Political Struggle in Latin America: Seeking Change in a New Era of Globalization (Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives) 3031079035, 9783031079030

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Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives

Craig L. Arceneaux

Political Struggle in Latin America Seeking Change in a New Era of Globalization

Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives Series Editor Ino Rossi, Saint John’s University, Great Neck, NY, USA

This series documents the range of emerging globalities in the 21st century at the national, transnational and trans-civilizational levels of analysis. “Globality” refers to a global condition where people located at any point on Earth are aware of being part of the world as a whole—the world as a single interacting entity. Social interactions occur among actors belonging to different societies, different social strata and different cultural traditions so that the condition of “globality” is experienced in many different ways. Examples of emerging globalities are social movements generated from the unfulfilled promises of neoliberalism and feelings of discrimination and marginalization of lower social strata; cultural otherization or the blaming of economic problems of certain geographical areas on a low level of cultural development; insecurities generated by technological risks, epidemics, and global terrorism; uncertainties generated by processes of transnational governance, outsourcing, unbalanced trade and massive migrations; biology-machine interfaces and impacts of non-human organisms and technologies on human consciousness and action; long-term threats of global warming, climate change and depletion of bio-diversity; increasing exploitation and marginalization of less industrialized regions. We state that globalization entails encounters and often clashes among people and nations of different civilizational traditions. Hence, one of the exploratory questions of these volumes will be the extent to which negative or problematic globalities are reactions to failed promises and unrealized ideals of civilizational and national traditions and/or perhaps attempts to revive those traditions. Our notion of civilizational tradition takes inspiration from the classical works of Spengler and Toynbee, Benjamin Nelson, Vytautas Kavolis, Roland Robertson, Johann P. Arnason, Jeremy Smith, and others; a tradition which is in sharp contrast with the civilizationism recently promoted by authoritarian leaders with hegemonic ambitions. The volumes in this series aim to extend the inter-civilizational focus of classical civilizational thinkers from the analysis of the origins and development of civilizations to the fostering of contemporary inter-civilizational dialogues; the intent is to facilitate an international rapprochement in the contemporary atmosphere of global conflicts. The volumes will reflect the diversity of theoretical perspectives and captures some of the novel thinking in social sciences, economics and humanities on intraand inter-societal processes; the attention to novel thinking will extend to emerging policy formulations in dealing with threats, risks, insecurities and inequities and to strategic thinking for a sustainable global future. The historical perspective will also be an important component of analysis together with the avoidance of West-centric perspectives. The intended readership of this series is not just an academic audience but also policy decision-makers and the public at large; accessibility of language and clarity of discourse will be a key concern in the preparation of these volumes.

Craig L. Arceneaux

Political Struggle in Latin America Seeking Change in a New Era of Globalization

Craig L. Arceneaux Department of Political Science California Polytechnic State University San Luis Obispo, CA, USA

ISSN 2731-0620 ISSN 2731-0639 (electronic) Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives ISBN 978-3-031-07903-0 ISBN 978-3-031-07904-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07904-7 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To Kathryn and Danielle, and Shared Lives with Meaning, Hope, and Patience

Contents

1

Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization, Democracy, and Inequality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2 The Study of Political Struggle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.3 A Very Brief History of Latin America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.4 Democracy in Contemporary Latin America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.5 Inequality in Contemporary Latin America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.6 Globalization in Contemporary Latin America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.7 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

1 3 8 14 20 26 32 40 41

2

The Struggle for Identity: Autonomy and the Indigenous . . . . . . . . 2.1 The Colonial Era through the Post-Independence Era . . . . . . . . . 2.2 The Indigenous Today . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3 Contemporary Indigenous Movements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.4 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . .

45 46 55 66 78 78

3

The Struggle for Citizenship: The Social Contract and the Urban Poor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1 Cities of Latin America through History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.1 From Colonialism to the Export Economy . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.2 The Twentieth Century and Beyond: From ImportSubstitution to Neoliberalism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.3 Urban Poor Communities Today . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.4 Identifying and Explaining the Urban Poor Today . . . . . . 3.1.5 The Urban Poor and the Future of Democracy in Latin America: The 2019 Protests and the COVID-19 Pause . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . .

83 84 84

. 89 . 95 . 100 . 110 . 114

vii

viii

4

5

6

Contents

The Struggle for Inclusion: Patriarchy Confronts Women and the LGBTQ+ Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.1 The Long Road to Contest Patriarchy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2 Women in Latin American Politics and History . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2.1 Economic Change and the Role of Women . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2.2 The Political Struggle of Women Through the Twentieth Century and Beyond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.3 The LGBTQ+ Community in Latin American Politics and History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.4 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Struggle for the Rule of Law: Precarity and the New Middle Class . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.1 Identifying the Middle Class . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.2 The Role of the Middle Class in Latin American History . . . . . . . 5.3 Precarity and Political Attitudes of the New Middle Class . . . . . . 5.4 The Middle Classes and the Rule of Law . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.5 The Middle Classes, Resource Mobilization, and the Political Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.6 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . .

119 120 130 130

. 134 . 148 . 157 . 158 . . . . .

163 164 169 174 179

. 184 . 188 . 188

Conclusion: Political Struggle as an Enduring Feature of Politics . . . 191

About the Author

Craig L. Arceneaux received his M.A. in Political Science from the Ohio State University and Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of California, Riverside. He is currently Professor of Political Science at California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo, with expertise in Latin American politics, democratization, and civil-military relations. He is the author of Bounded Missions: Military Regimes and Democratization in the Southern Cone and Brazil (Penn State Press, 2001) and Democratic Latin America (Routledge, 2021). He co-authored Transforming Latin America: The International and Domestic Origins of Change (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005) with David Pion-Berlin. And he served as the lead editor for The Other World: Issues and Politics in the Developing World (Routledge, 2017). His research has appeared in Armed Forces and Society, Bulletin of Latin American Research Review, Comparative Political Studies, Latin American Politics and Society, and Journal of Political and Military Sociology. Of late, he has worked with the Electoral Integrity Project (www.electoralintegrityproject.com), and contributed to two of their edited volumes, Election Watchdogs, Pippa Norris and Alessandro Tai, eds. (Oxford, 2017), and Electoral Integrity in America, Pippa Norris, Sarah Cameron, and Thomas Wynter (Oxford, 2018). Craig Arceneaux lives in Pismo Beach, California.

ix

Chapter 1

Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization, Democracy, and Inequality

Globalization is not new, but it is different today compared to the past. Economic, political, social, cultural, and environmental interconnections are more intense and complex, and occur at a more rapid pace. As such, though one cannot tell the story of Latin America without reference to global forces- 300 years of colonial rule assured that- one would also be hard pressed to predict its future absent an analysis of the interdependencies, vulnerabilities, and opportunities opened by contemporary globalization. This book focuses on the political future of the region, in particular the struggle for democracy, and how globalization is changing that struggle. When we speak of the struggle for democracy, we are spotlighting certain groups in society, namely those that are marginalized, as well as those threatened by marginalization, such as the vulnerable middle classes. These are the groups that see themselves on the sidelines as government makes decisions. In so far as a democracy is meant to empower all, equally and without exception, the struggles of marginalized groups depict the struggle for democracy in a country. And in so far as globalization deepens relations worldwide, that struggle increasingly unfolds across borders. Despite its increasingly transnational character, political struggle unfolds distinctively in various regions of the world, and in each country within those regions. Some countries are more vulnerable to the forces of globalization, while others see more opportunities open. We see this most plainly in economic relations, as countries compete to export their goods or attract investment, or become more or less reliant on imports. But competition also takes place as cultural norms and political ideologies cross borders. Likewise, countries find themselves more or less vulnerable to climate change, epidemics, migration flows, transnational criminal organizations, and other global forces. But beyond these differences in power relations, Research for this book was supported by a College of Liberal Arts Summer Stipend at California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo. I am deeply appreciative of the contributions from Ino Rossi, who organized the book series that includes this text, and who offered detailed comments on this work. A debt of gratitude is also extended to Grace Ballard, who served as my research assistant. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 C. L. Arceneaux, Political Struggle in Latin America, Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07904-7_1

1

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

political struggle unfolds distinctively due to factors within countries that mediate the connection between globalization and political struggle. We begin by recognizing that the grievances produced by globalization are not enough to initiate political struggle in a marginalized group. That grievance may offer a motivation to struggle, but the group also requires the capacity and opportunity to struggle. Many factors may shape capacity and opportunity, and surely they can vary across countries and regions. But in Latin America, economic inequality has a formative impact on capacity, and the outline and openness of political institutions shapes opportunity. For this book, that framework enveloping globalization, democracy, and inequality offers a starting point for the examination of political struggle in Latin America. The ultimate objective in the struggle for democracy can vary. At its very base, we find the struggle for identity. Does a group hold self-determination over its very collective identity, or is the identity assigned, or even appropriated and commodified? How is its identity portrayed in national traditions and official histories? Next, there is the question of how a group relates to the state. What does the exchange of rights, privileges, duties, and obligations look like? The concept of citizenship captures this area of contention. But citizens often stand quite differently in their relationship to the state- not all of their voices are heard equally. Here, we find the struggle for inclusion. And finally, what of the rule of law, the battle against corruption, and the push for all to be held accountable before the law? This struggle for justice pushes democracy beyond the exercise of elections to ensure, as Aristotle put it, the rule of the best law rather than simply the rule of the best citizen (The Politics, Book III: 16). Identity, citizenship, inclusion, and justice thus stand as essential requisites of democracy, and history has shown us that struggle surrounds their acquisition, preservation, and expansion. This is the case in Latin America, and throughout the world, such that the struggles of marginalized groups serve as a gateway for us to better understand the politics of a country, or region. Most marginalized groups confront all these struggles at once, but in this book I examine the experiences of specific marginalized groups in each arena of struggle. Specifically, I explore the indigenous and identity, the urban poor and citizenship, women and the LGBTQ+ community and inclusion, and the mobilization of the vulnerable new middle classes for the rule of law. I do this to sharpen the focus, and to offer a simplified introduction to these struggles as measures of political change. Importantly, this work is not meant to offer a theory of democracy. Democracy is about more than struggle and there are struggles beyond those examined here. This book simply seeks to introduce a framework for understanding contemporary politics in Latin America and the growing role of global forces. Likewise, this book does not seek to offer a comprehensive account of all marginalized groups in the region. Many are left out, such as student groups, peasant movements and the landless, environmental activists, labor unions, religious minorities, refugees, diaspora groups, and others. Some were selected as subjects rather than others not because their struggle is more important, but because their stories offer the best introductions to long standing struggles of identity, citizenship, inclusion, and justice.

1.1 Introduction

3

The chapters which follow elaborate on these struggles and the selected marginalized groups. But to place these struggles in context, this chapter will first offer a brief survey of the literature on political struggle, then turn its attention expressly to Latin America. Here, after a short history of the region, I will explain how the setting of democracy and the impact of inequality create unique conditions in Latin America. That will then set the stage for a general discussion on the forces of globalization, and a recognition of how they shape the political struggles in Latin America discussed in the chapters that follow.

1.1

Introduction

Manuel Baquedano was born in Santiago, Chile, on January 1, 1823, not long after Chile gained its independence. Through the nineteenth century, Baquedano took part in most every prominent event in the country. At just 15 years old, he joined the military when Chile faced its first major war, against Peru and Bolivia to break up a proposed confederation that threatened its interests. Later on as a soldier, he contributed to the stability of the nascent state when he helped quash revolts in 1851 and 1859. In the 1860s and 1870s, he joined, then commanded, troops that settled lands south of Santiago, opening the door to the country’s reach all the way to is current southern tip. As Commander of the Army, he led the country to victory in the War of the Pacific (1879–81), which transferred territory from Bolivia and Peru to establish the current northern border of Chile. He retired from the military after that war, but became a prominent politician and marshaled efforts to professionalize the military. He declined numerous opportunities to seek the presidency, but when Chile faced civil war in 1891, he served as a provisional president to help unify the nation. To honor his contributions, in 1928 the president of the country commissioned a large, bronze statue of General Manuel Baquedano in Santiago. The statue has Baquedano dressed in full military uniform, cap, boots, and all. He is seated on his devoted horse, Diamante, and the statue itself rises above a greenstone podium some 20 feet high. A life-sized woman, also in bronze, reaches up to him with a garland of copihues- the national flower, but his eyes look elsewhere. Still, lest any Chilean forget that they should all be thankful, an inscription reads, “The Chilean People to General Baquedano.” Admirers can walk a short flight of steps on either side to examine battle scenes from the War of the Pacific placed on bronze relief plates, and the remains of an unknown soldier from this war rest in the podium. Baquedano has one hand on his hip, and the other holds the reins of his horse, which is looking in the same direction as Baquedano, not at the woman but into the distance, and the horse appears to share his calm, reflective gaze. In 1928, the site of the statue represented the outermost limits of Santiago, such that visitors to the city would be greeted by the man who, in many respects, forged modern-day Chile. Over time, the small plaza became a traffic circle, drawing in roads from neighborhoods throughout the now sprawling city. As such, it became a location for national celebrations, festive

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

gatherings of fans after sports victories, and a rallying point for political protest marches. Indeed, the plaza proved an ideal meeting point for a series of protests first triggered by a subway fare hike in October 2019. Defiant students jumped turnstiles, commuters gathered to shout out their opposition, and as the collective rage swelled, crowds set fire to metro stations, blocked traffic on city streets, and began to loot supermarkets and raze commercial centers. The government, and the world, was taken by surprise. This was a 30-peso fare hike, equivalent to 4 US cents, and Chile had distinguished itself with a growing economy for decades. But the protestors had an answer: “No son 30 pesos, son 30 años.” The protest was not about 30 pesos, it was about the 30 years since military rule, and the fragmented, garbled, or otherwise defective transition from authoritarianism. Chileans were still living under a constitution drafted by the military regime that ruled in the 1970s and 1980s. Sure, subsequent reforms of the constitution protected basic rights, established civilian control of the military, allowed competitive elections, and placed Chile in the category of “democracy.” But it also left the government hamstrung. It enshrined neoliberal economic policies implanted during military rule, establishing steep voting thresholds for any attempts to enact basic changes in policies such as education, public utilities, transportation, health care, and pensions. The economic model did engender growth, but only by stifling change in those policy areas that mattered most to the masses. The result was inequality- easily masked over the years with reference to impressive rates of economic growth. But like a drought-stricken forest, parched by warming temperatures and dry gusts, and chock full of canopy litter and deadwood, it would not take much of a spark to expose the hostility toward that inequality. Just 4 cents. The protests engulfed Santiago through the months, at times bringing over one million into the streets. It did not help when President Sebastián Piñera, declared, “We are at war,” portraying his fellow citizens as enemy combatants rather than aggrieved constituents. The militarized national police force, the Carabineros, responded with brute force, leaving over 30 dead, 2,500 injured, and thousands under arrest over the next several months. This added yet another catalyst to the protests- police brutality- and a reflection on how much really had changed over the course of 30 years if government remained so intent on the use of force when challenged. Through 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic reduced the size of the protests, but gatherings continued, and General Baquedano’s statue became a favored target of graffiti artists. Weekly, if not daily, new slogans appeared on him, and his horse: “EVADE” (“evade subway fares”); “constitutional assembly”; “education reform”; “LGBTQI+” “health”; “feminism”; “assassin”; “Death to the state!” And taking a cue from the George Floyd protests and Black Lives Matter movement in the United States: “ACAB” (“all cops are bastards”). Regularly, the Indigenous Mapuche flag would fly above Baquedano’s figure. Just as often, the statue would have paints of various colors splashed upon it. And most vividly, like many statues in the Santiago area, protestors painted the eyes red- this to recognize the over 220 demonstrators who lost their eyes due to the rubber bullets of police. The eyes of Diamante dripped red too.

1.1 Introduction

5

Why Baquedano? What did this indisputably important figure in Chilean history do to deserve such defacement? As noted, the protests were not so simple- they were not about 4 cents. And neither was Baquedano’s role in history so simple. The revolts Baquedano stamped out were inspired by the working-class rebellions experienced in Europe through 1848. As the continent industrialized and urbanized, they felt left behind. Monarchies put down these uprisings in Europe, while an increasingly privileged elite crushed them in Chile. The settlement of territories to the south of Santiago- about one-quarter the territory of modern-day Chile- was also known as the “Pacification of Auracanía.” To be blunt, this was a genocidal campaign that pushed aside the Mapuche and other Indigenous groups- groups that had actually survived the Spanish colonial period in autonomous regions. The War of the Pacific added territories with abundant nitrate and copper deposits, but the state and elite economic interests monopolized this wealth, and locked Chile into an extractive economic model dependent on exports to Europe and the United States. It was also an economy dependent on environmental destruction. And the fact that the president who commissioned the statue, Carlos Ibáñez, created the Carabineros as a national, militarized police force, was not lost on the protestors. And what of the statue itself? What patriarchal, militarized narrative of Chilean history did it convey? Was it the military and “great men” who built the country, by writ of force, domination, and exploitation? How many Chileans are left out of this story? Indeed, by the time modern Chilean society met up with the statue, they did not see a soldier on horseback, with a calm, reflective gaze to greet them. The city had expanded beyond the statue and its plaza, but the place still represented a border. Those once open lands beyond it, to the west, developed as working class and lower income neighborhoods, and those to the east behind Baquedano grew to be the more wealthy and coveted districts. That calm, reflective gaze now captured a firm and stalwart look for the downtrodden within his sights, and manifested his protection of those that strolled the wealthy streets over his shoulders. The story of Baquedano and the protests that engulfed him capture several themes that this book will develop. The first is that political protest offers a window to the politics of a country. Who is protesting and why at any given moment is typically the product of a long history of grievance, aspiration, and struggle. Second, such social movements lay bare official narratives. All countries, as “imagined communities,” develop founding myths and historical narratives to highlight certain values and beliefs and thereby frame the national identity of the country. But many groups, and their values and beliefs, often find themselves left out. Protest offers these marginalized groups a medium to advance a more inclusive imagined community. Third, political protests have complex causes, beyond grievance alone. Chile is rightly hailed as one of the most economically successful countries in Latin America, yet it is also home to some of the most vibrant and energetic street marches in the region. Frustration, exclusion, vulnerability, righteousness, due respect and more also drive motivation, differences in resources may make mobilization more available to some groups than others, and as a form of expression, struggle and protest must be evaluated within the opportunity structure offered by the political make-up of the country.

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

Fourth, protest in the twenty-first century takes shape differently than in the past. One march often attracts seemingly disparate goals, organization often appears “leaderless,” and strategies regularly embrace theatric and symbolic activities rather than direct actions meant to seize political power. And fifth, though protests in a given country may appear as local, or at most national events, they often have global connections. Just as events in Europe inspired the revolts put down by Baqueando in 1851 and 1859, so too were the Chilean protests part of a wave of revolts that started in 2018, most notably in Argentina, Colombia, Ecuador, Nicaragua, Peru, and Venezuela. Global economic forces stirred all this unrest as the end of the worldwide commodities boom pressured Latin American governments to impose austerity measures that squeezed vulnerable middle income and desperate lower income sectors, and highlighted inequality. And analysts noted how protests in places such as France, Hong Kong, and Spain inspired activist strategies, and how consciousness of issues such as police violence in the United States also crossed borders. A passerby could see the vehicles that circle the statue of Baqueando, but if they stopped and reflected, they could also realize the aforementioned themes that swirl around his likeness- he represents a paternal and elitist history; he promotes a view of political progress driven by violence and order; he stands guard over the inequality fostered by neoliberal policies; and by promoting the image of Chile as a European country, he embodies the prominence of European, not Indigenous, civilizational narratives. His story is more current and more global than it seems. Hence, we can learn a lot about contemporary Latin America by looking at recent protest activity and the struggles of marginalized groups. As highlighted in Table 1.1, a significant number of Latin Americans accept protest as a regular form of political expression. Nonetheless, the table also illustrates significant variation, from much higher levels of protest in Bolivia, Peru, and Argentina, to lower levels in El Salvador, Mexico and Ecuador. Of course, these numbers can vary from year to year as different countries face different issues likely to stir protest. Likewise, the quality and intensity of the protests may differ, independent of the number of participants. But as a first look at protest activity, the message from the table is clear: protest is a common activity in Latin America, and there is significant variation in Latin America. Accordingly, we need a framework to guide our analysis, so that it highlights common dynamics of social movements from country to country and over time, and so that it also illuminates why there may be variation in protest activity. We also need cases to illustrate the validity of this framework, cases that in turn serve as a medium for a better understanding of contemporary Latin America. Because this book is designed for a general audience, I offer a relatively straightforward framework and avoid much of the jargon associated with social science research. The first aspect of this framework is the institutional design of democracy, which shapes political struggle. Of course, in several Latin American countries democratic procedures remain incomplete, and in others they have been severely undermined. Faced with nonresponsive or even repressive government institutions, activists must embrace strategies beyond the ballot box. But it is not the intent of this study to portray political protest solely as a symptom of a deficient democracy. As we shall

1.1 Introduction

7

Table 1.1 Share of respondents who participated in a demonstration or public protest in the last 12 months, 2019. Source: Based on survey data from Americas Barometer, LAPOP (Vanderbilt University). Available at www.vanderbilt.edu/lapop. Question: “In the last 12 months, have you participated in a demonstration or public protest?” Yes or No 18% 16.65%

15%

14.27% 13.68%

12%

11.44%

11.12%11.01%

10.61%

10.28%10.19% 9.71% 9.17%

9%

8.05% 8.01%

7.63% 7.09%

6%

3.44%

3%

El Salvador

Mexico

Ecuador

Honduras

Dom Rep

Panama

Chile

Costa Rica

Guatamala

Brazil

Uruguay

Colombia

Nicaragua

Argentina

Peru

Bolivia

0%

see, protest activity can enrich democracy and may even be essential to it. The second aspect of this framework is economic inequality, which has a critical impact on the resources a group brings to its struggle, and their very ability to pressure government (e.g., McCarthy & Zald, 1977). While gaps in organizational, cultural, and ideational resources leave their own mark on political struggle and must be duly recognized, differences in economic resources often lurk behind disparities in these other areas and thus offers an entry point for assessing how inequality more generally affects the capacity for groups to be seen and heard. That democracy affects the opportunity for struggle and inequality affects the capacity for struggle in Latin America is nothing new. The history of the region is pocketed by waves of authoritarian and democratic transitions, and inequality has long plagued and distinguished it. Globalization is a third feature of the framework,

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

and it too is nothing new in Latin America (e.g., Carmagnoni, 2011). Over 300 years of colonialism may have formally ended in the early 1800s, but it soon gave way to economic dependencies with Europe and then more intensely to subservience within a sphere of influence overseen by the US. Even more so, the character of globalization has changed significantly in the past several decades (e.g., Robinson, 2008) as dependencies have grown more complex, distant impacts more immediate, and foreign commitments more robust. This new era of globalization offers an entirely new stage for political struggle in Latin America. Foreign actors peer into political struggles and attempt to sway them, global communication and processes open new strategies and opportunities for activists, and international organizations offer new arenas for contestation. In the remainder of this chapter, I outline my approach to political protest and this framework. In doing so, I identify how inequality and political institutions mediate global forces in Latin America as they shape the capacity and opportunity, respectively, to struggle. In the chapters that follow, I apply this framework to particular cases of political struggle by select marginalized groups in the region.

1.2

The Study of Political Struggle

In a democracy, when people take to the streets, or otherwise forego the ballot box to express their interests, our immediate reaction is that something must be wrong, that democracy in the country is broken. Political analysts in the post-WWII era known as “functionalists” took this approach. They focused on how well states addressed the needs of their societies, especially in the achievement of collective goals. In their conception, states offer decision-making mechanisms, such as voting in democracies, to evaluate and prioritize goals. They mobilize resources, through mechanisms such as taxes, to collect resources for goals. And they implement public policies through bureaucratic organizations to achieve goals. States also offer court systems to mediate conflicts in society, and thus help integrate society- another function. By fulfilling these, and several other functions, states interact with, and adapt to their environment over time. The approach provided an ideal model of the state, allowing analysts to compare how well different states fulfill their functions (Easton, 1953; Parsons, 1971). The theoretical advantage of functionalism rested in its simplicity and generalizability- it was abstract enough to be applied to a host of very different states across time- be it monarchic rule in Brazil in 1865, military rule in Argentina in 1978, or democratic rule in Chile in 2022. But this came at a normative cost, one that rendered certain political actions such as protests, boycotts, and strikes as disruptive and even dangerous activities, especially in countries where a minimal level of democratic rule has been reached. Because the state is presumed to adapt over time, these political expressions were signals of impatience or even irrationality. This message is captured in the related theory of mass society, which is primarily concerned with how the forces of modernization- the transition from a traditional, rural, agrarian

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society to a secular, urban, and industrial society- creates social dislocation. In this view, the underlying fabric of traditional society erodes as individuals lose attachments to their smaller communities, religious organizations, and long-standing cultural norms. The state has a difficult time fulfilling its functions when faced with a population whose long-standing ties have been upended and who now act more as individuals than as members of a society. The individuals in this population then grow more vulnerable to manipulation by demagogic political leaders who offer alternative visions of a collective identity, but also have their own agendas. The massive social dislocation that occurred in Germany during the Great Depression and the subsequent rise of Adolf Hitler influenced this literature (e.g., Kornhauser, 1959). Given these perspectives, it is little surprise that analysts tended to embrace a very narrow conception of political participation, one that was largely limited to voting and political recruitment (Verba & Nie, 1972), and sidelined most forms of popular mobilization. A corrective to this approach broadened the definition by distinguishing between “conventional” and “unconventional” participation. Conventional participation uses institutionalized legal means to influence politicsdiscussing politics to persuade others, working for a political party, contacting elected officials, and of course, voting. Unconventional participation includes a range of political action, from demonstrations and boycotts, to occupations, damaging property, and even violence. While some of these may be legal, most are not (Barnes et al. 1979). The new approach captured a greater diversity of political action, and it also highlighted how government was not always the direct target. Boycotts express disapproval of a particular business, and demonstrations may be held to sway public opinion. Later studies highlighted the role of globalization as protest movements sought out targets abroad. With use of the “boomerang effect” a movement can reach out to foreign actors (e.g., outside states, nongovernmental organizations, or international organizations) to put pressure on their own governments (Keck & Sikkink, 1998). Nonetheless, the tag of “unconventional” politics still stigmatized political protest. Moreover, the strict division grew unconvincing as one looked more closely at political participation across time and places. What might be viewed as unconventional at one time, or in one country, might be conventional at another time or in another country. Labor strikes were once widely repressed, but are now regulated. Disgruntled constituents used to write to their representatives, now many opt to troll them on social media. In the 2020 protests against police violence in the United States, many activists blocked traffic and were criticized heavily, but such strategies have a long tradition in Latin America and are more likely to be tolerated. Moreover, by rejecting the division between conventional and unconventional participation, we gain a more accurate perception of civic engagement. Electoral turnout may decline in a country, but does this signal apathy if citizens instead opt for demonstrations, roadblocks, sit-ins and walkouts, or graffiti to signal their interests? Party identification may be waning worldwide and also appears to signal a withdrawal from politics, but if that is the case, consider the wide-ranging political interests that mobilize people across the world today- animal rights, genetic

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

engineering, vaccinations, cultural appropriation, body shaming, corruption, environmental protection, refugee rights in faraway regions, and so on. All told, it is difficult to argue that we live in a less politicized world today. This stark distinction between conventional and unconventional participation hides the fact that people may not be growing more politically disengaged, they may simply be changing their preferred forms of participation (Norris, 2002). This appears to be precisely the case in many Latin American countries, where so many have opted for the street rather than the ballot box to express their frustrations, allegiances, and desires, such that what was once considered unconventional is now routine (Moseley, 2018). And today, the normative approach to protest politics has been almost turned on its head. Protest is viewed not only as routine, and as a sign of a healthy democracy with a vibrant civil society, but it is also deemed beneficial if not indispensable to democracy (Meyer & Tarrow, 1998). One analyst argues that protests augment elections in so far as they allow democracy to “self-correct,” as activists gain opportunities to communicate their concerns and demands to political leaders outside the episodic holding of elections (Berman, 2020). One comprehensive study of political participation in Latin America noted that many forms of “conventional” participation through institutionalized channels may simply co-opt social movements and reinforce the status quo, while unruly, “uncivic” action may do more to push government to listen to activists. The work is an important reminder that that rise of various consultative councils (e.g., neighborhood, health, workers, budgetary) in Latin American countries over the past two decades can in some cases be counterproductive (Alvarez et al., 2017). And another classic study noted how mass demonstrations and violent uprisings might just be the first expression in a cycle of protest that first confronts government authority but over time leads to more traditional political patterns as movements mobilize, organize, then channel demands through more established manners such as voting and lobbying (Tarrow, 1989). In this way disruptive demonstrations and street riots may just be part of a repertoire of contentious actions that are not only signs of a healthy democracy, but also contribute to democratic politics (Wieviorka, 2013). While a normative approach entails judgement, an empirical approach limits itself to the study of why, when, who, and what of collective mobilization. But it too has changed dramatically over time. Why people might take to the streets appears simple enough- they must bear some sort of grievance or otherwise find themselves subject to some injustice or hardship. Analysts quickly noted that grievance alone proved a poor explanation because it “over-predicts” collective mobilization. Poverty, injustice, and exclusion have been far too common features of societies throughout history. Fact is, most aggrieved groups do not protest (Orum, 1974). Moreover, mass mobilization tends to occur in waves even as grievances remain rather constant. The Chileans who protested in 2019 rallied around the scourge of inequality, but this was not a new feature of Chilean society. And why did demonstrations spike this year and not some other? An early improvement on the grievance-based approach examined economic conditions specifically and noted that revolutions tend to occur not in the midst of chronic poverty and underdevelopment, but rather, they ignite when a short economic downturn follows a long period of growth (Davies, 1962).

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Later studies introduced the concept of relative deprivation to sharpen analysis and apply it more broadly to mass mobilizations. Abject poverty would define absolute deprivation, but relative deprivation emerges when there is a gap between what people get and what they believe they deserve. The denial of political expression could create this gap, but that gap would be larger if the clampdown occurred after a period of relative openness. And one could see how an economic downturn after a period of growth could be particularly explosive. Impoverished individuals may have low expectations, but those experiencing economic growth will develop rising expectations. Should an economic downturn upend them, conditions grow ripe for rebellion (Gurr, 1970). The chapter on the vulnerable middle classes in particular highlights these dynamics. Other approaches went beyond the psychological emphasis on grievance to study structural conditions that increase the probability that a grievance is acted upon (Klandermans, 1984). The efficacy hypothesis holds that protest is most likely when people develop expectations that they can alter politics through protest (they feel efficacious) and hold low levels of trust in government (Gamson, 1992). But this does not mean that every demonstrator is disenchanted with government and sees protest as the only viable recourse. Research has shown that many demonstrators do in fact express trust in government (Van Stekelenburg & Klandermans, 2018). Why then do they protest? Because they see protest as just one of many strategies for influencing government- insofar as protest activity has become “normalized,” it rests in a toolbox alongside petitions, campaign activity, party membership, voting, and other forms of institutionalized politics. And there is a class distinction at work here as well. Distrusting protestors tend to be working class, while trusting protestors tend to be middle class and more educated (Norris, 2011). In addition, research has also shown that “social trust,” or the trust among different social groups- the Indigenous, rural poor, students, working class, migrants, etc.- may also increase protest (Suh & Reynolds-Stenson, 2018). The more a group trusts its out-group peers, the more likely it is to mobilize on that group’s behalf. These findings have significant implications for contemporary Latin America, which has seen tremendous middle class growth, urbanization, and expansion of social media communications. Through much of the twentieth century, the disenchanted poor hit hard by austerity measures drove protests. Those protests still exist, but the growth of the middle class has not dulled them- due to their embrace of protest as one strategy among many. Moreover, social media, urbanization, and a more complex civil society has brought more groups in contact with one another, such that students mobilize on behalf of the Indigenous, Indigenous groups share goals with environmentalists, feminists experience exclusion alongside LGBTQ+ groups, labor unions see common cause with migrant labor, and so on. One of the more prominent approaches to grow from the critique of the grievancebased literature is resource mobilization theory. This approach places the emphasis not on the motivation to protest, but rather on the capacity to protest. No matter the intensity of the grievance, if a group is to be effective, it requires leadership, communication skills, experience, financing, time, social networks to draw on alliances, and even moral resources such as solidarity and legitimacy (McCarthy &

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Zald, 1977). Such resources are far more available to middle-class and educated groups, than to the urban or rural poor, or long neglected Indigenous groups. The theory helps to explain why some groups are more likely to be heard than are other groups. It is not because of the gravity of their difficulties or injustices they face, but rather due to their very ability to organize. One study plainly notes, “no matter where we look, we should rarely find uprooted, marginal, disorganized people heavily involved in collective action” (Tilly & Tilly, 1975, p. 290). And mobilization is just as important a subject of study as the resources. Ultimately, a group will need to aggregate its resources, and this draws the theory into cost-benefit analyses of individual decision making. What sort of selective incentives must a group offer to increase its membership? Will some members decide to “free-ride,” with the expectation that they can withhold any contributions to or participations with the group and still see their interests fulfilled by others? Of course, if every potential member attempts to free-ride, mobilization becomes impossible (Olson, 1965). The emphasis on capacity is surely intuitive, but the portrayal of (would-be) activists as rational, self-interested decision makers came under fire from cultural and identity-based theorists. Do individuals really calculate their immediate gains and assess their costs as they decide whether to participate in a protest activity? Are economic goals and class-based interests really at the heart of a group’s struggle? The new social movements literature argued that the move toward a post-industrial society shifted the goals of mass movements toward non-materialist ends, such as ecology, gay rights, nuclear disarmament, spirituality, genetic engineering, animal rights, and local autonomy. Social movements attract individuals precisely because they offer collective identities, values, and lifestyle visions that are non-materialist and cross class lines, and thus are more in tune with post-modern society. Another criticism of resource mobilization emerged from its presumed theoretical strength, namely that “movements are structured and patterned, so that they can be analyzed in terms of organizational dynamics just like other forms of institutionalized action” (Buechler, 1993, p. 218). Hence the emphasis on leadership, and prosaic resources such as office space and equipment. But as noted in one study, this does not appear to describe contemporary movements: “In contrast to more dogmatic movements of the old left and the heyday of armed struggle for state power, many of today’s social movements in Latin America see the path to radical change as an open-ended and participatory process, in which subjective consciousness and patterns of social relations are transformed through the lived experience of organized struggle” (Stahler-Sholk et al., 2014, p. 49). Today many movements shun long-term organization and avoid explicit policy demands on the state. They appear leaderless, non-hierarchical, and informal. This is partly the result of the digital age and the growth of social media, which allow protest movements to avoid many of the “startup” costs of the past, and reduces efforts surrounding coordination, planning, and consensus-building (Tufekci, 2014). But it is also due to the fact that some contemporary movements do not seek to seize political power or even influence government, but rather to raise social consciousness, promote alternative collective identities, and in fact dissolve power (Holloway, 2010). Social movements stand center stage in the battle over identity politics.

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If resource mobilization theory initiated the debate over capacity, another approach, political process theory, shifted the focus to opportunity. This theory examines how political institutions either open opportunities for groups to push for change, or create barriers for groups seeking change. It also looks to how existing organizations within civil society might help to mobilize a new group, and how members make use of framing processes to explain why they seek change and how they create shared understandings that legitimate their actions (McAdam et al., 1996). In effect, this approach centers on how social movements face options that encourage or discourage their emergence, growth, strategies, and influence. Political institutions outline much of the political opportunity structure, but there is also a discursive element defined by the visibility and perceived legitimacy of a movement's claims and identity within the dominant norms and cultural values of a society (Koopmans et al., 2005). The discursive element introduces a more dynamic approach to the notion of opportunity, because it recognizes how opportunity is not just defined by objective conditions, but also mediated by the subjective perceptions and persuasion (Gamson & Meyer, 1996). The discursive dimension also impacts the strategies, or “repertoires of contention,” that a social movement may make use of because some are viewed as more attuned to the cultural script within a given society (Tilly, 1986). For example, feminists who mobilize to protect abortion rights in the United States emphasize individual choice, and for good reason given the resonance of liberal individualistic values in the country. But in Argentina, the struggles of the poor and the demand for state action are more salient than the issue of individual choice, hence feminists there are more likely to frame abortion rights as part of a broader struggle for universal healthcare and as a matter of social justice. That the state has a responsibility to fulfill has resonance in Argentina and the rest of Latin America that is not felt as intensely in the United States. What good is “choice” if poor, rural, or otherwise marginalized women cannot access abortion services. Indeed, one analysis of reports from grassroots feminist meetings in Argentina over a twenty-year period coded the framing of abortion rights. It found that references to public health surpassed that of choice by almost 2.5 times. Women who march in the streets of Buenos Aires for reproductive rights commonly carry signs that read, “por el aborto legal, seguro y gratuito” (“for legal, safe, and free abortion”). The banners of those who march in Chicago are more likely read, “freedom to choose” (Sutton & Borland, 2013). This brief literature review shows that there is no shortage of theories, approaches, and concepts associated with the study of political struggle. In this book, I take a simple approach, one that makes use case studies of distinct groupsIndigenous peoples, the urban poor, women and LGBTQ+ groups, and the vulnerable middle classes. They serve as “entry points” to open an analysis of political struggle. Globalization affects political struggle in Latin America, like in other regions, but certain defining characteristics of Latin America distinguish the struggles that take place within it, and also separate countries in the hemisphere. In particular, political institutions define the opportunity structure and ensure distinctions in the dynamics of struggle from country to country. In addition, inequality has a tremendous impact on the capacity to struggle. As a region long classified with

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

levels of unparalleled inequality, Latin America absorbs and addresses global forces in its own way. In this way, political institutions and inequality mediate the impact of globalization on political struggle.

1.3

A Very Brief History of Latin America

Before branching out into more detailed discussions of democracy, inequality, and globalization in the contemporary period, it would be helpful to present a broad historical overview of Latin America. Genetic evidence corroborates the widely shared view that traces the roots of the Indigenous to northern Asia (Wang et al., 2007). There is less consensus on precisely when the migration took place across the Bering Strait from modern day Russia to Alaska, with research showing dates ranging between 35,000 BCE and 10,000 BCE. Settlement took place throughout the Americas, with groups reaching the southern tip of South America by about 9000 BCE, and large, permanent agricultural settlements emerging by about 3000 to 2000 BCE. The population grew to about 54 million by the time the Spaniards arrived in 1492, but the dispersion was uneven- 3.8 million in North America, 17 million in Mexico, 5.5 million in Central America, 3 million in the Caribbean, 15.6 million in the Andes, and 8.5 million in the Amazon and throughout lowland South America (by comparison Europe had a population of roughly 70 million and Spain had 10 million) (Denevan, 1992). There is a simple explanation for the uneven demographics in the Americas. The region lacked large, domesticable draft animals such as cows, horses, or oxen, so the fertile soils of the highlands- in Central Mexico and through the Andes- could best support larger settlements. Today, the Great Plains in the United States, the Cerrado of Brazil, and Pampas in Argentina are breadbaskets, but this is only because modern mechanized tilling machines are able to reach nutrients buried deep in the soil. Colder weather and rough desert terrain swayed the indigenous toward huntergathering strategies in much of North America, and only smaller agricultural settlements. And the humid, tropical climes found in much of Central America and the jungles of South America frustrated attempts to store food due to constant concerns over mold and rot. Slash and burn methods could enrich the soil and produce impressive yields, but without a stockpile, it only took one bad harvest to create a crisis. The Mayan civilization adapted to these difficulties by organizing into a number of city-states that traded with each other. But in Central Mexico and the Andes, temperate, dry weather, volcanic fertile soils, and mountains that drew rainfall to irrigable river flows supported massive population settlements. The Incas counted about 10 million at their height and may have been the largest empire of their time. Aztec leaders governed some 5 to 6 million. But throughout the Americas during the pre-Columbian period, there were thousands of civilizations and tribes, each with their own distinct languages, customs, and histories. Most never met due to vast separations over place and time. Indeed, today, tourists marvel at the ancient pyramids of Teotihuancán outside Mexico City. But the Aztecs also

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looked upon these structures as amazing historical artifacts- they predated their civilization by almost 1000 years. As discussed in Chap. 2, the arrival of European colonists decimated these civilizations, both intently through massacres and enslavement, and inadvertently through the introduction of disease. Spanish and Portuguese colonization was driven by mercantilism- or the search for precious metals to enrich the state. As misfortune would have it, gold and silver tend to accumulate in the veins of mountains, and the mother lodes of Latin America surrounded the highland settlements of the indigenous, making for an immediate confrontation. And the colonial period, which would last almost 300 years, would leave a long-lasting legacy on the economies of the region. Mercantilism geared economic activity toward precious exports- gold, silver, dyes, and spices. Manufacturing was deliberately squelched so that Spain could use the colonies as markets for its own goods. Likewise, the monarchy restricted trade among the colonies to ensure direct trade routes from Latin America to the Iberian Peninsula. The tilt toward raw materials rather than manufacturing and crafts dulled entrepreneurialism, and the lack of regional integration would hamper economic growth well after the colonial period. Colonialism also had adverse political consequences. Conquistadors settled the lands, setting the stage for a prominent role for the military. This role increased as Spanish settlements faced-off against large Indigenous populations, and continued as the vast colonial empire, and the shipments of precious metals across the Caribbean and Atlantic, became a target of privateers and pirates. And the colonial empire took its toll on the treasury of the monarchy. Over time, more and more of the precious metals stayed in the Americas to fund military defense and expeditions, pay administrative salaries, and finance infrastructure. To sustain an empire on the cheap, the monarchy increasingly sold off government offices, and turned its head as local authorities engaged in graft and corruption when they administered licenses, decided on land use, or allocated indigenous labor. Military influence and corruption would continue to plague Latin American politics long after the colonial period. As Spain’s hold over its colonies weakened, calls for independence grew stronger, pushed further in no small part by France’s invasion of Spain during the Napoleonic Wars (1803–15). Still, there was little consensus on what sort of governments would replace the Spanish monarchy. Most countries adopted presidential systems, but gave their executives far more power than in the U.S. model. Even so, Brazil retained its monarchic lineage with Portugal, and conservative sectors in other countries clung to the possibility of a similar arrangement with another European royal family. Indeed, Mexico embraced an emperor, Agustín de Iturbide, as a placeholder for a hoped-for monarch from Europe. The newly independent countries of Central America shared that hope, and united with Mexico in confederation for a short time. Nonetheless, in short order much of Latin America fell to civil war. 300 years of colonialism had left the region with economies geared toward agricultural goods, raw materials, and exotic products such as spices and dyes, and thereby ill-equipped to develop the manufacturing sectors required to drive industrialization. The long wars for independence took their own toll, as they disrupted trade, upended the social order, devastated the civilian labor force, allowed

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

mines to flood, and left agricultural fields fallow. The newly independent governments were forced to draw on foreign loans to finance their debts, and struggled to assert their authority throughout the country. Presidents, whether they gained office through elections or force, did not last long. Peru had 41 presidents in its first 100 years as an independent country, and Ecuador had 50. This was the period of caudillo rule, when military strongmen fought over the presidency more as a form of war booty than as a responsibility to govern. Things began to change in the nineteenth century as industrialization deepened throughout Europe and the United States. Latin America could not compete, but it could provide agricultural goods and raw materials. The export economy placed the region in a dependent position, reliant on demand from abroad and unable to develop modern, robust industrial sectors. But the steady flow of exports did provide some stability and strengthened governments that were now able to build infrastructure, expand public policy, and professionalize militaries to clampdown on rebellions. But urbanization, the growth of a middle class, and light manufacturing stirred new interests that often sat at odds with traditional elites in the agricultural or raw materials sectors who most benefited from the export economy. Political parties began to better distinguish themselves as they reached out the increasingly diverse society, and competitive democracies, albeit limited, began to emerge. Chile stood out with a competitive multiparty system by the early 1900s, but most countries had two dominant parties- a Conservative Party that represented agricultural elites and had strong ties to the Catholic Church and military, and a Liberal Party with connections to the growing middle classes in the cities. Nonetheless, the Great Depression in 1929 cut off the demand for exports and ended many of these experiments with democracy. Conservative parties had played the electoral game so long as export profits allowed them to aggressively lobby or bribe their way to influence. With their profits sunk, conservative parties looked to their ties to the military to protect their interests. The armed forces, themselves concerned with growing mobilization among the working classes and socialist organizations, obliged. Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, the Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Guatemala, and Peru would suffer a military coup by 1931, and eight more countries would see soldiers in their presidential palaces by 1935. World War II lengthened the disengagement from the world economy and stirred thoughts of a new economic model to replace the export economy. Latin America would now forthrightly pursue industrialization on its own, with a model known as import-substitution industrialization (ISI). Behind a wall of protective tariffs, as well as other supportive instruments such as foreign exchange controls and import licensing, state subsidies, state-owned enterprises, and taxes on traditional exports to funnel financing to manufacturing enterprises, governments would foster infant industries in light manufacturing. The idea was that after these infant industries “matured” (i.e., grew in size and became productive) they would be primed for export and able to compete in world markets. Profits from these exports would then help to finance protective measures for new infant industries in more complex and heavy manufacturing and thereby deepen the industrialization process. Although ISI was an economic strategy, it had clear political consequences. The export economy

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could thrive with a cheap labor force- this meant lower prices for its overseas customers. But under the ISI strategy, the domestic population would not only be laborers, but consumers as well. Government had a stake in their well-being, and supported wage increases, unemployment insurance, pensions, as well as subsidies for price ceilings on food, housing, and utilities so that households had more disposable income to spend on manufactured items. For the first time, Latin America had an economic strategy that dovetailed with the economic interests of the majority of the population and as such, it was compatible with electoral politics. Thus began a new experiment with democracy- not the limited, elitist democracy of the export economy era, but a populist one that thrived on the mobilization of the working class and middle-income sectors. This was the time of Juan Perón in Argentina (1946–1955), Getúlio Vargas in Brazil (1930–1945, 1951–1954), José María Velasco Ibarra in Ecuador (1934–1935, 1944–1947, 1952–1956), Lázaro Cárdenas in Mexico (1934–1940), and others. Still, democracy requires not only the empowerment of the majority, but also protections for the minority and this is where populism fails. The policies squeezed traditional exporters of agricultural goods and raw materials, and while many urban manufacturers found advantages in ISI, they also felt increasingly threatened by the fervent labor unions spurred by political leaders, and strapped by inflationary pressures triggered by government spending on social programs. Populism catered to the majority but burdened the minority and inevitably took on a divisive character. Traditional exporters and businesses that voiced opposition to populist policies would quickly see themselves painted as traitors to the future of the country. Beyond divisiveness, populism also introduced clientelism as an enduring feature of Latin American politics. Catering to the immediate economic self-interests of voters would soon become a key campaign strategy. As discussed in the analysis of the urban poor in Chap. 3, the combination of divisiveness and clientelism continues to plague politics in the region, as politicians all too often seek to satisfy the needs of some voters at the expense of other voters. Ironically, while populism would be key to the ISI program, it would also be its undoing. The economic strategy presumed that infant industries would grow, then become productive and export, such that the costly protectionist measures could be withdrawn. The industries did grow, but because they did so behind a wall of protection, many never became competitive and could not survive on their own. And as these noncompetitive industries grew, so too did those advantaged by the protectionist measures meant to be temporary. Government moves to withdraw subsidies and protections on certain industries would be met with aggressive lobbying from business, and street protests from labor unions. Latin American governments found themselves tied to economic policies that grew increasingly inefficient over time. Cold War politics tainted the economic crisis, such that privileged groups saw communist subversion behind any mobilization on the part of the working classes. The armed forces, driven by their own concerns over stability, national unity, and economic development, soon saw intervention as the only recourse. A wave of military coups swept through the region in the mid-1960s to early 1970s. Few were spared, but not without costs. Venezuela and Colombia had

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installed “pacted democracies,” or agreements among political elites, that limited competition to moderate parties. This kept the military at bay but excluding lower class interests and peasant groups fed an insurgency in Colombia that lasted into the twenty-first century. In Venezuela, pacted democracy created social pressures that eroded faith in the party system, opening a path for populist politics that grew increasingly authoritarian under Hugo Chávez and Nicolás Maduro. Mexico did not see its military intervene, but it maintained a one-party authoritarian regime that stifled competition. Competitive democracy really only survived in Costa Rica. Notably, this country had abolished its military in 1948. The rest of Latin America suffered terribly under military rule. Obsessed with communist subversion and convinced that only order offered a path to national development, the armed forces conducted “dirty wars” against their own citizens to root out presumed agitators. The Guatemalan military conducted a genocidal campaign that displaced over one million Indigenous persons and killed over 70,000. Torture and disappearances became commonplace in Argentina, where over 30,000 died at the hands of the military from 1976 to 1983. In Chile and Brazil, the military regimes lasted over 20 years. Latin America has a long history of military involvement in politics, but in the past, soldiers intervened to replace unwanted civilians with trustworthy cronies, or in concert with civilian allies. This time, most took action all on their own, placing officers throughout government. As economies soured, political proposals foundered, and military infighting escalated, the cold reality set in: the armed forces were meant to fight wars, not to rule. It did not help that their own mismanagement magnified mistakes made during the ISI period, and contributed to a colossal debt crisis in the 1980s. One country after another saw the armed forces return to the barracks during this period. But the new civilian governments now had the responsibility to pay back the loans that had accumulated over decades, and that now threatened bankruptcy. The governments needed to restructure their debt, but the banks would not do so without conditions. The International Monetary Fund supplied some financing, but more importantly, it obligated the indebted countries to embrace neoliberal reforms, ones that dismantled the protectionist measures of the ISI economy, pared down government budgets and social spending, sold off state industries, opened financial markets, and imposed austerity measures. This decade of the 1990s appeared to open a new era known as the Washington Consensus, in which democracy and free markets emerged as the new norms, with strong pressure to comply emanating from the United States. And Latin America appeared to turn a corner, as economies began to grow. Privatization brought badly needed funds to government coffers, optimistic investors provided foreign capital, and deregulation eased entrepreneurial activity. Still, despite the growth, unemployment and inequality remained as the austerity measures took their toll on the lower income sectors. In addition, new vulnerabilities emerged, especially as neoliberal reforms were expanded to capital markets. Currency speculators took notice, and soon currency crises replaced debt crises. Mexico in 1994, Brazil in 1999, and Argentina in 2001 were the more prominent examples among many, and each crisis tended to have “contagion effects” as investors soured on the

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Table 1.2 Percentage of people in Latin America who say their economic situation has worsened, 2004–2021. Source: Based on survey data from Americas Barometer, LAPOP (Vanderbilt University). Available at www.vanderbilt.edu/lapop. Question: “Do you consider your economic situation to be better, equal, or worse than it was 12 months ago?” 100% 75% 50%

61% 40% 32%

36% 28%

34%

40%

42%

26%

25% 0% 2003

2005

2008

2010

2013

2015

2018

2020

2023

region as a whole. Plummeting currency values wreaked havoc on the flow of exports and imports, and forced governments to spend valuable foreign exchange to protect their currencies. In response to this, at the turn of the century political change swept the region as progressive politicians won out in elections and began to address the plight of those left behind by the neoliberalism. This change, known as the ‘pink tide,’ had the fortune to ride a commodity boom driven largely by the blazing economic rise of China, and continued growth in the United States. Exports of energy, agriculture, metals, and mineral resources filled government coffers, just as under the export economy, but this time politicians used the profits to fund a multitude of social programs, from health and education, to food subsidies and public transit, and even experimental minimum income allowances. As noted below, the pink tide scored significant gains in the fight against inequality during the first decade of the twenty-first century. But in the second decade, the commodity boom waned, corruption- facilitated by fattened government budgets and expanded contracting related to public policies- grew precipitously, and growing concerns with organized crime and violence drove new priorities. Table 1.2 illustrates this sudden reversal of economic fortunes, as the percentage of people who said their situation had worsened skyrocketed from 26% in 2012 to 61% in 2021. The following section picks up at this period, with evaluations of how democracy, inequality, and globalization affect the struggles of marginalized groups.

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1.4

1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

Democracy in Contemporary Latin America

As noted in the literature, the political institutions of a country largely determine the opportunity structure that channels political struggle. Democracy defines the contemporary politics of Latin America, but democracy comes in many shapes and sizes, and the quality of democracy- something of increasing concern in the regionmust also be recognized (Arceneaux, 2021). Even though each political struggle must ultimately be assessed within the context of the political institutions of a given country, we can make some general observations about democracy in Latin America. The democratic transitions of the 1980s represented a sea change in the politics of Latin America. A region long known for generational dictatorships, military juntas, guerrilla warfare, and state repression would now see political leaders rise to office under popular mandates and look to democratic procedures to resolve disputes. Ecuador (1979) and Peru (1980) moved first, Chile (1989) and Mexico (2000) took a little longer, while countries in Central America preceded their transitions with peace accords that put to rest longstanding civil wars. Cuba remained the only holdout, even as the United States tightened its crippling sanctions regime. As noted, this was not the first experience with democracy in the region. The limited practices of the past offered a framework to build upon. Whether a country revived a constitution of old, as with Argentina and its 1853 constitution, grappled to reform a constitution drafted under military rule, as with Chile and its 1980 constitution, or drafted a new framework for its government, as in Brazil in 1988 or Guatemala in 1985, traditions from the past guided the work. Some of these past practices were not so democratic. Constitutional thinkers at the time of independence approached liberal democracy with hesitancy. Either as a reaction to the general disorder of the post-independence period, or under a presumption that Latin Americans lacked “republican virtue” and were not yet fully prepared for the rights and responsibilities of a democracy, provisions to declare various states of emergencies, suspend constitutional guarantees, and grant emergency powers to the executive were commonplace (González-Jácome, 2011). Similarly, the armed forces typically received a supervisory role to guarantee the constitutional order. Perversely, such constitutional provisions often served as justifications for militaries to overthrow duly elected civilian governments when deemed to be threats to the state (Loveman, 1993). Even today, Article 142 of the Constitution of Brazil obligates the armed forces to “guarantee the constitutional branches of government.” Politicians on the right have interpreted the article as giving the military a moderating role in government, though Brazilian jurists have resoundingly rejected this reading. This history has serious consequences for social movements and strategies of political protest in democratic Latin America. As protests grow, most Latin American presidents can rely on a number of emergency powers to suspend constitutional guarantees, impose curfews, and issue executive decrees. But there is also a web of restrictions below these more severe actions. Worldwide, moves to criminalize social protest have grown more common, especially in the post 9/11 era, as political

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leaders in democracies debated the trade-off, or acceptable balance, between liberty and security (though many scholars have repudiated this “false trade-off,” e.g., Frum, 2015). Additionally, governments have taken more mundane approaches and pit rights to assembly and expression against issues of public order, safety, and free transit. Hence, Latin America is certainly not an exception, but moves to criminalize protest and mass mobilizations have been eased by its history. Many of these moves come in the form of requirements of prior notification of the date, time, route, and leadership of the rally, the wholesale prohibition of protest in certain areas or times, supplemental charges for damages to property, road blockages, or occupations conducted during a protest, and even the application of anti-terrorist laws (Christine-Doran, 2017). One study found a dramatic increase of such laws in Latin America in the twenty-first century (CELS, 2016). There are also egregious, outright authoritarian efforts to criminalize social movements. President Nayib Bukele of El Salvador took his cue from Vladimir Putin in Russia, and in 2021 pushed a ‘foreign agents’ law through the legislature. All NGOs must register with the government and become subject to a 40% tax for funds received from outside the country. Any oversight or the slightest clerical error in registration can be used against an NGO, as evidenced under President Daniel Ortega of Nicaragua. He has withdrawn legal recognition and seized the funds of scores of NGOs for failing to complete a myriad of required paperwork. Some of the paperwork is presumably designed to counter money laundering or the prospect of clandestine funding for terrorist groups. The documents are often difficult to access, offer ambiguous instructions, and subject NGOs to tight deadlines. Still, failure to comply can open the NGO to suspicions of money laundering or terrorism. The real target of such policies is not money laundering or terrorism, but the NGOs themselves (Latin News, 2021). In addition to the criminalization of protest, Latin American states are more prone to make use of the armed forces to address demonstrations because the states of emergency often grant the president powers to deploy troops domestically. Not only does this increase the likelihood of human rights abuses given the limited training of military units in policing activities and greater propensity to use force, but in many countries it also shifts complaints and allegations of unlawful force from civilian courts to the military justice system. Beyond the exceptional use of soldiers, there are variations in the regular use of the armed forces. Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico, Nicaragua, and Venezuela regularly use their military forces for domestic law enforcement throughout their national territories. Bolivia, Brazil, Paraguay, and Peru also make use of soldiers to enforce laws, but in more limited geographical areas- typically rural regions (though also in the favelas, or urban shanty towns, of Brazil)- and/or in actions that involve restricted operational activities (e.g., to address prison riots or drug trafficking). Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay have significant restrictions on the use of the military domestically, but they do have paramilitary forces charged with policing matters. And although Costa Rica and Panama abolished their militaries, each country has militarized police units (Flores-Macías & Zarkin, 2019).

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1 Political Struggle in Latin America: The Impact of Globalization,. . .

Other constitutional traditions in the region have evolved over time and affected social mobilization in unique ways. The influence of a presidential design from the United States is widely noted, but less attention is given to the fact that countries of the region looked not to the U.S., but to the Spanish law and the Napoleonic Code as they constructed judicial institutions. In contrast to the common law tradition, where judges interpret law and hold powers of judicial review, the civil law tradition asks judges to do no more than apply the law spelled out in detail by elected officials in their legislation. Through the nineteenth century, most countries began to see some value in judicial oversight, and incorporated the recurso de amparo, which empowered the courts to guarantee individual rights listed in the constitution. But the measure is far more limited than the power of judicial review seen in common law systems. A court may decide that some government policy violates the rights of an individual and to invalidate its application, but the decision sets no precedence and is not extended to similar cases (the principle of stare decisis is not found in classic civil law systems). If others have a similar complaint, they must file their own recurso de amparo. This places pressure on the legislature to reform or enact new legislation, but it slows political change. The limited judicial oversight weakens the ability of most courts- those that interact with everyday citizens- to influence politics. At the highest level, most countries lack a Supreme Court empowered to overturn acts of government. Instead, the countries may have a separate Constitutional Tribunal, or make use of a panel of judges within its Supreme Court which holds limited powers of judicial review. Most notably, often only elected officials hold the power to initiate a review and they may hold this authority only for a limited period (e.g., before a law is promulgated). In Mexico, acts of government can only be overturned if they reach a supermajority8 of the 11 justices on the Supreme Court must agree. All told, the courts offer a less advantageous venue for political struggle in a civil law system as compared to a common law system. To add to these difficulties, most Latin American courts are understaffed and resource poor. This weakens courts all the more due to the responsibilities of investigation placed on judges in civil law systems, and administrative burdens due to the greater reliance on written documentation rather than oral proceedings. Because civil law straps the ability of judges to interpret constitutions, there is tremendous pressure to specify rights and obligations explicitly in the constitutional text itself. Little wonder that Latin American constitutions tend to be lengthy and comprehensive. Even more so, constitutional change occurs more here than in most any region of the world. Indeed, the constitutional text itself is a magnified target of political struggle. This civil law byproduct blended with the corporatist tradition in Latin America to produce constitutions that contain long lists not only of individual rights, but also separate sections devoted to social rights. The Mexican Constitution of 1917 was pathbreaking in this sense, and influenced constitutional design in the region and throughout the world. Many of these constitutions emerged in the early twentieth century, when working class groups began to gain political influence, so it is little surprise that many of the social rights focused on workers and labor unions. But after the repressive rule of military dictatorships in the 1970s and 1980s, and the

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neoliberal economic dislocations of the 1990s, this constitutional design provided a framework to address a wide variety of social rights, from housing and education, to employment and food security, and even rights to water and other natural resources, cultural enhancement, and environmental protection. All these constitutional changes have produced tension in Latin American constitutions. These documents are purveyors of extensive, detailed rights that idealize and appear to empower society. But they rest alongside constitutional designs that still place most decision-making power within strong presidential institutions. As noted by Gargarella (2013), the vast expansion of social rights and human rights issues have failed to breach the “engine room” of the constitution. Social movements may be inspired and mobilize on behalf of their constitutional rights, but they must confront constitutional designs that concentrate decision-making power in the hands of elites at the highest political offices. Of course, problems surrounding the courts as a forum for political struggle are not simply the result of civil law and cultural traditions within Latin America. The political dictatorships of the past stained the reputations of judges, many of whom sat idle in the face of rampant human rights abuses or even acted in complicity. As a result, many countries have opened their doors to international courts to survey rights and adjudicate disputes. Countries throughout the region allow their citizens to petition the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, and they allow the Inter-American Court of Human Rights to hear cases against government decisions. Only 24 countries in the world have ratified ILO 169 (The Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention), but 15 of those countries are in Latin America. In addition, membership in the International Criminal Court by Latin American countries is widespread. In the chapters that follow, we will see instances in which foreign courts played a significant part in the struggles of marginalized groups. Another noteworthy, and general, distinction of political institutions in Latin America is the weak institutionalization, fragmentation, and increasingly polarized nature of political party systems. Analysts traditionally draw a distinction between the role played by social movements and interest groups, and the role of political parties, which together form a crucial bridge between society and government. The former act as “interest articulators” as they make known the values, priorities, and concerns of the people. Political parties play a critical role as “interest aggregators” as they collect these multitudinous, disparate voices and combine them into policy proposals. They essentially act as a funnel that connects groups in society to government in a way that makes demands comprehensible, and so that government is not overwhelmed (Almond et al., 2008). To play this role, parties need to be institutionalized- that is, they need strong roots within society, as indicated by the expression of party identification. With a strong sense of party identification, voters see party affiliation as part of their political identity and consistently support their party from election to election. Also, the party system as a whole should not be too fragmented. A robust, democratic party system should include parties with a variety of political perspectives, but one can imagine how too many parties makes it more difficult to form majorities in a legislature and to pass policies. Especially in Latin

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America, where executives tend to have their own policy making powers, fragmentation leads to a greater concentration of power in the presidency. Unfortunately, party systems in Latin America tend to be weakly institutionalized and fragmented. This is partially due to the history of military intervention and other disruptions of democratic rule. It is difficult to develop connections with society when parties have to periodically restart their operations. This contributed to fragmentation as new parties jockeyed for position, but the number of parties is also in some measure the result of generous electoral laws that award multiple winners under proportional representation. Unlike majoritarian systems, in which the party that wins the most votes wins office, under proportional representation multiple winners are awarded on the basis of their proportion of the vote. A given district may be represented by 10 seats, and if a party wins just 20% of the vote, it will win 2 seats. Proportional representation has many virtues- it allows a greater diversity of political perspectives, it is more amenable to the rise of new parties, and it can effectively stymie gerrymandering strategies. And as we shall see in Chap. 4, it is also more responsive to quotas to increase female representation. But it can also allow too many parties to proliferate, and this is the case in many Latin American countries. Typically, countries such as Argentina and Brazil count some 30 or more parties within their legislative halls, and often the largest may not hold more than 20 or 30 percent of the total seats. The low institutionalization and high fragmentation have probably contributed to the growing polarization of parties in the region. In the immediate post-Cold War era, polarization dulled as communist parties lost legitimacy, as did right-wing parties sympathetic to military rule. On economic policy, most accepted the role of free markets. The pink tied gained its name because as a representative of progressive politics, affiliated parties were not so red (i.e., “communist”). But with the economic frustrations that followed the end of the commodity boom, the rise in crime and drug trafficking, the empowerment of many Indigenous groups, and the politicization of evangelical religious groups, polarization has returned, and this time on a number of social, economic, and cultural dimensions. All of the above has contributed to a general decline in the quality of democracy in Latin America. A leading monitor of democracy, Freedom in the World, published annually by Freedom House (2021), measures the political rights and civil liberties of countries to place them in one of three categories: “not free,” “partly free,” or “free” (see Table 1.3).1 Argentina, Chile, Costa Rica, Panama, and Uruguay have all done well for some time. Brazil is also at the ranking of “free,” but the country has slipped noticeably since the questionable impeachment of Dilma Rousseff in 2016, the imprisonment of Luis Inácio Lula da Silva in advance of the 2019 elections, and the election of Jair Bolsonaro and his divisive populist politics in

1

The Freedom House score is a compilation of scores ranging from 1 to 100 on political rights (quality of elections, participation rights, and functioning of government) and civil liberties (freedoms of expression, association, and the rule of law). Aggregate country scores are then tabulated into ratings of 1–2 (free), 3–4 (partly free), or 5–6 (not free).

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Table 1.3 Year of democratic transition and Freedom House scores of Latin America Countries, 2021

Argentina Bolivia Brazil Chile Colombia Costa Rica Cuba Dominican Ecuador El Salvador Guatemala Honduras Mexico Nicaragua Panama Paraguay Peru Uruguay Venezuela

Year of transition 1983 1983 1985 1990 1958 1949 – 1978 1979 1984

Political rights 35 27 31 38 29 38 1 27 31 26

Civil liberties 49 39 42 56 35 53 11 41 40 33

Aggregate score 84 66 73 94 64 91 12 68 71 59

Freedom rating Free Partly Free Free Free Partly Free Free Not Free Partly Free Free Partly Free

1986 1986 1982 1984 1990 1989 1980 1985 1958

21 21 27 5 35 28 30 40 1

30 26 33 18 48 37 42 57 13

51 47 60 23 83 65 72 97 14

Partly Free Partly Free Partly Free Not Free Free Partly Free Free Free Not Free

Source: Data tabulated from Freedom in the World: 2022 Edition (Washington, D.C.: Freedom House). Available at www.freedomhouse.org. Score for Political Rights ranges 1–40, Score for Civil Liberties ranges 1–60

2019. Both Nicaragua and Venezuela and sit firmly within “not free,” and Guatemala and Honduras are not far behind. Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador, El Salvador, Paraguay, and Peru all rest in the middling “party free” label. Overall, the aggregate scores for Latin America have declined for 14 straight years. Surveys corroborate the bleak assessment by Freedom House. A prominent annual study, Latino Barometer, has surveyed individuals in the region since 1995. In 2018, it found that 3 in 4 respondents expressed a negative judgement about political life in their countryan all-time high. Similarly, the proportion who described themselves as indifferent toward the choice between democratic and authoritarian rule also reached a high, at 28 percent. Those satisfied with the functioning of democracy in their country sat at just 25 percent, down from a high of 45 percent in 2010. Unsurprisingly, given the above, 79 percent agreed that their country is “governed by a few powerful groups for their own benefit” (UNDP, 2020). The dissatisfaction with democracy is warranted. Policymakers have not been able to reverse the economic declines that followed the end of the commodity boom, corruption scandals have reached the highest political offices in one country after

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another, crime and violence have spiked and grown more intractable with the continued growth and influence of organized crime and drug trafficking, populist politicians have pushed divisive politics to their limits, run roughshod over the rule of law, and generated constitutional crises, and the region as a whole suffered some of the highest per capita deaths and cases worldwide during the COVID-19 pandemic. Indeed, when considering the opportunity structure for social activists in contemporary Latin America, it is one thing to recognize the difficult terrain offered by political institutions. But in so far as a decline in the quality of democracy has seen corruption grow and criminal groups gain influence, economic elites hiring private militias to secure their interests, and political leaders using populist rhetoric to paint opposition movements as traitors to the country, we must remain mindful of how extra-institutional repression stifles activism, no matter the possibilities offered and hurdles created by formal democratic institutions. Still, Latin America has been here before, and there are hopeful signs: Latin America remains the third most democratic region in the world; over the past 40 years, only 27% of the countries experienced any sort of interruption in democratic rule; the region boasts the highest average levels of electoral participation in the world at 67%; and the region also ties Europe with the highest level of women in parliament in the world at 27% (International IDEA, 2019). The chapters which follow will recognize the impact of this political opportunity structure- both its formal institutional side as well as the suppressive factors which rest outside the rule of law.

1.5

Inequality in Contemporary Latin America

Inequality comes in many forms. Gender, race, culture, class, region, and other social markers can serve as dividing lines and stratify a society. And the inequality may manifest and maintain itself through differences in political power and influence, in status and prestige, in the control of ideas and norms, as well as in holdings of economic resources and in access to economic opportunities. Many of these inequalities overlap and build upon each other. It is also the case that inequality tends to reproduce itself in one generation after another and reduce social mobility, so that the history of inequality in one case is important to understanding its present status. The focus here will be on economic inequality, not because it is more important than other forms of inequality, but because it so often underlines other inequalities as thus serves as an entry point to the study of inequality more generally, and how it affects the resource mobilization of marginalized groups. Latin America holds the inauspicious distinction as one of the most, if not the most, economically unequal region in the world. This distinction is not new. There is a long history behind this status. The mercantilist orientation of Spanish and Portuguese colonialism was an early contributor. The goods valued by the monarchy, such as precious metals, sugar, coffee, spices, dyes, and tobacco, tended to be large-scale, labor-intensive undertakings, which made them suitable for forced or

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slave labor. And in the eyes of the colonialists, the Indigenous were little more than a resource to be exploited. Almost immediately, they created colonial institutions to secure and allocate Indigenous labor. The monarchy offered early conquistadors encomiendas, or royal grants of labor over Indigenous populations, as a reward for their contribution to the colonial cause. Still, the monarchy was always wary of the rise of a new nobility in the Americas, and so placed limitations on the encomenderos. They were not allowed to live in the same village as the Indigenous, and the encomienda itself could not be inherited. Over time, a new public office, the corregidor, replaced the encomenderos. The office could be purchased for up to three years, and had the authority to collect an annual tribute of labor, known as a repartimiento, from an Indigenous settlement. The corregidor could then make use of the labor or contract it out to local mining or agricultural operations. The short tenure allowed the monarchy to subdue the ambitions of corregidores, but it also intensified motivations to exploit the Indigenous as much as possible in the limited time period. Much has been written about the impact of disease on the Indigenous as Europeans colonized the Western Hemisphere, but the cruelty of the Spanish conquest, marked by massacres and pillaging, and the longer lasting forced labor system put in place under Spanish colonialism, were devastating as well. As the first region of Spanish settlement, the Caribbean suffered immediately. Bartolome de las Casas, a Catholic priest and historian, documented these abuses contemporaneously in A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies. In the first pages, he notes that the Spanish reduced the population of Hispaniola from 3 million to 300, writes that “Cuba. . .now lies uncultivated, like a desert, entombed in its own ruins,” and similarly describes Jamaica as “unpeopled and desolate” due to the “inhuman and barbarous” Spaniards. The account is graphic and methodically covers the desolation through Central and South America as well (Project Gutenberg, 2007). The labor brutality may have reached its height in the mercury mines of Huancavelica, Peru. One study estimates that poisoning due to handling and inhalation of mercury may have killed one-third of all those who toiled there by 1650 (Brown, 2016). And upwards of 8 million died in the mines of Potosí, Bolivia from 1500 to 1800 due to cave collapses, explosions, exhaustion, and respiratory failure (Galeano, 1997, p. 32). As populations dwindled and threatened the mercantilist project, the colonists callously moved to secure a new labor supply- African slaves. This legacy is seen in the larger Afro-descendant populations found today throughout the islands in the Caribbean and coastal areas ranging from Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, and Venezuela. The mercantile, extractive colonial economy left a blueprint for inequality (Frankema, 2009). To control commerce the monarchy placed severe restrictions on colonial trade, limited licenses on ports allowed to receive cross-oceanic vessels and inhibited the development of manufacturing to safeguard a market for Spanish goods. The monarchy ignored existing settlement patterns, allowing colonial authorities to push aside Indigenous communities if they inhabited areas with arable land or precious metals. Investment flowed primarily to mining and export crops, and the related infrastructure, dulling the growth of a broad-based, integrated economy. And

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over time, political forces grew to reinforce these developments. The monarchy, forever suspicious of rebellion, curried favor with colonial officials by turning a blind eye toward corruption and gratified economic interests with monopoly grants. The result was a privileged class of political administrators, miners and large landowners, and military officers with little interest in allowing change through the opening of new entrepreneurial activities, or the provision of education or skills to offer new economic opportunities for the masses. But the grip of colonialism was not so enduring as to fully determine the economic future of the region. The presence of the Spanish monarchy had always been uneven- with a preoccupation over the rich mining areas of Central Mexico, Peru, and Bolivia, little interest in the region of the southern cone, and the emergence of backwaters in much of Central America, and Chile as well. And at independence, most governments abolished slavery (Brazil held off until 1888) and had an opportunity to address social and economic inequality, especially as elites associated with the old colonial order fled back to Europe, and confiscations of estates held by the Catholic Church (the largest property owner in the hemisphere) opened land for redistribution. The disruptions surrounding the battles for independence, as well as the disorder and economic troubles that followed, probably pushed most decision makers to prioritize stability and the status quo. But at the same time, the rise of the export economy reestablished many of the same stultifying economic incentives found under colonialism. Under the export economy, a variety of ordinary commodities replaced the highly valued exports of the colonial period, but in each individual country a single commodity commonly represented well over half the value of total exports. Coffee from El Salvador and Colombia, tin from Bolivia, bananas from Honduras and Panama, sugar from Cuba, and copper from Chile are just a few examples. The dominance of a single item again crippled attempts to diversify the economy, as investment flowed to the commodity, and associated special interests protected their status. Likewise, the outward orientation of the export economy strengthened the reliance on overseas trade, at the expense of regional integration. Buenos Aires could more easily secure goods from London than Santiago, or Lima. And inequality not only drove the export economy, but also intensified under it. Cheap labor meant more competitive export prices, but the impoverished population hardly offered a consumer market to drive demand for domestic manufacturing. And, with wealth and literacy requirements in place for most elections, governments felt little pressure to extend educational programs, social welfare benefits, health and sanitation initiatives, or more generally address access to basic government services in safety, the courts, and regulatory action. As noted above, the export economy would crash when the Great Depression, and then two world wars, disrupted overseas commercial relations, and populist driven import-substitution strategies would indeed lead Latin American governments to gain an interest in the economic well-being of the working classes. We also saw how tensions under this formula gave way to military rule, to the loss of another opportunity for democratic development. Indeed, after Latin America struggled through the austerity measures of the Washington Consensus, the commodity boom offered respite as new resources

1.5 Inequality in Contemporary Latin America Table 1.4 GINI index— 2002 and 2019

Argentina Bolivia Brazil Chile Colombia Costa Rica Cuba Ecuador El Salvador Guatemala Honduras Mexico Nicaragua Panama Paraguay Peru Uruguay Venezuela Latin America

29 2002 0.50 0.61 0.58 0.51 0.57 0.50

2019 0.40 0.43 0.54 0.45 0.53 0.50

Change 0.10 0.18 0.04 0.06 0.04 0

***

***

***

0.54 0.51

0.46 0.41

***

***

0.53 0.51

0.49 0.46

***

***

0.57 0.58 0.54 0.47

0.51 0.51 0.43 0.39

***

***

0.54

0.46

0.08 0.10 ***

0.04 0.05 ***

0.06 0.07 0.09 0.08 ***

0.08

Data: Social Panorama of Latin America (ECLAC, 2019a, 2019b) *** - Data not available

flowed to government coffers. But was this to be a replay of the export economy, and yet another articulation of dependencies first forged under colonialism? The data show that this time was indeed different. Economies grew tremendously before the Great Depression under the export economy (Bulmer-Thomas, 2014, pp. 50–125), and they did under the commodity boom as well. From 2003 to 2012, per capita economic growth averaged 3%- four times the growth level seen under the Washington Consensus. And all this growth occurred while inflation remained low, foreign investment flowed in, and most notably, poverty fell markedly and inequality was reduced. Growth indeed occurred differently than under the export economy. The poor (those earning under $4 per day) plummeted from 41% of the population to 25%, and the GINI coefficient (a measure of inequality) dropped an average of 5%. The only two countries that did not see noticeable changes in inequality were those that already boasted the lowest rates- Costa Rica and Uruguay. Table 1.4 shows the improvements in inequality according to the GINI coefficient during the twenty-first century. And on the Human Development Index- a crude but practical, composite measure of education, health, and income standards, Latin American countries saw average gains of 10% (Maghin & Ronin, 2018, pp. 141–42). More inclusive and competitive political institutions than those found in the export economy made all the difference under the commodity boom (Rafay, 2021). Resources flowed to government coffers all the same, but now competitive democracy subjected political leaders to more pressure from below and drove the pink tide. Minimum wage increases, conditional cash transfers, novel pension

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schemes, educational investments, and an array of social programs to address food, housing, health, and other basic needs all contributed to reductions in inequality (Kingstone, 2018). Overall social spending grew on average from 8.5% of GDP in 2000 to 11.3% of GDP in 2018 (ECLAC, 2019a, 2019b, p. 126). Still, Central America, at 9.1%, charted much lower levels than South America, at 13.2%. As a reminder of the continued diversity in the region, we can look to the rates of Guatemala (7%) and Honduras (8%), compared to Brazil (17.7%), Uruguay (17.2%), Chile (16.4%), and Argentina (13.5%) (ECLAC, 2019a, 2019b, p. 128). Indeed, on a per capita basis from 2000 to 2018, South American countries increased their annual social spending from $610 to $1,253, and Central American countries moved from $300 to $583- with country differences ranging from under $230 in Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua, and over $2,500 in Chile and Uruguay. Throughout the region, social spending now represents 52.5% of all government spending (ECLAC, 2019a, 2019b, pp. 129–30). As discussed in detail in Chap. 5, though a new middle class grew, it remained vulnerable. From 2002 to 2017, this class swelled from 26.9% to 41.1% of the population. Nonetheless, over half had not finished secondary school in 2017. Likewise, 36.6% had occupations in the informal economy or subject to a high degree of precariousness (domestic service, non-professional self-employed, or non-professional salaried workers in microbusiness). And only about one-half of all employed individuals contributed to a pension. The move to a middle-class income is surely something to celebrate, but it is also something that cannot be taken for granted when an economic downturn, family emergency or catastrophic illness, natural disaster, or other unexpected event can so easily reverse the gain (ECLAC, 2019a, 2019b, p. 29). As such, many of the middle classes in Latin America can be considered to be a marginalized group. Indeed, the COVID-19 pandemic pushed 4.7 million Latin Americans back out of the middle class in 2020, and this number would have risen to over 20 million if not for an emergency transfer program in populous Brazil (which will ultimately expire). The necessary lockdown measures and travel restrictions hit the poor hardest, making access to basic services such as electricity, refrigerated food storage, water, sanitation, and information technologies all the more difficult, and consequential as the pandemic heightened hygienic conditions. Overall, the pandemic highlighted the limitations surrounding access to quality health care magnified by inequality, and the limitations of unemployment insurance programs when over one-half of the population works in the informal sector. As if the end of the commodity boom did not strain government resources enough, 2020 would see an economic contraction of 6.7% throughout the region. In addition, COVID-19 caused further restrictions on migrant flows and economic contractions abroad, which reduced the remittances that so many families depend upon, especially among Central Americans seeking work in the United States, but also among Bolivians and Peruvians who travel to Chile, and Nicaraguans that regularly migrate to Costa Rica (World Bank, 2021). The chapters on the urban poor and vulnerable middle classes provide further details of recent changes in living standards.

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31

Even without the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic, and the reduction in government revenues after the end of the commodity boom, governments in Latin America have always had difficulty raising revenues to pay for social programs to invest in education, health, transportation, and other public goods. Indeed, while taxation systems would appear to be key to raising revenues to address inequality as redistributive systems, in Latin America, taxation systems have increasingly contributed to inequality. Under the Washington Consensus, many governments lowered corporate taxes, personal income taxes, and revenue generating tariffs as part of the neoliberal turn. In addition, inefficient and underfunded administrative structures eased tax evasion, and the growth of the informal economy placed an increased amount of the economy outside the reaches of normal tax activity. The result was a greater dependence on consumer taxes, which burden lower income sectors since they spend a greater amount of their income on consumer goods. One estimate held that tax evasion- largely driven by corporate tax evasion- resulted in lost revenues of $325 billion, or 6.1% of GDP in the region. Generally speaking, the tax systems in Latin America generate only about one-half the revenue than they would if enforced properly (ECLAC, 2019a, 2019b). Another structural feature that contributes to inequality in Latin America is the concentration of jobs in low productivity sectors. These jobs are low quality, require few skills, pay low wages, often fall into the informal sector, and offer no or very little social protection (i.e., pension systems and access to unemployment or disability insurance). In addition, most often women, the Indigenous, Afro-descendants, and youth fall into this sector, further contributing to the social stratification of these groups (ECLAC, 2016). In 2018, self-employed work accounted for almost one-half of the growth in jobs, while work with a guaranteed wage made up just 37%. Only Chile, the Dominican Republic, and Honduras saw a greater proportion of jobs go to wage earners than to the self-employed during this year (ECLAC/ILO, 2019). Poor education systems hold back more productive job growth. It is estimated that over half of young Latin Americans enrolled in school fail to acquire basic proficiency in mathematics, reading, or science. Some 31% of the entire youth population has dropped out of school before completing their secondary education. In the area of higher education, the proportion of college-aged students (18–24) grew from about 20% to 40% since the start of the century. Still, only about one-half graduate, and more highly educated workers remain in demand as the countries push toward more modern information-based economies. As a result, almost one-third of employers seek out foreign talent to meet skill shortages (OECD, 2018). The uneven distribution of income and wealth define economic inequality, but this outcome takes place in a society across different group characteristics. Analysts refer to the “social inequality matrix” to illustrate the depth of inequality as well as its multiple causes. Gender inequality, racial inequality, ethnic inequality, regional inequality, and age inequality may be layered upon each other to produce more constraining forms of disparity. An older, Indigenous woman in the rural hinterlands faces more hurdles that a younger, Indigenous woman in the city, who in turn has it harder than a younger, mestizo, man in the city. And inequality is sustained through multiple processes beyond the amount on one’s paycheck. Barriers to education,

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health services and other basic services, inadequate protections for the disabled, restrictions on political participation, minimal credit services, weak property rights and deficient access to the courts, and discriminatory legislation all reproduce inequality. There is also a cultural or discursive dimension that contributes to inequality, as societies develop narratives to explain why some groups are poor that typically emphasize social characteristics rather than opportunities or barriers. Chapter 3 discusses further the multidimensional aspects of poverty within the social inequality matrix, as well as the social exclusion which sustains it. The move by so many Latin Americans from the destitution of the lower income sectors to the vulnerability of the middle class has contributed to the recent rise in protest activity (see Chap. 5). These groups have grievances like lower income sectors, but greater capabilities as well. This is in line with resource mobilization theory, as described above. Still, other recent changes in Latin America, such as the greater concentration of populations in mega-cities, the growth of communication technologies and use of social media to share strategies and affirm causes, expanded educational opportunities, new methods of access to domestic and international courts, growing knowledge of human rights obligations, and outreach activities by social movements have emboldened the ability of all groups to address issues of inequality. The chapters that follow pay close attention to the role of these capacity enhancing factors as groups engage in protest and political struggle.

1.6

Globalization in Contemporary Latin America

Our understanding of contemporary political struggle could not be complete without reference to the role of globalization. Globalization creates new threats, insecurities, identities, protagonists, and opportunities, opens inroads for outside actors to meddle in local or national political struggles, and spawns new dynamics of struggle and novel strategies. This is a complex topic that scholars continue to address (e.g., Ritzer, 2007; Rossi, 2020). Here, I will offer a simple conceptualization and definition of globalization, and recognize how globalization is different today than in the past. Next, I will discuss how we can come to terms with the overarching force of globalization, and the continued diversity found in Latin America (and other countries throughout the world). All this will set the stage for an appreciation of how globalization affects the political struggles we will examine in subsequent chapters. Globalization refers to the interconnections found across the world. Anthony Giddens captures the potential consequences of these interconnections, writing that globalization “intensifies worldwide social relations which link distant localities in such a way that local happenings are shaped by events occurring many miles away and vice versa” (1990, p. 64). These interconnections take many forms (e.g., Held et al., 1999). They are economic, as when goods, services, capital, technology, or labor cross borders. They are also ecological, as in the case of climate change, biodiversity, population pressures, and infectious diseases. We can also speak of a governance dimension, as when states work together through international

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organizations such as the United Nations or European Union, and sometimes even accord these institutions supranational authority (of course, in some cases states can use these institutions to dominate other states). Related to the governance dimension is a military dimension, which deals with the ease of expression or dispersion of military power, be it through the continued development of cruise missile and drone technologies, enhanced means of cyber warfare, or access to radiological weapons by terrorist groups. And there is a cultural dimension, through which societies transfer ideas, meanings, values, and norms. Globalization can wax and wane over time, and the interconnections created within its dimensions might do so independently of each other (Conrad, 2016). Latin America’s economic relations with the rest of the world dipped between the mercantile colonial period and the rise of the export economy, and they also declined when the Great Depression hit. Today, for many countries China rivals the United States as an economic partner (China is now South America’s largest trading partner). At the turn of the nineteenth century, South America was a destination for migrants (largely from Southern Europe), today Central America experiences a regular outflow of migrants (largely to the United States). Also, consider the religious connections that changed with the decline of the Catholic Church beginning in the latter twentieth century, then the rise of evangelical Protestantism just after this time. Still, in the midst of this fluctuation, population growth, environmental degradation, and industrialization tightened ecological globalization. But the different dimensions can impact each other. The recognition of shared threatsfrom climate change to terrorist groups and criminal organizations, may lead governments to work together. Economic dependencies might also draw governments closer. Of course, whether cooperation or confrontation marks these meetings is another question. Globalization can be found throughout history (e.g., Scholte, 2005), and it is not new to Latin America- Christopher Columbus underscored that over 500 years ago. But there is something different about globalization in the twenty-first century. First, consider the intensity of globalization (Harvey, 1989). In the nineteenth century, railways developed as a globalizing force and astonished and alarmed people. A European poet, Heinrich Heine, wrote in the 1840s, “Space is killed by the railways. I feel as if the mountains and forests of all countries were advancing on Paris. Even now, I can smell the German linden trees; the North Sea’s breakers are rolling against my door” (Schivelbusch, 1978, p. 34). Heinrich was a poet, so we can excuse him for being a bit dramatic, but his impressions were no doubt shared by others of his time. Still, the proximity of distant localities, as Giddens put it, seems much closer today due to the internet and social media, computers that allow capital investment- or flight- at the touch of a button, transportation advancements far beyond steam-powered locomotives, and so on. This spatial reduction is complemented by a temporal acceleration of social change that creates a much faster pace of life- a sort of “contraction of the present” (Rosa, 2013, p. 76). Associations or practices that we value or pursue today may be gone (or less valued) tomorrow. Technological change has spurred much of this intensity, but it cannot take all the credit. Technology only improves the capacity of people to shorten distance and

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time, but what of their motivation? Corporations surely see opportunity here in their search for profit, but individuals throughout society increasingly show more interest in happenings abroad. The cultural dimension is at play here, as changing human rights norms have pushed people to show much more interest in humanitarian tragedies, repressive regimes, refugee flows, and other instances of human suffering no matter their proximity. Three hundred years ago, few people were motivated to condemn the slave trade, but today we expect a global outcry when we see human suffering because it is the right thing to do, and the outrage affirms our identity as principled humans. But people, and governments, are also more motivated to act on global connections today because globalization increasingly tends to build on itself. Interdependence creates a stake in overseas economies, and instability abroad can open havens for criminal groups and terrorist movements or push people to migrate. It is true that globalization waxed and waned in the past, but many of its forces seem inexorable today. For example, the human impact on nature is not new. The huntergatherers who first populated the Americas decimated nearly all the large mammals in the Americas long ago. And though Indigenous groups in the Amazon generally practiced sustainable farming methods, they did alter ecosystems, sometimes in destructive ways (Lentz, 2000). But today, biodiversity and other environmental concerns appear to be at a tipping point, leading a recent UN report on climate change to issue a “code red for humanity” (BBC, 2021). Extreme weather, sea level rise, acidic oceans, and resource depletion are increasingly expected and commonplace. Technology is also advancing at breakneck speeds in digital telecommunications, data processing, robotic production processes, and transportation, and opening new fields in artificial intelligence and biotechnology. And in the military sphere, power has become more dispersed over time. Whereas great powers were once concerned only with each other, now nuclear proliferation to small countries and the emergence of terrorist cells represent real threats and draw interest. And as a result of all this, countries feel all the more compelled to reach out to each other- to cooperate, coerce, or dominate. Globalization is an old phenomenon, and it did ebb and flow, but there is a more relentless dynamic operating today. If globalization is more intense, in that distant events are much more impactful, and it is much more relentless, seemingly irreversible, it follows that it is also much more confrontational today. This is not to downplay the merciless actions of conquistadors, impact of the slave trade, cold-blooded interventions of the United States, exploitative actions of multinational corporations, and other aspects of globalization in history, but rather to note the more encompassing role of globalization today in the daily lives of Latin Americans (and throughout the world). Globalization has always offered a “framework ‘for what is and what might be,’” such that “globalization and its contestation are inextricably bound up with one another” (Munck, 2005, p. 6). Globalization makes one aware of alternative lifestyles, ideas, and social realities that may be preferable to those currently lived, and it also initiates debate among those alternatives. Others may view those alternatives as a threat. Whether globalization is viewed as an opportunity or threat, it spurs

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mobilization and confrontation (Munck, 2007). And if globalization is today more intense and relentless, we should expect more confrontation. And what sort of impact should we expect from globalization? By itself, global forces, be they economic, political, military, social, or environmental, may appear to be determinative and to shape countries similarly throughout Latin America, and the world, through some sort of Darwinistic pressures. But this supposed dynamic belies the tremendous economic, political, and cultural diversity found in Latin America and beyond. In fact, globalization can contribute to this diversity. Some analysts reconcile the structural forces of globalization with differences by arguing that the global system requires countries to play distinct roles in a world system that concentrates wealth (Wallerstein, 1974). “Core countries” monopolize highly skilled labor and high technology and preside over a system that relegates many other countries to a peripheral status with economies that revolve around low skilled, labor-intensive production, and the extraction of natural resources and raw materials for the benefit of the core. Although this system of exploitation remains constant over time, the status of countries may rise or fall, and many rest at a mid-level known as the semi-periphery. As colonies, all Latin American states emerged as peripheral countries, but economic growth pushed Brazil and Mexico to the semi-periphery in the twentieth century. And as fate would have it, Spain and Portugal were there waiting, having quickly tumbled from the core in the early nineteenth century. Other analysts emphasize that some countries are better able to react and adapt to global forces. Political scientists dissatisfied with traditional explanations of power based on relative military capabilities looked to global interdependencies to help explain international influence. In the economic arena, some countries are more sensitive than others to price changes in certain goods and services, especially if the item represents a significant import or export. Both Venezuela and Brazil export oil, but Venezuela’s dependence places it on a roller coaster as prices rise and fall, while Brazil’s more diverse economy acts as a buffer. And some countries are more vulnerable if they lack a substitute for a significant item, or have little say in the global rules that govern transactions. The United States has used its technological prowess to develop alternative energies and reduce its dependence on foreign oil, and it can also exert pressure on the World Trade Organization and international financial institutions to better ensure favorable trade relations. It is much less vulnerable to fluctuations in oil prices than Venezuela or Brazil (Koehane & Nye, 1977). Beyond avenues of economic interdependence, states also make use of the cultural dimension of globalization. Their reputation, diplomatic skill, and cultural and ideological appeal- or soft power- offer means to influence states independent of their military might or economic weight- or hard power (Nye, 2011). In the late 1980s, Costa Rica was able to play an instrumental role as a mediator in the intertwined civil wars of Central America due to its tradition of respect for the rule of law. Overall, differences in sensitivity, vulnerability, hard power, and soft power ensure that states will see different threats and opportunities as globalization advances, and this will create different conditions for their societies and the political struggles that take place within them.

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And other analysts emphasize the staying power of local customs, values, interests, and identities. They envision more pliable global forces. Globalization is indeed defined by interconnections, but these interconnections involve a process of diffusion. As a product, idea, or custom makes its way from one place to another, it may adjust and adapt to local conditions. The thinking first emerged in the business world, as corporations recognized that products would be more appealing if designed distinctively in different markets. It makes sense for McDonald’s to rename the “quarter-pounder” hamburger when sold in countries that make use of the metric system. But this same adaptation takes place as ideas, customs and other artifacts of one civilization make their way to another. We already saw how the Western institution of presidentialism adapted to conditions in nineteenth century Latin America by concentrating more power in the executive, and how the recurso de amparo accommodates the idea of judicial review. In a subsequent chapter, we will see how Latin American countries with larger indigenous populations push the idea of plurinational societies as an adjustment to the Western notion of the nation-state. Analysts that emphasize the impact of local conditions on global forces use a hybrid word- “glocalization” (Robertson, 1995). This approach is an important corrective to early studies of globalization that presumed Western, “modern” values would diffuse throughout the world and induce a developmental path in the Global South which would mirror the Western experience (e.g., Lerner, 1959). Though globalization affects countries in different ways and can generate distinctions, there is good reason to expect globalization to have a more unifying impact on protest across the globe. After all, with the current advance of globalization, we have also seen an increase in protest and a move by protest toward the realm of conventional politics. Some of this is no doubt the result of middle-class growth, expanded education, the rise of a more technologically attuned generation- and other domestic factors that contribute to resource mobilization. But more expressly international factors also play a role. Some of these factors come in the form of threats. Marginalized groups can associate many of their hardships with global forces. Neoliberal dictates from international financial institutions lead to privatizations and greater unemployment, and reductions in social spending. Foreign corporations crowd out domestic businesses. Intellectual property rights established by the World Trade Organization allow corporations to usurp ownership of the medicinal uses of plants by the Indigenous. Demand for foodstuffs abroad contributes to deforestation and the displacement of small farmers. Climate change generates extreme weather, flooding, and drought. International tourism commodifies traditional culture. The priorities of more powerful states supplant or distort policy objectives- as with US pressure to militarize efforts to address drug trafficking. Migrants find themselves subject to the whims of political debates in faraway countries. The list goes on, and those who protest can draw a line of responsibility that may begin far outside the country but run through their government. Globalization stirs protest as it weakens state autonomy, leaving states less able to fulfill social obligations and more beholden to outside interests. But globalization has also changed civil society. Many social movements have transformed into transnational social movements with networks that span across national borders.

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Latin American activists have been instrumental here. The first World Social Forum, an annual meeting of progressive advocacy groups, was held in Brazil in 2001. Another change in activist groups associated with globalization is the growing effort by organized associations to bypass the state and establish direct relations with international organizations. The World Bank, Economic Commission on Latin America, and Organization of American States regularly collaborate with nongovernmental associations in Latin America to conduct research or implement programs. And beyond their recognition of shared agendas, many groups across countries have developed shared identities and see themselves as part of a global civil society. Some women, peasants, workers, migrants, those in the informal economy, and others have “deterritorialized” their identities and espoused solidarity with similar individuals throughout the world. Hence, their struggle is also globalized, such that groups grow more likely to protest not due to specific national injustices, but in support of struggles that they share with others abroad (Mlinar, 1992). Chapter 4 recognizes the international nature of the struggle for suffrage in the women’s movement in early twentieth century Latin America. More recently, on May 9, 2020, women in Mexico staged a wildcat strike (“The Day Without Us”) to protest gender violence and promote equal rights. Similar actions occurred in Chile, Bolivia, Honduras, and elsewhere. Women, not Mexicans, Chileans, Bolivians, Hondurans or others, protested that day. Globalization has also changed the strategies and dynamic of struggle. Because of mass communication, activists today employ “image events,” or protests that are staged for media dissemination (Delicate & Deluca, 2003). This occurred as early as 1994, when the Zapatistas in Mexico protesting NAFTA marched with wooden rifles to underscore their desperation, and later with a flair during the student protests of 2006 and 2011 in Chile, when students used art installations, flash mobs, and kiss-ins to draw attention to their demand for education reform. It is common to see protests signs throughout the world written in English, precisely to target English language media outlets. But media, particularly social media, has significantly changed the mobilization and organization of activist groups as well (Table 1.5 charts the dramatic rise of internet activity in Latin America). Social media platforms reduce the costs and time it takes to mobilize. They also allow individuals to report on government actions, and to share legal advice. As such, groups today are more likely to appear leaderless and nonhierarchical (Vanden et al., 2017). The result, in Latin America and worldwide, has been a surge in loosely planned, but surprisingly large protests. For example, in early 2015, reports of government corruption at the highest levels led one Guatemalan businessperson to vent on his Facebook page. Eight users on the platform made contact and shared his ire. One proposed the hashtag, “#RenunciaYa” (Resign Already!), to invite others to join a weekly demonstration on Saturdays in front of the presidential palace. The gatherings quickly grew, reaching 30,000 at one point. They helped maintain the spotlight on corrupt government activities, and thereby contributed to the eventual arrest of President Otto Pérez Molina just 5 months after the first Facebook posting. The Guatemala example illustrates the empowering effect of social media, but the digital age has transformed protest politics in other ways, some of which may distort

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Table 1.5 Percentage of the population using the Internet in Latin America and the Caribbean, 2000–2019. Source: World Governance Indicators. World Bank. Available at: www.data. worldbank.org 70%

53%

35%

18%

0% 2000

2005

2010

2015

2020

and even undermine popular mobilization. The start-up costs of protest movements may have declined, but many are also fleeting, and quickly lose their intensity precisely because they appear to be knee- jerk reactions to complex political problems, and lack the resources that organization and skillful leaders bring to a movement. And as internet communications grow more important to activists, universal access to them is hampered by the digital divide. Social media is a resource more readily available to higher income and urban residents than lower income individuals in rural areas (Norris, 2001). Internet usage in Latin America is high, with 66.7% of households reporting an internet connection in 2019. But disparities remain. 81% in the top income quintile report access, while only 38% in the bottom do. 67% of those in the city have an internet connection, while only 23% in the countryside do (ECLAC, 2020). As discussed in Chap. 5, as social media grows more important to political struggle, we should expect more movements to address middle-class, urban issues than lower income, rural issues. In 2019 and 2021 (interrupted by the COVID-19 pandemic) Colombia saw thousands march due to urban unemployment, school tuition, taxes and utility rates, police reform, and inequality. But these same individuals gave little support to the 2016 peace accords meant to end a 50-year insurgency that ravaged the countryside leaving over 200,000 dead and 7 million displaced. Rural land reform, re-incorporation of combatants, compensation for victims, and investigations of the violence were costly measures that brought little benefit to, and drew little support from, city dwellers. Politicians

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who dared express support did not do well at the polls. No wonder that by late 2020, only 28% of the 578 stipulations in the accords had been fully implemented (Kroc Institute, 2021). And if social media is a new resource, it also represents a new battleground, one that may leave activists at a disadvantage. On the internet, disinformation has proved just as powerful a weapon as information, one that can also open a new form of foreign intervention. One Washington-based communications company created fake accounts to influence politics in Bolivia, Mexico, and Venezuela (Washington Post, 2020), and accounts traced to Russia spread disinformation during the 2019–2020 unrest in Bolivia, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru (New York Times, 2020). And it is little surprise that internet connections slow or fail during protests, as governments attempt to block communications (see www.netblocks.org for data). Even more so, digital communications have opened new methods of surveillance and criminalization. Governments use big data to mine internet usage, and even deploy facial recognition or biometric surveillance to collect information. To aid the effort, in 2019 Chile passed legislation to penalize demonstrators who covered their faces. And in Nicaragua, the Ortega government passed a “cybercrimes” law that made it a crime to “offend” the Ortega government on social media or to spread “fake news” (subject to the interpretation of the government) (Berg & Seminario, 2021). And finally, in the political dimension of globalization, activists have seen new channels of influence open. Assuming that governments value the opinion of foreign actors, activists can use their moral leverage to “mobilize shame” if they can demonstrate that the government is violating international norms and expectations (though clearly some are more susceptible to foreign opinion than others) (Keck & Sikkink, 1998, pp. 24–25). Beyond moral leverage, some groups can make use of legal channels, as when their governments sign on to treaties that allow their citizens to appeal to foreign observers or courts. The Human Rights Council of the United Nations has a complaint procedure that allows individuals to submit allegations of abuses by their governments. The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights also allows citizens to request an investigation. In the late 1990s, admissible petitions at the commission rarely surpassed single digits, but today Latin Americans file over 100 annually. And while this body monitors and reports on human rights issues, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights decides cases and can even order reparations. Compliance with the Inter-American Court is voluntary, and many states have simply ignored unfavorable decisions, but this does not necessarily mean the body is ineffective. Many comply partially, and even when a state does not, others may take notice and act in accordance with the ruling to deter possible actions against them. In this way, court decisions contribute gradually to new international norms. Also, court actions stir social mobilization. Many nongovernmental organizations file amicus curiae briefs, and the court proceedings allow groups to raise cases on behalf of individuals. For many groups, it is not compliance, but rather the condemnation of state action that matters, and success here validates the group and increases the credibility and validity of the group’s broader advocacy goals (Palacios Zuloaga,

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2020). In addition, aside from noncompliance issues, many domestic courts throughout Latin America incorporate the case law of the court, allowing it to influence judicial activity within the country.

1.7

Conclusion

The study of political struggle has evolved over time, and so too have politics in Latin America. Inequality, fragile democratic institutions, and globalization influence the capacity, opportunity, and dynamics of marginalized groups in the region. The chapters that follow look at specific groups, and their struggles to offer an introduction to the politics of the region. Each chapter has its own focus, but together they form a mosaic that provides insight to contemporary events. Moreover, by examining the background of struggle and how it has evolved, they shed light on how we should expect struggle to continue. These struggles for identity, citizenship, inclusion, and justice are all fundamental to the growth of democracy. And as we shall see, these struggles have long distinguished Latin America. We begin with a study of the Indigenous in Chap. 2. Reaching back to the colonial period, the Indigenous have seen their identities crushed, reformulated, appropriated, and commodified. Independence from colonial rule brought little relief, as political leaders confronted the Indigenous with assimilationist programs designed to dilute or even extinguish Indigenous culture and tradition. Identity would prove instrumental to political struggle, as Indigenous peoples over time worked transnationally and uncovered a common identity in a shared struggle against marginalization. They also made use of international instruments and organizations to press their interests, and stir their governments into action. Chapter 3 offers a different perspective of struggle over time from the view of the urban poor. Cities played a foundational role within the colonial project to exert control and extract resources for shipment abroad. And the urban poor emerged alongside them. Nonetheless, throughout history theirs has been a struggle to achieve the authentic status of citizenship, and thereby a relationship with the state based on the exchange of rights, privileges, and obligations. This social contract has long been denied to the urban poor. Basic government services, from food, water, electricity, and housing to education and health have been absent or deficient at best, often leaving the urban poor to develop or access these necessities on their own. When the state has reached out, all too often it has done so through a clientelistic relationship. Here, political leaders dangle the possibilities of meeting basic needs with government services in exchange for political support. Loyalty to the state becomes an instrumental affair, and this corrodes democracy. Chapter 4 takes us to the struggle against patriarchy, which has long excluded women and LGBTQ+ persons from politics. Reaching back to the colonial period, patriarchy assigned men leadership roles and relegated married women essentially to the status of minors, and patriarchy bluntly dismissed LGBTQ+ persons as deviants. Religion has always played a significant role in the struggle for inclusion here, first

References

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as Catholic Doctrine laid justification for the roles assigned to women and LGBTQ+ persons, and more recently as both the Catholic Church and evangelical Protestantism have mobilized opposition to reproductive rights and LGBTQ+ rights. As discussed in the chapter, women made gains earlier beginning at the end of the nineteenth century while gains by LGBTQ+ community have been more recent. Nonetheless, transnational mobilization has played a critical role in the successes of each. And each have also suffered backlashes of violence of late. Finally, Chap. 5 introduces the vulnerable middle class, and the struggle for the rule of law. The middle class evolved through history, and its rise was closely tied to urbanization and industrialization. But because these developments took place late and less intensely than in Europe and the United States, the middle class in Latin America was smaller and less influential. As such, the middle class did not play a strong mediating role between working class and upper class interests, and often sided with the latter, even when military intervention took place to quell working class rebellions. Nonetheless, a more stable middle class developed alongside the populist regimes and import-substitution economies of the mid-twentieth century. More recently, a more vulnerable middle class associated with neoliberal reforms has emerged. Unlike the traditional middle class, it finds employment outside the state, often in the informal sector, and lacks sufficient access to many government services such as health care or pensions. The pay may be the same as that of the traditional middle class, but employment is less reliable. The chapter recognizes how its struggle against precarity ultimately takes place as a struggle against those forces that most clearly impinge on social mobility- corruption and other corrosions of the rule of law. Altogether, the chapters highlight the historical role and continuing relevance of struggle to the politics of Latin America. The unrelenting endurance of struggle was all too apparent to the Chilean government as it confronted the protests that encircled the statue of General Manuel Baquedano. On March 11, 2021, under cover of night, the authorities removed the monument, taking advantage of a curfew that had been called due to the COVID-19 pandemic. In this case, a force of globalization, in the form of a microscopic virus, provided cover for the government. But the empty space just provided more room for protestors, who continued to congregate there weekly. Just as it was not about 30 pesos, but rather 30 years, it also was not really about the statue, but about identity, citizenship, inclusion, and the rule of law. So long as governments fail to address these issues, struggle will continue in Chile, and beyond.

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Orum, A. M. (1974). On participation in political protest movements. Journal of Applied Behavioral Science, 10(2), 181–207. Palacios Zuloaga, P. (2020). Judging inter-American human rights: The riddle of compliance with the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. Human Rights Quarterly, 47(2), 392–433. Parsons, T. (1971). The system of modern societies. Prentice Hall. Project Gutenberg. (2007). A brief account of the destruction of the Indies, by Bartolome de las Casas. Retrieved November 11, 2021, from www.gutenberg.org. (Original work published 1552). Rafay, J. R. (2021). Understanding the expansion of Latin America’s new social welfare regimes. Comparative Politics, 53(3), 549–566. Ritzer, G. (2007). The Blackwell companion to globalization. Wiley-Blackwell Publishing. Robertson, R. (1995). Globalization: Time-space and homogeneity-heterogeneity. In M. Featherstone, S. Lash, & R. Robertson (Eds.), Global modernities (pp. 25–44). Sage Publications. Robinson, W. I. (2008). Latin America and global capitalism: A critical globalization perspective. Johns Hopkins University Press. Rosa, H. (2013). Social acceleration: A new theory of modernity. Columbia University Press. Rossi, I. (Ed.). (2020). Challenges of globalization and prospects for an inter-civilizational world order. Springer. Schivelbusch, W. (1978). Railroad space and railroad time. New German Critique, 14, 31–40. Scholte, J. A. (2005). Globalization: A critical introduction. Palgrave Macmillan. Stahler-Sholk, R., Vanden, H. E., & Becker, M. (2014). Rethinking Latin American social movements: Radical action from below. Rownman and Littlefield Publishers. Suh, H., & Reynolds-Stenson, H. (2018). A contingent effect of trust? In-group and outgroup trust and social movement participation in political context. Social Science Quarterly, 99(4), 1484– 1495. Sutton, B., & Borland, E. (2013). Framing abortion rights in Argentina's Encuentros Nacionales de Mujeres. Feminist Studies, 39(1), 194–234. Tarrow, S. (1989). Democracy and disorder: Protest and politics in Italy, 1965–75. Oxford University Press. Tilly, C. (1986). The contentious French: Four centuries of popular struggle. Belknap. Tilly, C., & Tilly, L. (1975). The rebellious century: 1830–1930. Harvard University Press. Tufekci, Z. (2014). Social movements and governments in the digital age evaluating a complex landscape. Journal of International Affairs, 68(1), 1–18. UNDP (United National Development Program). (2020). Attitudes towards politics in Latin America. UNDP. Van Stekelenburg, J., & Klandermans, B. (2018). In politics we trust. . .or not? Trusting and distrusting demonstrators compared. Political Psychology, 39(4), 775–792. Vanden, H. E., Funke, P. N., & Prevost, G. (2017). The new global politics: Global social movements in the twenty-first century. Routledge. Verba, S., & Nie, N. (1972). Participation in America: Political democracy and social equality. Harper and Row. Wallerstein, I. (1974). The modern world system: Capitalist agriculture and the origins of the European world-economy in the sixteenth century. Academic. Wang, S., et al. (2007). Genetic Variation and Population Structure in Native Americans. PLoS Genetics, 3(11), 2049–2067. Washington Post. (2020, September 4). Washington firm ran fake Facebook accounts in Venezuela, Bolivia, and Mexico, report finds. Retrieved November 22, 2021, from www.washingtonpost. com Wieviorka, M. (2013). Social conflict. Current Sociology Review, 61(5/6), 696–713. World Bank. (2021). The gradual rise and rapid decline of the middle class in Latin America and the Caribbean. World Bank. Retrieved November 21, 2022, from www.worldbank.org

Chapter 2

The Struggle for Identity: Autonomy and the Indigenous

Who are you? This is a personal question, and surely you have an answer that probably uses certain individual personality traits and values to describe yourself. You may be frugal and shy, or adventurous and impulsive, or something else. But we also embed our identities within groups. You may be a student, a Jew, a mother, middle class, a woman, have Argentine heritage, and affiliation with a political party. Your identity likely involves some constellation of attachments to these groups, many of which parallel or magnify your traits and values. But each of these groups also has its own collective identity, which refers to the shared attributes, interests, and experiences that define the group (Taylor & Whittier, 1992). If you have an especially intense attachment to one of these groups that overshadows the others, that collective identity may closely mirror how you define yourself. Importantly, the attributes, interests, and experiences that compose the collective identity of any group can be real or imagined. As such a collective identity emerges over time through a process that involves negotiation and construction- and it can always be renegotiated and reconstructed (Melucci, 1995). The fact that there is a process at play here also means that some groups express greater autonomy over their collective identity, while others can find their collective identity fabricated and assigned by others. The latter would be the case for women in a patriarchal society, or racial minorities who are stereotyped and stigmatized. Consider then all of the dynamics at play when we examine questions of identity in politics. We are all individuals with distinct traits, but we may be more or less conscious of or attached to our identification with a given group at any given time. That group, in turn, has a collective identity that is negotiated, and sometimes imposed. And this collective identity can become politicized if the group seeks to influence the actions of government, usually due to some shared grievance. Furthermore, should the group find government unresponsive, the collective identity can become radicalized and the group more likely to mobilize outside official channels such as lobbying or voting (Klandermans, 2014). This chapter reviews these dynamics for the Indigenous in Latin America. It begins with a historical overview of the Indigenous, then discusses contemporary © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 C. L. Arceneaux, Political Struggle in Latin America, Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07904-7_2

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political mobilizations of the Indigenous throughout the region. It then traces the surge in Indigenous identity over the past three decades, and the role played by globalization. Although their struggles remain formidable, today the Indigenous in many countries stand as a much more relevant and influential political actor than in the past. Advances in the struggle for identity necessarily preceded the growth in political empowerment.

2.1

The Colonial Era through the Post-Independence Era

To understand the struggle for Indigenous identity, one must begin with an appreciation of the 300-year long colonial period. But to understand the colonial period, one must begin with an appreciation of the composure, concerns, and ambitions of the Spanish monarchy. It is all too simple, and all too misleading, to envision colonialism simply as an economic enterprise that extracted precious metals from lands in the Americas, and funneled them over the Atlantic to the royal chests of Spain. 1492 was known as “annus mirabilis” (“the amazing year”) in Spain, and perhaps it would have been even absent the exploits of Columbus. This year saw the end of the reconquista- a 700-year war fought to eject the Moors from the Iberian Peninsula. Ferdinand and Isabela had united the crowns of Castile and Aragon in 1469, and the victory validated their moves to consolidate rule over the entirety Spain and present themselves as vanguards of the Catholic faith. To further affirm the religious mission, 1492 would also see a Spaniard rise to the papacy. And to ensure the Catholic purity of the country, this same year every Jew on the peninsula would receive notice to convert, or leave- a sudden expansion of the Spanish Inquisition which would soon prohibit the practice of Islam as well. Hence, when Columbus informed the monarchs of his expedition later that year, they received his message not only as an economic opportunity, but also as affirmation of God’s good graces. And the expedition was sold as a continuation of the crusade against the Moors. Islamic states remained strong in the East and blocked trade routes to the riches of India and southern China, which Columbus could presumably open. Ferdinand and Isabela would assume the title of “the Catholic Monarchs” and with it, the obligation to spread the faith as the kingdom’s reach extended westward across the Atlantic. But colonization brought its own political problems for the monarchs. From the very start, the monarchy grappled with a dilemma- they depended on the conquistadors to establish colonial footholds, but these same conquistadors could emerge as rivals in their own right. Most had cut their teeth during the reconquista, lacked noble lineages, and saw military might as their only path to status. From the start, the monarchy feared the rise of a distant nobility and took preventive measures. Hence, after Columbus consolidated the first colonial government in Santo Domingo (in present day Dominican Republic), the monarchy mandated that further settlement could occur only through royal decree. This happened island by island. But expeditions that brought word of riches on the mainland, momentum, and the difficulties of

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distant oversight opened an opportunity for Hernán Cortés to make his move against the Aztec Empire in 1519. After this, the race not just to explore and map, but to conquer and settle was on, underscored by the capture of the Incan Empire by Francisco Pizarro in 1532. Still wary of a distant, new, and powerful noble class, the Spanish monarchy prohibited the conquistadors from taking titles of nobility as the first of several measures to come. The Indigenous became pawns in this strategic game. Early on, the conquistadors had little luck in their search for gold in the Caribbean and concluded that Indigenous labor was the most valuable commodity to be had. At the very least, Indigenous work could support the production of spices and dyes. To balance the creation of incentives for the conquistadors and the placement of barriers to the rise of a nobility, the monarchy created the encomendero. This royal grant bestowed both a large parcel of land, as well as authority over the Indigenous population on it to a conquistador on the condition that he instruct them in the Catholic faith. The monarchy positioned itself as a protector of the Indigenous, not really because of religious principle, but to curb the power of the conquistadors. Nonetheless, the encomendero system was open to abuse, and is more fittingly described in practice as a system of forced labor than as a measure by the monarchy to protect the Indigenous. At the very outset, the Spanish found it difficult to reconcile how the Indigenous might serve as a source of labor, as well as a recipient of evangelism. Were the Indigenous to be exploited and opened to abuse, or offered salvation as members of the Catholic Church? The encomenderos first took the position that conversion was not possible, and enslavement permissible, because the Indigenous were subhuman and lacked souls. A papal bull entitled “Sublimus Dei” dismissed this idea in 1537, declaring that the Indigenous were human and capable of conversion. Guided by the encyclical, Charles V decreed the New Laws in 1542 to further restrict the encomenderos. Forced labor was to be abolished, though the encomenderos could still require tribute in goods. Moreover, the New Laws declared the encomienda itself non-inheritable and prohibited the encomendero from living in the same village as the Indigenous he supervised. This was done to undermine efforts to create personal bonds similar to those that connected vassals and lords in Europe. And to ensure oversight, the New Laws expanded the court systems (known as audiencias) and created a new viceroy (direct representative of the crown) in Peru. The encomenderos not only protested, they also attacked and beheaded the new viceroy to signal the gravity of their opposition. Charles V suspended the New Laws, and to address how Spain might justify its treatment of the Indigenous, he convened the “Great Debate” at Valladolid in 1550–51. Here the debate over Indigenous moved from whether the Indigenous had souls, to whether their behavior condoned mistreatment. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda argued the Indigenous were morally and intellectually inferior to the Spanish because they practiced barbaric customs and had no understanding of natural law. Hence, Spanish superiority gave them the right to enslave them. Bartolomé de las Casas replied that barbaric conduct and ignorance were not necessarily inherent in peoples, but rather were behaviors that could change. As

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evidence, he pointed to the barbaric actions of the Spanish in their early efforts to colonize, and noted that the Indigenous, when properly educated, could learn and act civilized. Significantly, while de las Casas is rightly recognized as a defender of the Indigenous for his time and commonly portrayed as the more humane debater, he used a “logic of assimilation” that denied the Indigenous of their identity just as much as Sepúlveda did (Brunstetter, 2010). While Sepúlveda argued that the Indigenous were naturally inferior, de las Casas argued that they could only become more civilized as they embraced the Catholic faith and Hispanic culture. Both men denied the integrity and value of Indigenous identity in its own right. While Sepúlveda pushed a blatantly racist view of the Indigenous, de las Casas promoted a paternalistic conception hopeful of transforming Indigenous identity. Unfortunately, the options to exclude or to assimilate would continue to frame the debate over the Indigenous through history, with very little effort to recognize and respect Indigenous autonomy over their own identity. Although a renowned class of theologians oversaw the debate, the outcome was inconclusive, and neither gained official recognition as the winner of the debate. Nonetheless, the spotlight placed on the cruel treatment of the Indigenous gave cause for the monarchy to act on behalf of the Indigenous, if not on principle then as a justification for weakening the encomenderos. Gradually, the crown redesigned colonial administration to oversee two separate sociolegal groups: a Republic of Spaniards and a Republic of Indians. Separate jurisdictions, court systems, and local authorities would distinguish the two, and allow Indigenous groups to retain some of their traditional authorities and customs, such as communal land tenures (Borah, 1982). The Spanish relied on reducciones (termed congregaciónes in Mexico), forcibly resettling and combining Indigenous villages, to create new urban centers (Gade & Escobar, 1982). A corregidor would oversee the extraction of labor tribute and either make use of it or contract it out. As an appointed position of brief duration, the corregidor answered to the crown, and gradually replaced the position of the encomendero as the primary economic intermediary between the Spanish and Indigenous. And while the reducciones allowed the Indigenous some autonomy, they were not meant to preserve, but rather to transform Indigenous historicity and identity. Multiple Indigenous settlements, with their own distinct languages or dialects, traditions, customs, histories, and beliefs would be congregated in a single reducción, thereby diluting past identities, introducing new labor skills demanded of the Spanish, and opening the settlement to evangelization by missionaries. In fact, the Spanish systematically sought to destroy ancestor and origins shrines, dismantle religious structures, and disconnect the populations from ancestral burial grounds. One analyst referred to the reducción as a “technique of amnesia” (Abercrombie, 1998). Beyond the deliberate intents of the reducciones, they also eased the spread of disease and incidence of famine as they concentrated dispersed villages that previously practiced specialized crop productions. Resettlement in the reducciones represented just one of many colonial practices that challenged and often reconfigured Indigenous identity. To coordinate the collection of labor tribute in a reducción, the Spanish appointed a leader, or cacique, and also required the creation of a local council, or cabildo for purposes of

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governance. Typically, these positions went to traditional Indigenous leaders, but it also meant that some would be left out. And while the notion of reducionnes was not entirely foreign to many Indigenous groups, the Spanish approach was. For example, the Incas also resettled villages and extracted labor tribute, but they reinforced ethnic distinctions to fragment any potential opposition to their rule. Beliefs of sacred origins and unique origin shrines, discrete clothing and cultural practices, restrictions on intermarriage among provincial subjects, the promotion of distinctive skills and labor in tribute obligations, and separate lines of political and administrative connections contributed to a montage of ethnic identities throughout the empire. In contrast, the Spanish diminished ethnic identities by setting aside longstanding ethnic differences among the Indigenous and instead applied a generalized racial conception of identity, “indio,” that glossed over localized ethnic distinctiveness. Moreover, conversion to Christianity, with its belief that all peoples share a common origin, undermined origin myths. But the Spanish did not just weaken traditional identities, they also introduced new identity bases. Hence, while “indio” undermined past ethnic differences, the need to associate individuals with the location of their reducción to document labor tribute led to new territorially-based distinctions. Colonial authorities documented individuals based upon their new community (e.g., “indio de Santo Tomás”) thereby creating new bases for identity based on location (Ogburn, 2008). Also, the Catholic faith further distinguished new communities as each adopted a patron saint, though more so in MesoAmerica than through the Andes given the greater role played by missionaries during the initial establishment of reducciones there (Gutiérrez, 1999). Though the legal creations of a Republic of Spaniards and a Republic of Indians offered the appearance of a dual society, in short order the Spanish had to come to terms with a far more complex society due to Afro-descendants, who played a role from the very start. Some Africans took part in the initial explorations and conquests of the mainland as military auxiliaries, and there are several examples of “black conquistadors” who gained their own encomiendas (Restall, 2000). Nonetheless, their numbers would be dwarfed as the Spanish shipped slaves, first from the Iberian Peninsula, then directly from trade routes on the African continent, with the greatest surge occurring from about the late sixteenth century to the late seventeenth century. Through the colonial period, over two million enslaved Africans went to Spanish America, while some 4.7 million went to Brazil. For the colonists, African slaves substituted for the Indigenous populations in the Caribbean and along the coasts that were decimated by disease (Borucki et al., 2015). And African enslavement did not create the same moral dilemmas as did cruelty to Indigenous peoples because enslavement occurred outside the dominion of Spain, and was accepted as just in so far as it was the result of victory in war. On the other hand, Spanish law and custom did not condemn individuals to perpetual slavery. Slaves were permitted to purchase their freedom and could even appeal to a court to establish a “fair price.” The result was a large class of free blacks, one which grew over time. By the time of independence, free persons of color would represent about 20–30% of the population of most Latin American countries, and slaves outnumbered free blacks only in Cuba and Brazil (Morelli, 2020, p. 16).

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Miscegenation added to the complexity of identity construction. The growth of the mestizo population, or those with a mixed Indigenous and Spanish ancestry, also challenged the simple division between Spaniards and Indians. The emergence of a mestizo population was inevitable, due partly to the lack of Spanish women on early voyages, the separation of Indigenous men from women during their period of forced labor, and coerced relationships with Indigenous women. Mestizos soon became the product of social stigmatism, viewed as “stained” or “traitors” to Spanish heritage. And it did not help that early on the vast majority were born out of wedlock and thus condemned in the eyes of the Church. Spaniards also viewed mestizos with suspicion, presuming that it would not take much for them to ally with or even lead an Indigenous rebellion. But they were caught in the middle, and even distrusted by Indigenous communities who questioned their traditional ties and loyalties (Lockhart, 1994, pp. 188–90). Legally, mestizos fell under the Republic of Spaniards, but at the lowest rungs and thus fell subject to its restrictions early on, such as prohibitions on carrying arms, joining the clergy, inheritance, or holding certain administrative offices such as a notary (Ruan, 2012). And of course there were other mixtures, between Africans and Spaniards (mulattos), Africans and the Indigenous (zambos), and a multitude of crossings between those of mixed ancestry (e.g., mestizo and a Spaniard- castizo, or Spanish, Indigenous, and African- pardos). Over time, all these groupings fell outside the Republic of Spaniards and Republic of Indians and had rights that were socially negotiated and ordered hierarchically, with greater Spanish identification gaining more rights and those with Indigenous or African identification less rights. These groupings became known as castas, but their positions were not entirely static. Dress, occupation, and marriage also defined one’s position, and by the late-eighteenth century there was even an opportunity to purchase an advance of status through a “gracias al sacar”- a royal decree. Most significantly though, the conceptualization of mobility or advancement was entirely individualized. A person left behind- in effect abandoned- their group to join one further up the hierarchy. As such, no matter the level of mobility afforded in colonial society, Indigenous group identification always found itself at the bottom. The casta system also sent a clear message- that if society was to advance and become more civilized, the Indigenous must disappear (Twinam, 2015). Despite the subjugation and systematic exploitation, Indigenous insurrections were scarce for much of the colonial period. When they did occur, rebellions typically represented limited outbursts against local officials who were especially corrupt or cruel, or were reactions to resource conflicts over water or land with colonial communities. But Spanish and Portuguese colonialism was far from complete in the region. In fact, many Indigenous groups remained unconquered and controlled fully one-half the lands presumably claimed by the colonizers, including massive regions of Tierra del Fuego, Patagonia, the Pampas, Gran Chaco, vast tropical lands in the Orinoco basin and the Amazon, the Gulf of Darien, lowland areas of Central America, and extensive portions of northern Mexico (Weber, 1998, p. 147). But things would change dramatically under the Bourbon Reforms of the mid-eighteenth century. When the crown passed from the Hapsburg to the Bourbon

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dynasty in 1700, a century long endeavor to renovate the empire took place. The Bourbons looked to centralize administration, modernize state finances, clamp down on contraband trade, curb the power of the Church, and consolidate territories to deter encroachment by other colonial powers. These political and economic reforms would have significant consequences for the Indigenous. The reassertion of monarchic authority under the Bourbon Reforms intensified Indigenous grievances toward new tax, land grant, and production licensing schemes. The notion of a Republic of the Indians was always more ideal than real, but it did feed the idea that the Spanish monarchy had agreed to protect Indigenous autonomy and so the reforms looked like overreach. Their widespread impact also opened new opportunities for alliances with other aggrieved groups. For the first time, a series of mass uprisings challenged colonial authority, most notably in Quito (1765), the Túpac Amaru rebellion in the Cuzco region (1780–82), the Comunero insurrection in New Granada (1781), and the revolt led by Father Miguel Hidalgo in Mexico (1810) (McFarlane, 1995). Indigenous groups sometimes gathered support from mestizo and higher status classes when they rebelled against tax increases, and at other times they were stirred to rebel by religious orders threatened by the Bourbon Reforms. And for the first time of any significance, the rebels embraced a pan-Indigenous collective identity to rally their cause (Thomson, 2012). Indigenous groups retained unique characteristics in language, customs, and histories, but they shared conditions of exclusion and exploitation. Though the rebellions proved unsuccessful, and the appeal to an encompassing identity would fail to gain traction, it would prove prescient. Indeed, the leader of the Túpac Amaru rebellion, Túpac Katari, would pay the ultimate price for his role in the rebellion with a public execution, but he offered these last words: “I will return, and I will be millions.” The pan-Indigenous identity strategy would languish after this time, but would be revived with greater success under contemporary Indigenous movements. Independence would bring but dashed hopes to the Indigenous. If they were pawns under the monarchy, they would replay this role under the independenceminded elites of colonial Latin America. As the Bourbon Reforms centralized administration and pared offices, peninsulares (those Spaniards born in Spain) found favor over the criollos (Spaniards born in the Americas). Many criollos hailed from families that had lived in the Americas for generations, and increasingly resented the taxes and colonial restrictions on trade or produce that benefited the monarchy at the expense of the colonials. When Napoleon invaded Spain in 1808 and dethroned King Ferdinand VII, criollos saw cause to argue that sovereignty reverted to the colonies, and independence was theirs. But the campaign against royalist forces required soldiers to do the fighting, and the criollos did not have the numbers. There was no shortage of grievances against the crown, but the criollos knew the risks of alliance. The further they reached down the casta scale to recruit, the more they risked mobilizing groups that saw criollo privilege as a grievance of their own. Indeed, the Túpac Amaru rebellion served as a lesson. Túpac Katari, a mestizo himself though with a lineage that connected him to the last Inca, coordinated the

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rebellion with criollo and mestizo leaders. But he tapped into Indigenous grievances and mobilized their numbers with his charismatic personality. What started as a multi-class and multi-ethnic rebellion against corruption evolved into a race war that targeted the criollo class and other elites as well. Upwards of 150,000 died (Campbell, 1981). Hidalgo’s rebellion offered a similar lesson for criollo elites. After his “Grito de Delores” rallied the local population in the small town of Delores, they were joined by numerous Indigenous and peasant groups as they marched on the mining stronghold of Guanajuato, home to some of the wealthiest families in Mexico. The burgeoning mob sacked the entire town, while the peninsular elite took refuge in a large, fortress-like public granary. They did not last long. The insurgents gained entry and massacred nearly all of the 500 who had amassed inside, including women and children. Such incidents gave criollo elites sympathetic to the call for independence reason for pause. But in the early nineteenth century, political independence did come to the colonies of Latin America and with it, an opportunity to re-envision society. The criollo leaders who had wrested political authority from Spain embraced liberal ideas of equality, property, and representative government. But the package of these changes was not necessarily welcomed by the Indigenous. The abolition of Indigenous tribute may have appeared to be well-intended, but under colonial rule it had existed as part of a transaction, one conducted in exchange for local autonomy, the maintenance of traditional authorities, communal land ownership, and the practice of religious rituals and cultural activities outside the peering eyes of prospective nationbuilders. The Spanish commitment to the Republic of Indians had always served the self-interests of the monarchy, but change brought uncertainty and as such, a threat to the Indigenous. Not too surprisingly, many Indigenous sought to renegotiate, rather than abrogate, the tribute. One by one, the new governments reinstated the tribute, though not in response to Indigenous groups, but because the governments incurred so much debt under the revolutionary wars and sought to exploit any revenue flow they could identity (Larson, 2004, pp. 42–45). Likewise, even as emigration, or expulsion, of royalist sympathizers as well as disentitlements of ecclesiastical properties opened opportunities for redistributions to marginalized classes, most often the lands fell into the hands of the growing hacienda class. In fact, in the name of liberal ideals of property, governments took aim at Indigenous communal land ownership, dividing them up and allowing the haciendas to expand further. This pushed Indigenous families to unproductive lands further in the countryside, or relegated them to small plots of land on the haciendas. Payments of rent, purchases of farming supplies, local taxation schemes, and sales of materials for religious rituals kept them in permanent debt. Debt peonage had replaced the repartimiento (Bernstein, 2000). In the eyes of the liberals, the Indigenous were a part of a barbaric past that had to be left behind if their newfound countries were to modernize. Domingo Sarmiento, literary hero of Argentina and president from 1868 to 1874, exemplified this. He likened the Americas to a “struggle between European civilization and Indigenous barbarism, between intelligence and matter” (Sarmiento, 1972, p. 53). Like many liberals of the time, such political leaders embraced a very limited conception of

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republican citizenship, one conditioned by education and class distinctions deemed necessary for good judgement. Harsh literacy and property qualifications, as well as gender restrictions, reduced the enfranchised to a minute portion of the population. Indigenous peoples could become active participants in society, but only if they left behind traditional practices, donned western attire, learned Spanish and attended school, and somehow overcame the odds of economic advancement. As new states, Latin American countries sought new national identities, but there would be no place for Indigenous culture in these societies which attempted to remake Western civilization rooted in Europe. To wit: “They borrowed their legal systems and public administrations from Spain and France, their political constitutions from the United States, their economic liberalism from Great Britain and their military codes from Prussia” (Stavenhagen, 2002, p. 25). And while most Indigenous saw their colonial positions transformed into new forms of subjugation under the new republics, other Indigenous groups that had managed to retain some levels of autonomy outside the colonial centers became subject to “pacification campaigns” as governments looked to consolidate their territories beginning in the mid-nineteenth century. Argentina and Chile engaged in a race to the south to consolidate lands reaching to Tierra del Fuego. The Andes separated their military forces, but both slaughtered Indigenous communities along their campaigns, and otherwise expelled survivors or relegated them to desolate reservations. Brazil did the same as it claimed areas in Amazonia, and countries throughout the region replayed the carnage to secure their borders at the expense of Indigenous communities that had previously enjoyed a measure of isolation (Gott, 2007; Foote & Harder Horst, 2010). And it was not just the deliberate exclusion of Indigenous identities, but also the widespread instability following independence that sidelined questions of national identity. “In these circumstances the task of central government was to govern the capital city and its hinterland, mediate between competing caudillos, and manage foreign affairs so as to avoid foreign intervention. The grand absentee in this cycle of violence and tyranny was any sort of nationhood” (Brading, 1994, p. 94). Stability would only come with the rise of the export economy. Export taxes filled government coffers and allowed new expenditures on infrastructure and the armed forces, both of which served efforts to consolidate territorial authority. As central governments gained strength, they began to more forthrightly address questions of national identity, but they did not look inward. By the 1870s, countries began to lure immigrants with prospects of opportunities in the growing economies. But the motives were just as racial as economic. It was not immigration generally, but European immigration, that governments promoted, often with explicit restrictions on migrants from other regions. Costa Rica prohibited entry by Chinese and African descendants as early as 1862, and Venezuela placed its ban directly into its 1906 Constitution. Colombia, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Mexico, Peru, Venezuela offered incentives such as land grants, travel funds, and tax relief, and Chile and Ecuador lured European communities with promises of local government autonomy. Nonetheless, this strategy of blanqueamiento, or whitening of the population, would find success in only a select few countries. Over 90% of European immigration from

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1880 to 1930 went only to Argentina, Cuba, Uruguay, and southern Brazil (Hernández, 2012). Lingering instability and lower economic growth dampened the strategy for other countries. Even more so, already large Indigenous and/or Afro-descendant populations dulled the impact of white migration- Chile was able to whiten its population more than Cuba despite a smaller influx. And the uneven migration patterns shifted identity narratives in the region. What had been the colonial heartlands- Mexico, Peru, and northeastern Brazil- were now increasingly described as nonwhite, impoverished, and backward. On the other hand, those regions where European migrants had more impact- Argentina, Costa Rica, and southern Brazilcame to be associated with whiteness, wealth, and progress (Goebel, 2016). To complement blanqueamiento, mestizaje offered another strategy. The early approach to mestizaje (roughly translated as mixture) rooted itself in pseudoscientific studies of eugenics and social Darwinism. Here, countries encouraged miscegenation to whiten their societies. To engineer the fiction of a whitening population, governments began to reclassify racial categories in census results (self-identification would become the preferred method of enumeration only after WWII) and include commentaries that associated mestizaje with whitening and the gradual disappearance of Indigenous and African peoples. The 1893 Guatemalan census report justified combining whites and those blended with the Indigenous because “the mixture of the European with the Indigenous race has not produced either facultative decrease nor intellectual or moral debilitation” (Loveman, 2009). Still, the demographic reality of the nineteenth century undermined the strategies and hopes of white criollos. Namely, mestizos were not only emerging as the largest population group, they were also gaining in positions of political power and intellectual circles. Mestizos also embraced the idea of mestizaje, but promoted a more cultural rather than biological approach. The growth of indigenismo captured this approach in the early twentieth century, especially in Mexico, Peru, and Bolivia. In its harshest form, indigenismo did celebrate Indigenous lifestyles and traditions, but argued that colonization, exclusion, and abject poverty had so disrupted the knowledge and practice of Indigenous culture by Indigenous peoples that they were in fact no longer authentically Indigenous. But all was not lost, since Indigenous culture rested not in blood lines, but in cultural celebrations, traditions, and the arts. Things like dance, handicrafts, and culinary expressions mattered more than genes, and mestizos could not only preserve and promote them, but also own them and perhaps even reintroduce them to the Indigenous as they emerged from their squalid conditions. If Indigenous identity was excluded in the past, now it was being hijacked. Mexico embraced indigenismo after the revolution (1910–1920) as a recipe for national unity, promoting the idea of itself as a mestizo nation that celebrated both Spanish and Indigenous culture to create a unique nation. Lázaro Cárdenas, president from 1934 to 1940, exclaimed, “Our Indian problem does not consist in preserving the Indian as an Indian or to Indianize Mexico but to Mexicanize the Indians” (Gabbert, 2004, p. 100). Indigenismo appropriates Indigenous identity, and silences and subordinates the Indigenous to the state under a project of civilization

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rooted in assimilation. While blanqueamiento sought to eliminate Indigenous identities and essentially remake western European culture and society, indigenismo incorporated the Indigenous into civilizational narratives precisely to distinguish the countries of Latin America. But the histories of the Indigenous are what really mattered. It was the past struggles and subjugation of the Indigenous that contributed to contemporary identities in Latin America, and in so far as the Indigenous continued to struggle with development today, the solution rested in leaving traditional customs in the past and joining modern society. Indigenous culture would be celebrated, but only as a historical relic, and in a celebration shared by all as assimilation proceeded. Though indigenismo carried a heavy dose of paternalism, and really only gave voice to mestizo elites, it also challenged racial hierarchies and denounced injustices. And although assimilation looked to dilute Indigenous culture, it did allow for fluidity in racial identities to better promote social mobility (Estelle, 2008). Variants with more emphasis on the latter would gain more traction through the twentieth century, and open the door to multicultural and pluricultural conceptions of national societies in Latin America. Before addressing the rise of these currents in contemporary Indigenous movements, we will first examine the status of the Indigenous in Latin America today to better appreciate their struggles.

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The Indigenous Today

When we speak of “the Indigenous,” we are referring to all those groups that inhabited the Americas before the arrival of Europeans, and the miscegenation that occurred thereafter. The term itself reveals contestations over issues of identity. We are all familiar with the misnomer “Indian,” which emerged when Christopher Columbus presumed he had anchored ship near the Indian sub-continent rather than a land mass resting in the Western Hemisphere. Even as Europeans learned of the error, the term stuck, and the Spanish used “indio” to collectively reference the multitude of distinct civilizations and cultures in the Americas, and to collapse them into a singular “other” that embodied savagery and barbarity. Over time, “indio” emerged as a pejorative term that implied laziness, ignorance, and a violent nature. Revolutionary governments in Bolivia (in the 1950s) and Peru (in the 1960s) replaced “indio” with “campesino” (peasant) in government documents and offices to reflect their class-based approach to society, but this had the effect of erasing any racial reference. It was not until the 1990s that the term “Indigenous” grew more commonplace as transnational Indigenous movements throughout the world mobilized within a common identity largely based on past anti-colonial historical struggles to lobby for a greater presence in the United Nations. Nonetheless, even as the United Nations employed the term in its official documents and working groups, the organization remains reluctant to offer a definition because it does not sufficiently capture the diversity of peoples not only in Latin America, but throughout the world. It proposes that authorities focus on identifying, rather than defining Indigenous

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Table 2.1 The Indigenous throughout Latin America

Mexico Bolivia Peru Guatemala Chile Colombia Ecuador Argentina Brazil Venezuela Honduras Nicaragua Panama Paraguay Costa Rica Uruguay El Salvador

Indigenous population (in millions)a 16.93 6.21 7.02 5.88 1.81 1.56 1.02 0.96 0.90 0.72 0.54 0.52 0.42 0.11 0.10 0.76 0.14

Indigenous population (percentage of total population)a 15.1 62.2 24.0 41.0 11.0 3.4 7.0 2.4 0.5 2.7 7.0 8.9 12.3 1.8 2.4 2.4 0.2

Percentage of indigenous population Living in Povertyb 31 – 33 37 6 60 53 – 39 – – – 46 – – 3 –

Percentage of total population living in povertyb 21 – 21 49 4 29 25 – 19 – – – 12 – – 3 –

a

Estimates from about 2010 (ECLAC, 2014, p. 37) Poverty data on Mexico, Peru, Guatemala, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Brazil, Panama, Uruguay from: LAC Equity Lab Tabulations: Ethnicity: Poverty. World Bank Data. Available at www.data/worldbank.org. Accessed March 1, 2022. Poverty calculated as all those living under $5.50 per day

b

groups, and that they do so in a way that allows Indigenous peoples to independently distinguish themselves. An estimated 45 million people self-identity as Indigenous in Latin America, a number that represents 8.3% of the population in the region (ECLAC, 2014). But that straightforward statistic masks a far more complex portrait of the population. Again, “the Indigenous” is a bit of a misnomer. The name gathers an estimated 826 groups, each with their own distinct cultures and traditions, and over 500 languages. But these diverse groups do share common histories of exclusion and oppression, and current struggles with poverty and discrimination. And the distribution of Indigenous populations varies tremendously (See Table 2.1). 62.2% of Bolivians, 41% of Guatemalans, 24% of Peruvians, and 15.1% of Mexicans identify as Indigenous. All together, these countries hold 80% of the entire Indigenous population in Latin America. On the other hand only 0.2% of Salvadorans, 0.5% of Brazilians, 1.8% of Paraguayans, and 2.4% of Argentines, Costa Ricans, and Uruguayans see themselves as Indigenous. These differences crudely represent the

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territorial distribution and concentrations of Indigenous populations at the time that Columbus arrived. Given the variation, it is little surprise that Indigenous politics affect some countries more than others. But the totals do not tell all of the story. Brazil may have a much lower number of Indigenous individuals than most countries, but it harbors 305- or about 37%- of all Indigenous groups in Latin America. Colombia comes in second, with 102 groups, though only 3.4% of its population claims Indigenous status (ECLAC, 2014). Such numbers bear on government policies of recognition and affect the prospects for Indigenous collective mobilization. In addition to those who self-identify, it should also be recognized that many who do not self-identify still see Indigenous culture and traditions as an important part of their country’s identity. Wherever they may live, a story of struggle marks the contemporary lives of Indigenous peoples. 46.7% of Indigenous live in poverty, and 17.3% live in extreme poverty. This poverty rate is 2.1 times higher than that found in the general population and the extreme poverty rate is 1.3 times higher (ECLAC, 2021, p. 59). Table 2.1 shows poverty rates of indigenous populations and the general populations in select Latin American countries. For those that do find gainful employment, the numbers indicate that employed Indigenous persons earn an average of 31.2% less that non-Indigenous persons. Adding to their vulnerability, 82.6% of employed Indigenous individuals find work in the informal sector, where they lack predictable income streams and access to government support programs and pensions (in comparison, 52.2% of the non-Indigenous work in the informal sector) (ILO, 2020). The impact and reality of racial discrimination as a cause of Indigenous poverty is most clearly exemplified by one statistic. Namely, that being borne into an Indigenous household dramatically increases the likelihood that a person will grow up poor in Latin America. This finding holds even as one controls for gender, education, number of siblings, and rural or urban location. The increase in the probability of poverty for a person borne into an Indigenous family compared to a non-Indigenous family rests at 13% in Ecuador, 11% in Bolivia, and 9% in Mexico (World Bank, 2015, p. 9). The inequities in socio-economic conditions and access to health services were magnified by the COVID-19 pandemic. One study notes that access to drinking water in the home (for hand washing), basic sanitation in the home, and overcrowding form a triad of crucial variables that significantly increases susceptibility to the virus, and Indigenous groups commonly fall short on all of them. In addition, the lack of an intercultural perspective in the extension of health services and vaccination programs creates further barriers (ECLAC, 2021, pp. 18–19). The reality of discrimination is important because it spotlights the importance of respect, autonomy, and dignity as countries grapple with poverty reduction programs (World Bank, 2013). One can all too easily illustrate the difficult conditions of Indigenous peoples with various statistics that show deficiencies in access to piped water, electricity, school attendance, medical services, basic nutrition, literacy levels, internet services and the like. The data is important and it highlights where improvements need to take place. But it also creates the illusion that change occurs as government policies address these statistical indicators piecemeal, with solutions

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that largely rest in funding and in technological improvements. For example, education can be improved by increasing enrollment, but if the quality of that education lacks attention to cultural diversity or providing intercultural bilingual education, that increase in enrollment will fall short in its effort to empower Indigenous children and allow them to reach their full potential (Parker et al. 2003). It could even contribute to the loss of Indigenous cultures and language as assimilation crowds out distinct ethnic identities. Initiatives to address poverty in Indigenous communities more holistically as a cultural issue is part of a larger change in perspectives toward viewing poverty reduction as a human rights issue, and not simply a matter of charity by the state. The “Guiding Principles on Extreme Poverty and Human Rights” published by the United Nations notes that “poverty is not solely an economic issue, but rather a multidimensional phenomenon” that combines “income poverty, human development poverty and social exclusion where a prolonged lack of basic security affects several aspects of people’s lives simultaneously, severely compromising their chances of exercising or regaining their rights in the foreseeable future.” Moreover, poverty is “both a cause and consequence of human rights violations” as it is “characterized by multiple reinforcing violations of civil, political, economic, social, and cultural rights” and “regular denials of dignity and equality” (United Nations, 2012). Poverty, then, is not only an issue of human rights, but it is also a complex, multidimensional issue. Language barriers can reduce one’s access to justice. Literacy deficiencies may prevent one from securing an identification card, which may be required for voting. Poor nutrition and health can affect educational attainment. Analysts have long noted these connections and refer to a poverty trap that builds upon itself. But from a policy perspective, these connections can also be turned around so that vicious circles become virtuous circles. And such policies are not solely for the benefit of the impoverished because poverty tends to limit overall economic development in a country. In a study of countries throughout the world, it was estimated that a 10-percent increase in income poverty lowers economic growth by about 1-percent and reduces investment by 6 to 9 percentage points of GDP (Perry et al., 2006, pp. 7–8). The multifaceted reality of poverty helps to explain why the most recent commodity boom in Latin America, which lifted 70 million from poverty and expanded the middle class to one- third of the population, did not proportionately affect the standing of the Indigenous (World Bank, 2015). But even as we recognize the constancy of Indigenous struggle, we also need to acknowledge that the Indigenous have not remained stagnant. To speak of the Indigenous often conjures images of rural settings and adobe structures, small farming plots and animals, handmade handicrafts, colorful garments, and timehonored rites and practices. But the fact is, just over half of the Indigenous now live in cities. There are both push and pull factors at work here. The reach of agribusiness, large scale extractive industries, and mining now extend far into the countrysides of Latin American countries, and often displace Indigenous settlements. The wave of migration began during the neoliberal turn in the 1990s, when austerity measures opened many of the economic activities of the rural

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Indigenous- such as small-scale agriculture and employment in mining- to overseas competition. Likewise, the removal of price supports and cutbacks in agricultural extension programs weakened the frail safety net available to most rural inhabitants. Many of these economic push factors followed on the heels of armed conflicts in rural areas, primarily in Central America, though Colombia would continue to suffer from rural- based insurgencies well into the twenty-first century. But cities also attract rural Indigenous persons for the same reasons they attract other rural inhabitants. In the modern economy, economic opportunities converge in metropolitan areas and despite the insecurity of the informal economy, it can be steppingstone. Urban environments offer more access to education and health services, and more social protections. Compared to the rural Indigenous, the urban Indigenous complete primary education at rates 1.6 times higher, complete secondary education at rates 3.6 times higher, and complete tertiary education at rates 7.7 times higher. Greater access to medical care, clean water, and sewerage systems also has a fundamental impact on the quality of life of Indigenous people in cities. One study noted that the life expectancy of Indigenous Peruvians living in Lima outstrips those in the rural highlands by a full 30 years (World Bank, 2015, pp. 30–36). Indigenous identities and practices have also been far from idle. Indeed, as much as the history of the Indigenous has been marked by subjugation, exploitation, and struggle, it has also been distinguished by adaptation. Recall that even the repartimiento system adopted Indigenous traditions of tribute payment. And despite the evangelical mission of Catholic Church during the colonial period, and continued efforts by various Christian denominations today, Indigenous beliefs have often adapted, and not simply disappeared. Syncretism refers to the blending or parallel practice of religious beliefs. This can be readily seen it colonial artwork that portrays saints with darker skin, and incorporates Indigenous symbols or images of importance to the Indigenous, such as mountains, the sun, rivers, and other natural formations. In the Cusqueña School of art, painters often dressed the Virgin Mary in a broad, flowing dress so that she appears similar to a mountain, and surrounded her with local flora and fauna. One of the most conspicuous forms of the art can be found in the Cathedral Basilica off the main plaza in Cusco, Peru. Here, a painting of the Last Supper has Jesus and his disciples assembled to dine on a traditional food source, cuy- or guinea pig. Likewise, the Holy Days of the Catholic Church coincided with festivals and celebrations of importance to the Indigenous. And today, many throughout the Andes attend Catholic Church on Sunday, but on their own time make use of coca leaves, llama fetuses, traditional herbs and oils for their own rituals. Indigenous identity continues to adapt and evolve despite urbanization, and in some cases as a consequence. In the sprawling metropolis of Rio de Janiero, a number of Indigenous migrants occupied the abandoned Indigenous Museum in 2006 to create a collective housing project known as Aldeia Maracaña (Maracaña Village). From the start, the plan was to create a cultural center, where workshops on Indigenous traditions, storytelling, language classes, and other cultural activities would take place. Artwork inspired by Indigenous concerns soon cropped up, as

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did collective gardens, and the site became a locus for Indigenous rituals and ceremonies. The actions did not so much represent the reassertion of some distant Indigenous identity from the past, but rather a shared, novel Indigenous identity among individuals from a variety of ethnic backgrounds who were now bound in a common struggle. Moves by the government to demolish the building to create a parking lot in advance of the 2014 World Cup intensified the confrontation, and shared identity among members of the movement (Nitahara, 2017). Indigenous groups are also making moves to assert authority over post-colonial institutions. Latin American universities have studied Indigenous peoples since inception, but largely through an approach that viewed them as specimens, as objects of inquiry. In the 1990s, the Indigenous Intercultural Universities emerged to challenge that approach. They incorporate Indigenous knowledge to train Indigenous community leaders in topics such as Intercultural Medicine, Indigenous Law, and SelfDetermined Development. The idea is to embrace and practice, rather than study, Indigenous culture and knowledge. The universities number 25 in ten countries, offer a virtual component as well, and they have graduated over 2000 since the mid-2000s. In the cities and beyond, Indigenous groups increasingly look to media and communications to maintain, and showcase, identities. Ñuquanchik, launched in 2016, is the first television news program broadcast entirely in Quechua, the language of the Incan Empire still spoken by over four million in Peru. Brazil followed that same year, when Radio Yandê came online as the first wholly Indigenous station in the country. But other groups meet resistance, as in Guatemala, where the rural areas retain a heavy Indigenous presence. Radio broadcasts would help, but they face prohibitive license fees of over $25,000. In defiance, the Asociación Mujb’ab’l Yol (which means “meeting of ideas in a Mayan dialect) created a series of radios communitarios (community radio stations), to inform the 25 major language groups throughout the mountainous countryside of Guatemala. The network proved critical as an information source and counter to “fake news” and rumors surrounding the COVID-19 pandemic, but they still work under constant threat of closure as “pirate stations” (Mussapp, 2021). Pop culture has also benefited from Indigenous currents, which directly challenge conventional views of Indigenous culture as a traditional artifact in a modern world. For example, hip hop bands such as Balam Ajpu reference pre-Columbian texts and incorporate sacred fire ceremonies as they engage in storytelling to reflect upon the contemporary conditions of Mayan youth in Guatemala (Bell, 2017). Other groups include the rhymes of resistance that flow in Guarani from Brô MC’s in Brasil, and in Emberá from Linaje Originarios in Colombia. Advertencia Lírika is an all-female band in Oaxaca, Mexico that raps about Indigenous women’s issues. Alleviating the marginalization of the Indigenous is not simply a matter of principle flowing from compassion and due regard for basic human rights. Societies throughout Latin America have much to gain from the greater inclusion of the Indigenous, and Indigenous empowerment has blazed the trail to democratization in many cases. Analysts in the 1990s recognized that the frail democracies of the region required decentralization to increase government accountability and

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responsiveness. One of the first examples was the Law of Popular Participation in Bolivia, which allowed Indigenous communities to incorporate traditional norms (usos y costumbres) for the selection of local leaders, who in turn decided on the allocation of municipal funds. The emergence of local leaders and awareness of Indigenous mobilization across communities created a network that invigorated the social movements and political party which ultimately gave the country its first Indigenous president, Evo Morales, in 2006. For the first time, a majority of the population felt a connection with their president (Postero, 2007). The Constitution of Colombia incorporated usos y costumbres to govern its Indigenous reserve territories, and Indigenous communities throughout the Mexican states of Oaxaca and Chiapas also embrace these traditional norms at the local level. And Indigenous identity itself has a newfound appeal for the national identities of many countries. The constitutions of Ecuador and Bolivia define the countries as “plurinational,” which challenges assimilationist models of citizenship and places national identity not within “an imagined community,” but rather within the very act of embracing many imagined communities. This approach has increasingly informed discussions on nationalism in Latin America, and offers lessons to Canadian, U.S, and European approaches that struggle with federative arrangements to accommodate multiculturalism (Merino, 2018). Another Indigenous idea of significance to contemporary issues is that of “buen vivir.” As individuals throughout the world increasingly recognize the destructiveness of the consumer culture, the importance of the environment and impact of climate change, increasingly divided polities, and the need to prioritize sustainability, the traditional Andean notion of buen vivir (roughly translated as “good living”) offers an alternative. Buen vivir comes from the Andean Indigenous cosmovision of sumak kawsay, and revolves not around individual well-being and interest, but rather on community strengthening, cultural enrichment, and setting aside goals of exploitation and enrichment when interacting with nature. The Constitution of Ecuador incorporates the idea in its preamble, which calls for “a new form of public coexistence, in diversity and in harmony with nature to achieve the good way of living, the sumak kawsay” and “a society that respects, in all its dimensions, the dignity of individuals and community groups.” These calls for new relationships, alternative views of political participation and the use of space, along with knowledge of traditional medicines, and the Indigenous impact on art, architecture, music, literature, and more have enriched and can further contribute to Latin American societies and paths of development. And so the Indigenous face a number of struggles in contemporary Latin America. The manifestation and intensity of these struggles vary across the region, but in the aggregate we can identify several challenges before we move on to the following section which surveys the rise of the contemporary Indigenous movement, and how it has responded to these struggles. In short, the literature on the Indigenous in Latin America highlights the following struggles: Autonomy over Identity This chapter posits the struggle for identity, and collective identity more specifically, as the most fundamental struggle that Indigenous peoples

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have faced. Without a collective identity, solidarity is difficult because one is unable to readily recognize the group to which one belongs nor work with them to seek change. Organization, mobilization, and any form of collective political pressure becomes all but impossible. Identity is also important because in so far as societies create positions of status along race, ethnicity, gender, region, and other socially constructed identities, individuals find themselves lodged in a hierarchy that either empowers or suppresses them. The Indigenous were all but denied the very existence of an identity when European colonizers first approached them as sub-human, then quashed identities with all-encompassing references to “indios.” Moreover, these imposed identities were used to mark and subordinate Indigenous peoples, who sat at the lowest rungs in the colonial and post-colonial casta social hierarchy. That struggle for identity remains, and not just as a struggle against discrimination and issues of status, or impediments to mobilization. Even when governments develop programs and extend support to aid Indigenous groups, the authenticity of an Indigenous identity may be contested. In the past, language and knowledge of cultural traditions were more heavily relied upon to determine Indigenous status and eligibility for government support or autonomy over Indigenous lands. Considering that many Indigenous have survived centuries of poverty, exclusion, and discrimination that have diluted or even extinguished many cultural practices, one can see that if the Indigenous were long repressed for being Indigenous, many now face continued exclusion for failing to be “Indigenous enough. Consider the case of the Cucupá who look back upon a pre-Columbian history as a fishing people who reaped the riches of what is now the Colorado River and settled throughout its banks in northern Mexico. But this river now runs dry due to usage by the United States and the bustling border cities of Mexico. Over time, the Cucupá migrated to the delta channels that empty into the Sea of Cortez. As they struggled to survive, many emigrated and more and more took up Spanish as their primary language. But they preserved many fishing practices and the rituals that accompanied catches. So when the Mexican government declared their fishing areas in the Sea of Cortez to be protected wildlife zones in the twenty-first century and limited their access, they petitioned for ancestral fishing rights. Authorities continue to deny them full access due to limited knowledge of their Indigenous tongue, intermarriage with non-tribal members, and, most callously, the fact that they desire to fish in the coastal waters though their name translates to “people of the river.” Official efforts to support Indigenous cultures will fail if they rely on rigid, objective criteria, rather than forms of self-identification (World Bank, 2015, p. 22). Presumably well-intentioned policies to enhance tourist destinations with programs that enhance cultural activities and awareness of Indigenous life can also result in new forms of exclusion and violations of rights. In appealing to the genuine interest of tourists to learn more about the cultural diversity of their destinations, governments may support programs that encourage traditional dance and ceremonies in staged events, license individuals to stroll local plazas in Indigenous dress for photo opportunities, or encourage participatory activities with shamanistic rituals and even the guided use of hallucinogenic plants to connect with a spirit world. Such representations of Indigenous peoples all too easily exoticize and contribute to the

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image that Indigenous persons are innately different, grounded far back in time, and are unable or unwilling to adapt. Cultural tourism can be a boon to Indigenous identity and empowerment if it focuses on education rather than performance, and allows Indigenous groups (rather than travel agencies) to control their own identities so that they are not appropriated and commodified by others (Baud & Ypeij, 2009). Social Inclusion In terms of empowerment and dignity, inclusion means little if conducted absent control of one’s identity. In its Report on the World Social Situation, the United Nations defined social exclusion as “a state in which individuals are unable to participate fully in economic, social, political and cultural life, as well as the process leading to and sustaining such a state” (United Nations 2016). The concept of social exclusion is important, because it presents a more holistic, relational, and process-oriented portrait of human development. All of the statistics that illustrate the dire situation of Indigenous peoples in meeting basic needs such as food, sanitation, shelter, and health ultimately offer a portrait of poverty, but this is an outcome of social exclusion. Social exclusion, then, is the process that creates poverty (though it too can be an outcome in so far as feedback loops from poverty reinforce social exclusion). At a conceptual level, we can identify social exclusion as we assess disparities in access to resources, disparities in political participation, and denials of opportunities. Although the United Nations was not the first to use the term, the attention is has given to social inclusion is significant because the organization incorporated it into its Agenda 2030, which laid out 17 sustainable development goals to chart developmental paths that “leave no one behind” and that are addressed by programs which are formulated and implemented through processes that “include all segments of society” (United Nations, 2015). Of course, social exclusion affects many groups in society. United Nations documents rightly give due regard to other marginalized or otherwise vulnerable groups based on gender, age, sexuality, disability, citizenship, class, and more. But there is an important concept here that has considerable significance to Indigenous persons, and one that again points to the importance of identity. Intersectionality refers to the multitude of identities that converge upon a person and affect their status and privilege within society. No individual is solely Indigenous. That person may also be female, gay, disabled, poor, and regularly migrate to a neighboring country for work. All individuals hold multiple identities, and some might offer more advantage and others less advantage in society and in life opportunities. But all too often, many Indigenous have disadvantageous social identities layered upon each other. The commodity boom failed to proportionately benefit the Indigenous because they represent the poorest of the poor, supportive government programs may have lacked cultural competence, and many Indigenous still live in rural areas where the boom was more likely to mean displacement than job opportunities. Intersectionality also leaves Indigenous persons more vulnerable to climate change because so many live in marginalized rural areas with little infrastructure, and due to their close relationship to the environment and natural resources. As Indigenous groups mobilize to address issues of inclusion, political participation is particularly important because it opens the opportunities to regularly influence

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decision making in government. Governments can support the political participation of Indigenous groups through a host of measures. These include the ease of registration for Indigenous social movements or political parties; voting procedures to accommodate Indigenous participation; the use of ethnic quotas on voting lists or government appointments; nondiscriminatory districting or apportionment procedures in electoral laws; legislative seats expressly reserved for Indigenous representation; the creation of autonomous regions in Indigenous territories; constitutional protections of Indigenous rights and patrimony; creating state agencies for Indigenous affairs; and strengthening informed consent regulations when policies affect Indigenous territories or issues (Arceneaux, 2021). Protection The struggle for protection ranges from efforts to protect and promote the cultural heritage of Indigenous peoples and to support intellectual property rights over Indigenous knowledge, to efforts to recognize ancestral territories and protect them from encroachment by large landowners or corporate interests, to ensuring the security of individuals and their access to justice. Some of these efforts appear ceremonial, as when the United Nations designates World Heritage sites, convenes international conferences to discuss Indigenous affairs, or directs its subsidiaries such as the UN Development Program to study an issue of importance to Indigenous peoples. But even if these actions or others by international organizations, transnational networks, or nongovernmental organizations lack enforcement power, they can place the spotlight on Indigenous concerns and even establish new norms. Direct threats from the global arena come from corporate entities. Pharmaceutical, cosmetic, food, and medical companies see lucrative opportunities in Latin America, one of the most biodiverse regions in the world. And as the search for more exotic flora and fauna continues, these corporations push deeper into lands inhabited or claimed by Indigenous groups who themselves often hold intimate knowledge of natural resources. Fortunately, the Indigenous movement took off at about the same time that various international trade agreements were negotiated in the 1990s (see below). In this case, governments shared cause with their Indigenous communities, although the strongest protections have come from the Andean countries. Nonetheless, corporations can negotiate the terms of these protections to their advantage (Jaramillo, 2019). Extractive industries searching for oil, natural gas, and minerals, along with agribusiness and ranching interests represent a more direct threat from the global arena for most Indigenous groups (though many of these industries and interests come from the domestic sector, as is especially the case in Brazil). Unlike in the case of patent rights, governments here often place themselves at odds with Indigenous interests as they look to foreign investments as sources of tax revenue. And it is not just displacement from land, but also the diversion of water flows, pollution, and contamination of the land that threaten Indigenous livelihoods. To help protect Indigenous rights in its Amazon regions, in 2020 the Constitutional Court of Colombia collaborated with the NGO, Amazon Conservation Team, to create outreach programs with educational materials, collect accessible archives of government documents related to Indigenous territories, and translate significant

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judicial rulings into the 26 languages in use by Indigenous peoples (Amazon Conservation Team, 2021). But the global arena also offers avenues for protection. When rebuffed by judicial channels in their own countries, Indigenous countries can look to international courts. The InterAmerican Court of Human Rights, located in San José, Costa Rica, was created in 1979 to adjudicate compliance with the American Convention on Human Rights, a human rights treaty adopted by the Organization of American States in 1948. Most Latin American states have accepted the contentious jurisdiction of the court, which allows it to accept petitions from citizens, adjudge alleged violations of the convention, and even levy penalties. The Human Rights Council of the United Nations has an “Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples” which consults with Indigenous groups and advises the council. But it, and the council, are not contentious instruments. When made aware of grievances the expert mechanism and council simply report and offer recommendations. Similarly, there are a host of international human rights treaties relevant to Indigenous issues, the most comprehensive of which is the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (see below). But this treaty, unlike many other human rights treaties but not all, lacks a monitoring mechanism to, at a minimum, publish periodic reports on compliance. At a more mundane level, most Indigenous persons, like most persons, think about everyday protection in regard to two fundamental state functions- that of the police and the local courts. In most Latin American countries, there are significant deficiencies here. Language barriers and inadequate cultural outreach impair access. Often, especially in the countryside, the police and courts are absent. When their presence is felt there and in the cities, it is often subverted by corruption. Even with these systematic deficiencies that affect everyone in society, surveys show that Indigenous persons are less likely than most to trust courts or believe that the country offers sufficient protections of fundamental human rights (Gao et al., 2019). Indeed, the inability of governments to ensure the rule of law has led many Indigenous groups to form armed self-defense organizations (autodefensas). But there is nothing inherent within Indigenous culture that creates a greater propensity for vigilantism. One might assume that Indigenous peoples turn to vigilantism due to the imposition of “alien” justice systems that conflict with traditional methods of conflict resolution (e.g., Handy, 2004). But the turn to vigilantism less often represents a rejection of the state, than an attempt to replace the state due to its absence. Hence, the empirical evidence does not show a greater use of vigilantism in areas with more concentrated Indigenous populations. Rather, vigilantism is more strongly associated with inequality generally and Indigenous persons tend to suffer from lower incomes. In short, income inequality leads to security inequality, and the poor, many of whom happen to be Indigenous, turn to vigilantism (Phillips, 2016). But local initiatives to assume control over justice can be the result of collaboration with the government. On the one hand, a government can enhance the cultural sensitivity in the administration of justice to increase access. But often such efforts come with a heavy dose of patronism. Mandating interpreters and translators, and providing legal guidelines that require judges to “consider” cultural values, can have a

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condescending effect. A more empowering approach would have government devolve authority to traditional systems of conflict resolution (Brinks, 2019).

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Contemporary Indigenous Movements

The twentieth century opened with Indigenous identities appropriated by indigenismo movements in countries across Latin America. But changes in the rhetoric from the international arena appeared to offer hope. Woodrow Wilson (1918) promoted the idea of self-determination as part of his Fourteen Points. This idea promotes the right of nations (defined as a group of people who share a cultural heritage) to self-government. Self-determination was to be an integral component for a world he hoped could extricate itself from the scourge of war. Although directed at the holdings of European countries in distant continents, the idea resonated with Indigenous groups who sat under the yoke of settler societies not only in Latin America, but also in the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and elsewhere. But it soon became clear that support for self-determination would always play second fiddle to the protection of state sovereignty. In 1923, Cayuga Chief Deskaheh, speaker for the Six Nations in Canada, visited Geneva in hopes of speaking at the plenary session of the newly formed League of Nations. He was hoping to gain support for efforts to preserve Indigenous languages and cultural practices in his country. But the League did not even allow him into the building, holding that only Canada had jurisdiction over the Six Nations, and so he had no right to speak. Things were not so different early on under the United Nations. Unsurprisingly, given the horrors of Nazi actions during WWII, The UN adopted the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (1951) as its first human rights treaty. Curiously, the original draft contained references to cultural genocide, but these were dropped as revisions took place to shelter the assimilationist policies of settler states (MacDonald, 2019). A case more directly relevant to Latin America came in 1950, when the world body convened field missions to study Indigenous herbs and plants sourced for international narcotics trafficking. One such plant is coca, which grows in the highlands of Andean states. Coca leaf is sacred to many of the Indigenous peoples of the region, who have used it in rituals and celebrations for millennia. It also provides nutrition, and a portable food source. But in the nineteenth century, a German scientist isolated and extracted cocaine from the leaf. Illegal production and trafficking grew through the twentieth century, adding to the international narcotics trade which had emerged as a priority for the United Nations. That cocaine could be traced to coca plant, and that the plants were used by Indigenous groups was common knowledge, and so the UN sent a field mission to evaluate the use of coca. Two diplomats and two medical doctors from the United States, France, Venezuela, and Hungary visited Bolivia and Peru, though they never made it far outside the major cities and into the countryside. Most importantly, they ignored the cultural

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aspects of coca, and instead took a pharmacological approach that examined coca use from the context of the Indigenous as a backward, uncivilized people. They wrote: The chewing of coca leaves is not the cause but the result of the poor hygienic conditions and low social status of the Indian. . .The toxic action of the cocaine makes him forget his hard life. . .(If) his work becomes more interesting, or his life approaches a little nearer to that of higher-class standards, then the habit disappears (United Nations, 1950).

According to the report, coca chewing was a sickness to be treated rather than a cultural practice to be respected, and coca itself was the equivalent of cocaine. Hence, when the United Nations adopted the Single Convention on Narcotics Drugs in 1961 (which remains the chief international agreement on narcotics), it listed coca as a schedule 1 drug, the most restrictive categorization. And the governments of Bolivia and Peru agreed. After all, at this time their leaders traced their bloodlines to colonial settlements and had little in common with the rural, cocachewing Indigenous. The narcotics convention illustrated the continued absence of Indigenous voices from national and international politics at the start of the 1960s. This continued even in the midst of decolonization, when the United Nations attempted to walk a tightrope in efforts to promote self-determination and to protect the sovereignty of its member states at the same time. In one legalistic stroke, the United Nations excused itself from Indigenous rights in settler countries with the “blue water rule” found in General Assembly Resolution 1541 (1960). This document stated that only overseas territories, separated by “blue water” from the colonial power, could be considered colonized lands and thus be eligible for sovereign statehood under the principle of self-determination. But things would change dramatically during this decade, which saw an upsurge in mass movements by students, workers, women, and persons of color in the United States and Europe. And in the United States, Canada, New Zealand, and Australia, Indigenous mobilization also took place. Signature events, such as the 19-month occupation of Alcatraz Island off San Francisco beginning in 1969, opposition to the “White Paper” initiative to fully assimilate Indigenous persons in Canada, the creation of a tent embassy by aboriginal groups in front of the parliament of Australia in 1972, and the Land Marches organized by the Maori in New Zealand, highlighted the emergence of a global Indigenous movement. It is not surprising that mobilization occurred more dramatically outside of Latin America at this time where, in the language of social movement theorists, there existed a more favorable opportunity structure. During this time, many countries of Latin America fell to military rule and the systematic repression of all forms of mass mobilization. The Mapuche in Chile, who saw much of their land seized during the “Pacification of Auracanía” in the nineteenth century, benefitted from land reform programs in the 1960s, and saw hope for greater empowerment after the election of socialist President Salvador Allende in 1970. Land redistributions continued and a 1972 law (Law 17.729) created an Institute of Indigenous Development, a Commission for the Restitution of Usurped Lands, and for the first time recognized the

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distinction of Mapuche culture and identity. But after the 1973 military coup, the Pinochet dictatorship abolished collective land rights, opened Mapuche lands to private investment, and withdrew their legal status as a separate Indigenous class. Mapuche leaders hoping to organize faced repressive restrictions on civil liberties. Many were imprisoned, tortured, or disappeared. Military regimes throughout the region took similar measures against activists. In Brazil, the 1964–1985 military regime dismissed Indigenous Amazonian communities as savages that stood in the way of development in the Amazon, a cornerstone of its economic policy. Though political forces at the national level clamped down on activism, transnational networks began to extend support from the outside. Ironically, some of the earliest significant actors were Christian churches which had historically aligned themselves to the elite classes in Latin America. But the sudden commitment to Indigenous rights and empowerment was not the result of changes in doctrine or theological orientations. Rather, through the twentieth century the Catholic Church faced an upsurge in competition for Indigenous souls from various Protestant sects. The ecclesiastical hierarchy of the Catholic Church restrained it from some of the most successful evangelical strategies used by the Protestants. In particular, Protestant missionaries translated the Bible into Indigenous languages to offer them direct access, they allowed for local level autochthonous churches and recruited Indigenous clergymen, and directed resources toward social and welfare services for impoverished Indigenous groups. Catholic bishops and priests were thus “forced by competition to innovate on cultural and social grounds,” and a history of “having sided with the rich and powerful in the past forced them to adopt more radical measures to prove their long-term commitment to the cause of poor Indigenous Catholic parishioners” (Trejo, 2009, p. 324). Hence, when the World Council of Churches, a Protestant organization, met in Barbados to convene the first Conference of the International World Group for Indigenous Affairs in 1971, according to one analyst, this event “launched the international Indigenous rights movement” (Brysk, 1996, p. 44). Sectors of the Catholic Church countered with a commitment to liberation theology, which interprets the gospel through the lived experiences of oppressed peoples and prioritizes issues of social justice. Liberation theology “played a critical role in establishing Indigenous movements” (Brysk, 2000, p. 194) and religious leaders overall during this time “were the most frequent (and periodically successful) interlocutors for Indian interests” (Brysk, 2000, p. 9). Indeed, the Conference of Bishops helped articulate some of the first demands for Indigenous rights in the Amazon region in a series of conferences through the 1970s, and the Catholic Church convened the First Indigenous Congress on October 13–15, 1974, the 500th year anniversary of the birth of Bartolomé de Las Casas. By the 1980s, there were 160,000 missionaries in Latin America, 47% of whom were foreign and largely concentrated in Indigenous areas (Martí i Puig, 2010, pp. 77–78). Things were changing within international organizations as well. The “blue water rule” had largely blocked Indigenous mobilization around the principle of selfdetermination, but growing international action on human rights offered another route to promote Indigenous concerns. In 1957, The International Labor

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Organization (ILO) drafted the first human rights instrument directed exclusively toward Indigenous persons. The Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention (no. 107) was path breaking, but it did take a patronistic approach, describing the Indigenous as “less advanced” and proposing assimilation as the best method to protect rights. Indigenous traditions and claims to ancestral lands were to be respected, but only in so far as they were not incompatible with national laws. Still, for the first time, an international document recognized Indigenous persons within independent countries, rather than solely within colonial territories. Later on, in 1971, for the first time the United Nations decided to examine the rights of Indigenous persons. Under Resolution 1589, the Economic and Social Council called on its Commission on Human Rights to study discrimination against Indigenous peoples. The task to do so then went to the Sub-Commission on the Prevention of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities, which in turn charged a special rapporteur, José Martínez Cobo. The assignment was monumental, covering Indigenous groups worldwide and requiring careful negotiations with governments for field studies within their territories. It took until 1982 for the report to be completed, but the passage of time proved advantageous to Indigenous groups outside the more developed countries that had a later start on mobilization. As time passed, Indigenous groups- especially in Latin America- reflected on their localized identities to recognize the connections they shared with each other. One analyst notes, “The process of preparing the study created new bonds and alliances among Indigenous peoples, who realized they had shared problems from similar historical injustices and that they had to act together at the international level” (Stamatopoulou, 1994, p. 68). Indeed, as the study progressed, its authors repeatedly encouraged Indigenous groups to reach across borders to create international councils and organizations, because this was how NGOs (nongovernmental organizations) gained status at the UN (Minde, 2008, p. 56). An especially important event occurred in 1977, when the United Nations convened a conference focused on issues of discrimination against Indigenous peoples in the Americas, the first of its kind. Those Indigenous delegates who showed up received a very different reception than that experienced by Cayuga Chief Deskaheh in 1923. Not only did they make it in the door, but they were heard. At the conference, Indigenous groups raised specific points that would significantly influence international efforts on Indigenous affairs. Specifically, the Indigenous delegates: (1) recommended the use of the term “peoples” in place of “minorities”; (2) urged a rejection of the patronistic approach found in ILO 107; (3) proposed a permanent UN working group focused on Indigenous issues; and, (4) called for the adoption of an international declaration on the collective rights of Indigenous peoples (DOCIP, 2021). When the Martínez Cobo report appeared in 1983, it complied. The report forcefully turned the debate away from strategies of integration, recognizing the “widespread and open rejection by Indigenous peoples” of this idea (Martínez Cobo, 1983), provided a definition of Indigenous peoples that dismissed the artificial distinction drawn by the “blue water rule,” and called on member states of the United Nations to adopt a convention on Indigenous rights.

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After the Sub-Commission received the report, it created a Working Group on Indigenous Populations (WGIP) under the Sub- Commission of Human Rights, and it immediately started work on a declaration of Indigenous rights. Significantly, the WGIP sidestepped UN rules by implementing an “open door policy” for all interested Indigenous peoples- any individual or group who identified as Indigenous could participate. Officially, attendees at UN meetings require credentials and observer status, but no member states objected to the policy. According to one analyst, “every self-respecting Indigenous organisation on earth aimed to participate,” and “the yearly meetings in the WGIP under the UN umbrella became the most important meeting place for the (Indigenous) movement.” As testimony to its increased attractiveness over time, about 100 persons and 32 NGOs attended the first meeting of the WGIP in 1982, and by 1994, these numbers rose to 790 persons and 267 NGOs (Minde, 2008, pp. 73–74). Of course, Indigenous groups organized before they received support from churches and international organizations, but these outside groups not only spurred further movement but perhaps more importantly, they helped shift the identity of Indigenous groups toward a more global consciousness of their shared plight (Martí i Puig, 2010). This shift created a curious dynamic for Indigenous mobilization through the latter-twentieth century. Specifically, Indigenous groups which for so long had been focused on local concerns suddenly burst onto the international scene, bypassing the national level. While national organizations were not unheard of in Latin America, many fell under constraining state-driven corporatist arrangements, and the more autonomous faced repressive environments under the military regimes of the 1960s and 1980s. Also, the resources held by Indigenous groups proved more propitious to international than national mobilization. Social and economic marginalization created barriers to participation in domestic affairs, but this same marginalization attracted the attention of international media and proved a rallying frame to gain support from social activists and academic organizations abroad. Fact is, “international activity requires fewer resources than domestic mobilization and is more amenable to information politics,” which is so central to social movements (Brysk, 1996, p. 46; also see Puig i Martí 2010, pp. 79–80). Changes at the international level continued. In 1989, the ILO revised its Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention to create one of the most effective international instruments available to Indigenous peoples. ILO Convention No. 169, as it is known, shifted the focus away from protection within the context of integration, and toward the unqualified obligation of states to protect and support the cultural practices and autonomous economic development of Indigenous peoples. It also emphasized self-identification as the primary criterion for Indigenous status, and most notably introduced the concept of “free, prior, and informed consent” (FPIC) on all issues that affect Indigenous peoples. FPIC calls on governments to consult with Indigenous groups, especially in matters that affect natural resources on ancestral lands, and in government programs designed to promote traditional activities or those directed toward social services for Indigenous communities. The 1990s would commence with high hopes on Indigenous matters. In many ways the decade represented a “golden age” of Indigenous mobilization in Latin

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America, although this might be better described as a “long decade” which reached into the 2000s. One prominent analyst and diplomat provided the following description of the change in an essay descriptively titled “Return of the Native”: Back in the nineteen sixties there may have been only a handful of formal organizations created and run by Indigenous persons and pursuing objectives of interest to Indigenous peoples as such. By the middle nineties the turn of the century we are speaking of many hundreds of such associations, of all types and kinds: local level organizations, intercommunal and regional associations, formally structured interest groups, national-level federations, leagues and unions, as well as cross-national alliances and coalitions with well-developed international contacts and activities (Stavenhagen, 2013, p. 71).

Efforts to contest the 500th anniversary of Columbus’ arrival in the Americas in 1992 provided energy and kept Indigenous issues in the global limelight. As governments throughout the Americas and Europe prepared for celebrations and gala events for the quincentennial, a resistance movement that began in 1989 in South America and gradually made its way through Central America and Mexico forced officials to reconsider their plans and recognize Indigenous concerns. Marches, strikes, and occupations of government buildings throughout the Americas sustained solidarity among Indigenous groups throughout the hemisphere. And global actors maintained the spotlight. In 1992, the Nobel Committee awarded its Peace Prize to an Indigenous person, Rigoberta Menchú, for the very first time. Menchú helped lead opposition to the Columbus Anniversary, but the committee saw greater significance in her efforts to achieve social justice in her home country of Guatemala. In doing so, the committee not only recognized her activism, but also the atrocities in the 1980s that surrounded military rule and civil conflict in Guatemala, which left some 200,000 mostly Indigenous dead. Menchú’s father, mother, and brother were brutally tortured and killed in a conflict that has since been labeled genocide due to the systematic targeting of Indigenous communities. Alongside this continuing struggle for rights and against repression, the 1992 “Earth Summit” in Rio de Janeiro provided another forum for the Indigenous, but from a different angle. Beginning at this UN conference, Indigenous peoples would increasingly present themselves and be recognized as integral to sustainability issues as “stewards of the environment,” with knowledge systems deemed critical to addressing environmental challenges (Masaquiza Jerez, 2021). As if to underscore the sudden realization of Indigenous affairs and their contributions, the United Nations General Assembly declared 1995–2004 to be the International Decade of the World’s Indigenous Peoples (it would follow up, declaring 2005–2015 as the Second International Decade of the World’s Indigenous Peoples). Indigenous groups did not sit still as international attention came their way. In Chiapas, Mexico, Indigenous groups known as Zapatistas occupied cities in January 1994 to protest the enactment of the North American Free Trade Agreement, which opened Indigenous territories to investment and commodities to competition from corporate interests in the United States and Canada. But from the start, the movement also made clear that it was reacting to the historic isolation of Indigenous communities and denial of sufficient government services in health and education, and called for greater autonomy for local governments. In Ecuador, a variety of

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Indigenous groups united behind the Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador (CONAIE) in 1986, and became a political force in the 1990s. Rallying around opposition to IMF-imposed austerity measures, land rights, and greater access to education and health services, the organization led popular uprisings that forced government concessions in these areas, and even led to the removal of presidents in 1997 and 2000. Indeed, in regard to opposition to neoliberal programs in Latin American countries, one study found that between 1995 and 2001, Ecuador ranked first in the number of arrests, second in protest campaigns, third in protest events, and fourth in the number of casualties and deaths associated with protest activity. And CONAIE played a central role (Almeida, 2007). In Bolivia, insufficient implementations of policies designed to decentralize government, and coca eradication campaigns in accord with the U.S. war on drugs stirred Indigenous mobilization in the 1990s, only to be followed by the “water wars” of 2000 and “gas wars” of 2003 associated with privatization efforts. On the other hand, in Peru the authoritarian government of Alberto Fujimori mercilessly responded to a violent insurgency by the Maoist-inspired Sendero Luminoso, leaving the rural Indigenous caught in the middle and stifling opportunities for the Indigenous to effectively organize. With the arrival of the twenty-first century, it seemed that the time had come for Indigenous peoples to make their mark on national politics. Indigenous movements had brought presidents to power in Bolivia (Evo Morales, elected in 2006) and Ecuador (Rafael Correa, elected in 2007), and found allies in the Pink Tide governments that were sweeping the region. But the rise of the neo-developmentalist state, though it would initially bring hope, would push governments throughout the region not only away from, but toward conflict with, Indigenous priorities. The neo-developmentalist state emerged as a response to the inequality, poverty, and instability associated with the dominant neoliberal model of the 1990s, as well as popular dissatisfaction with governments under the model that were far more keen on placating foreign corporate interests than with representing their people. The neo-developmentalist state would prioritize growth with equity, and look to the state rather than the market for economic leadership. As such, this strategy placed great emphasis on public investments in infrastructure, health, education, and redistributive policies. The pivot toward popular interests and their demands for dignity and empowerment, the prioritization of multiculturalism over the market and consumer culture, and the rebuffing of international dictates and traditional elites appeared to be a boon for the Indigenous movement (Calderón & Castells, 2020). The neo-developmentalist model has been credited with the tremendous economic advancement that took place in East Asia in the latter half of the twentieth century. But the model could not be so neatly transported to Latin America largely due to weak political institutions and fragmented political party systems (and it should not be forgotten that authoritarian governments in East Asia implemented the model). The need to appeal to popular pressures opened the door to charismatic leaders who, once in power, lacked political party systems that would otherwise have maintained links to civil society. Riding the commodity boom, the neo-developmentalist program saw early successes, but its leadership grew more isolated from the public, opening the door to corruption and clientelism. Seeking to

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maintain growth and redistributive policies even as the commodity prices slumped, political leaders leaned more heavily on the extractive economy for exports, and sought out minerals, gas, and other natural resources, and accommodated large agribusinesses throughout their hinterlands. This brought them into direct conflict with Indigenous groups over issues of land ownership and land use (Calderón & Castells, 2020). Let us now evaluate the political changes that took place at the national level during this time period in order to assess what went wrong with Indigenous relations. Democratic institutions offered new instruments for Indigenous empowerment after the fall of authoritarian rule in the 1980s. Many countries took the opportunity to reform their constitutions, or even to draft entirely new constitutions to restore democracy. Constitutions serve a practical purpose as they lay out the powers of government structures, designate the source of legitimate authority, and describe the formation and implementation of law. But beyond the mechanics of the state, a constitution also projects an image of the country, expresses the rights and duties of citizens, celebrates certain values, stipulates aspirations and goals, and thereby defines the national identity of the country. As we have seen, Indigenous voices were rarely heard, and at best circumscribed, in previous conversations and designations of national identity in Latin America. But things would be different after the most recent transitions to democracy. Many constitutions now take a more pluralist approach as they explicitly recognize Indigenous groups and assign special protections and rights, and even differentiated citizenship that grants recognition of multiple official languages and access to bilingual education, respects Indigenous justice and self-governance, protects communal land ownership, and creates special districts or electoral procedures to ensure representation (Van Cott, 2000). At a minimum, these constitutions promote a multicultural approach to national identity, one that essentially looks to mechanisms of affirmative action to address Indigenous identity. But for many of the Indigenous, multiculturalism masks assimilation and fails to properly address the relations of power that have sidelined them through history. As an alternative, many promote interculturalism (or, interculturalidad). According to one analyst, while multiculturalism “promotes national unity by giving minorities a chance to participate on imposed terms, interculturalidad emerges from critical interpretation of political, social, and economic development.” As such, “it calls for the deconstruction of economic, political, social, and cognitive realities. . .” and the “. . .reconstruction of sustainable and emancipatory life ways, formulated with direct input from Indigenous people, based on their experiences and cosmovisions” (Wickstrom & Young 2014, p. 12). Multiculturalism may allow for differences to be respected and maintained, but interculturalidad calls for wholesale cultural change as a respectful exchange of ideas and norms occurs. The constitutions of Bolivia (2009) and Ecuador (2008) embrace interculturalidad by describing themselves as plurinational states. They offer explicit critiques of neoliberalism and calls for decolonization to empower marginalized peoples. Hence, in its preamble, Bolivia’s constitution asserts: “We have left the colonial, republican, and neo-liberal State in the past. We take on the historic challenge of collectively constructing a Unified

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Social State of Pluri-National Communitarian law. . .committed to the full development and free determination of the peoples.” In Ecuador’s constitution, the promotion of buen vivir captures its approach to interculturalidad. Significant constitutional changes made to recognize, protect, and/or promote Indigenous rights through the 1990s were implemented in Guatemala (1985), Nicaragua (1986), Brazil (1988), Colombia (1991), Mexico (1992), Paraguay (1992), Peru (1993), Argentina (1994), and Venezuela (1999). The revisions offer a framework for more representative, legitimate, and authentic states, but whether this actually effects change in the social status, economic well-being, and political empowerment of Indigenous peoples is another question. Some provisions are treated as aspirational, and implemented partially or not at all, or interpreted so as to minimize their impact. For instance, Article 231 of Brazil’s constitution bars the expulsion of Indigenous peoples from their lands, but a 2009 court decision introduced the concept of “marco temporal,” which holds that the article applies only to lands occupied previous to October 5, 1988, the date the constitution came into effect. The problem is that many Indigenous communities had been dispossessed of their lands previous to this date, and only gained the chance to reclaim their territories after the transition to democracy in 1985 (and three years hardly provided sufficient time). And other provisions found in other countries may not have the intended impact. Bolivia, Colombia and Venezuela reserve seats for Indigenous groups in their legislatures to ensure representation, but that also means larger parties often view the Indigenous vote as captured and no longer see a need to cater to their interests. Moreover, the designation of a limited number of seats can privilege some Indigenous groups at the expense of others, and create new divisions (Htun, 2016). The recognition of Indigenous territories can be a platform for self-governance, but their legal standing may be tenuous, they may not accurately fit the areas inhabited by the Indigenous, and the designation may serve more to exclude than to empower. In response to the Zapatista uprising, the Mexican government considered areas for self-governance in 2001. But some senators opposed the bill for fear that the grant might spur greater calls for autonomy, or even secession. The senate decided to delegate powers to create such areas to the state governments. This would give the areas the same status as cities (municipios), with a legal standing that can be modified or retracted at any time. In response, in 2003 the Zapatistas declared autonomy in five regions, called caracoles, that hold 27 autonomous municipalities. The caracoles refuse all government funding and are governed by Juntas de Buen Gobierno, to distinguish them from the “bad” government of the Mexican state. In 2019, the Zapatistas added six more caracoles. In Nicaragua, the government created two large autonomous regions along the Atlantic coast to accommodate the Indigenous Miskitos. This was done in 1987, but since then mestizo migrants have flooded the area to exploit forests and other natural resources, establish ranches, and even operate drug trafficking networks. Mestizos now hold most local government offices in the regions, and tensions remain high, as in 2015–2016 when dozens were killed in armed confrontations and hundreds of Miskitos fled for refuge in Honduras (NotiCen, 2016). Panama has a long tradition of

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establishing autonomous Indigenous regions, known as comarcas, reaching back to 1930. Nonetheless, one half of the Indigenous do not live in the comarcas, and many groups have not been granted one. But most importantly, because the comarcas are considered state property the government can dissolve or change them to serve other purposes, as when it flooded one comarca to build the Barro Blanco hydroelectric plant in 2016 (World Bank, 2018). Nonetheless, a recent court ruling that overruled a move by the government to deny a comarca to the Naso people may signal a strengthening of Indigenous rights in the country (NACLA, 2021). Even as national instruments to empower Indigenous peoples fell short in the long decade of the 1990s, international efforts continued and offered assistance. Most significantly, the “informed consent” provisions of ILO 169 have increasingly framed protections of Indigenous territories. Indeed, it is telling that while only 24 countries in the world have ratified this convention, 15 rest in Latin America. Still, the provision is not as clear as it seems. Peru assigns constitutional status to international treaties and passed a “prior consultation” law in 2012, but tensions remain. The government may not recognize a group if it does not hold “official status” as Indigenous and render it ineligible, some land-use designations may be exempt, private corporations that exploit Indigenous territories may claim that FPIC applies only to the government and not them, and precisely what it means to consult with a group and how is up for debate (note the reference to “consultation” rather than “consent”). FPIC, once put into practice, may result in little more than an open meeting sponsored by a mining corporation before extraction occurs. In Guatemala, Indigenous communities have held over 80 referenda under the rubric of the FPIC to display opposition to projects planned in their territories and to express the lack of consent. But none have been accepted by the government due to the lack of implementing legislation to grant the process legal status (Fultz, 2016). FPIC may not be the enforceable process desired by Indigenous activists, but as an increasing number of courts reference it, the provision may gain certainty and stronger standing over time. The United Nations continued its support during this time. In 2000, the Economic and Social Council created the Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues to advise it as well as raise awareness and collect information on Indigenous issues. And in 2007 the WGIP gave way to Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples which investigates human rights violations as an advisory body to the Human Rights Council. But the most prominent act of the UN came with the passage of the Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in 2007. The declaration is non-binding, but it does offer guiding principles and standards. It also heralds a normative turn in the international discourse on Indigenous matters- moving beyond calls to protect Indigenous peoples from violations and discrimination, and towards demands for autonomy and self-government. Nonetheless, the Declaration still bows to traditional sovereignty norms, with a passage emphasizing that it in no way means to impair the territorial integrity of any member state. One more action of note by the United Nations was its sponsorship of the first World Conference on Indigenous Peoples in 2014.

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Within the global arena, regional actors have had more practical impact. This is largely because most states in Latin America have accepted the contentious jurisdiction of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. In 2001, the court delivered a landmark decision in the case of Mayagna v. Nicaragua, in which for the first time it drafted a legally binding requirement for a government to recognize communal rights to land and resources. In 2008, the government of Nicaragua complied when it finalized the demarcation and titling of the land. More recently, this same court took Argentina to task for failing to guarantee Indigenous access to ancestral lands, despite a constitutional obligation to do so. The case, Lhaka Honhat Association v. Argentina (2020), is notable not only for the international jurisprudence applied to the national constitution, but also for its enforcement of Article 26 of the American Convention for Human Rights (1969), which protects the right to a healthy environment. The court was originally charged with adjudicating the American Convention, but with the 2016 passage of the American Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, it will likely be armed to better address Indigenous rights. Even with continued advocacy and action from the global arena, Indigenous groups still struggle at the national level. Transnational activities have stirred new norms that make it all but impossible to ignore Indigenous peoples as in the past. But when it comes to real questions of power, Indigenous peoples still have a long way to go. Part of the explanation rests in numbers. Recall that only Bolivia, Ecuador, Guatemala, Peru, and Mexico have substantial Indigenous populations (see Table 2.1). But even within these countries, organization can be difficult. First, regardless of the number, Indigenous peoples have their own divisions. Beyond distinctions in ethnicity, there are rural-urban splits, partisan differences, regional separations between highland and lowland groups, and age and gender also come into play. Religion can also dampen mobilization. The evangelical movement has become increasingly interested in conservative politics, and it cuts across Indigenous populations. This is especially the case in Guatemala, where the history of repression also dampens Indigenous mobilization. In 2007 Rigoberta Menchú ran for president but received just 3% of the vote. She tried again in 2011 and fared the same. Thelma Cabrera was the latest prominent Indigenous candidate, and she did better in the 2019 elections. Still, her 10% share of the vote put her in fourth place. Hence, although it may seem surprising given the history and current popularity and intrigue surrounding Indigenous cultural affairs, it is understandable why the Indigenous movement has yet to coalesce into a meaningful force in the national politics of any state. Indigenous peoples lack a critical mass to influence politics in most of the countries, and in those where they do form a sizable portion of the population, divisions may dull their impact. Moreover, should the Indigenous overcome these divisions, they still must confront deep-rooted pressures of the extractive economies and chronic institutional obstacles in the politics of most Latin American countries (specifically, weak party systems and powerful executives). In the only two countries that elected presidents with critical support from the Indigenous, the bond weakened over time. In Ecuador, Rafael Correa (2007–2017)

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recognized the growing importance of the Indigenous, but his connection increasingly appeared little more than tactical. He began with an innovative initiative that asked international donors to compensate the country for protecting the Yasuní Amazon region, where the largest proven oil-reserve in the country had been discovered. But by 2013 he opened the fragile landscape to drilling to help fund popular social programs. Relations with the Indigenous grew more tense as he applied “anti-terror” legislation to clamp down on protests. In Bolivia, Evo Morales (2006–2019) may have made a more genuine effort, but from the beginning his approach to political organization more closely aligned with trade unionists and coca growers. His moves to hold on to and concentrate power soured relations with Quechua and Aymara groups whose traditions valued power sharing and ongoing consultation. The flash point for Morales came in 2011 when he passed legislation for the construction of a highway through a national park and Indigenous territory, all to support oil and natural gas exploration. Morales then pressed for a referendum to allow him to run for a fourth term in 2016, and when it failed, he had a court overturn the result. Most Indigenous recognized the gains they achieved under Morales, but simply wanted to see a change in leadership. Ecuador and Bolivia underscore the tension between the neo-developmentalist state and Indigenous rights (Lalander & Lembke, 2018). The cases are instructive, but they also show that the tension is not inevitable. The real culprit rests in frail democratic institutions. The neo-developmentalist state offers the promise of economic growth with equity through its commitment to redistributive economic policies and social programs. In Latin America, this encourages populist politics that personalize governance and undermine the rule of law. Populism is not new to Latin America, but its most recent manifestation feeds the corrosive effects of neo-developmentalism. In the past, populist leaders such as Juan Perón (Argentina 1946–1955), Getúlio Vargas (Brazil, 1930–1945, 1951–1954), or Lázaro Cárdenas (Mexico, 1934–1940) looked to labor unions as a connection to the masses. But today in Latin America labor unions have crumbled, and most of the poor struggle as individuals in the informal economy. So populist leaders of today look to targeted spending on basic goods to create a connection with the masses and garner support. These may include conditional cash transfers, food subsidies, minimum wage mandates, price controls on utilities, and even giveaways of appliances or household items. While these may alleviate poverty, they also allow an executive to concentrate power, and this is especially the case in Latin America where presidents have long held exclusive policymaking privileges. Presidential politics grow yet more overbearing due to fragmented party systems, which strap legislatures and tilt the balance of power even more toward the executive. Ineffectual court systems fail to mediate, as presidents not only grow more powerful, but also more sheltered from popular pressures and more prone to corruption. This democratic setting leaves the Indigenous in a vulnerable, but still hopeful, position. Indigenous peoples have more autonomy over their identity that they had for centuries, and they can look to the global arena for support and to press their interests in regional courts and international instruments. But the economic forces in

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the global arena present the greatest challenges. Economies in dire need of diversification and that still rely on the export of natural resources or agriculture create direct conflict with Indigenous rights and livelihoods. After leaping from the local to the international in efforts to mobilize, Indigenous peoples now find themselves confronting impaired national political institutions. Similar to the plight of other marginalized groups, if there are gains to be made, the pathway rests in the strengthening of democratic politics.

2.4

Conclusion

The struggle of Indigenous peoples has been a very fundamental one centered on identity. That struggle has shown some success only recently, and has been pivotal to efforts to protect and enhance Indigenous rights. Indigenous peoples have long been strapped by the weight of economic inequality, which continues to hamper mobilization. But today, equipped with a deeper sense of political identity, due in no small part to supportive actors and processes from the global arena, Indigenous peoples are a meaningful force in the politics of many countries in Latin America. Their voices are heard, and their numbers increasingly appear when popular sectors take to the streets. Nonetheless, the next task is to advance from protest to governance, and here the Indigenous face tremendous challenges. The neo-developmentalist state gives greater priority to the extractive economy than to Indigenous interests, while executive power, fragmented party systems and legislatures, and ineffectual courts close off pathways to influence. If Indigenous peoples had been shut out of national politics for much of history, today there is no doubt that they can be heard knocking at the door. Time will tell whether the Indigenous will continue to knock more loudly, or become much more than a disruption and see that door open. The political consciousness of Indigenous peoples has advanced and is here to stay, the question now is whether national politics can catch up.

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Chapter 3

The Struggle for Citizenship: The Social Contract and the Urban Poor

What does it mean to be a citizen? To identify as a Bolivian, Chilean, Mexican, or citizen of some other country is to attach yourself to the heritage of that country, something that serves as a source of pride for many. Doing so creates a bond with others who hold a similar identification, allowing citizenship to play a formative role in the collective political consciousness of a large group of people. That connection contributes to the vibrancy of civil society, and to trust in democratic processes, whether one wins or loses. Citizenship, then, is a potential form of collective identity, just like ethnicity, nationality, gender, age, or any other group, but the determinative role played by the state distinguishes it. Citizenship is not just a source of identification, but it is also a legal status. One might desire to become a citizen, but the choice is determined by the state, which holds the ultimate authority to grant or deny citizenship. And the state plays a defining regulative role on the rights and duties that follow once one gains citizenship, be it through birth, naturalization or any other manner. This is captured by the concept of the social contract, which conceives of citizenship fundamentally as a relation between the individual and the state. In this relationship, individuals agree to submit to the authority of the state under the condition that the state protects certain rights, provides certain services, and stipulates certain duties (Lessnoff, 1990). In the classical conception of this exchange, the relationship is voluntary. Should the state renege on its obligations, its authority is no longer deemed to be legitimate, and individuals are no longer compelled to obey. So what does this mean for the urban poor in Latin America? Some of the urban poor may be migrants, and reside in countries where they lack citizenship status. They may hold certain rights as residents, and irrespective of their status they hold basic human rights, but their conditions are especially tenuous because they are subject to treatment different from that of citizens. But how do we apply the social contract to those who formally hold citizenship status, such as most of the urban poor, but do not receive the same protections or services of the state as compared to more privileged classes? Are they still citizens and do their conditions call the legitimacy of state authority into question? © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 C. L. Arceneaux, Political Struggle in Latin America, Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07904-7_3

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Beyond citizenship and the social contract, the concept of clientelism is particularly relevant to the case of Latin America, where it is entrenched in the history of the region. Clientelism exploits those of a lower economic and social status as it curries to their basic needs in exchange for political support. It corrodes democracy as it undermines the rule of law and diverts public resources for personal gain. As we shall see, the urban poor often rest in territories with little state presence in the provision of services, from basic utilities to police and judicial settlements, and in basic governance. Not only does this offer opportunities for criminal organizations to provide the services on their own terms, but it also raises the prospects of incorporation based on clientalism by government agents. Citizenship, the social contract, and clientelism will inform the analysis in this chapter, but our discussion will begin with a simple statement: The urban poor live in cities. That much is self-evident, but the statement underscores the point that the struggles of the urban poor are very much linked to the development of cities. And cities in Latin America have been very much affected by global forces, with linkages reaching back to the colonial period. The urban poor are of course impoverished as well as urban, and so in addition to an examination of the historical development of cities in Latin America, this chapter will further address current issues regarding the causes, consequences, and policy prescriptions surrounding urban poverty in the region. While the urban poor are not new to Latin America, this chapter will likewise highlight how the “new poverty” of the twenty-first century differs from that of the past, and how both the urban poor and governments have responded.

3.1 3.1.1

Cities of Latin America through History From Colonialism to the Export Economy

Urban settings were not foreign to Latin America prior to contact with Europeans (Cupples, 2013). In fact, the region held some of the largest cities in the world before Columbus set foot in the hemisphere. The ancient city of Teotihuacán (100–600 CE) outside present-day Mexico City was one of the largest population centers of its time, with about 200,000 inhabitants. When Cortés and his troops confronted the 200,000 residents of the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán in 1519, they entered the most enormous city they had ever seen, unless they happened to have visited Paris, the only European city with a larger population at the time. When Pizarro marched on Cusco in 1532, he encountered a city that matched or surpassed London, Madrid, and Rome in size. Although the Mayan population was spread among city-states, many of those city-states had population densities that would rival current demographics in Los Angeles. As the Spanish colonized the region, they built their own cities directly on top of many of these urban cities, often coldly and methodically by dismantling Indigenous structures and using the material for their own European architectural designs.

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From the very start, the Spanish colonial empire was an urban enterprise. In many ways, the Spanish replicated the strategy they used during the Reconquista (722 C. E.-1492 C.E.), when they pushed the Moors from the Iberian Peninsula. Cities would be taken and occupied, then used as a staging ground first for the extension and consolidation of political and social control, then for the exercise of economic exploitation. In the Americas and under the mercantilist agenda, this meant creating a network of cities to establish control and then transport routes to funnel precious metals back to Spain. But from the very start, this was not just a military and economic campaign, but also an assertion of cultural dominance, and the city would help to express this dominance. The Spanish Crown had laid claim to much of the Americas and would strive to deliberately and exhaustively control the settlement and exploitation of the territories in its possession. In cases where settlements did not supplant Indigenous communities, the Spanish actively sought to establish cities in close proximity to Indigenous populations to ease the access to and exploitation of labor. And so the city itself stood as a symbol of the civilizing mission and domination of Spanish colonialism. The Crown laid out in detail precisely how the cities were to be arranged. In fact, the monarchy published a document of royal ordinances to regulate settlement in new towns. One rule directed the colonizers to avoid interaction with nearby Indigenous villages until the completion of the city, and to prevent any Indigenous from entering until it was fully constructed, “so that when the Indians see them they shall wonder and understand that the Spaniards settle there for good and not for the moment only and so that they may fear them so much that they will not offend them and shall respect them so much as to desire their friendship” (Nuttall, 1921, p. 753). And the layout of the city embodied hierarchy and status. A plaza sat at its center. Four streets extended from it and established a gridiron of streets all meeting at right angles to each other. Facing the plaza itself one would find structures of administrative, economic, and religious power: the cabildo (town council), church, customs house, arsenal, and an arcade for merchants. The city’s elite would be housed just off the plaza, while those of lower social and economic status would reside much further away. Coincidentally, in these more distant environs one would also find the slaughterhouses, tanneries, fisheries and other undesirable and unhealthful operations. As cities spread, a rigid social hierarchy came into place. A small elite comprised of upper-level administrators, large landowners and important merchants, upperlevel clergy, and high-ranking officers held the status of vecino (citizen) and they alone held the privilege to attend cabildo meetings. A small middle class of merchants, artisans, traders, and small manufacturers held prerogatives to certain economic activities regulated through the use of guilds, and they shared status with lower-level clergy and bureaucrats. But the vast majority of the population fell into the lower classes- unskilled day laborers, domestic servants, and street peddlers, as well as the unemployed, the infirm, vagabonds, and common criminals and prostitutes. Even as miscegenation and the importation of African slaves diluted the stark divide between Europeans and the Indigenous, the rise of the casta system marked out new exclusionary dividing lines. Regulations on the location of housing,

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availability of employment opportunities, admissions to the clergy or education, requirements to pay labor tribute or taxes, rights to carry weapons, and other dictates based on the castas enforced a segregation in Latin American colonial cities that was both spatial in the urban layout and visible in the everyday appearances of urban dwellers. For those at the lowest rungs of the casta- the Indigenous and Afrodescendants- portions of town would be off-limits. Entry to the plaza would be prohibited. For a time, the Indigenous were not even allowed to ride a horse, or carry a sword, not just because these items might be used as weapons, but also because they signified status. Over time, and as they grew in scale, the intellectual and cultural life of the cities grew. So too did architectural experimentation and the rise of powerful families who had lavish lifestyles and showed their wealth with palatial homes. But the core economic function of the colonial cities showed much less vibrancy due to the restrictions on manufacturing and trade. As agents of mercantilism, the cities were parasitic. They remained first and foremost administrative and military centers designed to coordinate labor tribute for the exploitation of mineral and agricultural resources, extract one-fifth of the mineral wealth (the quinto real) for the royal treasury, enact taxes to pay administrative salaries or otherwise auction and rotate positions in the bureaucracy, ensure defense and public order, and support Church efforts to evangelize the Indigenous. Restrictions on trade with other countries and even each other suppressed economic diversity and entrepreneurialism. The crown maintained the restrictions to ensure that cities would not compete with producers in Spain, and instead purchase products from them alone (Lange et al., 2006). This left the cities vulnerable to food riots if they suffered from a poor harvest. The lack of economic vibrancy also stirred the growth of charitable institutions, such as hospitals, orphanages, and shelters all largely conducted under the auspices of the Church. Although the charity was far from sufficient as evidenced by the endemic poverty, it did initiate some early social welfare services. To be sure, there were reforms over the 300-year colonial period. Unevenly and often with reversals, the crown created new administrative districts, adjusted taxes, or relaxed commercial restrictions. The Bourbon Reforms of the mid-eighteenth century more systematically implemented these changes and also centralized administration and shaved bureaucratic excess. Still, the reality of a system of cities designed to extract resources from the countryside and funnel those riches to Spain remained. This settlement pattern was in fact quite distinct from that seen in North America, where cities tended to follow the expanding agricultural frontier in order to fulfill economic and administrative needs. Moreover, the monarchy in Great Britain did not exert authority to the extent seen in Spain. Throughout the colonial period, the British Parliament whittled away at royal power, giving merchants, industrialists, and agricultural producers greater leeway to pursue and take advantage of economic opportunities in the colonies. In addition, absent a large Indigenous pool of labor to exploit, the British faced more pressure to lure European labor with access to land and political rights. Great Britain did not reject the mercantile, extractive colonial model seen under Spain because it was more enlightened, but rather because it

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largely lacked the opportunity to do so. Indeed, the comparison highlights what has been tagged the “reversal of fortune” theory: pre-colonial regions of affluence with precious resources and abundant populations led Europeans to create parasitic, destructive, and extractive institutions, while in pre-colonial regions with more resource poor landscapes and less dense indigenous populations, European colonizers created institutions to encourage investment and growth. The comparison illustrates how local demographic and geographic conditions affected colonial projects (Acemoglu et al., 2002). And by the end of the colonial era, urban networks in the Spanish Americas and English settlements in North America varied significantly. At independence, the newly formed countries of Latin America typically held one dominant city to serve as the political, economic, and cultural center, with most roads leading straight to it. The United States would emerge with a much more dispersed population, both across its regions and among smaller and medium-sized cities which traded with each other across a more complex web of transport. But the size of Latin American cities belied their actual power and influence. They had been buttressed by the colonial project and supported in a dominant position relative to rural regions. With their colonial patron gone, the cities found it difficult to consolidate control over rural oligarchs now freed from colonial dictates to funnel resources. The wars for independence themselves would leave their mark. The length and destructiveness created massive debts for national governments in the capital cities, but relieved rural elites from colonial tribute. In addition, the military experience in the countryside encouraged the mobilization of militias and the rise of leadership based on military prowess. In some ways, the network of dependent cities created by Spanish colonialism set the stage for the turbulent period of caudillismo through the early to mid-nineteenth century. The caudillo period was, after all, a contest for political power pitting the national capitals against regional elites in the interior, and it exposed the fragility of power held by the cities under colonial rule. While colonial institutions dulled entrepreneurialism, stifled trade, centralized administration, failed to establish reliable property rights and thereby hampered economic growth through the colonial period, under caudillismo the disruption and violence of the period continued to stunt development (Coatsworth, 2008, pp. 562–64). And the delay in development would prove consequential. Europe and the United States pressed forward with industrialization, making cheap manufactured goods available to Latin America. At the same time, their demand for raw materials to supply the burgeoning industries offered Latin America an opportunity; one it knew all too well due to the extractive economy under colonialism. Thus was borne the export economy of the late nineteenth century. It tipped the scales toward the center and away from the periphery. The rural oligarchs that had resisted centralization could reap tremendous profits in the export of their raw materials, but only at the cost of submitting to the authority of the capital to coordinate transport and construct supportive infrastructure. And because most capitals were at port locations on the coasts, they controlled the gateway to Europe and the United States.

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The cities thus reestablished their positions by the late nineteenth century and revived the elitist and exclusionary attitudes and practices found earlier in the colonial period. Only this time, liberal cosmopolitan leadership, rather than mercantilism and the evangelical mission, would provide the justification. They resuscitated colonial tropes that portrayed the interior regions as backward, savage regions in need of civilization. The influential Argentine thinker, Juan Bautista Alberdi (1810–1884) offered his dictum, “to govern is to populate,” to establish the cultural superiority of the cities. Indeed, he elaborates, “To populate is to civilize when you people the country with civilized folk, that is, with settlers from civilized Europe” (Alberdi, 1899, p. 271). Under the export economy and the celebration of free trade, liberal leaders used the export revenues to remodel their cities as showcases of European culture. Sparked by the urban reforms of Georges-Eugéne Haussmann in France under Napoleon III (1852–70), cities vied for the title of “The Paris of Latin America.” A flurry of urban reforms followed with widened tree-lined avenues, expansive parks, baroque and neoclassical architecture, opera houses, and statuary to celebrate European contributions to the arts and philosophy. The changes were not only meant to burnish the credentials of liberal leadership, but also to attract European immigrants, who would in turn help to further advance modernity and civilization. The dispersion of European immigrants that took place in the late 19th and early 20th centuries across Latin America was far from even. The vast majority landed in Argentina, Brazil, Cuba, and Uruguay. But the fascination with European culture and models of modernity was more even-handed, and this helped to deepen divisions within Latin American societies, independent of the actual flows of European migrants, in three ways. First, the focus on large, image-building urban improvements such as parks, plazas, and opera houses over issues of basic infrastructure and services to support the urban poor distorted public investment away from working class needs. Second, looking outward for inspiration in urban planning effectively sidelined the typically darker-skinned working classes, and portrayed them as “others” within their own country. And third, the push to modernize and develop new projects entrenched the leadership of the state in urban designs. Less input would flow from planning commissions and neighborhood groups, and this would allow urban projects to feed the clientelist relations of political leaders (Voilich, 1987, pp. 89–90). Mexico offers a stark example of these distortions under the export economy. From 1876 to 1911, a period known as the Porfiriato given the authoritarian dominance of President Porfirio Díaz, an estimated 80% of all government investment in infrastructure went solely to Mexico City (Kandell, 1988). With governments lavishing investment on their emergent metropolitan cities, they would grow increasingly reliant on foreign investors to build transport and infrastructure throughout the country. The source of riches largely remained in the countryside as exports of minerals, beef, coffee, sugar, nitrates, guano and the like, but urban society began to change under the export economy. Flush state revenues supported the growth of white collar and professional workers in commercial enterprises, schools, banks, and government administration, while an emergent working class found employment in construction,

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port facilities, transportation, and infant industries. These changes were most pronounced in the southern cone countries of South America, where European migrants also brought a more strident sense of class consciousness, mutual aid societies, and syndicalist organizations. In the midst of such change, traditional social institutions became more impracticable, and appeared less relevant. The cities saw extensive societal changes as the nineteenth century gave way to the twentieth century. For centuries, the Church played a mediative role during social conflicts, but it no longer had a monopoly on social relations. Mexico incorporated liberal reforms into its 1857 Constitution, though the struggle to implement them in the face of opposition from conservative forces and church authorities would continue for well over 50 years. Gradually, the Catholic Church lost control over vital statistics, marriage, cemeteries, schools, charities, and even its own wealth as properties were nationalized. To various extents liberal leaders reduced these privileges in other countries as well. And if the reduction of influence from the highest echelons of the Church hierarchy were not enough, over time large urban populations proved unwieldy for neighborhood priests. Absent the Church, the state increasingly relied on a new agent to ensure social order- the police. Studies show that while political elites met many (though far from all) protests through the colonial period and well after independence with flexibility and moderation, by the end of the nineteenth century, repression would be the more standard response, and policing would emerge as a central symbol of state authority in urban areas (Arrom & Ortoll, 1996, pp. 5–8). Policing also developed as urban areas grew more complex and impersonal, making traditional forms of social control beyond the Church based on norms or customs or privatized discipline unworkable. A stark example of the change comes from Brazil, where policing emerged first to supplement the coercion of slave owners. Over time and with the passage of emancipation in 1888, the police expanded techniques such as the uneven application of curfews or trespassing regulations, beatings, or routine incarceration to free blacks, sailors on leave, immigrants, indigents, and other members of the city’s growing underclass (Holloway, 1993).

3.1.2

The Twentieth Century and Beyond: From Import-Substitution to Neoliberalism

World War I disrupted the trade and capital flows that were so central to the export economy. Nonetheless, the impact was temporary and soon overshadowed by the boom years of the 1920s, when pent-up demand in Europe revived exports. But government in Latin America remained in the hands of oligarchies associated with traditional exports. The nascent middle classes in the cities protested the incompatibility of such politics with the letter of presumably democratic constitutions. In Argentina, the Sáenz Peña Law (1912) extended the franchise to all male citizens and opened the door to the election of a middle-class party in 1916, the Radical Civic

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Union. In Mexico, Francisco Madero rallied middle class opposition to the recurrent fraudulent elections under Porfirio Díaz with the banner of “no re-election” and became president in 1911. In Brazil, junior military officers under the movement of tenentismo reached out to middle class sectors in the 1920s to oppose the sugar barons, ranchers, and coffee producers who had controlled the presidency since the move to a republic in 1889. The story of middle-class empowerment was a story of urbanization, and it replayed itself throughout Latin America in the early twentieth century. But that story, detailed in Chap. 5, also portended more significant, and explosive, changes as members of the working class further below clamored to be heard. And in most countries, the middle classes mediated the rise of working-class interests, with more or less success. In Mexico, Madero’s rise stirred rebellion among the working classes and peasantry, which exploded into revolution after his assassination in 1913. In Chile, the upper classes had long been just as much a part of the rural as urban landscape due to the late settlement of territory outside the central region of the country, as well as the rise of nitrate exports which enriched urban industrialists, financiers, and the state. Hence, middle class sectors often saw common cause with traditional elite interests. Together, they invited working class interests to the party system, collaborated to dull their influence, and ensured greater stability. In Colombia, Jorge Gaitán gradually evolved from middle class reformer in 1928 to a mobilizer of more radical working-class interests. The country descended into violence after his assassination in 1948, and fell to military dictatorship by 1953 (for more on the middle class, see Chap. 5). The export economy stirred urbanization, and with it, created new economic classes in lower income groups seeking political representation and power. New sources of employment emerged at ports and railroads, and at warehouses and light manufacturing plants, on the street cars and roads that crossed cities, and on the construction sites of urban buildings and engineered designs for sewage, water, and electricity lines. But if the 1920s appeared to be a boiler pot with increasing mobilization among the urban working classes, that scenario would come to an abrupt close with the coming of the worldwide Great Depression in October 1929. With the economies of the United States and Europe in a free fall, demand for raw materials and agricultural products from Latin America evaporated. The export economy collapsed, and the subsequent economic downturn and social dislocations led to a wave of military interventions in Latin America. Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, and the Dominican Republic fell to military rule in 1930, were joined by El Salvador, Guatemala, and Peru the following year, and by 1935 eight more countries would suffer at least one coup. Agricultural and raw material interests had played the electoral game so long as the franchise remained limited, but with more workingclass voters at the polls, democracy became a threat to their interests. Moreover, the decline of export profits reduced their ability to aggressively lobby, or otherwise engage in bribery and corruption to influence political leaders. The military saw common cause with the economic elites as the economic downturn sparked protest and labor union activity, threatening the stability of the state in the eyes of soldiers.

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And as detailed in Chap. 5, the middle classes saw their own interests threatened, and submitted to military rule for protection from radical working-class movements. World War II extended the economic rupture with Europe and the United States. With shortages of manufactured goods and investment from abroad, even traditional exporters recognized that the economies had to diversify, and industrialize. The strategy put in place was known as import-substitution industrialization. This policy called for the temporary use of protectionist measures to create a domestic market for industrial goods. Behind a wall of protection, the industries could grow, such that one day they could enter foreign markets and compete on a stronger footing. The new industries typically developed in the largest cities to place themselves closer to the domestic market and its labor, as well as ease access to inputs, financial institutions, and export channels. As such, import-substitution had a profound effect on urbanization. Consider the impact that this industrial policy has for individuals in rural areas. The policy itself disadvantages agricultural production, further depressing the historically low wages found in the rural sector. Meanwhile, budding industries offer competitive wages in the cities. Even if the rural migrant finds employment only half the time, or relies on work in the informal economy, he will probably be better off, and will have better access to education, health, and other government services often absent in the countryside. Indeed, import-substitution has been linked to growing opportunities in the informal sector. Protectionism often led to substandard products, and thereby encouraged smuggling or small-scale production to avoid tariff payments on imported products. Likewise, privileged access to credit markets for industrialists squeezed borrowing, offering opportunities for informal moneylenders, and foreign exchange controls stirred the rise of black markets to access overseas currencies (Reyes & Sawyer, 2019, pp. 159–161). Other factors also contributed to the burst of urbanization and growth of the informal economy under the import-substitution model. From 1920 to 1972, Latin America had the fastest growing population in the world, with a number that rose from 87 million to 294 million- a 300% increase. Much of the increase occurred due to significant reductions in mortality rates due to relatively inexpensive public health measures such as vaccinations, access to hospitals, postnatal care, and improved sanitation and water systems (Hall, 1973). While immigrants fueled modest increases in urbanization under the export economy, rural migrants would play the protagonists under import-substitution. Urbanization also followed the political changes of the time, which saw recurrent waves of authoritarian rule. Studies show that dictatorships during this time had central cities that were about 50% larger than those in democracies. There is a clear political rationale to this difference: authoritarians concentrate resources to control distributions to supporters (Ades & Glaeser, 1995). Such activity lures more individuals to the cities to increase their proximity to political power and opportunity. But it was not just urbanization, but the particular dynamic of urbanization that increasingly occurred as rural migrants moved to the cities in search of jobs and a better quality of life. Most often, new arrivals found themselves relegated to the outskirts of town, in shantytowns built on fragile landscapes prone to flooding or

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landslides, and lacking basic services such as access to clean water, electricity, or sanitation services. Latin American cities took on a polarized socio-spatial arrangement that saw the wealthy sectors inhabit the city center with all of its cultural resources, and also settle along a corridor reaching toward a more modern business district and shopping malls. Middle class groups encircled this area, leaving the poor furthest out, with limited access to the amenities of the city and difficult transportation options (Buzai, 2016). The increase in housing prices due to the massive growth of urban populations was partly to blame for the expansion of slums. But importsubstitution was also to blame due to a fundamental flaw in the protectionist scheme. Import tariffs might curb overseas goods, but they could not prevent foreign corporations from “jumping the tariff wall” and investing directly in productive activities within the country. This is precisely what happened, and many political leaders welcomed the multinational corporations as another actor in the drive to industrialize. But these corporations tended to be very capital intensive, and offered less employment than needed (Kingstone, 2018, pp. 28–54). Import-substitution industrialization did score some success. Manufacturing grew at an average of 5.5% from 1945 to 1972, and 4.5% from 1972 to 1981. But things stagnated in the 1980s (Kingstone, 2018, pp. 43–44). Indeed, by the 1960s, industrialization began to grow more difficult, as countries attempted to move beyond light and intermediate manufacturing and into heavy industries such as petrochemicals, automobiles, machine tools, and the like. In its earlier stages, importsubstitution favored the working classes, as it not only provided jobs, but also looked to them as consumers and thus favored wage increases and other supportive policies. But the move toward heavy industry increased dependence on the capitalintensive multinational corporations, which demanded low wages and reductions in government spending to control inflation (O’Donnell, 1973). This meant breaking the backs of the labor unions which had grown so strong under import-substitution. The result was a flurry of military interventions that left just Colombia, Costa Rica, and Venezuela as democratic countries. Economically, the distortions created by protectionist measures took their toll over time, leading to massive, heavily subsidized but unproductive industries, and a swollen public debt (Baer, 1972, pp. 101–6). Indeed, the 1980s would bring on the debt crisis, and the decade itself would be tagged the Lost Decade due to the virtual absence of economic growth. But as illustrated in Table 3.1, the cities continued to grow. The population of Mexico City had already reached 1 million by 1930, grew to 3.1 million in 1950, and then 9 million by 1970. The growth continued, reaching 15.8 million in 1990. Under import-substitution, collective action by the working classes was mediated by centralized government decision making and labor unions. A system of inducements and constraints, one well-embedded within the traditional corporatist mechanisms of Latin America, imposed a semblance of order on the industrialization process. Labor unions gained advantages with compulsory memberships, a monopoly of representation and official recognition, and subsidies for their organization, but they also had to submit to provisions that limited collective bargaining and strikes, regulated leadership changes, and allowed the state to monitor their internal affairs (Collier & Collier, 1979). As a result, while Latin American states initially reacted to the rise

3.1 Cities of Latin America through History Table 3.1 Percentage of population living in urban areas

Argentina Bolivia Brazil Chile Colombia Costa Rica Cuba Ecuador El Salvador Guatemala Honduras Mexico Nicaragua Panama Paraguay Peru Uruguay Venezuela

93 1910 31.2 4.3 10.7 14.5 7.1 9.0 15.1 9.1 6.3 5.1 3.9 7.6 7.0 11.1 14.1 5.0 28.7 3.6

1950 65.3 33.8 36.2 58.4 32.6 33.5 56.5 28.3 36.5 25.1 17.6 42.7 35.2 35.8 34.6 41.0 77.8 47.3

1970 78.9 39.8 55.9 75.2 56.6 38.8 60.3 39.3 39.4 35.5 28.9 59.0 47.0 47.6 37.1 57.4 82.4 71.9

1990 87.0 55.6 73.9 83.3 69.5 50.0 73.4 55.1 49.3 42.0 40.5 71.4 53.1 53.9 48.7 68.9 89.0 84.3

2005 90.0 64.2 82.8 86.8 76.0 65.7 76.1 61.7 61.6 46.9 48.6 76.3 55.9 63.7 57.6 75.0 93.3 88.0

2020* 92.1 70.1 87.1 87.7 81.4 80.8 77.2 64.2 73.4 51.8 58.4 80.7 59.0 68.4 62.2 78.3 95.5 88.3

* Projected Source: Data for 1910 from Bulmer-Thomas (2003, p. 7, 85). All other years from United Nations (2019)

of organized labor with repression, they now shifted to incorporation and allowed the political arena to expand and include the popular sectors (Collier & Collier, 2002). This is turn created the stability that allowed cities to continue to grow, creating new opportunities for various middle-class sectors, from professionals like doctors, teachers, lawyers, and journalists, to businesses in banking, commerce and retail, and insurance. Moreover, the growth of the state under import-substitution spawned a range of planning and administrative jobs in the bureaucracy for the middle classes. All told, economies grew, wages increased, social mobility increased, and job opportunities expanded during the first few decades of importsubstitution from the late 1940s to the early 1960s. The result was a reasonable level of social stability, though that mediative control would return to repression under military rule by the mid-1960s (Portes & Roberts, 2005, pp. 44–45). But with the return to democracy in the 1980s, Latin American economies would grapple with economic crisis, and ultimately turn to neoliberalism in the 1990s, substantially changing the nature of urban politics. If opportunity drove rural-urban migration under import-substitution, during the Washington Consensus of the 1990s the motivation increasingly shifted to desperation as individuals sought to move closer to government services. Neoliberal reforms opened agricultural production to foreign competition and reduced government support for mining and other extractive industries, and thereby reduced employment opportunities in the hinterlands. Some especially important facets of the neoliberal model that directly

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Table 3.2 Population distribution across urban agglomerations Percentage distribution of population Number of inhabitants 1970 1990 Over 10 million ( ) 13.2 5–10 million 19.2 4.9 1–5 million 13.9 21.9 500,000–1 million 8.3 8.8 300,000–500,000 5.0 5.5 Fewer than 300,000 53.6 45.8

2018 17.6 3.4 24.9 7.8 5.9 40.5

2030 17.2 5.1 26.3 6.8 6.4 38.1

Number of urban agglomerations 1970 1990 2018 2030 ( ) 3 6 6 4 2 3 5 13 36 63 77 20 41 57 60 21 44 81 101 ***

***

***

***

*** - numbers left uncalculated in source. Source: United Nations (2019) Available at www. population.un.org/wup/Publications/Files/WUP2018-Report.pdf

affected the urban setting included the removal of trade barriers, privatization of state enterprises, reductions in government services, and deregulation of labor markets. The changes cooled the growth of megalopolis cities as centralized decision making ebbed and no longer concentrated economic growth and opportunities. As illustrated in Table 3.2, these trends are expected to continue. Firms gained more freedom to invest in medium sized cities, and new export-oriented or tourist-based enterprises flocked to these areas or new export production zones. Curitiba in Brazil, Monterrey in Mexico, Medellín in Colombia, Rosario in Argentina, Trujillo in Peru, and many others became dynamic urban centers. But disparity remained and deepened even as economies evolved under the neoliberal period. Within the working classes, withdrawals of privileges once offered to unions and moves to makes labor more flexible blurred the distinction between the formal and informal sectors, which had previously been distinguished by the job security and access to job benefits in the formal sector. Absent past protections and access to government social programs, many fall into permanent poverty and may look to alternative options to reduce their destitution. As such, scholars have portrayed the turn to criminal activities (e.g., robbery, gang involvement, kidnappings, or drug trafficking) as a form of “forced entrepreneurialism.” On the other end of the economic ladder, the wealthy have reacted to wholesale reductions of state services, the squalor and unlivability of cities lacking effective planning and regulation of urban space, growing poverty, rising crime and violence by retreating to fortress-like gated communities, indicating new forms of exclusion under neoliberalism in the twenty-first century. Interestingly, many of these new communities were created on the outskirts of larger cities in the midst of shantytown settlements. But the geographic proximity is belied by a social separation marked by privatized security and walls topped with barbed wire (Portes & Roberts, 2005). Such heightened levels of inequality set the stage for political exclusion and for clientelism to mediate the struggle for citizenship. The following section examines the current status of the urban poor in Latin America, and how governments and societies have reacted to the shocks of neoliberalism.

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Urban Poor Communities Today

Latin America is the most urbanized region on earth, with over 80% of the population living in cities. Geographers conventionally identify “megacities” as those urban areas with over 10 million inhabitants. There are five such cities in Latin America: Mexico City, Lima, Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, and Buenos Aires. But the population counts of cities are not always reliable because they fail to capture large squatter or irregular zones that rest outside the formal boundaries of the city, nor how large cities sprawl to butt up against or envelope neighboring municipalities and effectively create larger conglomerations. Hence, while Mexico City has a citywide population of about 8.6 million, its metropolitan area population is over 21 million. 10 million live in São Paulo, but its metropolitan population swells to 18.5 million. The megacities are a double-edged sword. They concentrate economic opportunities and optimize the provision of infrastructure and government services, but they also heighten negative externalities such as poor air quality, overburdened sewage and refuse disposal, traffic congestion, and crime. Unsurprisingly, the distribution of these externalities is unbalanced across income groups. The wealthy make regular use of the commercial and financial opportunities afforded by the concentration, shelter themselves from crime behind gated communities, enjoy greater access to public parks and other green spaces, and secure a greater proportion of urban redevelopment investments for their localities. The concentrated commercial and financial opportunities offer some benefits to the urban poor, but in the context of endemic poverty they also stimulate “forced entrepreneurialism” and the associated crime. Overall, the urban poor shoulder much more of the negative externalities on a daily basis within their neighborhoods. Perhaps nowhere is the juxtaposition between a vibrant, cosmopolitan urban core and the difficult living conditions of shantytowns more visible than in Rio de Janeiro. Four-star resort hotels line the famed beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema, with luxurious condominiums that not only offer easy access to boutique shops, cafes, restaurants, and shopping malls, but also rest in neighborhoods which regularly host street fairs, cultural activities, and musical events. Just alongside this southern zone, one finds the financial district with important cultural resources such as theatre, museums, and historical buildings. But geography has crowded the landscape with lush, forested massifs that rise up in close proximity to the coast, precluding the traditional sprawl of urban growth. In Rio de Janeiro, the urban poor have had to settle on these hillsides, in the veritable bleacher seats of this urbane setting. The streets up the hillsides are narrow and maze-like, the constructions are debilitated and vulnerable to flooding or landslides, and basic services like water or electricity are often secured by tapping into established lines. In Brazil, these slum areas are known as favelas and they can be seen with ease from the comfortable lounge chairs on the beaches. The World Bank collects statistics on the number of individuals living in slums in urban areas, statistics that can serve as a reasonable proxy for the size of the urban poor. The World Bank defines a “slum household” as a group of individuals living

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Table 3.3 Urban poverty Latin America

Argentina Bolivia Brazil Chile Colombia Costa Rica Cuba Ecuador El Salvador Guatemala Honduras Mexico Nicaragua Panama Paraguay Peru Uruguay Venezuela

% Urban Population Living in Slums (2018) 15 49 16 9 28 4 7 20 22

Poverty Rate (2019) (ECLAC estimate) 27.2 31.1 19.2 10.7 (2017) 31.7 16.5 n/a 25.7 30.4

Extreme Poverty Rate (2019) (ECLAC estimate) 2.8 12.1 5.5 1.4 (2017) 12.8 3.4 n/a 7.6 5.6

31 39 16 42 22 17 33 n/a 44

n/a 52.3 41.5 (2018) n/a 14.6 19.4 15.4 3.0 n/a

n/a 20.0 10.6 (2018) n/a 6.6 6.2 3.0 0.1 n/a

Source: Slum population from World Bank Open Data. Available at www.data.worldbank.org

under the same roof that lacks one of the following: access to improved water, access to improved sanitation, sufficient living area, housing durability, or security of tenure. In 2018, the World Bank estimated that 21% of urban households in Latin America and the Caribbean live in slum households, but the amount varies dramatically across countries. At the higher levels, 49% of the urban population in Bolivia lives in slums, and these numbers sit at 44% for Venezuela and 42% for Nicaragua. At the other end, 4% of urban Costa Ricans and 9% of urban Chileans inhabit slum households. The numbers do not strictly follow the level of development in the country. For example, relatively poor Paraguay rests below average, with 17% of its urban households in slums. The two largest countries, Brazil and Mexico, have 16% of their urban population in slum areas, but this represents a high absolute number given the overall size of their populations and the concentration of this population in megacities (World Bank, 2021a). Data collected by the World Bank (see Table 3.3) shows the diversity in the size of slum settlements throughout Latin America, as well as the significant variation in poverty levels across countries. It offers a rough portrait of urban divisions in Latin America. Such data provides information that may help us chart change over time. But like the general description of Rio de Janeiro above, the data can contribute to the misleading impression of a simple duality. Indeed, the very fact that the favelas of Rio sit so close to its urban center makes contact, and interaction, all but certain. Little wonder that one early study of the favelas introduced the idea of the “myth of

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marginality” to emphasize that the favelas are not marginal, but in fact integral to the vibrancy and prosperity of the city. Their inhabitants serve as a source of labor, regularly make use of city services and spend their earnings there, engage in community activism, and have the ability to empower local politicians. Without them, the mass cultural and sporting activities of Rio such as Carnaval and soccer matches at Maracanã Stadium would be lifeless (Perlman, 1976). The construct of marginality is in fact quite consequential. Perlman (1976) recognizes the attitudes of historical urban elites who, very much influenced by the colonial period, viewed themselves as stewards of high culture in the urban core, and looked upon the urban poor in the periphery as a social blight and threat to the political order. In the context of the rural-urban migration of the twentieth century, the frame of marginalization helped to portray the urban poor as “peasants in the cities” with traditional (re: backward) values and attitudes averse to modernity. This portrait of the urban poor as “in the city,” but not “of the city,” and as breeding grounds for social vices, justified moves by local authorities to raze squatter settlements to make room for planned low-income housing projects (though these were often left unconstructed or effectively transformed back into favelas). In addition to recognizing the urban poor as part of the fabric of the cities in which they live, it is also important to acknowledge the diversity of settlements in which they live. The favelas of Rio de Janeiro have a long history reaching back to the settlements of freed slaves, and a long record of community organizations, or associações de moradores, which would mediate relations with local government or coordinate efforts to address basic needs in sanitation, water, transport and other services. Far from the image of shantytown dwellers as recent migrants, many in Rio and far beyond have lived in their dwellings and interacted with their communities for generations (Perlman, 1976). Even the more recently established settlements can vary depending upon their origins. Most shantytowns emerge through “accretion invasion,” by which households gradually develop with very little coordination. These neighborhoods tend to be more crowded, contain more debilitated makeshift housing, and can grow with little notice from the state until they reach a certain threshold. Other shantytowns emerge through “planned invasions.” These have leaders who coordinate action from the start. They may use local knowledge to locate undeveloped public land or private land in arrears on tax payments- places where eviction is less likely. The neighborhood grows quickly, with more solid housing and even efforts to lay out streets, sidewalks, and public places. From the start, “planned invasions” seek to be noticed by the state, as they reach out to demand services. One study on settlements in Montevideo, Uruguay found that 67% emerged through accretion, and 32% cropped up through invasion. The study also documented the methodical use of face-to-face interactions with local politicians by planned invasions and the avoidance of disruptive activities such as street roadblocks. From the start, the neighborhood leaders act as brokers in a clientelistic relationship, offering votes for deliveries of government services. Planned invasions in the area tend to increase during electoral years, and the mobilization of votes can

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tip a campaign, underscoring the relevance of squatter settlements to city politics (Alvarez Rivadulla, 2012). Settlements can also vary by income levels, with some housing individuals at the cusp of the middle class. Often this happens over time and has a visible impact as families improve their homes, gain access to gas and electricity, and see the city limits grow such that they no longer sit at the outskirts. But this can come at the cost of community and a sense of collective identity, as neighbors grow less likely to mobilize together and instead turn inward to the extended families that develop over time, move from the informal to formal economy, use their own personal relations in the city to address issues, and focus more on the accumulation of personal consumer goods than collective neighborhood goals. One analyst saw these changes over 30 years upon her return to a shantytown resting on the periphery of Oaxaca, Mexico. In the late 1960s, residents of Colonia Hermosa worked collectively to access basic services, meet food, housing, and childcare needs, and shared dreams and strategies for the educational and employment of their children. By the 1990s, most basic, material needs had been met, and the Colonia could be considered a success story on these terms. But residents saw their gains, and the struggle to maintain them as the result of individual initiative. Communal work and neighborhood networks were no longer so important, and the state offered little support during their plight. The residents felt a genuine sense of accomplishment as individuals, but saw little basis for community, or citizenship (Mahar, 2010). Perhaps most significantly, for any given settlement, the level of legality and precarity can differ or fluctuate. By definition, squatting occurs illegally as individuals occupy land without property rights. Peruvian economist Hernando de Soto (2000) is a recognized promoter of property rights. He argues that titling squatter settlements around the world would reverse what he sees as “dead capital”- property that cannot be leveraged for growth. With titles, the erstwhile squatters would accumulate wealth, gain access to credit and loans, and develop incentives to improve their homes. The argument is intuitive, but titling is far from a panacea. Research shows that those who recently acquire titles still prefer to seek credit through informal, personal networks rather than through banks, and that for the urban poor, employment status remains more important to accessing credit than does property ownership (most banks have little interest in repossessing a shanty) (Field & Torero, 2006). Other studies show that security of tenure is a more important determinant of home improvement, and in fact the relationship may be reversedindividuals improve their homes to attract titling, so a grant may reduce this incentive. Also, titling can come with fees, property taxes, and enforcement of building codes, so the process may serve to expel some of the poorest households. Finally, the very expectation of titling can raise property values and encourage gentrification, again crowding out the poorest residences. For these very reasons, many shantytown dwellers reject titling (Gilbert, 2002). There are alternatives to titling. The entire idea is premised upon liberal precepts of individual ownership. It implies a critique of collective ownership, which is viewed as dulling individual desires to access investment capital and individual incentives to improve and remodel the property. But collective ownership can shelter

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residents from the burdens of a speculative real estate market, allow the neighborhood to coordinate improvements, and sustain a stronger sense of community (Payne, 2001). One such approach is the Community Land Trust movement, which creates a nonprofit community organization that holds the land in trust for individual households and ensures rents (often under 99-year leases) at affordable prices (Davis & Fernández, 2020). Another alternative to state efforts to title would be to focus on squatters’ rights, which places the initiative to secure tenure in the hands of squatters themselves. Most countries recognize some form of adverse possession rights, which allow individuals to assume ownership of private property if they improve the property and the owner fails to show interest in the property nor makes an effort to evict the individuals. In much of Latin America, squatters must occupy the property for 5 to 10 years for these rights to come into effect. But the existence of adverse possession rights is far from a guarantee, nor a sign that squatters have free rein to live where they please. Expulsions of squatters continues throughout Latin America, and they often turn violent. Land occupations increased significantly in Argentina after the economic crisis of 2001 and saw another upsurge when the economy soured again in 2018. Irregular settlements increased yet once more in 2020 due to rising unemployment associated with the COVID-19 pandemic. A nearly three-month lockdown due to the pandemic hit the informal sector particularly hard. One high profile event took place in the district of Guernica on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. Over 2500 families used sheet metal, tarps, cardboard, wood, or whatever could be found to create housing on a 100-hectare open field where a country club and gated community were to be built. Over the course of about 3 months, the residents also created health clinics, an education center, small shop, and four distinct neighborhoods with public places, as well as a governing structure. Guernica was a clear example of a planned invasion, with an intent to negotiate with government leaders. But the landowners filed suit to have a court declare the squatters to be usurpers and order the area to be cleared. Most fled before the deadline passed, for fear of a repressive police response. They were not wrong. On the date of the eviction, 4000 police arrived, and used tear gas and rubber bullets to disperse those who remained. Bulldozers plowed through the makeshift homes, many of which were set ablaze. The provincial security minister organized the eviction, and meant to use it as an example, and warning, to future squatters. He posted video of the police action, and tweeted updates and commentary, asserting, “The right to life, the right to freedom and the right to private property are not negotiable” (Globe & Mail, 2020). Ironically, the squatters claim these same rights. Guernica was just one of 868 squatter evictions that took place during the pandemic in Argentina (Bueno Aires Times, 2020). And the fact that Guernica remains destined to be a private community is not lost on Argentines. Construction of these communities in the greater metropolitan area has surged since the 1990s, as neoliberal reforms both eased access to mortgages, but also spiked crime rates as inequality and poverty grew. Today, gated communities encompass over 160 square miles of greater Buenos Aires, an area double the size of Buenos Aires proper (Bloomberg, 2016). They had long been referred to as “country clubs,” but today

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Argentines simply call them “countries,” which is fitting given the security agents at their protected entrances. They routinely question visitors and even search their autos before they “cross the border” to enter communities designed to be as selfsufficient as possible, with shopping, schools, health facilities, recreation centers, public spaces, and even office spaces. But many “countries” were built without proper permitting or under questionable origins that re-zoned land. Indeed, after the Guernica expulsion, the Governor of Buenos Aires Province, Axel Kicillof, sympathetically commented that “most private neighborhoods are practically land occupations” due to their irregular and undervalued tax payments (with 25% of the over 600 neighborhoods in full arrears on payments) (CE Noticias Financieras, 2020). Gated communities also restrict the freedom of movement by non-residents as they checker the urban terrain, close off desirable green spaces to outsiders, and allow residents to essentially withdraw from civic responsibilities. Nonetheless, the law treats those in gated communities as rational residents, and those in squatter settlements as unreasonable criminals, despite the fact that both in fact seek security and autonomy over their neighborhoods (Lemanski & Oldfield, 2009). This difference in how the law treats those with higher incomes and how it treats the urban poor highlights just one aspect of poverty today, and a difference with how poverty manifests itself today compared to yesterday. The following section discusses this rise of “new poverty.”

3.1.4

Identifying and Explaining the Urban Poor Today

To be poor is to lack the basic necessities of life. Famed economist Amartya Sen described the basic necessities of food, shelter, and clothing as an “irreducible absolutist core in the idea of poverty” (1983, p. 159). The most straightforward measurements of poverty look to income levels and gauge whether they are sufficient to maintain a level of consumer spending to access basic necessities. The Economic Commission on Latin America, an agency of the United Nations, collects data from household surveys conducted by governments throughout the region to measure poverty in this way. Its numbers charted a significant reduction in poverty levels from 45.8% of the population in 2002 to 28.6% of the population in 2016. In addition, the amount of individuals living in extreme poverty declined from 15.7% to 9.1% over this time. Generally speaking, in 2016, the simple average of poverty lines in urban areas sat at US$132 per month, and that of extreme poverty rested at US$65 per month (ECLAC, 2019, pp. 78–79). The COVID-19 pandemic undermined these improving numbers. By June 2021 the pandemic had killed over 1.26 million in the region, a number that represents a stunning 32% of worldwide deaths, despite the fact that Latin America holds just 8.4% of the world's population. The urban poor accounted for a disproportionate number of these deaths (ECLAC, 2021a, pp. 16–19). The 2014–2019 period had already seen one of the weakest periods of economic growth since the turn of the nineteenth century (with average GDP growth of 0.3% and a negative per capita

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growth rate), but the pandemic would push the economies into their sharpest contraction since 1900 with a 6.8% loss in 2020 (ECLAC, 2021b, pp. 1–2). Record levels of unemployment and frail social welfare systems reversed the decline in long term poverty levels, leading to an average poverty rate of 33.7% and average extreme poverty rate of 12.5% in 2020. Overall, while 25.5% of the population faced moderate to severe food insecurity in 2015, 40.4% struggled in 2020 (ECLAC, 2021b, pp. 19–20). Measures of income levels accurately chart the success in poverty reduction, and the more recent deleterious impact of COVID-19. But many analysts seek a more complete portrait of poverty by looking beyond income to gain greater insight into the causes and consequences of poverty. For example, the burden of poverty may be magnified by limited access to medical care, and the possibility of moving out of poverty may be reduced by inadequate educational opportunities. Over the past several decades, analysts broadened income-based measurements of poverty with measures of multidimensional poverty. The United Nations relies on a multidimensional measure as it assesses progress on the Sustainable Development Goals among its member states. Its poverty indicator compiles equally weighted household measures on nutrition, child mortality, child school attendance, years of schooling, housing, safe water, improved sanitation, clean cooking fuel, electricity, and holdings of assets. Other multidimensional measures might make use of differential weighting schemes, and also include measures on housing tenure, adult schooling, employment, access to health insurance or social security, or ownership of durable goods (Gasparini et al., 2021). These measures offer a more complete depiction of poverty than the “irreducible absolutist core” of food, shelter, and clothing noted by Amartya Sen. While household surveys typically inform multidimensional measures such as those described above, the Human Development Index (HDI) affords another simple multidimensional option, but one of the nation as a whole. It offers a portrait of overall average living standards with national level data on health, education, and income using the proxy indicators of life expectancy, mean years of schooling for adults and expected years of schooling for children, and per capita income, respectively. The HDI does not capture inequality, empowerment, human security, ruralurban distinctions, or even the breadth of poverty, but its power rests in the simplicity and ease by which the data can be accumulated and used for comparative purposes across countries. Likewise, one may gain a better understanding of household poverty in a given country if it is evaluated in the context of the national HDI. In 2019, Norway, Ireland, and Switzerland ranked at the top three with scores of 0.957, 0.955, and 0.955, while the United States rested at 17th with a score of 0.926. Only two Latin American countries made the top 50, with Chile (0.851) at 43rd, and Argentina (0.845) at 46th. Uruguay (0.817) was not far behind at 55th. Out of the 189 countries measured, the poorest performing countries in Latin America were Haiti (0.510) at 170th, Honduras (0.634) at 132nd, Nicaragua (0.660) at 128th, and Guatemala (0.663) at 127th. Brazil (0.765) ranked 84th and Mexico (0.779) sat in the 74th spot (UNDP, 2021).

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The more holistic approaches to poverty capture how individuals may experience poverty uniquely if they are members of different groups. By any measure, rural poverty is more severe than urban poverty, in Latin America and beyond. Rural inhabitants account for just 18% of the population in Latin America, but 29% of all those under the poverty line. Poverty afflicts almost one half of rural inhabitants, and one in five finds themselves in extreme poverty. The numbers actually signify an improvement from the early 1990s, when the poverty rate topped 65% in the countryside. But the rate of decline was well behind that seen in urban areas, and the rate itself has stagnated, and slightly reversed since about 2014. Deficits in basic infrastructure, the isolation of many small communities from markets as well as health and educational resources, the lack of access to sustainably managed natural resources, the greater sensitivity to climate change, less responsive local governments, the gap in power and influence between elites in the agro-business sector or extractive industries and the masses in the rural population, and the impact of population aging as rural youth migrate to cities all stymie poverty reduction efforts in ways not seen in the cities. By all accounts, a move to the city by rural dwellers offers a better opportunity to escape poverty, even when they end up in the shantytowns on the outskirts of the city (FAO, 2018). But those who move to the cities face new vulnerabilities and obstacles, and thus poverty of a different sort. They may have expanded opportunities for work, but these require new skills that may be out of reach. Likewise, reaching work may raise new challenges with transportation, and issues with childcare as one loses the close relations found in a small rural community. Access to clean water or sanitation may be improved, but the most recent migrants to the cities typically find themselves in the crowded slums where public health externalities associated with disease and pollution become a concern. As one secures the most basic of shelter and even taps into electricity or water services in a shantytown, a constant threat of eviction often remains. Mental health issues may also come into play as migrants deal with the stigma associated with living in a slum area when they seek employment or venture into other areas of the city. Most immediately to their survival, recent arrivals usually find a much more violent environment than in the countryside, and may become prey for gangs and organized crime, or fall victim to drug use or human trafficking. Urban poverty is thus different than rural poverty, but it is also the case that the urban poverty of today is different than the urban poverty of the past. In particular, the debate over marginality has been overshadowed by a new focus on social exclusion (Roberts, 2004). In the past, scholars questioned just how marginal or integral the urban poor were to economic and social development of a country. They also differed over how to address this marginality, however acute it may be. Some spoke of a culture of poverty. More conservative variants portrayed the beliefs and understandings of the urban poor as inimical to development (the “peasants in the city” approach). They held irrational beliefs steeped in tradition leaving themselves unable to cope with the modern push toward efficiency and integration, or unwilling to accept liberal values of compromise and dissent. Indeed, USAID official Lawrence Harrison wrote a book entitled Underdevelopment is a state of mind: The Latin American case (1985) with this premise.

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Harrison’s thesis is outdated, and no longer accepted in academic circles. More contemporary, and compelling, cultural approaches focus on the social conditions of the poor, or the mismatch between government policies and the identities and expectations of the poor. Hence, the poor may appear to hold less aspirational values and attitudes as they react to being stigmatized. One study found that the aspirations of Indigenous children in Peru decline when they move to the city, find themselves a minority, and internalize discriminatory attitudes. They are not poor because they lack aspirations, but rather they lack aspirations because they are poor. Education policies and cultural programs that empower Indigenous identities or showcase examples of social mobility by the Indigenous would impact aspirations, which in this approach are not viewed as static and essentialist (Pasquier-Dourner & Risso Brandon, 2015). Beyond the cultural approaches, other studies emphasize resources, such as titling, low interest loans, job skills, pensions, or cash transfers that could move help the urban poor from their marginal position (Abramo et al., 2019). So while past studies debated how removed the urban poor were from the mainstream, or how best to advance social mobility, more recent studies are more likely to set aside the concept of marginality and focus instead on how structures of social exclusion reduce opportunities for the urban poor to improve their livelihoods (Auyero, 2001, pp. 29–44). According to this literature, this “new poverty” is “more structural, more segmented, and more exclusionary” (de la Rocha et al., 2004). Hence, while “marginality implied that people were outside the formal institutions that promoted the values and skills of modernity,. . .social exclusion, in contrast, is basically a second-class citizenship in which disadvantage derives from the differentiation produced by the institutions of the state” (Roberts, 2004, p. 196). The case of the piqueteros (translated as “picketers”) in Argentina exemplifies this exclusion. This movement of the unemployed emerged at the height of the neoliberal period under President Carlos Menem (1989–1999), as unemployment and poverty spiked in the late 1990s. Desperate for capital, the country grew more dependent on IMF financing, and more obligated to IMF imposed austerity measures that cut back government spending, and only made matters worse for the urban poor. Historically, the Peronist Party steered working class demands and concerns through its connection with labor unions, but the relevance of unions waned as neoliberal reforms cut into membership and privileges. Increasingly, the urban poor had to develop strategies of their own to survive (Auyero, 2001). At the outset, the piqueteros sought to address the most critical need emerging from their growing sense of isolation- that of simply being noticed. They did this with roadblocks to stop commercial transit, then with blockades of retail centers and government buildings. Increasingly, they also used these tactics to extract government concessions, such as food distributions, cash transfers, subsidies, or temporary work programs. By the late 1990s, the government institutionalized its response with the use of “planes sociales” that distributed government funds to community-based piquetero organizations and even conceded management of the programs to local piquetero leaders. The movement reached its height during the mass uprisings surrounding the collapse of the economy in 2001, but thereafter fragmented when

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the Pink Tide reached Argentina under the Néstor Kirchner government (2003–2007). Many of the piquetero organizations appeared to be coopted by the Kirchner government, when their leaders gained power and influence as distributors of government support programs, or even as members of the local government. Others allied with opposition parties to place greater pressure on government for social reforms. And still others took a more revolutionary and autonomous route, rejecting connections with government to focus on grassroots work. Such work involved developing food distribution networks or educational programs, creating local assemblies to deliberate and decide on community concerns, and even organizing efforts to occupy closed factories to create worker managed cooperatives or efforts to support land invasions and squatter settlements (Kaese & Wolff, 2016). In the end, the piqueteros contributed to the transformation in Argentine politics from labor-based parties to patronage parties based on clientelist relations between top government leaders with community-based organizations and individual households. Such pressures to transform parties took place throughout Latin America, and some succeeded more than others (Levitsky, 2003). Previous to the neoliberal period, government connections with the popular sectors largely worked through labor unions and empowered the employed. Afterwards, the connection became less organizational and more selective and territorial as government programs reached directly to neighborhoods and the unemployed with clientelist relations that catered to the basic needs of individual households, but also fragmented them and undermined organization (Silva & Rossi, 2018). Governments outside the Pink Tide simply reinforced the exclusion of the popular sectors, often by criminalizing the poor with mano dura policies (see below). Of course, the irony surrounding the rise of this more exclusionary new poverty is that it developed during the period of democratization, since the 1990s. Freedom House is an organization that measures democracy throughout the world, and labels countries “free,” “partly free,” or “not free.” Of the 35 countries in Latin America and the Caribbean, Freedom House charted a rise in free countries from 11 in 1976 to 24 by 2006 (Freedom House, 2021). How then, did the urban poor grow more excluded over this time and beyond? Part of the answer rests in a particular dynamic of decentralization over this time, and thus within the opportunity structure offered by the particular democratic settings found in Latin America. Governments of the region had long been overly centralized due to the tradition of strong presidential systems and experiences with authoritarian government. In 1978, only Ecuador, Colombia, and Venezuela had elected mayors, but 30 years later, local elections became the norm throughout the region. In addition, local government gained greater control over the provision of basic services and planning over this time. The problem was that most localities could not raise revenue (many face limitations on taxation powers), and thus remained dependent on the central government. Competing for funds, many communities now seek to break away or avoid incorporation in existing municipalities, thereby denying basic economies of scale and/or allowing wealthier communities to isolate themselves. And despite the move toward directly elected mayors, political decentralization has its own problems. In

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the larger cities of Latin America, the ratio of citizens per councilor tends to run much higher than that seen in the United States or Europe. Likewise, the common use of proportional representation with closed lists limits the ties between politicians and citizens. Add to this, many local elections take place concurrently with national elections. This allows national issues to overshadow local issues and places a premium on clientelist considerations as parties select candidatesthose most likely to have personal relations with central authorities are most likely to gain nomination. Finally, the lack of a career civil service at the local level and permanent staff allows personal and political considerations to shape appointment decisions (Nickson, 2018). All told, decentralization did more to advance clientelism than democratization in the local politics of large Latin American cities. But more than formal institutional designs, shortfalls in citizenship emerge due to fundamental deficiencies in the rule of law- or the principle that all are treated equally under the law. Corruption is the greatest scourge here. According to Transparency International, one in five Latin Americans surveyed across 18 countries reported paying a bribe in exchange for basic public services such as health care or education, and one in four were offered bribes or services in exchange for their vote within the past four years. In their most recent survey, only five Latin American countries made the top one-half in a worldwide ranking of corruption perceptions: Uruguay (21st), Chile (25th), Costa Rica (42nd), Cuba (63rd), and Argentina (78th) (Transparency International, 2020). Studies show that corruption disproportionately affects the poor as it reduces access to or raises the costs of basic services (e.g., health, education, and justice), and because among all income groups the poor pay the highest percentage of their incomes in bribes (Bullock & Jenkins, 2020). The police receive much of the criticism, but they are simply at the forefront of a nonresponsive and ineffective justice system. The Center for Studies on Impunity and Justice publishes an annual ranking based upon a “global impunity index,” and Latin America regularly scores poorly, with no countries marked as “low impunity,” and instead resting at medium and high impunity in its 2020 rankings. That report noted, “The region has high degrees of impunity and socioeconomic inequality, which is worrisome. Social exclusion builds on impunity and aggravates the consequences of insecurity and violence, especially for those in marginalized conditions” (Le Clercq Ortega & Sánchez Lara, 2020). (For more on the rule of law in Latin America, see Chap. 5). Indeed, exposure to crime and violence is a key feature of the new poverty. Sanchez identifies three types of violence to chart out a self-reinforcing dynamic that erodes democratic institutions. Structural violence refers to the inequality, exclusion, and persistent poverty associated with neoliberal policies that drive austerity measures. Radical violence emerges as disaffected groups turn to strikes, demonstrations, and insurrectionary activity. Criminal violence arises as living standards continue to deteriorate and lead the young and poor to resort to gang activity, associations with criminal organizations, and drug trafficking. She describes “a self-feeding cycle whereby neoliberal policies generate high rates of inequality, exclusion, poverty, and alienation, which yield a rising tide of both radical and criminal violence, which triggers more state coercion, which, in turn, encourages

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more violent resistance from below. . .Under these conditions of generalized discontent and instability, the institutions of democracy lose flexibility, and the paternalistic state of old reemerges to offer models of authoritarian repression and militarized violence to establish order (Sánchez, 2006). It is not difficult to locate data on and accounts of violence in Latin America, a region that regularly surpasses other world regions in rates of violence and crime. Though housing just 8.4% of the world population, Latin America regularly experiences over one-third of all world homicides. Indeed, its average homicide rate of 21.5 per 100,000 trebles the global average of 7 per 100,000, and Latin America holds 17 of the top 20 most homicidal countries in the world (data from 2017). Finally, just four countries- Brazil, Colombia, Mexico, and Venezuela accounted for 1 in 4 homicides globally in 2017. Unsurprisingly, much of the violence is concentrated in the cities. In 2016, San Salvador had a homicide rate of 136.7 per 100,000, Acapulco spiked at 108.1, and San Pedro de Sula suffered under a rate of 104.3. Overall, 47 of the 50 most homicidal cities in the world rested in Latin America in 2017. 26% of this violence was related to gangs or criminal organizations, and 36% of all Latin Americans claimed to have been victims of a crime in 2016 (Muggah & Aguirre Tobón, 2018). These statistics have been fairly stable for decades and show little signs of change. They should be viewed in the context of the cycle of violence which triggers state coercion described above. For many countries, the militarized response came in the form of a “war on drugs.” In Brazil, this led to the passage of “The Anti-Drug Act” in 2006, which stiffened crimes related to drug trafficking. As a result, one in three prisoners are in jail due to this law alone, and the size of the prison population in Brazil now trails only the United States and China. The law was actually meant to reduce penalties associated with drug use as it instead intensified penalties related to trafficking. But ambiguity in the law allowed local police to interpret the law, and essentially re-identify users as traffickers. One analysis notes: “true to racist traditions, (the police) began adopting race and class criteria: White people from wealthy neighborhoods were classified as users and released; Black people from poor communities were considered traffickers and therefore detained” (Salvadori, 2021). But Mexico implemented the most repressive response to drug trafficking with a “war against the narco” first launched under the Felipe Calderón Administration (2006–2012). This drug war has since left over 350,000 dead as soldiers replaced police officers to battle drug cartels. Even leftist President Andrés Manuel López Obrador (2018–2024), who promised “hugs not bullets” to combat trafficking looked to the military by creating a new militarized force, the National Guard. Murders in his first two years surpassed that of his predecessors (Pardo Veiras & Arredondo, 2021). Most systematically, many countries embraced a “mano dura,” or iron fist approach to demonstrate that they were “tough on crime.” Commonly, political leaders looked to the militarization of police forces, increased penalties for criminal activity, mass incarceration, and a willingness to downplay civil liberties in favor of granting more authority to the police and the state to maintain public order. Notably, mano dura emerged just as much as a political strategy as right-wing politicians

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sought connections with the popular classes based not on social programs and the address of basic needs, but rather based on immediate security concerns. This allowed them to portray themselves as protectors of everyday people even as they championed reductions in social welfare (Chevigny, 2003). Early variants of this form of “punitive populism” (Bonner, 2019) came from Alberto Fujimori (1990–2000) in Peru and Alvaro Uribe (2002–2010) in Colombia. More recently, Central American leaders especially embraced the approach, especially under Otto Pérez Molina (2012–2015) in Guatemala and the right-wing ARENA governments of El Salvador. Still, the popular appeal to short term security concerns and the gravity of crime problems pushed even the progressive FMLN governments in El Salvador to embrace mano dura. The country’s current antiestablishment president, Nayib Bukele, widely criticized for undermining democratic procedures, attempted to brandish his mano dura credentials in 2020 with a photo-op that jammed together hundreds of seated, half-naked, head-shaven, shackled imprisoned gang members on a prison floor. Before returning to their cells, prison officials informed the inmates of certain new policies: family visits would now be prohibited, natural light would be shut out from their cells, and rival gangs such as MS-13 and Barrio 18 would be housed together in crowded cells, despite their vows as sworn enemies. Bukele also used the event to announce that lethal force would now be authorized against gangs (Washington Post, 2020). In Brazil, President Jair Bolsonaro espouses a form of punitive populism, most recently by expanding the scope under which police can use lethal force and loosening gun laws so that citizens can address presumed threats to their personal security on their own (Independent, 2021). Because such mano dura policies do little to address the longterm causes of crime, and in fact reduce citizen security as police embrace more heavy-handed measures, they have contributed to the violence and insecurity surrounding new poverty in the cities. Beyond political institutions and strategies, changes in the global economy and policy responses by Latin American governments contributed significantly to the rise of new poverty. These transformations have occurred in two phases. Under import-substitution, government policy concentrated industrial growth in the primary cities growing at breakneck speeds as a result of rural-urban migration. The turn toward neoliberalism and opening of national economies effectively deindustrialized these cities, but it also created new opportunities in the finance and information sectors. However, the educational credentials and skills associated with these sectors effectively excluded these high-value jobs from much of the urban population. In addition, the cities continued to burgeon due to rural migration now propelled by struggling agricultural and mining activities which fell into decline because of global competition and reduced state support. The informal sector, already well-established, now mushroomed (Cordera et al., 2009). Nonetheless, Latin American economies did adjust to the shock of neoliberal adjustment. Robinson (2021) lays out seven integral sectors to the Latin American economies of the twenty- first century: (1) the emergence of maquiladora production (i.e., industrial goods tailored for export); (2) transnational agribusiness; (3) global banking; (4) tourism; (5) natural resource extraction; and (6) the rise of retail super-

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stores (which decimate smaller markets). These sectors accumulate profits, but are insufficient to absorb the available labor, which gives rise to the seventh sector- the transnationalization of labor markets and growing remittance flows. Labor migration has a long history in Latin America, but it too has changed in recent decades. For much of the twentieth century Mexican migrants to the United States formed the most prominent wave of labor movement, much of it formalized through the Bracero work permit programs of the 1940s to 1960s, but even more through undocumented movements as well. Indeed, when the US passed the landmark 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act, three-quarters of those granted legal citizenship were of Mexican descent (US INS, 1990). But migration from Central America outstripped that from Mexico over time. Civil wars in the 1980s, natural disasters as well as neoliberal reforms and austerity measures in the 1990s, and violence associated with drug trafficking and gang activity since the 2000s all drove the northward migration. While the Central American immigrant population stood at 354,000 in 1980, it grew to 2,026,000 by 2000 and 3,782,000 by 2019. Remittances to Central America surged from under $5 billion per year in the early 2000s to over $25.8 billion by 2020, and have become essential to the economies of the region. For both El Salvador and Honduras, annual remittance flows represent about 24% of their entire economies (Babich & Batalova, 2021). Remittance flows to Mexico remain significant, representing 3–4% of its much larger economy, but since 2015, US officials have annually detained a higher proportion of individuals from Central America (especially El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras) than from Mexico along the US-Mexico border. Though the transnationalization of labor in Latin America is not new, it has changed over time, and it appears to have ingrained itself into the economies of many Latin American countries. There have been changes in immigration to the United States beyond geography. The traditional migrants from Mexico were overwhelmingly male, and sought work for limited periods of time, often related to agricultural work, with the goal of returning to their homes for much of the year. But as the United States reinforced border controls, especially through the 1990s, annual movements became more difficult, prompting many to stay for longer periods. The motivation to migrate also began to change, from economic opportunity to refuge from increased violence. Today, reports on the border more often highlight families from Central America seeking asylum rather than Mexican laborers hoping to supplement their incomes. Still, the United States is not the only destination for Latin American migrants. 17.6 million emigrated from South America in 2020, but 10.8 million arrived in these countries that same year- mostly from neighboring countries. 41% of the 4 million who have left Venezuela due to the economic crisis and deteriorating democratic processes settled in Colombia, reversing a flow that long saw Colombians take refuge in Venezuela until the 2016–2017 peace accords ended their civil war. But Argentina, Brazil, Peru, and Chile remain the most desirable destinations for economic migrants within the continent, especially for those from Bolivia, Paraguay, and the Andean countries (Migration Data Portal, 2021). Other significant migration flows include Haitians in Brazil and Chile, Nicaraguans in Costa Rica, and Caribbeans in Panama (Table 3.4).

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Table 3.4 Total of Immigrants and Emigrants, 2020 Immigrants//Percentage of Population South America Venezuela 1,324,193//4.7% Colombia 1,905,393//3.7% Brazil 1,079,708//0.5% Peru 1,224,519//3.7% Ecuador 784,787//4.4% Argentina 2,281,728//5.0% Bolivia 164,121//1.4% Paraguay 169,567//2.4% Chile 1,645,015//8.6% Uruguay 108,267//3.1% Central America Guatemala 84,311//0.5% El Salvador 42,767//0.7% Honduras 39,195//0.4% Nicaragua 42,167//0.06% Costa Rica 520,729//10.2% Panama 313,165//0.7% North America Mexico 1,197,624//1.0% United States 50,632,836//15.3% Canada 8,049,323//21.0%

Emigrants//Percentage of Population 5,100,000//17.9% 3,024,273//5.9% 1,879,128//0.8% 1,519,635//4.6% 1,127,891//6.4% 1,076,148//2.4% 927,244//7.9% 896,484//12.6% 643,800//3.4% 367,060//10.6% 1,368,431//8.1% 1,599,058//25.0% 985,077//10.0% 718,154//10.8% 150,241//2.9% 139,520//0.3% 11,185,737//8.7% 2,996,223//0.9% 1,292,329//3.4%

Source: Migration data from The Migration Data Portal. Available at www.migrationdataportal.org Source: Population data from World Bank, 2020 statistics. Available at www.data.worldbank.org

Migrants who settle in the cities face vulnerabilities beyond those experienced by the nationals who compose the urban poor. Increasingly, they have become the target of politicians seeking scapegoats in the face of declining economies and rising crime. Nationalist President Jair Bolsonaro made good on a campaign promise in 2019 when he pulled Brazil from a United Nations accord on migration signed by 160 nations, exclaiming, “not just anyone can come into our home” (New York Times, 2019). In Ecuador, a Venezuelan immigrant murdered a pregnant Ecuadoran woman after threatening her with a knife for 90 minutes in public, and with police nearby. The atrocity stirred marches calling for the expulsion of Venezuelans, while President Lenín Moreno and other politicians called for enhanced security measures against immigrants, rather than highlighting the act as violence against women or recognizing the failure of police to act (Martinez-Gugeril, 2019). Similar incidents of anti-immigrant violence, often stirred by self- serving politicians, have occurred in recent years in Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Costa Rica, and Peru (Guardian 2021). The urban poor thus eke out a precarious living in the informal, tertiary, and low-wage service sectors, and increasingly look to family members abroad to supplement their incomes. But the social exclusion associated with the new poverty continues to frustrate the search for better living standards. Caroline Moser illustrates

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the rise of contemporary social exclusion with a 30-year study of households in a shantytown on the outskirts of Guayaquil, Ecuador. Upon her first visit in 1978, she found makeshift bamboo homes with dirt floors constructed near unstable mangrove swamps, families that rationed water and lived by candlelight after sunset, and neighborhoods that looked to each other for basic goods or services and organized to lobby local authorities for basic services and to secure land rights. But things changed over thirty years. Utilities were installed, health clinics and schools built, swamps were infilled and streets were paved, bus lines arrived, and in the homes- now made of concrete rather than bamboo- one increasingly found a host of consumer items from sewing and washing machines to DVD players and TVs and bicycles and motorcycles. Most significantly, many in the second generation made their way through secondary school and some continued to the tertiary level. Conditions changed, but poverty, though no longer extreme, remained even as expectations grew. Educated women wanted more than to wash and clean at home like their mothers did, but stable and sustainable employment remained elusive. A large contingent went abroad and assisted their families with remittances from Barcelona, but they routinely found employment well-below their education and skill levels. Frustration and despondency grew. Modest benefits had come to the community, but so did chronic insecurity, despondency, and reduced social interactions, which over time manifest itself as crime, domestic violence, and drug use (Moser, 2009). New poverty had arrived in Guayaquil.

3.1.5

The Urban Poor and the Future of Democracy in Latin America: The 2019 Protests and the COVID-19 Pause

As the Cold War came to a close in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the world celebrated a wave of democratization that had already swept through much of Latin America. But it soon became clear that democratization did not simply emerge with the passing of authoritarian rule and holding of elections. Democracy requires institutions to ensure accountability in elected leaders and to thwart any attempts by them to abuse the law. In Latin America, the rise of “delegative democracies” jeopardized these goals at the outset. This type of limited democracy may safeguard the right and ability of the populace to vote for the highest offices, but once that executive takes office, he concentrates authority and sidelines other public authorities, from the legislature, courts, and political parties to oversight agencies such as audit officers or electoral commissions. Delegative democracies embrace the “premise that whoever wins election to the presidency is thereby entitled to govern and he or she sees fit, contained only by the hard facts of existing power relations and by a constitutionally limited term of office.” That president “embodies the nation” and “defines its interest” (O’Donnell, 1994, pp. 59–60). A tradition of strong executives left Latin America particularly susceptible to delegative democracy, but other institutional deficiencies hobbled the broader sphere

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of state-society relations. In a classic piece, Guillermo O’Donnell (1993) attempted to portray state-society relations through a color-coded scheme that highlights the socio-spatial variation in the presence of the state within its own borders. In “blue areas,” state institutions work effectively to ensure public order, provide common goods, and enhance social welfare, and the rule of law assures equality in access to and treatment by public authorities. “Green areas” exhibit some deficiencies in the functions of the state and flaws in the rule of law. And in “brown areas” the state fails to function with any real regard to the rule of law, and local representatives or other public officials establish, at best, clientelist relations with their constituents that depend on the exchange of favors with the executive and various state bureaucracies, leaving questions of power in private hands. In some cases, the state is simply absent in brown areas, and criminal organizations take on the role of authorities. According to O’Donnell, a form of “low-intensity citizenship” defines state-society relations in these brown areas. Moreover, because state officials in brown areas oppose efforts to ensure accountability within the rule of law and feed off the patronage provided by executive institutions, they encourage the very politics that sustain delegative democracies. O’Donnell wrote his piece almost three decades ago. If we apply his color-coded scheme to Latin American countries since that time, we would see an expansion of brown areas, in tandem with the explosive growth of shantytowns that has marked the urbanization processes described in this chapter. The exercise underscores the relations between the basic functions of government at the local level and deficiencies in national politics, such as delegative democracy. The struggles of the urban poor thus have a significant impact on processes of democratization in Latin America; their well-being and extent of political inclusion is a barometer of good government. One would be hard pressed to identify a more relevant, recent reminder of this than the protests that rocked Latin America through 2019. In a number of countries, activists flooded city streets and brought everyday life to a near standstill, in some cases for weeks. The annual report on the Americas published by Amnesty International described the protests as “overwhelmingly peaceful,” but also highlighted repressive state responses that left at least 210 people dead. A range of issues (often specific to a given country) propelled the protests, some of which included: electoral integrity, women’s rights, tax reform, LGBTQ+ protections, consumer subsidies and austerity measures, climate change, access to justice, police violence, corruption, and Indigenous rights. Despite the variety of issues, aspects of the new poverty provided a common thread throughout the region. Economies had been stagnant for years since the end of the commodity boom, and in the context of economic inequality, questions of access to basic economic and social rights such as education, health, or housing became magnified for everyone. “People protested because they felt representatives were increasingly divorced from their needs and demands, because of corruption, and because they felt shut out of decision-making processes, which often resulted in policies that disproportionately disadvantaged people living in poverty or in low-income homes, women and girls, Indigenous Peoples, and young people” (Amnesty International, 2020). Many who participated did so not necessarily because they were poor, but because the plight of

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the poor highlighted democratic deficiencies in their country. For many, this plight also offered a very real possibility of their own future as chronic economic stagnation and inequality left those just outside the fringes of the urban poor increasingly vulnerable (see Chap. 5). Although nearly every country in the region experienced some level of unrest, the protests hit Bolivia, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela particularly hard. Though economic malaise, inequality, and frustration with politicians drove protests in each, political institutions shaped how those protests unfolded. The protests came early to Nicaragua, in 2018, as a response to proposed government cutbacks in social security benefits and tax increases. Although the government cancelled the reforms, activists turned their concerns to the violent response to the demonstrations, which would leave over 300 dead and 2,000 injured by mid-year. Those detained reported incidents of beatings, torture, and rape, and many were held incommunicado and subject to hearings behind closed doors. Protestors soon called for the resignation of Daniel Ortega, who had retained his position as president since 2007 through suspect and often blatantly fraudulent means. But the crackdown grew only more violent and repressive: A Law on Terrorism prohibited protests and inflated penalties, those that occurred were met with rubber bullets and even live fire, the homes of activists were raided, journalists were attacked, all leading tens of thousands to flee and seek asylum, many in Costa Rica and the United States (Human Rights Watch, 2019). Fearing that mobilization might rally the opposition in the upcoming 2021 elections, the Ortega government had every viable opposition candidate for president placed under arrest by the time of the campaign. The Organization of American States, which had already issued multiple condemnations of the violent responses to street protests since 2018, declared that the 2021 elections “were not free, fair or transparent, and lack democratic legitimacy.” Nicaragua summarily responded with an announcement to leave the organization (Associated Press, 2021). A similar story of protest due to declining living standards and violent repression took place in Venezuela through 2019. And Cuba, though no stranger to shortages of food, medical supplies, or basic consumer goods, saw these issue stir some of the largest protests since the 1959 revolution by 2021. As in Nicaragua and Venezuela, the government responded with repression. Protests elicited different responses in Chile and Colombia. A hike in subway fares in Chile, and presumed cuts in pensions and education in Colombia triggered protests that again quickly targeted a host of economic and political grievances in each. These countries experienced some of the largest demonstrations as hundreds of thousands blocked city streets, clashed with police, and precipitated various acts of vandalism and looting. The police response was often brutal, with scores of related deaths and thousands of injuries reported, and incidents of police violence, but in each country the response came more so from the halls of government than from the hands of police authorities. The Colombian government rescinded many of its economic proposals, and met with unions and protest groups. Likewise, the Chilean government also looked to mediation and ultimately channeled demands toward initiatives to redraft the constitution. Significant political reforms in response to the

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protests have yet to occur, and may never completely satisfy many, but the greater willingness to consider and implement political reforms and real policy changes distinguish the cases of Colombia and Chile from Nicaragua, Venezuela, and Cuba. Haiti and Bolivia both exhibit weak governments, and Haiti in particular has struggled to advance its democratic credentials. In Haiti, protests began in 2018 in response to increases in fuel prices, issues of corruption, and increasingly targeted the government of Jovenel Moïse, calling for his resignation. By the second half of 2020, the country was averaging 84 demonstrations a month (CNN, 2020). There were reports of grave human rights abuses by public authorities, but more of the violence resulted from a surge in criminal activities and kidnappings related to the general instability resulting from the public disturbances and the inability of government to instill order. By 2021, President Jovenel Moïse would be assassinated during an attempted coup d’état. The 2019 Bolivian protests erupted due to allegations of electoral fraud by President Evo Morales. Morales had in fact championed the poor since his election in 2006, and had an undisputed record of poverty reduction. But many in his base grew disenchanted by his unwillingness to relinquish power in the face of constitutionally set term limits. As the polls closed, Opposition movements created disruptions that drove Morales out of the country and into exile in October 2019. In the following months, his supporters clashed with the opposition and protested for his return, which would become possible after new elections brought a member of his party to the presidency in October 2020. With governments too weak to effectively repress protests, and lacking the legitimacy to respond through government channels, in Haiti and Bolivia state-society relations come to embody the protests and contribute to general instability. Hence, even as economic malaise, inequality, and issues of government accountability strike governments throughout Latin America, the response may highlight repression, mediation, or instability- though in most cases each may be present to some extent. This illustrates how political institutions create an opportunity structure for social movements. But whatever opportunity structure protests movements came to face in 2019, it changed fundamentally as the COVID-19 pandemic crossed the hemisphere. Governments looked to lockdowns, curfews, and other mitigation efforts for good reason, but it also became clear that these same measures allowed officials to clamp down on protest activity. Likewise, the threat of a COVID-19 infection dissuaded many activists from participation. What had quickly come to be known as “The Latin Spring” faded almost as quickly. But few doubt that this is but a pause. The pandemic only added to the list of grievances, as shortages in medical supplies and ineffective health care systems multiplied sickness and death, allegations of corruption surrounding welfare disbursements designed to alleviate the related hardship came to light, and incidents of politicians “jumping the line” or even traveling abroad as vaccines became available predictably emerged. But even more so, the pandemic pushed an additional 4.7 million persons out of the middle classes and into vulnerability or poverty, marking a reversal of hard-fought social gains. As noted by one expert, “those who were worse off to begin with will likely be the most affected, leading to increases in income inequality in an already very unequal region” (World Bank, 2021b). If the ingredients for unrest among the

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urban poor were there in 2019, they have only redoubled since that time. According to one analyst, “There’s now a culture of social protest across Latin America” (Foreign Policy, 2021). That culture of protest is driven by the recognition that the urban poor are not just urban and poor, but that their struggle for citizenship is emblematic of the democratic standing of the country.

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Chapter 4

The Struggle for Inclusion: Patriarchy Confronts Women and the LGBTQ+ Community

“The personal is political.” This is a slogan associated with the feminist movement in the United States, one commonly heard during marches in the 1960s and 1970s. It is meant to draw a clear connection between the lived experiences of women and power structures in society. The burdens of childcare and the division of household chores, access to health care and education, reproductive rights, unequal pay, inequities in the legal realm, and domestic violence are not individual, private problems but instead collective problems related to systemic sexism. In Latin America during the 1960s and 1970s, repressive military regimes muffled these calls even as they grew louder in the streets of the U.S. Nonetheless, women’s movements in Latin America redoubled their efforts after the transition to democracy. In fact, today Latin American movements stand at the forefront of international feminist action. But wherever and whenever this rallying cry takes place, this artificial division between the personal and the political, or the private and the public, describes constructs not only of gender, but of sexuality more generally. As such, the private/public divide creates common ground for the struggles of women, as well as LGBTQ+ persons. Women and the LGBTQ+ community also face a common foe in this struggle, and that is patriarchy. Patriarchy refers to male domination, and the political, legal, cultural, spiritual, and economic forces that sustain this domination. Traditionally, patriarchy has rested on social relations that allow men to “dominate, oppress, and exploit women” not only in the household, but also in the workplace, politics, legal realm, and in cultural institutions (Walby, 1990, p. 20). As a social order that champions heterosexual relations with women placed in a subordinate position, it excludes LGBTQ+ persons, and defines them as deviant. In the end, patriarchy rests on a particular image of sexuality and gender that privileges the negotiated male identity. This view, that dominant conceptions of sexuality and gender result from contestation and negotiation, as well as the historical and cultural contexts of a society, offers also a common approach to political struggle for both feminist and LGBTQ+ movements. Hence, it makes sense to address women and the LGBTQ+ community together, at the very least to compare how each have reacted and evolved © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 C. L. Arceneaux, Political Struggle in Latin America, Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07904-7_4

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in relation to the common dynamics of their struggles. In analyzing the two, this chapter focuses on the concept of inclusion. Historically, women and LGBTQ+ persons have seen their rights and prerogatives denied by government. By way of comparison, we can map out a two-phase pattern in the struggle for inclusion. The first is a battle to be seen and heard, to simply be recognized as relevant. This is a struggle to engage, to portray concerns as political issues worthy of negotiation. In this phase, the powers that be refuse to address the issue, and dismiss appeals to basic constitutional guarantees as irrelevant. The second phase takes place more forthrightly in the legal realm as groups clash over rights and privileges, and engage government through more traditional political channels such as legislation or the courts (Mirkin, 1999, p. 1). Women gradually made their way through the first phase beginning in late nineteenth century and continuing to the democratic transitions of the late twentieth century, and now quite clearly rest in the second phase. LGBTQ+ groups moved much later, but much more quickly, with significant gains charted only over the past several decades. Nonetheless, as we shall see, the inclusion of women and LGBTQ+ groups in politics exhibits tremendous variation throughout the region. Some Latin American countries, especially in the Southern Cone of South America, stand among the more progressive countries in the world. Others, such as most in Central America, have seen reversals in recent years and significantly limit the sexual rights of women and LGBTQ+ persons.

4.1

The Long Road to Contest Patriarchy

Patriarchy is not unique to Latin America. Still, the particular manifestation of patriarchy varies exceptionally depending upon the historical, economic, cultural, and political traits of a given society. Even more deeply, whether patriarchy must emerge or not is open to question. History hardly confirms that patriarchy is a “natural,” biologically-based social order. Anthropologists have published innumerable ethnographic accounts of matriarchal and egalitarian societies found over time (Kimmel, 2017, pp. 17–148). Indeed, some analysts argue that pre-Columbian societies espoused “gender complementarity,” with females and males assuming roles that were different, but not arranged or identified hierarchically so as to subordinate women (Powers, 2005). But the debate over whether pre-Columbian societies were gender complementary or gender hierarchical can easily idealize and simplify the diversity of ethnicities found in the Americas before the arrival of Columbus. The Incas did distinguish a division of household labor, but they also recognized married couples as a team, and extolled the weaving and spinning by women, which was essential to trade and tribute. On the other hand, the burial mounds of elite classes regularly filled the tombs of men with richer and more exotic goods than women, suggesting a difference in social status. The Aztecs did not consider relations between a married man and a single woman to be adultery, but when the

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roles were reversed, they regarded the act to be serious enough as to be punished by death. Nonetheless, in the Aztec marketplace, women gained significant autonomy to set prices and control tribute. In Mayan society, women were prohibited from agricultural work. Further south, Incan women were expected to work in the field, but not to plow fields. That was prohibited. Throughout the Americas, men and women alike bowed their heads to female deities (Socolow, 2015). And there are countless cases of androgynous deities, and societies that embraced fluidity in their gender identities (e.g., Ardren, 2008). The comparisons could continue, but the point is that neither complementarity nor hierarchy accurately describes gender relations within pre-Columbian societies, let alone across them and over time. Even more so, the very notions of complementarity or hierarchy entangle themselves within modern, Western understandings of sexual divisions (Stockett, 2005). Hence, the question of whether colonialism imposed patriarchal orders on societies muddles a complex transformation in the societies of the Americas. Some Indigenous societies “controlled female sexuality in ways strikingly similar to the Spanish” (Socolow, 2015, p. 20). Others did not. Likewise, the Indigenous societies of 1492 differed dramatically from those that inhabited the land in previous centuries. One would be mistaken to assume that gender identities and sexual relations would have frozen absent the arrival of Europeans. Indeed, if there is one compelling continuity identified by scholars who study the rise of patriarchy, it is that patriarchy appears to be closely related to socio-economic changes. In particular, the rise of settled agricultural communities upended the more equitable divisions of labor found in hunter-gatherer societies. This was the case throughout the world. Greater technological advancement allowed for higher fertility rates and reduced opportunities for women outside the home. In some societies, the rise of cereal production pushed a division of labor that led women to process cereals and spend less time in the field. The rise of surplus goods required protection, leading to the emergence of male-dominated warrior classes. Surpluses, along with the rise of crafts and property created a new issue for the elite classes- inheritance. Men then sought to control the sexuality of women to ensure a stable, and knowable, lineage. And many saw an advantage in taking on multiple wives to broaden the access to wealth for their lineage. Religious and cultural institutions evolved to legitimize the changes. Soon enough, gods increasingly revealed themselves as men (Biaggi, 2005; Hansen et al., 2015; Lerner, 1986; Nash, 1997). Indigenous understandings of gender and sexuality were not uniform, nor were they static. Still, history is crystal clear on one point- colonialism allowed Iberian understandings of gender and sexuality to dominate, and they were indeed patriarchal. In some ways, colonialism eroded some patriarchal aspects of Indigenous culture, even as it enforced Iberian patriarchy. For women, the legacy of conquest saw their domestic roles in providing for reproduction, food processing, and clothing reinforced with the imposition of Iberian gender roles. Missionaries who colonized coastal areas of Brazil inhabited by the Topí prohibited women from farming, a responsibility they had previously monopolized. Much further north, missionaries who settled lands of the Pueblo declared that construction would fall into the hands

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of men only, even though women had traditionally managed this role (Socolow, 2015, p. 46). Indigenous men were the primary interlocutors of the colonial project—they filled positions of power, comprised the vast majority of labor tribute under the encomendero system, and received more opportunities to participate in Christian religious rites. As a result, Indigenous women took on more responsibilities as preservers of Indigenous culture in the household and local community. And that culture saw change with the confinement of women to those domestic gender roles prioritized by colonial authorities, alongside the obliteration of so many traditional male roles (along with female roles in governance, religion, and market relations outside the home). The consequences were significant, according to one scholar who saw: . . .greater survival of elements of women’s culture related to domesticity in the supernatural as well as the mundane world. Deities related to the earth, corn, the land, sweet water, and fertility itself persisted while gods related to rank, hierarchy, power, war, and death were replaced by Christian saints and deities. . .Indigenous understandings of the movements of the sun and moon, time and space, and the replenishment of water and soil fertility drew on primordial beliefs about the powers of fertility, regeneration, and crop life associated with female supernaturals. . . (Nash, 1997, p. 334).

But the selective conservation of certain features of Indigenous culture was not the only influence on gender roles during the colonial period. Many facets of Indigenous culture blended with Iberian culture through a process scholars have tagged syncretism. Though all of Europe adopted patriarchal values, the intensity was probably much stronger in Iberia due to the impact of battle against the Moors during the Reconquista. War tends to elevate the roles of men, especially when it lasts over seven centuries. For the Spanish, masculine honor stood in contrast to the barbarity projected upon the Moors, and when a man married, a woman could only tarnish this honor. She could not add to it. Control over women’s bodies was thus paramount to the maintenance of civilization itself, and chastity was at the centerpiece of this control. Confronted with a host of gender roles and levels of sexual permissiveness in Indigenous societies throughout the Americas, religious authorities redoubled their efforts to instruct Indigenous women on proper sexual conduct. To do so, they offered the model of the Virgin Mary to advocate values of obedience, humility, and chastity (Powers, 2005, p. 50). Today, scholars use the term marianismo to describe the use of the Virgin Mary to create gender role expectations that uphold submissiveness, self-sacrifice, family, passivity, and harmony. The construct does present a sense of female superiority as a moral and spiritual being, but at the expense of obedience to a husband, and an ideal image of a woman that can rarely be met (Stevens, 1973). Controlling the sexual purity of women was a key aspect of patriarchy; marianismo allowed the Spanish to extol a role model that gave birth, but retain her virginity (Powers, 2005, p. 55). The acceptance of the Virgin Mary as a model by Indigenous women is syncretic because her imagery resonated with mother goddesses or fertility symbols from traditional Indigenous cosmologies. Likewise, because she first appeared, according

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to Catholic mythology, to a humble, lowly peasant (Juan Diego), she has also been embraced as a symbol of resistance, and thereby offered women a symbolic role in calls for political change. In 1712, an Indigenous woman by the name of María de Candeleria claimed that the Virgin Mary asked for a chapel to be built in her honor near her community in the Chiapas region of Mexico. After she was rebuked, and whipped, by church authorities, Indigenous communities throughout the area mobilized to support her cause, stirred also by longstanding grievances against the merciless and exploitative practices of the Spanish. The revolt against the Catholic hierarchy quickly turned into a revolt against colonial rule, and mobilized up to 6000. But the Spanish swiftly quelled the revolt (known as the Tzeltal Rebellion) with brutal repression. Much later, in 1810, when Father Miguel Hidalgo rallied a local population to launch the War for Independence in Mexico, he did so while carrying the banner of the Virgin Mary. The dark-skinned virgin not only became the symbol of resistance to and distinction from the Spanish, but also contributed to the battle cry: “Death to Spaniards, Long Live the Virgin of Guadeloupe.” These examples are from Mexico, but marianismo surfaced everywhere Catholic missionaries came into contact with the Indigenous. Machismo is the male counterpart to the female marianismo stereotype, and it too promotes an idealized role, but one based on hyper-sexuality. It endorses certain expectations of male behavior and beliefs revolving around aggression, sexual prowess, domination of women, bravery, toughness, and honor. Those who do not conform to male-female heterosexual identities present a threat. Its syncretic quality is not as evident as that of marianimso. Some researchers view machismo as a backlash to the conquest and emasculation of Indigenous men under Spanish colonial rule. Others more closely identify machismo with Iberian culture and Catholic thought and view it as a colonial footprint imposed on societies in the Americas. Still others, largely informed by Aztec history, highlight the warrior status and celebrations of masculinity that predated the arrival of the Spanish. There is some evidence for each explanation of the genesis of machismo, but as one analyst notes, it may be most plausible to view this cult of masculinity as a product of the conquistadors. They “provided a model of the negative macho figure—daring, arrogant, dominant, insensitive, warring, irreverent, lewd, unpredictable, and lustful men of action” and if they did not directly transplant these traits, they intensified those preexisting analogous masculine traits within Indigenous societies (Mirandé, 1997, p. 57). The origins of machismo may be debated, but the fact that the Spanish sustained and enhanced its impact is not. The family and marriage rested at the center of the patriarchal colonial order. The family established a clear boundary between the private and the public. For all intents and purposes, women were considered to be minors, as wards placed under the control of their father or husband (the patria potestad), and barred from holding positions of public authority. There are few instances of women who gained recognition outside that offered by their family, but one clear exception is Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, who many regard to be Latin America’s first feminist. She was born out of wedlock in 1651, and joined a convent outside Mexico City in 1667, which afforded her the time and opportunity to pursue studies. She wrote poetry in

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Latin, Spanish, and Nahuatl, and excelled in theology, music, philosophy, the natural sciences, and mathematics. Many of her writings challenged patriarchy and exposed the hypocrisy of the norms that upheld it. One poem, “Hombres necios que acusáis” (Foolish Men, Who Accuse) declared, Foolish men, you who blame women without cause; you promote the very flaws to which you give women fame. . . None can ever win your game, because you accuse the one who is most true of being ungrateful if she refuses you, and the one who accepts, of shame. . . (Salazar, 1994, pp. 86–87)

In the twenty-first century, Mexican children continue to recite the poem in schools because the words remain distressingly relevant. In her time, Sor Juana was a controversial figure and became the target of constant attacks from within her covenant. She even drew the attention, and ire, further up the Catholic hierarchy. Tragically, toward the end of her life she yielded to the pressure, set aside her studies and work, and focused solely on religious studies as a form of penance. If the Church offered women an opportunity for scholarship, it did so with the irreconcilable condition of devotion. The Church bolstered patriarchy by establishing lines of control to ensure heterosexual male dominance in accord with Catholic doctrine. The Church regulated the rites of marriage, defined sexual sins, and provided justification (and sanctions) for establishing all non-heterosexual acts as unnatural. But the sources of patriarchy were also found beyond the dictates of the Church. Even when aspects of the Bourbon Reforms in the Spanish colonies targeted church authority in the mid-eighteenth century, patriarchal control over marriage increased. A reform in 1776 seeking to ensure that people chose “appropriate partners” placed the issue in the civil courts and therefore increased parental control over marital choices. Parents, of course, had a deep concern over whether the marriage of their child with a person of lower status might affect inheritance and the family lineage. An 1805 modification of the law expanded oversight by requiring the approval of civil authorities for racially mixed marriages (Wade, 2009, p. 93). To maintain this regulation, all colonial residents were subject to surveillance and denunciation. In many ways, women at the lower classes had more flexibility than women of the elite classes, who were expected to either marry or join a convent. Both marriage and convents required a dowry, but the expense for a convent was typically lower, making them a favorable choice for larger elite families. But as illustrated by the case of Sor Juana, convents offered one of the only avenues of education for women, constrained as it was. As for the lower classes, marriage was in fact less common due to the expense of a wedding and shortage of priests in many rural regions. The commitment to social norms also dropped below the elite classes. Illegitimacy, female-headed households, consensual unions, premarital sex, elopement, adultery, rape, homosexuality, and incest were not uncommon—of course the elite classes engaged in many of the prohibited sexual activities, but were much more likely to conceal them (Wade, 2009, p. 97–99).

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As the colonial period worked its way through the eighteenth century, the Enlightenment stirred thoughts on rationality and reason, politics, and the nature of knowledge. Such ideas potentially offered a revolutionary opportunity to rethink social relations, including patriarchy and questions of gender. But things changed little for the women of colonial Latin America. Enlightenment thought did lead to a consideration of how the spread of education might advance society. But as applied to women, the approach was not to educate women for their own well-being and advantage, but rather for the purposes of making them better mothers and wives. Education still largely targeted the “domestic arts” (cooking, sewing, spinning, embroidery, and music), as well as religious studies, and basic skills in reading, writing, and arithmetic, largely to help manage a household. And the reforms really only touched the elite classes, and had almost no effect in rural areas. Patriarchy framed the application of Enlightenment ideas to women’s education as the reforms attempted to balance two competing goals: how to prevent women in the upper classes from growing idle in their sheltered lives, and how to limit education that would have any practical application to employment opportunities, given the belief that work would sully the reputation of a woman. In the end “manners were more important than intellectual brilliance in the making of a perfect woman” (Socolow, 2015, p. 180). When the independence movements emerged in the 1810s and 1820s, women did not stand by as witnesses. More recent historical accounts document the significant roles played by women as battlefield nurses and cooks, hosts of clandestine meetings and refugees, distributors of propaganda, spies, active participants in protests and rebellions, and some who formed women’s battalions to support the cause with arms. And they paid the price. In the wars for independence in Gran Colombia, one study documents the execution of 48 women, the arrest and exile of 119, and the sentencing of 15 to hard labor. Some were subject to lashings, and others saw the property and wealth left behind by their fallen husbands confiscated (Brewster, 2005). But just as the philosophical movement of the Enlightenment failed to significantly change the rights of women, so too did the political movements surrounding the development of new constitutions. Indeed, the elite criollo classes were key to the drive for independence, and they fully recognized how a reconsideration of the political order would open questions about their own privileges and the patriarchal social order that helped sustain them. Reformists in Spain considered colonial rule as they drafted the Cádiz Constitution of 1812, a document that would significantly influence constitutional designs in the new republics of Latin America. One scholar notes that the thoughts of one delegate channeled the anxiety of his colleagues as they debated issues of slavery and rights more generally within the colonies. The delegate cautioned, “if we take these principles of so-called rigorous justice too far, it will become necessary to concede to women civil and political rights, and to admit them into the electoral juntas and into the Cortes (the Spanish parliament) itself.” His fellow delegates clearly agreed, leaving out any mention of the status or rights of women in the constitution. Some of this apprehension was xenophobic, rising from a fear of how women gained newfound rights and positions during the French Revolution, and

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groundlessly connecting this to the general disorder that followed in France. Still, Latin American elites shared the unease. Those who drafted perhaps the most radical constitution, in Venezuela (1811), abolished the slave trade and all racial differences, granted citizenship to all freemen, and expanded suffrage (though with property and literacy requirements), but it said nothing of the rights of women. Indeed, as delegates convened to sign the document, the very word “woman” was nowhere to be found (Zahler, 2015). The lack of change in the status of women was not entirely unsurprising, despite the rhetoric of revolution. No matter how essential the contributions of women to the independence movements were, it was all too easy for contemporaries and later historians to highlight their supportive and feminine roles (nurses, cooks, seamstresses, and socialites) while focusing much more prominently on the heroic actions of male military leaders and soldiers. And there is scant evidence that women expected any greater freedom or equality as a result of their participation. A variety of motivations beyond political goals stirred action, from patriotism to the protection of family and property, and profit as well. Unlike in the United States, France, and Spain, women did not form political societies, but rather contributed on a more individual basis. And unlike nonwhite male participants in the revolutionary cause— who pushed for military service in exchange for citizenship, women did not bargain over their participation. The bargain pushed by nonwhite men was consistent with the approach of patriarchal Enlightenment republican values to equality—all men could potentially gain citizenship through military service. But of course this transaction was not available to women (Zahler, 2015). Also, the expansion of rights more deeply into the social classes of males did not necessarily coincide with the goals of women. Indeed, It may have been at odds. One study of Arequipa, Peru from 1780 to 1854 notes how middle- and lower-class groups sought to solidify their newfound rights by asserting greater control over women in the courts and through changes in legal codes. Indeed, for many the maintenance of citizenship depended upon their honor, which was evidenced through their control over the sexuality of their women. Honor had been a principal value during colonial times as well, but it was a religious virtue drawn from one’s lineage. Increasingly, officials judged honor as a civil virtue based on merit and behavior (Chambers, 1999). One should also consider the length (over 15 years) and destructiveness of the independence movements. Deaths, casualties, and refugee flows mounted. Disorder opened opportunities for roving criminal bands. Disruptions of trade and agricultural production, the hazards of overseas shipping, and the flooding of abandoned mines upended nascent national economies, not to mention the accrual of massive war debts. Such turmoil tends to push people to the familiar, and for the Hispanic world that meant Spanish traditions, including the patriarchal state and society (Breña, 2015). The opportunities for change were thus far from favorable. Liberalism itself, as a new political ideology in contrast to the conservative underpinnings of monarchy and feudalism, did not necessarily oppose patriarchy, and could even bolster it. Indeed, misogynistic remarks pepper the liberal writings of John Locke and

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Jean-Jacques Rousseau. But more meaningfully, the liberal conception of a private sphere, where individual autonomy is to be respected, and a public sphere, where government regulation and action may be warranted, has concealed the complicity of the state as it in fact enabled male dominance. Through history, this idea of a private sphere has justified state inaction on behalf of women in such matters of marital choice, inheritance, divorce, reproductive freedom, the value of childcare and other domestic labor, domestic violence, alimony, and access to education, healthcare, the courts, or credit- inaction that allows for the continued power of males as fathers or husbands (Okin, 1989). Although other variants of liberalism place greater focus on egalitarianism, the new republics that emerged from independence compromised and merged liberal, radical, and conservative thought (Arceneaux, 2021, pp. 138–140). And they did so in ways that sidelined the rights of women. For example, the new states found it difficult to shake off corporatist traditions that assigned rights in terms of groups, rather than individuals. Cabildos, guilds, parishes, militias, professions, Indigenous communities, and the like had a long history of collective action, and readily fell into a formula that assigned liberal rights to corporatist groups. Women did not. Likewise, though the law hardly protected women in colonial society, judges could often apply it with discretion to the advantage of women or other vulnerable sectors in extraordinary circumstances. But the new republics embraced French code law, which limited judicial interpretation (Zahler, 2015, pp. 224–25). Indeed, one study examined the case of Maria Chinquinquirá, a mulatto slave woman in Guayaquil, Ecuador. In 1794 she successfully sued for her freedom, on the basis that the ill-treatment of her master debased the honor associated with her status as an initially free-borne individual and currently married woman. Such cases were the exception rather than the rule, but the study reveals how adjudication in the colonial era allowed for interpretation, and in this instance the use of femininity as a basis for challenging racial differentiation (Eugenia Chaves, 2000). Hence, most studies see little improvement for women after independence, and some argue that matters became worse (Chambers, 2021). There were few changes in the legal and political realms, but women, at the elite level at least, did become slightly more active in the literary realm, in the press, and through tertulias, or social gatherings that discussed literature and the arts. If anything, attitudes toward women changed slightly, and women began to gain some legitimacy in the pursuit of their rights. Though uneven across the region, court proceedings document an increase in women litigating their rights within “the private sphere.” But patriarchy confined the debate. Dominant social norms of the time compelled women to emphasize marriage as a sacred union with mutual obligations, and to underscore how husbands must be held to account as protectors and providers. Liberal discourse stirred some change over time, leading women in some cases to portray marriage as a secular bond with reciprocal economic obligations (Zahler, 2015, pp. 233–34). Still, the political environment of the nineteenth century was hardly conducive to the pursuit of women’s rights. This was the time of caudillismo, a time marked not only by instability and civil conflict, but also the rise of military strongmen to positions of political power. Caudillismo, as a martial model of masculinity, offered an archetype

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of machismo and a clear message that politics was the purview of men alone. At best, the nineteenth century put women’s rights on hold, with only minimal advances in education, but once again an education geared toward domestic arts, manners, and only the most basic of skills. As caudillismo gave way to the export-economy and greater socio-economic stability, political elites focused on issues of modernization and civic growth. Government, colonial or republican, had always concerned itself with development, and did so with thoughts as to the role of women. If there is any continuity, it is the idea that women who fail to conform to their role are “dangerous.” Such “deviants” represent a threat to the social order and the advance of civilization. Through much of the colonial period, the dangerous women were those accused of sorcery or witchcraft- women who were often folk healers or practitioners of traditional medicine. In addition, some women were accused of “love magic,” or the use of sexual appeal to gain influence over a man. Many of the accused were brought to the Inquisition, but the penalty typically did not extend beyond public shaming, unless political motivations, such as the use of presumed powers to stir rebellion, were involved. That could result in death. Because most of the accused were older, nonwhite women, the social divide probably contributed to lesser sentences. They may have been considered dangerous, but they were deviants who did not regularly interact with middle and upper classes (Socolow, 2015, pp. 157–76). Over the course of the colonial period and especially during the greater urbanization of the nineteenth century, prostitutes emerged as a new symbol of the dangerous woman, but one that held a much closer relationship with men than the sorcerers. Local government viewed prostitution as a “necessary evil” due to the sexual needs of men, but also as a threat due to the spread of venereal diseases (they alone, and not men, held responsibility for the public health concern). The case of Buenos Aires exemplifies the reaction to the dangerous women engaged in prostitution. Sexual solicitation surged in late nineteenth century Buenos Aires, due to its status as a shipping port and prime destination for European immigrants (both of which contributed to an imbalance between males and females). One seminal study of the case captures the reaction to prostitutes as dangerous women, one that was replayed throughout Latin America: Prostitution became a metaphor for upper- and middle-class fears about the lower class and future of the Argentine nation. If it were possible to alter and control the sexual mores of poor women, then these reformed women could clarify gender relations between classes, reshape the lower class family to fit more bourgeois models, and define women’s work as reproduction and nurturing rather than production. . .female prostitution was seen as the origin of urban disorder instead of its economic and social consequence (Guy, 1991, p. 44).

Still, the acceptance of prostitution as a “necessary evil” would be revived under the government of Juan Péron (1946–55) in a way that duly illustrates the need for patriarchy to control sexual behavior in order to defend its conception of masculinity. Brothels were permitted to reopen in 1954 after having been shuttered in 1936 by a conservative military government. Guy (1991, pp. 180–204) documents a trail of justifications for the move, justifications that have little to do with individual rights or concerns with women. Rather, authorities had linked the prohibition of

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prostitution with a perceived rise in male homosexuality, which they regarded to be a deviancy spurred by the lack of a readily accessible outlet for male sexual desires. Péron thus passed the decree to “defend family, society, and nation” (Guy, 1991, p. 181). Such a defense makes sense—within a patriarchal framework. Another study of Mexico City at the turn of the century documents how authorities ignored any thoughts as to how poverty, abuse, and the shock of rural-urban migration stirred motivations to engage in prostitution, and the double-standard as legal codes imposed penalties for women on the “supply-side” and never the men on the “demand-side” of prostitution (Bliss, 2001). A third expression of the dangerous woman developed with the growth of light industry at the outset of the twentieth century (see below). By the 1930s, the debate over the “dangerous woman had shifted from the bordello to the factory. It was the working woman, rather than the prostitute, whose independence came to be perceived as a threat to the family and the nation” (Kuznesof, 2013). In a study of the images and understandings of industrial work by women in Chile from the 1930s to 1950s, Godoy Catalán (2016) collected a number of excerpts from academic reports with conclusions such as: “women who earned a wage were less economically dependent on men and could be less tolerant with them;” “the factory-working woman becomes lazy, does not sacrifice for her children, has no respect for her husband, in total, both degenerate completely, marital disagreements arise, then, separation;” and “the worker mother is neither a true worker nor a good mother and wife. . .she inflicts great harm upon her children and even loses the affection of her husband.” Ultimately, “women workers were regarded as ‘dangerously autonomous’” (Godoy Catalán, 2016, pp. 127–29). The social construct of a “dangerous woman” shows how patriarchy embodied its perspectives and judgments in images and discourse. But are some aspects of patriarchy also social constructs? Patriarchy itself is a brute fact and describes lived experiences throughout Latin American history. But as a power relation, patriarchy seeks legitimacy, and its own mythos, or set of beliefs, which are often imagined. One myth would be the idea that men are biologically superior to women, a belief found in patriarchies throughout the world and over time. The image of the family with a man at its stead as breadwinner and guardian is also common to patriarchies. But family is especially important in Latin American culture and to Latin American patriarchy, as evidenced by the importance marianismo and machismo give to gender roles within the family. Unsurprisingly, the thought that male-headed households characterized Latin American society formed an integral part of Latin American tradition and was accepted without question for much of history. Legal codes presumed male-headed households in their family laws, literature and the arts portrayed such households as typical, and historians saw little cause to investigate who headed households. But that changed in the 1980s. Demographers began to gather more household data on Latin America in the 1980s, at about the same time that analysts sought to understand the impact of the social dislocations caused by the neoliberal reforms initiated in this period. The data showed a surprising number of female-headed households, and analysts interpreted

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this as just one more shock resulting from austerity measures and the growing economic crisis. But some historians questioned whether the preponderance of female-headed households was a new phenomenon or not, and began to examine census records and other historical documents. While they did find tremendous variation across countries, rural-urban divides, ethnicities, and classes, it became clear that the presumably traditional male-headed household was far from the norm through history.1 One study of São Paulo, Brazil found that female-headed households (defined as households headed by never-married females, widows, and married females with absent husbands) comprised 28.8% of all households in 1765, 44.7% of all households in 1802, and 39.9% of all households in 1836 (Kuznesof, 1980). Generally, these studies found that female-headed households represented between 24 and 45% of all households in all cases examined, and a rise in female-headed households that followed urbanization in the nineteenth century—though little evidence that maleheaded households approached a norm before this time (Kuznesof, 2013, p. 26). Patriarchy exists not only as a lived power relation among genders, but also as a historical narrative. That narrative is important to contemporary understandings in so far as it portrays the current female headed households as a breach with tradition, and therefore a threat to the identity of Latin American culture. But real history shows that is far from the case. The following sections look at the struggles of women and LGBTQ+ groups more separately since the twentieth century.

4.2 4.2.1

Women in Latin American Politics and History Economic Change and the Role of Women

Latin America has had a difficult relationship with democracy due to the extent of military government and other forms of authoritarian rule throughout history. The demand for suffrage, so central to the origins of women’s movements in more developed countries, meant less under these circumstances. Some women opposed the vote, for fear that politics would undermine their moral superiority. On the other hand, some women highjacked discursive gender differences of the time and argued that suffrage would allow the moral virtue of women to enhance politics. Interestingly, while progressive parties forthrightly align their interests with feminist objectives today, in the early twentieth century, many parties on the left in Latin America opposed women’s suffrage. Many held strong suspicions that women were susceptible to clerical influence. Historically, one of the few areas where women exerted greater influence was in charitable activities, given the perception of charity as a

1 See the collection of studies in the September 1985 Journal of Family History 10:3, a special edition devoted to family and society in nineteenth century Latin America.

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Table 4.1 Year suffrage extended to women in Latin American countries Ecuador Brazil Uruguay Cuba El Salvador Dominican Republic Guatemala Panama Argentina Venezuela Chile Costa Rica Bolivia Mexico Honduras Nicaragua Peru Colombia Paraguay

Year suffrage extended to national elections 1929 1932 1932 1934 1939 1942 1945 1945 1947 1947 1949 1949 1952 1953 1955 1955 1955 1957 1961

Source: Author’s calculations

feminine, maternal action. Because the church had for so long involved itself in social welfare activities, charitable work almost inevitably drew a person more deeply into church circles. Hence, while the Mexican Revolution promised wholesale changes in society and politics, women were not offered the vote until decades later, in 1953. Mexican leaders believed women would protest the secularization of the state. In addition, many parties of the left accepted common patriarchal perceptions that viewed women as passive and cautious, and therefore more receptive to conservative ideas. Aside from the opposition they faced, women in Latin America did not mobilize strongly for the vote because they also faced their own divisions. Ideologically, women of the left often placed working class solidarity above gender, and women of the right shunned the move from traditional female roles advanced by feminism. Class and racial divisions also impeded unified action. In the end, some of the more persuasive studies of why governments ultimately extended suffrage argue that political leaders did so for international reasons. They wanted their countries to appear more modern, and looked to developed, western countries as models (Chaney, 1980, pp. 67–82). See Table 4.1 for the years Latin American countries first adopted female suffrage. The forces of globalization that pushed Latin America toward export-import models played no small role in changing gender roles. As economies industrialized in the early twentieth century, women moved into the workforce. Early

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industrialization meant light industry, with manufacturing based on textiles, footwear, foodstuffs, cigarettes, and minimally processed raw materials. In such sectors, women were often just as productive as men, and in many cases employers preferred women under the presumption that women would be more compliant and docile. In 1920s Guatemala, women comprised over 85% of the labor force in textiles, pottery, and the sweets industries. In its vibrant tobacco industry, every worker was female (Lavrin, 1994, p. 492). But things would change as industrial production moved toward machinery, equipment, chemicals and other heavy industries. Manufacturing in these areas involved more complex technologies, and the lower education rates of women hampered their involvement. Indeed, Brazil’s industrial labor force was 90% female in 1900, but by 1940 women held only 25% of the positions (Schmink, 1986, p. 137). But the reduction was not just a result of economic change. Male-dominated labor unions viewed women as a threat to their jobs. In Brazil and Mexico, labor leaders of the 1930s pressured the state to offer subsidies to businesses that employed men (Tiano, 2005, p. 282). Rising overall incomes also reduced female participation in the workforce, as men increasingly took on sole breadwinner status in a household, and pressured women to focus on domestic work. For much of twentieth century, governments had little incentive to expand employment opportunities for women. Burgeoning population growth and rural-urban migration provided a ready supply of male labor, and the introduction of more women would undercut the government’s ability to provide sufficient employment (Gregory, 1986, p. 21). Of course, this rationale ignored the fact that greater participation by women would reduce fertility rates and the pressures of demographic growth. Hence, labor participation by women declined in first half of the 1900s, but over time, women would return the workforce, creating a U-shape through the century. A number of factors converged to spur the reentry of women. Perhaps most importantly, declining fertility rates opened more opportunities for women. In Mexico, women born between 1900 and 1915 averaged 5.1 children, but those born between 1920 and 1925 averaged 6.4 children, as access to health care increased. Those changes helped to reduce female participation in the workforce at that time, but in 1942–46 the average fell to 5.4 children. Then by 1996–2000, fertility rates fell to 2.57 (Gómez Galvarriato & Madrigal, 2016, pp. 202–3). Women reduced fertility as contraceptives became more accessible, as family planning education expanded, and also by marrying later. Urbanization also affected things. In the cities, housing was more expensive, there were less child labor opportunities than in the agriculture activities of rural areas, and the authorities were more likely to enforce child labor laws, all of which increased the costs of a child. Of course, rates also declined because women found many more employment opportunities in the city as compared to the countryside and had greater access to education. Though the social stigma faced by women in the workforce remained difficult, the growth of the service sector expanded some sectors that were increasingly viewed as more “feminine” and noncompetitive with the traditional labor roles of men. Women soon came to monopolize the teaching, nursing, and clerical work avoided by men (Gómez Galvarriato & Madrigal, 2016). Hence, labor participation for women

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surged in the 1960s and 1970s. Data from the 1960s, 1980s, and 1990s show labor force participation rates for women at 24.4%, 33.1%, and 41.3% in Argentina, 19.0%, 39.4%, and 57.7% in Colombia, 13.1%, 14.7%, and 45.6% in Guatemala, 19.1%, 32.7%, and 38.5% in Mexico, and 22.7%, 29.0%, and 58.1% in Peru. And women were staying in the workforce longer. In the 1960s, economic activity among women ran highest for the 20–24-year-old age cohort, illustrating how many women worked, then retreated home after marriage at this time. By the 1980s, more women remained in the workforce well past their 30s (Tiano, 2005, pp. 284–89). Also over this time, many women found themselves pushed to the informal sector, which could better accommodate the flexible schedules required by obligations to fulfill household chores, and where work, for example in food sales or garment repair, more closely paralleled work at home (Beneria, 1992, p. 92). Female employment thus accommodated patriarchal norms as it expanded, but as we shall see, that expansion itself would offer a platform to challenge those norms. Employment opened tremendous opportunities for women to become more independent, attain greater life satisfaction, and gain resources as well as offer models to support the advancement of women’s rights. Nonetheless, we must remain aware of how the “emancipatory prospects of female labour force participation are constrained by the prejudicial terms under which women enter the workforce” (Chant, 2002, p. 550). Over the past 30 years, the rate of female labor force participation has increased a further 11%. But data that illustrate the rising numbers of employed women do not capture the social and political environment in which this change takes place. The levels of education and vocational training for women continues to lag behind that of men, and women face lower wages and greater job insecurity. The numbers vary across the region (see Table 4.3 for measures of gender disparities throughout the region), but a recent study showed that today women on average earn 17% less than men, even when controlling for age, education, and economic status (United Nations, 2019). And the rising employment numbers do not necessarily indicate a pursuit of fulfillment in career opportunities or lifestyle choices. Many women entered the workforce out of necessity, due to the impact of neoliberal restructuring that crushed incomes and drove up poverty rates. Even after they did so, many also remained responsible for domestic chores and continued to be overwhelmed on a daily basis. And most tragically, increasing participation rates have faced a “male backlash” as employed, and often self-sufficient and successful women challenge traditional norms. The result can be noncompliance with alimony or child support payment, increased desertion, domestic abuse, and femicide (Chant, 2002). This discussion now centers on the political struggle behind not only the entry to the workforce, but women’s rights more broadly.

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4 The Struggle for Inclusion: Patriarchy Confronts Women and the LGBTQ+. . .

The Political Struggle of Women Through the Twentieth Century and Beyond

Given the early focus of women’s rights movements in Latin America on access to education, it is little surprise that the first international action devoted to women’s rights took place in Argentina. President Domingo Sarmiento (1868–74) had prioritized education for all as essential to modernization and development, especially in a country undergoing significant demographic change due to immigration as in Argentina. His legacy left the country with one of the most successful education systems in the hemisphere, one that included women earlier compared to the schools in other countries. In 1910, the Association of University Women proposed what would become the First International Feminine Congress as part of the centennial celebration of Argentine independence. The congress addressed suffrage, but focused even more on education and social legislation to protect working women. National politics in Mexico stirred the mobilization of women as well. In 1916, the governor of Yucután convened the International Conference of Women as part of a comprehensive address of social and economic issues under the Mexican Revolution. The conference focused on property rights and influenced the Law of Family Affairs, which allowed paternity suits and recognized illegitimate children. By the 1920s, “the center of gravity for international women’s organizing shifted to Latin America” (Paxton et al., 2020, p. 53). Through the 1920s, the Pan-American Conference of Women began to work parallel to the International Conferences of the American States (the precursor to the Organization of American States), demanding representation and attention to women’s issues. Latin American feminists embraced international organization as a strategy to place pressure on their home governments, especially as they saw them fall behind extensions of women’s rights in the United States and Europe (IACW, 2021). The turning point came at the Sixth International Conference of American States in Havana in 1928. Because not one woman had been included in the delegation of any country, only men were allowed to speak. After a string of protests, women received speaking rights for the first time. Although the conference did not make progress on a hoped-for Treaty for Equal Rights, it did create the Inter-American Commission of Women (IACW) to examine the political and civil equality of women in the legal statutes of countries throughout the hemisphere. Its influence quickly emerged at the following conference in 1933 in Uruguay, where a resolution calling for women’s suffrage was passed by an international organization for the very first time. By the time of the eighth conference in 1938 in Peru, members of the IACW drafted the Lima Declaration in Favor of Women’s Rights, which asserted that women had the right “to political treatment on the basis of equality with men and to the enjoyment of equality as to civil status.” The declaration would directly influence the incorporation of women’s rights into the Charter of the United Nations (1945), the very first international agreement to profess gender equality as a human right. Specifically, the UN committed itself to “fundamental human rights, in the

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dignity and worth of the human person, and in the equal rights of men and women” in its preamble. Members of the IAWC also worked instrumentally to create the UN Commission on the Status of Women (1946), and took on leadership positions. Their influence continued as IAWC members in the commission successfully lobbied for women’s rights to be addressed in the UN Declaration of Human Rights (1948) (Marino, 2019). At the outset, work with upper class, western white women from the United States fed existing class and ethnic divisions within Latin American women’s movements (Paxton et al., 2020, p. 52). Sectors of women within developed states and Latin American countries questioned whether women in the lower classes were prepared for the vote, and whether they would simply act as pawns of men or conservative thought. But the unity of Latin American women would grow as differences with the United States became more apparent. Even as the international movement coalesced, a difference in focus developed as U.S. feminists focused more so on political and civil rights, while Latin American women prioritized social and economic rights (Grinnel, 2019). The legal subordination of married women was of particular significance, given the Family Codes that restricted freedoms to buy and sell property, sign contracts, secure employment, control earnings, and share control with husbands over children (Lavrin, 1994, p. 522). Also, in an early example of “glocalization,” or the interdependence of local and global issues and concerns, several Latin American feminist leaders began to portray the extension of women’s rights in their countries as a basis for a more equitable Pan-Americanism. For these women, the sovereignty of women intertwined itself with the sovereignty of the nation. They argued that false claims depicting women as unprepared for the vote and other rights reinforced the paternalism of U.S. imperialism. Their arguments resonated within the International Conferences of American States, where male delegates from Latin America, frustrated by growing US intervention and hegemony, began to support feminist initiatives opposed by the United States (Marino, 2019, pp. 40–66). Women’s rights grew in the first half of the twentieth century, but only gradually. In addition, women’s empowerment continued to lag behind even this limited extension of rights. Just as with arguments behind education and suffrage, women typically appropriated the patriarchal discourses of gender difference to extend rights. Women pointed to the need to safeguard their “maternal functions” as justification for labor protections, including limitations on work hours, maternity leave and pay, and the establishment of mother and childcare protection centers (Lavrin, 1994, p. 522). In Argentina, the need to shield the purity of women led to the 1937 passage of a law requiring a prenuptial certificate to verify that a man was clear of sexually transmitted diseases. But even as women contested gender with reference to traditional roles, patriarchal norms assured that regulation could always be turned against them. If “maternal functions” drew state regulation, often that regulation invited greater state supervision of women’s behavior and bodies to ensure they were good mothers. Both Chile and Mexico passed laws that made abandoning the home an exclusively female crime. In 1931, Chile passed a Sanitary

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Code that effectively required women to breast feed for 5 months by prohibiting the use of commercialized breast milk or wet nurses during this time (Molyneux, 2000, pp. 49–50). Still, even as women gained traction, the rise of populist governments and movements would crowd out further progress. For populist governments, gender became a concern only in so far as it would help further national development. For populist movements, their connection to the state ran through male-dominated labor unions. Even as the populist state expressed concern for working women, it was because they were “regarded as unfortunates to be pitied and protected.” Hence the focus on a “family wage”—not simply as an initiative to support the working class, but also to ensure that men earned a sufficient wage so that their wives would not need to work. Moreover, the gendered discourse of populist leaders emphasized their own roles as fathers of the nation, and expressed admiration for military action often with fascist overtones (Molyneux, 2000, pp. 55–57). Still, women did see gains in countries where populism had its greatest impact (see Chap. 1). These governments not only reduced female poverty as they addressed basic needs, but they also expanded employment opportunities as they broadened jobs that extended traditional female roles, especially in education, health care, and food supplies. They also commonly presided over electoral changes that extended suffrage to women (see Table 4.1), though they also sidelined feminist movements as they took all of the credit (Kampwirth, 2010). Under the military regimes that followed in the 1960s–1980s, the opportunities for even compromised gains would be suppressed (Lavrin, 1994, p. 530). Military rulers fixated on national security, emphasizing order and obedience, and seeing the urgency to smother the mobilization that had taken place under populism. Those who questioned traditional order—such as feminists—were subversives and a threat to the nation. The regimes were infamous for their use of state terror, and analysts have recognized the sexualized use of torture by them (Hollander, 1996). Rape was not only common, but a systematic method of punishment and degradation. Gender hierarchies found their way to the subjugation of men as well. They too were raped in “mechanical acts of sodomy which reconstituted their bodies as homosexuals, and later as passive, broken, ‘females’ in ordeals of agony and humiliation” (Taylor, 1997, p. 157). In Argentina, when the military rounded up suspected subversives and discovered pregnant women in their ranks, they deemed them unfit for motherhood. Their radical thinking could infect another generation. Birth would be induced, and the baby handed to a military family for adoption. The mother would be killed. But women and gender symbols played an important role in the opposition to military rule. The renowned Madres de la Plaza de Mayo in Argentina accented their roles as mothers by wearing scarfs and impassively circling the main plaza that faces the presidential palace. They walked quietly, holding only large portraits of their children that had gone missing under the regime. At times they carried carpenter’s nails to show solidarity with the Virgin Mary, who also lost her son. Their vulnerable presence, as well as the promotion of their role as mothers, made it difficult for the regime to overtly repress and silence them, especially as their efforts garnered

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international attention (though the regime would covertly detain, beat, and even infiltrate and kill some of the mothers) (Guzman Bouvard, 2002). Mothers in other countries replicated the strategy. In Bolivia, four wives of tin miners held a hunger strike in 1977–78 to draw attention to miners who were jailed or fired for union activity under the dictatorship of Hugo Banzer (1971–78). They included their children, and when criticized for doing so, replied that the children would eat when adults took their place. Others did, and soon 1380 joined the cause, pressuring the government not only to reinstate the miners, but also to release political prisoners. The movement mobilized the opposition, and gained support from the Catholic Church. It has been credited with pressuring the regime to hold the elections which led to its downfall (Lavaud, 1998). Women also played an important role as military rule passed in the 1980s, and neoliberal austerity measures deepened hardships for the urban poor. With their concerns on household necessities, women focused on deficiencies in basic public services such as running water, electricity, transportation, and childcare, and other necessities that raised the cost of living. In Lima, Peru, women began to organize comedores populares to address nutritional deficiencies. Some 15–50 households would coordinate the purchase, preparation, and distribution of food in their neighborhood, with each family paying for the number of meals requested. By the end of the 1980s, there were upwards of 1000–1200 comedores populares throughout the city. Similar organizations emerged in Santiago and other Latin American cities. Some feminists criticized the programs because they did not challenge, but in fact replicated and reinforced traditional divisions of labor (Safa, 1990). But others recognized how the initiatives could transform women’s roles by collectivizing domestic chores and moving them from the private to the public realm. In doing so, “they are redefining the meaning associated with domesticity to include participation and struggle rather than obedience and passivity.” These analysts also argued that such practical collective action boosts self-esteem and makes women more aware of their rights (Safa, 1990, pp. 361–62). The period after military rule would prove transformative for the feminist movement in Latin America. Previously, women made demands on government based on needs, and as noted, they often did so within the context of patriarchy. But through the 1980s and 1990s, women moved from making demands based on needs, to claiming rights (Molyneux & Craske, 2002). Activity at the international level played no small role in these changes. In 1975, the United Nations sponsored the First World Conference on Women in Mexico, and at that conference, designated 1975–1985 as the UN Decade for Women. The initiative brought visibility to the status of women as it spurred UN agencies to collect more national data with reference to gender, so that inequities in pay, education, employment, and elsewhere could be tabulated and tracked over time. The effort also led to new international agreements, the most prominent of which was the 1979 Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women. Such instruments set standards for countries to follow in economic and social rights as well as equality in marriage. In 1982, the UN created a UN Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women, which is composed of 23 experts

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who review reports submitted by states to assess their compliance with the convention. Women’s organizations can also use such international agreements to hold their governments to account, and as a platform for mobilization. In the case of Latin America, women throughout the region organized Latin American and Caribbean Feminist Gatherings, also known as Encuentros, to exchange ideas, collaborate, draw attention, and share strategies related to women’s rights. Over 200 activists attended the very first Encuentro in Bogotá, Colombia, and subsequent Encuentros have been held every 2–3 years in other cities. 2017 saw the 14th Encuentro, attended by over 2200 activists in Montevideo, Uruguay. The 3-day meeting took place under the banner of “Diverse but not Dispersed” to spotlight the ethnic, class, regional, ideological variations among women. The UN Decade initiative called for periodic conferences on women’s issues after the 1975 Mexico City conference. These were held in Copenhagen (1980) and Nairobi (1985), but the fourth conference, in Beijing (1995), would have a particularly strong impact on the countries of Latin America. The decade had largely focused on women and development, but by 1995, the focus turned more explicitly toward politics and empowerment. One area of concern was the limited number of women in positions of political power. Conference participants responded with a recommendation to use gender quotas to increase the representation of women in national parliaments. A gender quota is an electoral rule that requires political parties to run a certain percentage of gender specific candidates. The quotas work best in electoral systems that make use of proportional representation. In this system, a political party receives a percentage of seats equal to the percentage of votes it garners in each electoral district. For example, if a party wins 40% of the vote in a district with ten seats, it receives four of the seats. In these sorts of systems parties submit an ordered list of candidates before the election, and that list is used to allocate the seats to the winning candidates. Argentina had already distinguished itself in advance of the conference as the first democracy in the world to adopt a gender quota in 1991. Over one-dozen Latin American countries followed with gender quotas of their own through the decade, requiring parties to place between 20 and 40% of women on their lists. The change had an immediate impact, more than doubling women’s representation from 6 to 15% in the lower representative house over the course of the 1990s. The widespread use of quotas by the region was unprecedented. At the time, outside of Latin America only Belgium and Taiwan made use of gender quotas (Htun & Jones, 2002). Although the quotas raised women’s representation, a number of factors limited their impact. Not all countries make use of proportional representation. Many use the “first past the post” electoral formula, which allocates just one seat to each district. Mandating a gender-specific candidate under these electoral systems arguably reduces voter choice. In addition, most plurality systems do not allow parties to control which candidates run or where they run. Even within proportional systems, compliance can be a problem if parties fulfill their quota, but run women in less competitive districts, or place women at the bottom of their lists. And some countries make use of “open lists” which allow voters to vote on the ordering of the candidate list itself. Finally, many countries did not enforce the gender quota, or levied fines so small that they could be ignored. In Honduras, the penalty is just 5% of government

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allocated campaign finance, and in Panama, the law requires that parties simply make an effort. Hence, early on, electoral results in many countries did not come close to the gender quotas listed in their electoral rules. As late as 2017, Brazil had only 9.9% representation of women in its lower house, despite a gender quota of 30% on the books since 1997. Part of the explanation for the low rate of representation in Brazil results from campaign financing, which is skewed toward male candidates (Sachet, 2018). Still, as noted in Table 4.2, today the case of Brazil is more the exception than the rule. Indeed, Guatemala is the only country that lacks a gender quota law, but even it has a voluntary party quota. As of 2020, Latin American countries (Cuba, Nicaragua, and Mexico, respectively) hold three of the top four positions in the global ranking of countries according to female representation. The region as a whole leads the world, with 32.8% of its legislative seats held by women. Europe sits just behind at 31%, while the world as a whole averages 25.9%. The United States has 27.6% female representation in its lower chamber, and 24% in its senate (IPU, 2022). Refinements in the electoral rules have helped. Many countries raised their quota thresholds. Argentina, Bolivia, Costa Rica, Ecuador, Honduras, Mexico, Peru, Nicaragua, and Panama all now require gender balance when parties propose candidates, such that parties must alternate men and women’s names on their lists. Costa Rica went further with horizontal parity, which requires that women be placed as the top candidate on half of all lists. But enforcement has probably made the most difference. Increasingly, electoral authorities simply reject party lists that do not alternate men and women or otherwise fail to comply with regulations. Further studies on gender quotas in executive cabinets, state legislatures, and mayors and local councils also show gains in female representation (Schwindt-Bayer, 2018). But does representation translate into real power gains? Representation is no doubt important, but it does require a critical mass. As noted in one study, “Mexican Senator Maríade los Angeles Moreno reports that only when at least one quarter of the people in the room are women is it possible to conduct civilized debate and legislation on women’s issues.” Likewise, the growing presence of women in political positions has an instructive function—simply seeing more women in decision-making positions leads more and more people in society to view women as rightful authority figures (Htun & Jones, 2002, p. 34). But representation is only a gateway to empowerment (Friedman, 2017, pp. 286–289). Leadership positions in political parties, equitable access to campaign finance, and placement on important legislative committees remain areas of contention in many countries. Many female representatives mobilized their gains by creating caucuses that cross party lines to address women’s rights and gender equality, and by introducing initiatives that would likely be ignored in their absence. The Colombian Congressional Women’s Caucus rallied support for the 2011 Equal Pay Act and a 2008 law that increased penalties for violence against women. The Women’s Caucus in Brazil takes credit for a law that supports reconstructive surgery for women with breast cancer, the Parliamentary Group of Women in El Salvador secured budgetary funds for cytology and mammography programs, and the Bicameral Women’s Caucus in Uruguay secured the right for women to receive a day off from work for an annual gynecological exam.

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Table 4.2 Gender quotas in Latin America and percentage of females in legislatures Country Argentina

Year first reform enacted 1991

Bolivia

2001 1997

Brazil

1997 1997

Chile

– 2017

Colombia

2017 2011 2011 1996 1997 2013

Costa Rica Ecuador El Salvador Guatemala Honduras Mexico

– 2000 1996

Nicaragua Panama Paraguay

1996 2000 1997 1996

Peru Uruguay

1996 1997 2014

Venezuela

2014 2005

Legislative body Lower Chamber Senate Lower Chamber Senate Lower Chamber Senate Lower Chamber Senate Lower Chamber Senate Unicameral Unicameral Unicameral

Quota (%) 30

Actual female representation (%, 2020) 40.9

30 50

40.3 53.1

50 30

47.2 14.6

None 40

13.6 22.6

40 30

23.3 18.3

30 50 50 30

21.7 45.6 39.4 33.3

Unicameral Unicameral Lower Chamber Senate Unicameral Unicameral Lower Chamber Senate Unicameral Lower Chamber Senate Unicameral

None 50 50

19.0 21.1 48.2

40 50 50 20

49.2 47.3 22.5 16.3

20 30 33

20.0 30.0 25.0

33 50

32.0 22.2

Source: International Parliamentary Union: Parline. Available at www.data.ipu.org

Female legislators in Mexico organize a bit differently. The Women’s Parliament of Mexico draws together legislators, academics, and civil society representatives each year to discuss women’s issues and legislative initiatives.2 Overall, one can trace a clear connection between the increase in female representation and public

2 Information on women’s caucuses can be found on the web site of the InterParliamentary Union, at www.data.ipu.org.

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policy changes, most notably in legislation to punish violence against women, ensure equal access to employment and education, and guarantee equal pay. According to one study on the causes of gender-based legislation, “the influence of quotas outweighs the effects of economic development and other socioeconomic indicators, allowing countries with high levels of poverty and inequality to offer women a ‘fast track’ to political office” (Htun & Piscopo, 2014). Studies on quotas illustrate how institutional change can effect cultural and behavioral change. Matters surrounding divorce highlight issues that emerge when legal changes lag behind changes in societal values. It is certainly the case that laws covering divorce have undergone significant reform in recent decades. A 1975 newspaper article on divorce around the world found it was “most difficult in Latin America—unless one is rich” (Robertson, 1975). Indeed, Chile only legalized divorce in 2004, shedding its status as one of only two countries in the world with a prohibition on divorce (the other remains The Philippines). The legal reform required changes to a law dating back to 1884. Still, even then Chilean law requires that couples separate for 1 year, and for 3 years if the decision is not mutual. In addition, divorce did not open the door to a new marriage. Only divorced widows (or widowers) can remarry. Beyond “waiting periods” and restrictions on re-marriage, other hurdles women face throughout the region may include: the need for spousal consent; a judicial evaluation of just cause, such as neglect or abuse; high fees; insufficient guarantees of alimony, child support, and child custody; and fairness in the division of marital property. Relatedly, most countries have only recently moved the minimum age of marriage for women from 16 to 18. Brazil legalized divorce only in 1977, but more substantive changes occurred in 1989 when Brazilians gained the right to successive divorces, in 2002 with the introduction of no-fault divorce, in 2007 when notaries were allowed to perform consensual divorces, and in 2010 when the government removed a 1-year separation requirement. By 2012, divorce rates shot up 46% compared to 2010. Divorces occurred in record levels in 2020, no doubt partly due to the stress experienced by married couples during the COVID-19 pandemic, but also due to another relaxation of procedures when the courts allowed married couples to file for divorce online (Reuters, 2021). Changes to the strict divorce laws of the past have been consequential, but they certainly came too late. Women had seen their freedom and expectations expand significantly since the 1990s, leading many to think deeply about the risks of marriage under constraining divorce laws, should they decide to opt out. Up to 2012, Argentines had to wait a lengthy period, present “just cause” to a government official, and pay stiff fees. Under such conditions, many who wanted a child simply did so without the marriage. Today well over half of Argentine babies are born out of wedlock, and Latin America as a whole outpaces the rest of the world in this category. The numbers rise to a staggering 84% of children born out of wedlock in Colombia (Garcia-Navarro, 2015). Of course, there are many other significant causes of children born out of wedlock, including cohabitation, abandonment, and women fleeing domestic violence. But cultural change is at play as well. There is a growing acceptance of single mothers, novel family structures, and the adoption of

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new roles by women in some quarters. Nonetheless, in other quarters women have faced a backlash. The changes in divorce laws, late as they were, have not been matched by changes in reproductive rights. For the Catholic Church, access to abortion has long represented a red line, one which it patrols with steadfast vigilance. Even as democracies emerged in the aftermath of military repression, and even in countries where parties of the left took power, there was little room for progress. In many countries, the Catholic Church had gained newfound legitimacy as a political actor due to its opposition to military rule, leaving progressive parties reluctant to expend political capital to challenge it (Friedman, 2017, pp. 276–77). Progressive governments instead focused on socioeconomic rights and anti-violence legislation. There was probably a window of opportunity missed here. Even after women secured more political positions through the 1990s and 2000s as quota rules made their mark, with the passage of time they now faced a new actor alongside the Catholic Church that had amplified its influence tremendously- evangelical Christianity. Its rise buttressed Catholic opposition to reproductive rights, playing a pivotal role in places where the Catholic Church had lost its appeal. Indeed, identification with the Catholic Church declined 17% from 1990 to 2010, such that today, only Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador, Mexico, Paraguay, Peru, and Venezuela have over 60% of their population identify with the Catholic faith. Still, during this time, affinity to evangelical Christianity in the region grew 12%. Today, identification with evangelical Christianity ranges from 30 to 40% in the Central American countries and close to 30% in Brazil (Latinobarómetro, 2021). Hence, even when sympathetic governments of the Pink Tide reached out to women, they largely avoided issues of reproductive rights. The populist governments did coordinate actions with women’s movements for grassroots mobilization. And they also looked to female-headed households as beneficiaries of programs such as conditional cash transfers, which distribute periodic stipends when mothers met certain criteria for their children such as school attendance, vaccinations, or regular medical check-ups. The programs made their mark, as the proportion of female headed households living in poverty declined significantly, and as other programs increased school enrollment at all levels for women, and in general reduced female poverty. But this lasted only until about 2012, when the commodity boom that had filled the state coffers of the Pink Tide tanked (Friedman, 2017). By the 2010s, women were mobilized as never before, but they also faced stiff opposition in the area of reproductive rights. In some countries, they saw rollbacks. In an egregious move to mollify religious authorities as he consolidated control and dismantled democratic checks in Nicaragua, the government of Daniel Ortega enacted a wholesale prohibition on abortion, including in cases of rape and incest, and even when the life of the mother is at risk. In El Salvador, abortion in all cases has been illegal since 1998. The Inter-American Court of Human Rights highlighted the draconian penalties used to enforce the restriction in 2021, when it instructed the country to reform legal and health care policies that criminalize women in search of reproductive health care. Manuela v. El Salvador addressed a 2008 case in which a Salvadoran was sentenced to 30 years in prison after undergoing an obstetric emergency that resulted in pregnancy loss. She died in prison 2 years later from

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cancer, after receiving inadequate care while behind bars. In Honduras, where abortion in all cases has been illegal since 1985, the government doubled down in 2021 and placed the prohibition in the country’s constitution. Throughout the region, only Argentina and Uruguay impose gestational limits alone, of 14 and 12 weeks respectively, on women who seek abortion. In 2021, Mexico’s Supreme Court issued a landmark decision that declared the criminalization of abortion to be unconstitutional, but access to abortion remains considerably uneven across its 28 states. For most countries, if a woman undergoes an abortion outside select exceptions such rape, incest, fatal fetal disorders, or when her life is at risk, she and her doctor face a jail sentence of 2–4 years. Peruvian women who undergo an abortion outside the sole exemption to save a woman’s life face a sentence of up to 2 years, and in a cruel, twisted sense of compassion, the sentence is reduced to 3 months in cases of rape, provided that the case has been reported and duly investigated by the police. Access to abortion is not the only matter of contention within reproductive rights, which encompasses all those issues that affect ability of a woman to decide whether and when to have a child. Access to birth control, emergency contraceptives, sex education, family planning counseling, and issues of consent also hold relevance. And there is a clear connection to the health and livelihood of women. Even as reproductive rights have been restricted, abortions have not declined in Latin America, and according to some analysts, 95% of the 4.4 million abortions performed annually are unsafe (Ortiz Millán, 2019, p. 13). It is no coincidence that while Latin American countries hold some of the most restrictive policies on reproductive rights, the region also holds the distinction as the only region where adolescent pregnancies have not declined over the past decade. Restrictions on reproductive rights only serve to deepen poverty and inequality as punitive measures hit the poorest hardest, and as women see life choices imposed (Vélez & Diniz, 2016). Nonetheless, it is also important to recognize the significant variation in support for reproductive rights, especially abortion rights, across Latin American countries. The percentage of individuals who feel that abortion should be legal in most cases is much higher in Uruguay (54%), Chile (47%), Argentina (37%), and Mexico (31%), than in Honduras (11%), El Salvador (10%), Guatemala (7%), or Paraguay (5%) (Pew Research Center, 2014). And the gap has only widened over the past decade, as support has generally increased in South America, but remains low in Central America (LA Times, 2021). As women mobilize and push for advances in reproductive rights and other elements to empower women, some score better successes than others, and some faces greater challenges than others. This range is easily illustrated by measures of gender equality. The Gender Inequality Index (GII) collects data on relative achievements by men and women in three areas—reproductive health, empowerment, and the labor market—to create a composite score.3 A score of zero indicates equality,

3

Reproductive health is measured by maternal mortality ratio and adolescent birth rates, empowerment is measured by proportion of parliamentary seats occupied by females and proportion of

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Table 4.3 Gender inequality scores and rankings, 2019 Country Chile Costa Rica Uruguay Cuba Mexico Argentina El Salvador Ecuador Peru Panama Brazil Bolivia Colombia Nicaragua Paraguay Dominican Republic Guatemala Venezuela Honduras

Gender inequality score 0.247 0.288 0.288 0.304 0.322 0.328 0.383 0.384 0.395 0.407 0.408 0.417 0.428 0.428 0.446 0.455

Gender inequality world ranking 55 62 62 67 71 75 85 86 87 94 95 98 101 101 107 112

Human development world ranking 43 62 55 70 74 46 124 86 79 57 84 107 83 128 103 88

0.479 0.479 0.423

119 119 100

127 113 132

Source: UN Development Program. Available at www.hdr.undp.org

while a score of one occurs in cases of extreme inequality. The United Nations Development Programme collects the data, and uses it to supplement the Human Development Index and to show how gender inequalities erode national figures of human development. Table 4.3 displays the scores for Latin America, which averages 0.389 overall. This places it ahead of Sub-Saharan Africa (0.570), Arab states (0.518), and South Asia (0.505), but behind East Asia and the Pacific (0.324) and Europe and Central Asia (0.256). The highly developed OECD countries averaged 0.205 (UNDP, 2021). As illustrated by the table, gender inequality is much different in Chile, Costa Rica, and Uruguay, compared to Guatemala, Venezuela, and Honduras. Nonetheless, some of the most vibrant and active movements for women’s rights have occurred in Chile, demonstrating the importance of resource mobilization over grievances as a predictor of protest.

adult females and males aged 25 and older with at least some secondary education, and economic status is measured by labor force participation rate of female and male populations aged 15 years and older.

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Table 4.4 Femicides 2020 and femicide legislation Honduras Dominican Republic El Salvador Bolivia Brazil Panama Mexico Guatemala Argentina Uruguay Paraguay Ecuador Peru Costa Rica Venezuela Colombia Chile Nicaragua

Femicides per 100,000 4.7 2.4 2.1 2.0 1.6 1.4 1.4 1.3 1.1 1.1 1.0 0.9 0.9 0.8 0.8 0.7 – –

Total femicides 227 132 73 113 1738 31 948 119 251 19 36 79 148 20 122 182 – –

Year femicide law enacted 2013 2014 2012 2013 2015 2013 2012 2008 2012 2017 2016 2014 2013 2007 2014 2013 2010 2012

Source: “Addressing Femicide in the Context of Rampant Violence Against Women in Latin America.” Available at www.oecd.org/gender/data

In much of Latin America, the backlash against the struggles by women has increasingly turned violent (Corredor, 2019). One-third of all Latin American women report being a victim of gender-based violence, which may take the form of physical, mental, or sexual abuse, sexual enslavement, rape, or torture. At its most extreme, this violence manifests as murder. Diana Russell coined the term “femicide,” and offered a very direct definition: “the killing of a female specifically because they are female” (Russell, 2008). Latin America holds an unenviable position as a leader in gender-based violence. And in general, matters are not improving. From 2015 to 2020, Mexico saw femicides increase 228%, while Ecuador suffered a 215% growth rate (Wilson Center, 2021). But Latin America has also been a leader in drawing attention to violence against women and initiating legislation. Latin American states worked through the Organization of American States to pass the Inter-American Convention on the Prevention, Punishment, and Eradication of Violence Against Women (1994). This document stirred governments to pass legislation that targeted violence against women, and ultimately to recognize femicide as an exclusive crime (see Table 4.4). Gender-based violence has unified the women’s movement as never before. As noted, class and ethnic differences impacted the suffrage movement in Latin America. And distinct groups of women continue to focus on different goals. Calderón and

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Castells note, “Among the poorest women, demands center on distribution; among the most educated and those with the highest incomes, they center on participation; and among the youngest women, they center on their recognition as persons” (2020, p. 161). Likewise, support for abortion rights tends to be lower among Indigenous groups. Some of the most well-organized Indigenous women’s organizations are found in Bolivia, and they have expressed strong opposition to abortion legalization (Friedman, 2017, p. 292). Class divisions may deepen over time in the struggle for abortion rights. Wealthy women in restrictive countries have the option to travel to countries that permit the procedure, and this can dull their motivation to rally opposition. Still, the growing disparity has also opened an opportunity for non-profits to support travel. In Brazil, Miles for Women’s Lives funds travel to Argentina for abortion procedures. Although the start-up supported just 59 women in its first year, it hopes to grow and answer the 1500 requests it received the following year (AP, 2021). But the outrage against growing gender-based violence has triggered mass mobilizations, allowed women to become more visible, forge alliances, and realize their capacity to propel change on a host of issues. Perhaps no recent movement better illustrates the unifying resonance of genderbased violence than #NiUnaMenos. This group emerged in Argentina after the horrific 2015 murder of a 14-year-old by her 16-year-old boyfriend who wanted her to abort her baby, against her will. Tens of thousands hit the streets with indignation. The hashtag became a focal point for women to connect, and share ideas and concerns. The following year, news came out of another horrific murder, this one of a 16-year-old who was drugged, raped, and tortured. There were no arrests, and impunity once again surrounded an act of violence against a woman. Several women’s groups called for a protest, used the hashtag, and messaged, “ENOUGH. . .Strike for an hour outside of our workplaces to make ourselves visible. Strike then march. Wear black.” This time, 150,000 took to the streets and brought Buenos Aires to a standstill from 1:00 to 2:00 pm on October 19, 2016. More protests followed, and addressed, in addition to genderbased violence, sexual harassment, pay gaps, daycare, objectification, and other concerns. By 2018 the group recognized it could do more than react and protest. It could initiate change. It transitioned to the “Marea Verde” (Green Wave) movement, incorporating green scarves much like the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo used their own scarves as a symbol, and focused on reproductive rights. They drew millions into the streets and have been credited with leading the charge to legalize abortion in Argentina (NY Times, 2021). Mexico saw its own surge of protest stirred by gender-based violence. Since the 1990s, the government had turned a blind eye to a surge in deaths and disappearances of women near border cities such as Ciudad Juarez. Multinational corporations had invested in this area, creating maquiladoras for assembly-line production. They favored women, presuming that they would be compliant and less likely to unionize. But many did engage in activism, and many more were simply left vulnerable, having migrated to the area from smaller cities throughout the country. One organization documented 430 murders and 600 disappearances from 1993 to 2005. Local authorities did little, portraying the women as prostitutes and

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delinquents, fearing that publicity would tarnish the image of the growing city (Godinez Leal, 2008). Even with the 2000 transition to democracy, violence against women, and impunity, continued. Inspired by emergent movements outside Mexico such as #NiUnaMenos, three heinous and well-publicized crimes, all in February 2020, stirred action. A 25-year-old was stabbed and skinned, and a local tabloid published a front-page photo, as if for shock-entertainment. Then came news of a 7-year-old, abducted and stabbed to death. And finally, the body of a 20-year-old student was found on a trash heap a few days later. When the media published photos of her suspected killer placing flowers on her coffin, the sense of impunity became unbearable. Mexican women felt compelled to demonstrate their worth and importance in all facets of life, and decided to do so by literally disappearing for a day, on March 9, 2020. The Mexican media noticed and tagged it “A Day Without Women.” Organizers chastised the projection, and noted that they had in fact dubbed the protest, #undiasinnosotras (“A Day Without Us”). Women had named the protest, and the only role left for men that day was to roam the streets alone. Chile has gained a reputation for sensational protests, which have included kiss-ins and pillow fights by students concerned with educational access, mass fare-dodging actions in subways to highlight rising costs, and hunger strikes by Indigenous leaders to draw attention to their plight. The women’s movement is no exception. In 2019, flash mobs of women appeared in the streets of Santiago and chanted lyrics to a song written by the all-female band, Las Tesis. The words drew attention to gender-based violence (“And it was not my fault, or where I was, or how I was dressed”). But the core purpose was to go beyond awareness and to demand accountability, and here the message was clear: sexual assault is not a private atrocity, but a public responsibility: The patriarchy is a judge who tries us for being borne And our punishment is the violence you now see. . . It’s the police, the judges, the state, the president. The oppressive state is a macho rapist The rapist was you. The rapist is you.

The women chant blindfolded to symbolize how state institutions facilitate genderbased violence, squat at moments to illustrate the demeaning position police force women under arrest to take while nude, and repeatedly point to underscore the demand for accountability. Video of the demonstrations went viral, and was soon replicated throughout Latin America. When feminists in the United States arranged demonstrations in 2020, things seemed to have turned full circle. In Latin America, the struggle to recognize that “the personal is political” may have trailed the United States, but that is no longer the case. Women in Latin America have positioned themselves as feminist leaders in their own right.

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The LGBTQ+ Community in Latin American Politics and History

Dominant norms of patriarchy have shaped the struggles of LGBTQ+ persons, but differently than how they have affected the struggles of women. Women faced a long battle to engage politics and to have their concerns recognized as political issues worthy of negotiation. But for much of history, LGBTQ+ persons faced difficulties simply initiating this battle for rights because they remained unrecognized, and essentially invisible to dominant understandings. And when they were seen at the turn of the nineteenth century, they were not heard. LGBTQ+ persons were described as deviants, with their existence meaningful only as an indicator of social malaise rather than as the expression of an identity its own right. Mobilization would take place through the twentieth century and initiate changes at the cusp of the twenty-first century. Today, the LGBTQ+ community increasingly clashes over its rights and privileges through more traditional channels such as the courts and legislation. Nonetheless, advances have been uneven through Latin America. As discussed below, this is largely a result of backlashes from conservative groups and organized religion. Religious authorities in colonial Latin America regulated sexual behavior. Deeply influenced by medieval thinkers and natural law, they elevated the role of semen, with the conviction that it held but one purpose under the grace of God- conception. Hence any act that failed to employ semen for its purpose violated nature, and thus the laws of God. Lust, or lujuria, drove such acts, and as an urge that seeks sexual pleasure for pleasure itself rather than procreation, this was a carnal sin. Theologians classified several types of lujuria, distinguished by their severity in the following order: fornication, adultery, lust between married persons, the rape of a virgin, incest, sex with a priest, and finally, certain pecados contra natura, or sins against nature (Nesvig, 2001, p. 693). The pecado contra natura incarnated sheer lust, and theologians used the term to describe a range of acts that “wasted” semen. The most serious of these was sodomy, which often referred not only to anal sex, but oral sex and bestiality as well (historians have found that both theologians and ecclesiastical courts used the terms fluidly). Masturbation and ejaculations associated with erotic religious visions also represented pecados contra natura, but received less attention and punishment. Significantly, authorities gave little notice to sexual orientation when the act of sodomy took place. No matter the gender identities of the partners, the spoilage of semen represented the real crime (Tortorici, 2012, p. 166). Likewise, while masturbation “deeply concerned the church,” clerics largely sets their sights on male and not female masturbation (Lavrin, 1992, p. 51). Overall, as noted by one scholar, “while some women were clearly punished for their overtly wayward sexual acts, men more frequently became targets of criminal magistrates and Inquisition authorities for sexual sins and crimes” (Tortorici, 2007, p. 358). Indeed, prosecutions of female-female sex were relatively rare. Women were far more likely to be prosecuted for adultery or illicit cohabitation (Black,

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2016). Further evidence for the focus on the use of semen rather than on sexual orientation comes from a study of Inquisitorial proceedings in Brazil, where the ecclesiastical courts held more extensive jurisdiction over sodomy crimes than in Spanish Latin America. The records show that cases of “incomplete sodomy,” or penetration without ejaculation (i.e., the spoilage of semen), were less severely punished (Nesvig, 2001, p. 705–6). Though the archives remain incomplete, and debates continue over how to interpret dominant understandings through the criminal proceedings of colonial Latin America (Tortorici, 2012), one conclusion is clear. Dominant conceptions of the time defined any indicator of lesbian or gay sexual orientation as a sin associated with a behavior, rather than as the identity of a person (Nesvig, 2001, p. 713). In addition, the historical record does show that prosecutions of sodomy declined significantly after 1700, though nobody can conclusively explain why. And the punishments that were assigned in this time period were more likely to be exile than execution. The use of exile showed how the prevalent interpretation of sodomy remained and would continue to frame official policy and cultural norms. Namely, biblical references to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, two cities destroyed by God because of the depraved behavior of their inhabitants, linked pecados contra natura to plagues, famines and disaster. Sodomites, then, represented a threat to the community. If they were not to be killed, then banishment was the appropriate response not only to penalize the perpetrator, but also to protect the community. The association between same-gender sexual behavior and natural disasters would diminish over time, but the perception of such behavior as a community sin would remain. Over time, concerns over how individuals with lesbian or gay sexual orientations posed threats to the social order and morality replaced supposed threats of plague or famine (Nesvig, 2001). After independence, most states in Latin America embraced the Napoleonic Code as the basis for their legal systems. France designed the code to simplify and centralize the diverse and often contradictory feudal laws found throughout its land, and also to remove religious regulation. This did little for the rights of women. As noted above—the move to recognize a private sphere within the family may have curbed church oversight, but it also entrenched the power of husbands as stewards, and compelled women to act obediently. For the LGBTQ+ community, this effort to carve out new spheres of privacy signaled a withdrawal in the official regulation of sexual activity, be it same-sex or heterosexual— at least on paper. So long as sexual activity occurred in private among consenting adults, it stood outside criminal law. France decriminalized same-sex behavior far earlier than most countries, in 1791. But as noted in Table 4.5 many Latin American countries were not far behind. The incorporation of code law was key here. By comparison, those Latin American countries in the Caribbean that embraced English common law traditions retained strong prohibitions on sodomy and oral sex due to the accumulation of past judicial decisions. Indeed, the United Kingdom did not decriminalize sodomy until 1967, and the United States waited until 2003.

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Table 4.5 LGBTQ+ criminal laws/protections

Uruguay Brazil Argentina Colombia Chile Ecuador Bolivia Mexico Costa Rica Peru Cuba Nicaragua Honduras El Salvador Venezuela Panama Dominican Republic Paraguay Guatemala

Decriminalization of homosexuality 1934 1831 1903 1981 1999 1997 1832 1872 1971 1924 1979 2008 1899 1826 1836 2008 1822

Decriminalization of sodomy 1934 1831 1903 1981 1999 1997 1832 1871 1971 1924 1979 2008 1899 1826 1997 2008 1822

Constitutional protection/ employment antidiscrimination No/Yes No/Yes Limited No/Yes No/Yes Yes/Yes Yes/Yes Yes/Yes No/No No/Yes Yes/Yes No/Yes No/Yes No/Limited No/Yes No/No No/Limited

1990 1834

1880 1834

No/No No/No

Hate crime Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Limited No Yes No Yes Yes Yes No No No

Global ranking (out of 150) 9 15 23 24 28 30 31 33 36 37 48 56 59 65 75 83 93

No No

97 99

Source: ILGA World (2020). Available at www.ilga.org Global Rankings from www.asherfergusson.com/lgbtq-travel-safety/. Retrieved March 23, 2021

But the moves by France and in Latin America were hardly the result of enlightened government, nor were they a product of any sort of campaign to address sexual freedoms and rights. Values of secularism and privacy guided the decisions, and private, consensual same-sex activity just happen to fall within the changes, coincidentally. The LGBTQ+ community remained isolated, and repressed. In fact, absent prohibitions on sodomy, authorities turned to other laws to punish LGBTQ+ persons well into the twentieth century. Uruguay used “decency laws” to prohibit any level of public affection between same-sex couples. Likewise, Article 373 of the penal code in Chile made reference to “acts against decency and good mores,” and Article 272 of the penal code in Peru criminalized “obscene exhibitions and publications.” Venezuela relied on its Law on Vagrants and Thugs (Ley de Vagros y Maleantes) to rashly accuse LGBTQ+ persons of prostitution, and even to forcefully place them in re-education programs or in areas of special confinement without due process. Indeed, intense homophobic values within families often contributed to the use of criminal laws on LGBTQ+ persons, especially on those within the lower classes. Families would often abandon children as young as 12 who identified as lesbian or gay. Struggling to survive on the streets, many would resort to prostitution

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or at least appear suspect, and open themselves to prosecution. Many more of all ages would simply be targeted with this law by police during “social cleansing” operations. The Law on Vagrants and Thugs was not declared unconstitutional until 1997 (Canada IRBC, 1998). The turn from the nineteenth to twentieth century saw a reduction in the use of theological dogma to address LGBTQ+ matters. But it was simply replaced by a reliance on medical and sociological approaches to both explain and condemn certain forms of sexuality (Nesvig, 2001, pp. 713–20). Same-sex activity was no longer viewed as a community sin, but as a social contagion and sign of moral decay and urban disfunction. This was the time when positivist thought held sway in Latin America. Positivism looked to science and industry to bring about order and progress. When positivists explained social and political problems, they often applied eugenics and looked to biology and racial characteristics. The Indigenous bore much of the brunt, as positivists blamed their very existence for underdevelopment. But so too did the LGBTQ+ community. Doctors and psychologists identified any sexual activity that veered from the heteronormative model of social organization as a disease or physiological defect. To be gay or lesbian was to host a pathological abnormality in need of medical treatment. If the country was to advance, it needed to shore up every scientific and medical tool at its disposal to “fix” sexual activities considered to be deviant.4 In Mexico, the scandal of “The 41” highlighted the challenge of sexual regulation. In the early morning of November 17, 1901, police raided a house party in a wealthy neighborhood of Mexico City, and found 41 men dancing together, with about one-half of them dressed as women. Denying them a trial, local authorities were quick to exact punishment, sending some to clean the streets in women’s clothing and most to hard labor in the Yucután. According to one analyst, the event gave “birth to modern Mexican homosexuality,” initiating the first significant discussions on same-sex relations since colonial times (Irwin, 2000). The gay community had never held a public place in society, nor was it even recognized; now they were in the limelight. This was not an isolated, individual case of deviant behavior, but an organized event, and one that made use of prized fashions and music. As such, it caught the public attention and quickly made its way into popular culture, and even a book in 1906 (Eduardo A. Castrejón—The Dance of the 41). Of course, the press, commentary, and gossip were all negative and aghast, and the reaction illustrated the continued push to ignore non-heteronormative sexual identities. Over time building floors, hospital rooms, and street addresses avoided the number 41. The army left the number out of its battalions. Some men even skipped their 41st birthday, given the newly assigned effeminate nature of the number. There were direct political explanations for these reactions. The government of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911) had catered to the elite, under positivist influences that associated the upper classes with natural leadership and indisputable social mores. But here was

Latin American countries were far from alone in the effort to “medicalize” same-sex behavior. The American Psychiatry Association listed “homosexuality” as a mental disorder up to 1973.

4

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a scandal at the highest echelons of society, one which thereby threatened to expose the myth of aristocratic propriety. Even more, reports emerged that 42 had actually attended the dance, that the son-in-law of the president himself had been released to avoid tainting the image of the Díaz family. Notably, today the Mexican LGBTQ+ community heralds the event as a watershed in the history of coming out and to affirm that there are many in their community who have yet to be acknowledged. The 41st Mexico City Pride Parade paid homage to The 41 in 2019. But in the early 1900s, gays and lesbians still struggled to be noticed, and remained far from working through legal channels to ensure their rights. Homosexuality and sodomy may have been decriminalized early in many countries, but advances in constitutional protections, anti-discrimination, and the recognition of hate crimes would occur much later and today remain uneven across the region (see Table 4.5). Even with the rise of populism, which did advance some women’s rights as progressive governments reached out to marginalized groups, the LGBTQ+ community found itself left behind. Dominant understandings still portrayed the heterosexual family with procreative ends as the only model for gender roles. Indeed, the nationalism associated with populism led some governments to associate same-sex sexual activity as a national security threat. In Argentina, gays and lesbians were considered apátridas (“unpatriotic ones”) because they challenged the social order (Díez, 2015, pp. 34–37). Nonetheless, the “concept of the homosexual as a person” rather than a behavior began to emerge at this time (Nesvig, 2001, p. 714). The post-WWII era opened some opportunities, as urbanization allowed sub-cultures to develop and movements to more easily organize clandestinely when needed. Over time, growing activism within the gay rights community in the United States through the 1960s offered inspiration. And the 1969 Stonewall riots in New York offered a lesson—the LGBTQ+ community needed to fight to be recognized, and heard. In Buenos Aires, gays formed the Frente de Liberación Homosexual in 1971 to collaborate on the fight for sexual rights. But these budding movements faced intense opposition from the repressive military regimes that were solidifying their rule throughout the region. The Frente would last only to 1976, when a military coup d’êtat crushed it. Under the authoritarian rule of the PRI regime in Mexico, President Luis Echeverria (1970–76) directly associated subversive activity with gays and lesbians. In his 1971 presidential address, he described guerrilla activists as “drug-using degenerates with bad parents with a notable propensity for sexual promiscuity and homosexuality” (NPR, 2022). The message was clear: those who challenged traditional patriarchal norms were enemies of the state and threats to the social and moral order. Military rule quashed LGBTQ+ activism, but the transition to democracy did not immediately open the door to sexual rights. The new democratic government in Argentina formed a commission to document human rights abuses under the military regime (Comisión Nacional sobre la Desaparación de Personas). It recorded over 12,000 “disappearances”- cases in which the regime made use of clandestine graves, or dumped bodies in the ocean. But the report made no mention of the more than 400 gays and lesbians disappeared during the period of military rule (1976–83) (Brown, 2002, p. 121). Throughout the region, police continued to raid gay clubs,

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and make use of public decency laws to harass or arrest LGBTQ+ persons. But the 1980s would represent a period of change. The mass rallies held in opposition to military rule inspired LGBTQ+ activists. In many countries, the use of traditional institutions and norms—such as the church and the traditional (i.e., heteronormative) family—to justify military rule eroded the patriarchal norms that historically excluded alternative gender norms and sexual identities. But it was a change in political strategy that advanced LGBTQ+ rights. Activists previous to the period of military rule were more radical, embraced a more non-conformist position, and presented their sexual identities as incompatible with mainstream political activism and society more generally. To be gay was to go underground, and isolate yourself from society. Only this could secure freedom. In contrast, post-authoritarian activists adopted the language of human rights, and identified themselves as sexual minorities, deserving of the same protections against discrimination guaranteed to other marginalized groups (Encarnación, 2011). The urgency of the AIDS crisis at this time also exemplified the change in strategy. The harshness with which many religious leaders pointed to the disease as punishment for same-sex sexual activity elicited sympathy in some sectors, although the association between gay lifestyles and AIDS also increased violence against gays. Even more, the intensity of the crisis pushed the gay community into public discourse and policy making. Between the backlash, the continued stigma of being gay, and the urgency for action, activists had to walk a middle ground between a “friendly, receptive government and a cruel, discriminatory society” (Gómez, 2010, p. 236). For example, in Brazil, violence against gays through the 1990s placed the country in the top ten worldwide, but activists still managed to successfully lobby government by remaining inconspicuous and focusing on pragmatic goals. By 1985, the government responded with the creation of the National AIDS Program, an independent agency placed outside the Ministry of Health and thus better able to flexibly respond to the needs and desires of the gay community (Gómez, 2010). Throughout the region overall, activists shifted from traditional strategies of cultural transformation to focus more intently on the practical issues of securing health services. And international cooperation played no small role, as new NGOs reached across borders to help each other professionalize with office space, regular budgets, staffing, and membership rolls (Serrano-Amaya & da Costa Santos, 2016). The move to emphasize gay rights as human rights also opened opportunities for strategic alliances with other groups. In Argentina, LGBTQ+ groups developed common cause with the human rights organizations seeking justice and fighting impunity in the period after military rule. In Ecuador, they aligned with feminists and Indigenous movements as the country reformed its constitution, which they successfully augmented with protections for sexual and gender minorities. In Brazil, LGBTQ+ activists framed the fight against AIDS as an access issue for health rights to associate their plight with groups advocating fairer economic development. By the turn of the century, the LGBTQ+ community in cities throughout the region aligned with business groups to advertise their market power. Several government tourist agencies now run campaigns to cater to “gay tourism” (Corrales, 2015).

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And advances in the consolidation of democracy helped to transform the political opportunity structure in which struggle took place. Most relevant were the judicial reforms that strengthened courts and offered new venues for pressing LGBTQ+ rights and protections. The 1991 Constitution of Colombia granted new powers of review to the courts, and AIDS activists quickly filed litigation to guarantee access to state funded medications in 1992, and then to force the state to cover costs incurred by AIDS patients unable to pay for their own treatment. Through the 1990s, a series of decisions enhanced anti-discrimination regulations for the LGBTQ+ community. In Costa Rica, the newly created constitutional chamber in the supreme court also guaranteed state-funded medications for AIDS patients in 1992, and in 1997 ruled against state-funded hospitals that refused AIDS patients as part of a broader right to health. Rulings to mandate new training for police have been credited with essentially ending routine police violence against the LGBTQ+ community in Costa Rica (Wilson, 2009). Still, as noted in Table 4.5 constitutional and legal protections remain uneven across the region. Political change came quickly for the LGBTQ+ community with the opening of the twenty-first century, but there was also a transformation in the direction of the struggle for rights. Through the 1990s the struggle largely focused on antidiscrimination and equality. Protections in the workplace, fair treatment in the marketplace, reforms to reduce police harassment, access to pension or survivor benefits and health coverage of partners, all signified achievements. That struggle is far from over, but into the twenty-first century, activists focused on broader claims such as the recognition of same-sex marriage, adoption rights, military service, official recognition of nonbinary genders, access to sex reassignment surgery, and the prohibition of conversion therapies. These broader claims much more directly challenged the religious beliefs of some sectors and served as a red line to trigger conservative groups (Wilson & Malca, 2019). Table 4.6 recognizes the receptivity of Latin American countries to these rights. The grievances of faith communities created an opportunity for conservative parties. Their electoral support had dwindled in the early twenty-first century with the rise of progressive governments able to address urgent needs by funding extensive social welfare programs under the commodity boom. By latching on to the distress in organized religions they hoped to energize their base. But the backlash was not simply the product of strategy. It exposed a real fissure between governments and society. As noted by one analyst: “Bluntly put, the gay-rights revolution in Latin America represents more of a political victory than a social transformation, and therein resides both the good and bad news about the capacity of legally recognized gay rights to deepen democracy in the region” (Encarnación, 2011, p. 105). A gay man in Lima, Peru might visit a cafe and peruse the newspaper to learn about path-breaking legislation to enhance LGBTQ+ rights, but then confront slurs and harassment as he walks the streets back to his home. Babb (2019) summarizes the contemporary challenges to the political struggles faced by the LGBTQ+ community in Latin America that distinguish it from other marginalized groups:

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Table 4.6 LGBTQ+ rights in Latin America

Argentina Bolivia Brazil Chile Colombia Costa Rica Cuba Dominican Republic Ecuador El Salvador Guatemala Honduras Mexico Nicaragua Panama Paraguay Peru Uruguay Venezuela

Ban on conversion therapies Limited No Yes No No No No No

Same-sex marriage Yes No Yes No Yes Yes No No

Civil unions Yes No Yes Yes Yes No No No

Adoption rights Yes No Yes No Yes Yes No No

Yes No No No Limited No No No No Limited No

Yes No No No Yes No No No No Yes No

Yes No No No Limited No No No No Yes No

No No No No Limited No No No No Yes No

Source: ILGA World (2020). Available at www.ilga.org

1. The dilemma of being a small minority in a region where many still find comfort in remaining in the ‘closet’ rather than becoming more visible as activists 2. The difficulty of finding political allies when even those on the left may be wary about adding sexual rights to their agendas, which tend to favor social class issues 3. Cultural resistance by families in areas where younger adults often reside longer at home before establishing themselves independently (due to economic or other reasons) 4. Backlash or complacency once initial gains have been made and the broader public no longer sees urgency to LGBTQ+ concerns 5. The continued strength of conservative religious interests that block policy and other change (p. 314) Still, acceptance of LGBTQ+ lifestyles and support for policy change varies dramatically among Latin American countries. One composite index examines public attitudes and policy throughout the world, and ranks several Latin American countries among the highest in the world. Uruguay (#9), Brazil (#15), Argentina (#23), and Colombia (#24) all rank in the top 25 in the “LGBTQ+ Travel Safety Index.”5 5

The LGBTI+ Travel Safety Index scores countries on legislation for same-sex marriage, worker protections, anti-discrimination, anti-hate laws, adoption, transgender legal identity, as well as

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But other countries present more hostile environments: Guatemala (#99), Paraguay (#97), the Dominican Republic (#93), and Panama (#83) (See Table 4.5 for rankings). A more academic index that exclusively examines survey data (“The Global Acceptance Index—LGBTI+”), replicates the distinctions, which largely mark South America as more accepting than Central America. In it, seven Latin American countries make the top 30, but Guatemala (#72), Paraguay (#72), and the Dominican Republic (#65) fall much further behind (Flores, 2021). One study on the divergence in LGBTQ+ rights in Latin America finds that “religion continues to be the most important attitudinal and institutional obstacle, but the veto power of religion is most strongly felt in countries where Protestants and evangelicals are dominant, growing, or have a strong presence in Congress.” The Catholic Church has not been a champion of LGBTQ+ rights, but its clergy has shown compassion for anti-discrimination laws and some have even recognized civil-unions as a compromise to same-sex marriage. More so, opinion polls show higher levels of homophobia among the evangelical than the Catholic laity. It is also the case that evangelical groups have exerted much more pressure on politicians and parties to express their spiritual beliefs and support religious agendas (Corrales, 2017). Still, religious movements have maneuvered through the politics of Latin America with their own strategies, creating interesting alliances. One analyst points to a “perfect marriage,” as evangelicals support the Catholic priority to oppose reproductive rights, while Catholics respond by backing the evangelical priority to resist recognition of gender identities that challenge heteronormative orientations (Corrales, 2018). The Catholic Church and conservative political parties might appear as natural allies to evangelicals given the affinities of their beliefs, but the movement has shown a practical side as well—one that is not necessarily tied to political ideology. The revolutionary government of the Sandinistas in Nicaragua sided with evangelicals through the 1980s in common cause to reduce the power of the Catholic Church. Although President Daniel Ortega identified as an atheist during this time, in the twenty-first century evangelicals increasingly supported him at the polls. By 2019 he proclaimed his membership in the evangelical movement, and in 2021 declared Catholic bishops to be terrorists. On the other hand, in 1980s Chile, evangelicals sided with the Pinochet dictatorship and curried favor as the Catholic Church lent support to the resistance movement. And today, while evangelicals cannot claim direct ties to a majority political party in any country, they do hold enough sway to act, or at least be perceived as, kingmakers. Progressive President Andrés Manuel López Obrador depends on the smaller Evangelical Partido Encuentro Social to pass legislation in congress, and in Brazil, after the 2018 national election the Evangelical Caucus claimed 203 legislators from political parties of all stripes. Were it a political party, it would be the largest in

legislation that expressly punishes same-sex relationships and ‘morality laws’ that prohibit the discussion of pro-LGBTQ+ issues. It also includes and gives greater weight to survey data. See www.asherfergusson.com/lgbtq-travel-safety.

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congress. Indeed, evangelical legislators were critical to the rise of right-wing President Jair Bolsonaro (2018–present), and they also extracted concessions from the Workers’ Party presidents who preceded him. These included obtaining government lands to build churches, relabeling religious events as cultural events to secure state funding, and changes in regulations to allow their broadcasts to reach broader audiences (Sarkar, 2021). Examples across Latin America confirm the rise of evangelicals as a political force. A candidate from the Evangelical Partido de Restauración Nacional reached second place in the 2018 presidential elections in Costa Rica. In Colombia, evangelicals mobilized voters to oppose the peace accords designed to end a 50-year insurgency. As noted, even as many sectors in Latin American societies hold fast to traditional norms and values that deny the expansion of sexual rights, the LGBTQ+ community could at least look to changes in government and policy for support, with the hope that cultural change would follow. The more recent entry of organized religion into politics threatens that formula. The LGBTQ+ community in Latin America is seen and heard as never before, but this also means that it has become a real target for those sectors with a stake in patriarchal norms.

4.4

Conclusion

The struggle for inclusion for women and the LGBTQ+ community has involved a struggle with patriarchal norms, which privilege the negotiated male identity. Women charted success earlier, beginning in the late nineteenth century, even as they compromised their gains. It was only at this time that the rights of women were recognized as worthy of negotiation. And through the twentieth century, women increasingly continued to press their rights through more traditional institutions such as the legislature, the courts, and constitutional change. Patriarchal norms proved a more lasting roadblock for the LGBTQ+ persons. The community was ignored, or sidelined as social deviants well into the twentieth century. The emergence of authoritarian regimes repressed and froze the struggles of women and LGBTQ+ persons through the 1960s and 1980s. Nonetheless, in time both groups secured significant advances after the transitions to democracy, and the coming of the twenty-first century. The expanse of sexual rights in many Latin American countries stands out on the global stage, and several countries can claim status as leaders. But these gains have elicited a backlash, as experienced by attacks on reproductive rights for women, and the more difficult struggles faced by LGBTQ+ persons beyond antidiscrimination laws. The backlash exposes a fissure in many Latin American countries, whereby political change outpaced cultural change over the past several decades. But that fissure varies tremendously across Latin American countries, and largely parallels the affinity toward evangelical Christianity in society. Still, in the end, whether a country has seen reversals in sexual rights, or has seen gains consolidated, the struggle for sexual rights increasingly takes place in legislative

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halls and courtrooms. Inclusion is within reach, but the struggle is far from over and the possibility of reversal remains a real threat.

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Chapter 5

The Struggle for the Rule of Law: Precarity and the New Middle Class

It may seem puzzling to see the middle class described as vulnerable, let alone as a marginalized group. But the middle class in Latin America has experienced tremendous changes over the past several decades, changes largely associated with neoliberal policies and intensifying globalization. In Latin America, the middle classes had traditionally developed alongside the state. That is, they found jobs in the bureaucracy, and embraced careers associated with the expansion of government services that took place through much of the twentieth century—from education and health care to police and judicial services, and an array of supervisory and management positions to oversee working class employment in public works projects and basic infrastructure. But these jobs dwindled as neoliberalism shrunk the state in the 1980s and 1990s, and pushed the middle class to seek out jobs in more dynamic, but unstable, sectors associated with the global economy such as technology, communications, finance and trade. Many others retreated to the informal sector or service sector. Facing greater uncertainty and less access to government services in health care, social welfare, or social security, this middle class may replicate the incomes of their traditional counterparts, but they face a struggle of their own—one against precarity. This is a new middle class and as we shall see, identifying what defines the middle class is more challenging than it seems. Income, education, occupation, region or neighborhood, race and ethnicity, consumption patterns, expectations and aspirations, and ultimately one’s own self-perception all combine in different ways from country to country and from one moment in history to another to produce a middle class. Indeed, it is not really accurate to speak of “a” middle class, given the multitude of bases upon which individuals might base their middle-class identity. There are, in fact, many middle classes. Recent changes in the middle class have significant political consequences for the politics of Latin America. The middle class experienced tremendous growth over the past several decades. It is larger than in the past, but also more insecure. And while many may celebrate their newfound status, they question whether their children will be able to maintain their living standards in the future. Economic expansion

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 C. L. Arceneaux, Political Struggle in Latin America, Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07904-7_5

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alongside increased personal precarity draws questions of social justice, the scourge of corruption, and the rule of law into the limelight. Hence, the middle-class struggle against precarity ultimately manifests as a struggle for the rule of law, and for a fair playing field for economic opportunities. It is then, little surprise that protests targeting corruption have mushroomed throughout Latin America in the past decade. Corruption is not new to the region, but the size of the middle class and its precarity is new. Indeed, the middle class offers an instructive case study of political struggle. No doubt the urban poor face more grave challenges, and thus more intense grievances. But the middle class faces grievances not of need or basic wants, but of the sense of being denied due to corruption and defects in the rule of law that threaten their status and thwart their mobility. Even more so, the middle classes can draw upon a more impactful set of resources to act upon their grievances—from funding sources and organizational skills to that most precious commodity of time. This chapter begins with a discussion of how to identify the middle class. While income-based distinctions appear intuitive enough, measures of self-identification show that respondents more often approach middle class identification as a matter of social status. This gives middle class identification more fluidity than an approach that looks at income levels alone, and it means that many people contest their position and approach it as aspirational. The chapter then traces the growth of the middle class over time, and the ineffectual role played by the middle class as a mediator between working class and upper-class interests as industrialization advanced through the twentieth century. It then distinguished the new middle classes and discusses how their precarity affects political attitudes, and stirs the struggle for the rule of law. Finally, the chapter recognizes the insight offered by middles class struggle as we evaluate the impact of grievance and resources on political struggle.

5.1

Identifying the Middle Class

The middle class does not struggle to meet the basic needs of food, clothing, and shelter, nor does it revel in extravagance, with unfettered access to luxury and leisure. Resting between the lower and upper classes, the lifestyles of those within the middle class might be best described as comfortable. A tour through the streets and surrounding districts of Mexico City, Bogotá, São Paulo, Lima, or any number of other large Latin American cities would seem to confirm that more Latin Americans appear to be living more comfortably than in the past. Sleek, newly redesigned light rails ferry workers on their daily commutes, consumers visit shopping centers that appear to have sprung up overnight, manicured parks with water features and trails offer respite from the bustling city, smart mixed-use housing units sit on top of commercial units leased by budding entrepreneurs, new entertainments centers with music venues and multiplex movie theaters show enliven the nightlife, and modern business buildings with glass facades reflect all the city has to showcase, both day and night. Older colonial districts, such as the Centro Histórico in Quito host street

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fairs and revamped specialty museums. Small cafes, art galleries, and trendy restaurants worthy of Michelin stars line the narrow, colorful streets. And most notably, many more tourists than in the past hail from within the country or those neighboring, rather than the United States and Europe. As noted in Chap. 3, the urban poor remain a serious concern in Latin America. But it is also undeniable that the middle class has made its presence felt in recent decades. But who are they? This vision of a class of people with sufficient financial security such that they need not worry over meeting basic needs and are able to engage in modest consumer activity appears to lend itself to a simple income-based identification. Indeed, this this precisely the approach taken by the World Bank, which defines the middle class as those individuals who earn between $13 and $70 per day (PPP, 2011).1 The Bank then designates all those that earn less than $5.50 per day to be poor, and those earning between $5.50 and $13 to be vulnerable. Using this approach, we can chart an impressive growth of the middle class in Latin America over the past several decades. As those resting under the poverty line fell by almost half from 2000 to 2019, from 45 to 22% of the population, many leapt the vulnerable and made their way into the middle class, pushing it from 22 to 38% of the population. Even further back, in the early 1990s the middle classes comprised just about 15% of the population, and the poor were about 2.5 times larger than it. Looking at the data, it is hard not to be encouraged. By 2019, the middle classes represented the largest proportion of the population of Latin America. The vulnerable were not far behind at 37%, but they were not growing, their numbers were stagnant. Indeed, even while estimating that the economic crises associated with the COVID-19 pandemic will shave a few percentage points from the middle classes, the World Bank posits that those who do fall behind should recover in short time given their education levels and continued access to basic services (World Bank, 2021a). Nonetheless, even prior to the pandemic, it was clear that the middle class in Latin America was far from content. Well before doctors intubated the first patient, in 2019 the region had erupted in protests in what many in the media dubbed the Latin Spring. The reasons for the protests varied, including electoral fraud, tax reform, price increases in basic services, police violence, and the lack of social mobility. But wherever they occurred, the middle classes played a prominent role. Indeed, some of the countries that had experienced the most significant increases in middle class growth—Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru—saw the largest mobilizations. The middle classes rebelled not only because income is a poor predictor of satisfaction, but also because income is an insufficient predictor of middle-class affiliation. To be middle class is indeed to feel economically content and secure, but many factors beyond income come into play here. Indeed, the original concept of class comes not from economics, but from sociology, as an element in the study of

For each country, the amount is adjusted according to “purchasing power parity” (PPP) This measure looks at the price of goods and value of currencies across different countries so that it accounts for the fact that $13 may purchase more or less goods in one country compared to another. 1

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social stratification. Max Weber (1947) offered the classic study of social stratification, and he pointed to class, which he envisioned more in terms of economic opportunity than income, as well as status and political influence. Indeed, surveys show that people tend to think in terms of social stratification when asked to selfascribe their class status. Hence, a variety of factors beyond income affect people’s conception of the middle class, and their affiliation. These factors can include occupation, education, race and ethnicity, neighborhood, family lineage, employment stability and mobility, and consumption patterns. The very fact that many in Latin America’s middle class had recently arrived, saw their middle-class levels stagnate since about 2014, and felt frustrated by the dire prospects of further advancement, meant that a steady income alone was not necessarily a source of contentment. Even more, the inequality that has long plagued the region gives “the middle class” a very different meaning in Latin America than in many other regions. José Miguel Insulza, a Chilean, recognized this when he addressed the United Nations as the Secretary-General of the Organization of American States: . . .the term “middle class,” which is increasingly used, hides a more complex economic truth and a more explosive social reality. A society in which a very significant number of citizens perceive that the wealthy have access to levels of consumption and services which they have no hope of reaching, is by definition an unstable society, especially at a time when mass media are diversifying to the extent they are today and in which we know more and more about how others live (OAS 2013).

To be middle class, one must have a sense of upward social and economic mobility. One must feel that they have a chance to improve their lives and that their children have a chance to do even better. Indeed, this subjective element of class explains why the income-based World Bank measurement of the middle class does not coincide with surveys that ask individuals to self-ascribe their class status. The Latinobarómetro survey asks respondents to describe their class status as lower, lower middle, middle, upper middle, or upper. Table 5.1 shows that the surveys numbers do not coincide with the income-based measures from the World Bank. Most people tend to inflate their class status when they self-identify, even as they couch their association with the middle class as “upper middle” or “lower middle.” But why would Latin Americans inflate their class status in the midst of such inequality? One insightful answer comes from a seminal article written by Albert Hirschman (2016) in 1973. In it, Hirschman described the changing tolerance people hold toward socioeconomic inequality with the use of a metaphor. Envision yourself driving a car in a tunnel with two lanes running in the same direction separated by a barrier. A traffic jam brings both you and the drivers beside you to a halt. You grow frustrated and irritated that you might not reach your destination at the desired time. But soon enough, the cars in the lane alongside you begin to move. A sense of relief emerges, and you feel good, because surely your time will come. You’ll be patient, but your patience wears thin if you fail to move in time. Over time, the very fact that the other lane continues to move and you do not generates a sense of injustice and the good feelings vanish.

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Table 5.1 Size of the middle class: World Bank Calculation 2019 (income-based) and Latinobarómetro Survey Responses 2018 (self-identification) (2020 in parenthesis)

Uruguay Chile Panama Argentina Costa Rica Brazil Paraguay Dominican Republic Peru Bolivia Ecuador Mexico Colombia El Salvador Nicaragua Honduras Guatemala Venezuela

World Bank (2019) 68.3 63.0 56.9 51.1 50.4 44.6 43.8 42.4

Latinobarómetro (upper middle) 6.6 (4.8) 3.5 (2.5) 9.6 (6.6) 4.0 (2.8) 8.8 (8.3) 3.2 (2.9) 5.4 (2.6) 12 (9.7)

Latinobarómetro (middle) 50.4 (42.8) 37.2 (39.8) 41.2 (29.3) 37.1 (29.0) 50.1 (42.5) 26.4 (28.3)) 37.9 (39.6) 42.4 (29.5)

Latinobarómetro (lower middle) 30.5 (36.6) 37.9 (30.9) 24.9 (33.2) 38.1 (43.6) 26.8 (30.6) 39.1 (37.1) 28.7 (29.8) 23.4 (29.0)

36.7 36.5 33.3 30.6 30.5 29.0 20.8 17.8 17.5 **

7.7 (6.3) 4.7 (6.5) 5.4 (6.4) 5.2 (4.5) 7.0 (8.5) 7.2 (8.4) 4.9 (7.7) 10.7 (11.3) 10.6 (7.6) 5.7 (3.8)

39.6 (34.1) 51.5 (46.6) 49.9 (41.2) 41.9 (34.5) 35.8 (30.4) 22.5 (26.9) 20.8 (22.2) 28.9 (26.9) 37.5 (37.2) 30.1 (23.4)

27.0 (29.2) 26.5 (30.5) 30.5 (27.5) 30.8 (33.6) 28.9 (33.8) 33.2 (30.1) 29.3 (26.3) 27.6 (25.9) 24.0 (24.6) 37.1 (34.1)

**: No data available Source: Latinobarómetro, Online Analysis. Available at www.latinobarómetro.org

Why them and not you? Hirschman uses the metaphor to illustrate that the tolerance for inequality changes as development occurs. People are willing to accept inequality if they see positive changes in others and feel that their time will come. But they have expectations that must be met if they are to remain content. Critically, and still with reference to the tunnel metaphor, drivers will be tolerant only so long as they hold some connection to the drivers beside them who begin to move. They need to be able to empathize with them. If there are class, ethnic, regional, or religious divides between the lanes, a driver may not express much tolerance at the outset. But a close connection does not guarantee greater stability. Hirschman also argues that the greater the empathy, and tolerance, the stronger the aversion that follows should a person’s position fail to improve. Hence, studies seeking to explain why those lower on the economic ladder might self-identify with a social standing look to “relational goods,” or the social mobility of friends and family that might encourage the thought that things will get better (Lora & FajardoGonzález, 2015). Nonetheless, one must not forget that the tunnel effect is time sensitive. Hence, the tremendous middle-class growth seen in Latin America up to about 2014 may have appeased many, but stagnation since that time appears to have unleashed sobering frustrations, as evidenced by the 2019 protests discussed in previous chapters.

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Despite the difficulty that such subjective criteria add to the identification of the middle class, analysts do agree that the middle class in Latin America is not only larger, but also different today compared to the past. Through much of the twentieth century, Latin America’s middle class largely developed alongside importsubstitution industrialization. Many found employment within the public sector, as professionals, managers, and bureaucrats. But neoliberal reform at the end of the century reduced those jobs as the state shrunk in size. Today’s members of the middle class are much more likely to find their jobs in the private sector, and even within the informal economy. Many work independently and view themselves as “self-made.” Many also work within dynamic communications, information, technology, export-import companies, and service sectors that have expanded with globalization (Pereyra, 2014). Hence, for the new middle classes, Hirschman’s tunnel effect may be especially relevant. As noted by one analyst, “The new middle class gives a positive and forward-looking meaning to someone who has achieved better living conditions to move ahead. More important than where you have come from—or are—is where you plan to go” (Neri, 2015, pp. 90–91). Tied to the vagaries of the market and global competitiveness, the “new” middle class does not enjoy the stable employment that the traditional middle class found in the state. Likewise, as the contemporary middle class grew, it drew in many darker skinned, Indigenous, and Afro-descendant populations that had traditionally been excluded. The new middle class is distinguished by educational credentials, but many completed their schooling at the private universities that proliferated under the neoliberal economy. The credentials of their predecessors were more likely to be traced to the more elite public universities. And because the new middle classes developed alongside burgeoning urbanization, they live more anonymously in cities lacking face-to-face familiarity. Hence, family antecedents are not as important as they used to be, and social position is “less ascribed than acquired” (Parker, 2012, p. 20) All told, these differences mark a cultural distinction that denies the new middle class the sense of status, and stability, enjoyed by the traditional middle class. Likewise, today’s middle class may earn sufficient income, but studies find them to be deficient in several measures of well-being beyond education and job formality, such as health care and pensions (Castellani et al., 2014). Hence, although middle class life implies a sense of comfort and regular fulfillment of basic needs, in Latin America uncertainty and fragility also describe the middle class. The COVID-19 pandemic testified to this, when it pushed 4.7 million from the middle classes, a number reduced by massive emergency transfers implemented in Brazil, the absence of which would have otherwise added another 15 million to the total (World Bank, 2021a–2021c). The context of inequality also distinguishes the middle class in Latin America, as it places a brake on the upward mobility typically expected by members of the middle class. As such, the middle class is indeed vulnerable and marginalized, and they too have their own struggle— the struggle against precarity. Facing uncertainty and limits on their mobility, it is little wonder the middle class increasingly displays such outrage to corruption in the political and elite classes and looks to strengthening the rule of law to even out the

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playing field. The following section examines the historical role of the middle class to underscore the distinctive behavior and motivations of the new middle class.

5.2

The Role of the Middle Class in Latin American History

The middle class matters. Economists have long recognized this, and generally agreed on the importance of the middle class to economic development. A vibrant middle class fosters entrepreneurial activity, which spurs innovation and productivity. The middle class also encourages attitudes that value investments in human capital (especially education) and savings. Finally, the middle class steers consumption habits to support a greater diversification of goods and services and to sustain stability in demand over time (Banerjee & Duflo, 2008). All of this is good for the economy, and critical to economic growth. A study by Kharas and Gertz (2010, p. 44) illustrates this with a comparison between South Korea and Brazil. Both countries saw annual per capita growth rates of about 5.5–6.5% from 1965 to the 1980s, allowing them to reach middle income status. Nonetheless, Brazil’s relatively smaller middle class stifled innovation for decades and prevented the economy from moving beyond its status as a commodity-based exporter, while South Korea went on to develop a knowledge-based economy and to become one of the most advanced economies in the world. In contrast to economists and their view of economic change, political scientists identify a more nuanced impact of the middle classes on political development. Early studies on the political consequences of the middle class reach back to Aristotle, who in his Politics identified them as a stabilizing force that dulls the tensions between rich and poor. They “neither covet, like the poor, the possessions of others, nor do others covet theirs as the poor covet those of the rich.” The middle class is also most inclined to reason, since they are neither prone to “arrogance and crime on a large scale” like the wealthy, nor “wicked ways and petty crime” like the lower classes. Lastly, the middle class is most fit for governance, since the rich “neither wish to submit to rule nor understand how to do so,” while the masses are “greatly deficient” and “do not know how to rule, but only how to be ruled as a slave is” (1984, pp. 266–67). The reasoning is simple and alluring, and it has had staying power. Over two millennia later, an article in The Economist on the rise of the new middle class in Latin America seemed to echo Aristotle. According to it, since the middle class has “benefited from political stability. . .it has much to lose from political adventurism, it could become a force for political stability” (2007, p. 22). But the case of Latin America shows that context is everything when it comes to the political role of the middle class. Wedged between a small, privileged and powerful elite and a large, long impoverished lower class through much of history, the middle class has not had the luxury to mediate. More often, it had to choose sides. And history has shown that only “in calmer times these middle classes could be expected to vote for representative government and centrist leaders. The tendency is to favor coups in crisis but elections when the dust clears” (Skidmore & Smith, 2005,

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p. 447). Indeed, through the nineteenth century the middle classes had a difficult time gaining a foothold in the societies of Latin America while their counterparts in Europe and the United States blossomed. Of course, colonialism had its own unique middle sectors, consisting largely of the clergy, military officers, colonial administrators, writers and artists, and members of the liberal professions such as law and medicine. But the middle class saw little growth beyond these professions after independence—the very time when the middle class outside Latin America began to flourish. Outside the region, the consolidation of the Industrialization Revolution in the nineteenth century opened more opportunities for the middle class. Throughout Europe and the United States, industrialization demanded merchants to address needs in the burgeoning urban areas, managers to oversee industrial workers and clerks to register and catalog, bankers and insurance sellers to facilitate the thriving commerce, and an expansive civil service to support government initiatives to grow infrastructure and extend new public services in education, health, and housing. All this created a core for middle class growth. But this was not the case in Latin America. Recall that much of the region fell victim to civil conflict and instability under caudillo rule during this time. Such conditions hardly facilitated commerce and industrial development, let alone the rise of a middle class. And these same conditions did little to unseat the landed elite, who retreated to their haciendas and consolidated power with little challenge from the unorganized peasantry or undeveloped cities. Even as economic gains emerged with the turn to the export economy in the later nineteenth century, this economic model served to further empower landed elites. They secured overseas markets for grain, bananas, leather, rubber, wool, coffee, oil, nitrate, copper, sugar, and other commodities found on their lands. Likewise, even as governments saw their coffers swell, they looked to European and U.S. industrialists to build their railroads, telecommunications, ports, roads and other infrastructure, and overseas producers to supply manufactured goods. The export model crowded out the middle class in Latin America, and stunted its growth. But even with its lagging and dependent development, Latin America did see change as cities grew and light industries began to develop, giving rise to a nascent working class. Immigration from Southern Europe intensified these changes in South America. Hence, just as in Europe and the United States, Latin American countries soon faced “the social question”—or how to address the divide between capital and labor (i.e., between rich and poor) within the political sphere in a way that sustains social cohesion, and the scaffolds of capitalism. The working classes faced miserable conditions, and scrapped to make a living, but their numbers were growing. Should government address their grievances through empowerment, charity, or repression? In the 1880s, the conservative Bismarck government in Germany created one of the first social welfare states to mollify mobilization in the working class. In the United Kingdom, reforms at the turn of the nineteenth century gradually opened the electoral system to shepherd the Labour Party into government. In both countries, middle-class movements and parties jockeyed for position, developed their own class alliances, and often bridged working- and upper-class interests. As for Latin

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America, analysts who have addressed this social question are nearly uniform in the view that the middle classes never really had the opportunity to play a mediating role due to their deficient size, and that they never really had the will to fully mobilize the working classes for fear that their own advantages would be stamped out along with those of the traditional elites (e.g., Parker, 2012; Petras, 1970). The case of Argentina typifies the power of the landed oligarchies, the dilemma posed to them by the working class, and the constraints faced by the middle class as a mediating force. Ranchers and grain producers profited tremendously under the export economy, especially with the introduction of refrigerated ships and meatpacking plants after 1900. But they depended on the railways and port facilities of Buenos Aires, and this vibrant transportation and shipping activity spawned a working class—one that found itself confined to urban areas due to the high land costs in the countryside. A middle class also developed, but the lack of a meaningful industrial sector forced most to latch on to commercial activities associated with agricultural exports. This was a dependent, clientelistic class, unlike the entrepreneurial middle classes that developed around the budding industrial sectors in Europe and the United States. Increasingly, the state bureaucracy offered another source of employment—about one-quarter of the middle class found jobs here (Rock, 1975, p. 22). Exports enriched the landed elite, but these exports also created a large, aggrieved working class. Confronted with its social question, many in the oligarchy stood fast with the traditional formula of rigged elections and repression. But a rival faction within the elites advanced a new strategy, one meant to co-opt the middle class and placate the working class. The Sáenz Peña Law (1912) guaranteed universal male suffrage and secret elections. The hope was that more competitive elections would precipitate cooperation with the middle class-based Radical Party by offering expanded access to state jobs, and would undermine the revolutionary appeal of anarchist and syndicalist ideas in the working class with the allowance of a socialist party. The Sáenz Peña Law was not just wishful thinking. It was more limited than it appeared because it took advantage of the unique character of Argentine demographics. Namely, well over one-half of the working class in the country were immigrants, lacking in citizenship and therefore the right to vote. Hence, the Sáenz Peña Law was enough to produce change, but not wholesale transformation. As such, the Radical Party won the presidency in 1916, and looked to bolster its position toward the landed elites by catering to the working classes. But it did so through piecemeal reform, which only whet the appetite of workers for further change. That sparked social strife, which peaked by 1919. One event in particular, known as La Semana Trágica (“The Tragic Week”- January 7–14, 1919) proved pivotal to the social question in Argentina. It began with a strike by metallurgy workers seeking a 6-day work week and a shortening of the workday from 11 to 8 hours. The police put down the strike with violence, killing several workers. Sailors at the port took notice and called for a general strike, which drew the attention of the railway workers. Commerce came to a halt. Rightwing paramilitary groups highlighted the immigrant status of the workers, confronting them in the streets with bats, knives, and guns. They also conducted the first pogrom in the Americas in the Jewish quarter of the

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city, dragging individuals from their homes and burning their possessions (Mirelman, 1975). The unrest left hundreds dead. For the Radicals, it confirmed the risks associated with addressing working class interests. The lack of progressive reform (e.g., land reform, labor rights, greater access to citizenship, or protectionist policies to stir industrialization) by the Radical Party only served to illustrate the dependence of the middle sectors on commercial enterprises and positions in the state bureaucracy associated with the exports of the landed elite. When the Great Depression stirred further unrest, the military intervened to impose order in 1930. Recognizing their own weakness and dependence on the old order, the middle class did little to oppose the coup (Johnson, 1958, pp. 94–111). A similar story unfolded in other countries of the region, demonstrating the reluctance of the middle classes to play a mediating role in the social question and their hesitancy to construct bonds with the working class. Hence, while the Argentine middle classes curtailed the electoral input of working class demands through restrictive citizenship laws, those in Brazil, Chile, and Peru leaned on prohibitive literacy rules to contain the voting power of the masses (Petras, 1970, pp. 41–42). Mexico, despite its revolution at the start of the century, also illustrates the timidity and conservatism of the middle classes in Latin America. President Manuel Avila Camacho (1940–46) intensified industrial development to solidify the government’s ties with the urban middle classes. With more employment in this sector, he hoped to fend off the threat of agrarian radicalism that had been unleashed by the revolution (Johnson, 1958, pp. 31–32). The populist regimes confronted the social question head on, and appeared to offer a strategy. Protectionist policies would nurture the growth of industry and working-class jobs, public sector employment opportunities for the middle classes would expand with the adoption of social welfare programs, and middle-class business interests would benefit from public investments and state contracts. Juan Perón (1946–55) in Argentina, Getulio Vargas 1930–45, 1951–54) in Brazil, Gustavo Rojas Pinilla in Colombia (1953–57) Manuel Ordría in Peru (1948–56), and José María Velasco Ibarra (1968–72) in Ecuador offer some examples of this formula. But in all of these cases, “the working-class/middle-class alliance worked almost wholly to the advantage of the latter” as the populists regularly stopped short of challenging the traditional socioeconomic structure (Petras, 1970, p. 43). Indeed, one survey of Chilean essayists and social commentators in the first half of the twentieth century documented a strong disdain and fear of the working class by the middle class, as well as a fawning affinity for the upper class. “They came to question the perfectibility of the lower class, and thus grew increasingly indifferent to supplying its members with opportunities to advance” (Pike, 1963). He noted that about this time, the word “siútico” gained traction in the Chilean vocabulary. It refers to a middle-class person enamored with the aristocracy, and who strives to be seen as one of their own. The author credits the siúticos with the peaceful incorporation of middle-class parties into the Chilean political system, but notes that this stability came at the cost of stagnation for the working classes. Indeed, through the twentieth century, Latin America seemed to contradict what appeared to be an established axiom in the study of democratization. In 1966,

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Barrington Moore published his seminal study, “The Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy,” and reduced his analysis to one phrase: “no bourgeoisie, no democracy.” But a completely contrary line of thought emerged among scholars of Latin America. Military coups continued to plague the region through the twentieth century, and many tagged the middle class as the culprit. Even with some growth over time, they remained disparate, divided by education and occupation, and lacked the unifying impact of organized labor enjoyed by the working class. Still, they had in common an aspiration for economic betterment and the suspicion that working class mobilization might reverse their gains. United only by a common threat, in times of crisis they abandoned democracy and looked to the military. And it was not unusual for the military to look back, given its ties to the middle class. According to the classic study by José Nun, since the end of the nineteenth century, the officer corps within the armed forces of Latin America distinguished themselves by recruiting most of their members from the middle classes (unlike the militaries of continental Europe, where traditional landed elites staffed the officer corps). In addition, while professionalization and interstate war inspired more autonomous militaries in continental Europe, the late professionalization and relative lack of interstate conflict made for a more porous military institution in Latin America. Given the connections, Nun speaks of “middle class military coups” in the twentieth century (Nun, 1986). Interestingly, the bonds between the armed forces and the middle class charged military interventions with different dynamics over time. At the start of the twentieth century, the middle classes sought to go beyond the limited economic opportunities available to them through association with the commercial exports of the traditional elite. And they looked to the military to pressure the upper classes. Military revolts in 1893 and 1905 in no small part fed into the calculus of the Argentine elites who supported the Sáenz Peña Law as a concession to the middle classes. The size of the middle class may have been small, but an alliance with the military would make them formidable. To underscore the bond, when steadfast opponents of Sáenz Peña within the elite sought to overturn the 1916 elections and revoke the law with support from the military, the soldiers stayed in their barracks, in essential solidarity with middle class interests (Nun, 1986, pp. 68–69). Brazil offers another example from this time. Both the military and middle class chafed at the continued influence of coffee producers and ranchers, who protected agrarian exports and frustrated the move toward a modern, industrial, and more urban economy. In the tenentismo movement of the 1920s, middle-class officers attempted to stir rebellion among the peasantry, but failed because of the power of the landed elite in the countryside. By 1930, the military and the middle class realized that change could never occur through the ballot box due to the dominion of traditional elites over voters in the countryside. Both offered support to President Getulio Vargas (1930–45), who curbed electoral procedures under the Estado Nôvo, and implemented a sweeping program to industrialize the country. It is not a coincidence that Brazil waited until 1945 to return to competitive elections, the year the size of the industrial sector matched that of the agricultural sector.

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But if the armed forces helped the middle classes break the economic monopoly of the traditional classes, they also protected the middle class from the working class. With time the middle classes appeared to reverse course as agents of change, and called on military intervention to halt the destabilizing politics of populism, from Juan Perón in Argentina to João Goulart in Brazil. In the months after the 1973 coup in Chile that tossed the revolutionary government of Salvador Allende, the leader of the middle-class Christian Democratic Party wrote to the military government: “We do not like it, but we concede that a period of dictatorship is necessary” (NY Times, 1974). But the propensity of the middle classes to place their immediate self-interests over democracy reached its nadir with the repressive military rule that emerged in the 1960s–1980s. These military regimes ruled with much more autonomy than those of the past and initiated the shift to neoliberalism. Neoliberalism had a transformative impact on the middle class. Privatization, deregulation, downsizing, and structural adjustment slashed the comfortable public sector assignments long prized by the middle class. Living standards deteriorated rapidly, but over time new opportunities opened in a market absent the shadow of the state, in export-import commerce, and in new sectors associated with information and communications technology. The new middle class had emerged. As noted above, it would grow larger, but this did not mean that it would so easily fall into the mediating role envisioned by Aristotle. Another classic scholar, Alexis de Tocqueville, highlighted a significant contextual factor beyond size that shapes the political behavior of the middle class. Like Hirschman, he looked to mobility. But he specifically argued that the prospect of social mobility influences the likelihood that the middle classes would support redistributive policies or any other initiatives that impinge upon the upper classes (de Tocqueville, 1835/2004). The reasoning is simple—why reduce the status of a group one might possibly become a part of? Of course, the logic works both ways. Those stuck in Hirschman’s tunnel have dim prospects. Hence, with size, but lacking in mobility, it is little surprise that the middle classes have assumed leading roles in the protest movements of the past decade.

5.3

Precarity and Political Attitudes of the New Middle Class

As noted, the middle class in Latin America has grown significantly over the past several decades. But a closer inspection reveals areas of concern. First, most new entrants barely made it, and rest on the cusp of the middle class (World Bank, 2013). Many in this vulnerable middle class work in the informal economy and lack access to health insurance, pensions, unemployment insurance, or other social welfare mechanisms linked to formal employment. Mexico, and the Central American countries add another element of precarity due to the dependence of many middle-class families on remittances from migrants to the United States, or elsewhere. Given the costs associated with international migration,

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most migrants seeking work abroad do not emerge from the impoverished lower classes but in fact rest within the vulnerable middle classes (De Haas, 2005). Of course, these flows are notoriously volatile, affected by the ability to migrate, economic swings in the host country, and other unpredictable events such as natural disasters and pandemics. Consider then, that remittances when measured as a percentage of GDP in 2020 sat at 24.1% in El Salvador, 23.6% in Honduras, and 14.7% in both Guatemala and Nicaragua (World Bank, 2021b). Even as these flows remain consistently high for each country from year to year, for any given household they may be decidedly unpredictable. And finally, though middle class growth has been dramatic in recent times, this has not had the same impact on inter-generational mobility. “Parents’ education and income levels still substantially influence their children’s outcomes,” and this impact is greater in Latin America than in other regions. Likewise, Latin America is more distinguished than most other regions by “sorting”—or the process which sees children from more advantaged backgrounds concentrate in the same schools, while children from less privileged schools find themselves in other, lower quality schools (World Bank, 2013). Under such conditions of precarity and uncertainty as to whether their children will fare better, it is little surprise that presumably minor increases in basic services trigger violent protests among the middle classes. In 2019, a rise in the cost of a gallon of gas in Ecuador, from $1.85 to $2.39, generated demonstrations that shut down city streets, provoked confrontations with police that injured scores and killed some, and left property damaged due to looting or arson. In fear for his life, President Lenín Moreno abandoned the presidential palace in the capital of Quito and took up residence in the coastal city of Guayaquil. But even more that the economic costs, the political context appears to be critical. Consumers can begrudgingly accept price hikes to address rising costs or budgetary constraints. But they need to trust government when it explains the necessity of austerity measures, or how the pain of today’s costs will open the possibility of further gains tomorrow. Moreno had been vice-president under the popular government of Rafael Correa, and entered office with widespread support. But his approval plummeted when he unexpectedly reversed course and embraced neoliberal policies. The public had lost faith. Hence, protests continued even after Moreno reinstated the fuel subsidies and offered a compensatory plan to expand welfare subsidies for poor families. Likewise, Indigenous groups had participated in the protests, despite the fact that the fuel hikes were part of a plan to reduce carbon emissions, and thereby limit oil drilling on or nearby Indigenous lands in the Amazon basin that the groups had long protested (Kyle, 2019). The case of Ecuador is more emblematic than exceptional. The Latinobarómetro survey queries Latin Americans on an annual basis. One question asks Latin Americans to indicate how much confidence, or trust, that they have in government: a lot, some, little, or none.2 In 2020 only 27% of respondents answered, “a lot” or

The wording of the question is: “Cuénta confianza tiene usted en el gobierno: Mucha, Algo, Poco, o Ninguna?”

2

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“some.” Despite the pandemic, this actually represented an increase since 2017, when the number for both responses rested at 22%. Even during the commodity boom, when one might suspect that individuals thought more highly of government, the number of those who expressed trust hovered between just 40 and 44%. At about 2010–11, the numbers took a gradual dive until they reached their 2017 nadir. To be sure, there is variation. In 2020 El Salvador (71%), Uruguay (56%), and the Dominican Republic (51%) scored well. But of the remainder, only Nicaragua (35%), Mexico (28%), and Brazil (27%) surpassed 25%. Ecuador (10%), Honduras (11%), Paraguay (13%), and Costa Rica (14%) scored particularly poorly in 2020 (Latinobarómetro, 2022). Trust in government has a mediating impact on how social mobility affects the political attitudes of the middle classes, and the likelihood for protest. But now consider the factors addressed thus far as indicators of what political attitudes the middle classes might embrace: the prospects of social mobility, perceived connections to the plights of other groups and classes, and confidence in government. One fundamental political question faced by the middle class is whether it supports progressive policies to redistribute income or whether it prefers government to back off, and allow households to pursue gains on their own, even if this results in greater inequality. The World Values Survey asks respondents to signal their agreement with one of two statements: “incomes should be made more equal,” or “there should be greater incentives for individual efforts.” The statements are placed on either end of a scale, with 1 signaling agreement with the former and 10 revealing support for the latter. The responses, then, serve as a proxy for the relative value given to progressive action or neoliberal policy. Table 5.2 shows the results of respondents who self-identified as middle class from those Latin American countries included in the survey. In the analysis below, I compare all those who marked 1–3 to all those who marked 8–10 in each country, to gauge the relative support for government intervention to reduce inequality. Support for any government action in Latin America is no doubt dampened by the pervasive levels of corruption found throughout the region. If a person views government as corrupt, they will surely be less likely to trust it with efforts to address income inequality (Uslaner, 2008). Chile, known for its relatively lower levels of corruption among countries of the region, shows the highest support for government action, at 45% of respondents. This number rests 34.5 points higher the total of those individuals who would instead place their faith in the market. Brazil is the only other country with a higher level of support for government action than inaction—34.7–27%, for a difference of 7.7 points. Brazil has had its share of scandals surrounding the lava jato case, but this is likely tapered by the widely successful social welfare programs, such as Bolsa Familia, first implemented under the Lula administration. Argentina tilts toward a desire for market incentives, but just barely, with 22.1 in support of government action and 27.2 preferring to fend on their own. But what appears rather striking is that the poorest countries, those that offer limited opportunities for the middle class, show the least support for progressive policies. Take Bolivia for example. Under Evo Morales (2006–19), millions benefited from extensive social welfare programs that uplifted large numbers from

Arg 11.2 4.4 6.5 10.1 12.3 12.2 13.2 11.2 6.3 9.7 1.1 –5.1

Bol 7.8 4.0 4.9 5.5 11.3 7.1 11.1 21.8 9.2 16.0 1.3 –30.3

Brz 25.8 3.5 5.4 5.6 16.8 7.5 6.7 5.7 2.0 19.3 1.8 7.7

Chi 22.0 13.7 9.3 11.4 17.7 7.9 6.1 4.5 2.8 3.2 1.1 34.5

Col 13.4 3.1 3.3 5.5 15.3 6.0 6.0 12.9 8.2 26.3 0.0 –27.6

Ecu 16.9 1.8 2.1 4.7 18.1 6.4 10.9 12.0 6.3 20.2 0.6 –17.7

Gua 8.0 2.0 1.8 3.4 11.4 12.5 9.9 10.8 9.4 30.8 0.2 –39.2

Mex 14.8 5.4 4.8 5.5 14.5 8.5 9.5 11.0 7.2 18.4 0.0 –11.6

Nic 11.4 1.0 2.2 3.3 12.9 7.5 7.9 14.8 6.3 32.7 0.0 –39.2

Per 9.4 5.7 5.6 5.4 10.2 10.7 14.6 15.2 9.4 12.0 1.9 –15.9

Source: “World Values Survey Wave 7: 2017–2020. Q106: Income inequality vs larger income difference.” Online data analysis available at www. worldvaluessurvey.org/WVSOnline.jsp

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (“Don’t know” or “no answer”) Difference between respondents 1–3 vs. respondents 8–10

Ranking

Table 5.2 Policy trade-off preference between ‘incomes made more equal’ (#1) or ‘incentives for individual effort’ (#10) among middle class respondents

5.3 Precarity and Political Attitudes of the New Middle Class 177

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poverty. But those that made it into the middle classes see little opportunities for further advances in an economy that remains underdeveloped. Guatemalans and Nicaraguans face the same outlook. Bolivians who lean toward individual initiatives outstrip those who desire government stewardship by 30.3 points. In Guatemala and Nicaragua, absolute majorities express their aversion to government action—at 51% and 53.8%, respectively. Ecuador presents a similar scenario, with 38.5% more willing to rely on individual initiative, and 20.8% looking for government support. Colombia and Peru present curious cases. They have more complex, vibrant economies like Chile, Brazil, and Argentina, experienced significant economic growth through the early twenty-first century, and many in their middle classes owe their standing to recently expanded social programs. Nonetheless, their responses look more like Bolivia, Guatemala, and Nicaragua—but not because of the lack of economic opportunity. Here the story appears to rest more so in deep social divisions. Colombia has a long history of urban and rural disparity, one that fueled a 50-year-long insurgency by guerrillas in the countryside. Indeed, the 2016 peace accords to end the civil war promised sweeping programs to address rural poverty and access to basic needs, but urban residents expressed their opposition in a referendum. Those in the city see little connections between their lives and those in the countryside. There is also a racial dimension, with Afro-descendants far more likely to sit below the middle classes and reside in the countryside. Peru has its own deep divisions—with a more mestizo and lighter-skinned population along the coast, while the Indigenous reside in the highlands. The Indigenous that do migrate to major cities on the coast, such as metropolitan Lima, for economic opportunities, typically find themselves consigned to the slums on the outskirts. Even among the Indigenous inland, there is a strong divide between those in the Andes and those that inhabit the Amazon. In Mexico, a number of factors conspire to present a muddled case. It has a more dynamic economy, but one of the worst levels of corruption, and deep divides between its rural and urban populations and between a northern region with complex linkages to the global economy running through the United States and a southern region that remains more isolated and Indigenous. Much of Latin America thus faces a difficult situation as the countries attempt to advance the fight against poverty and extend middle-class growth. Alicia Bárcena (2020), Executive Secretary of the Economic Commission of Latin America, attributes these changes to a series of novel non-contributory social programs, labor inclusion programs, and social pensions, as well as advances in education and health. Government policies made a difference. Nonetheless, while many in the new middle class owe their newfound status to such programs, issues of corruption reduce their support for these programs, as does the lack of connections to those in the working classes they have left behind. Hence ironically, even as poverty reduction programs show signs of success, in the form of a growing middle class, overall public support for those programs may fall. As such, the struggle for the rule of law is central to middle class support for continued economic change. Fortunately, because corruption so clearly reduces economic opportunities, the middle classes have been more than willing to join, if not lead, the fight against corruption and the fight for the rule of law.

5.4 The Middle Classes and the Rule of Law

5.4

179

The Middle Classes and the Rule of Law

Central to the lack of trust in government, and the consequent sense that one has been denied a fair opportunity to improve one’s livelihood, is the quality of the rule of law. The concept of the rule of law takes us back once again to Aristotle, who pondered whether “the best law or the best man” should rule. Indeed, the rule of law is a deceptively inviting concept. At its core it protects against the arbitrary use of power by holding all individuals, from the highest government officials to everyday citizens, subject to the same rules. As an antidote to arbitrary power, it is little wonder that scholars almost unanimously celebrate it as a necessity of good governance. Joseph Raz attempted to delineate the core preconditions for the rule of law in a classic study: 1. The law should be unambiguous, publicized, and comprehensive. 2. The law should be relatively stable. 3. The process by which laws themselves are made should be open, stable, clear, and comprehensive. 4. The independence of the judiciary must be guaranteed. 5. Principles of natural justice (e.g., open and fair hearings and the absence of bias) must be observed. 6. The courts should have review powers over legislative and administrative actions to ensure conformity with the rule of law. 7. The courts should be easily accessible. 8. The discretion of crime-prevention authorities (the police and public prosecutors) should be bound by the law. (Raz, 1983, pp. 214–18)

On all these measures, most Latin American countries come up woefully short. The World Bank collects survey data on the perceptions of the rule of law. Specifically, its data “captures perceptions of the extent to which agents have confidence in and abide by the rules of society, and in particular the quality of contract enforcement, property rights, the police, and the courts, as well as the likelihood of crime and violence.” It compiles several surveys and scores countries on a scale from –2.5 to +2.5, with higher scores indicating better governance (see Table 5.3). In the 2020 ranking of 192 countries, only Chile (#29) and Uruguay (#47) made the top 50. Costa Rica (#54) was not far behind, but Brazil (#97) and Panama (#100) barely made the top 100. Venezuela (#192), Nicaragua (#173), Bolivia (#168), Guatemala (#165), Honduras (#159), and El Salvador (#146) sat within the bottom 50 countries that brandish the worst rule of law scores in the world (World Bank, 2021c). The weak rule of law is all too easy to observe in Latin America. Historically, presidents have imposed their will with few checks from fragmented legislatures and weak judiciaries. Some of this is embedded in constitutions, which allocate extensive decree authorities, budgetary controls, and powers to declare states of emergency to further extend unilateral executive action. Even the veto, the signature feature of a president who wishes to express opposition, gains more weight in Latin America. Most presidents not only have powers to impose a partial veto, which allows them to

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Table 5.3 2020 World Bank indicators of the rule of law in Latin America Chile Uruguay Costa Rica Brazil Panama Cuba Peru Paraguay Argentina Colombia Ecuador El Salvador Honduras Guatemala Bolivia Nicaragua Venezuela

Rule of law score 1.1 0.7 0.6 –0.2 –0.2 –0.3 –0.3 –0.4 –0.5 –0.5 –0.5 –0.8 –1.0 –1.1 –1.2 –1.2 –2.3

Rule of law: percentile rank 84.1 74.0 70.2 48.1 46.6 43.8 41.3 37.0 34.6 33.7 32.2 22.1 17.3 13.9 12.0 9.1 0.0

Source: World Bank Governance Indicators. Data retrieved February 26, 2022. Available at www. data.worldbank.org

delete portions of a bill not to their liking (subject to an override), but they also hold the power of amendatory observation. This uniquely Latin American practice traces its roots to Simon Bolívar, who was not shy about his suspicions of democracy. It allows a president to add content to bills sent to his desk, and if the legislature hopes to block the change, it must come up with a supermajority vote to override it (Alemán & Tsebelis, 2016, pp. 16–17). Many Latin American presidents also hold the power to call for a referendum. This direct appeal to the electorate may appear to be an expansion of the democratic process, but all too often presidents use the procedure to circumvent the opposition, and congress (Breuer, 2008). President Martín Vizcarra of Peru found himself deadlocked with the opposition-controlled congress in 2018. As one of several referendum initiatives, he successfully reduced the time in office for congresspersons to just one term in hopes of refreshing the institution. In 2020, congress responded by impeaching Vizcarra on suspect charges of corruption, then voted unanimously to bar him from office for 10 years after discovering that he jumped the line to receive a COVID-19 vaccination. As if the constitutional powers afforded to presidents are not enough, many continue to push the boundaries of their rule. Traditionally, most countries established term limits to at least set a deadline on the power exerted by any one president. But over the past decades, several presidents had their term limits overturned. Presidents in Venezuela (2009), Nicaragua (2015), and Honduras (2015) packed their courts to elicit favorable rulings to nullify term limits. In Bolivia, Evo Morales (2016) successfully argued to a sympathetic court packed with

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partisans that term limits violated his political rights. In neighboring Paraguay, Horacio Cartes attempted to push a constitutional amendment through the legislature to effect the desired change in 2017. To avoid backlash as they complied with the wildly unpopular proposal, the senate met in secret session. But word got out, Paraguayans hit the streets, and set fire to the congressional building, nearly burning it to the ground. Presidents also resort to overt threats to support their initiatives. President Nayib Bukele of El Salvador did so when he decided to visit the opposition-controlled legislative assembly in February 2020 to lobby for an expansive crime package that would shower the armed forces with funds. After a speech in which he called on supporters to descend on the assembly, he arrived flanked by soldiers in full fatigues. They stood with rifles and at attention in the aisles as Bukele addressed the legislators. Beyond the legislature and judiciary, democracies do have other institutions meant to shadow their presidents. There are audit agencies and comptroller generals to comb through spending plans, electoral courts to adjudicate electoral disputes, and ombudsman offices—known as Defensores del Pueblo in Latin America—to investigate government compliance with human rights. But many of these institutions are understaffed and poorly funded, and all too often packed with partisans (Arceneaux, 2021, pp. 206–9). In Guatemala, it seemed that government had finally recognized its own weakness and need for support in 2006. It negotiated the creation of the International Commission Against Impunity in Guatemala (CICIG) with the United Nations, and allowed 21 countries to send personnel. Given the spike in violence, the commission first focused on criminal networks, and it had an impact, boosting the percentage of solved homicide cases fourfold, from 7 to 28% by 2013. But the commission soon recognized that violent crime was but a symptom of the impunity and corruption in government that allowed it to thrive. The focus turned to official corruption, which meant resources would be directed toward powerful government figures. Soon enough, the commission accumulated evidence to implicate over 200 government officials, and even exposed malfeasance within the presidential office, leading to the resignation of President Pérez Molina in 2015. For Guatemalans, it appeared that their country had turned the corner on the scourge of impunity. No candidate in the 2016 elections could avoid the theme of clean government. Jimmy Morales ran under the slogan of “neither corrupt, nor a thief,” and declared that he would welcome a CICIG investigation to affirm his spotless reputation. He won, the CICIG called his bluff, and quickly found evidence of fraud and money laundering by family members of President Morales. By late 2017 he expelled the head commissioner and refused to cooperate with the CICIG. Morales declined to extend the commission’s mandate when it expired in 2019, despite the fact that the CICIG wielded an approval rating of over 70% (Schneider, 2019). On a daily basis, most Latin Americans experience deficiencies in the rule of law in the form of crime and violence. Though the region holds barely 9% of the world’s population, about 33% of all homicides occur within it. One survey of residents in major cities found that 30% of respondents reported that they were victims of a crime in the past 12 months, and 70% admitted that they feared they could become a victim at any moment. Indeed, the sense of immediacy surrounding crime is so great that

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support for punitive anti-crime programs easily surpass support for preventative antipoverty programs. Survey data for Bolivia, Chile, Panama, and Uruguay (the only countries included in the survey) indicate that about 80% would prefer harsh punishments to address crime, while only about 20% look to the long-term solutions resting in socioeconomic development (Cafferata & Scartascini, 2021). Deficiencies in the justice system only magnify the sense of impunity. In cases of homicide, the global average for conviction rates rests at just over 40%. In Latin America, that number is halved, leaving about 80% of all murders unsolved. And those who do enter the justice system for whatever reason struggle for due process because of understaffed and underfunded courts. An average of 43% of all prisoners in Latin America have yet to be sentenced—double the rate seen in the countries of the European Union (López-Calva, 2021). Shortcomings in the rule of law affects both victims and suspects in criminal matters. Increasingly, Latin Americans have gone to the core of the problem and expressed their outrage over corruption to address failings in the rule of law. Studies of corruption have clarified important dynamics of corruption, and how it might best be addressed. First, there is the distinction between petty corruption and grand corruption. Petty corruption involves relatively minor acts of bribery or favoritism by lower-level public officials—from police officers extracting payment from a driver to reverse a traffic ticket, to a tax official who finagles numbers to pocket a percentage of revenues flowing past his desk. On the other hand, grand corruption describes malfeasance at the highest levels of government. For example, in Honduras the head of the Social Security Institute embezzled over $250 million from the agency, leaving it bankrupt by 2014 and thousands of Hondurans destitute. In perhaps the most notorious case in recent years, the construction giant Odebrecht paid about $788 million in bribes to politicians in exchange for contracts that amounted to over $3 billion. The company is a worldwide conglomerate, and the multi-billion-dollar scandal implicated high government officials in Brazil, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Panama, Peru, Mexico, and Venezuela. The scandal sent the former vice-president of Ecuador (Jorge Blas) to prison in 2017, stirred investigations into one-third of cabinet ministers in the Michel Temer (2016–18) government in Brazil, and incriminated four former presidents in Peru. When police arrived at the doorstep of one, Alan García, with a warrant, he opted to kill himself with a bullet to the head rather than face prosecution. The distinction between petty corruption and grand corruption is important because they have different consequences and demand different solutions. Petty corruption affects everyone, but it has a disproportionate impact on the poor due to their vulnerability and limited resources. It also reduces access to critical state services such as education, health, and justice (Uslaner, 2008). The wrongdoing has such a deep history in Latin America that it has been normalized in the minds of many. Brazilians have a common expression, “roba pero hace obra” (“he robs but he does the work”) that is restated similarly in other countries. For the fatalistic poor, petty corruption is just part of life, and an inescapable fact as one accesses basic services of the state. But the more educated middle classes, with an eye on the

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precarity of their newfound position, are less willing to accept the status quo, and more prone to question longstanding practices. While the impact on their pocketbooks may be less than that felt in the working classes, their motivation to respond is greater. Still, while outrage might attract attention, research shows that the most effective antidotes to petty corruption rest in rather unexciting administrative reforms that implement meritocratic procedures and help to professionalize government officials (Dahlström, 2017). Grand corruption also touches everyone, but the middle classes are more sensitive than lower-income groups to reports of grand corruption. This is especially the case when the middle class has just recently expanded, but now faces an economic downturn that threatens its status. Indeed, this explains why grand corruption, which is not new to Latin America, has recently elicited street protests and demands for action as never before. Corruption is not new, but the size and precarity of the middle class is. As noted by one analyst, “New, more technologically connected social players, who have more purchasing power, more education, more information, and more awareness of their rights, are a source of immense pressure on their respective governments, which often lack the resources and the institutional capacity to meet those expectations” (Naím, 2017). Scholars have long distinguished between absolute deprivation, or the inability to meet basic needs, and relative deprivation, or the comparison between one’s living standards and the living standards one believes they deserve (Gurr, 1970). While the middle class does not face absolute deprivation, a number of factors can prime it to experience relative deprivation. A sudden economic downturn and drop in income levels leads middle class individuals to reflect upon the lifestyles they can no longer afford. Increased access to information, through social media and internet news feeds, allows the middle class to ponder lifestyles that appear out of reach. And disclosures of grand corruption confirm that government is rigged to benefit the wealthy, and has little interest in lifestyle improvements for the middle classes. All these factors have descended upon Latin America over the past decade: the end of the commodities boom, the relentless spread of the information superhighway, and a string of corruption scandals. The remedy for grand corruption does not rest in administrative reform, as it does with petty corruption. Rather, the solution involves more dramatic changes in political institutions, changes that make them more competitive and accountable. Still, the challenge remains in the balance of reforms. On the one hand, changes in electoral rules, executive power, party systems, lawmaking procedures, and other institutions can foster competition, and equip an opposition to scrutinize government and serve as a watchdog (Stein & Kellam, 2014). But on the other hand, institutional designs that empower the opposition too much will reduce the “clarity of responsibility” for voters. The separation of powers in a presidential system, bicameralism, federalism, a multiparty system, and a dependence on coalition government can allow politicians to blame each other and shrug responsibility. Here there is less incentive to address corruption and voters find it difficult to punish or reward politicians (Tavits, 2007). But watchdogs do not reside only in government. An independent and diverse media, as well as a vibrant civil society can also stand look

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out for government malfeasance. The following section discusses the critical role of the middle classes in civil society.

5.5

The Middle Classes, Resource Mobilization, and the Political Process

Generally speaking, as incomes rise, individuals expect more of government. But even more so, as incomes rise, individuals are better prepared to act on those expectations. Resource mobilization theory (see Chap. 1) reminds us that it is not enough for individuals to be motivated to act, they also require the capabilities to act. The poor face tremendous hardship, and compelling causes to mobilize and press their interests. But they lack resources. The middle classes have their own grievances, especially as economies sour, social mobility stalls, and corruption grows. But they also have the resources to take action, focus that action efficiently, and sustain it. For this reason, even when the middle classes are smaller than the working classes, they often exert more influence. Indeed, as the middle class grows, democratic governments cater to their interests because of their ability to mobilize electoral resources. Middle class individuals have the time to canvas neighborhoods, skills to organize local movements and community meetings, education to collect and disseminate information, and economic independence to fund campaigns. Hence, it is no surprise that policy making in Costa Rica, which prides itself as a middle-class country, caters to middle-class interests. This can be seen in immigration policy. About 75% of migrants come from Nicaragua, and this is not new due to the political unrest, civil war, and economic underdevelopment that has plagued the country over time. Historically, Costa Rica championed its compassionate approach to migration, though with a strong dose of paternalism that portrayed Nicaraguans as uncultured and pitiful. At this core of this outlook was the perception that Nicaraguans were not a threat, because they did not compete for the most desirable jobs and instead labored in the agriculture fields, at construction sites, and as housekeepers and caretakers- jobs typically shunned by middle-class Costa Ricans (Malone, 2019). But things changed as the neoliberal reforms of the 1980s and 1990s reduced the funding and quality of social services. Costa Ricans associate their middle-class status with education and health services, and though neoliberal cutbacks were the cause, politicians increasingly targeted Nicaraguans as scapegoats, arguing that they abused and overused the services. As crime increased in the 2000s, they redoubled their stereotypes by depicting Nicaraguans as inherently violent people, and blaming them. A draconian immigration law followed in 2006, then in 2010 a reform tapered it slightly due to the reality of Costa Rica’s economic dependence on migrant labor. But the narrative has turned much more negative, perhaps irreversibly. As described by one congressperson, Nicaraguans “come to do harm, to collapse our education system, to abuse our medical services” (Fouratt, 2014, p. 154). And the middle class

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is there to marshal their resources and supplement state action. In 2020, fearing that Nicaraguans would intensify the COVID-19 pandemic, Costa Ricans on the border organized neighborhood watches, collected information through WhatsApp groups, and effectively filled in the gaps of the state border patrol (Jesús Mora, 2020). In Chile, the backlash against immigration has been more explosive. The number of foreign-born individuals in Chile tripled from 2014 to 2019, and now stands at 1.5 million in this country of 19 million. In its northern region, thousands of migrants from Venezuela fleeing political strife, and from Bolivia and Peru seeking economic opportunities, have been met by mass demonstrations calling for their ejection. Almost 5000 marched to the city center of Iquique to demand government action, and some protesters attacked a migrant settlement and burned their belongings. A far-right candidate, José Antonio Kast, nearly rode the anti-immigrant sentiment to the presidency in the 2021 elections. He portrayed the migrants as threats to the security of the middle class and their values, promising to create a specialized migration police force, and even channeled Donald Trump’s call for a border wall with promises to dig ditches on the northern border to create moats (The Guardian, 2021). Though he lost the presidential race, he managed to garner 44% of the vote. Unlike in the past, today the middle classes are much more likely to pursue their interests independently, with less need or desire to ally or compromise with workingclass or elite interests. Two cases of urban reform in Belo Horizonte, Brazil surrounding preparations for the World Cup and Olympics in 2014 and 2016 illustrate this. One involved the approval of a 27-story luxurious hotel that would infringe on the charm of a middle-class neighborhood. The residents created “Save the Musas” (named after the main street), and formulated several strategies to stop the construction. They investigated the sale of the lot and found that it did not comply with transparency guidelines. They also feigned interest in the purchase of the land, forcing a public auction. They lobbied local government to highlight the insufficiency of the environmental impact report. They filed suit claiming that the construction violated zoning regulations and failed to comply with exemption allowances granted for the World Cup. Ultimately, their delays led to the abandonment of the project. The second involves residents of Pampulha, who live alongside landscape and architectural projects designed by Oscar Niemeyer that they had declared a World Heritage Site. The neighborhood had already organized an association, Pró-Civitas, and circulated a newsletter to promote the preservation of their neighborhood and its status as a municipal treasure. But renovations and expanded use of the nearby soccer stadium started to draw working-class vendors and food carts, who catered to soccer fans loitering in the area before and after games. Pró-Civitas quickly mobilized and contacted local authorities to have them enforce regulations that prohibited vendors in the area. Hence, while the former case illustrates middle-class action against upper-class business interests, the second illustrates action against the working class (Nogueira, 2020). Another case of middle-class mobilization in Brazil follows the explosive protests of 2013 in Sao Paulo, which were some of the largest in decades. A 20-cent bus fare hike ignited the protests and attracted tremendous working-class interest. But police

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violence during the marches attracted media attention and drew in middle-class concerns. Quickly, students and middle-class groups joined the outcry to add grievances surrounding health care, education, and public works projects. Soon the protests took a conservative tone as more and more attention on social media and in the marches themselves focused on corruption within the governing Worker’s Party and calls for the impeachment of President Dilma Rousseff. The middle classes had essentially hijacked a working-class revolt (Avritzer, 2017; Biekart, 2015). But the relationship between resources and protest activity is not constant. Interestingly, like the poor, the wealthy are less likely to protest than the middle classes, but for different reasons. With an abundance of resources, such as a flush savings account, the wealthy can ride out an economic downturn. Likewise, the wealthy also have the means to address public problems privately, as with the recruitment of security guards or the creation of gated communities to address rising crime, enrollment in private schools as a response to deficiencies in public education, or a turn to autos and toll roads to address shortfalls in pubic transportation and congestion. It is also the case that the wealthy have avenues of influence beyond protest, such as lobbying or even direct communications with political decision makers. If resource scarcity stymies working class mobilization, resource abundance dampens protest in the upper classes. Hence, middle-income individuals have a greater propensity to participate in protest activity than both working-class and upper-class groups (Zárate-Tenorio, 2021). Beyond resources, the political process approach (see Chap. 1) reminds us that context, or the opportunity for action, also matters. Costa Rica tapped into hydroelectric power early in the twentieth century and developed a diverse alternative power base by the end of the century. Early on, access was a matter of protest, and so was the price of electricity. Grievances often elicited street blockages, coordinated refusals to pay bills, or organized campaigns to minimize electricity use. But when the country reformed its justice system and created a constitutional tribunal empowered to review laws, middle-class groups increasingly made use of the courts to address energy issues, and environmental issues associated with hydroelectric power. Price increases can still stir street protests, but the post-materialist issues related to middle-class interests, such as environmental degradation or operations on indigenous lands, increasingly take place in the courtroom (Ludovico, 2018). Venezuela offers a stark contrast, one in which opportunities for the middle class have narrowed as the rule of law declined under the Hugo Chávez (1998–2013) and Nicolás Maduro (2013–present) presidencies. Previously, the middle classes flourished under the Punto Fijo governments. Punto Fijo was a power-sharing pact agreed upon in 1958 by the dominant parties of the country ensure stability after a period of military rule. It guaranteed each party political appointments no matter the victors in elections, and privileged the business, labor, and professional associations connected to these parties through government contracts, subsidies, and access. It enshrined state-led development with a strategy that used oil profits to fund an array of public services and social welfare benefits, as well as the expansive bureaucracy required to administrate such programs. The middle classes enjoyed employment, access, and benefits. But Punto Fijo had exclusionary underpinnings. It omitted

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radical parties and progressive movements with roots in the working class. And as the debt crisis of the 1980s sapped revenues, neoliberal austerity measures targeted those social programs that had at least placated working-class ambitions. The government stood in ignorance of the slums that quickly came to encircle Caracas and ascend the neighboring hillsides. No wonder the city erupted in violence for several days in 1989 as the poor looted stores for basic services, and military forces used lethal force to quell the uprising (the Caracazo). The traditional parties had lost all legitimacy, offering an opportunity for Hugo Chávez to mobilize support and win the presidency in 1998. Hugo Chávez turned the tables on the middle class as he catered to the working classes that had swelled under neoliberal cutbacks. Conscious of their relative size, and goaded by the loss of privileges, the middle classes shunned electoral politics in favor of more drastic measures. They supported a failed military coup d’état in 2002, then organized a lock-out in the petroleum industry to weaken the economy and undermine the government. The failed coup only drove Chávez to strengthen his ties with the military, and the lock-out only gave cause for Chávez to further nationalize the industry and replace executive board members with loyalists. In 2004 the middleclass opposition followed with a foiled attempt to recall Chávez from the presidency. Dejected, they boycotted the 2005 parliamentary elections, allowing Chávez to gain a supermajority and to enact constitutional reforms at will. With lessons learned, they contested the 2010 elections, gaining enough seats to deny Chávez his supermajority. Nonetheless, Chávez simply leaned more heavily on executive decree powers, and continued to enact policies that catered to the basic needs of the underprivileged and alienated the middle class. The death of Chávez in 2013 and his replacement with Nicolás Maduro left the movement without its charismatic leader. In addition, a protracted decline in the price of oil denied the government revenues to shore up the economy and support its social programs. Energized, middle-class groups assembled a coalition that gained a majority in the 2015 elections. But the groups could rarely agree on much other than their opposition to Chávez, then Maduro. Even so, Maduro simply ignored his parliament, and monopolized lawmaking through executive decree and his control over the courts. Little wonder the opposition once again opted for a boycott in the 2020 parliamentary elections. From 1998 to the present, the middle classes in Venezuela have grappled with an opportunity structure that has only grown more exclusive over time. But the focus on opportunity highlights the continuity between the Punto Fijo period and that of Chávismo. Venezuelan politics have taken a sharp authoritarian turn under Nicolás Maduro, and this contrasts with the stability and electoral politics of the Punto Fijo period. But the Punto Fijo period was built on the spoils system and drew its own lines between the advantaged and disadvantaged. It was not authoritarian, but it was a limited democracy and carried the seeds of its own decline. But the role reversal has placed the middle classes in increasingly dire situations. Indeed, the notion of opportunity has deteriorated to such an extent that many in the middle classes have resigned themselves to their final option—migration. Over 4 million have fled the country, and the rate continues with about 4000–5000 departing each day. Most are middle class. Indeed, a survey of Venezuelan migrants to Peru (the second largest

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host state after Colombia) found that one-half had a university degree (World Bank, 2019). On the U.S. border, Venezuelan migrants distinguish themselves from the Central Americans and Haitians with their greater financial resources, opportunities, and connections to diaspora networks so that they can make better use of the courts, access benefits, and establish themselves (Abreu, 2019). They no doubt suffer the greatest levels of precarity among all the middle classes of Latin America, and increasingly find their very identification as middle class to be at risk.

5.6

Conclusion

Throughout history, the middle classes in Latin America struggled to grow. Nonetheless, the influence of their small size expanded as they played a pivotal role in the social question that pit upper class interests with working class aspirations, and as contacts developed with the armed forces. But in the early twenty-first century, the middle classes emerged as a success story in their own right as poverty declined and incomes rose. Still, while the middle class may serve as a bastion for social stability in the abstract, many in the middle class find their status to be anything but stable. Indeed, one’s very identity as middle class is contested, and cannot be reduced to simple measurements of income. Many look to their aspirations just as much as their paychecks as they consider their middle-class credentials. Hence, contrary to the presumption of the middle class as a cornerstone of stability, when precarity haunts the middle class, this can be a recipe for increased social and political instability. As an agent of struggle, the middle classes offer unique insight into the impacts and relationships among motivations, resources, and opportunities. And insofar as their struggle for a secure lifestyle involves the struggle against corruption, the middle classes play a central role in a key aspect of democracy—the rule of law.

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Parker, D. S. (2012). Introduction: The making and endless remaking of the middle class. In D. S. Parker & L. E. Walker (Eds.), Latin America’s middle class: Unsettled debates and new histories (pp. 8–27). Lexington Books. Pereyra, O. (2014). Contemporary middle class in Latin America: A study of San Felipe. Lexington Books. Petras, J. (1970). Politics and social structure in Latin America. Monthly Review Press. Pike, F. B. (1963). Aspects of class relations in Chile, 1850-1960. Hispanic American Historical Review, 43(1), 14–33. Raz, J. (1983). The authority of law: Essays on law and morality. Oxford University Press. Rock, D. (1975). Politics in Argentina, 1890–1930: The rise and fall of Radicalism. Cambridge University Press. Schneider, M. L. (2019). Democracy in Peril: Facts on CICIG in Guatemala. Retrieved February 27, 2022, from www.csis.org. Skidmore, T., & Smith, P. (2005). Modern Latin America (6th ed.). Oxford University Press. Stein, E., & Kellam, M. (2014). Programming presidential agendas: Partisan and media environments that lead presidents to fight corruption. Political Communication, 31(1), 25–52. Tavits, M. (2007). Clarity of responsibility and corruption. American Journal of Political Science, 51(1), 218–229. The Economist. (2007, August 18). Adios to poverty, Hola to consumption: Latin America’s new look; Latin America’s middle class. The Economist, 384, 8542, 22. The Guardian. (2021, October 21). Chile far-right candidate rides anti-migrant wave in presidential poll. The Guardian. Retrieved February 14, 2022, from www.theguardian.com. Uslaner, E. (2008). Corruption, inequality, and the rule of law: The bulging pocket makes the easy life. Cambridge University Press. Weber, M. (1947). The theory of social and economic organization. Free Press. World Bank. (2013). Economic mobility and the rise of the Latin American middle class. World Bank Group. World Bank. (2019). Venezuelan migration: The 4,500-kilometer gap between desperation and opportunity. World Bank. Retrieved March 1, 2022, from www.worldbank.org. World Bank. (2021a). The gradual rise and rapid decline of the middle class. World Bank Group. World Bank. (2021b). The World Bank databank: Personal remittances, received (% of GDP). World Bank. Retrieved March 1, 2022, from www.data.worldbank.org World Bank. (2021c). Worldwide governance indicators: Rule of law. World Bank. Retrieved March 1, 2022, from www.info.worldbank.org. Zárate-Tenorio, B. (2021). State-targeted grievances and resources: Protest participation during economic downturns in Latin America. Governance, 34(1), 47–66.

Chapter 6

Conclusion: Political Struggle as an Enduring Feature of Politics

The story of Latin America is a story of political struggle. And that story of political struggle is a story of democratic development. The struggles of the Indigenous, the urban poor, women, the LGBTQ+ community, and the vulnerable middle class are far from the only stories of contention in Latin America. Students and teachers, environmental groups, peasants, trade unions, journalists, the disabled, the elderly, religious groups, human rights organizations, and more all have their own stories of struggle. And all must work within a context of inequality, democracy, and globalization that shapes motivation, capacity, and opportunity, for good or for worse. But of those groups addressed in this book, each highlight unique aspects of political struggle. The Indigenous have confronted one of the most fundamental struggles, that of identity. From the time that Columbus set anchor in their hemisphere, the Indigenous saw their identity regulated and exploited by others. Indeed, as noted in Chap. 2 the abuse of Indigenous identity began with outright denial as Europeans questioned their very humanity and whether they were fit for salvation, as they understood it. The colonizers followed with efforts to quash and transform Indigenous identity. The label “indio” and its placement at the bottom rung of the casta racial classification system, as well as the creation of a Republic of Indians collapsed the myriad identities found throughout the hemisphere. The use of reducciones represented the earliest effort to blend away Indigenous identities. It was a precursor to assimilationist policies such as blanqueamiento or mestizaje that promoted miscegenation to rid society of Indigenous bloodlines. And even when the non-Indigenous saw cause to celebrate Indigenous identity with indigenismo, this all too often masked the appropriation of Indigenous customs and culture. The global arena played a pivotal role in this struggle for identity, as the Indigenous made use of transnational networks and international instruments and venues. Ironically, the Indigenous advanced their interests by highlighting their own consolidated identity—namely their shared history of struggle. With greater recognition in the international arena, countries of the region began to realize the contributions of the Indigenous to political development, from plurinational societies to buen vivir. Indigenous © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 C. L. Arceneaux, Political Struggle in Latin America, Emerging Globalities and Civilizational Perspectives, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07904-7_6

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identities have not only transformed and adapted, but they have also contributed to their societies. The urban poor highlighted the struggle for citizenship. The concept of the social contract sheds light on this struggle. The social contract looks to an exchange of obligations and privileges in the relationship between individuals and the state as the very basis of citizenship. The urban poor have long been shut out of this exchange. Indeed, their segregation is spatial and palpable, in so far as they have been pushed to the furthest outskirts of the city, consigned to the slums and undesirable urban districts. But as underscored in Chap. 3, their story is part and parcel of the story of Latin American cities. There is a discursive element to this story, as urban elites have historically portrayed the urban poor as a scourge, as barbarians devoid of civility, and as antithetical to modernity, which is symbolized by the city itself. But as recent studies have duly documented, the urban poor are just as much “of the city” as they are “in the city.” They are more integral than marginal to contemporary metropolitan settings and the vivacity of urban life. It is in fact the elite sectors, sheltered in their gated communities, who express a glaring desire to sever ties with the city. In the end, the reality of segregation, both discursively and spatially, denies the urban poor citizenship status as they struggle for the most basic of government services in housing, electricity, clean water, sewerage, and police protection. They also bear a disproportionate amount of the negative externalities associated with urban life, such as pollution, congestion, and crime. When the state does reach out to the urban poor, the transaction all too often takes the form of clientelism rather than the mutually beneficial exchange envisioned by the social contract. As such, clientelism does more to hinder than advance citizenship, and the lives of the urban poor. Studies of urban poverty increasingly recognize the role of social exclusion in creating what is tagged, “new poverty.” If democracy requires a government to be responsive and accountable to all, the treatment of the urban poor serve as a powerful indicator of democracy, or the lack thereof. Chapter 4 addressed the struggles of women and LGBTQ+ individuals to be recognized within their political communities. The two groups share a struggle against a common foe, that of patriarchy. The delineation of a private sphere as apolitical and off-limits to state regulation has been a cornerstone of patriarchy. Historically it allowed men to treat their wives as wards, effectively assigning them the same status as minors. The identification of a private sphere ironically worked to the advantage of the LGBTQ+ community in so far as it removed the state from the regulation of interpersonal relations in the home. Of course, the LGBTQ+ community faced a complete reversal of fortune in the public sphere, where the opportunity to be seen and heard would be repressed, often violently. Both groups worked their struggles through two stages, one which involved simply being accepted as relevant and deserving of attention, and the second which involved the pursuit of basic rights and protections within the corridors of the law. Women advanced through this struggle for inclusion first, but those in the LGBTQ+ community have seen significant gains in the past several decades. Still, for both, success has generated a backlash from conservative sectors and religious organizations. Reproductive rights and autonomy over gender identity currently represent focal points in the sexual

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politics of Latin America, and several countries, especially in Central America, have seen reversals in the rights of women and LGBTQ+ groups. The growing politicization and influence of evangelical Protestantism has much to do with these developments. But a stark divide has emerged among Latin American countries, as some such as Argentina, Uruguay, Chile, Colombia, and portions of Mexico have charted significant gains in sexual rights of late. The struggle for inclusion in Latin America has increasingly seen countries proceed along one of two distinct paths, one more open to and the other more restrictive of sexual rights. Chapter 5 discussed how the struggles of the middle classes interact with fundamental features of the rule of law, and the effort to address corruption in Latin America. The middle class played a unique role in Latin America leading up to and through the twentieth century compared to developments in more advanced industrial countries of the time. Latin America’s middle classes were smaller, and thus could not respond independently as they confronted the social question that emerged with the rise of the working class. This did not mean the middle classes were not influential, as the alliances they chose—be it the elite classes, armed forces, or working class—usually tipped the balance. But the middle classes have grown dramatically over the past several decades, and they now represent a more autonomous, influential actor in their own right. Nonetheless, this new middle class faces a precarious position, with unsteady employment and less guarantees of government services compared to the traditional middle class. This new middle class is a child of neoliberalism and increased globalization, unlike the traditional middle classes that developed under import-substitution and within the state bureaucracy or closely associated with it. The precarity of the new middle class amplifies the concerns of its members over fairness in opportunities to secure and advance their status. This makes them especially mindful of how corruption and deficiencies in the rule of law limit social mobility. The working class and peasantry also suffer from the impact of a weak rule of law, and often much more than the middle class. But the middle classes are better equipped to draw on the resources required to act upon their grievances. It is thus little surprise that protests against corruption have multiplied, even though corruption is far from new in Latin America. Taken as a whole, the struggles of different groups for identity, citizenship, inclusion, and the rule of law offer a window to the politics of a country. As we assess how, why, or when a group scores successes or faces setbacks, we gain insight into the politics of change in a given country. But our evaluation and explanation of change can be enhanced by viewing these struggles within a common framework. In this book, democratization, inequality, and globalization comprise that framework and highlight specific dynamics of change surrounding the opportunity, motivation, and capacity to struggle. Democracy has a straightforward impact on the opportunity to struggle, as marginal groups find security and space to mobilize in the rights and protections ideally guaranteed under this political regime. Of course, the opposite is true as well. The elitist democracies the developed under the export-economies stunted political mobilization, and military rule under the repressive bureaucratic-authoritarian regimes of the 1960s–1980s violently muffled the voices of marginalized groups.

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Inequality has a powerful impact on the capacity of a group to engage in struggle. This is seen most clearly in the struggles of the urban poor and Indigenous groups, who must endeavor with a scarcity of resources. But inequality can also cut through and divide groups. Hence, in the struggle for suffrage, many women looked upon working class women with suspicion, in fear that they would support traditional, conservative parties. And inequality also sways the motivations of middle-class groups whose grievances grow as they consider the gap between their position and those with higher incomes, and question their own prospects for continued social mobility. Finally, the neoliberal dimension of inequality in contemporary Latin America has contributed to the precarity and uncertainty of all marginalized groups. The third contextual dimension, globalization, has opened new arenas for struggle more recently. Some of this is not new, as when the Pan-American Conference of Women worked alongside the International Conferences of the American States beginning in the 1920s. Later in the twentieth century, Indigenous groups pressed for international instruments such as ILO Convention No. 169. They also stationed themselves as stewards of environmental protection as international actors began to address sustainability and climate change issues at the turn of the century. Of course, globalization has also introduced new threats and challenges. The spread of extractive industries under the neodevelopmentalist state endangers Indigenous lands. The neoliberal currents of globalization have spawned a wide-ranging informal economy that magnifies the vulnerability of both the urban poor and new middle classes. The search for employment and for refuge from violence has created more extensive migration patterns that deepen the vulnerabilities of households dependent on such journeys. And religious organizations have been emboldened by transnational networks that affirm their political quest to contest the rights of women and LGBTQ+ groups. Altogether, the cases discussed in this book highlight several general claims about political struggle in Latin America. The first is that these are not short stories. Every struggle reaches back to the colonial period and continues to unfold under a shadow of the past. Patriarchy continues to hound the struggles of women and LGBTQ+ groups, and its influence and reach cannot be understood outside the colonial institutions and religious doctrines that embodied it over 500 years ago. The parasitic cities of the colonial period set the stage for the megalopolises now scattered throughout the hemisphere and the stunted development that hindered middle-class growth for so long and excluded the urban masses. And of course the social stigma and discrimination still confronted by the Indigenous today finds its roots in the core of a colonial project that looked upon them more as a resource to be exploited than a people to be recognized and respected. Still, as impactful as this history has been, these long stories also affirm that struggles do not evolve teleologically—or on what appears to be a path designed to bring them to some coveted endpoint. There can be reversals, as when women saw their position worsened in the period after independence. There can be deviations and inconsistencies, as when the middle classes latched their interests to the eliteexporting classes, then the working classes, then the military. There can be revivals,

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as when the Indigenous rekindled the pan-Indigenous struggles that marked rebellions in the late eighteenth century to embolden their struggle for rights in the late twentieth century. There can be backlash against gains, as evidenced by the efforts of religious and conservative groups to besiege the rights of women and the LGBTQ+ community. And there can be stagnation enveloped within change, as evidenced by how the social exclusion of new poverty has entrapped the urban poor. Reflecting upon history, we can also see that liberal thought has not always been so friendly to the struggles of marginalized groups. Indeed, often it has acted as a stifling and even repressive force. Liberal thought is associated with the expansion of civil liberties and political rights and this would appear to assist if not champion the struggles of the marginalized. But Liberalism has its exclusionary qualities. Its zeal to protect and foster universal human rights is couched within a campaign to project western civilization as the singular destination for all mankind, despite the variety of civilizational identities found worldwide. All alternative futures are deemed inferior, and even savage. This is precisely the thinking that justified assimilationist policies toward the Indigenous. It is also the thinking that rejects traditional practices such as communal land ownership, and opts instead for titling for the Indigenous on tribal lands and for urban poor in the cities. Likewise liberal thought denies the contribution of the urban poor to the city, and the city’s dependence on the urban poor. After all, squalor can hold no place in a cosmopolitan, liberal city. It can only be an aberration in the mind of the liberal. And liberal thought was hardly an ally in the struggles of women. By carving out a private sphere off-limits to state authority, and by placing the household within this sphere, liberal thinking gave cover to the offenses of husbands toward their wives, from the confiscation of wages to marital rape. The significance of the liberal civilizational narrative highlights a more general claim, namely that framing and discursive schemes matter. Political struggle is not limited to material resources, whether they be funding or organizational supplies, or even human resources based on skills as well as numbers to call upon for shows of protest. The construct that projects a dichotomy of barbarism and civilization had a long-lasting impact on the image of Indigenous peoples, and it also separated the countryside and urban slums from the cosmopolitan core of the city, as noted above. It justified the promotion of the casta classification scheme, and it also rationalized preferences as political elites drafted immigration laws. One of the most powerfully repressive tools in the history of political struggle is the ability to describe and ultimately define an opponent as “the other.” It is dehumanizing and it not only justifies, but also encourages heinous behavior, from basic denials of rights to slavery. Frames also impose images of appropriate or inappropriate behavior, as exemplified by the examples of “dangerous women.” And they can have a powerful influence on the thoughts and ideas of marginalized groups themselves, as exemplified by female opponents of women’s suffrage who feared that the vote would corrupt their innocence and virtue. Frames also exclude, as illustrated by the long history of LGBTQ+ groups who remained “in the closet” because dominant norms deemed them abnormal. But discursive resources can also mobilize marginalized

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groups. Framing Indigenous rights throughout the hemisphere against the backdrop of a shared history of struggle created unity among diverse Indigenous communities. Portraying reproductive rights as a public health and equality issue, rather than a matter of individual choice, has allowed the movement to gain traction in the cultural environs of Latin America. For the new middle class, the image of the middle class proves just as significant as actual income streams when individuals mobilize to protect their status. And finally, to return to the theme of democracy, we should recognize that successful struggle is both a cause and consequence of democratization. As noted, as an opportunity structure, democracy affords protections and secures rights for marginalized groups to press their interests. But political struggle is fundamental to the enhancement and growth of democracy itself. As discussed in Chap. 1, the contentious politics of protest are but another strategy of influence for disaffected groups, alongside the traditional efforts to lobby or to mobilize votes for government. When protest occurs, it can jolt government to reform to change policy, as seen in the recent responses of the Chilean and Colombian governments to the growing fury over inequality and poverty—and as compared to the repressive actions taken by the non-democratic governments in Nicaragua and Cuba (see Chap. 3). Mobilization is not only an opportunity to test government accountability, but also an act that can affirm political identities and intensify the solidarity of those who would otherwise feel powerless if they did not join with like-minded counterparts. And finally, as diverse groups (e.g., students, the Indigenous, labor unions, and the landless) share the streets to protest, this can enhance the level of social trust in society. In the end, the most comprehensive message of this book is that of a vision of political struggle as fundamental to the past, present, and future of Latin America. The ubiquity and resonance of struggle over time is captured by a symbol commonly seen at protests in Chile: “NO+.” The slogan is an abbreviated moniker for “no mas” (“no more”). It is a passionate repudiation of the status quo, meant to draw attention to the demand that things should not be as they are. Today, students faced with mounting debt ink “NO+” on their foreheads and bodies as they march through campus and disrupt classes. Workers paint “NO+” on sheets, and unfurl them in the streets as they parade down the streets of Santiago to protest the privatization of pensions. The Indigenous Mapuche scrawl “NO+” on the sides of buildings in a plea to end repressive police responses to their attempts to secure tribal lands. The slogan finds its origins in an art collective that questioned censorship and attempts to separate art, the government, and the struggles of everyday people under the Pinochet dictatorship (1973–89). In an effort to disrupt the routine of everyday life and reclaim public spaces, and to invite everyone in Santiago to be an artist and a political activist, the members inscribed “NO+” on the sidewalks, street signs, walls, and alleyways throughout the city. People could then fill in the space to express repudiation of any injustice: “NO+hambre,” “NO+tortura,” “NO+indignidad,” and so on. Pinochet later handed the resistance a golden opportunity to continue their campaign when he called for a plebiscite to validate his rule in 1988. As with all plebiscites, there were only two options, “Yes,” or “No.” The previously fragmented

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opposition now had common cause and an unequivocal message for the regime: “NO+Pinochet.” Pinochet would lose the plebiscite, and the slogan of resistance would be ingrained within the politics of Chile. Other allusions to the past in contemporary struggles, and thus examples of the continuity of struggle, abound. Young feminists first in Argentina and now throughout Latin America wear green scarves in solidarity with the white headscarves worn by the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo who brought attention to those tortured and disappeared under the brutal military regime that governed from 1976 to 1983. In Brazil, soon after emancipation in 1888, former slaves fled plantations and created self-sustaining communities known as quilombos (from the Bantu language in Sub-Saharan Africa) in the countryside. Rural quilombos still exist, but activists increasingly establish their own self-sustaining quilombos in the squatter settlements of the cities, and use the word quilombo to refer to any activist group, workshop, or even casual meeting that draws energy and support from its members and preserves Afro-Brazilian traditions. On the other side of the continent, Indigenous mobilizations in the Andes commonly reference the Tupac Amaru rebellion that took place in the 1780s as a reminder that resistance is not new. And urban residents throughout the hemisphere regularly bang on pots and pans to show their dissatisfaction with government. The practice (known as a “carcerolazo,” or “casserole”) harkens back to the repressive period of military rule in the 1960s and 1980s, when individuals dared not walk the streets in protest and instead made noise from their kitchens. They could not be seen, but they would be heard. Looking forward, we can be confident that controversies and grievances surrounding identity, citizenship, inclusion, and justice will continue to fuel political protests. The specific issues and even the groups may change and they will surely evolve, but the rhythm of protest will remain. In many respects political struggle is democratic development, in Latin America and beyond.