew Te’e, were rearmed and teamed up with their former adversaries in the Police Field Force to form a new joint operation for the purposes of pursuing Harold Keke and his GLF on the Weather Coast. There were a number of lethal engagements between the two groups in March 2003, during which time the Joint Operation razed Keke’s and Sangu’s home village of Sughu. The ongoing fighting pushed Keke and his followers farther and farther west along the Weather Coast. The new Joint Operation was said to have the support of Ezekiel Alebua, who was shot and wounded in a failed assassination attempt in June 2001. Keke and Sangu later claimed responsibility for

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Figure 2.6 Harold Keke (center, front) and a group of GLF militants near Mbiti village, Weather Coast, July 2003. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

the shooting, stating that it was in retaliation for three people who had been killed by the Joint Operation on the Weather Coast in March (see Fraenkel 2004, 127). The attempted assassination may also have been motivated by Alebua’s alleged misuse of the compensation money paid to Guadalcanal Province (Moore 2004, 135). Fractures also emerged among former MEF militants. There were regular gun battles among rival factions in Honiara, and on Malaita old land disputes were being revisited with guns and “panel beatings” (Fraenkel 2004, 128). In November 2000, the office block containing Andrew Nori’s legal practice was torched by former MEF militants who were apparently disgruntled by the fact that Nori had received a large sum of money in “legal fees” while the rank and file had received relatively little (Fraenkel 2004, 95; Moore 2004, 149). One of the arson suspects was subsequently murdered by Patteson Saeni, a former policeman involved in the Joint Operation, and another was severely “panel beaten” by Saeni and notorious MEF commander Lusibaea.20 A new government, headed by Sir Allan Kemakeza—who had been thrown out of the Sogavare government for misleading the cabinet and having “serious, personal vested interests” in the compensation scheme that he oversaw as minister for national unity and peace—was formed following the general elections of December 2001. Much to the despair of the general populace, the government was closely linked to the MEF and in fact contained a number of cabinet members who had held senior positions in the MEF. Kemakeza also had close links with former IFM militants, describing himself in a post-election radio interview as “a friend of militants” (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 139).

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While the Kemakeza government committed itself to restoring law and order and delivering economic recovery, violence and disorder continued to prevail in many parts of the country. At the beginning of 2002, there were a number of killings and retaliations involving Bougainvillean gunmen and Malaitan SCs in Western Province, and Keke was still at large on the Weather Coast. In June 2002, it was reported that Keke and his supporters had killed ten Malaitan assassins who had been sent to capture or kill him (Dinnen 2002, 297). In August 2002, Keke and two of his followers murdered Catholic priest and member of parliament Father Augustine Geve, who had won the seat of South Guadalcanal in the 2001 election.21 The violence on the Weather Coast was being driven by cycles of revenge and retaliation, with atrocities reportedly committed by both the GLF and the Joint Operation (see Guadalcanal Provincial Government and Solomon Islands Government 2006; Special Broadcasting Service 2003). Keke’s actions were also increasingly driven by paranoia about government spies infiltrating his ranks. In April 2003, six tasius (Melanesian brothers of the Anglican Church of Melanesia) who were attempting to bring peace to the Weather Coast were brutally murdered by four members of the GLF (including a juvenile), allegedly for spying for the government.22 Five members of the GLF were found guilty of the earlier murder of Brother Nathaniel Sado, who was beaten to death in February 2003, also for allegedly spying.23 In June 2003, two young men from the village of Marasa in the western part of the Weather Coast were forced to eat money and kick one another before being beaten to death by the GLF for allegedly assisting the Joint Operation. This action took place in front of scores of the four hundred Marasa villagers who were held hostage on the beach for three days when their village was razed by the GLF.24 Five members of the GLF were found guilty of murdering the two men in question, John Lovana and Adrian Bilo, and for numerous counts of arson and wrongful confinement. Lawlessness and violence continued in Honiara, on the Weather Coast, and in parts of Malaita and Western Provinces until the arrival of the Australian-led RAMSI force in July 2003. Initially comprised of 2,225 military and police personnel, RAMSI was able to restore law and order quickly. Keke and some of his followers surrendered and were subsequently arrested. Most of the outstanding firearms were recovered. A large number of ex-militants and politicians were arrested, including some high-profile members of the former Kemakeza government and Kemakeza himself (who was charged, and ultimately imprisoned, after

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Figure 2.7  Melanesian Brothers camp in the no-man’s-land between rival IFM and MEF positions on the outskirts of Honiara, 2000. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

he left office in 2006). Both Ezekiel Alebua and Andrew Nori were arrested and charged with offenses committed during the conflict. Nori was arrested in April 2005 and charged, along with other senior MEF figures, in relation to the misuse of the SI$5 million compensation paid to Malaita Province. He avoided legal sanction. Alebua was arrested in August 2005 and charged with four counts of larceny relating to compensation paid to Guadalcanal Province (Kabutaulaka 2006, 4). He served jail time in relation to these charges. It is unclear exactly how many ex-militants have been arrested and charged for criminal acts committed during the conflict. In March 2004, Nick Warner, the first head of RAMSI (known as the special coordinator), stated that RAMSI had arrested “over 50 former militants” and a further 50 members of the RSIP since July 2003 (Warner 2004). In May 2006, it was reported that more than 160 former police officers had been arrested (Butler 2006, 4). The number of ex-militants arrest-

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Figure 2.8 An unidentified Australian soldier, part of the initial RAMSI deployment, at Red Beach on the outskirts of Honiara, July 2003. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

ed is now likely to be considerably higher. According to a list made by a former Guale militant who was released from Rove in mid-2006, there were 47 Guale ex-militants in custody at the time of his release. Others would have been released on bail and still others arrested subsequently. If we assume that a similar number of Malaitan ex-militants had been arrested, then a very conservative estimate of the total number of exmilitants arrested would be in the region of 100. When former members of the RSIP are included, the total becomes at least 260. When other conflict-related arrests are included—for example, the dozen or so politicians and senior public servants who have been arrested on corruption charges—a reasonable estimate of the total number of individuals arrested for conflict-related offenses is 300.25 The actual number could be considerably higher. In February 2006 I downloaded data concerning Tension-related offenses from the High Court’s computerized case registry system.26 The sample of cases downloaded was by no means comprehensive or even representative, and the identification and selection of “Tension-related matters” was made by the High Court information officer who provided the information. However, it did provide a sense of the spectrum of activities, viewed by the law as criminal, that occurred during the conflict. The charges faced by former members of the MEF mostly related to “material” crimes, such as demands with menace, theft, and larceny, most of which were committed during the latter part of the conflict. The brutality of the GLF’s activities on the Weather Coast was also evident in the large number of murder charges laid against Keke, his henchman Ronny Cawa, and some of their young followers. As mentioned above and in

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the notes, Keke, Cawa, and others were convicted for a number of these murders. Scholarly Interpretations of the “Causes” of the Conflict There has been considerable scholarly interest in examining the causes of the conflict. In addition to a number of journal articles and discussion papers (Bennett 2002; Chand 2002; Dinnen 2002; Hameiri 2007; Kabutaulaka 2001, 2002a; Liloqula and Pollard 2000; Maetala 2008; Naitoro 2000), two books have been published on the subject: The Manipulation of Custom: From Uprising to Intervention in the Solomon Islands, by political scientist Jon Fraenkel (2004), and Happy Isles in Crisis: The Historical Causes for a Failing State in Solomon Islands, 1998–2004, by historian Clive Moore (2004). Braithwaite et al.’s Pillars and Shadows: Statebuilding as Peacebuilding in Solomon Islands (2010), Judith Bennett’s Pacific Forest: A History of Resource Control and Contest in Solomon Islands c. 1800–1997 (2000), Lloyd Maepeza Gina’s autobiography Journeys in a Small Canoe: The Life and Times of a Solomon Islander (2003), R. A. Carter’s In Search of the Lost: The Death and Life of Seven Peacemakers of the Melanesian Brotherhood (2006), and at least five doctoral theses (Monson 2012; Naitoro 2003; Nanau 2009; Scales 2003b; Stritecky 2001) also touch upon the causes and/or early dynamics of the conflict. Other important documents that address the subject include the United Nations Development Programme’s Solomon Islands Peace and Conflict Development Analysis (2004), the Australian Strategic Policy Institute document Our Failing Neighbour: Australia and the Future of the Solomon Islands (Wainwright 2003), and various Amnesty International publications (see, for example, 2000; 2004). There is also scholarly literature addressing the peace process (including, of import, the role of women in peacemaking—see Leslie 2002; Leslie and Boso 2003; Liloqula and Pollard 2000; Pollard 2000), the RAMSI intervention, and the topics of state- and nation-building in post-conflict Solomon Islands. Collectively these sources contribute a lively variety of informed perspectives on the causes of the conflict. They also provide an important counterpoint to the pervasive “ethnic” framing that has dominated populist media portrayals of the origins of the conflict. In an approach that resonates with ongoing debates about whether class or ethnicity is the main driver of “new” conflicts in Melanesia, Kabutaulaka employs “a Marxian, structuralist, and political economy” perspective to critique and deconstruct the ethnic portrayal of the conflict (2001, 2; also see

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Finin and Wesley-Smith 2001).27 He identifies factors such as poor development planning, the inequitable distribution of development benefits, weak and ineffective governance structures, and the need for constitutional change as important causes of the conflict. According to Kabutaulaka, “While ethnicity, as an issue, should not be completely disregarded, there is also a need to situate the crisis within broader socioeconomic and political development in Solomon Islands and beyond. The crisis could, in other words, be understood as the consequence of processes of change, rather than as merely the result of ‘hatred’ between the people of two islands” (2001, 2). Similarly, Malaitan academic John Naitoro states, “This emphasis on ‘ethnicity’ overshadowed some of the fundamental motivations of the conflict. For example there were the issues of land, resource control and benefits from resource development. The major cause of the Guadalcanal conflict was the perception of being marginalized. This was demonstrated by the Guadalcanal militants’ demands for reforms including: constitutional reform; restitution of past wrongs; and equality in new economic opportunities” (2003, 266). These factors, along with the intergenerational and internecine conflicts concerning land transactions on Guadalcanal, which are also discussed by Kabutaulaka and Naitoro, as well as by Maetala (2008) and Nanau (2009), underscore the value of what I have termed “old” political economy and political ecology perspectives on the conflict. These perspectives are particularly useful for explaining and understanding the origins of the uprising on Guadalcanal. However, they also assist us in interpreting the Malaitan response to the violent evictions, especially when it is situated within a historical identity narrative in which Malaitans depict themselves as the reviled workers and builders of the nation (see chapter 5) and within Malaitan discourses of rural development and the dialectics of humans and nature (see Gegeo 1998). In the book-length studies of Fraenkel and Moore, both scholars draw upon extensive documentary research to provide detailed and insightful histories of the conflict. Fraenkel makes a more explicit attempt to theorize the causes and dynamics of the conflict, which he sees primarily in terms of the manipulation of the “traditional” Melanesian custom of compensation by “fading” politicians, particularly Ezekiel Alebua and Andrew Nori, seeking to reinvigorate their political fortunes. He argues that each of these men was able to whip up a “stage army” of angry young men in support of his personal economic and political ambitions: “Insurgent movements, such as the Isatabu and Eagle forces, may have attracted a groundswell of underemployed youths from Guadalcanal and

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Malaita, but both were initiated by ex-national politicians who found in them convenient new weapons to deploy in their challenges to the government of the day” (2004, 186). Fraenkel draws upon the work of anthropologists to portray the urban Masta Liu (who are predominantly Malaitan), as well as their “rural Guadalcanalese equivalent,” as a “growing footloose, disenchanted and vagrant unemployed generation” that is increasingly engaged in delinquent and criminal behavior (2004, 113–114, 119). Moore similarly emphasizes greed and criminality in his description of the motives of the men who joined the MEF, though he also points to other important factors such as Malaitan “nationalism” and grievances with the government about the underdevelopment of Malaita (2004, 125–127; also see Moore 2007). While these sorts of portrayals are in many respects accurate, they detract attention from other important factors that influenced the thinking of the militants, many of which are acknowledged in the accounts of both Moore and Fraenkel. As we shall see, ex-militants’ testimonies point to a range of other motives relating to individual and collective grievances about the control of land and resources, socioeconomic justice, and local and regional autonomy. A recent analysis of the causes of the conflict, undertaken as part of a book investigating the dynamics of conflict and peacebuilding in Solomon Islands, places strong emphasis on the “shadow economy and the shadow state, particularly as manifest through the market for logs” (Braithwaite et al. 2010, 117). This perspective, which resonates with the “opposition conspiracy thesis” that was promulgated by former prime minister Ulufa’alu in early 2000, warrants some consideration.28 Ulufa’alu alleged that his reformist Solomon Islands Alliance for Change (SIAC) government, which came to power following the national election of 1997, presented an unacceptable challenge to a powerful coalition of vested interests including politicians, public servants, Asian logging companies, and criminals. Unable to obtain the numbers for a parliamentary vote of no confidence, these vested interests sought to “stir up” trouble on Guadalcanal in order to destabilize the government. According to Ulufa’alu, the “militancy option” had been in place since the early 1990s and would have been used to depose then prime minister Francis Billy Hilly in 1994 had he not been forced to resign as a consequence of a number of defections from his cabinet.29 Like the SIAC government, Billy Hilly’s National Coalition Partnership had been attempting to reform the long-suffering forestry sector, which had become so corrupted under the governments of Solomon

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Mamaloni (see Bennett 2000; Dauvergne 1998a, 1998/9; Frazer 1997a, 1997b). The National Coalition Partnership had barely had a chance to implement the reform program before it was brought down by a spate of defections and resignations of cabinet members who had been “lured by lucrative deals” (Dauvergne 1998/9, 534). It was alleged that several of these defectors received bribes from Honiara businessman Robert Goh, who was acting as the go-between for the “logging lobby” (see Bennett 2000, 341). These allegations formed the basis of formal charges and court proceedings against at least five former National Coalitionship Partnership cabinet members, the outcomes of which are unclear (see Bennett 2000, 341, 465; Kabutaulaka 1997, 488; 2000, 95). In response to declining government revenue in the late 1990s (due to the collapse of logging exports during the Asian financial crisis) and increasing public sector debt, Ulufa’alu’s SIAC government, in collaboration with the Asian Development Bank, instituted a reform program described as a mix of homegrown and donor-inspired initiatives (Bennett 2000, 360, 379–383; Hameiri 2007, 426–428). The Public Sector Reform Program sought to reduce the number of government ministries, downsize the public service sector by 10 percent, and implement significant reforms in the forestry sector, including the drafting of a new forestry act and the establishment of a forestry board and a forestry trust. In an important move, the lowest level of elected government, the Area Councils, was abolished, and provincial budgetary allocations were slashed.30 The reform program was met with stiff resistance from vested interests throughout the public service, from the logging industry and its political allies, and from national members of parliament “who had done well out of the Mamaloni Government” (Gina 2003, 271; Hughes 2001; Moore 2004, 103; also see Fry 2000). Set against this background, allegations that members of the parliamentary opposition, led by Mamaloni until his death in January 2000, were deliberately stirring up trouble on Guadalcanal in order to destabilize the reformist Ulufa’alu government are not entirely implausible, particularly as several attempts to remove the SIAC government through constitutional means had been unsuccessful. It is also highly plausible that the reform program provided a motive for Alebua, the then premier of Guadalcanal, to seek to undermine Ulufa’alu’s government. This is the argument made by Hamieri (2007), who sees the SIAC government’s assault on patronage networks—including, critically, those at the provincial level—as providing the best explanation for the timing of the Guale uprising.31 There is broad consensus that a key structural cause of the conflict was the spatial inequality in socioeconomic opportunities brought

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about by long-standing patterns of uneven development and, related to this, the migration of people from Malaita to Honiara and the adjacent areas of rural Guadalcanal. Social and cultural differences between settlers and indigenous landowners, thrown together in increasing numbers, were brought into stark relief. Guales began to resent Malaitans’ perceived domination of land and employment opportunities. Disputes also emerged within landowning groups themselves about the land transactions that had enabled Malaitans to settle on Guadalcanal in increasing numbers and the distribution of rents and royalties flowing from resource developments. These internecine disputes had a salient intergenerational dimension, reminiscent of the origins of the Bougainville conflict. Other structural factors identified in the scholarly literature include the weakness and widely perceived illegitimacy of the postcolonial state; the ongoing strength of localism and regionalism and corollary calls for greater devolution and provincial autonomy; the presence of relatively large numbers of poorly educated and underemployed young men in the population; and the chronic instability of national-level politics, as well as political elites’ close ties with the notoriously corrupt logging industry, which have been characteristic since Independence. The scholarly literature also points to a number of proximate or triggering causes of the conflict. These include the role of political elites in manufacturing ethnic conflict in pursuit of their own political and economic agendas; the disruption to political patronage networks engendered by the combined impact, in the late 1990s, of declining demand for Solomons log exports due to the Asian financial crisis and the subsequent donor-inspired, structural adjustment-style reform agenda of the SIAC government; and the demonstration effects of the Bougainville conflict, particularly on the thinking of young Guale men. While some academic writing on the conflict has been informed by interviews conducted with ex-militants, especially Braithwaite et al. (2010), the voices of these men have, for the most part, been absent in debates about the causes and dynamics of the conflict. In the chapters that follow, I set aside these previous interpretations of the role of exmilitants in order to present and discuss the ex-militants’ perspectives in the context of the socioeconomic and political history of the Solomons over the past two hundred years or so. Chapter 3 introduces this history with a particular focus on the relationships among the state, economic development, identity, resistance, and conflict.

C h a pt e r 3

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T

his chapter locates Malaita and Guadalcanal in the socioeconomic and political history of Solomon Islands from the early contact period. It provides the context for the voices of ex-militants that are introduced over the next two chapters. The “objective” history told here both challenges and corroborates the subjective historical narratives of the ex-militants. In doing so, it assists us in understanding how the past is engaged, often creatively, to suit contemporary political objectives. The politics of identity were thrown into stark relief during the Ethnic Tension. I argue not only that a sense of a collective ethnic identity was an important source of motivation for the men who joined the militant groups, but also that many of them were, and continue to be, active participants in the creation and perpetuation of identity discourses. Moreover, they continue to draw upon the same ideologies that have underscored previous periods of intensive identity politicking, most notably kastom and the notion of socioeconomic inequality (the weaker version of class). Over a relatively short period of time, “Malaita,” “Guadalcanal,” and other regional and island-based identities—most notably “the West”— have emerged as what anthropologist Roger Keesing describes as “units for which a common cultural identity is being claimed” (1989, 26). There are several factors that have contributed to this process of identity formation. First is the act of colonization and its legacy: the creation of administrative boundaries where before there were none. Second is the characterization and delineation, in successive waves of hegemonic dis61

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course, of different groups of Solomon Islanders on the basis of criteria such as “backwardness” or “aggressiveness,” and the subsequent adoption of these categories by those groups in their portrayals of themselves and others. The most pervasive characterization is of Malaitans, the Kwaio in particular, as violent, aggressive, and sometimes “heathen.” A third factor is the “island-based deprivation” brought about by regional disparities in resource availability and the suitability of land for plantation development (Bennett 1987, xvii). From the early contact period, Solomon Islanders were divided into haves and have-nots: those in the west, who were able to sell commodities produced on their own land, and those in the east, who had little choice but to leave their homes in order to sell their labor for far smaller returns. People from both Malaita and the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal fell into the latter category, initially selling their labor during the overseas labor trade period, then on the coconut plantations of the colonial economy, and, since World War II, in Honiara and the surrounding areas of north Guadalcanal. In the case of Malaitans, who have always provided the bulk of the workforce, there is an element of class consciousness in their representation of themselves vis-à-vis other Solomon Islanders and in their view of history. Further, for both Malaitans and Weather Coast people, isolation, neglect, and exploitation by colonial and postcolonial governments form a central part of their historical narratives. A fourth factor in the historical emergence of island- and regionwide identities is the process of resistance to successive waves of outside forces: traders and labor recruiters; the Christian missions; the plantation masters; the colonial administration; and, in postcolonial times, the central government. These forces have been evident in different ways in different places and have therefore tended to contribute to discourses of regional, as opposed to national, identity. Yet there are commonalities in the ways in which discourses of resistance have articulated with the politics of identity. On both the Weather Coast and Malaita, kastom—particularly the opposition of “kastom law” to “government law”—has been an important ideology of resistance. In both places we have also seen the notion of economic inequality invoked in the discourses of resistance. However, there have also been important differences. On Malaita, kastom was successfully employed during Maasina Rule to unite all Malaitans, Christian and non-Christian, whereas on Guadalcanal and on the Weather Coast in particular, there has been significant conflict between kastom and Christian ideologies, as evidenced during the late 1950s and early 1960s, when the influence of the Moro Movement was actively

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challenged by district headmen who had strong links with the Catholic Mission. These themes will be explored through an examination of hegemonic discourse and its legacy, economic history, and the micronationalist movements that emerged after World War II, first on Malaita and later on Guadalcanal. The history of Malaitan settlement on Guadalcanal and the increasingly vociferous Guale opposition to it are also described. I end the chapter with an examination of the emergence and nature of the Masta Liu youth subculture. The Naming and Mapping of the Islands The ethnic framing that pervaded media portrayals of the conflict in Solomon Islands tended to essentialize the two island identities in question, Malaita and Guadalcanal. Primordial, homogenous, and permanent qualities were ascribed to each identity; they were regarded as discrete and static entities that had existed for as long as people had occupied the islands. In reality, each island is ethnically diverse, and island-wide identities are “the product of recent colonial and post-colonial history and are much less certain than implied in the imagery of ethnic polarisation” (Dinnen 2002, 285).1 Prior to the advent of Europeans and other outsiders in Solomon Islands, as in other parts of Melanesia, individuals primarily identified with their clan or kin group and the lands that their ancestors had occupied. Identity was therefore extremely localized, and although bigmen were sometimes able to form temporary alliances with neighboring groups—usually for the purposes of punitive actions against other, more distant groups—there was certainly no sense of island-wide identity, at least not on the larger and more populous islands (Bennett 1987, 10– 16). In many ways, this pattern of primary identity continues to exist in the contemporary Melanesian context, particularly when local identities are juxtaposed against abstract notions of nationhood. According to Kabutaulaka: “For many Solomon Islanders, national consciousness is often only skin deep: peel that off and you have a person with allegiances to a particular ‘wantok’ or ethnic group” (2001, 14). Kabutaulaka’s statement calls to mind Anthony Smith’s concentric circles of ethnicity. In pre-contact times, a powerful big-man or (perhaps more commonly) a warrior-leader would have had to appeal to some sort of collective identity beyond that of his immediate kin group, perhaps

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bounded by the limits of his language group or dialect, in order to form raiding parties or head-hunting expeditions. For the duration of the warfare, the members of the alliance would obviously identify with their fellow warriors rather than the enemy, but at all times their primary loyalty would be to their immediate kin group. In different contexts, former allies could easily become new enemies (Bennett 1987, 15–16).2 The imperial rivalries of the late nineteenth century saw the carving up of Island Melanesia into arbitrarily assigned “spheres of influence.” This process resulted in the administrative separation of islands that had close cultural affinities and kinship ties—for example, the separation of Bougainville, which became part of German New Guinea, from the Shortlands, Choiseul, and New Georgia, which were included in the BSIP. It also resulted in the artificial conjoining of “previously unconnected, or indirectly connected, polities and social systems” (Dureau 1998, 198). In precolonial times the trade and exchange linkages between the eastern and western ends of the Solomons chain were extremely weak. Exchange routes were clustered at the northwest and southeast extremities of the chain, with only indirect linkages between them through the mediating areas of the Russell Islands and Isabel. Two largely isolated exchange complexes can be delineated: Malaita-Nggela-GuadalcanalMakira in the southeast and Choiseul-New Georgia-Shortlands in the northwest (Dureau 1998, 199–201). The divisions between these broadly defined eastern and western regions of the Solomons have magnified as a consequence of their differing experiences of early contact, missionization, pacification, and exposure to the world economy. Writing about New Georgian identity (and its broader referent of “the West”), Dureau describes how the distinct cultural histories of eastern and western Solomons provide a large number of differences that can be drawn upon in the oppositional construction of collective identity. In the case of New Georgian and Western identity, it is Malaitans—and the non-Christian (“pagan”) Kwaio in particular—who have been represented as the iconic “Other.” Dureau concludes that the legacy of arbitrary colonial line drawing has been its provision of “oppositional others for the expression of post-colonial regional discontent within states” (1998, 219). Colonial line drawing has also impacted on identity formation in the sense that the imposed boundaries delineated not only colonies, but also the administrative units within them. In the case of Solomon Islands, individual islands, such as Malaita, and clusters of islands, such as Choiseul, Shortlands, and New Georgia, became districts within the

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administrative structure of the Protectorate. Throughout the contemporary Pacific, the “units” for which common cultural identities are being proclaimed are in fact colonial constructs: “What in precolonial times were politically fragmented and culturally and linguistically diverse communities, divided by warfare and raiding, became administrative units of the colonial state. These units—such as Western Solomons and Malaita provinces (of the Solomon Islands)—have become units locked in struggle for resources and political power in postcolonial states. . . . The convenient administrative and economic fictions of the colonial state have become realities” (Keesing 1989, 26). Hegemonic Discourse and Its Legacy Scholars of identity politics on Bougainville have described how missionary and colonial discourses—in particular the dichotomy of “backward” and “progressive”—came to be adopted by Bougainvilleans in their perceptions of themselves and other Papua New Guineans (Nash and Ogan 1990). This perception formed an important basis of a Bougainvillean identity, providing the means with which Bougainvilleans could distinguish themselves from “other” Papua New Guineans in general and Highlanders (the “redskins”) in particular. A similar process has occurred in Solomon Islands and indeed in many parts of the postcolonial world. According to Keesing, writing with regard to counterhegemonic discourse but with equal relevance to “internal” identity politics, “Gramsci’s general argument may be illustrated for the Pacific: counterhegemonic discourse pervasively incorporates the structures, categories, and premises of hegemonic discourse. . . . The Manichean conceptual structures of missionary discourse—dualities of Christian light and heathen darkness, God and the Devil, good and evil, white and black—have a continuing impress on Pacific thought, even in countercolonial discourse” (1989, 22–23). The classic example in the case of Solomon Islands has been the persistent portrayal of Malaitans, by other groups in the Solomons and by some Malaitans themselves, as violent, aggressive, and sometimes “heathen.” As noted above, Malaitans, and the iconic Kwaio, are presented as the oppositional “Other” in New Georgian and Western discourses of identity. At the most extreme, New Georgians represent “Malaita” and the minority Kwaio “pagans” as one and the same, such that Malaitan violence and heathenism is contrasted against New Georgian peacefulness and Christianity (Dureau 1998, 206). Moreover, Dureau argues that it

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is likely that New Georgians have “appropriated European depictions of Malaitan barbarity, which have prevailed since their ships first entered Solomon waters” (1998, 215). The timing and spatial distribution of pacification and conversion to Christianity were important factors in the development among Solomon Islanders of perceptions of Malaitan violence and backwardness. Pacification proceeded at different rates in different places at different times (Bennett 1987, 103–124). The initial focus was on areas that had flat coastal land suitable for plantation development, particularly in the New Georgia Islands and on northern Guadalcanal.3 In this manner, large areas of the New Georgia group were pacified by around 1900, and the Methodist and Seventh-day Adventist missions (at Munda and Marovo respectively) rapidly converted New Georgians to Christianity (Dureau 1998, 209). Similarly, on northwest Guadalcanal peace had been enforced by 1910, and while the conversion claims of the Roman Catholic (Marist) and Anglican (Melanesian) missions, which had been in the area since the turn of the century, were exaggerated, Christianity had started to make inroads by that time (Bathgate 1985, 89–90). The Melanesian Mission had also established a following on the northeast plains of Guadalcanal by the first decade of the twentieth century. Aside from ad hoc retaliatory raids, areas that were of little economic interest, or were too difficult for the missionaries to access, were not pacified until much later. Such was the case with both Malaita and Choiseul, where it was not until the late 1920s and early 1930s that the government, with much assistance from the Roman Catholic and Methodist missions in the case of Choiseul, began to assert control (Bennett 1987, 122–123). Thus, while parts of the West and northern Guadalcanal had been pacified early in the twentieth century, the stories emanating from Malaita at the time were of violence and “paganism.” Feuding had intensified on Malaita with the advent of iron and guns, making it difficult for prospective traders or planters to establish operations. By 1911, the year in which a South Sea Evangelical Mission (SSEM) missionary was killed by two Kwaio men, only a small coastal strip on the north coast had been “pacified,” and the few Christian enclaves in coastal areas were under constant threat of attack (Bennett 1987, 121; Keesing 1982a, 358). Moreover, Malaitans had developed a reputation for their “treacherous” attacks on recruiting ships from the 1870s onward (Keesing 1992, 34). These attacks were motivated by the need to avenge the loss of recruits who never returned, for whom blood bounties were put up, and also by loot in the form of trade goods that could be obtained in plundering the

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ships.4 The attacks on the Borealis (1880) and the Jane Stewart (1882) resulted in the deaths of five and six Europeans respectively (and probably many more non-European crew members and recruits who had already joined the ships) (Corris 1973, 33). It is likely that the perception of Malaitan violence among Solomon Islands Westerners, and possibly other Solomon Islanders, was informed by the Binskin affair of 1909 (Dureau 1998, 211). Joseph Binskin was a trader whose wife and children were killed by a warrior named Sito from the island of Vella Lavella in the New Georgia group of western Solomons. This move was in retaliation for a mishandled attempt by the local district officer to capture Sito, which had resulted in the death of Sito’s wife and children. The administration reacted to the killing of Binskin’s family by sending a retaliatory force of “government officers, revengecrazed traders and undisciplined Malaita militia who swept over Vella Lavella in a random wave of killing and destruction” (Bennett 1987, 108). These memories were invoked by the Western Breakaway Movement shortly before Independence in 1978 in the context of Western anxieties about joining an independent country dominated by Malaitans (Premdas, Steeves, and Larmour 1984; Dureau 1998, 211). The important point here is not that Malaitans were inherently more violent than other Solomon Islanders (see Kabutaulaka 2001 for a critique of “the myth of Malaitan aggressiveness”) but rather that stories of Malaitan violence and heathenism would have been circulating around the islands at a time when large numbers of other Solomon Islanders had abandoned head-hunting, raiding, and other forms of warfare and embraced Christianity. These stories, perhaps in combination with firsthand experiences of Malaitans gained during the “blackbirding” era (when Solomon Islanders were recruited to work on overseas plantations) and in the early years of the domestic plantation economy, most likely informed the ambivalence toward Malaitans that was being expressed by people in northern Guadalcanal as early as the first decade of the twentieth century.5 On the northeast plains, for example, people refused to sell their land to the Burns Philp company for plantation development in 1908, fearing “an influx of Malaitan plantation laborers” (Bennett 1987, 135).6 Similarly, in northwest Guadalcanal, there was “deep distrust” expressed by local men toward the Kwaio and To’abaita laborers who came to work on the plantations that were established in the area from around 1910 (Bathgate 1985, 91). Malaitans continued to be represented as violent and “heathen” in subsequent colonial discourse. Keesing provides an example of two descriptions of the Kwaio, the first by a district officer and the second,

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twenty years later in 1967, by a young Solomon Islander working in the colonial administration. He argues that both passages illustrate “the pattern of ascribing to the Kwaio both primitive ignorance and savagery, on the one hand, and childlike credulity towards millenarian cultism on the other; it is a pattern which has been handed down from the colonial masters to their neo-colonial protégés” (Keesing 1982a, 366). One wonders to what extent Keesing’s own extensive writings about the Kwaio have contributed to their continued portrayal as violent “pagans,” characteristics that are often imputed to all Malaitans by other Solomon Islanders. This issue is discussed by Kabutaulaka (2001), who highlights the role of Western academic discourse in the creation of the myth of Malaitan aggressiveness. He points in particular to the Bell massacre of 1927—when a force of Kwaio warriors killed District Officer Bell, his European cadet, and thirteen Malaitan police during a tax-collecting mission—and he argues that the massacre has been fetishized in anthropological and historical writing, particularly in the book Lightning Meets the West Wind: The Malaita Massacre (Keesing and Corris 1980). This incident was introduced into the school curriculum and therefore into public history, but other violent incidents elsewhere in the country, such as the murder of a police patrol by Mbirao bushmen on Guadalcanal in the same year, have been largely ignored due to their failure to pique “Western anthropological and historical curiosity” (Kabutaulaka 2001, 12). Keesing’s and Corris’s (1980) description of the devastating punitive response to the killing of Bell and his party provides a sobering insight into the punitive expedition, which, in the early decades of colonial rule, was “the main means by which the government sought to extend its control” (Bennett 1993, 131). Two weeks after the killing, a large expeditionary force consisting of Australian soldiers, white civilians, and Malaitan police and volunteers (mostly from north Malaita) arrived in Kwaio. While the white men struggled in the difficult terrain, the Malaitans engaged in an orgy of violence and destruction, including the gang-raping of women and girls and the killing of children and prisoners. According to Keesing and Corris, “The order of the day was people hunting. . . . Whatever the orders they received from above, their mission was to avenge Bell and, most of all, their own slain relatives” (1980, 166). The actions of the punitive expedition formed the basis of a number of compensation claims submitted to both the Solomon Islands and British governments in the early 1980s (see Akin 1999; Fifi’i 1989; Keesing 1992). Some of these claims were massively overinflated, with the most extreme and widely publicized example being a claim for over SI$300 billion in 1984 (Akin 1999, 41–43; Keesing 1992, 161).

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Haves and Have-Nots: Pre–World War II Economic History The economic history of the Solomons between around 1860 and 1940 is important in a number of ways to the processes of identity formation discussed here. The socioeconomic cleavages among islands and regions that began in the late contact period were reinforced during the early colonial period and have had an important bearing on identity politics since World War II. The most important aspect of this history is the labor migration of Malaitans and Weather Coast people, initially during the overseas labor trade era and later in the prewar plantation economy. The plantations threw people from different places together in increasing numbers and in differing roles, providing a rich milieu for “us” and “them” identity politics. The history of labor migration also engendered among Solomon Islanders a sense of island- and regional-level resource disparity, the perception that some islands and regions were better or worse off than others. In this manner, economic history contributed to the discourses of resistance seen in Maasina Rule and the Moro Movement. Finally, while labor migration has continued to be driven by the “time-honored strategy of moving from a poor area to a rich one” (Connell 2003, 55), its ongoing significance in the case of Malaita is also partly to do with its cultural importance, the fact that temporary labor migration, or “circulation,” has been, since the 1890s, a rite of passage for young men (Keesing and Corris 1980, 12; also see Frazer 1981, 1985a, 1985b). Generally speaking, people living in the eastern Solomons, particularly those in the interiors of the big islands, were isolated from direct contact with the European traders who took up residence in the islands from around the 1860s.7 Moreover, they possessed few of the commodities in which the traders were interested, such as bêche-de-mer, goldlip shell, pearlshell, ivory nuts, tortoiseshell, and copra. However, despite their isolation, these communities were keen to obtain the new goods that the Europeans could provide, particularly steel tools, guns, and tobacco. “But some, especially in the eastern Solomons, were disadvantaged because their natural resources were scant or because they were remote from direct contact with traders. So anxious were many of these for the new goods that they traded years of their labor, the only commodity they had that the white man wanted” (Bennett 1987, 78). Of the thirty thousand Solomon Islanders who were recruited between 1870 and 1910 to work on the sugarcane plantations of Queensland, Fiji, and Samoa and on the farms and in the nickel mines of New Caledonia, more than 50 percent were from Malaita (Corris 1973;

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Price with Baker 1976, 2). Some Malaitans were kidnapped, or “blackbirded,” during the early years of the labor trade, but blackbirding soon gave way to voluntary recruiting as the demand for metal tools and Snider rifles increased (Corris 1973; Keesing 1992, 33; Moore 1985; also see Bennett 1987, 83). Although the recruits were generally young men, it was the big-men and chiefs who profited most handsomely from the labor trade, collecting not only the initial upfront payment for each recruit (known as the beach payment), but much of what was brought back as well (Bennett 1987, 86; 1993, 169–170; Keesing 1992, 33). In the early years of the labor trade most of the recruits came from coastal areas. By the 1890s, the majority of recruits were coming from inland “bush” areas, with coastal big-men acting as passage masters and claiming “a toll of goods” (Bennett 1987, 87). Returned migrants distributed trade goods and cash to their male clan members in accordance with relationships of obligation and reciprocity. Such distributions created further internal societal pressures for labor migration that continued and probably intensified after the end of the blackbirding era in the early 1900s, when plantations in parts of the Solomons became the new focus of labor migration (Bennett 1987, 168; Corris 1973, 59). Even as early as the 1890s, going away to work on a plantation had become a normal, if not expected, part of life for young men from Malaita. According to Corris, “By the 1890s labor recruiting had become an initiation of a sort, an experience which a young man needed to go through in order to be considered a sophisticate” (1973, 54; also see Keesing and Corris 1980, 12). The development of coconut plantations in areas with suitable environments, notably in the West and on the north and east coasts of Guadalcanal, commenced in the first decade of the twentieth century, roughly coinciding with the end of the international labor trade.8 Significant areas of land were alienated for these purposes—an estimated 463,425 acres by the eve of World War I, representing around 5 percent of the total land area and a much larger proportion of the accessible coastal land suitable for plantation development (Bennett 1987, 125– 149).9 Large swaths of the north and east coasts of Guadalcanal, as well as significant areas in the West and in other places such as the Russell Islands, were alienated in this manner. In a continuation of the geographical patterns of opportunity and inequality that had commenced in the mid-nineteenth century, people from areas that were unsuitable for plantation development and that offered minimal prospects for small-scale cash-cropping had only one option for participating in the new economy: to temporarily leave their

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homes in order to sell their labor on the plantations (Bennett 1987, 167–191). The islands of Malaita, Guadalcanal, and Makira provided 68, 16, and 6 percent of plantation labor respectively over the period 1913–1940 (Bennett 1987, 168). Most of the laborers from Guadalcanal originated from the Weather Coast because people on the north and east coasts of Guadalcanal would have been producing and selling their own copra (Bathgate 1973a, 14; Bennett 1987, 189).10 By the 1920s about six thousand men, mostly from Malaita, were under plantation labor contracts in any given year (Bennett 1987, 163). In 1931, around 22 percent of adult Malaitan men were engaged in wage labor outside of Malaita, mostly on expatriate-owned coconut plantations (Bathgate 1973a, 14). The wages offered in the indentured labor system of the local plantation economy were far less attractive than those that had been paid in the Queensland labor trade. The latter trade had also provided “fuller access to the pleasures of the white man’s world” (Laracy 1983, 9). As a consequence, Malaitans were expressing a degree of ambivalence toward working on the domestic plantations, and the administration responded to the threat of labor shortages by introducing an annual head tax over the period 1921–1923 (Bennett 1987, 160–164; 1993, 135; Laracy 1983, 9–11). The combination of the head tax, a government-imposed wage increase, ongoing pressure from lineages for whom the labor trade provided their only access to money and trade goods, and the importance of migration as a rite of passage for young men ensured the continuation of labor migration, though not at the levels that the European planters would have liked. Plantation life provided a rich environment for the formation of identities that stretched beyond the boundaries of kin groups, dialects, and languages, instead having islands and regions as their wider referents. It also contributed to “the development and spread of political ideas among Islanders who shared anger at the colonial system” (Akin forthcoming, 159). For Malaitans the plantation experience enabled men from different parts of the island to realize that they shared many cultural and religious concepts and practices (Bennett 1987, 190; 1993, 145). This realization was greatly enhanced by the emergence of Pijin as a lingua franca that enabled men from different language groups on Malaita to communicate with one another.11 Moreover, Malaitans were frequently at odds with the European planters, whom they strongly resented. This resentment contributed to a sense of Malaitan solidarity: “In their [the plantation laborers’] conflicts with management it provided a milieu for the emergence of regional and sometimes island-based solidarity among the men, most markedly for Malaitans who made up

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almost two-thirds of the workforce (Bennett 2002, 4; also see Akin forthcoming, 159–160). Malaitans were also frequently at odds with laborers from other islands and with the landowning communities of the West and north Guadalcanal, where the plantations were located (Bennett 1987, 173; 1993, 145–146; Dureau 1998, 210). Their sheer weight of numbers, along with the frequent offenses against Malaitan female pollution and swearing norms and the cultural importance of vengeance, meant that “[at] the center of every dispute was a Malaitan” (Bennett 1987, 173). Stories of Malaitans stealing from food gardens, “sneaking” on local girls, and “beating up” local boys are still told in New Georgia, where they contribute to “the litany of Malaitan violence so constantly cited in New Georgia” (Dureau 1998, 210). Fights would frequently break out as a consequence of Malaitans imposing “their values on laborers from other islands,” particularly in cases where compensation was demanded for affronts against these values (Bennett 1987, 173). Moreover, although there was interaction, there was also separation. The plantations were physically separate from the surrounding villages, and the laborers themselves were housed with men from the same island and tended not to interact much with other island groups (Bennett 1987, 191). The separation of, and limited interaction among, men from different island groups militated against the emergence of a class consciousness that transcended island and regional boundaries. However, a sense of economic inequality did become an important force, or ideology, in the discourses of unity and resistance that characterized micronationalist movements such as Maasina Rule and the Moro Movement, and in this sense there was an important nexus between a weaker version of class and ethnicity.12 Dureau argues that New Georgian ambivalence toward “the East,” always represented as Malaita, probably commenced with the Binskin affair and was perpetuated by both the contact and the separation of the plantation experience. It is likely that similar processes would have been at play on north Guadalcanal, where, as noted above, local people were expressing ambivalence toward the presence, real or potential, of Malaitan plantation laborers from as early as 1908. As was the case with Bougainvilleans’ perceptions of other Papua New Guineans, other Solomon Islanders’ perceptions of Malaitans were also influenced by the division of labor on the plantations. Non-Christians from the mountainous inland of Malaita did most of the hardest and least enjoyable work, and although highly regarded as good workers by the European planters, they held the lowest status among their

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peers.13 This division of labor informed perceptions of self and others: “Other Solomon Islanders, while they knew Malaitans were the best workers, perceived them as unpredictable, rough ‘bushmen.’ To retain some of their own dignity many Malaitans made a virtue of necessity, glorying in their reputation and acting far more aggressively than they would have at home” (Bennett 1987, 187; also see Kabutaulaka 2001, 12, and Keesing 1989, 28). The prewar plantations played host to nascent forms of resistance that were later to become more organized, widespread, and overtly political. Evoking James C. Scott’s (1985) notion of the “weapons of the weak,” Bennett describes the “everyday forms of resistance” that increasingly came to characterize the interface between plantation laborers and their European masters (Bennett 1993). Initially and throughout the period 1900–1942, the most common form of resistance was physical violence against the masters and overseers, who frequently meted out abuse and beatings and, occasionally, death upon the laborers. Other forms of resistance waxed and waned in frequency and occurrence: desertion, boycotts, the burning of copra driers, and sophisticated manipulations of contractual and criminal law. These sporadic forms of resistance were punctuated by more concerted bursts of opposition in response to changes to wages and taxation policy and broader economic developments (see below). However, resistance to the demands of the plantation system had always “extended beyond those boundaries into broader relationships between, on one hand, the government and capitalists and, on the other, eastern Solomon Islands societies” (Bennett 1993, 171). Post–World War II Micronationalism: Maasina Rule and the Moro Movement Developments before the War The decade immediately prior to the invasion of Solomon Islands by Japanese military forces in early 1942 was characterized by the increasing expression of resistance to European hegemony by Solomon Islanders in different parts of the Protectorate (Akin forthcoming; Laracy 1983, 13– 14). To some extent the resistance was precipitated by the Great Depression, which saw a dramatic fall in the price of copra. Generally speaking, the effects of the Depression were felt more strongly in the eastern islands, where people had fewer alternative sources of income. However, people everywhere found it increasingly difficult to pay the annual head tax (despite its having been reduced in some areas), even more so follow-

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ing the government’s halving of the adult wage for indentured labor and the advance wage—which had partly replaced the beach payment—in 1934 (Akin forthcoming, 150–159; Bennett 1987, 241–252; 1993, 158). In the New Georgia group, widespread disaffection with the head tax was channeled through the popular Methodist missionary Reverend John Goldie. Protest intensified in 1934 following the imprisonment of thirty-eight tax defaulters, all Methodists or Adventists. The dissent culminated in November 1934, when six hundred people from all over the New Georgia group gathered in Gizo to register their protests to the district officer (Bennett 1987, 247). The tax “revolt” could be said to have succeeded because thereafter the government demonstrated “more compassion in granting exemptions” (Bennett 1987, 248). On northwest Guadalcanal, the people of Tangarare boycotted the Catholic Mission between 1933 and 1936. Local leaders who were arrested for causing a disturbance during the boycott later refused to pay the head tax in 1935. These events prompted the local district officer to remark that “the native is growing up very fast . . . is thinking for himself and is critical alike of government and the mission” (cited in Laracy 1983, 13). The most substantial prewar expression of this emerging political consciousness and resistance to colonial authority occurred on Isabel and Nggela under the influence of Anglican missionary Richard Fal­lowes. Opposed to the administration’s bias toward the interests of white settlers at the expense of those of Solomon Islanders, Fallowes intended to establish a pan-Solomons “native parliament.” His movement gathered a reasonably large following as a result of a series of three meetings convened in the first half of 1939. These meetings were attended by people from Malaita, the Russell Islands, Guadalcanal, Makira, Savo, Nggela, and Isabel (Bennett 1987, 261). The meetings generated a number of petitions to the government outlining a variety of grievances. The main petition, which was given to the high commissioner, was produced by John Pidoke of Nggela. The petition stated: “We have only been taught the gospel, but nothing yet about trade or commerce. . . . Here in the islands wages and prices are very small, not enough for taxes and Church collections” (cited in Bennett 1987, 241). The petition made a range of requests, including the establishment of a technical school, improved medical services, the public posting of the Sydney copra and shell prices, special financial assistance for Malaitans, and higher wages (Bennett 1987, 261). The administration reacted by deporting Fallowes and ignoring the various petitions of the Chair and Rule Movement, as it came to be known.

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Writers such as Colin Allan (1950) and Peter Worsley (1970) characterized the Chair and Rule Movement as primarily confrontationist in nature, while other academic writers portrayed it as mystical, cultic, and violent (discussed in Akin forthcoming, 165–166). However, Joan Herlihy makes the important point that the movement was essentially cooperative rather than confrontationist and that by suppressing it, the colonial government “destroyed the only serious chance it had of a ‘partnership’ with the islanders, and fuelled the anti-British, anti-government sentiment which emerged when the principles of the movement were refurbished as Marching Rule [Maasina Rule] after World War II” (1981, 165).14 The Fallowes movement’s greatest significance is that “for the first time large numbers from across the Protectorate gathered formally to express shared grievances and ideas for change, and, most importantly, to attempt inter-island organization” (Akin forthcoming, 166). There had also been rumblings of resistance on Malaita in the years leading up to the war. Indeed, government taxation was more strongly resented in the eastern Solomons because people were poorer and had greater difficulty meeting the payments (Akin forthcoming, 150–158; Bennett 1987, 265–278). Such was even more so the case after the government halved wages in 1934.15 The grievance with the government was not only about having to pay a tax with hard-earned plantation wages. People in the eastern Solomons, and in Malaita in particular, resented the fact that the government gave them nothing in return for their taxes. These grievances found purchase in a movement that originated in the Kwaio bush, where the powerful female ancestral spirit La’aka made revelations through the medium of a priest named Noto’i in 1939 (Akin forthcoming, 168–181). La’aka revealed that “American warships and troops would shortly arrive and would kill all Government officials” (District Officer Charles Bengough quoted in Akin forthcoming, 168).16 Akin’s recent reassessment of the movement, based on interviews conducted with Kwaio people who had firsthand experience of it, stresses that it was not solely driven by rumors of impending war but involved more complex factors, including deep anger at the government, the Christian missions, and the mistreatment of laborers on the plantations. Moreover, people from only two areas of Kwaio were involved in the movement, not the large proportion of the Kwaio inland population that was claimed at the time by the district officer and subsequently by other writers. The Fallowes and La’aka movements caused the government to become increasingly concerned about the prospects for organized resistance and open revolt. Colonial administrators were particularly worried

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about the potential for social disintegration as a consequence of the erosion of “customary law” and the weakening of traditional leadership. The administration therefore intensified efforts to establish “native courts” and “native councils”—in effect a form of native administration or indirect rule—an agenda that had commenced in the early 1930s (see Akin forthcoming, 96–111). By the eve of the war, these bodies were presiding over matters of “native custom” in sub-districts in many parts of the country but were still under the control of the government through the formal involvement of district headmen and other local-level officials (Bennett 1987, 280–282). The War and Identity Politics Eventually, of course, the Americans did come, in late 1942, when they invaded Tulagi and Guadalcanal, forcing Japanese forces to withdraw to Munda and Kolombangara. An Allied offensive in June 1943 liberated most of the western Solomons, and by 1944 the Solomons were largely free of the Japanese. The Americans kept their large base on Guadalcanal for the remainder of the war, using it as a staging point for the Allied push north. The war made a very strong impression on Solomon Islanders and precipitated a reevaluation of their relationship with their colonial masters. Many of the Solomon Islanders who joined the Solomon Islands Labour Corps (SILC) and the Solomon Islands Defence Force came into close contact with American troops, as did the villagers who lived near the Americans’ camps.17 This contact enabled Solomon Islanders to see the relative equality afforded to African American soldiers, who drank alcohol and ate the same food, wore the same clothes, and attended the same church services as the white soldiers (Bennett 1987, 292; Fifi’i and Akin, 1988; Laracy 1983, 16; Lindstrom and White 1989; 1990, 27–29). They also learned that the Americans had once had to fight a war to obtain their freedom from Britain. Above all Solomon Islanders were impressed with the generosity of the Americans and their willingness to engage in social interaction, an approach that stood in stark contrast to their parsimonious treatment at the hands of colonial officers and European planters and traders (Fifi’i and Akin 1988; Lindstrom and White 1989; 1990, 13–33, 129–144; Ngwadili et al. 1988). The pro-American and anti-British sentiment was intensified at the end of the war when British planters, most of whom had abandoned their laborers in the face of the invading Japanese and had subsequently become officers in the SILC, confiscated or destroyed

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the goods that the Americans had given to members of the SILC (Bennett 1987, 292; Fifi’i and Akin 1988, 225; Lindstrom and White 1989, 11–13). The war also reinforced some prewar ethnic stereotypes while unsettling or inverting others. In a direct continuation of their historical role as the plantation workers of the Solomons, Malaitans comprised the bulk of the SILC, with men from south Guadalcanal and Makira making up most of the remainder, and Malaitans also contributed significantly to the Solomon Islands Defence Force (Bennett 1993, 162–163; 2009, 136, 140). On north Malaita, 90 percent of able-bodied men were recruited to the SILC, a situation that placed severe pressure on the subsistence food supply (Bennett 1993, 163; 2009, 140). With these roles also came a continuation of earlier stereotyping, as Malaitans found themselves described by some American soldiers as “exceedingly ingenious and very aggressive” and by Fijian soldiers as “stupid little savages” (Bennett 2009, 31–32, 153; also see Bennett 1993). Other stereotypes, however, were challenged by some of the experiences and events of the war. In defiance of the common characterization of Guales as lazy and unproductive, the only Solomon Islander to be recognized by Europeans as a hero was a north Guadalcanal man, Sergeant Major Jacob Vouza.18 Similarly, it was a group of sixty-eight men from among the supposedly “civilized,” peace-loving Westerners who, under the leadership of Donald Kennedy, formed an effective guerrilla force, recognized as such by the Allies (Bennett 2009, 136, 153; Boutilier 1989). Notwithstanding the effects of wartime involvement on images of particular ethnic groups, for many Solomon Islanders the experience of the war became a source of self-respect, solidarity, pride, and identity and directly contributed to postwar political developments (Lindstrom and White 1989, 20–21, 28–39; 1990, 1–2; White et al. 1988a). Maasina Rule In the wake of these wartime experiences and in the administrative vacuum produced by the war emerged Maasina Rule, described by Keesing as “one of the most remarkable Melanesian politico-religious movements” (1982a, 359).19 Founded by two ’Are’are men who were members of the SILC during the war, Nori (Andrew Nori’s father) and Nono’oohimae, the movement unified Malaitans to present a united front in their dealings with the colonial government. In a recent reevaluation of the movement that corrects a number of errors of fact and interpretation stemming from the overreliance by earlier writers on official colonial sources, Da-

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vid Akin emphasizes the fundamentally political goals and objectives of Maasina Rule. While acknowledging that the movement’s followers had multiple and diverse goals that changed over time and from place to place, Akin describes Malaitans’ two basic sets of objectives at the start of the movement as follows: “The first was to reject the low status and position Europeans imposed upon them and end unwanted government interference in their lives; the second was to reorganize their societies and work for social change and development in harmony with Malaitan sensibilities” (forthcoming, 500). Key issues for negotiation with the colonial government were the recommencement of the prewar program of instituting native councils and courts but with popularly rather than government-appointed leaders; the establishment of a Malaita-wide council, again under popular leadership; the codification of kastom law and the corollary establishment of local kastom law courts;20 and improvements in the terms of plantation employment (Akin forthcoming; Bennett 1987, 292–298; Burt 1994, 175–201; Keesing 1982a, 359; Laracy 1983, 17–35). The movement was also concerned with reorganization of the settlement pattern; community work; political organization in hierarchies of chiefs; and the recording of genealogies, shrines, and land boundaries. The movement rapidly expanded throughout Malaita, eventually claiming an estimated 96 percent of Malaitans as members (Keesing 1982a, 359). In their first “order for the island,” issued in December 1945, the movement’s leaders forbade Malaitans from engaging in plantation employment on other islands, urging them instead to work for the development of Malaita (Laracy 1983, 21). A head tax of £1 on adult males was introduced, and by early 1946 people had started to establish large coastal settlements where they were eventually to be engaged in communal gardening and cash-cropping. The movement also set about codifying kastom law (see below), documenting genealogies, and establishing courts presided over by experts in local kastom law. By this time Maasina Rule had begun to spread to the neighboring islands of Guadalcanal, Nggela, Isabel, and Makira. The government’s response to Maasina Rule shifted over time, in part reflecting the differing approaches and orientations of successive colonial officers with responsibilities for Malaita over the course of the movement. Early recognition by colonial officers of common ground with the movement, and corollary efforts to work with its leaders, gave way, from around mid-1947, to a policy of suppression and eradication. Operation Delouse, launched in August 1947, targeted Maasina Rule’s leaders, informed as it was by the erroneous belief that the movement

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was a product of “sinister chiefs oppressing a clueless and helpless people” (Akin forthcoming, 502).21 Arrests of the leaders, and the underlying failure to comprehend the extent of Maasina Rule’s popular support base, sparked an island-wide popular revolt, to which the government reacted with sustained mass arrests over a period of several years. By mid-1949, well over three thousand men had been arrested and jailed on Malaita alone, with many more arrested on other islands, particularly Makira. While the sheer scale of these arrests crippled the movement’s agenda for social transformation, its followers continued to pursue their objectives of resisting government interference in their affairs and avoiding a return to subjugation by Europeans (Akin forthcoming, 502). Akin’s book provides a corrective to the view, originating in colonial government propaganda, that the government’s steadfast refusal to negotiate or compromise with Maasina Rule eventually led to a weakening of the movement in the early 1950s, which the government seized upon by releasing the leaders who had been jailed in 1947. To the contrary, Akin demonstrates that it was the resolve of Malaitans, most of whom rejected the conciliatory approach advocated by the released leaders and continued to resist government control, that forced a series of concessions on the part of the government in 1952, culminating in 1953 with the formal inauguration of a new Malaita Council, over which Malaitans had significant de facto control. The legacy of Maasina Rule’s success in resisting the government and ultimately forcing concessions from it has important implications for the themes of the present book, especially when we consider the contemporary influence of the movement on the thinking of young Malaitan men. According to Akin, “During those years [of suppression] Maasina Rule’s political ideology congealed as an integral feature of rural Malaitans’ worldviews, particularly the refusal to surrender autonomy and direction of their affairs to the state and its laws, programs, and ‘foreign’ ways of thinking. Many young people have told me that they still follow this creed because, ‘It is what our fathers taught us,’ often accompanied by descriptions of dangers that government presents to society” (Akin forthcoming, 520).22 One of the most striking aspects of Maasina Rule was its creation of an “ideological consensus” that overcame Malaita’s social and political fragmentation and bitter religious rivalries, especially between Christians (who at the start of the movement accounted for between onethird and one-half of the island’s population) and those who followed ancestral religions (Bennett 1987, 309; also see Akin forthcoming and

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Laracy 1983). The consensus engendered by Maasina Rule was based on two main factors, kastom and class (or, more accurately, the weaker version thereof). Acknowledging regional variations in its expression, Keesing argued that kastom was the primary symbol of Malaitan unity in the anticolonial struggle (1982a, 371). This interpretation of kastom as an ideology of unity is further developed and extended in Akin’s recent study. He argues that while Maasina Rule initially framed kastom as “Malaitan ways of doing things” (and notes that kastom has continued to be invoked in this context—as a common Malaitan “outlook”), it was quickly imbued with other meanings that were overtly political in nature: autonomy, self-determination, and freedom from government interference (forthcoming, 325–326, 517–519). It is here that the meaning of kastom comes to bear least semblance to the English terms “custom,” “tradition,” and “culture.” Indeed, as Akin demonstrates, even Maasina Rule’s program of codifying kastom law drew selectively from both old and new rules, including many derived from Christian doctrine and government law. Moreover, the codification of kastom represented an appropriation of what colonial officers had been referring to as “native custom” (which, to be legitimate in their view, had to be pre-European in origin) and, most important, the entire project of codifying such “native custom.” A critical dimension of the political agency at the heart of Maasina Rule was the act of commandeering the government’s prewar agenda to establish native courts and councils based on the codification of native custom. Malaitans seized control of “custom”—which they recast as kastom—and shaped it into “a label for the entire Maasina Rule project and its ideology, including eventually people’s refusal of European rule, at least on its old terms” (Akin forthcoming, 31–32). Scholars have also highlighted class consciousness as an important source of collective identity and as an ideology of resistance during Maasina Rule (Akin forthcoming, 151; Frazer 1990). As noted above in this chapter, the industrial structure of the plantation economy militated against the formation of a pan-Solomons or pan-eastern-Solomons class consciousness. However, we have also seen that on Malaita the long history of hard labor on the plantations, both in the Solomons and overseas, gave rise to a collective sense of economic disadvantage and exploitation vis-à-vis Europeans and other Solomon Islanders. Following Frazer’s analysis of Maasina Rule, we can discern an “industrial consciousness” both in the movement’s challenges to the inequities of the plantation economy and in the ways those challenges were expressed— for example, through the use of boycotts and collective negotiation.

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The Moro Movement Other movements, which can only be briefly noted here, emerged in the postwar period. One was Matthew Belamataga’s Society for the Development of Native Races, which was active on northwest Guadalcanal from 1947; another was Silas Eto’s Christian Fellowship Church in New Georgia, which broke away from the Methodist Church in 1954 (Bennett 1987, 299–301). Belamataga’s movement, which was ideologically based on the UN Declaration of Human Rights, sought improvements in economic development and education and, like Maasina Rule, the codification of kastom law and the establishment of kastom courts. The Christian Fellowship Church was mostly motivated by the “quest of recognition and self-expression” rather than by any explicit economic goals (Bennett 1987, 301; cf. Hviding 2011). Both leaders were charged with sedition and imprisoned. The emergence of the Moro Movement in the late 1950s, named after its founder, Pelise Moro, of Makaruka on the Weather Coast, was directly linked to Maasina Rule and the associated politics surrounding the formation of the Guadalcanal Council in 1953 (Bennett 1987, 316– 317; Davenport and Çoker 1967; Kabutaulaka 2002b, 60–61). Maasina Rule was transmitted to southeast Guadalcanal via the ’Are’are speakers of Marau Sound. From Marau, Maasina Rule spread west along the Weather Coast, where its influence continued to be felt even after the movement had ended. As preparations for the Guadalcanal Council were being finalized in 1953, ambivalence toward it from people in Marau, whose allegiance was to the new Malaita Council, began to intensify. The Marau dissenters were joined by Maasina Rule supporters from the Veuru Moli sub-district some thirty-two kilometers west along the Weather Coast. After submitting a formal request to the government and subsequent surveying and polling by government officers, the Marau and Veuru Moli peoples formed an independent council in 1956 known as the Marau-Hauba Council. Tensions quickly emerged between the two “ethnic factions” of the Marau-Hauba Council, resulting in the establishment of two separate courts in December 1956 (Davenport and Çoker 1967, 132). The Moro Movement emerged in the context of local disaffection with both the Marau-Habau Council, which was perceived as being dominated by ’Are’are speakers, and the central government (Bennett 1987, 316). In early 1957, Moro, whose teachings were derived from a vision he had experienced during a severe illness, began disseminating his ideas of a return to “custom” and self-sufficiency.23 His teachings quickly spread

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westward along the coast, up into the interior valleys, and over the mountains to the other side of the island. The growing political influence of the movement led to the disintegration of the Marau-Habau Council in late 1957. In the early days of the Moro Movement, it was met with strong opposition from local men who were associated with the Catholic Church and the colonial administration, including Avu Avu district headman Dominiko Alebua (Ezekiel Alebua’s father). According to Kabutaulaka (Dominiko’s grandson), “For Dominiko, Moro was a relative whose rise to prominence at Tasimauri and the rest of Guadalcanal overstepped the ideological boundaries of the continuing struggle for power set by church, colonial government and traditional Tasimauri big-man politics” (2002b, 60). Small pockets of resistance to the Moro Movement were established, but attempts to eradicate it entirely were unsuccessful. It is estimated that by 1964 the Moro Movement “was exerting a strong influence” over half the area of Guadalcanal, claiming a membership of between three and four thousand adults (out of a total population of twenty-two thousand people of all ages) (Davenport and Çoker 1967, 132). Bennett observes that Moro’s platform and grievances were similar to those of Fallowes’s Chair and Rule Movement (1987, 316). The similarity is particularly evident in the wording of Moro’s speech to the acting high commissioner for the Western Pacific High Commission who visited Makaruka in April 1964. Moro’s reference to having received little benefit from missionary contact other than “changing faith” was reminiscent of Pidoke’s petition of 1939. However, Moro’s ideology also had much in common with Maasina Rule in its invocation of kastom law as a challenge to both the legitimacy of colonial law and the exploitation of resources, including land, by Europeans. These themes are evident in Moro’s reference, in the same speech mentioned above, to land alienation, crocodile hunting by Europeans, and the inappropriateness of government regulations relating to pig husbandry (Davenport and Çoker 1967, 138–139). Challenges to colonial law are also a consistent theme running through the three written versions of the “Moro Doctrine” (see Davenport and Çoker 1967, 142–147).24 The first version establishes that the creator, Ironggali, formed the island of “Isatabu” and “gave the law how to rule over their own boundary.” The second version refers to the succession of “paramount chiefs”—the first of whom is known as Tuimauri—whose duty it is to “keep up the native customary law of his people up to future generations.” The third version establishes Moro as the cur-

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rent paramount chief and specifically invokes kastom law as a challenge to colonial regulations (particularly the Waste Lands Regulations, 1900– 1904): “Today we have Moro as successor of his [Tuimauri’s] line to take up the history and law of the island to keep us as we have been told. There are no land called Waste Land and Public or what ever we called in this island. Tuimauri to Moro, his position is to keep up the history for future generations” (cited in Davenport and Çoker 1967, 146–147). Naitoro sees the movement’s emphasis on land rights in terms of the government-sponsored mineral exploration that recommenced after the war, following the initial discovery of gold in the Gold Ridge area in the 1930s. According to Naitoro, “The demand for political autonomy and the repudiation of ‘Waste and Public Lands’ concepts were direct forms of resistance to state control and the doctrine of tenure introduced into the territory. These cases were clearly of perceived inequality in terms of the relationship between indigenous communities and others over natural resources” (2003, 147).25 The challenge to colonial law was also clearly evident in Moro’s attempt, in April 1965, to purchase from the district commissioner “freedom from the law” (Davenport and Çoker 1967, 169). This attempt was later denied by Moro and other representatives of the movement, though not by the movement’s current leadership (see chapter 4). The Moro Movement also finds similarities with Maasina Rule in its attempts to create kastom chiefs who did not exist previously (in Moro’s case, the paramount chief) and also in its efforts to syncretize Christian teachings and “custom” beliefs. Examples of the latter are the “Christian slant” that Moro would sometimes give to his stories and his expressed desire to reconcile the three separate “laws” of Moro custom, the government, and the mission (Davenport and Çoker 1967, 141, 171). The centrality of the grievance of inequality and underdevelopment in the statements of the Moro Movement is another point of similarity with Maasina Rule. However, the Moro Movement cannot be said to have exhibited the elements of class consciousness and industrial discourse evident in Maasina Rule. Moreover, the symbolic appeals to kastom were also not as successful as they were in the case of Maasina Rule. As mentioned above, Moro met pockets of strong resistance, led by men linked to the church and the government who claimed that his so-called “true custom” was actually of his own making (Davenport and Çoker 1967, 160).26 The Moro Movement never achieved levels of support comparable to those of Maasina Rule, but it will be seen in the next chapter that it continues to exert

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significant influence on Guadalcanal, and as Kabutaulaka observes, “Its anti-colonial stance could be seen as the forerunner to the independence movement on the Weather Coast and Guadalcanal” (2002b, 62). Before moving on to examine postwar migration and settlement on Guadalcanal, I shall make brief mention here of another important micronationalist movement, the Western Breakaway Movement. The movement emerged in the lead-up to Independence in the context of anxieties about the West becoming part of an independent country dominated by the “Malaita Mafia” (Bennett 1987, 327–330; Dureau 1998; Premdas, Steeves, and Larmour 1984).27 Its leaders drew upon the longstanding imagery of Malaitan aggression, violence, and heathenism, counterposed against the Christianity and peacefulness of those from the West, to appeal to a distinctive Western identity. Like the neighboring Bougainvilleans, Westerners also contrasted their blackness with the “red skin” of the Malaitans who came to labor on the plantations of the West. Inspired by the example of Bougainville, some of the movement’s leaders threatened secession if Western statehood was not granted before Independence. There was also appeal in the belief that the West, which was relatively wealthy in terms of resources and represented by a single council following the voluntary amalgamation of the region’s five councils in 1972, was being discriminated against in the central government’s revenue-sharing formula. The pre-Independence government, headed by a Malaitan, Peter Kenilorea, was able to placate the Breakaway Movement by offering the Western Council an increased grant based on a revised revenue-sharing formula, transferring some central government–owned land to the council, and offering important government and public service positions to Westerners (Bennett 1987, 328–329). However, just a month before Independence, the situation intensified again with the publication, in a government-owned newspaper, of a poem known as “Ode to the West Wind.” (This was actually the first line of the poem, the title being “West Wind”). Written by a Malaitan public servant, the poem was overt in its vilification of Westerners, containing lines such as: Ode to the West wind, you carry in your bowels the Westerners Black and ugly, proud and lazy manpower they have none. (Quoted in Dureau 1998, 216–217)

The central government paid SI$9,000 in compensation to the Western Council, setting, as Herlihy noted a few years later, “dangerous precedents” for future compensation claims against the government

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(1982, 15). Although Independence on July 7, 1978, was not celebrated in the West, Western Province did officially celebrate the first anniversary of Independence with a representative of the Provincial Assembly stating that the “recent compromise on the West Wind poem had re-established a mutual trust and understanding between the central government and the Western Provincial Assembly” (Oliver Zapo cited in Premdas, Steeves, and Larmour 1984, 55). Shortly after Independence, another inflammatory item, a letter, was published in a local newspaper, the Solomons Toktok, again written by a Malaitan, but this time vilifying Guadalcanal people. The letter apparently described Guales as “not fit for anything” (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 117). The Guadalcanal Provincial Executive wrote a letter of complaint to Prime Minister Kenilorea, demanding that legal action be taken against the author and that compensation be paid by the author, the publisher, and Malaita Province. Although the demand for compensation was not met, “That letter became known in Isatabu folklore as the Guadalcanalese ‘1978 demands,’ and served to reinforce the later perception of a succession of demands, one per decade, repeatedly disregarded by the government” (Fraenkel 2004, 117). The “1978 demands” may also refer to a written statement delivered as a speech to then governor Colin Allan when he visited the Weather Coast village of Banbanakira in April 1978. Allan was presented with a vial of gold flakes, which are the “Samples” referred to in the statement. The statement was as follows: Independence or freedom was used in the Solomons long ago before the arrival of Europeans. Europeans or other foreigners should only come to teach us in developments or ways of getting or making use of resources. But most times in the past that was not the case but been depredators were the main practice. So we want from you to give is back the rights that were once used in the Solomons. To be a free nation Guadalcanal doesn’t need to be fed on anybody else because all of its resources are in Surplus quantities. To show you in a realistic forms of what I am trying to point out, I am going to give you Some of their Samples. This to show you what we are standing on in our land. So to prove true democracy Solomon Islanders or the paramount chiefs of the areas should be Consulted before any forms of developments be Constructed. So thank you very much. By Napthali Resel. (Quoted in Allan 1989, 93–94)

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Post–World War II Development Planning, Enclave Development, and Labor Migration The prewar pattern of what was effectively enclave development continued after the war and became increasingly institutionalized through the centralized planning process. A model of export-led development based on large-scale agricultural development characterized the series of postwar development plans commencing with the second plan (1955–1960) and culminating with the National Development Plan of 1975 (Herlihy 1981, 184–227). Another characteristic of this series of development plans, which for the most part were heavily subsidized by the British Treasury, was the building of administrative capacity in order to maintain “a working accord with the source of aid funds in London” (Herlihy 1981, 202). This policy meant that a significant proportion of government expenditure was channeled into developing the postwar capital, Honiara. For example, 44 percent of all expenditure was allocated to Honiara in 1968 (Herlihy 1981, 202), and between 1961 and 1970, 76.4 percent of expenditure on infrastructure development by the Public Works Department was in Central District (Bathgate 1993, 146). At the same time, the gap between village and government development priorities became wider due to the decentralization of planning functions to generalist council administrators—who lacked planning capacity and were unable to compete with national departmental plans and priorities—and the abolition of the administrative field service in the face of the political imperative to “localize” the public service (Herlihy 1981, 229–235; also see Bathgate, Frazer, and McKinnon 1973, 1–8). The latter meant that the central government “lost its only body of expertise equipped to assess village needs and aspirations . . . in the generalist terms that most closely approximated village holism” (Herlihy 1981, 235). The postwar institutionalization of enclave development and the subordination of service delivery to overtly political agendas combined to have a number of impacts. There was a sharpening of perceptions of relative disadvantage and deprivation among those villagers who were peripheral to or isolated from enclave plantation development and other centers of “modern” economic activity, notably Honiara. These perceptions were, of course, underpinned by the reality that communities in some parts of Solomon Islands continued to be much better off, in terms of economic opportunities and access to services, than others and that these inequalities were deepening (Bathgate 1973a, 9–27; 1993, 146– 160; Herlihy 1981, 175, 350). Significant disparities in village incomes were demonstrated in a

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number of detailed socioeconomic studies conducted in the 1960s and 1970s (Bathgate 1973a, 1973b, 1993; Bathgate, Frazer, and McKinnon 1973; Chapman 1970; Herlihy 1981; Lasaqa 1968). These studies demonstrated a continuation of the spatial pattern of uneven development that had commenced in the nineteenth century. Bathgate, for example, states, “It will be noted that Guadalcanal and the western part of the island[s] are relatively prosperous compared with Malaita and the eastern area of the Protectorate which remain very much a backwater in terms of economic growth” (Bathgate 1993, 149). These spatial inequalities were illustrated most starkly in a detailed comparative study of the socioeconomies of villages in three parts of the archipelago—north Malaita, southeast Vella Lavella in the West, and northwest Guadalcanal—conducted by a team of researchers from Victoria University Wellington over the period 1969–1972 (Bathgate 1973a; Bathgate, Frazer, and McKinnon 1973; Frazer 1973; McKinnon 1973). The team’s findings in relation to income are summarized as follows: The annual per capita monetary income [in Australian dollars] from each of the villages studied was estimated to be as follows: Manakwai [north Malaita 1971] $31.93, Mbilua [Vella Lavella 1970] $40.87, Verahue [northwest Guadalcanal 1971] $77.89 and Taboko [northwest Guadalcanal 1971] $94.26. Very broadly, these differences run parallel to the position of each village along a continuum where, at one end, there is a marked dependence on outside employment and, at the other, greater dependence on village based cash crop production. (Bathgate, Frazer, and McKinnon 1973, 21)

These and other studies indicated that there was also much income inequality on Guadalcanal, where average per capita annual incomes were found to range from around AUS$20 at Nduindui and Pichahila (in 1965) on the Weather Coast to around AUS$95 at Taboko (in 1971) on the northwest of the island (Bathgate 1993, table 9.12).28 Incomes were highest in areas that had a greater range of non-wage sources of income such as export tree-crop production and the marketing of fresh produce. In these areas, the proportion of income contributed by wage earners tended to be lower—for example, only 6 percent in the case of Taboko— whereas the opposite was true for areas with a more restricted range of local cash-earning opportunities—for example, at Pichahila, where wage earners contributed 73 percent of village income. These data include income earned both from employment outside of the village and from permanent village-based positions.

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The perpetuation of prewar patterns of spatial unevenness in village cash-earning opportunities, compounded by a decline in the delivery of education and health services, ensured that the phenomenon of labor migration also continued. The findings of Herlihy’s detailed study of disadvantaged communities on Makira and Isabel would apply to many other parts of Solomon Islands and certainly to the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal and much of Malaita. Herlihy concludes, “For villagers who have few orthodox channels to obtain development assistance and who are unable to influence the type and standard of services they receive from government, village capacity for development depends almost entirely on informal linkages to the modern sector. In this situation short-term employment, urban-elite contacts and circular migration—especially when associated with considerable traditional mobility—are a valuable component of rural self-help” (1981, 352). Postwar Migration and Settlement on Guadalcanal The capital was moved from Tulagi to Honiara after the war to take advantage of the infrastructure established by the Americans and also because of Honiara’s proximity to the northeast plains of Guadalcanal, which were to become the focus of large-scale agricultural development projects. The Guadalcanal plains have the best agricultural land in Solomon Islands. The area is flat and has good soil fertility. Unlike most other parts of the Solomons, it has a climate with adequate, but not excessive, rainfall and a distinctive dry season. A land resources survey conducted in the 1970s identified six “agricultural opportunity areas” on Guadalcanal, all of which are located on the northern side of the island, with the plains accounting for almost half of the total area identified (Wall and Hansell 1974). The Guadalcanal plains were the location of rice, sorghum, and soy­ bean projects in the 1960s and later the Commonwealth Development Corporation (CDC) oil palm project, which became Solomon Islands Plantation Limited (SIPL). This area became a “magnet” for people seeking employment, most of whom were Malaitan (Bennett 2002, 6). Prior to the Tension, the SIPL palm oil operation was employing around 1,800 people, mostly Malaitans. When one includes their dependents, there were around 8,000–10,000 migrant settlers associated with SIPL living on the plains in the late 1990s (Fraenkel, Allen, and Brock 2010; cf. Naitoro 2000, Sofield 2006). The Gold Ridge mine in the mountains east of Honiara was another significant source of employment from the commencement of its construction in 1994 until its closure in June 2000.

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The private- and public-sector employment opportunities in Honiara also attracted people to the town and its immediate environs. The urban workforce tripled in size between 1960 and 1969, largely as a consequence of a construction boom brought about by increased government expenditure in Honiara in the late 1950s (Frazer 1985a, 232; also see Bellam 1970). As well as “pull” motives in the form of employment opportunities, land shortages caused by population growth and the expansion of cashcropping have been an important “push” motive driving the movement of people from Malaita, particularly from the densely populated north of the island (Bennett 2002, 13; Frazer 1985a, 229; Gagahe 2000, 63).29 Moreover, migration—or more correctly circulation—has continued to be a rite of passage for young Malaitan men. According to Frazer, writing in regard to the To’abaita of north Malaita, “Selling one’s labour abroad became both a source of income and a form of achievement confined to one period of the male life-cycle: adolescence and early adulthood” (1985a, 230; also see Frazer 1981 and 1985b). All analyses of the population censuses of 1999, 1986, 1976, and 1970 have found that the island of Malaita is the most important “source” of migrants for all provinces in Solomon Islands, with urban Honiara and Guadalcanal and Western Provinces being the main destinations (Chapman 1992; Gagahe 2000; Schoorl and Friesen 2002). Chapman’s comparison of the 1986 census with those of 1976 and 1970 found that “the magnitude of movement between provinces had risen steadily since 1970 and quickened since 1976” (1992, 79). Chapman also found that since 1978 the major flow of people had been from Malaita to north Guadalcanal and the Russell Islands (the site of the country’s largest commercial coconut plantation) (1992, 82). In the 1976 census, there were around 5,000 “Malaitan-born” people enumerated in Honiara and a further 3,000 in other parts of Guadalcanal (Gagahe 2000, 64). In 1986, the equivalent figures were 10,000 in Honiara, comprising around a third of the town’s total population, and 7,000 in rural Guadalcanal (Schoorl and Friesen 2002, 109). As noted in chapter 2, the 1999 census enumerated 12,675 people who had been displaced from their place of residence in either Honiara or Guadalcanal and had returned to Malaita by the time of the census. However, we can assume that many more of the 35,309 people who were displaced on Guadalcanal and in Honiara as a result of the Tension were Malaitan. Also recall that around 70 percent of displacements took place in rural wards west and especially east of Honiara. There is considerable census-based, observational, and anecdotal

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evidence to suggest that the nature of Malaitan mobility has changed over time, with a trend toward permanent settlement as opposed to circulation, though both circulation and migration remain important (Frazer 1985a, 1985b; Gagahe 2000; Kama 1979).30 During the plantation era and the earlier overseas labor trade period, men would generally leave their homes for periods of only two to three years at a time (though it should be noted that successive reenlistments were commonplace and many had been keen to settle permanently in Queensland and Fiji). Migration was largely circular. In the postwar context, these movements became much more permanent, so that many of the “settlers” on Guadalcanal are in fact second- or third-generation residents (Connell 2006, 114; Dinnen 2002, 286). Another important characteristic of postwar migration is that it has involved women and children as well as men (Frazer 1985b, 188; Gagahe 2000, 58). These shifts in the patterns of movement are connected with the abandonment of the indentured labor system, the relaxation of colonial regulations governing the movement of people, the more permanent nature of employment opportunities, increasing resource insecurity in “source” areas, and, perhaps most important, the fact that migrants have been able to acquire the right to occupy and use land. Chapman describes the various colonial regulations (in existence between 1933 and 1964) that were aimed at restricting the mobility of people within Solomon Islands but concludes that these regulations were rarely enforced (1992, 88–89). However, other aspects of the early postwar employment scene in and around Honiara made it difficult for people to migrate to town for any substantial length of time (Bennett 1987, 314). For example, despite the abandonment of the indentured labor system in 1948, it was still the case throughout the 1950s that work contracts were limited to twelve months, at the end of which time unskilled or semi-skilled laborers were required to return to their villages of origin (cited in Chapman 1992, 89). By 1976, when the population of Honiara was enumerated at almost fifteen thousand, a small, urban-based class had begun to emerge among the well-paid public servants and private-sector employees, yet the vast majority of the population remained “fluid,” particularly the unskilled and semi-skilled laborers (Bennett 1987, 342). However, over the next ten years, during which time the population of Honiara doubled to just over thirty thousand, “squatter” settlements began to emerge around the city, and the government’s Temporary Occupation License (TOL) and Traditional Housing Areas schemes—which had been introduced in the 1960s as mechanisms to manage urban squatting—began

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breaking down (Storey 2003). By 1986, eight settlements, mostly populated by Malaitans, accounted for 15 percent of the total population of Honiara (Alasia 1989, 118; also see Kwa’ioloa and Burt 1997, 41–46). Land Issues The emergence of squatter settlements around Honiara has been made possible by the fact that settlers have been able to occupy both government-owned and customary land under a variety of arrangements. Settlers have been able to purchase customary land, though not without contention. According to Kabutaulaka, “Many Guadalcanal people (predominantly males) from areas around Honiara were selling customary land to those from other provinces, even though Guadalcanal is a matrilineal society where females are regarded as the custodians of land” (2002a, 7). Settlers were also able to reside on public land in and around Honiara. According to Kama (1979, 151), the Lands Division, in response to the growth of squatter settlements, established a “squatter committee” that was charged with the administration of TOLs. Applicants were interviewed and had to prove that they were employed before a TOL would be issued. The licenses were valid for twelve months and stipulated that licensees were permitted to build only one house and kitchen (on blocks averaging 60–80 square meters) and were not entitled to make gardens outside the block area. It has been alleged that the Lands Division was incompetent in the management of the TOL system, resulting in settlers either overstaying the duration of their licenses or expanding onto lands outside the TOL boundary (United Nations Development Program 2004, 26).31 With regard to the situation on the Guadalcanal plains, Kama observed that from the late 1960s “squatting on public land [had] increased more rapidly than on customary land” (1979, 150). Again, squatters were able to reside on public land under the TOL system. However, it is known that migrants, particularly from Malaita, were also able to obtain rights to live on and use customary land belonging to local landowning groups. Some of the early land-use arrangements were documented by Lasaqa (1968), who conducted fieldwork in the Guadalcanal plains area in 1966–1967.32 At that stage, it appears that there were not very large numbers of Malaitans on the plains. Lasaqa recorded the presence of four Malaitan men in Roroni, a “group” of families living at Susui, and five families and a single man at Abuabili. Some of these men had obtained usufructu-

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ary land rights through marriage into the mamata (matrilineal landowning group), but most were there at the invitation of the local big-men, the heads of the mamata (1968, 162–166). Thus while those men who had married into the mamata could possibly secure land rights for their children through their wives’ brothers, most men were able to maintain land-use rights only at the absolute discretion of the mamata head. It is interesting that Lasaqa made no mention of land rights being obtained through cash or traditional payments. However, he did point out that the “enclave” of Malaitan migrants at Abuabili grew sweet potatoes and sold them at the Honiara markets, with part of the proceeds going to the local mamata heads, and that they also worked in the mamata heads’ coconut groves. These people were thereby “charged twice, in terms of their labour and in cash” (Lasaqa 1968, 165). Kama, who conducted a survey of a settlement on the Guadalcanal plains in 1978–1979, found a similar situation to that described a decade earlier by Lasaqa: “Most of the people squatting on customary land made informal agreements with customary landowners, especially the head of the land holding group, through a friendly relationship. Some obtained permission through inter-marriage with members of the land holding groups. There had been no rents paid on land occupied, except in one case a cash payment for land was involved” (Kama 1979, 150).33 The last statement is rendered somewhat ambiguous by Kama’s subsequent observations that “some migrants were successful in purchasing land from customary owners” (1979, 153) and that “one of the alleged landowners started selling parts of the land to migrants and other Guadalcanal people” (1979, 156). In the latter case, the land in question was under dispute, and the “alleged” landowner was evidently attempting to cash in before the dispute had been resolved. It is important that the precedent for selling land was actually established in land transactions conducted within landowning groups themselves: “It happened when some people who married women from different island groups purchased land from their own clans for their children” (1979, 155). More recent accounts of land and settlement on Guadalcanal echo the earlier findings of Lasaqa and Kama (Maetala 2008; Solomon Islands Government 2010). They continue to emphasize the central role of social relationships in securing and maintaining usufructuary rights to customary land. Such relationships are based both on the actions and behavior of those coming into the landowning group and on ex­changes of traditional foodstuffs and wealth items, including cash, known as chupu. However, even when chupu has been paid, the principles of Guale customary land tenure dictate that people from outside the matrilineal

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landowning clan can only ever be granted usufructuary rights and that these rights are not automatically passed on at death. Many of these land transactions were in fact legitimate under either customary or common law (Bennett 2002, 8; Kabutaulaka 2002a, 7), though some aspects remained highly ambiguous (Kama 1979).34 However, over time, as migrant men built houses and made gardens and were joined by their families and wantoks, “Numbers often grew beyond the agreement between the first settler and his vendor or landlord” (Bennett 2002, 8). The situation was compounded by the fact the workers at SIPL and their families were building houses and making gardens on customary land adjacent to the designated staff housing areas (United Nations Development Program 2004, 26). This sort of overspill onto customary land was also taking place around some of the TOL areas. It is important that we consider two further factors that contributed to the land evictions: the breakdown of social relationships between settlers and landowning groups and the breakdown in relationships among landowners themselves. These factors share a salient generational dimension. In the case of the former, Maetala emphasizes the role of “good deeds,” “actions,” and “behavior” in underpinning outsiders’ rights to customary land on Guadalcanal (2008, 46–47). Making traditional payments would not, in itself, guarantee the transfer of these rights to an outsider’s family upon his death: “To be entitled to pass down that land, his actions and behavior during his stay with the landowning group must be seen to be ‘good’ ” (Maetala 2008, 46). The stories of such good deeds are increasingly forgotten as “generations pass without the retelling of tribal history,” an omission that can give rise to conflict (Maetala 2008, 46). In the case of Malaitan settlers, Maetala notes that relationships frequently broke down because of the failure on the part of the wantoks who had come to live with the original settlers “to demonstrate the same respect shown by their kin for their hosts” (2008, 47). This issue of cultural respect is frequently raised by Guales when discussing the “causes” of the Tension, as we shall see in the next chapter (also see Liloqula and Pollard 2000, 6, and Sofield 2006). Culture has also played a central role in conflicting interpretations of customary land tenure on Guadalcanal. The recent consultations of the Commission of Inquiry into Land Dealings and Abandoned Properties on Guadalcanal have underscored the widely held view among Guales that outsiders can, upon payment of chupu, obtain rights to use customary land but never to own it outright. Some Guale landowners believe that this clashes with Malaitan understandings of transactions regarding customary land. For example, during the commission’s consul-

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tation in the Giana region west of Honiara a female landowner stated, “Our problem is when people from other provinces come in, they have different ways of dealing with land. Their land tenure is different from ours and therefore when we give them land and they give us chupu or they give us cash, perhaps to them, they are buying the land as they buy something from the market or from the shop, which is not our custom traditionally” (Solomon Islands Government 2010, 10).35 Participants in the Giana consultation also spoke about the problems and disputes created within landowning groups as a result of individual men selling customary land for cash to outsiders without the knowledge or permission of the other clan members. The commodification of customary land has “created an environment ripe for enmity among families and clan members” (Maetala 2008, 39). The relationship between land sales, on the one hand, and intragroup and intergenerational conflict, on the other, is described by Kabutaulaka as follows: “Many individuals were selling land without consulting other members of their line (laen, tribe) [sic], often causing arguments among landowners. . . . Over the years the sale of land has been resented by a younger generation of Guadalcanal people who view it as a sale of their birthright” (2002a, 7). The Concerns of Guadalcanal People Since the 1950s, Guadalcanal people from both the north and the south of the island have repeatedly expressed their concerns about the increasing numbers of migrants present in and around Honiara and on the Guadalcanal plains. In 1954, the special lands commissioner, while touring northeast Guadalcanal, noted that “the worst fear the Tasimboko people have is in regard to the immigration of Malaita people” (Allan 1989, 79). Similarly, referring to his visit to the Weather Coast and Marau in March 1954, when the biggest issue being discussed locally was the formation of the Marau-Hauba Council, Allan states, “It had become borne in on me that the Guadalcanal people (and especially those in the Marau area) not only had a physical fear of Malaitans but were extremely sensitive to the fact that Malaitans were determined to secure land and expand their interests on Guadalcanal (Allan 1989, 87). In 1967, the member for Northwest Solomons, Gordon Siama, called upon the government to “investigate” rural to urban migration on the basis that most migrants were unable to find employment and became dependent upon their town-based friends and wantoks (cited in Chapman 1992, 91). In the late 1970s, the cabinet discussed the possi-

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bility of evicting people (most of whom were Malaitan) from the squatter settlements around Honiara, and in 1980 Paul Tovua, member for one of the six constituencies on Guadalcanal, called on the national parliament to control the movement of people between provinces. Apparently Tovua was concerned that “certain of the migrants [in his constituency] did not show respect for their hosts or for their hosts’ culture” (Alasia 1989, 119). Indeed, freedom of movement had been an issue discussed in the constitutional debates leading up to Independence. These debates pitted those who supported a federal system of government against those in favor of a unitary system. The Constitutional Committee that reported in 1976 recommended against a federal system on the basis of cost, and a unitary system of government was eventually adopted in 1978 despite calls from members of the Western, Isabel, Eastern, and Guadalcanal councils for “effective and full devolution” (Ghai 1983). Similar sentiments regarding internal migration characterized the three volumes of submissions to the Constitutional Review Committee of 1987 discussed by Chapman (1992). According to Chapman, “Residents and land owners within those parts of the country where many recent immigrants had settled and established communities repeatedly voiced concern about the impact of newcomers on the integrity of long established customs” (1992, 94). Significant concern was also expressed in regard to land, particularly the issue of migrants settling on land without the “permission” or “proper consent” of the customary landowners. It is important that some of this concern was being voiced by people from the relatively densely populated, isolated, and historically underdeveloped Weather Coast region of south Guadalcanal (see chapter 4). It has been seen that the Weather Coast shares many of the historical economic disadvantages of Malaita. Both places were isolated from the early trading and prewar plantation economies, leaving their populations no choice but to sell their labor during the overseas labor trade period and, subsequently, on plantations in other parts of Solomon Islands. Similarly, after the war, large numbers of men from south Guadalcanal, as well as Malaita, went to work in and around Honiara and on the Guadalcanal plains (Bennett 1974, 9; 1987, 314). And as is the case with Malaitan migrants, these movements have become increasingly permanent over the past thirty years or so, making settlers from south Guadalcanal important “actors” in the issues surrounding migration and land. According to Bennett, “Natural disasters and increased opportunities elsewhere since the 1970s have seen circular as well as virtually per-

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manent migration to the north [from the Weather Coast], but there was competition with settlers from other areas, most commonly Malaitans for places to live and work” (2002, 12). In its submission to the Constitutional Review Committee, the Moro Movement accepted the fundamental rights and privileges of the individual as enshrined in chapter 2 of the constitution. It questioned, however, whether an individual’s right to freedom of movement should be absolute: “People from other islands should have the right to travel from one place to another [but] they . . . should not have the right to reside or settle [in other places] without permission of those in authority” (cited in Chapman 1992, 92). The final recommendations of the Review Committee presented two constitutional possibilities. The first, which was for a federal system of government, did not involve amendments to the sections of the constitution dealing with an individual’s rights of movement. However, the alternative possibility, which was for a unitary republic with an indigenous ceremonial president, suggested qualifications on the absolute freedom of movement. In the event, neither alternative was adopted by the government of the day, which was led by Ezekiel Alebua as prime minister (Chapman 1992, 78–79). Frustrations quickly surfaced once more in 1988, when Guadalcanal people demonstrated following multiple murders near Honiara (Keesing 1992, 178–179; 1995). In their petition to the national government (referred to as the “Petition by the Indigenous People of Guadalcanal”), they requested the establishment of a federal system of government and that “immediate steps be taken to reduce the pressure of internal migration” (reproduced in Fraenkel 2004, 196). The petition claimed that fifteen Guadalcanal people had been killed by “non-indigenous people” over the previous twenty years. These murders were directly associated with the fact that Guadalcanal “is the only island that has been invaded by squatters and other uninvited guests” (reproduced in Fraenkel 2004, 190). The issue of Honiara was also raised in the petition, which demanded that all alienated land in and around Honiara be transferred to the Guadalcanal Provincial Government (reproduced in Fraenkel 2004, 196). Again these demands were largely ignored by the Alebua government. According to Keesing, writing in 1992, “Strong resentment and hostility have been building up for years among the people of the Guadalcanal coastal zone who are faced with increasing numbers of Malaita squatters, Malaita dominance of Honiara and its Town Council, and the depredations and violence of the Malaita riff-raff” (1992, 178).36

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Marginalized Youth: The Masta Liu Phenomenon The postcolonial period has seen the emergence of what Jourdan describes as the “cultural phenomenon” of the Masta Liu: “In Honiara . . . there are many young boys and young men who hang around the town. Their main characteristic is being unemployed: some have lost their jobs, some have dropped out of school, others are simply waiting for the departure of the ship that will take them back to their home village. Drifting in and out of jobs, in and out of hope, they are very often on the verge of delinquency. Many of them have had some brush with the law. To the people of Solomon Islands, they are known as the Masta Liu” (1995a, 202). The word liu is common to several Malaitan languages, in which it means to walk about or to wander around (Frazer 1985a, 1985b). In Pijin the word has acquired pejorative connotations. When used as a noun, it refers to unemployed people who hang around town doing nothing and relying upon wantoks for their survival (Frazer 1985a, 1985b; Jourdan 1995a). Frazer (1985a) demonstrates that the original usage of the word in the To’abaita language emphasized mobility in the context of patterns of circular migration; however, its Pijin meaning now applies equally to those who are circulating through town and those who are second- or third-generation urbanites, settlers, or squatters. Jourdan argues that the more recent association of the word liu with the adjective masta conveys “a stronger stereotype of laziness” (1995a, 221). Stritecky prefers to see masta as referring to “boss,” meaning that the Masta Liu are bosses of their own whereabouts (2001, 72). The Masta Liu are very much the product of increasing socioeconomic differentiation, particularly in the urban context (Frazer 1985a; Keesing 1992, 174; 1994). Moreover, their unemployment stems from both low levels of educational attainment and the dearth of employment opportunities. Very few students complete secondary school. Students sit exams at the end of primary school, at the end of Form Three, and at the end of Form Five. At each stage, large numbers of students are “pushed out” of the system. In 1992, only two thousand of the eight thousand students who completed primary school went on to secondary school, and only 25 percent of those who sat the Form Three exam were admitted into Form Four (Jourdan 1995a, 221). A more recent study of what appear to be data for 2001 found that 42 percent of students ended their education at primary school (Pollard 2005). Of those who went on to secondary school, only 60 percent progressed to Forms Four and

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Five, and from there only 27 percent went on to Form Six. This means that less than 10 percent of children who enter secondary school will proceed to the end of Form Seven. Furthermore, during the mid-1990s the education system was producing 1,000–1,500 secondary school graduates per year, while the number of new jobs, in addition to vacancies produced by retiring workers, was only 700 per year (Fraenkel 2004, 184). For many young people, expectations are quickly shattered by the employment realities of Honiara: “They were sent by their parents with the expectation that education would make them employable at good salaries. When they come to town with a Standard 6 year of education [the last year of primary school] or a Form 3, they quickly realize that the level of education and training they have obtained is not sufficient to give them access to the good job they expected to find. Education has let them down. Many of these young people have dropped out of school” (Jourdan 1995a, 210).37 The feelings of frustration and despair experienced by the Masta Liu in the context of unemployment, poverty, and, frequently, hunger, are encapsulated in the popular songs “Wokabaot Long Seanaton” (Walking around in Chinatown) and “Masta Liu,” written in the early 1960s and late 1980s respectively (Frazer 1985b; Jourdan 1995a). A more recent popular song, “Dola Man,” by a group called Litol Rasta, once again reiterates the constant search for money that characterizes the lives of the Masta Liu. The lyrics of the song, which was frequently played on the radio and by the group at live performances when I was in the Solomons during 2006, translate as follows: Life today, my friend, is very difficult Masta Liu like me only want to die Life today, my friend, is very difficult Masta Liu like me only want to die I’m talking about you, Mr. Dollar Man Dollar Man I love you and I want you, Mr. Dollar Man Dollar Man But if you won’t cooperate then that’s it You can’t solve my problems, Mr. Dollar Man

Many, but not all, Masta Liu engage in petty criminal acts such as theft and extortion. Such acts are motivated not only by economic deprivation and poverty, but also by cultural factors. With regard to depriva-

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tion, Jourdan finds that hunger is a commonplace occurrence for Masta Liu and that petty theft is at its highest at the end of the month, when the money has run out and their “preoccupation with food becomes an obsession” (1995a, 213). Jourdan also finds that unemployment and poverty motivated some Masta Liu to join the gangs of safecrackers that were operating in Honiara in the late 1980s (1995a, 214; also see Keesing 1994). However, Jourdan notes that criminal behavior is not a characteristic common to all Masta Liu, many of whom claim to have rejected offers to join criminal gangs. With regard to the cultural factors motivating delinquent behavior in town, the influence of dead ancestors can encourage some young Malaitan men to engage in a range of “spoiling” behaviors from pig theft to murder (Fifi’i 1989; Keesing 1992, 175–178; 1994).38 Keesing demonstrates that such influences continue to motivate the urban “foraging” of some young Kwaio men: “Many instead direct their culturally sharpened and valorized and ancestrally supported skills in stealing pigs and valuables to urban theft, redistributing the riches of Honiara” (1994, 167). There is also an element of what Akin describes as the “reshaping of kastom” to suit the urban environment in ways that diminish the control and authority of elders (1999, 60). The prime example of such “reshaping” is the emergence of an urbanized form of compensation demands, described by Jourdan as follows: The street-wise liu, those from Malaita in particular, always on the lookout for money, are quick to perceive the advantage they can take of this system. Claiming kinship ties and family duties and responsibilities, they will claim compensation from any man who befriends and seduces a female relative, however distantly related she may be and how little they may care for her. Unlike bride wealth payments, compensatory payments do not need to be shared amongst kin; they remain the property of the claimants and the immediate or distant family members who have become aware of the situation. It is an easy way to “make a fast buck” and some of the more desperate youngsters will not hesitate to menace and beat up whoever refuses to pay. (1995a, 219; also see Akin 1999, 51)

Masta Liu behaviors are also informed by foreign cultural influ­ ences. Foremost of these is the “Ramboization effect” that was introduced in chapter 1 (see Jourdan 1995b, 142–143). My own observations, not only of the Masta Liu but also of men from relatively well-off fami-

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lies, is that many young men place value on certain types of behaviors and images that are seen on videos or in photos and posters. One young man with whom I had regular discussions would frequently talk about his desire to go to America or Australia so that he could join the army and maybe even become a marine. Some young men, both in Honiara and in the rural areas, like to dress in the style of the “guerrilla fighter— loose army trousers, boots, ragged shirts and dark glasses” (Macintyre 2002, 9). Furthermore, male youth culture in the Solomons is becoming increasingly influenced by American hip hop and rap music, as well as by reggae. The gang cultures that these types of music represent are emulated by young men in Honiara, as evidenced by the graffiti that demarcates the territories of gangs with names like “West Side Boys” (White River) and “Mid-West Thugs” (Nosi). There is some evidence to suggest that membership in these gangs follows “ethnic” lines. Furthermore, unlike the situation when Jourdan carried out fieldwork in the 1990s (1995a, 216), my observations suggest that the abuse of both alcohol and marijuana is now ubiquitous among the Masta Liu. The affordability of alcohol has increased over the past fifteen years or so as a consequence of the now widespread production of illegal spirits known as kwaso. Marijuana use is also a relatively new phenomenon in the Solomons, one that has most likely been introduced from Papua New ­Guinea, where it has a much longer history. In 1989, the national government agreed to pay SI$200,000 to compensate the entire population of Malaita for an anti-Malaitan sign allegedly posted by Polynesians from Bellona at the Honiara market. The payment, which was divided among Malaita’s area councils, was “extorted by thousands of Malaitan men (relatively few of whom were Kwaio) marching and in some cases rioting and looting in Honiara’s streets” (Akin 1999, 57).39 Citing this event as a precedent, Malaitans once again demanded compensation from the government in 1996, following alleged swearing against Malaita by Reef Islanders at a Honiara nightclub. The government gave in to the demands after several days of tension, again involving street demonstrations and the looting of Chinese stores (Akin 1999, 57–58). While Akin notes that these events provided an opportunity for some of Honiara’s unemployed Malaitan youths to “wreak havoc,” many of the young men involved were motivated more by their growing sense of frustration and grievance with the government. According to Akin, “Many factors were involved, including ethnic tensions, rampant urban unemployment, and a growing ‘rascal’ (youth crime) sub-

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culture in Honiara. . . . Underlying them all, however, is enduring Malaitan discontent with government behavior” (1999, 58). This chapter has traced the history of identity politics since the early contact period, with a particular focus on Malaita and Guadalcanal. We have seen that colonization resulted in both arbitrary separation and arbitrary conjoining: the creation of artificial boundaries in complete disregard of precolonial affinities and relationships. We have also seen that the processes of pacification, missionization, and economic development impacted differently on different parts of the country and therefore contributed to discourses of regional, as opposed to national, unity. Colonial economic policy privileged those areas with suitable environments for plantation development, such as parts of the West and north Guadalcanal, thereby reinforcing patterns of inequality that had commenced during the earlier trading period. These regional inequalities set in train the labor migration of people from Malaita and the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal that has continued into the postcolonial period. They also contributed to the emergence of area- and island-wide micronationalist movements after World War II, first on Malaita and then on Guadalcanal and in the West. We have seen that Maasina Rule and the Moro Movement were informed both by perceptions of socioeconomic inequality and by the perceived imposition of “government law” on “kastom law” and on other aspects of local sovereignty. In this manner both kastom and the notion of socioeconomic inequality have contributed to discourses of resistance and to the emergence of wider ethnic identities. These broader identity groupings have also been brought about by the increasing exposure of Solomon Islanders to “other” Solomon Islanders. We have seen that both Guale and Western ambivalence toward Malaitans can be traced back to the early colonial period, when Malaitan laborers were indentured to work on plantations on north Guadalcanal and in the West. For Guales, this ambivalence has intensified in the postwar period as more and more Malaitans, attracted by the employment and economic opportunities associated with Honiara and the agricultural projects on north Guadalcanal, have moved across to north Guadalcanal. While circular migration continues to be important, there is evidence suggesting that Malaitan movement to Guadalcanal has been becoming more permanent. This chapter has also described the emergence of the Masta Liu subculture. We have seen that the Masta Liu are very much the product

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of increasing socioeconomic differentiation, particularly in the urban context. We have also seen that both socioeconomic deprivation and indigenous and imported cultural factors influence young men to engage in certain types of violent or criminal behaviors. In the next three chapters I shall present and examine the voices of some of the young men who joined the militant groups during the recent conflict in Solomon Islands, starting with the Guale ex-militants.

C h a pt e r 4

Guadalcanal: The Contested Motherland

Our struggle, or the Ethnic Tension, as it’s known, was a criminal activity; it was a fight for the liberation of motherland. So all of us, all of us children are fighters the preservation and the restoration of the land and sources of Guadalcanal.

not our for re-

(Interview with M)

I

n examining the motives of the Guale militants, we can distinguish several different sets, associated with the different phases of the conflict on Guadalcanal and with the different Guale militant groups. A crucial point of difference revolves around the schism that eventually saw the complete separation of the Guadalcanal Liberation Front (GLF), led by Harold Keke, from the Isatabu Freedom Movement (IFM) after the Townsville Peace Agreement (TPA) and the ensuing “tribal fight” on the Weather Coast.1 The reasons for this split illustrate important differences in the ideologies that were held by these two groups, with the GLF openly repudiating the Moro Movement kastom that was evoked by the IFM. There is evidence to suggest that these differences existed from the beginning of the uprising in 1998 and intensified as the conflict on Guadalcanal changed and evolved. Moreover, while the “tribal fight” predominantly took place on the Weather Coast, Guales widely regard it as also having had an important north-south dimension. It is also clear that the internecine conflict was to some extent driven by the ongoing and dynamic interactions among church, government, and traditional authority that have characterized politics on Guadalcanal, and the Weather Coast in particular, since the early colonial period. As discussed in chapter 2, the conflict on Guadalcanal consisted of a succession of conflicts: the original uprising, which resulted in the 103

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displacement of around 35,000 people, mostly Malaitans; subsequent fighting between the Malaita Eagle Force (MEF) and the Guadalcanal Revolutionary Army (GRA)/IFM and also between the so-called MEF/ RSIP (Royal Solomon Islands Police) Joint Operation and the GRA/IFM; and, after the TPA, the conflict on the Weather Coast that involved another joint operation group in actions against the GLF—the SC (Special Constables)/RSIP Joint Operation. The latter joint operation included former members of the IFM who had been taken into the SC scheme after the TPA, under the leadership of Andrew Te’e, as well as new recruits from the Weather Coast. It is widely alleged that the latter operations had the backing of the Guadalcanal Provincial Government under the premiership of Ezekiel Alebua, as well as the national government. It appears likely that Alebua was also involved in organizing and supporting the original Guale uprising. The precise nature of his involvement, however, remains subject to speculation. The dominant themes permeating the Guale testimonies are the desire for a more equitable distribution of the revenues and benefits flowing from the exploitation of natural resources on Guadalcanal; greater equity in employment and educational opportunities; restoration of alienated customary lands; and retribution for the perceived injustices and disrespect suffered at the hands of Malaitan settlers. These themes can be grouped under two broad motives, which I label “development equity” and “cultural respect.” As has been seen in previous chapters, the grievances expressed by Guale ex-militants have long antecedents and have been consistently articulated in the context of the ongoing desire for greater political and economic autonomy for Guadalcanal within a federal system of government. The Guale grievances are also framed in terms of exploitation by successive waves of outsiders, commencing with the Spanish more than four hundred years ago and continuing in the colonial and postcolonial periods with perceived mistreatment at the hands of “the government.” For most of the Guale exmilitants, the government is identified as the main cause of the conflict on Guadalcanal. By locating their grievances in historical narratives, many of the Guale militants can be regarded as narrators of “ethnohistory.” Indeed, the invocation by some of the “divine laws” of the Moro Movement that govern the preservation and protection of the “motherland” strongly resonates with the characteristics of nationalism or ethnonationalism discussed by scholars such as Anthony Smith (1991) and Ernest Gellner (1983).2 Moreover, these men are actively engaged in creating the past

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by evoking old customs and myths and expressing them in their own words and in new and creative ways. It is important to note, however, that the Guale ex-militants were far from united in their interpretation of what constitutes legitimate or authentic Guale kastom. One ideological difference revolves around the Gaena’alu Movement, formerly known as the Moro Movement. Keke and other members of the GLF rejected the kastom-oriented philosophy of the movement in favor of a “purer” Christian ideology, albeit one that evidently became perverted and self-serving. Other Guale militants, including Andrew Te’e, who was the most senior Guale militant involved in the SC/RSIP Joint Operation, were clearly inspired by the teachings of the movement. In the case of the Guale data, there are some useful correctives to the assumed tendency of ex-militants to frame their actions in terms of grievance as opposed to greed or other more self-serving motives. In regard to the activities of Harold Keke and his men on the Weather Coast, transcripts, judgments, and other documents associated with the Tension Trials paint a picture of unbridled criminality: extortion, theft, kidnapping, arson, torture, and murder. Keke’s “reign of terror” was characterized by a dark, grim, and self-serving dynamic of criminal gratification, bordering on criminal insanity, that clearly had little, if anything, to do with the causes for which he and some of his men claimed to be fighting. The Tension Trial documents relating to the horrors of the Weather Coast are supported by the stories I was told by people who witnessed, and in some cases were victims of, the events that occurred there. There are extensive allegations that members of the SC/RSIP Joint Operation also perpetrated a range of criminal acts against Weather Coast villagers, including murder and torture, and that both the GLF and the SC/RSIP Joint Operation engaged in rape and sexual assault. As we saw in chapter 2, the conflict on the Weather Coast became increasingly characterized by cycles of revenge and retribution. Moreover, as the conflict wore on, Keke himself, who is said to have been psychologically unstable, became increasingly paranoid about government spies infiltrating his ranks. Another issue that is raised both in the Tension Trial documents and in my own discussions with ex-militants is that of compulsion. Compulsion as a primary motive to rebel applies particularly to the “tribal fight” on the Weather Coast, where many young men claim that they were forced to join either the GLF or the SC/RSIP Joint Operation. Compulsion also appears to be an issue in the case of Marau, where the mainland Guales, as opposed to the ’Are’are speakers of the offshore islands

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(and parts of the mainland), claimed that they were forced to do the reckoning of the IFM. Regarding the broader questions under examination in this book, it will be seen in this chapter that the Guale militants were not greedmotivated in the sense that they were attempting to control the trade in lootable primary resources or that they were fighting primarily for pecuniary gain. It may be the case that some of those who signed the TPA and participated in the SC/RSIP Joint Operation could be loosely described as mercenaries, and it is unquestionably apparent that Keke and some of his followers were motivated by criminal and (to some extent) material gratification. The same may also be said of some of those who originally joined the IFM. However, all of the Guale militants present their motives, to varying degrees of lucidity and believability, in terms of the long-standing and deep-seated grievances of their people. The fact that these grievances had existed for decades before the outbreak of violence in 1998, coupled with their continued articulation by the indigenous people of Guadalcanal (including the provincial government) eight years later, indicates that they were not simply manufactured for the purposes of waging some sort of greed-motivated or otherwise self-serving conflict. That these grievances may have been exploited by people such as Alebua and Keke is not disputed, but one thing is certain: without them, there would never have been an uprising on Guadalcanal. The Weather Coast One description of the Weather Coast is as follows: The Weather Coast is unique in all of Solomon Islands. Other regions have high rainfall but not as high; other regions are remote but are not without roads or regular shipping; they are isolated but not locked in by steep mountains and shores that dip precipitously to meet huge seas that make anchorage dangerous or impossible. This is a perilous place to live: tsunamis, earthquakes and flash floods have taken their toll within living memory. So has the conflict around the recent ethnic tension. This is the Weather Coast, and the weather costs the people dearly. (Kastom Gaden Association 2005, 19)

The story of the Guale militancy cannot be divorced from the essence of the remote, rugged, and historically underdeveloped Weather

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Coast of Guadalcanal. As noted in chapter 1, the Weather Coast, known locally as Tasi Mauri, encompasses the coastline from Wanderer Bay in the southwest to Marau Sound in the southeast, a distance of around 145 kilometers.3 This stretch of coast is central to our understanding of the motives of the Guale militants. It is the birthplace of the four main Guale militant leaders: Andrew Te’e, Harold Keke, Keke’s brother Joseph Sangu, and their nephew George Gray. It is also home to Ezekiel Alebua and the birthplace and stronghold of the Gaena’alu Movement. The region boasts a high proportion of the rural indigenous population of Guadalcanal, and its people regard themselves as the “true” landowners of all of Guadalcanal. This latter claim is strongly supported by the known history of depopulation on the northern side of the island as a consequence of intensified head-hunting and raiding in the late 1800s and the resultant movement of people into the Weather Coast area (Bennett 1974, 40–42; 1987, 117). This influx of people probably intensified tribal warfare on the Weather Coast that prior to pacification was “a continual, if intermittent, feature of life” (Bennett 1974, 26). The challenges of living on the Weather Coast are well known (Bennett 1974; Kabutaulaka 2002b; Kastom Gaden Association 2005). It is subject to very high levels of rainfall, particularly during the southeasterly trade-winds season from May to October. The steep, dissected terrain— characterized by high, forested mountain ranges that come straight down to the coastline in most areas—exacerbates the effects of high rainfall. Flooding and landslides occur frequently, and food gardens are often washed away during heavy rains. The area is also subject to earthquakes, which precipitate landslides, and cyclones from January to April. Transport to Honiara, on the other side of the island, is extremely difficult. Sea travel in small boats is dangerous, particularly during the southeasterly season, when the unprotected coastline is battered by heavy seas. Shipping services for passengers and cargo are inadequate and unreliable. Moreover, there are no roads linking the Weather Coast with the north coast road network. A tractor track between Marau and Balo, which was built in the 1960s, is now overgrown and unusable. The airstrips at Haimarau, Banbanakira, and Marau are frequently closed for months at a time due to maintenance problems, and all three strips ceased to function during the conflict. When I visited the area in 2006, the Banbanakira and Marau airstrips had recently reopened, but the strip at Haimarau remained overgrown and prone to inundation. The steep topography of the Weather Coast presents constraints to both subsistence and commercial agriculture. Food gardens are subject to damage by landslides, erosion, and inundation to the extent that food

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shortages occur periodically and people are obliged to eat dry coconuts, wild yams, taro, and sago palm. In most of the central and western parts of the Weather Coast, the steep mountains and hills extend directly to the coastline, as noted, and it is only the narrow coastal terraces between Avu Avu and Marau that are suitable for the small-scale production of cocoa and copra. However, the production and marketing of these cash crops were disrupted by the conflict, and in 2006 production had yet to return to pre-conflict levels.4 Moreover, the Weather Coast economy has been heavily reliant on remittances from people working in the oil palm and logging industries, both of which were also disrupted during the conflict and have yet to fully recover. Cash incomes on the Weather Coast are therefore currently at their lowest point in several decades. People on the Weather Coast and elsewhere on Guadalcanal believe that the harsh environment has shaped the way in which Weather Coast people think and behave. When I asked a Birao-speaking (as opposed to ’Are’are-speaking) chief in the Marau area why it was Weather Coast people who started the ethnic tension, his response was as follows: “The people here had these ideas as well, but it was hard for them to do anything. But the people on the other side [i.e., the Weather Coast] are different from us. If they want to do something, they just do it. That’s what they’re like. The environment there is hard, so they grew up in that sort of way. Do you understand what I mean?” Similarly, a Weather Coast man who teaches at the Avu Avu high school and also describes himself as a tribal leader, states the following: What you must consider is that these people are fighting against the battle of the seas, rough seas, fighting rough seas for their survival. They have to go against rough seas to go to Honiara to get goods. They have to go against rough seas to go fishing. They have to travel very rough roads. There are no decent roads for them on the Weather Coast. They have to cross flooding rivers because of torrential rain, heavy rain. That is why they call it the Weather Coast. Rain falls all the time. Rough seas come in all the time. . . . People on the Weather Coast also face earthquakes. They are battling against nature. Not only earthquakes, [but also] cyclones. And there is even a time when the sun is really hot and the grass dies. These people are people who are . . . I would say they are gentle, but their thinking could be dynamic. (Interview with S)

During my two weeks on the Weather Coast I was struck both by its beauty and its darkness. In my diary I wrote, “The darkness of the place

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is overbearing. The constant cloud cover and rainfall allow only patches of intermittent sunlight such that the whole landscape is hard to see. The high mountains are dark and brooding, the beaches are of black sand and pebble and the coastline drops off rapidly into deep blue. The sea itself is rough and relentless. Large swells pound away at the dark beaches adding to the generally tempestuous atmosphere of the place.” As I was traveling from east to west, I was retracing the footsteps of Harold Keke and the GLF, who were pushed farther and farther west by the Joint Operation forces. As they moved west, Keke’s atrocities became increasingly appalling. The Weather Coast environment provided a daunting backdrop for the recounting of Keke horror stories, and at times I felt as if I were a character in Conrad’s (1899) Heart of Darkness. I was relieved to return to dusty old Honiara, even though it was immediately after the riots of April 18 and 19, 2006, and the town was still very tense and under curfew. The Guale Uprising: Fighting for the Motherland Alebua Told Us to Do This Although it seems likely that Alebua was involved in both the original Guale uprising and the conflict on the Weather Coast (see Moore 2004, 105–106), the precise nature and extent of his involvement are contested. Moreover, given that Alebua was apparently a key player in the schism between the IFM and the GLF, it is in the interests of his “enemies”—particularly Keke, who, along with Joseph Sangu, admitted to shooting Alebua in an alleged assassination attempt in June 2001—to portray his involvement in a negative light. It is also obviously in the interests of Keke, who has faced scores of serious charges in relation to crimes committed and allegedly committed during the conflict, to attempt to downplay his own role in initiating the uprising on Guadalcanal. Keke’s position raises doubts about his repeated claims that Alebua instructed him to organize and lead the initial uprising. Keke first made this claim to the commissioner of police after his arrest on December 30, 1998, following a shootout with police near Tulagi. Keke reportedly told the commissioner that “Alebua told us to do this” (Moore 2004, 108). In July 2003, during an interview with an Australian journalist, Keke stated, “Alebua started the war, he initiated the war” (Special Broadcasting Service 2003, 2). Keke reiterated this position when he gave evidence in the Father Geve case in 2005: “The beginning of the ethnic, I didn’t appoint myself, the leaders of this island appointed me. . . . They said you

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will stand as leader for that one and you’ll organize the boys around this island. . . . They supported me with boats, with boats so that I could do this work around the island. . . . At the beginning Alebua was the boss, to back us up (Father Geve transcript, March 2, 2005, 10–13). Keke’s claims about Alebua providing logistical support for the militants during the initial organization of the GRA are partially corroborated by “D,” a former member of the IFM who surrendered after the TPA and was not involved in the conflict on the Weather Coast. His statements also lend some weight to the claim that Alebua was using the “boys” to back up his demands to the Ulufa’alu government. The following is an excerpt from my interview with him: D:

It [the GRA] was formed between Jo [Sangu] and Harold Keke. All the boys stayed with them, and they were camped over on the Weather Coast. And then Alebua provided a ship to take them all back to their own areas and families. I was one of the ones who came back during that time. I came back to my own camp. . . .  MA: Okay. So Alebua wanted you to go back to your respective homes to set up bunkers and posts? D: Yes. To come back and wait and see the government’s response to the demands of the Guadalcanal Province about state government and the demands about the killing of twenty-five indigenous people of Guadalcanal. (Interview with D)

However, other ex-militants, from both the IFM and GLF, deny that Alebua or any other provincial leaders influenced the original formation of the GRA. A former member of the IFM, named here as “K,” who was close to Andrew Te’e, Keke, and Sangu prior to and during the early ­stages of the uprising, claims that it was those three men who initiated the rebellion. They held a series of meetings around the island in 1998 in order to make people aware of their ideas and intentions, “What we, the youths, were standing for.” According to K, they had not yet completed the circuit of meetings when Keke took off and raided the armory at Tulagi: “He went without everybody. He just went with his own thinking and with Jo [Sangu].”5 K is quite adamant that provincial politicians did not instruct them to start the uprising: MA: So it looks like you are saying that all these guys that you are talking about . . . [they] alone decided to start this thing? I mean there wasn’t anyone else who told you to do it?

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K: Yeh.6 Most of the people in the country think it is a political issue, but that is not the case. It is something to do without politics. It came from the thoughts and feelings of the people of Guadalcanal. (Interview with K)

A former member of the GLF, named here as “G,” also claims that the initial formation of the militancy was not influenced by any politicians: “We . . . in 1998, we organized not by any politically motivated things but just following our own ideas. . . . We had some men who are more knowledgeable than us; they came and we took some ideas, advice, and thoughts from them about how we should put our demands. But in fact we did not have any direct influence by politicians” (interview with G, J, and L). Both K and G, and many other ex-militants with whom I spoke, invert the orthodox interpretation of events by claiming that they decided to use the Provincial Assembly to put their demands to the national government. In this manner, many of the Guale ex-militants regard the socalled Bona Fide Demands as their own and not as something that Alebua, or anyone else, told them that they had to support or rally around. This stance is clearly demonstrated in the following excerpt from an interview with “F,” another former member of the GLF: MA: Was there anyone who told you to put your demands to Ulu­ fa’alu, or did you guys, the young men from the Weather Coast, just decide to do it yourselves? F: Um. We thought about it on our own. Because the peaceful way to go about getting what we wanted was to approach the government. Because the members weren’t listening. When we spoke to Alebua, when he came to power, he wouldn’t listen. So we decided that we had to go straight to the government. Because when we spoke to the members they didn’t want to listen. MA: Okay, so how did you decide to do that . . . because you mean the Bona Fide Demands, right? How did you decide to put these demands to the government? Did you Weather Coast guys hold a meeting or what? F: We, all the boys, we . . . Harold Keke said that it looks like first we will try a peaceful route. We won’t fight. We will give them our demands as a warning that they have to leave our island. So all the boys did it [that is, wrote up a set of demands] and then gave it [to the government]. We did it ourselves. (Interview with F)

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It may be the case that some of the Guale ex-militants are deliberately attempting to portray their actions in terms of grievance by retrospectively assigning themselves an inflated role in the formulation of the Bona Fide Demands. However, other people in Guadalcanal society also acknowledge the agency of ex-militants in determining the demands. Consider the following excerpt from my interview with Jerry Sabino, the current president of the Gaena’alu Movement: Sabino: When this thing happened, we don’t blame anyone for that. Not even our own boys from Guadalcanal. . . . They wrote out their concerns, the concerns of the young people of Guadalcanal and why they started this problem. MA: So do you mean the Bona Fide Demands? Sabino: Yes. When they set out their Bona Fide Demands, then it became clear that it was about the failures of the government. (Interview with Jerry Sabino, April 19, 2006)

While Alebua was clearly involved to some degree, the argument that he single-handedly initiated the uprising on Guadalcanal in order to reinforce his challenge to the Ulufa’alu government is problematic. Those ex-militants who claim that Alebua started the “war”—most notably Keke—clearly have a vested interest in doing so. Moreover, the majority of ex-militants from both the IFM and GLF with whom I discussed this issue claim that it was the key militant leaders who came up with the idea of organizing the “boys” to develop a set of demands and using the provincial government to submit them to the national government. When the national government did not respond, then the only option, in the words of G, “was to take up arms and pressurize our demands.” Respect Our Rights: Development, Culture, and Statehood Two motives permeate the Guale testimonies and are most frequently cited as the primary reasons for joining the militancy. I broadly describe these as the “development equity” and the “cultural respect” motives. The development equity motive, which is frequently synonymous with the statehood agenda, is perhaps slightly more pervasive than the cultural respect motive. The texts of my interviews with both Guale ex-militants and noncombatants are peppered with the words “not fair,” “unfair,” “resources,” “the government,” and “development.” Guales strongly believe that it is unfair that their province provides a significant amount of revenue to the

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national economy from resource developments such as the Gold Ridge mine, the oil palm plantations, and commercial logging but receives proportionately much less from the national government in terms of grants and disbursements. The formula for disbursing grants to the provinces, which is said to be based on population distribution, is thought to be fundamentally inequitable in its bias toward Malaita as the most populous province. The inadequate state of infrastructure and service provision on Guadalcanal is directly linked to this state of affairs, and the blame is laid squarely on “the government.” The following excerpt from a focus group interview provides a typical example of how the development equity motive is articulated in the testimonies of ex-militants: One of the really big issues for us is our resources. I mean when we talk about Solomon Islands as a whole, Guadalcanal is one of the major contributors to the economy. Okay, but this system of government which we have is one which decentralizes power . . . so then the provinces which have large populations will get more funding or more grants from the government. We feel that this is not fair because we produce a lot of income for the government but only receive a small proportion of the money in terms of infrastructure and development for our island. So we regard this as unfair. (G, interview with G, J, and L)

An important aspect of the development equity grievance is the perception among Guales that their land and resources are being used to develop and benefit “other” people while Guadalcanal and its people are being neglected and forgotten. Consider the following statements, the first three from ex-militants and the fourth from a Birao-speaking (that is, Guale) chief: We oppose development in terms of ripping it out and building up different people, different nations, different places. (Interview with M) All the resources that they harvest from Guadalcanal they use for different people, from other provinces. (Interview with K) I wanted a country where my people’s resources are used for their benefit and not that of “strangers.” (Gray 2002, 6) More benefits should be coming to people on Guadalcanal, for developing the rural areas or parts of town, but that’s not happening. They are neglected and other people benefit. (Interview with R)

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Some ex-militants locate these sentiments in a deeper historical narrative surrounding the exploitation of Guale land, people, and resources by successive waves of outsiders, commencing with the Spanish explorer and “discover” of the island, Alvaro de Mendaña, in 1568. The unpublished document titled “Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief” (appendix 2), which was written in Rove central prison by two Guale ex-militants in 2004, provides an illustrative example of this narrative. The document lists ten so-called “mistakes (sins)” that are arranged in chronological order, commencing with Mendaña in 1568 and ending with the Ulufa’alu government in 1998. The narrative covers the theft of gold, described as “the devils stone,” from the Matanikau River by the Spanish and later, in 1898, from the Matapona River by the British;7 the overseas labor trade period, when “the white men came to deceive, murder and steal our people”; the harsh and culturally inappropriate forms of punishment meted out by the colonial authorities during the early colonial period; the uninvited relocation of the capital from Tulagi to Honiara, after the war, from which time on Guadalcanal “was forced to carry the burden of Solomon Islands”; the unsuccessful request for “freedom” that was made of the British Western Pacific commissioner in 1968; and the calls for statehood for Guadalcanal Province that were made in 1975, 1988, and 1998 and “ignored” by the government of Solomon Islands on each occasion. It is implied that this history of grievance eventually, almost inevitably, gave rise to the Guale uprising: “The children of Guadalcanal could no longer hold back their frustrations over the governments [sic] continued deprivation of their legitimate demands which [were] overturned by both the British and Solomon Islands government [and] wilfully ignored. And so their frustrations and anger has turned into what is now known as the Ethnic Tension” (excerpt from “Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief”). The centrality of gold in this narrative is noteworthy. It would appear that the gold story has become a motif for the Guale cause, one that articulates with the vision of Guale history and kastom embodied in the teachings of the Gaena’alu Movement. The movement’s philosophy of preserving and protecting the environment, land, and resources of Guadalcanal sits uneasily with large-scale resource extraction projects such as the Gold Ridge mining operation. According to the movement’s president, Jerry Sabino, “Gold Ridge mine is a development which is very big. It’s a major development. Okay. The movement, we think that this kind of development should not operate in the way that it is currently doing so” (interview with Jerry Sabino, April 19, 2006).8 Opposition to mining on the Weather Coast can be traced back

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to 1969, when an American company, Utah Mining, was prospecting for copper and nickel in the upper Koloula Valley in the interior of the Weather Coast. The company concluded its prospecting operations in 1974 but not before its activities had “caused understandable alarm and resentment among the Guadalcanal people despite substantial attempts by the government to liaise between them and the company” (Bennett 1974, xix). Recall from chapter 3 that Governor Allan was presented with a small amount of gold by Weather Coast people in 1978 in the context of a speech requesting “freedom” and control over the “surplus” resources of Guadalcanal. Concerns over gold mining, and the development benefits flowing from it, have a longer history on the northeast of the island, where a gold-mining company found “payable gold” in 1937 (Bennett 1987, 262). In April 1939 a local headman registered a protest with the government that focused on the failure of gold exploitation to translate into local development improvements. His protest also expressed solidarity with the goals and philosophy of the Fallowes movement. Indeed, a few months later, High Commissioner Sir Harry Luke was petitioned by Fallowes movement supporters in the same area (Aola), again demonstrating the “resentment that the people of the north-east had long held toward the activities of a gold-mining company” (Bennett 1987, 262). Gold Ridge mine, which was owned and operated by the Australian company Ross Mining, was developed between 1994 and 1998 and commenced production in June 1998. Despite the company’s efforts to be environmentally responsible and to develop good relationships and an equitable agreement with landowners, there was significant opposition to the mine from landowning groups revolving around the issues of royalties, compensation for acquired land, and potential environmental damage (see Naitoro 2003, chapter 6; Moore 2004, 85–88). Two landowners’ associations were formed, and two ultimately unsuccessful litigation actions were taken against the company in the High Court. According to John Naitoro, the relationship between the company and the government, on the one hand, and the landowners, on the other, collapsed because the two sides had irreconcilably different concepts of land rights and ownership. The Gold Ridge mine site was a recurring flash point during the Guale uprising, and the mine was ultimately forced to shut down in June 2000 following repeated raids by Guale militants and ongoing difficulties with access (Evans 2010). Although the mine assets were extensively looted, it would appear that ideology was an important motive in targeting the mine. According to a former member of the IFM from

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the Weather Coast, to whom I refer as “M,” “We must manage these re­ sources properly. . . . Development such as Gold Ridge is not development in terms of our definition or my definition. We regard that sort of development as disaster. As disaster. . . . In terms of Gold Ridge, that’s one of our aims. We want to stop that” (interview with M).9 M speaks about the relationship between gold and spiritual and moral beliefs in a way that resonates with the philosophy of the Gaena’alu Movement (see below). He states that in pre-contact times the Guale people had “righteousness in their hearts” and “protected everything,” which meant that “gold was easy to find.” Even today, according to M, “as long as the heart of the people is straight, righteous, then God will pour wealth. I have seen it with my eyes . . . places you can go [where] you can walk on gold. . . . They don’t dig for gold, they go pick for gold.” A Weather Coast tribal leader and high school teacher expresses similar sentiments, stating that Weather Coast people know that there is more gold on their land, but they only want to “collect” it as opposed to “mining” it (interview with S).10 “Collecting” or “picking” gold refers to the alluvial gold mining that has been taking place on Guadalcanal since the late 1930s and that, prior to the development of the open-cut mining operation from 1994, was centered around the Gold Ridge area (Naitoro 2003, 143–148; Moore 2004, 83). One source of disgruntlement with the Gold Ridge mine was that local people were excluded from the land that had been leased to Ross Mining and were no longer able to pan for gold (Moore 2004, 85). It would thus appear that some Guadalcanal people juxtapose the evilness and foreignness of large-scale gold mining against the purity and nostalgic abundance of alluvial gold mining. The development equity motive that permeates the testimonies of the Guale ex-militants is often conflated with a desire for statehood or independence for Guadalcanal. In this manner, the primary advantage of greater autonomy for Guadalcanal, from the perspective of the exmilitants, is that the Guale people will receive a much larger proportion of the economic benefits flowing from the resource developments that take place on their island and will have a much greater say in how the resources are developed. According to the ex-militant K, “Mostly state government is what we really want so that we have power over our own resources.” Similarly, “J,” a former member of the GLF, states, “If it [the government] addresses this issue [state government], everyone will go back to their places and Guadalcanal will become one of the richest islands. . . . We have all the resources” (interview with J). It would appear that “state government” became somewhat of a

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catch cry for the Guale militants; hardly surprising given that it is the first and very much the keynote demand listed in the Bona Fide Demands and also a demand that has been made repeatedly over the past thirty years or so. This stance was particularly the case with the GLF, whose leaders cited the national government’s failure to meet the demand for state government as the main reason for not signing the TPA. According to Ronny Cawa’s unsworn evidence in the Six Melanesian Brothers case, “Before I conclude I want to say a bit on the root cause of this problem which is happening in the country. The root cause of the killings with all the problems of this nation is because of our struggle for the people of Guadalcanal. Our demand for State Government, the government hasn’t given that yet. . . . We didn’t attend the TPA because we want to wait and see if the government can meet the demand of Guadalcanal for State Government” (Six Melanesian Brothers transcript, September 12, 2005, 1025). Many of the former GLF militants refer to either “state government” or “the rights of the Guadalcanal people” as the main reasons why they joined the GLF. Their testimonies, which are contained in various documents associated with the Tension Trials, are the weakest articulations of the Guale cause that I have seen. This weak exposition may of course be an outcome of the fact that the testimonies were given either in court as evidence or during interviews with police (including RAMSI police), when the “suspects” or the “accused” may not have felt comfortable with providing detailed responses about why they decided to join the GLF. My impression, however, is that the young men in question have a relatively poorly developed sense of what they were fighting for and may well have joined the GLF primarily for other reasons, such as thrill seeking or because they were compelled to do so. For example, according to twenty-three-year-old Owen Isa, who was convicted with Ronny Cawa for the murder of Brother Alfred Hill and with Cawa and others for the murder of Brother Nathaniel Sado, “I join in the GLF because I know what it is for because it is for the rights of the people of Guadalcanal” (Six Melanesian Brothers transcript, September 13, 2005, 1050). Similarly, Francis Lela, who was convicted, along with Keke and Cawa, for the murder of Father Augustine Geve, stated during his interview with police that he joined the GLF “at my own wish as we were fighting for our own rights. We fight for our motherland” (RAMSI record of interview with Francis Lela, October 2, 2003, 31). Geddily Isa, Owen Isa’s brother, was also convicted for the murder of Brother Nathaniel Sado. In his interview with police he was asked what the GLF meant and what it stood for. His response was, “GLF means fighting for

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our rights. Fight for the future” (RAMSI record of interview with Geddily Isa, October 3, 2003, 10). Cultural respect, the second most frequent response given by young Guale men to explain why they decided to join the Guale militancy, is based on the perception that people from other islands who had settled on Guadalcanal, particularly Malaitans, did not respect Guale culture and were thereby depriving the Guale people of their “rights.” The examples that Guale ex-militants provide to illustrate such cultural disputes often revolve around women: “A Malaitan . . . will come and say, ‘Give me ten thousand for taking my sister.’ This is not normal. . . . If you come here, you follow our culture” (interview with M).11 Another ex-militant cites the case of stepping over a Malaitan woman’s legs (for example, at a market place), which is forbidden under Malaitan kastom and will attract demands for compensation (G, interview with G, J, and L; also see Burt 1994, 33). The most cited cultural respect grievance is the murders and alleged murders of Guales by Malaitans. Ex-militants would often employ the expression “being treated like animals.” For example, in an interview with an Australian journalist in 2003, Harold Keke stated, “The Malaitans slaughtered us . . . the original inhabitants of this island. They . . . killed the innocent on the island, women, children, and men, like they were just animals. They cut their throats with knives, cut their stomachs open with knives” (Special Broadcasting Service 2003, 2). The cultural respect motive is sometimes conflated with land issues and the perceived dominance of employment and educational opportunities by Malaitans.12 The word “control” is frequently used by Guales when describing what they perceive as Malaitan dominance, not only of employment and educational opportunities, but also of Honiara itself and most of the northern part of Guadalcanal.13 In my casual conversations with young Guale people I noted a strong sense that by evicting the Malaitan settlers, they had reclaimed control of their island and they now felt it was much safer to move around. The most extreme articulation of anti-Malaitan sentiments argues that Malaitans were, and in fact still are, attempting to “take over” Guadalcanal. This argument is exemplified in the following excerpt from a focus group discussion with three former members of the GLF: J:

Actually what their real plan was, the Malaitans, they wanted to take over Guadalcanal and it’s not over yet. I have some information from somewhere indicating that’s still coming. They

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want to clean up Guadalcanal to make it look like town. That’s their real thinking. They think that the fight has not ended yet. They are not yet satisfied with the outcome. They want to take over the oil palm and Gold Ridge before they are finished. Have you heard this information? Yeh, I’ve heard it. Because that is their main aim and it’s still the case. (interview with G, J, and L)

For some of the Guale ex-militants, the cultural respect issue was the main reason they decided to take up arms. For example, tertiary-educated former IFM leader George Gray, in a paper presented at the Australian National University in 2002, stated, “However, the most important issue that inspired me to join the Guadalcanal militancy was what I perceived as the disrespect that settlers (especially Malaitans) had towards our people and our land. Since independence our people have been murdered, our cultural sites desecrated, our land settled without permission and our people have been treated as second-class citizens in the capital city, which is on our island” (Gray 2002, 4). Similarly D, a former member of the IFM, states, “The only reason I got involved was because I saw what had happened . . . over the past years with our wantoks being killed by other provinces. . . . They didn’t give any respect to us, the indigenous people of Guadalcanal. So that influenced me to join this group to stand up for the rights of the people of Guadalcanal and to tell them that we have to respect one another and if you are going to come and live with us, you have to respect our life and our kastom, the people of Guadalcanal” (interview with D). For others, the cultural respect grievance is proffered as the second main reason that they decided to join the Guale militancy, after the development equity grievance. According to G, a former member of the GLF, “Secondly, something which we do not agree with is the continuous killing of innocent Guadalcanal people. When they come in, they do not respect our culture, our norms, how we live. They do not respect our tambu places. So we regard this as a deprivation of our rights” (interview with G, J, and L). As mentioned above, the cultural respect grievance is sometimes conflated with land issues, perceived domination of educational and employment opportunities by Malaitans, and, at its most extreme, the belief that Malaitans were and still are attempting to “take over” Guadalcanal. It is hardly surprising then that some Guale ex-militants mention in their testimonies the need to control internal migration, particularly of people from other provinces who come into Honiara and other parts of Guadal-

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canal. The regulation of internal migration is one of the Bona Fide Demands and, as was seen in chapter 3, an issue that has been repeatedly raised by the people of Guadalcanal since the 1950s. According to the former IFM militant D, “The main idea behind the IFM was to make the government recognize the rights of the Guadalcanal people. . . . And also control the migration of people from other provinces who come and work in Guadalcanal, like [with] a law or a permit. . . . I think that’s the main thing that the IFM was trying to tell the government, that it must control migration of people who come and live in Guadalcanal because they just come without any permits or anything. They just come . . . and it causes disrespect and all sorts of things can happen” (interview with D). It is important to reiterate that the Guale ex-militants place the blame for what they refer to as the Ethnic Tension squarely at the feet of “the government.” They believe that successive colonial and postcolonial administrations have “wilfully ignored” their “legitimate demands,” particularly for greater constitutional autonomy, and when their demands were once again ignored by the Ulufa’alu government, they were left with no choice but to take up arms (“Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief,” appendix 2). When Harold Keke finally had the long-awaited “day in court” that had been promised to him by Nick Warner and Ben McDevitt (the first head of RAMSI’s policing component) at the time of his surrender and subsequent arrest in August 2003, he made a lengthy and somewhat rambling and disjointed statement about the root causes of the ethnic tension. However, “the government” is cited as the first and foremost cause: Averre: Okay. So can you tell us about the root causes? Keke: The reason why the war started on our island [was] because of the government, our reasons were because it was unfair, unfair to us. (Father Geve transcript, March 2, 2005, 10)

When asked why they decided to start harassing and evicting Malaitan settlers, the most common response from Guale ex-militants was that they did it to put pressure on the government to recognize and act upon “their” demands. When I asked former IFM militant M about the strategy behind trying to get the Malaitans to leave, his response was, “We want[ed] to show the government our grievances.” In this manner the Guale uprising was not primarily motivated by ethnic or cultural difference. Although the Guale ex-militants cite cultural differences with Malaitan settlers as an important cause of the conflict, the blame is placed on the government for not preventing, or at

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least regulating, the movement of people from other provinces into Honiara and other parts of Guadalcanal. Furthermore, the most important motive for the Guale ex-militants is the development equity issue: getting a “fair share” of the revenues flowing from primary resource developments on Guadalcanal. Again it is the government that is held responsible for the inequity suffered by the people of Guadalcanal. Thus, while Malaitan settlers were the victims of the uprising, the intended target audience was the government, not only the Ulufa’alu government of the day, but all colonial and postcolonial governments, “the government” in general, the government that has historically ignored and mistreated the people of Guadalcanal and the Weather Coast in particular. The IFM: Preserve and Protect The previous section touched upon the influence that the Gaena’alu Movement, formerly known as the Moro Movement, had on the ideology of many of the Guale militants. It appears that the rift that occurred between the IFM and the GLF had partly to do with the teachings of the movement, which were, generally speaking, embraced by the IFM but rejected by the GLF. Some Guale ex-militants go as far as saying that the movement provided their primary source of identity and cultural values. The current leaders of the movement are keen to stress that it did not start at the same time as the initial Guale uprising and that it was not a political or ideological arm of the GRA/IFM. When I met with Chief Moro and the movement’s president, Jerry Sabino, at the movement’s headquarters at Komuvaolu village on the eastern part of the Weather Coast, Moro, who passed away a few months later, was quite ill and left most of the talking to Sabino. Sabino went to considerable lengths to explain that the Gaena’alu Movement was not “behind” the Guale uprising. His opening statement was as follows: I like to make a clarification to everyone who comes here to find out about the movement because the movement has gained a name for being involved with and behind the ethnic tension. So I spoke out in the media and wrote to the Solomon Star in order to clarify the situation. The point is that the movement didn’t start at the time of the ethnic tension. The movement started way way back in the 1950s. It didn’t have any intentions to do anything against the government. It is a social movement, not a political movement. It is a social movement which aims to unite all of the natives of Guadalcanal so that we

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can come together and work together for the betterment of Guadalcanal island. (Interview with Jerry Sabino, April 19, 2006)

Sabino is clearly keen to disavow any involvement with any sort of political activities. He specifically distinguishes the movement’s objectives from those of Maasina Rule: “Maasina Rule is more like a political movement against the colonial government. They had intentions against the colonial government; they wanted to get rid of it and take back leadership and government of the Solomon Islands. But not the Moro Movement. It was a social movement because it was about people and it was about getting people to work together” (interview with Jerry Sabino, April 19, 2006). Sabino acknowledges Moro’s request to purchase freedom from the colonial government in 1965 but is careful to emphasize that it was a request for “freedom” as opposed to “independence.” According to Sabino, the request was motivated by Moro’s belief that Weather Coast people had been neglected and treated unfairly by the colonial administration, particularly as they were being “forced to work” on their own land. Moro therefore asked for freedom so that they could do things their “own way” (interview with Jerry Sabino, April 19, 2006). In chapter 3 we saw that when the Moro Movement was formed in the 1950s, it came into immediate conflict with not only the colonial authorities but also the church. The ongoing dynamic interactions among church, state, and traditional big-man politics can be seen as underlying drivers of the internecine conflict that occurred on the Weather Coast and the antecedent to the rift in the ranks of the Guale militants. Moreover, it appears that the Gaena’alu Movement has continued to play a central role in these dynamics. Before we consider the testimonies of the ex-militants relating to the Gaena’alu Movement, it is necessary to examine briefly the substance of the movement’s current philosophy and ideology. The movement continues to have a strong conservationist ethos that stresses the importance of protecting the land and all things on it. Its followers speak of a god called Ironggali, who is the ultimate protector of the land, Isatabu, and whose laws are enforced by the malaghai, or traditional warriors. As seen above in this chapter, adherents of the movement believe that good things come to those who respect the laws of the land, a belief that is often expressed in terms of abundance. The followers of the movement also speak about the land as their “mother,” an approach that is consistent with the matrilineal system practiced on Guadalcanal whereby women are regarded as the custodians of the land. To quote Jerry Sabino:

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We work basically on three factors. One is our land, second is our environment, and the third is the people. These are the factors which we hold onto strongly. Don’t destroy our land, don’t destroy our environment. . . . Those are the important areas. . . . Land is your mother; the environment, whatever grows on the land, nature, provides your life. Everything which grows on the land is useful and valuable for humans. So that’s what we have been doing. We are like this. All we have talked about is land, environment, and people. People must work together and preserve and protect your environment, preserve and protect your land. If you spoil it for the future, then we will all be finished. So the movement talks about preservation. Preserve the land, preserve the environment and the people. (Interview with Jerry Sabino, April 19, 2006)

These ideas are clearly articulated by some Guale ex-militants, particularly former members of the IFM (as opposed to the GLF). The IFM newsletter, Isatabu Tavuli, contains numerous articles in which exmilitants speak about land as their mother. Andrew Te’e, for example, published a series of three articles titled “Land Is Sacred to Me,” in which he discussed the need to uphold the kastom laws that govern the land: “I keep the divine laws of Isatabu not artificial and man-made laws brought here less than a hundred years ago. The environment and all the surrounds are my life. Everything in Isatabu is precious and sacred to me. I learn to look after her since I was a kid. The government and her laws are very young, she must come down, put herself down and respect mama Isatabu. The government and her friends must hear our cries for we own and belong to Isatabu. Thousands of years ancestors live in this land with a ‘Divine Law.’ The law of looking after, respecting and loving nature” (Te’e 2000). Another former member of the IFM, referred to here as K, similarly speaks about the need to “preserve and protect”; he explicitly states that the Gaena’alu Movement influenced the thinking of the IFM and that in fact it provides a cultural basis for Guale “citizenship”: MA: Do you think that the Gaena’alu Movement influenced your thinking at all? K: Mostly the Gaena’alu Movement has influenced us, because the Gaena’alu Movement is concerned with the culture of the island, Guadalcanal, and most of its teachings are about preservation, to preserve and protect. So that’s what we do, to

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Figure 4.1  IFM commander Andrew Te’e and his men at a roadblock near Honiara, June 2000. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

preserve and protect all of our resources. So we support the Gaena’alu Movement, and it supports us since we are people of Guadalcanal and the Gaena’alu Movement is established within Guadalcanal. And I think that this Gaena’alu Movement, when you are a citizen of Guadalcanal, you are in the movement because of culture, how you do things in the garden and your daily living. It . . . preaches good governance within the community. (Interview with K)

Another former member of the IFM, D, also talks about the relationship between the Gaena’alu Movement and Guale culture and identity, arguing that the philosophy of the movement should form the basis of the constitution for the proposed state of Guadalcanal: MA: Did it [the Gaena’alu Movement] influence your thinking as well?

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We are influenced by it because . . . it is a foundation of the lives and history of [us], the people of Guadalcanal. Lots of young people these days don’t know their own culture, and the Gaena’alu Movement shows them their identity and what we should be respecting. . . . I mean I have been influenced by the Gaena’alu Movement and I think that it is a right of the indigenous people of Guadalcanal, and the constitution of Guadalcanal should be from the foundation of the Gaena’alu Movement. (Interview with D)

As already discussed, the targeting and ultimate closure of the Gold Ridge mine during the Guale uprising can be seen, at least partly, in terms of the conservationist ethos of the Gaena’alu Movement. However, it would appear that the movement’s philosophy had a much broader impact on the motivations of some of the Guale militants in the sense that they perceived that the “Divine Laws” that protect the “motherland” were being transgressed and disregarded by outsiders and that it was therefore incumbent upon them as malaghai to attempt to redress the situation. Former IFM militant M, for example, regards himself as a “caretaker of the people and the resources,” and like the malaghai of old, he was “mandated from the tribal leaders” to fight to protect the island. He concluded our discussions by stating that the fighting was “not really political but more like spiritual because we [were] fighting for righteousness” (interview with M). A Weather Coast tribal leader similarly spoke of the Guale ex-militants, with the important exception of the GLF, as malaghai. He lamented the fact that some were now in prison “for the sake of the land” but conceded that Harold Keke and some of his followers were “unruly ones” who had acted “outside the scope of protecting the land” (interview with S). The GLF: Only God We Trust In contrast to the IFM, the former members of the GLF claim that they were not in any way influenced by the Gaena’alu Movement. The kastom-oriented ideology of the movement is starkly contrasted with their belief in a Christian God. When an Australian journalist met Harold Keke in July 2003, he was leading the Sunday morning prayers at Mbiti village: “This morning I want to remind you boys in the GLF that we must have faith in God. Only then will we reach our goal, the Holy Land” (cited in Special Broadcasting Service 2003, 2).14 The testimonies of former members of the GLF contained in documents associated with the

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Figure 4.2 Harold Keke (center, hands clasped) and GLF militants pray before heading out on a boat patrol from Mbiti village, Weather Coast, July 2003. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

Tension Trials contain frequent references to God. Ronny Cawa, for example, concludes his unsworn statement in the Six Melanesian Brothers case by saying “Let the will of God prevail in this nation and not your will or my will” (Six Melanesian Brothers transcript, September 12, 2005, 1027). Similarly, Francis Lela, who was convicted, along with Keke and Cawa, for the murder of Father Geve, stated in his interview with police that the GLF members were a “religious people” and therefore did not drink alcohol, smoke, or chew betel nut (RAMSI record of interview with Francis Lela, October 2, 2003, 19). The strongest rejection of the Gaena’alu Movement and concomitant endorsement of God as the alternative source of spiritual inspiration comes from an interview that I conducted with three former members of the GLF. When I asked about the Gaena’alu Movement, there was some confusion about what I was talking about. I had an impression that this confusion was to some extent feigned. The relevant excerpt from the transcript is as follows: MA: So do you take any ideas from the Gaena’alu Movement? J: Gaena’alu? G: Moro’s movement, Moro, Moro. J: In terms of my area, this area around here, I’m not interested in the Moro Movement because I have found out that the Moro Movement has never worked. It does not exist at the moment. Before, during the colonial times, it worked, but not now. That’s what I think. G: We don’t depend on it.

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We don’t depend on that movement. What we depend on is . . . only God we trust. (Interview with G, J, and L; my emphasis)

There is some evidence to suggest that the rift among the Guale militants started to develop as early as July 1999, when journalists witnessed hostility between members of the GRA, led by George Gray and Joseph Sangu, and the IFF (the precursor to the IFM), led by Andrew Te’e, at a time when the two groups encountered each other near Balasuna, east of Honiara (Fraenkel 2004, 69–70). The former were dressed in military fatigues, while the latter, who were described as “stronger” and “more militant,” were wearing kabilato (bark loincloth) (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 70). While Te’e, Sangu, and Gray all signed the TPA, it was only Te’e who became involved in operations against Harold Keke, and it is alleged that Te’e was more strongly influenced by the Gaena’alu Movement than either Sangu or Gray (interview with Henry Tobani, July 11, 2006). The wearing of kabilato is frequently identified with membership in or adherence to the Gaena’alu Movement (Fraenkel 2004, 55; Herlihy 2003, 25–26), though this is contested by the movement’s president, who claims that the IFM members wore kabilato as a form of uniform, a way of identifying themselves and distinguishing themselves from the MEF, and that it did not signify that the movement had “gone into fight” (interview with Jerry Sabino, April 19, 2006). As well as wearing kabilato, the Guale militants used traditional magic, called vele, against their enemies. According to George Gray, “Special betel nut limes and clubs (ghai tabu) were blessed and used as weapons to weaken and confuse enemy soldiers” (2002, 9). Guale ex-militants also claimed to be able to make themselves invisible and to travel around the island in a matter of minutes (interview with M). According to former IFM spokesman Henry Tobani, Keke lost all confidence in the magic of the Gaena’alu Movement when it failed to prevent him from being wounded and subsequently arrested, and when another member of his group was killed, as a result of the shootout with police near Tulagi in December 1998. From that time on Keke thought that “only God could protect him” (interview with Henry Tobani, July 11, 2006). The “tribal fight” on the Weather Coast is widely regarded by people from all parts of Guadalcanal, and from both sides in the conflict, as having been waged between former IFM militant Andrew Te’e (with the assistance of the Police Field Force under the auspices of the Joint Operation and with the alleged backing of Ezekiel Alebua), who adhered to the Gaena’alu Movement, and Harold Keke and his GLF, who followed lotu (church) ways. According to some former members of the GLF, the

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conflict between Te’e and Keke started as a struggle for the control of the eastern region of Guadalcanal from around mid-2000. To quote from an interview with former GLF militants: J:

G: J:

Here in this eastern region, we had our own commanders, but he [Te’e] came in and tried to lead us. It wasn’t us, our people, who selected him; it was him and his boys. But what we knew was that Harold Keke ran the eastern region and Jo Sangu ran the western region. That’s what we knew. We were under Harold Keke in the eastern region. So after the raid, Harold Keke came down here and he heard that there was another commander here.15 That was Andrew Te’e. Andrew Te’e really messed everything up for us in the eastern region. He spoiled everything. He took his boys around and made demands of innocent people in the villages. Demanding money and things like that. So from that time we started to hate each other, even though we were fighting together. We started to split. The boys started to hate the other side. And that movement, that had never operated around here, that Moro Movement. . . .  We did not adopt it. We did not adopt it. Andrew Te’e with his [unclear], they brought in the Moro Movement. Some of them died at Alligator Creek after a big desert storm MEF joint operation. (Interview with G, J, and L)

This version of events is contested by others, including former IFM militant K, who contends that when Andrew Te’e became a Special Constable following the TPA, the government used him to search for Harold Keke because of his knowledge of the geography of the Weather Coast. In this account, the blame for the “tribal fight” on the Weather Coast is placed entirely on Harold Keke. According to K, Harold Keke became a criminal and we all thought that we must work together to find him and put him in jail so that we could all get on with our lives. Harold Keke was going around our village making demands, claiming property and doing all sorts of things which were against our kastom and against our law. That’s why we all agreed to work together to search for Harold. . . . There weren’t any problems aside from the problems that Keke was causing on the Weather Coast. There weren’t any particular problems between Harold Keke

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and Andrew Te’e. They were not enemies. That is bullshit. I don’t know anything about that. (Interview with K)

The Townsville Peace Agreement: To Sign or Not to Sign? The reasons cited by ex-militants both for and against signing the TPA provide important insights into the causes for which they were originally fighting. The TPA crystallized the rifts that had been developing in the ranks of the Guale militants and marked the separation of the GLF from the IFM. Former members of the GLF allege that the IFM “sold out”; that Alebua and the national government paid the IFM commanders to sign the TPA and later financed the SC/RSIP Joint Operation against the GLF. These allegations remain unproven. As already mentioned, the TPA committed the national government to establishing a Constitutional Council to “rewrite the Constitution which will provide for more autonomy to provinces” (Solomon Islands Government 2000, part 4, paragraph 1[b]). Part 4 of the TPA also charged the national government with the establishment of a commission of inquiry into acquisitions of land on Guadalcanal by non-Guadalcanal persons prior to October 1, 1998 (Solomon Islands Government 2000, part 4, paragraph 3). The Bona Fide Demands are specifically mentioned under the paragraph heading “Infrastructure Projects,” though in a rather ambiguous manner (Solomon Islands Government 2000, part 4, paragraph 5[d]). Former members of the IFM who signed, or supported the signing of, the TPA claim they did so because their demands had been included in the agreement and they felt confident that the government would address them. For example, when I asked former IFM member K why the IFM signed the TPA he responded, “We decided to sign it because when we negotiated the peace, all of our demands went into the agreement. We hoped that if we put in our demands and our conditions, the government would address them quickly. That’s what we thought when we signed it. We also recognized that it was pointless to continue fighting because only the government had the answer to our problems. . . . So that was a main reason why we decided to sign the agreement. We trusted that the government would do what we wanted” (interview with K). Former members of the GLF state that they refused to sign the TPA because the original objectives of the “war” had not been achieved. Harold Keke dedicates considerable attention to this issue during his

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evidence in the Father Geve case (Father Geve transcript March 2, 2005, 9–17). Keke claims that the Guale militants who signed the TPA had been “paid off” by Alebua and that Alebua and former prime minister Kemakeza “masterminded” the SC/RSIP operation to hunt him down. When asked directly about the TPA, Keke states, “No I refused to go. What we stood for, we stand for we hadn’t yet seen yet, lots of men had died but we still hadn’t seen what we, what we hoped for. These are the things that we were not happy with and that’s why the war started on this, on the island of Guadalcanal” (Father Geve transcript March 2, 2005, 15). G, a former member of the GLF, expresses similar sentiments and allegations: “When we separated, we separated into the GLF and the IFM. Those of us who supported the GLF, we were the ones who still supported the original demands of Guadalcanal. The people who left to join up to make peace . . . one thing at that time is that the government gave them a lot of money. Gave them money. And this money changed their thinking and turned them against us. We were still in the bush and still struggling to follow the will of the people of this island” (interview with G, J, and L). As mentioned above, it appears that the leaders and followers of the GLF increasingly reduced the Bona Fide Demands to the issues of “state government” and the “rights of the people of Guadalcanal.” Both Keke and his right-hand man, Ronny Cawa, focus on the issue of state government in their testimonies during the Father Geve and Six Melanesian Brothers cases respectively, while their young followers mostly talk about fighting for the rights of their people. At the same time that the articulations of the Guale cause were becoming weaker and less scrutable, the incidence and intensity of criminal behavior on the part of both the GLF and the SC/RSIP were increasing to the extent that criminal gratification was evidently becoming a key driver of the ongoing conflict on the Weather Coast. The Tasi Mauri “Tribal Fight” Most of the former members of the IFM who signed the TPA were subsequently recruited into the government-sponsored Special Constables scheme. Some of these men, under the leadership of Andrew Te’e, teamed up with their former adversaries in the Police Field Force to form the SC/ RSIP Joint Operation against Harold Keke. Actions by the Joint Operation from early 2001 pushed Keke and his men farther and farther west

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along the Weather Coast, and as they moved farther west, their crimes became increasingly brutal and bizarre. Members of the Joint Operation are also accused of committing violent crimes, including rape and sexual assault, against innocent villagers on the Weather Coast.16 Both the GLF and the Joint Operation recruited new followers from villages on the Weather Coast, many of whom claim that they were “forced” to join up. A detailed account of the Tasi Mauri conflict is beyond the scope of this book. However, it is important to note that criminal and material gratification clearly contributed to the durability of the conflict on the Weather Coast. As noted above, the crimes committed by Keke and some of his followers were particularly brutal and included torture, murder, and rape. Keke engaged in cultist practices, forcing people to worship him in church. He declared certain days of the week as “Harold’s Day,” which had to be treated as Sabbath days. Other rules prohibited people from leaving their villages or going to Honiara without his permission. The punishment for breaching Harold’s rules could be severe. At Kuma village, I was told that several men who were caught fishing on Harold’s Day were taken to the GLF base at Inokona and severely beaten with rocks and rifle butts (interview with BK). A letter written by community leaders at Peochakuri village (near Inokona) to the chairman of the National Peace Council, with the subject “A Brief History of Ethnic Tension (South Guadalcanal),” outlines the types of atrocities suffered by the communities of the central and western parts of the Weather Coast during Keke’s nineteen-month “reign of terror” (appendix 1). Documents associated with the Tension Trials corroborate and prove many of the allegations made against Keke and other members of the GLF by villagers at Peochakuri and elsewhere on the Weather Coast. Guale people from the Weather Coast and elsewhere describe the Tasi Mauri conflict as a “tribal fight” between Andrew Te’e and Ezekiel Alebua, on the one hand, and Harold Keke, on the other. As mentioned above, Te’e is widely regarded as having been influenced by the Gaena’alu Movement, while Keke followed lotu (church) ways. Some people go as far as saying that the Gaena’alu Movement actually sided with Andrew Te’e and provided new recruits to the SC/RSIP Joint Operation (interview with BK). While Andrew Te’e was clearly influenced by the movement’s philosophy and ideology, Alebua has a history of opposition to the movement, as did his father, Dominiko Alebua, who had been a Catholic catechist, government headman, and taovia (traditional bigman) at Haimarao on the Weather Coast (see Kabutaulaka 2002b). Ezekiel Alebua captured a parliamentary seat in 1980 from the Moro Move-

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ment’s preferred candidate and incumbent MP and subsequently sought to counter the movement’s influence in southeast Guadalcanal, just as his father had done in the 1960s and 1970s (Kabutaulaka 1990, 60). If it were the case that Alebua and Te’e sided with the Gaena’alu Movement in a material sense, it would represent a disjuncture from Alebua’s previous hostility toward the movement. However, such a move would not be without precedent when seen in the context of the shifting alliances and allegiances that have characterized the history of tribal fighting and big-man politics on the Weather Coast (see Bennett 1974, 30–35; Kabutaulaka 2002a, 81). Compulsion Many of the young men who participated in the fighting on the Weather Coast claim that they were forced to join either the GLF or the SC/RSIP Joint Operation. If an individual did not join the group that was active in his particular area, he was open to accusations of spying for or consorting with the enemy. Such accusations could have lethal consequences. In chapter 2 we noted that in June 2003 two young men from the village of Marasa in the western part of the Weather Coast were forced to eat money and kick one another before being beaten to death by members of the GLF as punishment for allegedly assisting the Joint Operation (Marasa judgment). Furthermore, it has been proven in court that six tasius (Melanesian Brothers) were brutally murdered by members of the GLF in April 2003 for allegedly spying for the government (Six Melanesian Brothers judgment), and five members of the GLF have been found guilty of the murder of Brother Nathaniel Sado, who was beaten to death in February 2003, also for allegedly spying for the government (Brother Sado judgment). Two of the young men who were convicted for murder in the Six Melanesian Brothers case, Owen Isa and Joses Kejoa, invoked the defense of compulsion. They argued that they had no choice but to join the GLF because they believed that the Joint Operation was trying to kill them and that having joined the GLF, they were threatened with death if they did not follow the instructions of “General Keke” and his “Supreme Operations Commander” Ronny Cawa (Six Melanesian Brothers transcript, September 13, 2003, 1041–1047, 1058–1059; September 14, 1108–1111, 1138.) The widespread allegations that Keke killed a number of his own “boys” for insubordination, coupled with his generally brutal treatment of disobedience, lend significant weight to the second part of their defense. However, the court rejected the first part of their

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argument, finding that they had voluntarily joined a violent criminal gang and that in doing so, they could reasonably expect to be compelled to commit violent crime (Six Melanesian Brothers judgment). In the sentencing of the man known as “K,” who, along with Cawa, was found guilty of the murder of Brother Patterson Gatu (one of the six Melanesian Brothers killed in April 2003) but was brought to trial separately as he was a juvenile, being only fourteen and a half years old at the time of the murder, the judge did take into account a number of mitigating circumstances.17 One was that as a young person, K was caught up in circumstances under which his ability to exercise free will was compromised. According to the judgment, The circumstances in which the offense was committed was a period of violence and armed conflict. As a young person you were given very little choice. It was a question of survival and deciding who to support and where to go; most unfair choices for a young person to be exposed to. You were exposed into that situation by others older and who ought to have been more responsible but instead decided to take up violence as the means to achieve their goals and shed innocent blood. I view that as a mitigating factor in your case. It would have been different if the situation was normal and you elected to take up life as a criminal and resort to violence. (Regina v. K [2006] SBHC 53)

Another mitigating circumstance was that K was compelled to follow the orders of Keke and Cawa. To quote again from the judgment: The area you lived in was one of the worst areas in Guadalcanal under the control of the notorious war lord, Harold Keke (“Harold”) and his band of followers. Harold exerted a cult like authority and following and everyone was expected to follow his orders to the letter. What he says was the law. Anyone who questioned them were shot, tortured or beaten up. Those immediately below him, like Cawa also exerted much influence and control over those below them. In this instance, it has never been in dispute that the orders to kill Br. Gatu came from Cawa who says in turn that his orders came from Harold. Again I find this to be a mitigating factor in your favour. You were never really in control of your life from the beginning although as has been conceded by yourself, this was a voluntary decision taken by yourself when you decided to join up with Harold’s group and aligned yourself with their aims and goals. The decision to kill Br. Gatu however was

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never one taken by yourself in your own initiative. You were following orders. I take that into account. (Regina v. K [2006] SBHC 53)

In spite of the differing approaches of the courts to the issue of compulsion, it was clearly an important factor in the conflict on the Weather Coast. Indeed, when I was on the Weather Coast, I was told time and time again that people had no choice but to support whichever group was active in their area at any particular time. Weather Coast people were powerless to resist, particularly as members of both the GLF and the SC/RSIP Joint Operation repeatedly demonstrated their willingness to employ violence against innocent people. Compulsion was also an issue during the earlier “mini-ethnic tension” that took place at Marau Sound, which demarcates the eastern limit of the Weather Coast. Birao-speaking informants in the Marau area claim that they were forced to support the Guale militancy against the ’Are’are-speaking people who occupy the offshore islands and parts of the Guadalcanal mainland, despite the fact that the two groups had coexisted peacefully for several generations.18 Although Joseph Sangu was the first IFM commander to conduct “operations” in the area, he was followed by Andrew Te’e and Harold Keke, whose power struggle had already started to play out in what was to become a familiar pattern along the Weather Coast. This back-and-forth process is exemplified in the following excerpt from my interview with a Birao-speaking chief from Marau: MA: At the beginning of the tension did the Weather Coast guys come here? S: Yes they came here. . . . They tried to convince us and organize us to form groups and join the militants. You must choose leaders, especially [from among] we the chiefs, they wanted us [the chiefs] to become commanders. So we started to do it. But we were doing it out of fear. It wasn’t really from the heart. Because we didn’t have any weapons to fight with. They already had weapons, but we didn’t. So we were just following their commands. If we didn’t, they would have started threatening and doing bad things to us. So that’s why we did it. Two separate groups. One belonging to Andrew Te’e and one belonging to Harold Keke. . . . They didn’t work together. So we didn’t know which group we should join. When one group came, we would join it. And once it had gone and the other group came in, we would join it as well.

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This chapter has presented and analyzed the voices of Guale ex-militants with a view to interrogating the reasons why they decided to participate in one or more phases of the conflict on Guadalcanal. The most important motive for the Guale ex-militants is development equity: getting a “fair share” of the economic benefits flowing from primary resource developments on Guadalcanal. The development equity issue is the main driver of the autonomy or statehood agenda. Moreover, while the exmilitants cite cultural differences with Malaitan settlers as an important cause of the conflict, they blame “the government” for not preventing, or at least regulating, the movement of Malaitans into Honiara and the adjacent parts of north Guadalcanal. It has been seen that the kastom-based ideology of the Gaena’alu Movement had a profound influence on the thinking of many former members of the IFM and was in fact a key point of difference between the IFM and the GLF, with members of the latter group rejecting the teachings of the movement in favor of an explicitly Christian ideology. Many of the former IFM militants regard themselves as malaghai, traditional protectors of the motherland and its people, and enforcers of the “Divine Law.” It is acknowledged that the articulations of the Guale cause became progressively less cogent as the conflict changed and evolved. The weakest articulations come from the testimonies of the young men who joined the GLF, many of whom may well have been primarily motivated by criminal gratification, thrill seeking, or, an important consideration, compulsion. Compulsion may also have influenced men to join the SC/ RSIP Joint Operation against the GLF and was an issue during the conflict at Marau as well. There are unsubstantiated allegations that IFM commanders were paid to surrender at Townsville and subsequently to fight against the GLF as Special Constables. It is important to reiterate that members of the GRA/IFM, the GLF, and the SC/RSIP Joint Operation benefited in a pecuniary and material sense from the demands with menace, theft, and extortion, which characterized all phases of the conflict on Guadalcanal and became most rampant during the conflict on the Weather Coast. Many also perpetrated violent interpersonal crimes, including rape and sexual assault. Most of the men who initiated the Guale uprising originate from the remote, isolated, and historically neglected and underdeveloped Weather Coast of Guadalcanal. They have consistently articulated their grievances in terms of development equity and cultural respect. In many cases, they locate these two issues in a broader historical narrative concerning perceived inequities and the disadvantaged position of their

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people in the processes of colonization, state building, and development. Their ideologies also draw variously from kastom and the Christian church. It will be seen in chapter 6 that young Guale people remain deeply aggrieved. Many of them believe that the government’s continued failure to address their long-standing demands, particularly the key demand of state government, will inevitably result in another “war.”

C h a pt e r 5

Saving the Solomons: The Malaita Eagle Force

During the hard times, big rains, thunderstorms, it was only the Malaita Eagle Force that secured the town. If it wasn’t for the Malaita Eagle Force, Solomon Islands would not be a nation and Honiara would have been burned down. (C, interview with C, L, and others)

T

his chapter considers the motives of the men who joined the Malaita Eagle Force (MEF) from the time of its formation in the latter part of 1999. As was the case in chapter 4, the primary focus is upon the voices of the ex-militants—rank-and-file members of the MEF and also some “field commanders” and former members of the RSIP—as opposed to the politicians and businessmen who constituted the MEF Supreme Command.1 Although the MEF was formally disbanded after the TPA in October 2000, Honiara remained under the control of the MEF/RSIP Joint Operation. Many former members of the MEF remained armed and became involved in the internecine conflicts that played out in Honiara, around Auki, and in north Malaita. Their activities also became increasingly driven by pecuniary gain, as evidenced by the high incidence of theft, extortion, and demands with menace perpetrated by former members of the MEF, particularly in Honiara. In the drunken headiness of the post-Townsville environment, guns and ex-militants mixed with patronage politics as political elites competed for the ever-dwindling resources of the state. Although the post-Townsville period is referred to, the main focus of this chapter is why men from Malaita originally decided to join and fight with the MEF from late 1999. Most of them frame their motives in terms of the need to “secure,” “defend,” and “protect” Honiara, which 137

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had become a Malaitan enclave following the land evictions of late 1998 and early 1999. Implicit in this perspective is the failure of the RSIP to deal adequately with the Guale militants, including the allegation that various “conspirators” actively prevented it from doing so, and the failure of the Ulufa’alu government to address adequately the Bona Fide Demands of Guadalcanal Province and to do enough to “help Malaita.” It was therefore incumbent upon Malaitans to seize control of the punitive arm of the state in order to secure and protect Honiara and, in fact, to “save” Solomon Islands. Some of the Malaitan ex-militants locate the objective of saving the nation in a deeper historical narrative of Malaitan inequality and the role of Malaitans in “building” Solomon Islands. They are keenly aware of the historical neglect and underdevelopment of Malaita and of the concomitant history of Malaitan men leaving their island to work elsewhere—overseas during the overseas labor trade era and, since the early colonial period, at the resource development enclaves in other parts of the country, particularly in the western islands, the Russell Islands, and on north Guadalcanal. For some ex-militants, the Malaitan micronationalist narrative, with its roots in the plantation labor experience, includes the belief that Malaitans have been “feared” and “hated” by colonial and independence governments and by other Solomon Islanders. Many regard themselves as members of a reviled underclass of workers who, in spite of their historical mistreatment and victimization, have contributed more than their fair share to “developing” Solomon Islands. They feel that having built the country, it was their role to save it from destruction at the hands of the Guale militancy, a hamstrung police force, and an incompetent national government. Self-defense is proffered as the key modus operandi of the MEF. Nevertheless, retribution was also clearly an important objective for many of the men who joined the militancy, some of whom specifically refer to it as such. Indeed, it appears likely that retribution may in fact have been the underlying motivation for many of the Malaitan militants, with the rhetoric of self-defense employed as a means to achieve legitimacy. In their testimonies, Malaitan ex-militants refer extensively to the wrongs committed against Malaitans by the Guale militants. In particular they highlight acts of sexual assault, murder, and incidents of “swearing,” all of which are serious affronts to Malaitan kastom.2 It is interesting that the Guadalcanal cause is regarded as legitimate in the sense that the Guales were quite entitled to ask the Malaitans to leave. However, it is argued that the GRA/IFM went too far, such that it became necessary not only to protect Malaitans but also to seek retribu-

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tion. Indeed, it appears that the violent offensive actions of the MEF/ RSIP Joint Operation following the raiding of the national armory on June 5, 2000, certainly went beyond any reasonable requirement for defense and protection. As is the case with the testimonies of the Guale ex-militants, we must be aware of the tendency for bias in the Malaitan ex-militants’ portrayals of their actions and motives. We must note that their emphasis is placed on victimization by the Guale militancy and the failure of the government to respond appropriately—embedded in many cases in a historical narrative of grievance—as opposed to the pursuit of material or criminal gratification. There are some correctives to this subjectivity. There is some evidence to suggest that some of “the boys” may have been paid to sign up in the MEF.3 There is also some limited evidence pointing to thrill seeking as an important motive for some Malaitan ex-militants. Like their Guale counterparts, some Malaitan ex-militants seek to shift the responsibility for their actions onto their big-men, in this case the members of the Supreme Command. They allege that members of the parliamentary opposition during the Ulufa’alu government, who were closely associated with men who were later to become senior figures in the MEF, conspired to stir up trouble on Guadalcanal in order to destabilize Ulufa’alu’s coalition. It is further alleged that these men deliberately interfered with the operations of the RSIP in order to increase pressure on Ulufa’alu, worsening the situation for Malaita in the process, and that the Supreme Command kept its political agenda hidden from the rank-and-file members of the MEF, an agenda that was ultimately achieved with the removal of the Ulufa’alu government on June 5, 2000. It is argued, therefore, that the MEF leaders deliberately created the conditions that would later motivate men to join the MEF and that they did so for their own political and economic benefit (also see Braithwaite et al. 2010, 28–30). As discussed in chapter 2, the various incarnations of this conspiracy theory are not entirely implausible when considered in the context of an elitist postcolonial political culture that has been characterized by patronage and corruption and has been closely associated with the rapacious logging industry. Such a political culture creates strong incentives for members of parliament to join the executive (i.e., the government) at all costs, incentives that were perhaps threatened by the Solomon Islands Alliance for Change (SIAC) government’s reform agenda and frustrated by the failure of repeated attempts to remove Ulufa’alu by constitutional means. It must also be recalled that Solomon Mamaloni,

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the chief architect and finest exponent of this political culture, was the leader of the parliamentary opposition until his death in early 2000. While some of those who joined may have been motivated by greed or thrill seeking, the testimonies of former Malaitan militants point to self-defense and retaliation as the key motives. Retribution is an enduring feature of many Melanesian societies, and it was seen in chapter 1 that the practice of retribution, usually in the form of compensation but occasionally revenge killing, continues to be widespread on Malaita. The actions of the GRA/IFM—which were themselves partly motivated by revenge and retribution—were interpreted by many former Malaitan militants as an assault on Malaitan kastom necessitating retribution. Furthermore, the Malaitan ex-militants locate their stories in a broader historical narrative of Malaitan identity, in which they see themselves both as victims and as saviors. As is the case with their Guale counterparts, their actions and ways of thinking are strongly informed by a sense of shared Malaitan history, experience, and grievance, a collective Malaitan political consciousness. Self-Defense, Retribution, and Political Objectives Former field commanders and rank-and-file members of the MEF are consistent in their portrayals of the victimization of Malaitan settlers by the Guale militants. There is, however, disagreement concerning the objectives that arose from this victimization. Although most ex-militants are careful to describe their motives in terms of defense rather than offense, some are quite forthright in describing the need for vengeance and retribution. Another difference revolves around military as opposed to political objectives. Some ex-militants state that the main objective was purely strategic, to “secure” Honiara from incursions by the IFM, while others are explicit about the need to remove the Ulufa’alu government because of its failure to address the legitimate compensation requests of both Guadalcanal and Malaita Provinces. Some ex-militants claim that the removal of Ulufa’alu was a “hidden” objective of the MEF Supreme Command. Affronts to Malaitan Kastom: Murder, Swearing, and Sexual Violence Most Malaitan ex-militants with whom I spoke commenced their discussion of why they became involved with the MEF by describing the victimization of “their” people at the hands of the Guale militancy. As well

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as describing the general harassment and eviction of Malaitan settlers and the subsequent hardships endured by the displaced in temporary camps and shelters in Honiara and back on Malaita, they consistently raised a number of specific types of offensive incidents. These incidents relate to three matters that are of great significance to Malaitan kastom: murder, swearing, and sexual indecency. While some ex-militants witnessed such incidents, most report on the “stories” that were circulating at the time. As can be expected with such secondhand accounts, the precise facts tend to vary. The widely publicized insult that Malaitans were born of dogs’ sperm, for example, is variously attributed in the accounts of Malaitan ex-militants to Harold Keke, Tarcisius Kabutaulaka, and George Gray.4 What is important, however, is that this insult is mentioned in the context of various assaults on Malaitan kastom by Guale militants: “And then Keke went out in the Solomon Islands media and even TV and called us Malaitans dog sperm. That’s when we started to think about things, because under our kastom on Malaita when he called us dog sperm, all the young boys here in north Malaita decided to form that group [the MEF]” (interview with C, L, and others). Malaitan ex-militants also talk about Malaitan settlers who were allegedly murdered during the land evictions, highlighting in particular atrocities such as the burying of people alive and decapitations. Most attention, however, is paid to acts of sexual violence, particularly the rape of women while their husbands, fathers, and brothers were forced to watch or participate. For many, these acts were the most serious possible kind of provocation, as shown in the following excerpt from an interview with “HG,” who claimed to be “closely associated” with the MEF: MA: So in your opinion why did they decide to fight? Why did they decide to start the MEF? HG: Because Guadalcanal started it. They were doing rapes. [Unclear]. They were raping Malaitan girls. That made Malaitans angry. They were forcing Malaitan men to fuck other Malaitan men’s wives at gunpoint in front of their husbands. That’s what they were doing. That’s why the Malaitans became cross. They also killed some Malaitans. It was these things which made Malaitans angry: rape, swearing. These things break the kastom of Malaita. There were incidents where Guadalcanal militants gang-raped Malaitan girls whilst holding their fathers at gunpoint. These things break the Malaitan kastom. . . . Guadalcanal started it. . . . The main thing which broke the kastom of

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Malaita was the raping of women in front of their husbands at gunpoint. (HG, interview with RO and HG)

A former MEF field commander similarly highlights acts of sexual violence as the main reason why he decided to join the MEF: All right, one thing that really touched my heart. One day, I don’t remember the day, we went down to the west side, west Guadalcanal, the White River bridge. We were standing there. At that time the Malaitan people were chased out of the west side, and you know Kakabona and the IFM have their bunkers on the other side of Kakabona; they put their bunkers there and they tell all the Malaitans to go back to their island. I see one family there. They are from Malaita, I don’t know where. A mother and her husband, with their daughter. They were stripped. They were stripped by the Guadalcanal militants. And they were crying. And I could remember the [Catholic] sisters at Tanagai. They got some clothes and covered them up. That comes up from my mind that, look, these people, if they were not Malaitans, they could not treat them like this. . . . They were innocent, but [they could treat them like this] because they were Malaitans, and these Guadalcanal people they hate us Malaitans and they want us chased out of this island. Just because they were Malaitans, that is why they were stripped. And when they walked past us, I asked them what happened, and they even forced the father to go with his own daughter. That’s exactly what happened there. And they pushed their fingers into the private parts of that young girl and that woman, and they give it to the father and they say smell it; that’s how you Malaitans smell. That’s what really strikes my mind. Those are the hidden things. Nobody knows about that thing yet. So from there I made up my mind, this is no more. This is no more. (interview with H)

Secure, Defend, and Protect Most Malaitan ex-militants whom I interviewed claim that the actions of the Guale militants motivated them to respond in order to defend Malaitans by securing and defending Honiara. Some even say that they were concerned about Guale militants coming across to Malaita and attacking people in coastal areas, and in that sense, they wanted to defend the island itself (interview with C, L, and others). Although the word “retaliate” is frequently used, it is usually presented as “defensive” retaliation. The following excerpt from an interview with a former member of the

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MEF exemplifies this framing of retaliation while again highlighting the importance of sexual violence as a serious affront to Malaitan kastom: We did not plan to do anything against our neighbor. But because of what they did, they attacked our people and chased them away without any notice. . . . Like me, they kidnapped my brother and killed him. . . . And they would go into family homes and have sex with women and girls. They would force the man to watch at gunpoint whilst his wife and daughters were gang-raped. They would even force the son to go with his sister. That is what they were doing, and it made us very angry because it was breaking our culture. . . . These things made us very cross, and we retaliated in order to defend our people. Not only our people, because we knew that what they were doing would affect people from other provinces as well, so we were protecting the whole town. Otherwise they would have come and destroyed the town. The police did not take action because they were afraid. We waited for them to do something but nothing happened. At the same time we were also looking to the government to respond to the situation. But even the government was not responding. (Interview with T; my emphasis)

Figure 5.1  MEF militants in a trench during fighting at Henderson Field on the outskirts of Honiara, June 2000. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

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The above excerpt raises a number of other important matters. First is the issue of Malaitans being evicted without notice.5 Many exmilitants and other Malaitans state that it is “fair enough” that the Guales wanted Malaitan settlers to leave. There is a degree of empathy with the Guale grievances concerning land and settlement. Former national parliamentarian Reverend Michael Maeliau, for example, writes that the Malaitan settlers retreated with “calm and self-restraint” because they knew that Guale people had “a Cause worth fighting for” (Maeliau 2003, 24; also see Kwa’ioloa and Burt 2007, 115, 177).6 He notes that the Guale cause in relation to land is “legitimate” and also that wherever Malaitans have settled in other provinces, they have been regarded as aggressive and domineering (Maeliau 2003, 26–33).7 “RO,” a Malaitan who claims to have been “closely associated” with the MEF, echoes these sentiments concerning land and the disrespect shown by Malaitan settlers toward Guale culture: Malaitans . . . had bought land, a small block of land, but they moved the boundaries and extended the blocks. The Guales started to recognize this: “They only paid for a small piece of land, but now they are occupying a large block.” So they started to form their group. Because if you insult a Malaitan, he will fight you immediately. So they were afraid of that as well. So the Malaitans staying there did not respect Guale culture. You swear at a Malaitan, he will fight you immediately. The Guales realized that those Malaitans were expanding their blocks of land and became concerned that they were trying to take over the island. So they formed their committee with their premier and formed a group whose objective was to chase the Malaitans out of Guadalcanal. (Interview with RO and HG)

While the Guale cause is regarded by some Malaitans as legitimate, most would agree that Malaitan settlers were given insufficient notice and that the Guale militants went “too far” with the use of force.8 According to Clive Moore, “Looking back, it is interesting to see how meekly the Malaitans had left Honiara in 1998–99: it was as though they sensed it was not their land and that, faced with a similar incursion on Malaita, they would do the same as the Guale had done. But the Guale militants went too far and transgressed basic cultural codes” (2004, 125).9 Another issue raised in the excerpt from my interview with T is the perceived failure of the police and the government to respond adequately to the victimization of Malaitans and to the Guale uprising more broadly. This perception touches upon the question of why it took more

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than a year for Malaitans to “retaliate.” Evidence that a rival militia force to the GRA/IFM was forming began to emerge from mid-1999, by which time most of the non-indigenous settlers had already been evicted from rural Guadalcanal (Fraenkel 2004, 77–78). However, as stated in chapter 2, the situation in the latter part of 1999 remained tense, and there were continuing outbursts of violence. Many Malaitans believe that political interference with the operations of the RSIP prevented the police from suppressing the Guale militancy.10 As mentioned above, Police Commissioner Frank Short resigned in the face of increasing criticism from the media, the parliamentary opposition, and Sitiveni Rabuka, the Commonwealth envoy who brokered the Honiara Peace Accord.11 However, many Malaitans, including those in the RSIP, considered that Frank Short was doing a good job.12 Former RSIP officer “P,” who was involved in a police operation to dismantle the GRA/IFM bunker in Kakabona on the western outskirts of Honiara in early June 1999, states that the police were recalled as a result of political interference that ultimately resulted in Frank Short’s resignation about a month later: P:

Then Frank Short told us to dismantle the bunker at Kakabona and to shoot over their heads. We stayed at Kakabona for the whole weekend until Tuesday, when we were called to came back. It was because of political. . . . The governor-general, the man who is governor-general today [Nathaniel Waena], he formed a group to get rid of Frank Short. And Alebua and all those guys. . . . We believe that if Frank Short hadn’t been removed, nothing would have happened.13 MA: So they threatened him or what? P: Yes, to go back. MA: They threatened him? P: Yes. And then they brought in a new commissioner from New Zealand, Rerangi Rangihiki, which just completely fouled everything up. That’s how the RSIP was fouled up. (Interview with N and P)14

It appears that the turning point for many of those who joined the MEF or the MEF/RSIP Joint Operation was the resignation of Frank Short and the commitment from the government a few weeks later, under the Panatina Accord signed on August 12, 1999, to scale back the operations of the Police Field Force and the Rapid Response Unit (RRU). As noted by Fraenkel, the delay in the formation of the MEF was in part

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due to the fact that the police had served as a de facto Malaitan militia (2004, 78).15 However, with the resignation of Short and the curtailing of official police operations against the GRA/IFM, some Malaitans in the police felt that they had no option but to take matters into their own hands. According to former RSIP officer P, “Eventually [then police superintendent Mannaseh] Maelanga said, ‘Are we just going to stay like this?’ He was speaking with a good heart. ‘Will we just stay quiet whilst our people are being beaten and mistreated? Our boss [Rerangi Rangihiki] says we can’t go and arrest them.’ We feel hate. The provocation came up through political issues. Eventually we said, ‘We will save our town; we will save our people’ ” (interview with N and P). Similar sentiments are expressed by former members of the MEF. According to former field commander “H,” “Somewhere in ’99 they started kidnapping eighteen of our people, civilians. The peoples of Malaita start telling the government to go and find those kidnapped people. And the police force was start[ing] to [be] torn into two parts now. And that’s when the MEF started to form up now. We said, ‘Oh, look, the police force, government, you are unable to look after us now, so we can go and start finding those eighteen [kidnapped people].’ I was one in that group” (interview with H). In one of the few published local accounts of the conflict, Kwara’ae chief and former policeman Michael Kwa’ioloa reiterates Malaitan exmilitants’ comments concerning the defensive origins of the MEF: “The fear was that the IFM planned to invade and destroy Honiara, so when they saw the police force were weak and unable to defend the town, the Malaita boys formed the Malaita Eagle Force. Some of the police joined with them and their mission was to protect Honiara; the water supply, the power generation plant, the fuel at the wharf, and to protect life” (Kwa’ioloa and Burt 2007, 119; my emphasis). Retribution Despite the fact that former members of the MEF and the Joint Operation are keen to describe their motives in terms of “defensive retaliation,” retribution was also clearly an important motive, as evidenced implicitly, and occasionally explicitly, in many of their testimonies. The need for retribution is generally expressed in direct relation to the breaking of Malaitan kastom by the Guale militants. Moreover, as has long been the case with the practice of retribution in coastal Melanesian contexts, the retaliation was frequently targeted against any member of the enemy’s community rather than the particular individuals who origi-

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nally committed the provocation. David Akin, who has conducted extensive research on Malaitan concepts of liability and revenge, notes that Malaitans have a preference for exacting revenge upon the actual person who offended them, but if that is not possible, they may invoke group liability and target another member of the offender’s group (David Akin, personal communication, November 30, 2009). The need for retaliation against any Guales as a consequence of the offenses caused by the GRA/IFM is encapsulated in the following statement by a man who was “closely associated” with the MEF: “It started with what Guadalcanal did, breaking the kastom of Malaita. They made Malaita cross, so we wanted to fight them. Because Malaita and Guadalcanal were best friends, but when Guadalcanal did what they did, our leader Jimmy Rasta said, okay, we will do this” (HG, interview with RO and HG). The strongest explicit expression of the desire to exact vengeance on the Guale people comes from L, a former field commander. In the following extract from a group interview he refers to events that occurred at Alligator Creek on the eastern outskirts of Honiara in early July 2000, when some of the most lethal engagements between the MEF/RSIP Joint Operation and GRA/IFM took place. Again it is noteworthy that L refers to the “Guadalcanal people” rather than the GRA/IFM or any of the Guale militant leaders: So we took the 50 calibre [machine gun] from the patrol boat and mounted it on a bulldozer and went down to Alligator Creek. That’s when the Guadalcanal people had a hard time and some of them died. That caused them to be—we in the MEF have a word for it, we say “heartsore”—and at that time we made the Guadalcanal people heartsore. There was a 50 calibre firing from the sea and the 50 calibre firing from the bulldozer on the land when we fought them at Alligator Creek. We found that it wasn’t an easy time. We didn’t feel that it was a good thing, because the Guadalcanal people are our brothers; we are all Melanesian, but as I have said, when they chased us out and they swore at us, we retaliated. (Interview with C, L, and others)16

Military versus Political Objectives According to Clive Moore, the two main motives for the young men who joined the MEF were the transgression of Malaitan cultural codes by the Guale militants and the failure of the government to provide compensation to displaced Malaitans: “The insults and disruption to the Malai-

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tans were a serious cultural offence that had to be compensated, and the government had failed in its duty to compensate the refugees for their eviction from their legally obtained lands on Guadalcanal. Motivated by this perceived slight, and their elders’ inaction, young Malaitans looked to join the group that had undertaken the ‘Spirit of Ramos’ raid, a group that soon came to be know as the Malaita Eagle Force” (2004, 125). While ex-militants clearly state that they formed the MEF in response to the victimization of “their” people and the breaking of Malaitan kastom by “Guadalcanal,” surprisingly scant reference is made to the issue of compensation for displaced settlers. The failure of the Ulufa’alu government is seen primarily in terms of its inability to provide physical security for displaced people and for Honiara, and hence the need for the MEF to take over the punitive arm of the state. While the frequently articulated sentiment that Ulufa’alu was “not doing enough to help Malaitans” could reasonably be assumed to imply compensation as well as physical security, only one of the ex-militants whom I interviewed specifically referred to the compensation issue, and even then it was in a different context to that of motivation.17 This lack of reference to the compensation issue could perhaps be interpreted as part of an effort on behalf of ex-militants to frame their motives and objectives in terms of security and defense as opposed to any sort of potential financial benefit. However, it could also be interpreted as indicative of important differences in motives between the MEF rank and file and the Supreme Command. In the months leading up to the coup, Andrew Nori had been placing increasing emphasis on the issue of compensation for displaced Malaitans. He was openly critical of the national government for failing to meet its obligations under the Honiara and Panatina Accords not only to provide financial assistance for displaced Malaitans to return to Malaita, but also to compensate them for lost properties (Fraenkel 2004, 80–81). One of the four reasons given for the raid on the Auki armory in January 2000, supposedly “communicated” to Nori by the newly formed MEF in its first public statement, was the announcement by the government that it would not pay compensation for lives and properties lost during the land evictions as laid out in the Honiara Peace Accord (Fraenkel 2004, 82; Moore 2004, 124). The compensation issue was at the forefront of Nori’s statements, but it appears to have been of relatively little consequence to the MEF rank and file who were, according to their testimonies, more interested in defending “their” people and seeking direct retribution for the wrongs committed by the GRA/IFM (also see Braithwaite et al. 2010, 35).

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Another important difference in the political and military objectives of the MEF revolves around the coup itself. Some former MEF rank and file and field commanders claim that the removal of the Ulufa’alu government was never their intention. They assert that the Supreme Command kept its political agenda hidden from the MEF soldiers and that the objectives of the soldiers—to secure, protect, and defend Honiara—were usurped by the senior leadership, particularly Nori, for their own political and economic benefit. The key elements of these assertions are encapsulated in the following excerpts from my interview with H, a former MEF field commander: The takeover of Rove armory, the original MEF as they got heart to defend this nation, and to defend the town and defend the peoples of this nation, that’s when we took over the armory and set a bunker there to protect the government. We are not thinking of dropping Ulufa’alu’s government. But there are some leaders within the MEF, some top leaders like Andrew Nori and Ronald Fugui, those are the ones. They come with another different idea—“Look, drop this government”—and we have an argument with them. I can still remember that time. I said, “Look, Ulufa’alu is a Malaitan man; why should we drop his government? We should not drop his government; his government is okay. We are taking over this armory to protect the capital and people of Malaita and other islands.” (Interview with H)

H goes on to allege that the senior leaders were key players in the conspiracy to unseat Ulufa’alu’s government by deliberately stirring up ethnic trouble on Guadalcanal: So I was suspecting then that they were in this group, the initiators. So they sparked the Guadalcanalese; they sparked the Guadalcanalese to chase the Malaitans out, and [when] that thing went out of hand now, they come around now and ask, “I’ll be your spokesman.” . . . I think that they were involved in the [parliamentary] opposition, that previous opposition that tried to topple Ulu’s government. They used the situation to topple it. So when we took over the armory, they came in from a different direction to make sure that Ulu’s government is down. So when Ulu’s government is down, you can identify which government comes in now; that is their government. So they achieved what they are aiming at. . . . But me, my idea and my feeling as a soldier was to protect this town, not to take over Ulufa’alu’s government, no. (Interview with H)

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A former senior member of the RSIP who was involved in the Joint Operation, “B,” makes similar allegations about Nori: B:

It is my belief, it is basically my experience during this Solomon Island ethnic problem, it is not an ethnic problem; it is the riches of war. There is one main motive. He [Nori] is trying his best to get rich, but he can’t get rich. He’s the one who caused the problem. He’s the one who stirred this thing up. . . .  MA: What do you think was the main motive for the MEF? Why did they form, and what were they trying to achieve? B: As I said just now, just for his riches. (Interview with B)

These assertions must be interpreted in the context of the known animosities that later developed within the MEF and the widespread view expressed by ex-militants that they were exploited, not only by their senior leaders, but also by national politicians, including Sir Allan Kemakeza following his election as prime minister in the 2001 election. The fracturing of the MEF had much to do with squabbling over the distribution and disbursement of the various payments made by the post-coup Sogavare government and, later, under the provisions of the TPA. It seems likely that the torching of the office block containing Andrew Nori’s legal practice in Honiara in November 2000 by former MEF militants was motivated by disgruntlement over the fact that Nori had extracted a large “legal fee” (SI$517,549) from money allocated to “Malaita” by the Sogavare government, while rank-and-file ex-militants had received relatively little (Fraenkel 2004, 95; Moore 2004, 149).18 Several ex-militants contend that as well as having been manipulated and betrayed by their leaders and the national government, they have also been unfairly targeted by RAMSI policing operations. They argue that while many “small fish” have been arrested, it is the big ones that should be the subject of police investigations. In this climate of resentment and animosity against the senior MEF leadership, and Andrew Nori in particular, we must treat the allegations of ex-MEF soldiers and commanders concerning the role of these men with some skepticism. Moreover, some former MEF militants clearly state that one of their objectives was, in fact, the removal of the Ulufa’alu government. This objective is certainly consistent with the widely held view among Malaitan ex-militants that “the government” was not doing enough to meet the Guales’ Bona Fide Demands, which many Malaitans regarded as legitimate (as discussed further in chapter 6), and to protect Malaitans from the Guale militancy. According to former field commander L,

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We had waited such a long time for Ulufa’alu to solve the problem of the two million, but he hadn’t solved it, and he was the man who was difficult for us, the MEF, to talk to. And when we had secured the armory, it happened that we removed that man so that he was no longer prime minister. . . . When we thought to remove Ulufa’alu, we had already told Sogavare that he would be prime minister of Solomon Islands. . . . We said to Sogavare, “This man can’t solve the problems of the country. . . . You are now prime minister.” . . . So we put Sogavare in the chair now. We also put in Morton Siriheti as commissioner of police. Power was then in the hands of the MEF. The government was paralyzed. Power was in our hands. (Interview with C, L, and others)

Building the Nation, Saving the Nation Many Malaitan ex-militants express the view that in securing Honiara from the GRA/IFM, and later from Keke’s GLF, they “saved” Solomon Islands. This view is exemplified in the following extracts from my interviews with ex-militants. So that’s why we secured these areas. If we hadn’t done so, they would have burned down all of Honiara. They would have destroyed the town. (N, interview with N and P) If it wasn’t for the Malaita Eagle Force, the Solomon Islands would not be a nation and Honiara would have been burned down. (C, interview with C, L, and others) Because of what we did, this country of Solomon Islands has come back to Solomon Islands again. If we hadn’t protected the town from Harold Keke’s group, I think that Solomon Islands would have fallen to pieces. Due to what we did, we restored the Solomon Islands. That’s why we regret that the government does not recognize what we did. We saved not only Malaita, but the whole Solomon Islands. Due to what we did, we saved all Solomon Islands’ people. (Interview with T)

It will be seen in chapter 6 that such sentiments frame ex-militants’ ongoing grievances concerning the failure of the Sogavare and Kema­ keza governments to adequately compensate them for their role in securing Honiara and protecting “the government.” Indeed, T’s regret that

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the government does not “recognize” the MEF’s role in saving Solomon Islands resonates strongly with a micronationalist narrative of Malaitans as the unrecognized, and often reviled, builders of the nation. During our conversations, ex-militants would often talk about the historical role of Malaitans as the “manpower” of Solomon Islands. According to C, “Solomon Islands is what it is today because of Malaitans. That is not a lie. You can only call Solomon Islands a country because of Malaitans. Without the hands of Malaitans you would not see any development like palm oil. There wouldn’t be anyone to provide labor for these things” (interview with C, L, and others). Similarly, L states, “We are the most heavily populated province in the Solomon Islands. And at the same time the human resources—all the companies in Honiara, especially SIPL, Gold Ridge, and even some of the other companies in town—we Malaitans are the ones who are most involved in these things. We even go to Levers plantation to produce copra. In our history, the Malaitan people are very skillful people in terms of manpower. So when we were chased out and harassed and victimized, we came back, and then Honiara itself and even Guadalcanal itself, it was hard for them to do anything without the Malaita people” (interview with C, L, and others). For some ex-militants the Malaitan narrative includes the belief that Malaitans have endured 150 years of exploitation—by labor traders during the overseas labor trade period and by both colonial and postcolonial governments. Two former members of the MEF specifically referred to the overseas labor trade period during our discussions, with both of them likening RAMSI’s current “discrimination” against Malaitans with the “unfair” concentration on Malaita that occurred during the “blackbirding” days (interview with KA; interview with C, L, and others). For many former Malaitan militants, the Malaitan narrative also includes the belief that Malaitans have been feared and hated by colonial and postcolonial governments and by other Solomon Islanders (interview with H; interview with N and P; interview with RO and HG). According to P, a former policeman, “There has been hatred of Malaitans for a long time. I know because I am a Malaitan. They have hated us for a long time. . . . If we go back to 19 . . . what did they call it . . . Maasina Rule. That’s when they labeled us Malaitans, and they have been scared of us up until today” (interview with N and P). These expressions of a Malaitan “story” are, not surprisingly, shared in the wider Malaitan community. They are articulated by the Malaita Ma’asina Forum, a non-government organization that formed in September 2003 “as a voice to raise concerns and issues affecting Malaita and the people of Malaita” (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive

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2005, 3).19 The forum provides an exemplar statement of the Malaitan view of the conflict and of the role of Malaitans in the nation, made in relation to an alleged “anti-Malaitan statement” issued by provincial and national government representatives at the Buala Peace Talks in 1999. In making such a joint statement, these leaders simply denied the fact that the much talked-about ethnic tension was instigated and carried out by Guadalcanal rebels who killed, raped and molested Malaitans on the island, which attracted Malaitan retaliation to protect its people. Not only that but the MEF was at the time, also protecting Honiara city which was under serious threat from the Guadalcanal rebels. Furthermore, such attitude of leaders is a simple denial that the Malaitan manpower has contributed greatly towards the development of this whole nation. (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 16)

In a booklet examining the ethnic tension, titled Trouble in Paradise, Maeliau describes the “Guadalcanal Cause” and the “Malaita Case,” attempting in both cases to locate these stories in the “objective” history of Solomon Islands (Maeliau 2003, chapters 2 and 3). The Malaita case is foregrounded in an earlier historical chapter, in which Maeliau notes that Malaita was regarded by Christian missionaries as the heartland of savagery in Melanesia (2003, 20). However, the story proper begins with the labor trade: “It was here that the story of the Malaita Case began. Malaitans had to leave their own island either voluntarily or involuntarily in pursuit of work. In a small way, with their blood, sweat and tears they have contributed to laying the foundation of our regional neighbours, Australia, Fiji and Samoa” (Maeliau 2003, 50). Maeliau notes that the majority of Melanesians recruited during the overseas labor trade period were Solomon Islanders and that the majority of those Solomon Islanders were Malaitans. He goes on to describe how the colonial government’s efforts to develop the copra industry focused on islands other than Malaita. In order to engage in the plantation economy Malaitans had no choice but to leave their island, even though Malaita was the “only island that was able to provide the large work force that was required for these plantations” (Maeliau 2003, 20–21). Maeliau argues that this situation has continued since Independence, as postcolonial governments have pursued a course of development that focuses on other provinces, and Malaitans have subsequently continued to be forced to look elsewhere for employment opportunities (2003, 22). Like the ex-militants cited above and drawing upon his earlier reference to

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the contribution of Malaitans to the economic development of “our regional neighbours,” Maeliau employs this history to describe Malaitans as the “builders” of the nation: “Regardless of what their faults might have been the fact remains that with their blood, sweat and tears they contributed to laying the foundation and the building up of this nation from 1900 to 1978 under the British Administration. Then from 1978 to 1998 through the years of Independence they have stuck with it in every field through both eras thick and thin” (2003, 51). These themes are also developed by Michael Kwa’ioloa in his more recent account of the origins and dynamics of the conflict (Kwa’ioloa and Burt 2007, 114–115). Perhaps being deliberately ironic, Kwa’ioloa emphasizes the role of Malaitans in the development of Guadalcanal and Honiara, contrasting the industriousness and productivity of Malaitans against others—clearly intended to mean Guales—who expect “things to come to them without work and sweat” (Kwa’ioloa and Burt 2007, 114). Kwa’ioloa states that it was through the efforts of Malaitans in World War II that the Americans were able win the battle of Guadalcanal; that Malaitans cleared and planted the plantations east and west of Honiara; that they built Honiara itself; and, most recently, that they provided the workforce for Gold Ridge mine, “operating the machines and earning revenue for the government and royalties for Guadalcanal people from their land” (Kwa’ioloa and Burt 2007, 115). The sentiment that the MEF saved not only Malaitans and other people in Honiara, but also the whole of Solomon Islands can perhaps then be best understood in this broader narrative of Malaitan identity: having built the nation (and saved it once already during World War II), it was incumbent upon Malaitans to protect it and ultimately to save it from the Guale militants, an incompetent national government, and an ineffectual police force. Moreover, just as Malaitans have been the unrecognized builders of the nation, ex-militants contend that the MEF has never been recognized for its role in saving the nation. Indeed, the argument that ex-militants were exploited and betrayed by “the government” echoes the wider portrayal of Malaitans as a historically exploited working class.20 This chapter has presented the voices of the men who joined the MEF or the so-called MEF/RSIP Joint Operation, with a view to interrogating the fundamental question of why they decided to do so. As was the case in chapter 4, the focus has been on rank-and-file militants, field commanders, and ex-policemen, as opposed to the big-men who constituted the MEF Supreme Command.

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Although the Masta Liu factor undoubtedly played a role in the formation of the MEF, just as it did in the case of the Guale militancy (and possibly more so), a framing based on the Masta Liu characterization obscures other important motives for the men who decided to take up arms with the MEF. The ex-militants with whom I spoke overwhelmingly presented their motives in terms of the need to secure, defend, and protect Honiara, which had become a Malaitan enclave following the land evictions and which was facing the spectre of destruction at the hands of the GRA/IFM. They believe that their actions were necessary because the Ulufa’alu government and the RSIP had failed to do enough to quell the Guale rebellion and to assist Malaitans. For many former militants and police the final straw was the disabling of the RSIP in mid-1999 following the resignation of Frank Short and the subsequent decision to scale back the operations of the Malaita-dominated RRU and Police Field Force. The initial emergence of a Malaita militia coincided in time with these events. The ex-militants are also unified in their portrayal of the victimization of Malaitans on Guadalcanal by the GRA/IFM. They particularly highlight the acts of swearing, sexual assault, and murder that are grave affronts to Malaitan kastom. While all former Malaitan militants point to these provocations as the reason it became necessary to “defend” Malaitans from further harm, some specifically highlight the need to seek retribution. “Guadalcanal” made “Malaita” angry, so Malaita retaliated in order to make Guadalcanal “heartsore.” As is the case with their Guale counterparts, Malaitan ex-militants are keen to blame their leaders—members of the Supreme Command and MEF spokesman Andrew Nori—for politicizing the MEF. Some even allege that these men conspired to stir up trouble on Guadalcanal in order to destabilize the Ulufa’alu government and create conditions in which a coup would appear legitimate. It has been noted that these allegations must be treated in the context of the known animosities that developed between the members of the Supreme Command and the MEF soldiers, particularly concerning the disbursement of compensation and demobilization payments. Furthermore, for some ex-soldiers the removal of Ulufa’alu’s government was one of the MEF’s key objectives, and in that regard, the MEF had always had political as well as purely military or strategic aims. As is the case with the Guale ex-militants, many former Malaitan militants locate their motives for joining the MEF within a broader Malaitan identity narrative. The claim that the MEF “saved” Solomon Islands is consistent with a Malaitan self-portrayal as builders of the

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nation. Furthermore, the victimization of Malaitan settlers and the exploitation of the MEF by “the government” is consistent with the belief that Malaitans have been historically victimized and exploited; that they have been a reviled and hated underclass who, against adversity, have contributed more than their share to developing Solomon Islands. The next chapter will examine in more detail the ways in which both Guale and Malaitan micronationalist agendas contributed to the Tension and the ways in which the events of the conflict have, in turn, shaped those agendas.

C h a pt e r 6

Continuities and Symmetries

T

he voices of the ex-militants examined over the previous two chapters encourage us to see them as narrators of ethnohistory. They are active participants in the creation and perpetuation of the micronationalist narratives that have waxed and waned in intensity since before World War II. During the Tension, both “sides” evoked images of the past in order to create both unity and difference: to construct a sense of collective identity, as in “Guale” or “Malaitan,” and also its oppositional “Other.” The symbols of unity that were evoked by the men who were involved in the militant groups are essentially the same as those employed during Maasina Rule and by the Moro Movement. Both sides mobilized kastom, particularly kastom law, and issues of socioeconomic justice as their rallying cries. Both sides also drew upon the long-standing tradition of resistance to “alien” government authority as a source of unity. In some ways it is “the government,” rather than a different island or regional grouping, that has played the role of “Other” in the oppositional construction of identity. Indeed, the constant “blaming” of the government by both sides in the conflict militated against a more direct moral antagonism along ethnic lines. However, the conflict did nevertheless see a polarization of ethnic identities in what became “a civil war . . . mainly between Malaita and Guadalcanal people” (Bennett 2002, 1). Moreover, each side also employed historic racist discourse in its portrayal of the other: “violent” and “aggressive” in the case of Malaitans, “lazy” and “unproductive” in the case of Guales. There are other striking symmetries and historical continuities in 157

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the events and discourses of the Tension. Both sides resorted to direct retribution when the government failed to address their demands for compensation. They both engaged in practices reminiscent of traditional Melanesian warfare such as indiscriminate revenge killings, hit-andrun attacks, and the burning down of houses and entire villages. Both militant groups also became increasingly engaged in criminal activities as the conflict wore on. Moreover, they both fractured into subregional groupings and factions after the TPA and, in the case of the Guale militants, well before then. As in the past, the appeal to a wider circle of identity was highly contextual, lasting only as long as the particular circumstances of its invocation. What emerges most clearly from the ex-militants’ narratives is that the politics of identity, framed around kastom, socioeconomic inequality, and resistance to government authority, and firmly embedded in the “past,” was an important factor motivating them to engage in collective violence. Moreover, the ex-militants must be seen as producers, as well as consumers, of identity discourses. The men who joined the militant groups were not simply foot soldiers in the “stage armies” of manipulative “conflict engineers.” To the contrary, they are the latest in successive generations of men who have appealed to the same myths, symbols, and ideologies in the historical construction of identities such as “Guadalcanal” and “Malaita.” Moreover, there are striking similarities in the grievances that they have sought, as collectivities, to have redressed: the imposition of alien legal and political hegemony, regional disparities in the penetration of capitalism and the distribution of the benefits of development, and the inappropriateness of government conceptions and models of “rural development.” This chapter explores these themes by drawing out salient similarities and differences in the stories of Malaitan and Guale ex-militants and the ways in which they articulate with the past. I also seek to locate their grievances and identity narratives in the ethnographic present. In particular, I examine outstanding grievances against the government, and to a lesser extent against RAMSI, and the ways in which these are being expressed by people on both Guadalcanal and Malaita. It’s the Government, Stupid Both Guale and Malaitan ex-militants lay the blame for the Tension squarely at the feet of the government. Guales hold the government responsible for not controlling the migration of people from other prov-

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inces to Honiara and north Guadalcanal, as well as for a range of other grievances, most notably the perceived inequity of revenue-sharing arrangements. Similarly, Malaitans believe that the deliberate neglect of Malaita by colonial and postcolonial governments has meant that they have always been forced to go elsewhere to find work, and since World War II, most of the employment and business opportunities have been in Honiara and on north Guadalcanal. In this manner, Guales do not blame Malaitans for being there in the first place, and Malaitans do not blame Guales for wanting to evict them. Each side places the moral culpability upon the government. Stritecky reaches a similar conclusion in her examination of the land evictions through the lens of moral efficacy: “The Solomon Islands national government had established internal migration and development policies that were lacking moral integrity in the eyes of Guadalcanal people. . . . To many Guale people, settlers could not build a moral home on land obtained via these immoral principles. Perhaps it was Malaitan settlers’ recognition of this principle that prompted many to return to their home island, while they still commanded the moral efficacy to make that final decision” (2001, 107–108; emphasis in original). A further symmetry lies in the ways in which both Guales and Malaitans blame the government for the problems associated with Honiara. We have seen that one of the recurrent grievances of the people of Guadalcanal concerns the fact that the capital and all of the facilities and services therein are on land that was alienated from customary landowners by the colonial government. Moreover, people on Guadalcanal have felt that Honiara exists solely for the benefit of other people. Writing in 1970, Bellam stated that Guales regard Honiara as “an alien community in which the interests of non-indigenes are paramount” (1970, 93). Almost forty years later, Guales continue to express this view, as is evident in this excerpt from my discussion with a Birao-speaking chief in the Marau area: “The main thing is . . . this town, Honiara. If we look at it, people from different provinces control it. All the developments that happen there, people from different provinces. . . . It’s not different provinces but only one province which likes to override everything that happened in town. And there are no benefits to this island, Guadalcanal” (interview with SR). Malaitans have also expressed ambivalence toward Honiara and hold the government responsible for the problems that occur there. Such sentiments are demonstrated in a speech made by Maenaa’adi, a Kwaio non-Christian leader, at the peace ceremony following the demonstrations, looting, and rioting in 1996 (discussed in Akin 1999, 58–

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Figure 6.1  Graffiti on a trade store in Honiara, ca. June 2000. Courtesy of Ben Bohane.

59). Maenaa’adi highlighted the immorality of Honiara, with its alcohol, nightclubs, and violent movies, asking, “Who is responsible for bringing all these things here? The government, of course, so it has to be held responsible for the problems associated with it” (cited in Akin 1999, 58). Maenaa’adi also applied Malaitan liability principles to argue that the government was liable for any trouble that took place in Honiara. “If the government had not built Honiara, young men would not be drawn there and problems such as those that sparked the curses [made by Reef Islanders] would not occur” (quoted in Akin 1999, 59). Akin goes on to state that the “subtext” of Maenaa’adi’s statement “was a contrasting of the government, mired in decadence, with the moral superiority of Malaitan kastom” (1999, 58). A similar contrast can be seen in the document titled “Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief” (see appendix 2) under point number 6, which discusses the establishment of the capital on Guadalcanal after the war. It states that Honiara brought hitherto unknown “immorality” to Guadalcanal: “Sex was practiced on its beaches, along the bushes and everywhere, adultery, thieving, murder, dirty money deals, dishonesty, corruption etc.” Many Malaitans believe that the Guale grievances against the gov-

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ernment are legitimate. Some express the view that the Ulufa’alu government should have responded to the Bona Fide Demands, particularly the demand for compensation for the twenty-five murders. The highlighting of the compensation demand demonstrates the influence of the precedents that had been set by the compensation payments of 1996, 1989, and 1978 (the “Ode to the West Wind” incident). There was obviously a strong expectation, among both Guales and Malaitans, that Ulufa’alu would pay the compensation, especially once the Guale militants had started to resort to violence. According to a former member of the GLF, “We saw two problems which happened. One was between Reef Islanders and Malaitans, and the same time that the problem happened, the government addressed it. They gave them what they demanded. And then the other one was Renbel [people from Rennell and Bellona Province] fighting against Malaitans, and when they told the government, the government addressed it. So we thought if the government can listen to these other people and respond to their demands, why not us?” (interview with F). As mentioned in chapter 4, both sides’ blaming of the government for “causing” the Tension problematizes the “ancient ethnic hatreds” framing of the conflict. While the Guale ex-militants point to cultural differences with Malaitan settlers as one of their grievances, it is the government that is held responsible for creating the situation in the first place. Similarly, while Malaitans state that the Guale militants went “too far” with their use of violence during the land evictions, they also place ultimate responsibility on the government for not responding adequately to the Guale uprising and for creating the economic conditions that originally forced Malaitans to settle in Honiara and north Guadalcanal. In the post-conflict context, both Guales and Malaitans are continuing to lodge claims against the government, either through requests for compensation or, in the case of the riots in April 2006, direct action. On the Guale side, compensation is being sought for the activities of the police and the joint operations. This is particularly the case in Marau and on the parts of the Weather Coast where local villagers were the victims of the fighting between the GLF and the SC/RSIP Joint Operation. According to the Marau chief cited above, It wasn’t the Eagle Force which came and did all this destruction. . . . It was the government that did that. Because when they came and shot this place up, the patrol boat came and shot at us. And all the weapons were government-owned weapons. We have given our compensation claims and demands to the government, but it hasn’t done

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anything yet. . . . People say peace has come now, but no, not for us. We are still not happy because the government has not done its part. The patrol boat belongs to us, the armory belongs to us; why did it take these things and use them to attack us? . . . These feelings are all with the young people. (Interview with SR)1

Indeed, young people on Guadalcanal remain deeply aggrieved about the ongoing failure of the national government to address their demands. Some former members of the GLF with whom I spoke believe that their “struggle” is far from over. G:

Why we think that the fight will not stop is because the objective of the Malaitans to take over this island has not been fulfilled. Secondly, we still have not had our demands met by the government, up until today. The sixteen bona fide demands which we put to the government to consider and take note of, not a single one has been addressed, either by the past government or the government of the day. So we strongly believe that the fight will come back again and will go from bad to worse. J: So at the moment we are just waiting and looking to the government to address our demands. They must address the issues of Guadalcanal before we lay down our arms. If they don’t address our issues, state government, then the fight will never stop. MA: So are you still holding on to guns? J: Not anymore. Not after the TPA and the gun collections; we handed all our guns in. But we still have the means to take anything we need to defend our land, our rights, and to liberate the island. What we were fighting for we have not received. We are still crying. When will our tears stop? The government is still playing with us. We fought for only two years. Bougainville was ten years. Nelson Mandela was twenty-five years. A struggle for freedom. The same as the Guadalcanal people. We have struggled for so long, but they haven’t done anything good for us. So we decided to step forward to make the government recognize us, but still it hasn’t recognized us. It hasn’t met our demands, but oil palm is operating, GPPOL [Guadalcanal Plains Palm Oil Limited]; mining is operating soon, big revenue for the government. But it hasn’t addressed our issues. (Interview with G, J, and L)

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In the case of Malaita, former ex-militants believe that they should have been adequately compensated by the Sogavare and Kemakeza governments for their role in “securing” Honiara, “protecting” the government, and “saving” the nation. Many are angry about never having received the “rehabilitation” provided for them under the provisions of the TPA and later promised to them by the Kemakeza government.2 According to one ex-militant, “It’s like their bodies are scarred. That’s how we look at it in Melanesian culture; it is a scar” (C, interview with C, L, and others). Moreover, several ex-militants directly link this state of affairs with the fact that a handful of former MEF soldiers are still holding out in the bush with their guns. “They will not come out until the government of Solomon Islands fulfills the promise to rehabilitate us” (L, interview with C, L, and others). Drawing upon the work of Akin (1999), Stritecky argues that the “upshot” of the 1989 and 1996 demonstrations in Honiara “was that committing violence against persons not associated with the government, especially Chinese store owners, became par for the course in the Malaitan strategy for lodging a claim against the government” (2001, 230). Some former MEF militants claim that the two days of rioting that occurred in Honiara in April 2006 following the national election, and the formation of a government two weeks later, were “caused” by Kemakeza’s failure to pay “rehabilitation to all the boys” as he had promised (N, interview with P and N). While there were many factors at play with the riots (see Allen 2008), which saw the looting and burning down of the Chinatown district of Honiara, seen in the historical context of Malaitan claims against the government, the involvement of disgruntled ex-MEF is highly plausible, particularly as the election effectively restored Kemakeza’s coalition to power, with Kemakeza as deputy prime minister and his former deputy, Snyder Rini, as prime minister. The anti-government statements and actions of Guale and Malaitan ex-militants, both during the conflict and in the present, can be situated in the long tradition of resistance to “alien” hegemony and centralized government authority. Compensation is only one aspect of the opposition of “kastom law” to “government law,” a topic to which I now turn. Don’t Tread on My Kastom Both Malaitan and Guale ex-militants explain their motivations partly in terms of transgressions of kastom law, and both evoke it as a sym-

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bol of unity and difference. In the case of Guale ex-militants, the highlighting of cultural disrespect at the hands of Malaitan settlers is underscored by a much deeper grievance against successive waves of outsiders, especially the colonial and postcolonial governments, which have “wilfully ignored” the rights and laws of the people of Guadalcanal. With the important exception of Harold Keke and his followers, the Guale exmilitants evoke the “Divine Laws” of Moro’s teachings as a challenge to “alien” colonial and government law. Many see themselves as malaghai, warrior protectors and enforcers of the laws that govern the land, resources, and people of Guadalcanal. In the case of Keke and the GLF, it is Christian teachings that are evoked as an ideology of resistance to an immoral government. The invocation of kastom law as a symbol of resistance and unity is an exemplar of the ways in which ex-militants actively narrate the past, often in creative and highly subjective ways. This is evident in “Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief,” in which the opposition of indigenous and introduced law is a central theme. A degree of creative license is taken in point number 7, which states that during the 1968 visit of the “British Western Pacific Commissioner” to the Weather Coast, local leaders delivered the following message to the “District Commissioner”: “We the people of Guadalcanal demand our freedom, please take your Law back to England and leave us alone.” The authors are either confusing or deliberately conflating two separate events: the visit of the acting high commissioner for the Western Pacific High Commission to Makaruka in April 1964 and Moro’s attempt, in April 1965, to purchase “freedom from the law” from the district commissioner in Honiara (Davenport and Çoker 1967, 138–139, 169). Either way, the important point is that these events have been remembered by the present generation of men and are being creatively retold in the context of the ongoing “struggle for freedom.” Similarly, as we saw in chapter 4, it is unlikely that the Spanish found any gold when they landed on Guadalcanal in 1568, the theft of which is another central theme in this narrative. Again we see the creative invocation of a past that suits the agendas of the present. The “cultural respect” grievance articulated by Guale ex-militants contributed to the polarization of ethnic identities along an “us” versus “them” axis during the Tension. The symbolic appeal to a shared Guale kastom, based upon the teachings of the Moro Movement, initially became the basis of Guale unity. Moreover, this putatively common kastom was evoked as a central point of difference with Malaitans: “their” kastom is different from “ours”; “they” do not respect “our” kastom. Rac-

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ist discourse was also employed in this oppositional dynamic, informing the characterization of Malaitan culture as aggressive and violent. However, the appeal to a common kastom based upon Moro’s teachings ultimately became a symptom, if not a source, of Guale disunity, as evidenced by the split between the IFM (with the apparent backing of Alebua) and the GLF and the latter’s explicit repudiation of the Moro Movement. This division is consistent with the long-standing tensions among the church, kastom, and government authority that have problematized Guale micronationalism. Malaitans, in contrast, have been more successful at mobilizing kastom as a symbolic ideology of unity and resistance to a common enemy. During the Tension, it was transgressions of Malaitan kastom law by the Guale militants that provoked the need for both defensive retaliation and direct retribution. As noted in chapter 5, former members of the MEF explain their motives primarily in terms of the need to assuage serious breaches of Malaitan kastom law such as swearing, murder, and particularly rape. As was the case with the Guales, a putatively common kastom was evoked as a symbol unifying all Malaitans and marking them as different from Guales. Thus we frequently see statements such as, “These things break the Malaitan kastom. . . . Guadalcanal started it. . . . The main thing which broke the kastom of Malaita was the raping of women in front of their husbands at gunpoint” (interview with HG).3 In contrast to the rift that developed among the Guale militants early in the Tension, there was no overt fracturing of the MEF until after the TPA, when the common threat to “Malaita” had subsided. Unlike the Guale situation, in which the legitimacy of Moro kastom as the basis for all Guale kastom was challenged, as it had been in the past, there was no questioning of the notion of a broadly shared Malaitan kastom as the basis for Malaitan unity. I am not claiming that the wider circle of Malaitan ethnicity is any more or less mutable than its Guale equivalent. I am merely suggesting that, historically, Malaitans have been able to evoke kastom to unite all Malaitans while Guales have not, and that from very early on in the Guale militancy a schism developed between those who followed Moro kastom and those who did not. Moreover, by the time the MEF began to form, there had been more than enough provocation and victimization of Malaitans to provide a solid basis for an appeal to unity in the face of a common enemy. The latest “alien” to attract the symbolic opposition of Malaitan kastom is RAMSI. In my discussions with Malaitan ex-militants, kastom was frequently evoked as a challenge to the mission, particularly its po-

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licing activities. They point to incidents such as trespassing on tribal lands, breaking into houses without permission, and general cultural insensitivity in the way in which RAMSI police—Australian police in particular—conducted their operations on Malaita. Indeed, many people with whom I spoke on Malaita regard the use of large numbers of armed soldiers and police in a number of failed attempts to capture fugitive Edmond Sae as excessive and tantamount to an invasion of Malaita. These and other incidents are also highlighted by the Ma’asina Forum in its denunciation of RAMSI. The forum argues that Malaitans perceive the intervention as an exercise in “recolonization” and “Australian occupation” in the context of broader “Australian hegemony in the Pacific” (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 21–29).4 It is further argued that as well as perceptions, there were some “real issues”—the types of incidents referred to above—that gave rise to growing Malaitan opposition toward RAMSI. These issues are ultimately grouped under the rubric of “culture”: “There are many cultural issues that for simplicity purposes could be labelled as insensitive to the culture of the people because of dissatisfaction with the Australian led intervention” (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 21–29). It is not my intention to engage here in a detailed discussion of local discourses surrounding RAMSI.5 However, I would like briefly to make some further points that reinforce my arguments about the contemporary use of kastom law as an ideology of Malaitan resistance and unity. In my discussions with ex-militants about RAMSI, the old issue of alien interference with Malaitan kastom laws relating to adultery was raised as a prime grievance. For example: The real problem which is happening to us since RAMSI has come in is the balance of power in the family because of the rights for women which RAMSI has introduced. Our culture in Solomon Islands is that women must listen to their husbands. But now you can see women going to nightclubs and even drinking beer. And when we tell them off and maybe slap them a bit, you end up getting three years in Rove prison. But in our culture, women never go to nightclubs and they cannot go and stay with other men, young men, to have sexual intercourse with them. But now, since RAMSI has come in, if my wife goes and has sex with another man and I ask for compensation, I get arrested by RAMSI. . . . It has really changed the balance of power on the family and men no longer have the same rights which we have always had from when I was a small boy up until 2003. (L, interview with C, L, and others)

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It is interesting that Malaitans have also sought to engage the state laws of Solomon Islands to challenge the legality and constitutionality of RAMSI. The Ma’asina Forum, for example, has expressed opposition to the immunity clauses of the Facilitation of International Assistance Act 2003, the legal instrument under which RAMSI operates, which grant RAMSI personnel immunity from prosecution under the laws of Solomon Islands (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 21–29). The forum has called for the clauses to be removed “to ensure that RAMSI personnel abide by the laws of Solomon Islands in the discharge of their duties” (2005, 28). Several Malaitan members of parliament, including the former member for East Honiara, Charles Dausabea, have also voiced dissatisfaction with the immunity clauses (Radio New Zealand, April 25, 2006). Furthermore, in late 2005, Andrew Nori launched a High Court challenge to the legality of RAMSI, arguing that the Facilitation Act was unconstitutional. The case was struck down by the chief justice in a lengthy judgment (Nori v. Attorney General [2006] HCSI-CC, 172). It is informative that a man who once described government local courts as “foreign creatures dressed in local costumes”6 and whose father was a founding leader of Maasina Rule is more than willing to engage that very same foreign law, Solomon Islands state law, as a challenge to RAMSI. We are once again encouraged to think in terms of Smith’s concentric circles of identity or, perhaps more accurately in this case, concentric circles of resistance: Malaitan kastom law is employed to challenge Solomon Islands state law, and both forms of law are mobilized to challenge the legality of the new “foreign” intervention. The final point that I would like to make here is that just as the riots of April 2006 may be seen partly in terms of the Malaitan tradition of “lodging a claim” with the government, they may also be seen in the context of Malaitan resistance to alien authority. I see the discontent with RAMSI described above as a possible factor in the riots, during which torched police vehicles and Chinese-owned businesses were graffitied with the words “Fuck RAMSI.” Moreover, in its 2005 publication the Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive warned that the “long term physical presence” of RAMSI in Solomon Islands would “create an environment for resentment and subsequent resistance” (2005, 27). It further stated that it was predominantly “foreigners” who were in favor of a long-term “occupation” and that “this too will create resistance in due course and it is advisable that good intentions should not lead to violence” (2005, 27). Kastom has also become an important source of collective identity for Malaitans in the sense that they see it as providing the basis for the resentment, and even hatred, that people from other islands feel to-

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ward them. Recall RO’s statement from chapter 5 about how Malaitans on Guadalcanal asserted their kastom in ways that were disrespectful to Guale culture: “If you insult a Malaitan, he will fight you immediately” (RO, interview with RO and HG). Similar sentiments are expressed by Maeliau and the Ma’asina Forum Executive, with both relating this state of affairs to colonial and postcolonial development policies and the concomitant labor migration of Malaitans to other parts of the country (Maeliau 2003, 20–22; Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 7–13). According to the Ma’asina Forum Executive, “It is obvious that the migration and distribution of Malaitans in the country has created hatred, bitterness and jealousy. As a highly populous people with rigid customs and cultural practices, Malaitans migrating to other provinces have a tendency to enforce their customs and practices in their new environment, which is not considered acceptable to the people who they live with. This, no doubt, was the major factor leading to the rooted hatred and dislike, which sparked the civil unrest five years ago” (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 13). As mentioned in chapter 3, in certain contexts Malaitans have adopted their characterization, by other Solomon Islanders, as violent and aggressive in their representations of themselves. Bennett sees the playing up of these stereotypes as a way in which Malaitans can retain some dignity in the context of their oppressed situation on the plantations of the colonial era (1987, 187). Kabutaulaka argues that Malaitans exploit the imagery to their advantage: “When confronting others they use terms such as, “iu no save me man long Kwaio” (Don’t you know, I am a man from Kwaio?)” (2001, 12). Maeliau explains “the emergence of a culture of dominance and aggressiveness” in terms of “human nature”: “When you have a large pack of the same kind, like a pack of wolves, the tendency to show off, be aggressive, show disregard and disrespect or just simply bent on making mischief just for the sake or the fun of it is the most natural expected outcome regardless of whatever group of people of whatever ethnicity” (2003, 21). I would argue that the adoption by Malaitans of these negative characterizations in their representations of themselves is another means by which they can mark themselves off as different from others, thereby reinforcing their own sense of collective identity. It is an example of how “those who are dominated internalize the premises and categories of the dominant” and then deploy them in their own discourses of resistance (Keesing 1989, 23). Another source of collective identity for Malaitans has been their shared sense of economic deprivation, a topic that will now be considered.

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Socioeconomic Inequality From the early contact period, the peoples of Malaita and the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal have been among those with the poorest access to economic opportunities and, latterly, government services. In both ­places labor migration has been an important means by which people have engaged in the cash economy. On Guadalcanal, the contrasts between the north and south sides of the island in terms of infrastructure, government services, agricultural potential, and access to employment opportunities and markets are extreme. The high, rugged mountains that separate the Weather Coast from Honiara and the northeastern plains symbolize the vast socioeconomic gulf between these areas. Hardly surprisingly, Weather Coast people believe that they are not receiving a “fair share” of the resources that are being exploited on their island, views that are also expressed by Guales on the north side of the island. This “development equity” grievance is the key issue driving the Guale statehood agenda. There are strong local and regional differences in the grievances of the indigenous people of Guadalcanal. Generally speaking, land is a much more contentious issue on the north side of the island. This is not only because of land alienation and the presence of large-scale resource projects on registered customary land, but also because of the sale of land to settlers by individuals without the approval of their landowning groups. Land issues have consequently been the source of intragroup and intergenerational conflict on north Guadalcanal (Kabutaulaka 2001; Maetala 2008; Monson 2010, 2011, 2012; Nanau 2009). This situation is reminiscent of the origins of the Bougainville conflict, as noted by Dinnen (2002). Some Weather Coast people claim land rights in the interior and on the north side of Guadalcanal, claims that are consistent with the known history of population change and movement on the island. Weather Coast people have asserted claims over Gold Ridge mine and the plantations of the northeast plains (Brown 2003; Evans 2010). However, the main issue for people on the Weather Coast is the dearth of economic opportunities and government infrastructure and services on the Weather Coast itself and the related belief that “other people” are reaping a disproportionate share of the benefits from resource developments on Guadalcanal. In the statement produced by the Weather Coast Tok Stori program in late 2005, the “disparity in the distribution of development” between the Weather Coast and Honiara is identified as an “important part of the root causes of the tension” (National Peace Coun-

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cil 2005b, 9). By contrast, the Tok Stori statement for the north coast identifies land as the primary issue in the conflict: “We believe that the questions relating to land are central to the persistence of conflict and broken relationships within and between our communities and between our communities and government” (National Peace Council 2005a, 8). Grievances relating to the distribution of the benefits of development have continued to be voiced by ex-militants and others in the Guale community. The resolutions of the 2005 Guadalcanal Leaders Summit, which involved three hundred government and civil society representatives from throughout Guadalcanal, made extensive reference to land and resource issues, including the former SIPL oil palm operation, Gold Ridge mine, and logging operations. The resolutions also made frequent reference to “state government,” usually in the context of land and resource issues. For example, resolution number 3 reads as follows: “That the reopening of former Solomon Islands Plantations Limited (SIPL) by the New Britain Palm Oil Limited (NBPOL) be delayed until all land owners and leaders are satisfied and more importantly, pending Guadalcanal Province’s adoption of a state government system” (“Guadalcanal Leaders Summit Resolutions” 2005). The demand for state government continues to be at the forefront of Guale representations to the national government. The documentation supporting a presentation to then prime minister Sogavare by a delegation of Guale politicians (both provincial and national) in July 2006 lists fourteen “issues” for discussion, the first of which concerns the transition to a federal system of government: Hon. Prime Minister, the first issue is on State Government or Federal Government system. This issue is not new and Constitutional reform leading to a change in the government system has long been a call by different groups of people in Solomon Islands. People from the western Solomon Islands called for adoption of State Government in 1978. Guadalcanal people made similar requests in 1988 and again in 1998. The essence for such calls is to ensure people are empowered to decide on and control their resources and development aspirations. On this issue, the Guadalcanal Provincial Government requests the Solomon Islands Government to expedite constitutional reform and table the Federal Government Bill within 2006 so as to allow for Solomon Islands to adopt the Federal Government system. (Arambola 2006, 2)

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On Guadalcanal, the relationship between socioeconomic inequality and identity is not as strong, nor as starkly evident, as it has been in the case of Malaita. For Guales, issues of socioeconomic justice have been a persistent grievance against the government, and in this sense they have contributed to identity narratives. However, Guales do not have Malaitans’ shared sense of history as a reviled underclass of workers. As I argued in chapter 3, class was a more important source of unity in Maasina Rule than it was in the Moro Movement, and it certainly contributed to the much wider geographical influence of Maasina Rule. Furthermore, while Weather Coast people have a history of labor migration, people from the north side of the island have had other economic options and have not been forced to sell their labor to the same extent.7 Moreover, as we saw in chapter 3, the plantation environment particularly favored the formation of a Malaitan identity, not only because Malaitans were the most numerous, but also because of their broadly shared culture and the fact that they were given the most backbreaking work in the plantation division of labor. There is also a more positive side to the relationship between economic deprivation and Malaitan identity. From the perspective of Malaitans, while they may have been a feared and reviled underclass, they have also been the “manpower” and the “builders” of the nation. There is a strongly held belief among Malaitans that without them, Solomon Islands would collapse. This rhetoric is juxtaposed against a portrayal of other Solomon Islanders, particularly Guales and Westerners, as lazy, unproductive, and incompetent.8 Hence we see comments such as the following: Those people who own their own land but don’t do anything with it, don’t work on it, when they see the Malaitans working on the land, the problem starts, and they say, “Hey, go back to Malaita.” (C, interview with C, L, and others) When we were chased out and harassed and victimized, we came back, and then Honiara itself and even Guadalcanal itself, it was hard for them to do anything without the Malaita people. (L, interview with C, L, and others) They [other provinces in Solomon Islands] know very well that to develop their resources they will need manpower and they on their own will not be able to cope. (Maeliau 2003, 52)

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Those who do nothing, expecting things to come to them without sweat, can become jealous. That is one cause of the conflict. They should appreciate that Malaitans were the productive, active people who did everything in Guadalcanal. (Kwa’ioloa and Burt 2007, 114)

The Masta Liu Factor There can be no doubt that many of the men who joined the militant groups broadly fit the Masta Liu characterization. They are school “push-outs” with checkered employment histories. They have oscillated between their home villages and other parts of the country in search of work and to experience life away from the strictures of traditional authority. In the case of the urban and peri-urban Malaitan Masta Liu, many are second- or third-generation migrants. Some of the “criminal acts” carried out by ex-militants during the Tension are characteristic of the types of behaviors in which Masta Liu engage. Moreover, in the urban context Masta Liu frequently face unemployment, poverty, and hunger and are often on the lookout for cashearning opportunities. We have also seen that the Masta Liu imagery has been employed to argue that the militant groups were essentially “stage armies” of criminally inclined young men who relished the opportunity to make a fast buck and engage in some fun and adventure. This portrayal resonates somewhat with the greed thesis of developing-country violence put forward by neoclassical economists. Such an interpretation fails to account for the motives of men such as George Gray, who is tertiary-educated and left a job in the private sector in order to join the Guale militants (see Gray 2002). I met other ex-militants who were also relatively well educated and left “good” jobs during the Tension. For them the opportunity cost of rebelling was far greater than the opportunity cost of not doing so. In other words, as assumed rational actors, they could not have reasonably expected to be able to make more money by quitting their jobs and becoming militants. My discussions with some of the men involved in the Tension partly corroborate the theory that they joined the militant groups in pursuit of money and adventure and possibly also to alleviate the boredom and despair associated with poverty and unemployment.9 However, we have also seen that most ex-militants explain their actions in terms of a wide range of grievances that are often eloquently articulated. Furthermore, it is erroneous to assume that the opportunity to commit “criminal acts” during the Tension is what motivated men to join the militant groups in

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the first place. It is problematic to read motive from action. Even if we accept the assertion that the crimes committed by militants during the Tension provide evidence of the motive to rebel in the first place, our interpretation of those same acts in terms of “criminal” intentions is problematized by alternative explanations that emphasize cultural motives. The “stage army” rendering of the motives of the rank and file of the militant groups tends to cast these men as consumers, rather than producers, of identity discourses based around kastom. I acknowledge the influence that big-men can have over the younger men in their societies (recall the story of Alex Bartlett and his MEF “boys” in Rove prison); however, the material presented over the previous two chapters encourages us to see ex-militants as producers as well as consumers of identity discourses, as I have argued in this chapter. This is an important point because it problematizes the characterization of the militants as mute followers of their big-men and passive consumers of identity discourses over which they have no control. It also brings into question the apportioning of primary agency to strong leaders who were able to manipulate kastom and ethnicity in order to mobilize mobs of “angry young men” to do their bidding.10 Micronationalism Just as there are important similarities in the micronationalist narratives of Malaitans and Guales, so too are there significant differences. Indeed, it is tempting to contrast the classically micronationalist characteristics of the “breakaway” and “statehood” agendas of Western and Guadalcanal Provinces against a more outward-looking Malaitan nationbuilding agenda. However, we can discern a double contradiction in Malaitan identity rhetoric. One strand is the tension between Malaitan anti-government discourse, on the one hand, and a deep conservatism in relation to the development of customary land, on the other (see Moore 2007, 228). At the same time that Malaitans have opined the government’s neglect of their island, they have actively obstructed efforts to develop it. According to former public servant and Speaker of Parliament Lloyd Gina (from New Georgia in Western Province), “On Malaita, this attitude of refusing access to many good things long has been a great impediment to any major development. People and landowners are still very suspicious of many major projects which governments past and present, through the Members of Parliament, were desirous to get off the ground, but proved unsuccessful” (2003, 277; also see 93–96).

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Gina’s statement must be read alongside the argument that it is the form of development, as opposed to development per se, that has been resisted by Malaitans. Scholars such as Keesing and particularly David Gegeo (a Malaitan with Kwara’ae and Lau heritage) have highlighted the fundamental incompatibility between Malaitan epistemologies of development and the approach to “rural development” adopted by successive colonial and postcolonial governments (Keesing 1992; Gegeo 1998, 2001; Gegeo and Watson-Gegeo 2002). Gegeo characterizes the latter as “rural development cum modernization . . . with a much greater general stress on economic goals over social or cultural goals” (Gegeo 1998, 300), while the former has a more holistic approach that caters to spiritual, psychological, and physical needs and is firmly anchored in indigenous knowledge (Gegeo 1998, 298–300). Gegeo argues that the West Kwara’ae philosophy of gwaumauri’anga, meaning the “good life,” is at odds with government approaches to development, which villagers describe as “a one-sided vision” (1998, 300). Villagers believe that this disjuncture has led to the inevitable failure of official rural development projects in the region. The other strand of contradiction in Malaitan identity discourse is the increasing socioeconomic differentiation of Malaitans marked by the emergence of a minority Honiara-based elite who do not fit the “working-class” rhetoric. These Malaitans have done very well out of Solomon Islands as a cohesive, unitary nation and have a strong vested interest in the continuation of the constitutional status quo. In fact, given the ongoing lack of economic opportunities on Malaita, for whatever reason, all Malaitans continue to depend, to some degree, upon the economic flows associated with circular migration and settlement. Furthermore, we have seen that circulation has become an enduring part of Malaitan worldviews. If we can speak of a Malaitan ethnie, it is not confined within the physical borders of the province but has, for a very long time, included other parts of Solomon Islands.11 While the failure of Maasina Rule to create the economic incentives for Malaitans to stay on Malaita arguably resulted in a shift back toward a more outward-looking nationalist agenda, the eviction of Malaitans from Guadalcanal and other provinces during the Tension has seen a revival of Malaitan introspection. This shift is particularly apparent in the work and objectives of the Malaita Ma’asina Forum, which is attempting to facilitate the development of Malaita by lobbying the government for infrastructure and investment in agriculture projects and is encouraging the recording and registering of customary land (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 17). These objectives are shared by many Malaitans

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with whom I have spoken over the past six years or so (also see Moore 2007, 227–231). The renewed focus on sorting out Malaita’s internal problems once again encourages us to recall the micronationalist characteristic of attempting to “withdraw” from the wider national community. In the wake of the Tension, the need for labor-intensive development projects on Malaita is more pressing than ever. As well as their strong sense of no longer being welcome on rural Guadalcanal (see, for example, Maeliau 2003, 52), there are new structural barriers preventing Malaitans from working on the commercial agricultural projects for which they have historically provided the bulk of the workforce. For example, Guadalcanal Plains Palm Oil Limited, which took over the old SIPL plantations in 2004, has signed a memorandum of understanding with landowners and the provincial and national governments that dictates that first priority with regard to employment is to be given to local landowners, then to people from elsewhere in Guadalcanal Province, and finally to people from other provinces (Fraenkel, Allen, and Brock 2010, 69). Similar arrangements are also in place at Gold Ridge mine, which recommenced production in early 2011 (Nanau 2009, 193, 251). However, developing Malaita will be no easy task, as discussed by Moore (2007b, 227–231). It will require land reforms that are carefully attuned to the complexities of the island’s land tenure systems and an approach to development that is strongly informed by Malaitan epistemologies of rural development. Without such accommodation with local visions for development and forms of land tenure, it will be extremely difficult to effect large-scale infrastructural and agricultural development on Malaita. Moreover, one imagines that the objective of developing Malaita can be realized, at least in the short term, only within the current framework of a unitary Solomon Islands, where the central government retains the power to make decisions about infrastructure investment, development planning, and the redistribution of resource rents. Tensions can also be seen within Guale micronationalism. Should a new state government constitution for Guadalcanal be based on the teachings of the Moro Movement, as one ex-militant suggests? No doubt such an agenda would be strongly challenged by the Christian churches and others who have historically questioned the authenticity and legitimacy of Moro kastom. Moreover, the “tribal fight” that took place on Guadalcanal points not only to ongoing struggles between kastom and Christian ideologies, but also to the island’s regional economic disparities, particularly between the developed north coast and the remote Weather Coast.

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These contradictions highlight the difficulties inherent in collective action, again throwing the mutability of island- and regional-level identities into stark relief. Increasing differentiation means that class divisions now cut across ethnic boundaries more strongly than in the past. Moreover, Solomon Islanders’ primary loyalties continue to be to their kinship and landowning groups, and adjacent groups are frequently at odds over land and resource issues. However, as Smith notes, we must not overplay the mutability of ethnic boundaries and their “cultural contents,” as this would render us unable to account for the “recurrence of ethnic ties and communities . . . and their demonstrable durability over and above boundary and cultural change in particular instances” (1991, 24). Jourdan, writing about nationalism and national identity in Solomon Islands, argues that in the Pacific “the colonial masters were not the Other fought against in Indochina, or Kenya, or Algeria” and that national identities therefore needed to find different “Others” to which they could oppose and define themselves (1995b, 129–131). Two “Others” are proposed. The first is the “other ethnic group, on the other side of the river or in the next valley, or on another island, with whom trade and exchange regularly took place, or against whom wars were fought” (Jourdan 1995b, 130). The second is the colonial master, whose hegemony “brought a new form of identity, that of colonial subject” (Jourdan 1995b, 130). Jourdan goes on to argue that the cultural creolization that occurs in Honiara, away from the “custom and tradition” of the rural ­areas and facilitated by Pijin, education, and popular culture, is the new “nationalist ideology now emerging in the Solomons” (1995b, 144; also see Jourdan 1996). There can be no doubt that the processes identified by Jourdan are contributing to the development of a sense of national identity. However, one wonders about the enduring force and influence of micronationalism. The rendering of a colonially enforced common identity as “subjects” or “native citizens” elides the fact that colonial and other European forces were experienced in very different ways in different places and have therefore tended to contribute to discourses of regional, as opposed to national, identity. Moreover, my data indicate that while urbanites and temporary urbanites, particularly the Masta Liu, may be contributing to a new creolized nationalist ideology, they are also actively contributing to micronationalist ideology. Commitment to a Solomon Islands–wide identity quickly vanished in the context of the Tension, and many of the men involved became active narrators of micronationalist histories that suited the occasion.

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With Dureau, I see the colonial experience, with its arbitrary conjoining, as well as its arbitrary separation, and its highly variable regional impacts as creating the “oppositional others for the expression of post-colonial regional discontent within states” (Dureau 1998, 219).12 This assessment resonates with LiPuma’s observations that the cultural Other has been “internalized” and that the independent nations of Melanesia “must struggle to hold themselves together as the muted voices of culture, community and ethnicity reemerge” (1995, 42, 49). Moreover, I share May’s views of thirty years ago when he wrote that micronationalism in Papua New Guinea could not be viewed as just a blip in the transition to a much stronger sense of nationhood but rather as an indication of “the continuing strength of localism, regionalism and ethnicity” (1982, 445). The Solomons is in almost the opposite situation to ancient Greece, which Smith (1991) describes as a single nation comprised of mini-states all sharing a common language, culture, and mythology. In the Solomons, many local cultural communities and wider “ethnic collectivities” (Tambiah 1989, 341) are in the process of negotiating their relationships with a single, and in many ways still very foreign, state, as well as with one another.

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his book gives a voice to some of the hundreds of men who joined the militant groups during the recent conflict in Solomon Islands. The voices of these men have thus far been underrepresented in journalistic and scholarly accounts of the conflict. Nonetheless, many of these accounts have portrayed their motives in terms of greed and criminality. This is also the approach to ex-militants that has been taken by RAMSI. Recall that in early 2004 the first head of RAMSI, Nick Warner, stated that the mission “would approach the former militants as a policing issue.” While the role of greed and criminality cannot be entirely disregarded, the material presented here enables us to see the importance of fundamentally political factors in motivating men to take up arms in the conflict. These political factors are strongly informed by the ex-militants’ conceptions of history and of the places of their respective peoples in the historical processes of colonization, development, and nation building. Without a detailed understanding of the socioeconomic and political history of Solomon Islands it is difficult to make any sense of the recent period of conflict. Indeed, the “objective” history of the Solomons indicates that there is considerable merit in the grievance-based narratives of ex-militants; we can see how and why these narratives emerged. A central theme for ex-militants on both sides of the conflict is the historical relationship between their respective peoples and “the government.” Both sides drew upon a rich tradition of resisting the state, particularly its perceived imposition upon kastom and local sovereignty over land 178

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and resources. Both sides also engaged with discourses of development, highlighting perceived inequities in the geographical pattern of development, the provision of government services, and, especially for Guales, the distribution of primary resource rents. Another important issue that emerges clearly from the ex-militants’ testimonies is their shared sense of frustration. Guales speak about their frustration with successive colonial and postcolonial governments that have “wilfully ignored” the “legitimate” grievances of the people of Guadalcanal. Malaitans similarly express their frustration with colonial and postcolonial governments that have exploited, neglected, and even “hated” Malaitans. The events of the conflict can, to some extent, be seen in the context of both Guales and Malaitans reaching the limits of their historical frustration with the state. For Guales it was the failure of the Ulufa’alu government to meet the Bona Fide Demands that was the final straw. For Malaitans, it was Ulufa’alu’s failure to do enough to “help Malaita,” with the final straw being the resignation of Frank Short and the curtailing of police operations against the Guale militants. Joan Herlihy, whose work was cited in chapter 3, concluded her 1981 study of development planning in Papua New Guinea and Solomon Islands by arguing that capturing resources from Western aid donors and establishing macro-governmental legitimacy, rather than rural development, have been the most pressing problems for colonial and postcolonial governments in both countries: “To date the survival of macro-government as an institution has been largely independent of the support of the rural population or of the relationship between the government and the governed” (Herlihy 1981, 362). The events of the Tension indicate that perhaps this disjuncture between the state and the rural populace can no longer be sustained. Significant portions of the rural populace have grown weary of the state’s failure to deliver rural development and to connect with rural communities more broadly. This failure has been compounded by the relative deprivation engendered by uneven development, itself largely a consequence of government policy. The gap between communities and the state has also been compounded by the rise of patronage politics during the postcolonial period and by the imperatives of “structural adjustment” in the late 1990s, which saw the effective abolition of the local level of government, Area Councils, in March 1998. The events of the Tension raise the possibility that macro-government can no longer survive without the support of the rural population, at least not in its present form. The sense of relative deprivation and corollary frustration have

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been particularly acute for men. Most of the men who took up arms during the Tension are poorly educated, with checkered employment histories, and many, particularly in the urban context, struggle to make ends meet. At the same time, their expectations of development are constantly being raised by their continuing exposure to Western material culture. They are becoming increasingly aware of their subjugated position within the global political economy. This relationship among deprivation, frustration, and male violence is one that resonates across Melanesia. For example, Macintyre, writing about Papua New Guinea, states the following: The frustration at the lack of a capacity for self-determination is replicated in microcosmic forms at many levels. The militant secessionist ideals of Bougainvilleans and their violent hostility to the PNG state; the angry resentment of Lihirian landowners who feel that they have no decision-making power in the mining operations on their island; the raskols who come to town for work to find none and so resort to robbery—are in various ways responding to their enforced impotence. The forces against them are those of a global economy and . . . they perceive themselves as stymied by their lack of legitimate power over their own lives. I was constantly struck by their use of the term “frustration” to describe the immediate catalyst for specific acts of violence. (2002, 10–11)

There are yet other important motives for those who joined the militant groups that are obscured by the focus on greed and criminality. Foremost of these are culturalist explanations for some of the types of violence perpetrated by men in Solomon Islands and in other parts of Melanesia. As I mentioned in chapter 1, it has not been my intention to glorify notions of “warriorhood” or in any way to diminish the pain and suffering of the many innocent victims of the violence wrought during the conflict. We must also take care not to essentialize culturalist explanations for male violence, as such explanations are contested among Solomon Islanders. However, these explanations are important to the extent that they challenge and problematize the Western conceptions of violence and crime that inform some of the new political economy approaches. For the neoclassical economists, the focus is on material and pecuniary gain. Rebel groups are regarded as akin to criminal gangs because of the greedmotivated criminal “predation” in which they engage. How then do we account for conflict-related criminal acts that have no apparent relation-

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ship with pecuniary or material benefit, such as rape and sexual assault? How do we account for the fact that particular subcultures, such as that of the Masta Liu, place value on certain types of violent male behavior? What about the influence that exposure to gun-toting Bougainvillean rebels, replete with their army fatigues, bandannas, and other elements of the Rambo iconography, had on the thinking of young men in the Solomons? What about the fact that some young Kwaio men continue to be influenced by the spirits of their dead ancestors to engage in certain types of “spoiling” activities? What about the enduring role of tabu, restitution, and retribution in many Melanesian societies? The point is that the new political economy approaches cannot account for these cultural influences on violence and warfare. By giving a voice to some of the men who participated in the Solomons conflict and by providing social, cultural, political, ecological, and historical contexts for their stories, we can see that there is a strong need to move beyond new political economy perspectives if we are to understand the deeper roots of the conflict. Greed for the Group? An important constraint of the neoclassical economic models of intrastate conflict is the way in which they account for the challenges of collective action. The ease with which collective action problems can be overcome in a given society is seen primarily in terms of “ethnolinguistic fragmentation,” which is equated with the transaction costs of economic theory (Collier and Hoeffler 1998). The obvious flaw in this approach, aside from its privileging of ethnicity over other forms of collective identity, is that ethnic boundaries are viewed as static and “ethnic capital” is regarded as historically fixed. The historical evidence from Solomon Islands, and from many other places, is that ethnic identities have been fairly fluid over time and that contiguous ethnolinguistic groups can coalesce into wider ethnic groupings in particular circumstances. If we remove the constraints of fixed and static ethnic groups, defined on the basis of linguistic divisions, Collier’s model starts to make more sense in the Melanesian context, as argued by Reilly (2004). Instead of seeing a Solomon Islands “data sheet” listing sixty-four immutable ethnolinguistic groups, we see a far more dynamic situation in which three ethnicities, among them accounting for two-thirds of the country’s population, have loomed large in the politics of the nation since World War II. And while the primary loyalties of most Solomon Island-

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ers remain with their kinship and language groups, the broader identity referents of “the West,” “Malaita,” and “Guadalcanal” (as well as other island-wide identities) have, from time to time, taken on the characteristics of solid, and relatively large, ethnic blocs. Collier (2001) makes some attempt to account for the dynamic nature of ethnic identity. He argues that wider ethnic identities can arise during “ethnic liberation secession movements” but that the “underlying motivation may often be the capture of primary commodity rents,” with ethnic identity created as a “by-product” (2001, 147, 148). To what extent does this particular conceptualization of the greed thesis shed light on the relationship between resource wealth and secessionist (or in the Solomons’ case, micronationalist) movements, particularly with regard to the Guale statehood movement? The Guadalcanal case is more relevant here for the reasons that at a provincial level, Guadalcanal is much wealthier than Malaita in terms of primary commodity production and, like Western Province, its people have repeatedly expressed a desire for greater autonomy over the past thirty years or so. While the Guale statehood movement falls short of being a full-blown secessionist or even separatist movement, we can nevertheless discern a strong element of “collective rent-seeking” in what I have labeled as the development equity grievance. Indeed, it will be recalled from chapter 4 that some Guale ex-militants clearly state that they want statehood in order to have absolute “power” over the primary resources of Guadalcanal, making it the “richest” island in the country. In this regard, the Guale rebellion can be seen partly in terms of greed for the group. Grievance for the Group? It has also been demonstrated that the desire to control the primary resources of Guadalcanal was not the sole factor contributing to the Guale uprising and the emergence of a Guadalcanal-wide ethnic identity, as Collier would suggest. In chapter 3, I showed that in Solomon Islands wider identity groupings have arisen in circumstances that are entirely unrelated to the presence of primary resource wealth, having had more to do with the historical processes of colonization, missionization, and uneven development. Indeed, it has been shown that Maasina Rule and the Moro Movement are examples of cases where both ethnic aggregation and a desire to withdraw from the wider nation have arisen in contexts characterized by the lack of resources rather than their abundance.

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Under these circumstances it is a shared sense of political and socioeconomic injustice, rather than the presence of resources, that has provided the unifying force for ethnic aggregation. Furthermore, in the case of Bougainville, where there clearly is an abundance of primary resource wealth (at least on some parts of the island), there is now a strong consensus in the scholarly literature that a sense of Bougainvillean-wide identity predated the development of the mine, having been informed by the sense of difference engendered by colonial, missionary, and economic history (see Regan 2005). We have seen that similar processes have been at play in the Solomons case. Moreover, many Guale ex-militants and other Guales with whom I spoke expressed “anti-development” sentiments. Part of their declared agenda was, and still is, to put an end to large-scale resource development projects, particularly gold mining, which are seen as inimical to the conservation-oriented “Divine Laws” that “preserve and protect” the people, land, and environment of Guadalcanal.1 Similar sentiments have been expressed by similar movements on Buka and Bougainville, the most influential of which was the Me’ekamui Pontoku Onoring, established in 1959 by Damien Dameng, who became a “significant figure” in the origins and direction of the Bougainville conflict from 1988 (Regan 2007, 99). For at least some Guales, then, the expressed desire to control their own resources cannot simply be interpreted as a grab for resource wealth. Indeed, there is increasing recognition that Melanesians’ engagements with capitalist economies are inflected to serve place-based socioeconomic and cultural goals as they seek to achieve a meaningful blend of modernity and tradition (Curry 2003). In chapter 6 we saw that for the Kwara’ae speakers of Malaita, this goal is expressed as gwaumauri’anga or “good life” (Gegeo 1998). This approach resonates with the Papua New Guinea Tok Pisin term gutpela sindaun, again referring to a highly localized conception of the good life. These conceptions underscore the salience of local epistemologies of development, the dialectics of people and nature, and the connections between land and identity. As has been the case in other parts of Melanesia (see Banks 2008) and in other developing-country contexts (see, for example, Peluso and Watts 2001b), conflict can result from the disruption to these relationships as local socioecological contexts are increasingly penetrated by the resource-hungry global political economy. In the Solomons the presence of resource wealth, or more particularly of resource development projects, has intensified historical trends in identity politics in ways that are largely unrelated to distributional issues. In the case of Guadalcanal, the development of the Guadalcanal plains

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and, more recently, the Gold Ridge mine, accelerated the labor migration of Malaitans that has been occurring since early in the last century. The post–World War II migration of Malaitans to Guadalcanal has also been driven by the presence of Honiara and the employment and business opportunities that it offers. We have also seen that the migration pattern since World War II has been characterized by a trend toward permanent settlement, though circulation also continues to be important. With settlers and indigenous landowners thrown together in increasing numbers on north Guadalcanal, social and cultural differences between them have been brought into stark relief and have given rise to the Guale grievances that I have labeled as issues of “cultural respect.” These grievances are given credence by the fact that some Malaitans accept that wherever they have settled in other provinces, they have tended to “enforce” their “rigid customs and practices” in ways that have been unacceptable to their hosts (Malaita Ma’asina Forum Executive 2005, 13).2 Another important issue is that of the social dislocation and disintegration that have occurred around resource development sites in Melanesia, particularly mines, as described by Filer (1990, 1992) for the Nasioi of Bougainville and by Banks (2005, 2008) for Papua New Guinea more generally. While detailed investigation of the conflicts within landowning groups on Guadalcanal relating to land and resources has not been possible here, we have nevertheless noted that Solomon Islander scholars such as Kabutaulaka (2001), Naitoro (2003), Maetala (2008), and Nanau (2009) have highlighted these issues, particularly in the case of north Guadalcanal, and have linked them to the Guale uprising (also see Monson 2012). It may be the case that these internecine and intergenerational conflicts have had much to do with distributional issues surrounding compensation, rents, and royalties. However, the fact that they have operated within rather than between landowning groups makes them very different types of distributional issues from those theorized by proponents of the new political economy. It is in interpreting the aforementioned factors—local epistemologies of development, land, and nature; social and cultural disruption engendered by migration and settlement; and the micropolitics of resource access and control—that a political ecology lens has much to offer.3 The Role of the State “Development” has been the dominant political discourse in Solomon Islands since colonization: “Conflict is driven in the first instance by dif-

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fering State and local agendas for development” (Scales 2003b, 2). The formula for sharing and distributing the bounty in the national basket has been contested since before Independence, and it is the state that is held responsible for perceived inequities in the system. To invoke Jeffrey Clark’s (1997) metaphor from Papua New Guinea, the large ethnic groupings of Guadalcanal, Malaita, and Western Provinces, as well as the other smaller provinces, have sought to negotiate with the state as if it were a big-man who is expected to be reciprocal and distributive. And these groups have negotiated from starkly contrasting perspectives. We can see a basic confrontation between Malaitan “labor” agendas for the state, on the one hand, and Guale and Western “natural resources” agendas for the state, on the other (see Scales 2003b, 31). These competing agendas have given rise to contrasting identity narratives: a Guale “landowner” narrative invokes indigeneity as the paramount font of legitimacy in the spheres of land and resource development, while a Malaitan “settler” narrative emphasizes nation building and national development, thereby linking itself to the legitimacy of the state.4 We have also seen that the legislative and executive branches of the state have been highly contested spaces in which political elites have competed to access the spoils of the informalization of politics. Thus, although the state may be institutionally weak and widely regarded by the “grass roots” as being enmeshed in networks of patronage and cronyism, individuals and groups have nevertheless sought to engage and negotiate with it. By so doing, they have accorded the state a degree of legitimacy and permanency that belies its common characterization as “weak” or “failed.” It is important, however, that the state has also influenced identity politics and micronationalism in Solomon Islands in ways that are unrelated to distributional or other economic issues. Movements such as Maasina Rule and the Moro Movement have been as much about resisting the state as they have been about negotiating with it. An enduring point of confrontation has been the imposition of “alien” government law that has conflicted with kastom law. While the tradition of resisting the state has been strongest on Malaita, I have demonstrated that it has also been evident in Guale micronationalism. In the latter case, the widespread alienation of land during the colonial era, and since then, has been a further source of contention with the state. Indeed, the independent state of Solomon Islands—“the government”—is seen by many Solomon Islanders as the successor of the colonial state and the inheritor of all of its past wrongdoings. Here we can discern the less benevolent side of the state’s character as a big-man: its capacity for immoral and dangerous behavior. We have seen that these characteristics are of-

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ten imputed to Honiara, which is presented as a symbol of a state that is mired in decadence and corruption. Micronationalist movements in Solomon Islands have, therefore, sought to negotiate with the state about distributional issues at the same time that they have resisted its perceived imposition on local sovereignty, particularly with regard to land and resources and legal issues. In this manner, the recent conflict in Solomon Islands needs to be situated in the deeper historical process of state formation. As has been the case in other contexts, this process has been inherently conflictual as the central state attempts to wrest power and sovereignty from diverse and intensely localized political and social groupings. Follow the Leader Another issue that arises in this research is the role of the “big fish” in the conflict, not only men like Ezekiel Alebua and Andrew Nori, but also the wider circle of Honiara elites. In chapter 2 we saw that the postcolonial political culture of Solomon Islands has created strong financial incentives for men seeking to control the state. Most of the national governments since the early 1980s, particularly those of the late Solomon Mamaloni, have been closely associated with the notoriously corrupt logging industry. Prior to the advent of the Ulufa’alu government in the 1997 general election, the only previous attempt to tackle corruption in the forestry sector was that made by the Billy Hilly government in 1994. Billy Hilly lost his majority in parliament after several members were bribed to cross the floor. Once reinstalled as prime minister, Mamaloni proceeded to dismantle the reforms, and it was quickly back to business as usual in the forestry sector. Seen against this background, allegations that members of the parliamentary opposition, led by Mamaloni until his death in January 2000, were deliberately stirring up trouble on Guadalcanal in order to destabilize the reformist Ulufa’alu government are quite plausible. We also saw in chapter 2 that the Ulufa’alu government’s program of structural adjustment exacerbated the pressure on patronage networks brought about by the collapse of logging exports due to the Asian financial crisis. This sequence of events provides an explanation for the timing of the uprising on Guadalcanal, that it happened then and not earlier. It also provides cause for alarm at the predicted collapse of the forest resource by 2015, especially as the Solomons economy is more dependent than it ever has been on the export of round logs.

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We have seen that the compensation paid by the national government to the Western Council during the “Ode to the West Wind” incident in 1978 set a precedent for the compensation paid following the episodes of social unrest in Honiara in 1989 and 1996. Fraenkel (2004) is correct to emphasize the financial incentives inherent in what he describes as the manipulation of the traditional Melanesian practice of compensation by political elites. There can be no doubt that the increasing corruption of the compensation process significantly contributed to the longevity of the conflict. Indeed, one wonders how differently events may have played out if Ulufa’alu had responded more promptly to the original compensation demand of the Guadalcanal Provincial Assembly. We have seen that many ex-militants on both sides of the conflict blame their leaders for initiating the violence and that in so doing, they may be attempting to absolve themselves of responsibility for their actions. Moreover, we know that ex-militants on both sides fell out with their leaders and that the acrimony appears to have had much to do with the distribution of compensation payments. That said, we must nevertheless take some note of ex-militants’ allegations concerning their leaders. The extent to which Alebua initiated the Guale uprising for his own financial gain, as posited by Fraenkel (2004) (and alleged by Harold Keke and others), is worthy of consideration. So too is the allegation that members and associates of the MEF Supreme Command were similarly motivated by the prospects of pecuniary gain and may also have been involved in a conspiracy to remove the Ulufa’alu government. While the conflicts between leaders and followers were partly about financial issues, they can also be seen in terms of younger men challenging the authority of the older generation of leaders. In chapter 6 I argued that the men who took up arms during the Tension may be seen as producers rather than consumers of the identity discourses of that period. They used their own words to talk and write about identity issues. By giving a voice to the young men involved in the conflict, we can see them as active participants in identity discourses based around kastom, Christianity, socioeconomic inequality, resistance, and the state. Yet some of the younger leaders, most notably Harold Keke, clearly found it difficult to recruit and maintain followers. There is evidence to suggest that at least some of the Weather Coast men who joined the GLF, including boys as young as fourteen, were coerced into doing so and that once they had joined, they were threatened with death if they failed to follow the orders of Keke and his henchman Ronny Cawa. In these circumstances it becomes very difficult to speak about individuals’ motives for rebelling in simplistic terms of greed and grievance.

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Relative Deprivation If we are to identify a single or most important cause of the recent conflict in Solomon Islands, it comes to us through the lens of old political economy. It is the perception among some Solomon Islanders of their social and economic deprivation relative to other Solomon Islanders and relative to people in other parts of the world. We have seen that these perceptions are strongly grounded in the extremely uneven penetration of capitalism that has characterized the archipelago since the commencement of sustained contact with the global economy in the mid-1800s. In more recent times, spatial inequalities in economic opportunities have been compounded by the inadequacy of government services in many rural localities, especially remote ones such as the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal. These perceptions of relative deprivation have played a leading role in the emergence of sub-national ethnopolitical movements over the past one hundred years or so. The historical grievances that underscored the events of 1998–2003 are not going to disappear suddenly. Moreover, they are not grievances that can be addressed by a foreign “state-building” intervention. Prosecuting ex-militants and corrupt public officials and attempting to reconstitute and strengthen the centralized state cannot address issues that lie beyond the rule of law. Solomon Islanders are keenly aware of this as they continue to negotiate the constitutional basis of their nation.

Appendix 1 “A Brief History of Ethnic Tension (South Guadalcanal)”

Peochakuri Village Weather Coast South Guadalcanal Constituency Guadalcanal Province Solomon Islands The Chairman N.P.C. Honiara Solomon Islands Attention: Mr. Paul Tovua/Dr. Stephen Halapua

12th September 2005

Dear Sir, Re: A Brief History of Ethnic Tension (South Guadalcanal) 1. Please allow me to unveil some of the natures of threats and demands we, the people of Peochakuri and the nearby villages, had gone through during the recent ethnic tension, to back up our claims and demands below.

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If I remember correctly, a Solomon Islands Government patrol boat unexpectedly arrived in Sughu in February 2001. On arrival it fired its machine guns ashore. The motive behind this mission is still unknown to me and my people. We also do not know today who was backing up this mission. 2. Keke’s arrival As a result of this shooting, Harold Keke and his men arrived at Peochakuri and temporarily settled down at Chapuria Christian Community High School, after they fled from their first settlement. These men were armed and finally settled at Inokona for some 19 months or 1 year 7 months. It was during his reign of terror we witnessed threats, tortures and deaths, which had indeed caused unbearable suffering to all our people here on the Weathercoast South Guadalcanal Constituency, mainly wards 6, 7 and 8. 3. Normal Activities Ceased As soon as he had settled down and took control of all the villages, all the daily routines of the village life were totally disturbed as our youths and men were forced to perform security duties, unarmed. But his own ex-militants were heavily armed. While the youths and men were busy doing security work, his own men were relaxing themselves. All the women were forced to prepare meals for Harold Keke and his men, our people had little time to do gardening and repairing of their houses. 4. Retail Stores Ceased to Operate In spite of the ethnic tensions, some of our retail stores continued to operate small services to our people for some time until Harold Keke and his cruel men arrived. Most of the goods from the stores were ordered by Mr. Keke without paying for them. Thus, all our canteens broke down. No one would dare ask Mr. Keke to pay for the goods because they would suffer unjust consequences.

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5. Movement In and Around the Village All the movements were strictly controlled. No one was allowed to move out from his/her house at night without a fire or a torch light. One had to seek permission before going to another nearby village. Going to Honiara without obtaining permission from the militants one would be heavily fined of $1,000, a pig and two shell money worth $1,200. Only the trustworthy people can be allowed to go to Honiara. However, in 2002, it was strictly forbidden to go to Honiara. Anyone found breaking this order may be killed or tortured. 6. Manner of Worship Our manner of worship, prayers and preaching were totally controlled by Mr. Keke. At times in the church services Harold Keke would fire his gun inside the church. At times the pastors who would not make their prayers for protection through the night were severely punished. Their punishment would be to run around the football field 50 times until they were exhausted and fainted. In those days, no one under the sun dared to say anything against H. K. for fear of being tortured or even killed. 7. Our Own Houses Harold Keke’s order was that it was a waste of time to build good houses in our respective villages. Instead, he would encourage us to build little bush huts. He believed that the Government would send its patrol boat to bombard our homes. The only safe place was in the bush huts. 8. Our Gardens It is quite natural that the person who made a garden has the right to harvest it. Our case is different. The ex-militants would help themselves when and if the gardens were ready. That included edible trees and bananas, pigs, chickens and everything we owned. We lost everything we owned during the tension.

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9. Bush Huts Disadvantages One of the disadvantages of building and owning bush huts was that we lost all our belongings, including our kitchen utensils, mattresses, axes, shell money and the likes. At times, we were urgently ordered to leave our huts and return to our respective villages. We had no time to prepare, so when we returned the next day we found our belongings were either missing or had lost their value having been exposed to the rain during the nights. The point here is that it would be a mistake for one to assume or worse still to compare our standard of living here on the Weathercoast with other wards on Guadalcanal or other Provinces. Sir, to date, all our people, to some degree, are still traumatized, depressed and need to be counseled. We still need special attention. We have lost everything during the tension but have gained nothing back. 10. Women/Girls Raped About 15% of our women and girls were raped by some of the ex-militants, including Mr. H. Keke himself. In some cases, Harold would order either a girl or woman of his choice to massage him right in his own bedroom. Most of the girls were in their earlier teens. In those days, no one under the sun would dare demand Harold Keke to pay us compensation or take him to court.

Appendix 2 “Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief”

Written by two anonymous Guale ex-militants in Rove Central Prison, 2004 Note: The following has been transcribed from a handwritten document. The original spelling and formatting have been retained. Where words appear to be missing, I have added suggestions in square brackets. 1. The first whiteman to have landed on the island of Guadalcanal was at the bush areas of Mbokona Qabu. When our people saw them, they thought those white people were spirits. In fear our people hid away in the bushes and followed the white spirits who rowed their boats towards the Matanikau river mouth. On landing at the river mouth the white spirits were visibly amazed when they saw the devils stone (Gold) everywhere along the banks of the Matanikau river. The white spirits collecting the devils stones. In fear of retribution by the ancestral spirits for not protecting the devils stones, our ancestors attacked those white spirits. Two of our ancestors were killed with the white spirits magic stick (Guns). The first action of thieving and murder on our land was committed by the Spanish explorer, Alvarode Mendana and his men at the Mantanikau river mouth. The Spanish attempt to colonise our land and her sisters was unsuccessful for God forbid thieves from our land. 193

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* Mistake Sin No/1 2. The British came to the islands but was less interested since they found nothing of interest. Instead, they upled for christianising the islanders. This took place in the 1800’s. 3. In 1898 seven (7) whitemen went up the Matapona river as far as Suta Kama. Again our ancestors were watching from behind the bushes and witnessed them stealing the devil stones from along the river banks. Again our ancestors attacked those whitemen to protect the devils stone. Two whitemen were killed and were eaten, boots and all. Five of the whitemen escaped after firing their magic sticks and keeping our ancestors from getting close. *Whiteman mistake (sin) No/2 4. 1898–1902. This time the whitemen came to deceive, murder and steal our people. Our people were taken into forced labour and it was their sweat, tears and toil that shaped the sugar industries of Australia and Fiji. Today, the descendants of those that were denied return passage are looked upon as second/third class citizens of these nations. *Whiteman mistake (Sin) No/3 5. The whitemen introduced imprisonment, a form of punishment so alien and stupid to us for breaking or disobeying the unknown and unseen king/queen of England. A form of legislation so alien that introduced have yet to understand the motives which so maliciously violated and ignored our cultural values. We observed with amazement the taking of our people from our villages to Tulagi where they [were] to be locked up in some buildings and worked for a whiteman who has nothing to do us. Some were even hanged for what the whitemen called crimes that could be easily sorted out in our cultural ways where parties involved would be satisfied. A complete invasion of our culture by the selfish, greedy ignorant and arrogant white culture. Whiteman mistake (sin) No/4 6. After the whitemans war (1942–45) which came to our islands (God knows what for) and as a result a lot of our people lost

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their lives. The British without consulting us, moved their houses to our island at a place called NAHONA-ARA. Its activities attracted a lot of people from other islands to come and live in its villages which grew so fast that our people from 1945 to date are subjected to continued eviction from traditional lands, our sacred sites and our cultural values. The island of Guadalcanal (as the whiteman called our land) then was forced to carry the burden of the Solomon Islands. Our island suffered much [more] than any of her sisters. She witnessed so much immorality practised by all the people on the land for the first time. Sex was practised on its beaches, along the bushes and everywhere, adultery, thieving, murder, dirty money deals, dishonesty, corruption etc. . . .  *Whitemens 5th and biggest mistake which must be stopped 7. In 1968 the British Western Pacific Commissioner visited the weather coast of Guadalcanal. Thousands of people gathered in respect of that foreign dignitary, with cultural valuables such as shell money, food and assorted gifts offered to the District Commissioner. The traditional chiefs of Guadalcanal gave him this message: “We the people of Guadalcanal demand our freedom, please take your Law back to England and leave us alone.” The District Commissioner failed either to act on our demand and perhaps refused to inform the British government of our demands. *Whiteman mistake sin No/6 8. In 1975 before Independence our politicians requested statehood for Guadalcanal Province, whereby we wanted an autonomous state so we can manage our own resources and affairs. The Government of Solomon Islands turned a deaf ear and blind eye on our demands. *7th mistake—committed by a ­Governing body that adopted whiteman’s culture 9. Our people mad[e] a peaceful demonstration in 1988 to present the same demand—seeking [a] self autonomous state for Guadalcanal. Again the government of Solomon Islands refused to take heed to our set of demands.

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Mistake (sin) No/8 COMMITTED BY ­Solomon Islands ELECTED GOVERNMENT 10. Ten years later in 1998 sentiments supporting the petitions now known as the “Bona Fide demands” was submitted to the Ulufa’alu led government and again it fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. The children of Guadalcanal could no longer hold back their frustrations over the governments continued deprivation of their legitimate demands which [were] overturned by both the British and the Solomon Islands government [and] wilfully ignored. And so their frustrations and anger has turned into what is now known as the Ethnic Tension. Elements within and outside the government better seen as opportunists who capitalised on the ethnic uprising to further their personal motives realised that things were going out of hand came to betray the very concept they once embraced. The Government in its ill conceived agenda again wilfully ignored the Melanesian culture which was exhibited in breaking [brokering?] the ceasefire and eventually leading to the signing of the Townsville Peace Agreement opted to protect its cronies and personal motives committed the gravest mistake ever. It brought in the Regional intervention force to the Solomons to sort out problems that are culturally ingrained [and it] is the gravest mistake the Kemakeza regime has ever committed. The subsequent persecution by arresting the children of Guadalcanal and imprisoning them will NEVER solve the grievances of the people of Guadalcanal. It only give[s] rise to the determination of the present and future children of Guadalcanal to continue to fight for their legitimate rights. It is now crystal clear, seen through the eyes of the children of Guadalcanal that Solomon Islands is the only country where corruption is legal in the government.

Notes

Chapter 1: Introduction 1.  The Solomons Pijin word kastom is derived from the English word “custom.” While the usage of the term by Solomon Islanders often closely approximates the meanings of the English words “custom,” “tradition,” and “culture,” it is polysemic, and we must be aware of the pitfalls of interpreting kastom as referring to some sort of timeless and unchanging pre-European way of life. As will be discussed below in this chapter, kastom has taken on specific historical, political, and place-based meanings and is frequently invoked in ways that emphasize change and adaptation, as well as continuity with the past. We will also see that kastom has been deployed by Solomon Islanders as a symbol of islandwide unity and solidarity, and as ideology of political resistance. 2. The Constitution of Solomon Islands 1978 establishes that only Solomon Islanders and the state may hold a perpetual title in land. According to an assessment published in 2008, around 87 percent of land in Solomon Islands is held under customary ownership (Commonwealth of Australia 2008). Of the remaining 13 percent of land that is registered, 8 percent is governmentowned and 5 percent is held as Perpetual Estates by Solomon Islanders. The nature of customary tenure varies from place to place, but a basic definition is that it consists of “a balance between group and individual rights and obligations, with land ownership being held at group level and land use being exercised at the individual or household level” (Fingleton 2005, 4). The relationship between customary landownership and social organization is examined in chapter 2. 3.  The title of this section is thanks to Nordstrom (1997). 4.  While acknowledging the difficulties inherent in attempting to identify “culture areas,” following Knauft (1999, 1), I delineate Melanesia as the region stretching from New Caledonia in the southeast to the island of New Guinea 197

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in the northwest. Included are the postcolonial nations of Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, and Fiji; the French overseas country of New Caledonia; and the Indonesian provinces of Papua and West Papua. 5.  Estimates of the numbers of deaths and casualties vary widely. Between one hundred and two hundred people were killed as a direct result of the fighting between late 1998 and late 2000. Around thirty-five thousand people were displaced during this period. It is likely that a further fifty people were killed between late 2000 and July 2003. Fighting on the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal during this period saw the displacement of a further fifteen hundred to two thousand people. 6. The strength and resilience of the country’s thousands of rural communities, in social, spiritual, and physical terms, meant that the impacts of the conflict were much less severe than they could have been (see Hviding 2011). 7. The greed thesis has been robustly critiqued in the “beyond greed and grievance” literature (see, for example, Ballentine and Sherman 2003; Cramer 2002, 2006; and Richards 2004). 8. Papua New Guinea (PNG) and the Autonomous Region of Bougainville share a border with Solomon Islands. Following a ten-year secessionist conflict characterized by periods of bitter internecine fighting, the island of Bougainville achieved autonomy status within PNG in 2001 (which was subsequently formalized with the adoption of Bougainville’s constitution in 2005). Colonial and missionary discourses of race contributed to the emergence of a Bougainvillean identity, providing a means with which Bougainvilleans could distinguish themselves from “other” Papua New Guineans in general and PNG Highlanders (the “redskins”) in particular (Nash and Ogan 1990). 9. For critiques of the “ethnic conflict” framing, see Dinnen (2002) and Kabutaulaka (2001). 10.  See Ross (2004) for a useful review of these studies. 11. There are “weak” and “strong” versions of the greed thesis. In the weak version, the presence of lootable commodities is seen as providing the opportunity to finance rebellion. In the strong version, the opportunity for predation becomes in itself the motive to rebel (see Collier 2001; Collier and Hoeffler 2004; Grossman 1999). 12. “Masta Liu” is a term derived from north Malaitan languages meaning to wander around aimlessly. It is a pejorative reference to the young unemployed men who frequent the streets of Honiara. See Frazer (1985a, 1985b) and Jourdan (1995a). 13. See Bryant (1998) and Walker (2005) for reviews of the field and Greenberg and Park (1994) for a discussion of its intellectual genealogy. 14.  Also see the contributions to Peluso and Watts (2001b). 15. The term “micronationalism” was first employed by May (1982, 2) in the context of Papua New Guinea to describe a “varied collection of movements which displayed a common tendency, at least at an ideological or psychological

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level, to disengage from the wider economic and political systems imposed by colonial rule, seeking in a sense a common identity and purpose, and through some combination of traditional and modern values and organisational forms, an acceptable formula for their own development.” 16. There is a large body of anthropological literature on the nature and meaning of kastom in Melanesia in general and the debate concerning “authenticity” and “invention” in particular; for example, see Akin (2004, 2005); Babadzan (1988, 2004); Jolly (1992); Keesing and Tonkinson (1982); Lindstrom and White (1994); Linnekin (1991); and Wagner (1981). 17. In their analysis of the interactions between Christianity and “custom” in dispute-resolution practices in Solomon Islands, McDougall and Kere (2011, 148) note that while Christianity and “custom” are entwined, they are also seen as distinct at the level of ideology. We will see that competing Christian and kastom ideologies played an important role in a schism that developed among Guale militants. 18.  The Solomons Pijin word wantok, literally translated as “one language,” refers to someone from the same family, lineage, clan, or language group. It also refers to the social ties and obligations that bind people from the same kinship or language group. 19.  I am grateful to Judith Bennett for highlighting these two issues. 20. I am grateful to David Akin for pointing out that in most parts of Malaita detailed knowledge of past fighting was transmitted through long, formalized accounts that were sometimes sung. In some places such accounts were still being transmitted in the last decades of the last century, and they continue to be passed on in Kwaio (personal communication, December 2010). 21. In his detailed study of the colonization and Christian conversion of the Kwara’ae people of Malaita, Ben Burt stresses the importance of the concept of “tabu” in understanding Kwara’ae conceptions of restitution and retribution. When persons, objects, and the spirits of ancestors (ghosts) are made tabu, they are to be protected from specific acts that might “spoil” them. If a person is spoiled by the act of another, the resulting conflict requires that the offended person is “made good” by the restoration of his or her status as tabu. Such restoration occurs through a payment of shell money or other goods, which are referred to in Kwara’ae as “restitution.” Moreover, the traditional Kwara’ae “laws” of human behavior can fully be understood only with reference to the high tabu status ascribed to ghosts. The concept of tabu applies particularly to the rules governing the interactions between men and women that were designed to protect senior men, priests, and ghosts from the “polluting” and “defiling” effects of women, especially during menstruation or childbirth (Burt 1994, 32–34, 44– 47, 55–59). Restitution, defined here as the act of restoring a person’s status as tabu following an offense committed against him or her, can be distinguished from compensation given as a repayment for injury or loss of life (Kwa’ioloa and Burt 1997, 146).

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Chapter 2: Solomon Islands and the Tension 1.  Following Spriggs (1997, 1–21), I define Island Melanesia geographically as a set of archipelagos that stretch from northwest to southeast, encompassing the Bismarck Archipelago, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, and New Caledonia. 2. Tryon and Hackman’s (1983) enumeration of sixty-four languages excludes extinct languages, English, and Pijin. 3.  This section is largely based on Bennett (1987, 1–20). 4. Germany had established a protectorate over New Guinea in 1884 that was extended to include Bougainville, the Shortland Islands, Choiseul, and Isabel. Authority over the Shortlands, Choiseul, Isabel, and the Polynesian outlier of Ontong Java was transferred to the BSIP in an agreement of 1899 (Fraenkel 2004, 21–22). 5.  See Allen (2011) for a recent review of the political economy of the Solomons logging industry. 6.  At the time of writing, the 2009 census data had been reported only in summary form. Note that the 1999 census, which was conducted in November of that year, was affected by the Tension in the sense that large numbers of people had been displaced by the events of the previous twelve months (see below). 7. It is important not to overemphasize this point because the collapse of state services, particularly in the health sector, did impact adversely on people in rural areas. Moreover, the economic impacts of the conflict included a marked decline in the export of smallholder cash crops, including copra, the backbone of the rural economy. 8. There is some dispute and confusion surrounding the various names used to describe the Guale militants. For example, Harold Keke, during his evidence in the Father Geve case, claims that the GLF was the original name and that the IFM was formed by Ezekiel Alebua as a rival group to the GLF (Father Geve transcript, March 2, 2005, 13). However, most ex-militants and informed observers agree that the correct chronology of names was the GRA, then the IFF, and finally the IFM (Gray 2002, 3; Kabutaukala 2001, 3; Moore 2004, 106; interviews with Guale ex-militants). It has been suggested that the name was changed from GRA to IFM in order to avoid associations with the Bougainville Revolutionary Army and to invoke a common ethnic identity through the name Isatabu, which is a “traditional” name for Guadalcanal (Kabutaulaka 2001, 5; Moore 2004, 106). According to some Guale ex-militants, the name was changed to escape the negative media portrayal of the GRA as a criminal group (interviews with Guale ex-militants). Most Guale ex-militants also agree that the GLF formed after the TPA, when it split away from the IFM, although it is acknowledged that the schism had started to develop long before the TPA (interviews with Guale ex-militants). Another small group that formed after the coup of June 2000 was the Central Neutral Force, which was active in the Gold Ridge area, where it was involved in fighting against the GRA following the TPA

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(Evans 2010). There is some evidence to suggest that the GRA and IFM existed concurrently and that the GRA was a precursor to the GLF (Fraenkel 2004, 69– 70; interviews with Guale ex-militants). Following Stritecky (2001) and Fraenkel (2004), I refer to the GRA/IFM, the IFM, and later, in the post-TPA context, the GLF. Estimates of the number of Guale militants range from three hundred to two thousand, including up to one hundred “child soldiers” aged between twelve and seventeen (Amnesty International 2000, 2; United Nations Development Program 2004, 24). Some of the ex-militants with whom I spoke were at school when they joined the GRA/IFM. 9. According to Kabutaulaka, the stockpiling of these weapons had commenced as early as 1996 (2001, 1–2). 10.  The ’Are’are-speaking people originated in Malaita. They have had connections with eastern Guadalcanal and the Marau Islands since the sixteenth century—probably based on trading relationships and intermarriages—but did not settle the Weather Coast mainland in numbers until around 1965 (Bennett 1974, 16). Estimates of the numbers of ’Are’are speakers displaced during the Tension range from 1,286 (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 104) to 4,000 (Moore 2004, 119). The 1999 census recorded 851 displaced people in the Marau ward of Birao in November of that year (Schoorl and Friesen 2002, 129). According to ’Are’are-speaking informants who evacuated to the island of Marapa, their houses were torched by Guale militants after they left. Moreover, 109 people were left behind and forced to take shelter in the bush (where they were effectively held hostage by the GRA/IFM) for three and a half months, until they were “rescued” by the Marau Eagle Force (Potae focus group interview). 11. According to a former member of the MEF, “Originally the MEF was started by a few boys who were able to obtain .22 [caliber] guns from Malaitan businessmen like Alex Bartlett and Roland Timo” (L, interview with C, L, and others). A former MEF field commander similarly states, “People started to collect licensed weapons to do security in the villages and areas in and around the Honiara town area” (N, interview with N and P). 12. It is alleged by former MEF field commander Jimmy “Rasta” Lusibaea that senior police commanders were complicit in the raid on the Auki armory (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 82). A former senior Malaitan police officer further alleges that members of the Police Field Force trained local MEF recruits in the use of the .303 rifles, SLRs, and grenade launchers taken in the raid (interview with KL). 13. According to thirty-five-year-old PH, a former rank-and-file member of the MEF, many young boys aged between thirteen and seventeen joined the MEF. PH describes these boys as Masta Liu and notes that many former members of the MEF are now Masta Liu in Honiara (interview with PH). 14. Each language group had its own camp: “When we were in Honiara, we formed thirteen camps according to language. The camps represented all of our dialects. . . . We separated into these camps to make it easier to communicate and for the commanders to talk to their boys and maintain discipline” (L, interview with C, L, and others).

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  Notes to Pages 45–55

15. In September 2000, the post-coup Manasseh Sogavare government offered a repatriation payment of SI$1,000 each to 1,800 “registered” MEF members (Fraenkel 2004, 95). One would assume that all or nearly all eligible members would have signed up for this payment, and it can therefore be concluded that at its height, the MEF numbered approximately 1,800 men, most of whom were from north and central Malaita, though all language groups were represented. 16. According to Moore, “The Guadalcanal money was not accounted for by Premier Alebua (one reason why Harold Keke tried to have him killed) and the Malaita money was seized by the MEF and never reached the provincial bank accounts” (2004, 135). 17. This pattern had started before the coup. In May 2000, a Malaitan militant was beheaded in obvious retaliation for the killing of a Guale non-combatant whose headless body had been dumped at the Honiara central market several days earlier (Fraenkel 2004, 84; Moore 2004, 131). 18. “The West” refers to Western Province. Sometimes it is used to refer to both Western and Choiseul Provinces. I occasionally refer to “the West” to mean Western Europe or the wider Western world. Where I do so the meaning is clear. 19.  Dinnen also observes that the TPA “reflected the interests of the militant groups above all else and, in particular, those of the more powerful MEF and its political and business associates” (2002, 291). 20.  Regina v. Iro’ota [2005] SBHC 7 (hereafter referred to as Patteson Saeni). 21.  Regina v. Keke [2005] SBHC 48 (hereafter referred to as Father Geve). 22.  Regina v. Cawa [2005] SBHC 18 (hereafter referred to as Six Melanesian Brothers). The six Melanesian brothers were Brother Reuben Lindsay, Brother Francis Tofi, Brother Alfred Hill, Brother Tony Sirihi, Brother Ini Paratabatu, and Brother Patterson Gatu. Their murderers were Ronny Cawa, Owen Isa, Joses Kejoa, and the juvenile known as “K,” who was tried separately. 23.  Regina v. Cawa [2007] SBHC 6 (hereafter referred to as Brother Sado). The five found guilty are Ronny Cawa, Carradine Pitakaka, Geddily Isa, Owen Isa, and William Hence. The lives and deaths of the seven tasius murdered by the GLF are the subject of a book by an Anglican priest who lived and worked with the Melanesian Brotherhood between 1990 and 2005 (Carter 2006). 24.  Regina v. Cawa [2007] SBHC 26 (hereafter referred to as Marasa) and related witness statements. Ronny Cawa, Geddily Isa, Owen Isa, and Michael Kaptendou were convicted of murder, while Christian Bosage was convicted of manslaughter. 25. By the end of 2005, five members of Kemakeza’s cabinet had been arrested and charged in relation to offenses committed during the conflict: Alex Bartlett, Clement Rojumana, Michael Maina, Benjamin Una, and Francis Zama (Kabutaulaka 2006, 4). These men were charged with offenses such as demanding money with menace, false pretenses, inciting arson, arson, and corruption. 26. This information is presented in Allen 2007 and is reproduced in appendix 1 therein.

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27. See Larmour (1994) for a discussion of the class vs. ethnicity debate in the case of the 1987 crisis in Fiji and Regan (1998) for a critical analysis of the respective roles of class, culture, and ethnonationalism in the Bougainville conflict. 28. The opposition conspiracy thesis was first articulated in the document titled “Beneath Guadalcanal: The Underlying Cause of the Ethnic Tension,” released by the Office of the Prime Minister on February 24, 2000 (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 63). In the affidavits associated with Ulufa’alu’s High Court challenge to the legality of the coup, Ulufa’alu claims that then opposition whip Charles Dausabea, a Malaitan, had close connections with the Guadalcanal militants (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 64). Some people allege that Dausabea was involved in providing guns to the Guale militants in the late 1990s (Mary-Louise O’Callaghan, personal communication, March 16, 2006). 29. Seminar presented by Bartholomew Ulufa’alu at the Australian National University, July 15, 2004; interview with Bartholomew Ulufa’alu, July 25, 2004. 30.  The position of Area Councils had become ambiguous following an unsuccessful attempt to reform the Provincial Government Act in 1996, and they were formally suspended in March 1998 by the then minister for provincial government in the SIAC government (Evans, Goddard, and Paterson 2011, 11; Goddard 2010, 16). The suspension was intended to be temporary, but the Area Councils, along with some 328 councilors and associated administrative staff, have never been reinstated. 31. Also see Scales (2003a, 9), who ponders the coincidence in time between the abolition of Area Councils and the outbreak of violence on Guadalcanal that occurred shortly thereafter. Chapter 3: Kastom, Class, and Colonization 1. Measuring ethnic diversity is problematic. Reilly (2004) employs language as a readily quantifiable measure that can be used for comparative purposes in the South Pacific context. There are six languages spoken on Guadalcanal and twelve on Malaita, and, as noted, a total of sixty-four across the whole of the archipelago (Tryon and Hackman 1983). However, the true number of ethnic groups is much greater than the number of languages, as many of the languages have multiple dialects and, at least in pre-contact times, different groups sharing the same language lacked “political cohesion” and were frequently “at odds with one another” (Bennett 1987, 6). 2. On the Weather Coast third-party groups were often engaged to carry out military expeditions and, if successful, were paid with shell money and pigs. This practice meant that the “ally-enemy alignment was fluid” and that warfare was not primarily driven by the vendetta cycles that have characterized warfare in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea (Bennett 1974, 31).

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3. The punitive force of the colonial administration was also brought to bear on areas where white men had been killed or attacked. These retaliatory expeditions employed both Solomon Islander and European militias, a strategy that often resulted in excessive violence and injustice. As well as traders and Solomon Islanders, planters and missionaries were also engaged, sometimes unwillingly, as agents of pacification. 4.  This is not to deny that ships and white men were attacked and killed in other parts of the Solomons, as indeed they were. However, it will be seen below that the labor trade was very much focused on Malaita, and therefore the frequency of these attacks was much greater there than in other parts of the Solomons. Moreover, the opportunity for material, and hence political, gain in the form of blood bounties of pigs and shell money, and also trade goods, created a political economy of ship raiding that did not exist in other areas. 5. It is important to bear in mind that this antipathy toward Malaitan laborers may, more fundamentally, have been antipathy toward outsiders rather than toward Malaitans per se. The subsequent history of migration and settlement throughout Melanesia suggests that the very presence of outside settlers has been a significant source of perceived insecurity for host communities (see, for example, Banks 2008 and Koczberski and Curry 2004). 6. Another reason for the refusal to sell was that the Melanesian Mission had been discouraging its followers from selling their land to Europeans (Bennett 1987, 135). 7. Malaita and the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal were also isolated from earlier contacts with the whaling ships that frequently visited Solomons waters. These ships tended to call in to anchorages in western Solomons and Makira, where “supplies of fresh foods and water could be replenished and local women could be procured for passing sexual pleasures” (Keesing 1992, 32–33; also see Bennett 1987, 24–33). 8. The Queensland trade ended in 1902, the Fiji trade ended in 1911, and Samoa had closed by 1914 (Bennett 1993, 135; Dureau 1998, 210). 9. Around half of this land was alienated under the Waste Lands Regulations of 1900, 1901, and 1904, under which the government could grant concessions (“crown leases”) to foreign companies over land deemed not to be “owned, cultivated or occupied by any native or non-native persons.” The main beneficiary of these “waste land” declarations was Levers Pacific Plantation Limited, though Burns Philp and a number of smaller plantation operators also obtained land in this manner. The remaining alienated land was in the form of freehold that had been purchased from “native” owners (or from Europeans who had originally purchased it from indigenous owners). Indigenous opposition and challenges to these land alienations, especially those that took place under the waste land declarations, resulted in two official inquiries, the Phillips Land Commission (1919–1923) and the Special Lands Commission (1953, reported in 1957). Both of these inquiries affirmed the principle of waste land, which was not finally repudiated until the Select Committee on Land and Min-

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ing (1974–1976) did so. Amendments to the Land and Title Ordinance in 1977, a year before Independence, provided for the automatic conversion of freehold titles held by non-Solomon Islanders into seventy-five-year leases from the government (Scheffler and Larmour 1987, 312–317). 10. Note, however, that around one-third of Ndi-Nggai men (northwest Guadalcanal) who took up employment between 1907 and 1921 went away to work on plantations in Isabel and the western Solomons, despite the fact that there were a number of local plantations. This pattern reflected the Europeans’ standard practice of obtaining plantation labor from other islands in order to decrease the temptation for recruits to break their contracts and return to their villages (Bathgate 1985, 91–92). Elsewhere Bathgate notes that commencing from around 1920 people in those parts of Guadalcanal where plantations had been established (along the northeast and northwest coasts) were meeting their head tax and other cash commitments by selling copra to visiting Chinese traders (Bathgate 1973a, 14). 11. Evolving from the Pidgin English spoken in the overseas labor trade, Solomons Pijin had acquired a stable standard form by the 1930s (Bennett 1987, 190). 12.  This sense of socioeconomic inequality, which I render as a weaker version of class, could also be seen as an “industrial consciousness” (Frazer 1990) stemming from the shared experience of laboring on the plantations. Frazer (1990) and Akin (forthcoming) both emphasize that Maasina Rule was in many respects a labor movement with its roots in the plantation experience. 13. Note that half of the population of Malaita was still non-Christian in 1942 (Bennett 1987, 185; Laracy 1983, 10). 14.  Note, however, that there is little evidence that the Fallowes movement had much influence on Malaita, and while many of its themes reemerged during Maasina Rule, the latter was a separate movement organized around long-held grievances that were not foregrounded by the Fallowes movement (Akin forthcoming, 167; David Akin, personal communication, December 2010). 15. Many Malaitans refused to work for the lower wage (Akin forthcoming, 152). 16. Akin (forthcoming, 172–181) convincingly links the “American inspiration” for Noto’i’s movement to a visit to Kwaio by three American ornithologists in 1930, two of whom lived in central Kwaio for six weeks (cf. Bennett 1987, 280). As was to become the case later, during the war itself, the Kwaio were very taken with the kindness and friendly disposition of the Americans and their willingness to invite people to share their food and to eat with them. Thus it was not the Americans’ largesse that impressed the Kwaio but rather the way they interacted and socialized with people. Akin also raises the important possibility that the Kwaio’s interactions with these men, who were palpably different from the Europeans whom they had encountered previously, “might have fed into people’s later political aspirations” (forthcoming, 177). 17. At its height, the SILC had around 3,700 members, while the Defence

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Force never exceeded around 800 men (Bennett 2009, 141; Laracy 1983, 16; White et al. 1988a). 18.  Many other Solomon Islanders, including Malaitans, fought with valor and bravery, with some receiving decorations and medals. Vouza was perhaps singled out for hero status because he was a former colonial policeman and therefore best fitted British wartime propaganda, which was keen to portray Solomon Islanders as loyal and dedicated subjects (Lindstrom and White 1989, 21; White et al. 1988a, 130). That said, Vouza expressed anti-colonial sentiments both during the war and subsequently during Maasina Rule, details that are omitted from most accounts of his wartime heroics (David Akin, personal communication, December 2010). 19. “Maasina” is the ’Are’are word for brotherhood. Maasina Rule is thus interpreted as the “rule of the brotherhood” (Laracy 1983, 19–20). 20. Malaitans had long resented the imposition of alien colonial law. According to Keesing, “Since the 1920s Malaitans had seethed with resentment that rules of chastity (pre- and especially post-marital), which are viewed as the cornerstone of morality, could no longer be enforced by threat of execution. Protectorate laws that punished adulterers lightly and hanged those who legitimately killed them were bitterly resented. So too were laws that treated as criminal offenses what under customary law were civil offenses calling for compensation in shell valuables” (1982a, 360; also see Akin 1999, forthcoming; Bennett 1987, 277–278). 21. Government repression of the movement followed widespread noncooperation with government officers and services; refusal in many areas to participate in government-run native courts; a threatened general strike; and, at a meeting on June 30, 1947, in Auki, the presentation to District Officer Sandars a demand for self-government, which he interpreted as a “declaration of independence” (Burt 1994, 188–189). Overt resistance was much greater in north Malaita, where the movement’s leaders explicitly rejected government intervention in legal matters and where the use of kastom courts was more widespread (Akin forthcoming, 363–375). The southern leaders, by contrast, “deftly maneuvered between government ‘custom’ policies and their own kastom ones, exploiting overlap and ambiguities and marshalling and expanding elements of government policy that delegated to them more control” (Akin forthcoming, 369). Operation Delouse commenced in north Malaita and moved south over the following two months. By October 1947 all of the head chiefs throughout Malaita had been arrested and charged primarily with holding illegal courts (Burt 1994, 189). 22. Elsewhere Akin argues that in spite of some “reshaping” of kastom by young Malaitans living in Honiara, “kastom as ideology has never completely lost its antigovernment grounding, and for many this common theme is returning to the fore as dissatisfaction with the state grows. Their shared discontent is what has inspired normally rivalrous Malaitans to undertake highly coordinated actions on Honiara’s streets” (Akin 1999, 50, 59–60).

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23. The Moro Movement’s couching of kastom in terms of “old custom” also characterized many of the post–Maasina Rule movements on Malaita. This was true, for example, of a movement in ’Are’are during the 1950s that was led by Waiparo of Takataka. Akin interprets Waiparo’s framing of his agenda in terms of “old custom” as deftly playing to the European conception of kastom, thereby eliding his fundamentally political agenda and extending the strategy employed by southern leaders during Maasina Rule (Akin forthcoming, 517– 518). Following Akin’s analysis, we could situate the Moro Movement among other post–Maasina Rule movements that strategically couched themselves in terms of “old custom” or “tradition” but whose goals and objectives were, like Maasina Rule’s, undeniably political. 24. Moro’s doctrine also contained a strong conservationist ethic, which I discuss in more detail in chapter 4. 25. Davenport and Çoker similarly note that alluvial gold mining rights were “another point of contention with Moro” (1967, 164). 26. This is not to deny that similar tensions were at play in Maasina Rule. Conflict between government headmen and Maasina Rule leaders was particularly intense in north Malaita, and throughout the island the various projects to codify kastom generated tensions between Christians and those following ancestral rules, as well as among Christians from different denominations. Similar tensions also arose in the new settlements that brought together diverse groups with differing rules and conventions of social interaction. A range of creative strategies was adopted—varying from place to place depending on the local religious configuration—to deal with these differences and tensions (see Akin forthcoming, chapter 5). Unlike on Guadalcanal, the intense commitment to the political and social agendas of Maasina Rule and the broader shared meaning of kastom as a Malaitan way of doing things enabled Malaita’s religious and sociopolitical fragmentation to be overcome. 27. In early 1977 rumors emerged that a “Malaitan Mafia” was responsible for the sudden death of Western member of the Legislative Assembly Francis Aqorau. Solomon Mamaloni, who had twice failed to recapture the chief ministership, capitalized on these rumors by resigning from the assembly at a time when he was perceived as a possible target of the “Mafia.” This enabled him to gain renewed support from his own electorate and from Guadalcanal and the West (Bennett 1987, 323). 28.  Herlihy found incomes in relatively remote villages on Makira and Isabel to be comparable to those on the Weather Coast of Guadalcanal (1981, 313). 29. In the case of Papua New Guinea, there is broad consensus that the uneven penetration of capitalism and government services and the increasing resource insecurity in rural areas are the main drivers of rural to urban migration (Connell 1990b, 1997, 2003; Curry and Koczberski 1999; Koczberski, Curry, and Connell 2001). 30. This trend reflects a broader trend in Melanesia toward permanent urban migration, though the ongoing significance of circulation is also acknowl-

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edged (see, for example, Connell 1990a, 1997, 2003; Koczberski, Curry, and Connell 2001). 31. This problem was foreseen in Colin Allan’s 1957 report on the Special Lands Commission. The report also states, “The few Guadalcanar [sic] people who once resided on the Honiara land live on the periphery where they hold fast to the little land they have left, and resist the attempts of Malaitamen who would like to acquire customary land interests close to Honiara” (Allan 1957, 126). 32. For an account of settlement in the peri-urban area of Kakabona, on Honiara’s western flank, see Monson (2010). 33. Also see Frazer (1985b, 196–197) for an example of how “friendly relationships” can develop. 34. The legitimacy of these land transactions was affirmed by the judgment in the case of Ulufa’alu’s challenge to the legality of the coup of 2000 (cited in Fraenkel 2004, 58). 35. The basic principles of land tenure on Malaita are in fact very similar: people may be allowed to use land of which they are not primary owners, or owners at all, but only by virtue of permission granted by primary landowners (David Akin, personal communication, December 2010). 36. Stritecky similarly states that although families from throughout the Solomons had built homes and communities on Guadalcanal, “it was members of the Malaitan majority who acquired the most notorious reputation as aggressive trouble makers, and who attracted resentment for ‘taking’ most of the scarce and coveted public sector jobs” (2001, 84–85). 37. Extended family members often pool their scarce resources to fund a student through school, an endeavor that adds shame and humiliation to the anger and frustration that young people experience when they are pushed out of school and are unable to find employment. 38. These behaviors are not limited to the Kwaio, nor to Malaitan nonChristians. According to Stritecky, “I had conversations about young men’s spoiling behaviors with Christians in Catholic, COC [Church of Christ], SSEC [South Seas Evangelical Church], and SDA [Seventh-day Adventist] churches, all of whom claim that many young men in town still cultivate ties with deceased male kin, who in turn prompt the young men to steal, drink alcohol, fight and rape women” (2001, 71). 39. Note that the key Malaitan negotiator, former government minister John Maetia Kaliuae, was subsequently found guilty of inciting the violence (Fraenkel 2004, 117). Chapter 4: Guadalcanal: The Contested Motherland 1.  The conflict on the Weather Coast was described to me by some former IFM militants on north Guadalcanal as the “tribal fight.”

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2.  Also see Connor (1973, 1987) and Lawson (1992). 3. As also noted in chapter 1, the north side of the island, by contrast, is known as Tasi Mate, meaning “dead sea.” 4. The marketing of copra and cocoa has always been difficult due to transport constraints. To make matters worse, the Commodities Export Marketing Authority (CEMA) buying point for copra at Avu Avu closed down as a result of the collapse of CEMA in 2001. 5.  It is likely that K is referring to the armory at Yandina, which was raided on December 10, 1998. The incident on Mbungana island near Tulagi, which occurred on December 30, was actually a failed attempt to excavate buried World War II weapons. 6. This has been translated from Solomon Islands Pijin, in which a positive response to a negative question is an affirmation of the negative. Thus in this case the meaning is “That’s right; there wasn’t anyone else who told us to do it.” 7. According to the published account of the voyage, Mendaña did not find any gold on Guadalcanal in 1568 (Tyssen-Amherst 1901). It is known that an Austrian prospecting expedition visited Guadalcanal in 1896, so the reported theft of gold from the Matapona River in 1898 may well have occurred, albeit two years earlier than claimed. Apparently the expedition was attacked and its leader killed after they refused to heed warnings about not entering sacred lands (Naitoro 2003, 141). The Gold Ridge mine site is at the headwaters of the Matapona River, an area that has been used by Guadalcanal people for alluvial gold mining since the late 1930s. 8. Note that I have interpreted the Pijin phrase bikfala tumas in this instance to mean “very big.” An alternative interpretation would be “too big”, but I do not believe this to be the intended meaning here. Sabino’s emphasis in this interview was on the fair and equitable distribution of the benefits of largescale mining—especially in the form of government services for the “resource owners”—as opposed to blanket opposition to large-scale mining. 9. Similarly, “D,” a former member of the IFM, states, “Gold Ridge mine was closed down during the tension because we wanted the government to realize that Gold Ridge is on Guadalcanal land, and it is a resource of the people of Guadalcanal, and the government must look at the Bona Fide Demands of the Guadalcanal people before there can be any further agreements in regard to Gold Ridge mine” (interview with D). 10. S also stated that the Spanish stole gold and killed some local people when they came to Guadalcanal in the sixteenth century and that before white men had ever visited Guadalcanal, gold was stolen by travelers who resembled Taiwanese or Filipinos. 11. Malaita has long been renowned for what Judith Bennett describes as its “strict sexual code” (1987, 31). 12. The land issue relates to the expansion of Malaitan settlements onto customary land, particularly around Honiara and the Guadalcanal plains. It is

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an issue that is not raised very frequently by the Guale ex-militants. According to F, a former member of the GLF, “What they were doing was like this. . . . One man would come and purchase a small block of land, and then the next year he would bring over his uncle and then another relative, and before long there would be lots of them. And then they would start to move the boundaries of the land they had purchased. And then we, the landowners, would say, ‘Don’t move the boundaries; you have to stay within the area of land which you purchased.’ And then they would take knives and threaten us, saying, ‘You don’t have any rights; we have the power.’ ” According to several informants, including a Guale policeman, the land problem had been overstated, and it was really the cultural respect issue that was a much greater source of grievance to the Guale people. The issue of access to employment and education opportunities is again one that does not appear often in the testimonies of Guale ex-militants. Those who do discuss it talk about the Malaitan dominance of jobs and educational opportunities, a situation that is facilitated and compounded by the so-called wantok system. 13. According to G, a former member of the GLF, “They [the Malaitans] had already started to dominate east Guadalcanal and west Guadalcanal. The only area which they hadn’t gone into was the Weather Coast. . . . If they had an advantage on the Weather Coast, if they had lots of people there, we would have found it difficult because they would have fought [back] against [us]” (interview with G, J, and L). 14.  Keke was raised a Roman Catholic but later converted to the SSEC. 15.  The raid referred to here is most likely the raid of the police armory at Gold Ridge mine, which occurred on June 5, 2000, the same day that the MEF raided the police armory at Rove Police Headquarters. 16. According to then police commissioner William Morrell, who was interviewed in July 2003, “human rights abuses” may have been committed by members of the joint operation, including police and Special Constables (Special Broadcasting Service 2003, 3–4). Also see Guadalcanal Provincial Government and Solomon Islands Government (2006). 17. Note that this is a different “K” from the ex-militant “K” who is cited elsewhere in this chapter. 18. Recall that the ’Are’are-speaking people of Marau originated in Malaita. They have had connections with eastern Guadalcanal and the Marau Islands since the sixteenth century—connections that were probably based on trading relationships and intermarriage—but did not settle the Weather Coast mainland in numbers until around 1865 (Bennett 1974, 16). Chapter 5: Saving the Solomons 1. While the stories of the ex-militants touch upon the involvement of some of the members of the Supreme Command, the latter group, people such

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as Leslie Kwaiga, Alex Bartlett, and Jeremy Rua, were not interviewed. The MEF Supreme Command is sometimes referred to in other sources as the “Supreme Council” or the “High Command.” 2.  These three types of “offenses” are among the six “named types of compensation” recognized by the Kwaio: “for sexual trespass, theft, desecrating someone’s ancestors, insults or infringements of personal or group rights, causing injury and causing death” (Akin 1999, 44; also see Burt 1994). 3. The Melanesian Brothers claim that the “business backers” of the MEF were paying the “boys” to come over to Honiara from Malaita. The Brothers claim that they managed to convince the first round of recruits to go back but that the backers used money to lure a new batch of young men into the MEF (John Braithwaite, personal communication, May 28, 2006). When I put this allegation directly to a former policeman who was involved in the Joint Operation his response was, “That is bullshit. People were fighting from the heart. No one offered them money” (interview with N and P). 4. The statement was in fact made by George Gray in June 1999 and formed the basis of the SI$5 million compensation paid to Malaitan chiefs at a reconciliation ceremony held on HMAS Tobruk in July 2000 (Fraenkel 2004, 61, 95, 221). It appears that this money ended up in the hands of the MEF and became a source of contention within the MEF, particularly between the rank and file, on the one hand, and the Supreme Command and some field commanders, on the other (interview with OD; interview with H; Patteson Saeni transcript, April 15, 2005, 717–719). 5. According to some accounts, settlers were given notice, albeit only twenty-four hours: “There were two groups. The first came in and said tomorrow you leave, go back to Malaita. The second group came in with guns and started doing bad things like raping women” (HG, interview with RO and HG). 6. Maeliau is also a leading figure in North Malaita’s Deep Sea Canoe Movement, an evangelical church whose theology is based on the Old Testament and has similarities with Malaita’s other so-called “lost tribes” movements (see Timmer 2008). 7. Many Malaitans believe that the Ulufa’alu government should have responded earlier to the Bona Fide Demands submitted by the Guadalcanal Provincial Assembly, particularly the request for SI$2.5 million as compensation for the lives of twenty-eight Guale people allegedly killed by Malaitans (interview with C, L, and others; Maeliau 2003, 36). 8. Maeliau states, “The Malaitans’ humble plea in the beginning was, ‘please give us time and we will withdraw’ ” (Maeliau 2003, 24). 9. It will be seen below that some Malaitan ex-militants explicitly state that by transgressing these cultural codes, the Guale militants invited retribution. 10. This issue is heavily contested among Malaitans. Some place the blame squarely on the Ulufa’alu government (see, for example, Maeliau 2003), while others claim that it was the parliamentary opposition that was interfering

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with police operations (interview with H; interview with KL; interview with N and P; interview with B). In response to allegations that Ulufa’alu put a halt to police operations against the GRA/IFM, then police commissioner Frank Short later stated that “at no time did the Prime Minister or his Ministers direct the course of Police action or operations” (Short 2002, 5). 11. Former Fijian coup leader Rabuka lost credibility with Malaitans after he likened the Guale cause to the struggle for the rights of indigenous Fijians (see Maeliau 2003, 42). 12. According to a former MEF field commander, “Frank Short is good. . . . The police force at that time is able to handle the militants, and that’s when the public confidence starts to build up because even the police officers from Malaita and Guadalcanal they are still loyal to the police force yet” (interview with H). 13. At the time Nathaniel Waena was a member of the opposition and deputy speaker of parliament. While Frank Short has denied that he was sacked or asked to resign, his resignation letter states, “I am now subjected to calls for my termination and removal from office. I have even been told by the Deputy Speaker of the National Parliament to ‘pack my bags’ ” (Short 2002). 14. For many Malaitans, Rerangi Rangihiki was thought to harbor similar prejudices to those of Rabuka (see Maeliau 2003, 43). 15. According to “L,” the delay was due to the fact that their big-men wanted the displaced families to return to Malaita and settle down before retaliating (interview with C, L, and others). 16. This interview has been translated from Pijin. I have translated “Guadalcanal” in this context to mean “the Guadalcanal people,” as juxtaposed to “Malaita” meaning “the Malaitan people.” Ex-militants on both sides of the conflict frequently employ these terms and state that during the Tension all Malaitans were fighting against all Guales (interview with H; interview with M). This usage is also demonstrated in the passage from RO cited in the main text above. Note that L also specifically mentions the intention to fight the IFM after the MEF raided the national police armory: “Once we had taken all the guns, secured all the high-powered guns belonging to the government, we started fighting against Harold Keke’s group, the IFM” (interview with C, L, and others). 17. According to former MEF rank-and-file man “C,” “We don’t know about the breakdown of the money which donors and the government allocated for displaced Malaitans and the rehabilitation fund for ex-militants” (interview with C, L, and others). I refer here only to the compensation of displaced people for lost properties. Like C, many former MEF members refer to the contentious issue of the various payments and allowances awarded to ex-militants by the Sogavare government and under the TPA. 18.  Following a meeting at Nori’s house immediately after the fire, a party of ex-MEF and police set off in search of the arson suspects, who were believed to have left Honiara for Auki. Three suspects were found on Malaita, detained, and transported back to Honiara, and a fourth suspect was detained in Honiara.

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Patteson Saeni, a former policeman and participant in the Joint Operation, was found guilty by the High Court of the murder of one of these suspects, Samani Ramo, while Saeni and MEF commander Jimmy “Rasta” Lusibaea were both convicted for the brutal “panel beating” of another suspect, Collin Hagi Jr. Of the two other suspects, one was released after being assaulted en route from Malaita, and the other was released unharmed (Patteson Saeni judgment). 19. The Malaita Ma’asina Forum is examined in greater depth in chapter 6. Suffice to say here that it evokes obvious connotations with Maasina Rule and is indicative of a renewed attempt to sort out Malaita’s problems and to strengthen unity. Note, however, that while its precise membership base is unknown, the Ma’asina Forum is thought to be mostly managed by well-educated Honiara-based elites and should not, therefore, be seen as representative of the views of a majority of Malaitans. 20. Malaitan academic David Gegeo states that West Kwara’ae villagers’ experiences with development projects during the colonial era made them feel “deskilled, since their roles were subservient manual labour” (Gegeo 1998, 301). Chapter 6: Continuities and Symmetries 1. The resolutions of the Guadalcanal Leaders Summit of February 2005 ask that the Solomon Islands government apologizes to the people of Guadalcanal for declaring the state of emergency in 1999 (Resolution 15) and “immediately reconciles itself with the people of Guadalcanal for the unwarranted use of the patrol boat L. C. Mover, M. V. Duala and the bull dozer and helicopters in the Storm Operations by the Joint Paramilitary and MEF in attacks that traumatised our people” (Resolution 16) (“Guadalcanal Leaders Summit Resolutions” 2005). Similarly, the “Solomon Islands Report of the Guadalcanal Provincial Government and Solomon Islands Government Taskforce on Reconciliation and Rehabilitation” states, “We were told in no uncertain terms, echoing the Guadalcanal Leaders Summit Resolutions, that the Solomon Islands Government was the aggressor in the ethnic tension and must therefore bear the blame for the cost of ‘war’ reparations” (Guadalcanal Provincial Government and Solomon Islands Government 2006, 18). Both of these documents make extensive reference to compensation, reconciliation, and rehabilitation issues. 2. The section of the TPA titled “Rehabilitation of Militants” states that former members of the IFM and MEF will be repatriated to their home villages at the expense of the national government and that the government will “launch public works programs” to employ ex-militants and also provide counseling services for them (Solomon Islands Government 2000b, art 2, section 5). There are obviously raised expectations among former members of the MEF in relation to these rehabilitation provisions. 3.  Appeals to a common Malaitan identity during the Tension also saw the evocation of the Kwara’ae origin myth, which purports to trace the origins of all

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Malaitans to the lost tribes of Israel (Malaita Perspective, cited in Kabutaulaka 2001, 5; for a recent discussion of new religious movements on north Malaita and their interaction with kastom, see Timmer 2008). 4. One former MEF man with whom I spoke on Malaita talked about RAMSI as the second coming of the Australians, returned to take them away again as they had done during the blackbirding era (interview with KA). Another quipped that RAMSI should be referred to as AMSI, the Australian Mission Solomon Islands (P, interview with N and P). P also told me that the Ma’asina Forum was formed as a response to RAMSI “invading” Malaita and not respecting the “custom and culture” of the Malaitan people. Former members of the MEF claim that they have been unfairly targeted by RAMSI. They believe that many more Malaitans than Guales have been arrested. They are also angry about the long remand periods and point to examples of people who have been acquitted, or who have had the cases against them dropped, after spending two or three years in prison. 5. I have written about local perceptions of RAMSI in Allen (2006) and about Malaitan resistance to RAMSI in Allen (2009). 6.  Nori made this statement in 1985 (cited in Akin 1999, 52). 7. This north-south divide could also be said to apply to Malaita, where those in the north have had more economic opportunities and better access to government services—and have been less dependent on labor migration—than those in the south (the Kwaio and ’Are’are). That said, class consciousness has not been a feature of the Guale micronationalist narrative to the same extent as it has been in the Malaitan narrative. 8. As is the case with the characterization of Malaitans as violent and aggressive, this racist discourse is also derived from the categories and characterizations of earlier European discourses. Recall that the “Ode to the West Wind” referred to Westerners as “proud and lazy” and without “manpower,” while the “anti-Guale” letter published shortly afterward referred to Guales as “not fit for anything.” 9. A pertinent issue here is that of food. Jourdan (1995a) describes the preoccupation that Masta Liu have with food in the context of their intermittent hunger and poverty, a theme that is also touched upon by Frazer (1985a, 1985b). Several ex-militants spoke about the fact that “civilians” provided food for them when they were in their camps and bunkers. No doubt the offer of regular meals would have appealed to unemployed men who were struggling to find enough to eat. 10. As mentioned in chapter 1, placing the primary responsibility for the Tension on a small number of strong leaders echoes the interpretation of Maasina Rule by British colonial authorities, who erroneously believed that it was being driven by a minority of bullying leaders. 11. Smith (1991) defines an ethnic community or ethnie in terms of six attributes: a collective name, a myth of common ancestry, a shared history, a differentiating common culture, an association with a homeland, and a sense

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of solidarity. While Malaitans may have become ambivalent about harnessing state law to press for the reinstatement of their land and property rights in rural Guadalcanal (as evinced by the low number of claimants to the recent Commission of Inquiry into Land Dealings and Abandoned Properties on Guadalcanal), their identity narrative nevertheless remains inextricably tied to the legitimacy of the state. The state underpins the rights of Malaitans to live within the Honiara town boundary—where they continue to comprise a significant proportion of both the urbanized elite and the town’s overall population—and also on government-owned land surrounding Honiara. 12.  In a similar vein Michael Scott writes, “What we are seeing in Solomon Islands is the formation of reciprocally negotiated ethnicized identities in a recently bounded, internally plural independent nation-state” (2012, 121). Chapter 7: The State, Resources, Identity, and Conflict 1. Regan (2003) reached a similar conclusion in the case of the Bougainville conflict: part of the rebels’ agenda was for permanent mine closure. 2. Of course the conflict between settlers and landowners on Guadalcanal can be partly seen in distributional or economic terms because settlers were perceived to be dominating employment and business opportunities and illegally expanding their land boundaries. This viewpoint resonates with aspects of the tensions between mine workers and landowning communities that occurred in the case of Bougainville and also with Michael Ross’s (2004) proposition that the employment of migrant workers at resource development sites would create distributional grievances among the local people. 3.  I elaborate on the political ecology of “resource conflict” in Solomon Islands and other parts of Melanesia in Allen (2013). 4.  I elaborate on these ideas in Allen (2012) in which I note stark parallels with the identity discourses that characterize the oil palm regions of West New Britain in Papua New Guinea (discussed by Koczberski and Curry 2004).

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References 

  233

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Tension Trials Documents Court Transcripts Father Geve

Patteson Saeni

Six Melanesian Brothers

Regina v. Keke [2005] SBHC 48; HCSI-CRC 254 of 2004. Dates of Hearing: January 31, 2005; February 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 21, 22, 23, 25, 28, 2005; March 2, 3, 2005. Regina v. Iro’ota [2005] SBHC 7; HCSI-CRC 66 of 2004. Dates of Hearing: April 4–29, 2005; May 2–20, 2005. Regina v. Cawa [2005] SBHC 18; HCSI-CRC 320 of 2004. Dates of Hearing: July 20, 21, 23, 2005; August 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 10, 11, 22, 24, 25, 30, 31, 2005; September 8, 12, 13, 14, 16, 2005.

Judgments, Appeals, and Sentencing Hearings Brother Sado Father Geve Marasa Nori v. Attorney General Patteson Saeni Regina v. K Six Melanesian Brothers

Regina v. Cawa [2007] SBHC 6; HCSI-CRC 315 of 2004 and 329 of 2006 (March 15, 2007). Regina v. Keke [2005] SBHC 48; HCSI-CRC 254 of 2004 (March 18, 2005). Regina v. Cawa [2007] SBHC 26; HCSI-CRC 312 of 2004 (April 19, 2007). Nori v. Attorney General [2006] HCSI-CC 172 of 2005 (April 4, 2006). Regina v. Iro’ota [2005] SBHC 7; HCSI-CRC 66 of 2004 (July 8, 2005). Regina v. K [2006] SBHC 53; HCSI-CRC 419 of 2005 (December 6, 2006). Regina v. Cawa [2005] SBHC 18; HCSI-CRC 320 of 2004 (October 28, 2005). Police Interviews

RAMSI Record of Interview. Taped record of interview between Phillip Magnum and Francis Lela, conducted at RAMSI Special Coordinator’s Office, Iron Bottom Sound, October 2, 2003. RAMSI Record of Interview. Taped record of interview between Cushla O’Shea and Geddily Isa, conducted at RAMSI Special Coordinator’s Office, Iron Bottom Sound, October 3, 2003.

Index

Bold page numbers refer to photographs. authority, local, 38 Autonomous Region of Bougainville, 198n.8

access to services, 169 age structure of population, 37 agricultural development, 88 alcohol abuse, 100 Alebua, Dominiko, 82, 131 Alebua, Ezekiel, 107; arrest, 54; assassination attempt upon, 51–52; demands to government, 39; prime minister, 96; role in uprising, 57–58, 104, 109–110, 112, 187; tribal fight on Weather Coast, 131–132; undermines Ulufa’alu’s government, 59 alienation of land, 70, 204n.9 Allan, Colin, 85 American music culture influence, 100 Americans, influence on Solomon Islanders, 76–77 Anglican Church, 37–38, 66 Aqorau, Francis, 207n.27 Area Councils, 59, 179, 203n.30 ’Are’are speaking people, 43, 134, 201n.10, 210n.18 arrests, 54–55 Asian financial crisis, 35, 60, 186 Auki Communiqué, 45 Australia: peace negotiations, 48. See also RAMSI (Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands)

Bartlett, Alex, 23, 201n.11, 202n.25, 211n.1 Belamataga, Matthew, 81 Bell massacre, 68 big-men: influence of, 23–24, 186–187; political organization, 32; profiting from labor trade, 70 Billy Hilly, Francis, 58, 186 Binskin affair, 67 blackbirding, 70. See also labor migration Bona Fide Demands, 39, 111–112, 117, 120, 129, 130, 161, 196 Bosage, Christian, 202n.24 Bougainvilleans: identity, 65, 183, 198n.8 Bougainville conflict, 24, 26, 183 Bougainville Revolutionary Army (BRA), 48 Bridge Lawyers, 48 A Brief History of Ethnic Tension (South Guadalcanal), 189–192 British colonization, 33, 194 British Solomon Islands Protectorate (BSIP), 33 bush people, 31–32

235

236  cash crops, 34–35, 108 casualties from the conflict, 7, 43, 198n.5 Catholic Church, 37–38, 66 Cawa, Ronny: authority of, 133; charges against, 55–56; interview statements, 117, 126; trials, 202 Cease-Fire Monitoring Council, 49 Central Lions Eagle Force, 45 Central Neutral Force, 200n.8 Chair and Rule Movement, 74–75 chapter summaries, 26–29 Christian Fellowship Church, 37, 81 Christianity, 17, 32, 37–38; conversion to, 66; and kastom, 62–63 chronology of conflict, 27, 39–56, 103–104 churches, 37–38 circulation of population, 89–91, 174 Civil Society Network, 49 class relations, 13–14 cocoa production, 35, 108 coconut plantations, 70 colonial administration: and Maasina Rule, 78–79; post–World War II, 86–88, 194–195; pre–World War II, 73–76, 194 colonial period, 33 colonization of Solomon Islands, 30–31 Commission of Inquiry into Land Dealings and Abandoned Properties on Guadalcanal, 93–94 Commonwealth Development Corporation (CDC) oil palm project, 88 Commonwealth Multinational Police Assistance Group, 45 community structure, 38–39 compensation, 26; for displaced Malaitan settlers, 148; ex-militants’ demands, 51, 161–162, 213n.1; Honiara Accord, 42; to Malaita and Guadalcanal Provinces, 47, 48; to Malaitans, 100, 211n.4; Masta Liu extortion, 99; to Western Council, 84–85. See also restitution compulsion, 105–106, 132–134, 135 conflict: causes of, 56–60, 188; chronology of, 27, 39–56, 103–104. See also motives for participation in conflict

  Index

◊

Constitutional Council, 129 Constitutional Review Committee, 95–96 contemporary society, 36–39 copra production, 33, 34–35, 73, 108, 153 corruption, 8 coup d’état, 47–48 criminal acts: arrests for, 54–55; beheading, 202n.17; benefits from, 135; of Harold Keke, 53, 105, 109, 131; High Court records, 55–56; Masta Liu, 98–99; pervading after TPA, 50–51, 130; of SC/RSIP Joint Operation, 105; violent crime, 6, 23, 43, 47. See also rape criminalization of conflict, 8 criminal justice system, 19 cultural influences, foreign, 99–100 cultural respect grievances, 104, 118–121, 184 customary land: ownership of, 197n.2; squatter settlements, 91–92; usufructuary rights, 91–94 custom versus kastom, 16–17 data sources for book, 6–7; court documentation, 22–23, 233. See also interviews with ex-militants Dausabea, Charles, 167, 203n.28 decentralization of planning functions, 86 Demands by the Bona Fide and Indigenous People of Guadalcanal. See Bona Fide Demands demonstration effects, 24 development equity grievances, 104, 112–118, 135, 169, 170, 182 development plans, 86 diet, 32 disarmament process, 51 displaced population, 7, 40, 89, 198n.5; ‘Are’are-speaking people, 43, 201n.10 Dutch disease, 12 economic development, 34–36, 86–87, 188 economic history, pre–World War II, 33–34, 69–73

Index  education, 97–98 employment opportunities, 88–89. See also labor migration enclave development, 86–87 ethnicity, 10–11, 12–13, 181–183; diversity, 63, 203n.1; as factor in conflict, 56–57 Ethnic Tension. See Tension ethnopsychological motivations for conflict, 25–26 Eto, Silas, 81 European traders, 69 exchange, 64 export commodities, 34–36 Facilitation of International Assistance Act 2003, 167 Fallowes, Richard, 74 Fallowes movement, 75, 82, 115 Fiji: plantation labor, 33, 69, 90 fishery exports, 34–35 food crops, 32 forestry sector. See logging industry Fugui, Ronald, 149 Gaena’alu Movement, 1, 107, 121–125, 127; allegiances, 131–132; Guales divided over, 105, 135; rejected by GLF, 126–127; and resource extraction, 114. See also Moro Movement Gatu, Patterson, Brother, 133, 202n.22 Geve, Augustine, Father, 53, 117, 126 GLF (Guadalcanal Liberation Front): atrocities on Weather Coast, 53; ideology, 125–129; rejects Gaena’alu Movement, 105, 126–127; separation from IFM, 103, 127–129. See also Tasi Mauri (tribal fight on Weather Coast) Goh, Robert, 59 gold, 193 Goldie, John, Reverend, 74 Gold Ridge mine, 35, 88–89, 114–116, 175 government: bankruptcy, 8; governance, 34; grievances against, 17, 158–163, 179, 196; Guale demands, 39; Guale grievances, 104, 112–121, 135; links to MEF, 52; Malaitan grievances,

◊

  237 100–101; perceived weakness of, 185; unitary system, 34, 95 GRA (Guadalcanal Revolutionary Army), 39, 104, 127, 200n.8; retribution, 140 Gray, George, 119, 127; birthplace, 107; insults Malaitans, 141, 211n.4; joins Guale militants, 172; signs Honiara Accord, 42 Great Depression, 73 greed thesis, 9, 12, 28–29, 106, 172, 180, 182, 198n.7, 198n.11 grievance: theme in interviews, 22. See also Guale ex-militants; Malaitan ex-militants Gross Domestic Product, 12, 36 Guadalcanal (map), 40 Guadalcanal Council, 81 Guadalcanal Leaders Summit, 170 Guadalcanal Liberation Front (GLF). See GLF (Guadalcanal Liberation Front) Guadalcanal plains: agricultural development, 88; squatter settlements, 91–92 Guadalcanal Plains Palm Oil Limited, 175 Guadalcanal Revolutionary Army (GRA). See GRA (Guadalcanal Revolutionary Army) Guadalcanal Struggle for Freedom: Our History in Brief, 114, 160, 164, 193–196 Guale ex-militants: blame government, 158–163; cultural respect grievances, 184; demands for state government, 116–117, 170; describe uprising, 109–112; development equity grievances, 104, 112–118, 135, 169, 170, 182; grievances, 104, 106, 112–121, 135; interviews with, 27; invoking kastom, 105, 163–165; land access grievances, 60, 118, 169–170; motives for joining GRA/IFM, 103–136; narrators of ethnohistory, 157 Guale militants: acts against Malaitans, 4; divisions within, 27; media portrayals of, 9; uprising, 39–42 Guales: compensation claims, 161–162, 213n.1; concerns about Malaitan migrants, 94–96; and customary land

238  tenure, 93–94; micronationalism, 175. See also Gaena’alu Movement; Moro Movement head-hunting, 32–33, 107 head tax, 73–74 hegemonic discourse, 65–68 Hence, William, 202n.23 Hill, Alfred, Brother, 117, 202n.22 Honiara: grievances about, 159–160; squatter settlements, 90–91; symbol of decadence and corruption, 184–185 Honiara Accord, 42, 148 human rights violations, 7 identity, 10–11, 16; Bougainvilleans, 65, 183, 198n.8; colonial constructs, 64–65; and ethnicity, 181–183; exmilitants discourses, 187; genesis of regional identities, 33–34, 61–63; localized, 63–64; masculinity and violence, 26; plantation life influences, 71–72, 80; politics of, 158, 183–185; and socioeconomic inequality, 171; Solomon Islands, 176–177; summary of development of, 101–102; World War II influences, 76–77 IFF (Isatabu Freedom Fighters), 39, 127, 200n.8 IFM (Isatabu Freedom Movement), 8, 104, 200n.8; evict Malaitan settlers, 4, 39; Gaena’alu Movement ideology, 121–125; patrol, 41; retribution, 140; separation from GLF, 103, 127–129. See also SC/RSIP Joint Operation immunity clauses for RAMSI, 167 income inequality, 87 Independence, 34 inequality of development, 86–87, 101–102 influences on male behavior, 23–26 internal migration, 60, 62, 94–96, 119– 120, 184. See also labor migration International Peace Monitoring Team (IPMT), 50, 51 interviews with ex-militants, 27–28; bias in oral testimony, 21–23; conducting

  Index

◊

interviews, 20–21; difficulties, 18–20. See also Guale ex-militants; Malaitan ex-militants IPMT (International Peace Monitoring Team), 50, 51 iron, introduction of, 32–33 Ironggali, 82, 122 Isa, Geddily, 117–118, 202 Isa, Owen, 117, 132–133, 202 Isatabu Freedom Fighters (IFF). See IFF (Isatabu Freedom Fighters) Isatabu Freedom Movement (IFM). See IFM (Isatabu Freedom Movement) island-based deprivation, 33–34, 62 Island Melanesia: definition, 200n.1; imperial annexing, 64 Joint Operation. See MEF/RSIP Joint Operation; SC/RSIP Joint Operation Jonwin, 1–3 Justin, 3–5 kabilato, 127 Kaliuae, John Maetia, 208n.39 Kaptendou, Michael, 202n.24 kastom, 28; definition, 16–17, 197n.1; Guale ideology, 105, 163–165; ideology of resistance, 62–63, 185; Malaitan ideology, 80, 140–142, 163, 165–168, 206n.22; reshaping by Masta Liu, 99 kastom law, 78; Moro Movement, 82–83 Kejoa, Joses, 132–133, 202n.22 Keke, Harold, 52, 126; arrest, 40, 53; birthplace, 107; blames Ezekiel Alebua, 109–110; charges against, 55–56; Christianity, 125, 127; criminal acts, 53, 105, 109, 131; initiates uprising, 110–111; interview statements, 109–110, 118, 120, 125; recruitment practices, 187; refuses peace talks, 50, 129–130; rejects Gaena’alu Movement, 105; shoots Ezekiel Alebua, 51–52, 109; tribal fight on Weather Coast, 8, 127–129; as war lord, 133, 190–192 Kemakeza, Allan: accused by Keke, 130; arrest, 53–54; formation of govern-

Index  ment, 52–53; Guale ex-militants’ grievances, 196; MEF grievances, 150, 151, 163 Kenilorea, Peter, 84 Kennedy, Donald, 77 Kwaiga, Leslie, 211n.1 Kwaio: characterization of, 62, 64, 65, 67–68; influence of Americans, 205n.16; La’aka movement, 75 Kwa’ioloa, Michael, 146 Kwara’ae, 199n.21 La’aka movement, 75 labor migration, 3, 33–34, 62, 69–73, 88, 153, 194; circulation of population, 89–91 land access: Guale grievances, 60, 118, 169–170; squatter settlements, 90–92, 144; usufructuary rights, 91–94 land alienation, 70, 204n.9 land development: and conflict, 15; on Malaita, 175; Malaitan resistance, 173–174 land ownership, 197n.2. See also Gaena’alu Movement Lands Division, 91 land shortages, 89 Lapita culture, 31 law and order: customary law, 76; Maasina Rule, 77–80 leadership, local, 38 Lela, Francis, 117, 126 Lindsay, Reuben, Brother, 202n.22 literature about the conflict, 56 logging industry: corruption within, 34, 58–59, 186; rent-seeking, 13 Lusibaea, Jimmy “Rasta,” 52, 212n.18 Ma’asina Forum. See Malaita Ma’asina Forum Maasina Rule, 3–4, 10, 62, 72, 77–80, 122, 174, 207n.26 Maeliau, Michael, 144, 211n.6 Maenaa’adi, 159–160 magic, traditional, 127 Maina, Michael, 202n.25 Malaita (map), 46

◊

  239 Malaita Council, 3–4, 79 Malaita Eagle Force (MEF). See MEF (Malaita Eagle Force) Malaita Ma’asina Forum, 152–153, 166–168, 174, 213n.19 Malaita Mafia, 84, 207n.27 Malaitan ex-militants: affronts to kastom, 140–142; blame government, 158–163; compensation for displaced settlers, 148; interviews with, 28; invoking kastom, 80, 140–142, 163, 165–168, 206n.22; motives for joining MEF, 137–156; narrators of ethnohistory, 157; perceived exploitation of, 152; protect Honiara, 137–138, 142–146, 155; removal of Ulufa’alu government, 150–151; retribution, 138–139, 140, 146–147; “saved” Solomon Islands, 5, 151–154, 155–156; self-defense motives, 138–139, 140; victimization by Guale militancy, 140–141, 155 Malaitans: characterization of, 62, 64, 65–66, 168; circulation of population, 89–91, 174; compensation claims, 100, 163; employment opportunities, 153–154; as ethnic community, 174, 214n.11; eviction from Guadalcanal, 39–41, 141, 144, 159; Guale concerns about, 94–96, 118–121; Honiara-based elite, 174; internal migration, 60, 89–91; land development, 173–174, 175; militia formation, 43; nation-building perception, 138, 151–154; perception by others, 72–73, 77; self-identity, 57, 171–172; settling on Guadalcanal plains, 91–92; violent reputation, 65–68, 168; war service (World War II), 77. See also labor migration; Maasina Rule; Masta Liu Mamaloni, Solomon, 35, 58–59, 139–140, 186, 207n.27 mamata, 92 maps: Guadalcanal, 40; Malaita, 46; Solomon Islands, 31 Marasa judgment, 53, 132, 202n.24 Marau Eagle Force, 47

240  Marau-Hauba Council, 81–82 Marau Peace Agreement, 50 Marau people, 81 marijuana abuse, 100 Marxism, 13 masculinity and violence, 26 Masta Liu, 14, 27, 44–45, 58, 97–102, 155, 172–173, 198n.12, 201n.13 media portrayal of conflict, 9, 11 MEF (Malaita Eagle Force), 104; compensation and retribution, 26; compensation payments, 211n.4; formation of, 43–45, 145–146, 201n.11; fracturing of, 8, 52, 150 MEF/RSIP Joint Operation, 47, 48, 49, 104, 137, 139, 145 Melanesia: definition, 197–198n.4 Melanesian Brothers. See Six Melanesian Brothers Melanesian Mission, 66 men and self-determination, 179–180 Mendaña, Alvaro de, 31, 114, 193 Methodist Church, 37, 66 micronationalism, 15–17, 73–85, 101, 173–177, 186; definition, 198– 199n.15. See also Maasina Rule; Moro Movement migration, internal, 60, 62, 94–96, 119– 120, 184. See also labor migration mining, 114–115. See also Gold Ridge mine Moro, Pelise, 1–2, 81, 121–122 Moro Doctrine, 82–83 Moro Movement, 1, 62–63, 72, 81–84, 96, 122, 164–165. See also Gaena’alu Movement motives for participation in conflict, 23–26, 172–173; compensation, 148; compulsion, 105–106, 132–134, 135; cultural factors, 180–181; cultural respect, 104, 118–121, 184; development equity, 104, 112–118, 135, 169, 170, 182; political factors, 178–179; protect Honiara, 137–138, 142–146, 155; relative deprivation, 188; retribution, 26, 138–139, 140, 146–147; self-defense, 138–139, 140 Munda Accord, 48

◊

  Index National Coalition Partnership, 58–59 National Development Plan 1975, 86 National Peace Conference, 49 native courts, 76 Ndi-Nggai people, 205n.10 neoclassical economic theories, 9 New Caledonia: labor migration, 69 New Georgian identity, 64, 65–66 New Georgians: attitudes toward Malaitans, 65–66, 72 new political economy, 11–13, 29, 180–181 New Zealand, peace negotiations by, 48 1978 demands, 85 Nono’oohimae, 77 Nori (Andrew Nori’s father), 77 Nori, Andrew: arrest, 54; ex-militants’ grievances, 149–150, 155; High Court challenge re RAMSI, 167; legal services fees, 48, 150; Malaitan spokesman, 43; manipulation of militants, 57–58; office destroyed by fire, 52, 150; seeks compensation for Malaitans, 148 Noto’i, 75 “Ode to the West Wind,” 84, 161, 187 oil palm, 34–35, 88, 170, 175 old political economy, 13–14, 188 Operation Delouse, 78–79, 206n.21 opposition conspiracy thesis, 58, 139, 149–150, 203n.28 origins of conflict: policy commentators interpretations, 11; understanding, 5–6 pacification, 66 palm oil, 34–35, 88, 170, 175 Panatina Accord, 42, 145 Papua New Guinea, 198n.8 Paratabatu, Ini, Brother, 202n.22 peace negotiations, 45, 48–50; Honiara Accord, 42, 148 Peochakuri village: atrocities suffered, 131, 189–192 Petition by the Indigenous People of Guadalcanal, 39, 96 Pidoke, John, 74 Pijin, 71

Index  Pitakaka, Carradine, 202n.23 plantation economy, 33–34, 69–73, 80 Police Field Force, 42, 51, 145, 201n.12 police force. See RSIP (Royal Solomon Islands Police) political consciousness, 73–74 political culture, 34 political ecology, 14–15, 29, 182–184 population, 36–37 postcolonial period, 34–36 postcolonial state: grievances against, 17. See also Guale ex-militants; Malaitan ex-militants pre-contact culture, 31–33 prehistory of Solomon Islands, 30–31 provincial governments: secessionist intentions, 48 Public Sector Reform Program, 59 Queensland: plantation labor, 33, 69, 71, 90 Rabuka, Sitiveni, 42, 45, 145 “Ramboization,” 26, 99–100 RAMSI (Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands): arrival in Solomons, 53–54, 196; interviewer independence from, 21–22; local suspicion about, 18; Malaitan dislike of, 165–167, 214n.4; policing approach, 19, 178 Rangihiki, Rerangi, 145 rape, 25–26; by Guale ex-militants, 192; of Malaitans, 141–142, 143 Rapid Response Unit (RRU), 42–43, 145 references, 217–232 Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands (RAMSI). See RAMSI (Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands) rehabilitation of ex-militants, 163, 213n.2 relative deprivation, 188 religious faiths, 37–38 rent-seeking: logging industry, 13 Resel, Napthali, 85 resistance: to colonial authority, 73–76, 185, 206n.21; to external influences, 62–63

  241

◊

resource-conflict literature, 11–12; political ecology framework, 14–15 resource development, 29, 113, 170; not wanted, 183; perceived inequities, 184–185; and social dislocation, 184 resource disparities, 33–34, 62, 69 restitution, 199n.21 retribution, 26, 138–139, 140, 146–147 Rini, Snyder, 163 Rojumana, Clement, 202n.25 Roman Catholic Church, 37–38, 66 Ross Mining, 115 Royal Solomon Islands Police (RSIP). See RSIP (Royal Solomon Islands Police) RRU (Rapid Response Unit), 42–43, 145 RSIP (Royal Solomon Islands Police): fracturing of, 45; perceived failures of, 145–146, 155. See also MEF/ RSIP Joint Operation; SC/RSIP Joint Operation Rua, Jeremy, 211n.1 rural communities, 38–39; frustrations with government, 179; resilience of, 198n.6 Sabino, Jerry, 112, 114, 121–123 Sado, Nathaniel, Brother, 53, 117, 132, 202n.23 Sae, Edmond, 166 Saeni, Patteson, 52, 212–213n.18 saltwater people, 31–32 Samoa: plantation labor, 33, 69 Sangu, Joseph: arrest, 40; birthplace, 107; initiates uprising, 110–111; rift between GRA and IFF, 127; shoots Ezekiel Alebua, 51–52, 109; signs Honiara Accord, 42 SC/RSIP Joint Operation, 104, 105, 130–131; atrocities on Weather Coast, 53, 134; compulsion, 135; formation of, 51–52 Seagull Force, 45 self-defense motives, 138–139, 140 self-determination, 179–180 Seventh Day Adventist Church, 37, 66 sexual violence. See criminal acts; rape ships, raids upon, 66–67, 204n.4 Short, Frank, 42, 145, 212n.12

242  SIAC (Solomon Islands Alliance for Change), 58–59, 139 Siama, Gordon, 94 SILC (Solomon Islands Labour Corps), 76–77 SIPL (Solomon Islands Plantation Limited), 35, 41, 88, 170, 175 Siriheti, Morton, 151 Sirihi, Tony, Brother, 202n.22 Sito, 67 Six Melanesian Brothers, 53, 132, 133, 202n.22 social relationships: breakdown of, 93–94; community strength, 38–39; and land access, 92–93; Marx’s sociology, 13–14 Society for the Development of Native Races, 81 socio-ecology and development, 183–184 socioeconomic history, 14, 27 socioeconomic inequality, 59–60, 72, 86–87, 169–172 Sogavare, Manasseh, 47, 151 Sogavare government: compensation payments by, 48, 150; ex-militants’ demands, 51; MEF grievances, 151, 163 Solomon Islands: colonization of, 30–31; geography, 30–31 Solomon Islands Alliance for Change (SIAC), 58–59, 139 Solomon Islands Defence Force, 76–77 Solomon Islands Labour Corps (SILC), 76–77 Solomon Islands Plantation Limited (SIPL), 35, 41, 88, 170, 175 South Sea Evangelical Church (SSEC), 37–38 Spanish exploration, 31, 114, 193 Special Constables, 51, 104, 130, 135 Spirit of Ramos raid, 43, 201n.12 squatter settlements, 90–92 SSEC (South Sea Evangelical Church), 37–38 state government, demands for, 116–117, 170, 182, 195–196 subsistence agriculture, 32; Weather Coast, 107–108

◊

  Index sugarcane plantations, 33, 69. See also labor migration Supreme Command, 137, 210–211n.1; alleged political agenda, 148–150, 187; ex-militants’ grievances, 139, 140, 155 symmetries of Guales and Malaitans, 157–158 tabu, 199n.21 Tasi Mauri (tribal fight on Weather Coast), 51–52, 53, 104, 127–129, 130–134, 189–192 taxation, 73–74, 75 Te’e, Andrew, 124; birthplace, 107; heads SC/RSIP Joint Operation, 51, 104; initiates uprising, 110–111; rift between GRA and IFF, 127; signs Honiara Accord, 42; supports Gaena’alu Movement, 105, 123; tribal fight on Weather Coast, 127–129, 131–132, 134 Temporary Occupation License (TOL), 90–91 Tension: chronology, 27, 39–56, 103–104; fighting intensifies, 45, 47; Guale uprising, 39–42, 109–112; MEF formation, 43–45; symmetries of Guales and Malaitans, 157–158 Tension Trials, ix, 7, 22, 233 timber exports, 34–36, 186 Timo, Roland, 201n.11 Tobani, Henry, 127 Tofi, Francis, Brother, 202n.22 TOL (Temporary Occupation License), 90–91 Tovua, Paul, 95 Townsville Peace Agreement (TPA), 8, 50–51, 129–130, 163, 213n2 TPA. See Townsville Peace Agreement trade, 33–34, 64, 69 Traditional Housing Areas, 90 traditional magic, 127 traditional warfare, 25–26, 32–33, 63–64 tribal fight on Weather Coast (Tasi Mauri), 51–52, 53, 104, 127–129, 130–134, 189–192 Tulagi: former capital, 76, 88, 114

Index  Ulufa’alu, Bartholomew: house arrest, 45, 47; opposition conspiracy thesis, 58, 139, 149–150, 203n.28; signs Honiara Accord, 42 Ulufa’alu government: perceived weakness of, 148, 179; reforms, 59, 186; removal by MEF, 150–151, 155 Una, Benjamin, 202n.25 urban population, 37 urban squatting, 90–91 Utah Mining, 115 Veuru Moli people, 81 violent crime, 6, 23, 43, 47 Vouza, Jacob, 77 Waena, Nathaniel, 145 wantok: definition, 199n.18

  243

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warfare, traditional, 25–26, 32–33, 63–64 Waste Lands Regulations, 83, 204–205n.9 weapons, 39 Weather Coast: geography, 106–107; labor migration, 62, 95–96; lack of development, 2–3, 169; shaping people, 108; topography, 107–108; transport difficulties, 107; violence, 53. See also Tasi Mauri (tribal fight on Weather Coast) Western Breakaway Movement, 34, 67, 84 Western Council, 84–85 Western identity, 64, 65–66 “West Wind,” 84, 161, 187 World War II influences, 76–77 Zama, Francis, 202n.25

Production Notes for Allen / Greed and Grievance Jacket design by Julie Matsuo-Chun Interior design and composition by Wanda China with display type in Examiner NF and text in Chaparral Pro and Prestige Elite Printing and binding by Sheridan Books, Inc. Printed on 55 lb. Glatfelter Natural B18, 360 ppi.

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Interpreting Corruption &XOWXUHDQG3ROLWLFVLQWKH3DFLILF,VODQGV Peter Larmour 2012, 208 pages Cloth ISBN: 978-0-8248-3514-9

“An accessible work providing valuable insights into corruption and the cultural and political factors surrounding it. The book’s relevance is well demonstrated in the current context of frequently reported corruption concerns in the PNG elections. Drawing on a variety of sources including media coverage, an array of experts from several academic disciplines, NGO studies and literary works, the book is brimming with both short, entertaining anecdotes and fascinating, in-depth examples of corruption throughout the region. Larmour manages to take a subject that could be treated blandly and share it in an interesting and engaging way.” —Pacific Institute of Public Policy Jacket photo: IFM soldiers stop at a waterfall during a patrol on the Weather Coast, 2000. Photo by Ben Bohane. Jacket design: Mardee Melton

“Given the universal salience of the issue, Larmour has done a remarkable job of ranging beyond his limited (but interesting) case studies to produce a book that deserves a wide audience. His inductive, fieldwork-based approach markedly advances the dialogue on this timeless issue.” —Choice

ISBN 978-0-8248-3854-6 90000

University RI Hawai‘i Press HONOLULU, HAWAI‘I 96822-1888

9 780824 838546 www.uhpress.hawaii.edu