Politics after Violence: Legacies of the Shining Path Conflict in Peru 9781477317327

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Politics after Violence

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Politics after Violence Legacies of the Shining Path Conflict in Peru

Edit ed by Hillel Dav id Soifer a nd Alberto V erga r a

University of Texas Press

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Austin

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Copyright © 2019 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2019 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713–7819 utpress.utexas.edu/rp-form The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Soifer, Hillel David, editor. | Vergara, Alberto, editor. Title: Politics after violence : legacies of the Shining Path confl ict in Peru / edited by Hillel David Soifer and Alberto Vergara. Description: First edition. | Austin : University of Texas Press, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018012485 | ISBN 978-1-4773-1731-0 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 978-1-4773-1732-7 (library e-book) | ISBN 978-1-4773-1733-4 (nonlibrary e-book) Subjects: LCSH: Sendero Luminoso (Guerrilla group) | Peru—Politics and government—1980– | Political violence—Peru—History—20th century. | Violence—Political aspects—Peru. | Violence—Social aspects—Peru. | Peru—History—1980– Classification: LCC HV6433.P4 P65 2019 | DDC 985.06/43—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018012485 doi:10.7560/317310

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Contents

Preface

vii

Introduction: Leaving the Path Behind 1 Hill el Dav id Soife r a n d A lbe rto V e rga r a 1.

Shining Path: The Last Peasant War in the Andes José Luis R é n iqu e a n d A dr i á n L e r n e r

17

2. Civil Wars and Their Consequences: The Peruvian Armed Conflict in Comparative Perspective 51 Li v i a Isa bell a Sch ubige r a n d Dav id Sul mon t 3. From Oligarchic Domination to Neoliberal Governance: The Shining Path and the Transformation of Peru’s Constitutional Order 79 M a x w ell A. C a m e ron 4. The Internal Armed Conflict and State Capacity: Institutional Reforms and the Effective Exercise of Authority 109 Hill el Dav id Soife r a n d Ev e r et t A. V ieir a III 5. Impact and Legacies of Political Violence in Peru’s Public Universities 132 Edua r do Da rge n t a n d Noeli a Ch áv ez 6. Peace for Whom? Legacies of Gender-Based Violence in Peru 157 Jelk e Boest e n 7.

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Indigenous Activism and Human Rights NGOs in Peru: The Unexpected Consequences of Armed Conflict 176 M a r i t z a Pa r edes

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Contents

8. Political Violence and the Defeat of the Left Paul a Mu ñoz

202

9. From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago: Political Violence and the Transformation of the Right-Wing Spectrum in Contemporary Peru 226 A lbe rto V e rga r a a n d Da n iel E nci nas 10. Public Opinion, the Specter of Violence, and Democracy in Contemporary Peru 250 A rt u ro M a ldona do, Je n n ife r L. M e roll a , a n d Eliz a bet h J. Zech m eist e r 11. Contested Memories of the Peruvian Internal Armed Conflict 285 Paulo Dr i not Conclusion 312 St ev e n L ev i tsk y Works Cited

328

Contributors

371

Index

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Preface

The idea for this collection emerged from a conversation we had after attending an especially stimulating iteration of the Tuesday lunch seminar in Latin American politics at Harvard’s David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies during the academic year 2012–2013, when both of us were based in Cambridge for the year. In the course of a series of conversations, we began to realize that scholars of Peru had not grappled in a systematic way with whether, how, or to what extent Peruvian politics should be viewed as post-conflict. We were also struck by the fact that the scholarship in political science on postconflict settings emphasized processes like international intervention, peace building, demobilization, and the creation of new institutions, none of which characterized the period after Peru’s internal confl ict came to a close. Finding ourselves struck by this gap in our understanding of contemporary Peruvian politics, we saw answering these questions as a crucial missing element in the national conversation about the violence of what we will call in the Introduction the “long eighties.” We therefore decided to draw on the community of scholars working on Peru to begin a conversation around these questions. In so doing, we thought it very important to bring together scholars, mostly but not exclusively in the discipline of political science, from the English-speaking academic community with those based in Peru, in the hope that our contribution to the academic literature on Peruvian politics would not be divorced from the national conversation about these issues in the country we all study. We are gratified by the willingness of so many excellent scholars to join our project; working with our authors has been not only a real pleasure but also an enlightening experience. We are not exaggerating in saying that we have learned a great deal in the

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viii Preface

course of reading drafts of these chapters and engaging in conversation with their authors. Our fi rst and most important thanks goes to the David Rockefeller Center for creating a vibrant intellectual community around Latin American politics. We are also grateful to the center and to Merilee Grindle, its director at the time, for supporting a conference that gathered most of the chapter authors for an initial conversation about these issues. Paola Ibarra played an especially important role in providing logistical support for the conference, and Steve Levitsky, generous in so many ways, also supported our application for funding. That initial conference provided us with the opportunity to begin developing our thinking about how to contextualize legacies of the violence Peru experienced in the “long eighties.” We did this by bringing together esteemed Peruvianists and experts on other Latin American countries marked by legacies of conflict to discuss early drafts of many of the chapters, and by bringing the chapters in dialogue with one another. In addition to the authors of the chapters in this volume, we thank Jorge Domínguez, Angelica Durán-Martínez, Richard Snyder, and Jocelyn Viterna for joining us and contributing so much to our discussion. We were also very lucky to benefit from the presence and comments of David Scott Palmer. We were saddened to hear of his passing as the production process concluded. We also thank Amanda Milena Alvarez for her careful note-taking, which freed us to actively participate in the lively conversations over two intellectually stimulating days. We are grateful to Kerry Webb for her interest in the project, and to her and Angelica Lopez-Torres for guiding it through the review process so smoothly. Two anonymous reviewers provided insight on each chapter and how to better tie them together to arrive at a holistic answer to the question with which we began: to what extent and in what ways are Peruvian politics post-confl ict? We are grateful to them for their comments. Finally, we would like to acknowledge the support of our family members, who kept us motivated when we needed it and distracted us when we needed a break. Hillel would like to thank Annie Stilz, who has lived with this project for so many years, compensated only by promises of more meals in Lima, and Rachel, who arrived partway through the long process of revisions. Alberto thanks Maria Ines Vasquez, who provided, as usual, invaluable doses of love and intelligence all along the way, and Ricardo Vergara and Lula Paniagua, his parents, with whom he started to discuss these issues back in the eighties.

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INTRODUCTION

Leaving the Path Behind Hillel David Soifer and Alberto Vergara

This book explores how the Internal Armed Conflict (IAC) of the long decade of the 1980s has affected Peruvian politics thereafter.1 Although myriad consequences of the conflict are frequently mentioned in debates on contemporary Peruvian politics, this book constitutes an initial attempt to provide a unified and systematic assessment of the extent and nature of its effects. This is, of course, not the fi rst study of the conflict: as time has passed, bringing both more information and the critical distance that analysis requires, our understanding of the Shining Path’s violence and the Peruvian state’s reaction has grown steadily. Early in the 1980s the most important research on the confl ict was spurred by surprise about its outbreak and centered on the rural (and purportedly indigenous) character of the Shining Path insurrection (see McClintock 1984; Palmer 1986). The late 1980s saw scholarly debate about whether the movement was in essence modern or millenarian (Degregori 1991b). Early in the 1990s the duration of the conflict and the country’s general crisis generated a body of work in which scholars contemplated the abyss (Palmer 1992; Poole and Rénique 1992); in the second half of the decade researchers strove to respond both to the unexpected and sudden end of the confl ict and to its link to the emergence of the authoritarian regime of Alberto Fujimori (Stern 1998c); and in the 2000s the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación del Perú, or CVR) elaborated a comprehensive report (CVR 2003a) while Peru was reestablishing democracy. Since then, a new body of work has reinterpreted the emergence and development of the IAC and has started to ask about its consequences (Wilson 2013; Burt 2007; La Serna 2012; Heilman 2010; Theidon 2012; del Pino 2017).

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Introduction

This volume adds to the previous body of scholarship by systematically exploring how the IAC has affected contemporary politics and institutions in Peru. As this introduction will make clear, our analysis diverges from diagnoses claiming that the IAC is the central factor shaping contemporary Peru, as well as from those that dismiss its impact. Instead, we argue that the IAC left important legacies, but that as time passes these coexist with, affect, and are affected by a variety of other variables and processes. Thus legacies from violence—and from other historical processes—inevitably mesh with new historical processes to shape contemporary politics. The past of brutal violence has not left Peruvians, but the country is not defined only by this past. Our main task in this book is therefore to disentangle the intricacies of legacies of violent conflict from other historical legacies, and from the autonomous political and institutional development of contemporary Peru. We believe we substantiate the claim that the IAC left important traces in the country, but that it also has had divergent and unequal consequences, ranging from a mild impact on some dimensions of contemporary politics to a fundamental influence on others. By disaggregating the concept of legacies and exploring in detail some distinct dimensions of recent politics, we show the extent, and also the limits, of the conflict’s impact on contemporary Peru. The following pages of this introduction lay out a theoretical framework that will allow our contributors to investigate the consequences of the IAC in contemporary Peruvian politics and institutions. We begin by describing basic elements of the conflict that Peru suffered in what we call the “long eighties.” The second section of the introduction provides an overview of the legacies that the comparative politics literature has attributed to the Peruvian conflict and highlights some points of departure for our reexamination of these issues. Third, we lay out an original theoretical framework to assess the consequences of the conflict for contemporary Peruvian politics. We close by briefly introducing the book’s chapters.

The “Long Eighties” In 1978, after ten years of military dictatorship, Peruvians elected a Constituent Assembly that would guide the country into a new democratic era. Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre, the long-standing leader of the Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana (APRA), received the

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Introduction

3

largest number of votes, and after half a century of persecution he was elected president of the Constituent Assembly. Communist parties, allowed to participate, received a third of the vote and constituted a solid new political bloc. This assembly produced the 1979 constitution, which established universal franchise for the fi rst time in Peru’s history. Governed by this document, Peru held its fi rst genuinely democratic general elections in 1980: for the fi rst time in the nation’s history, there were no proscribed political parties, and no adult citizen was legally denied the right to vote (see Sanborn 1991). Yet even as a tide of democratization swept across Latin America in the next decade, the period came to be labeled as the “lost decade” because of the severe economic crisis that swept across the region. In Peru, however, the 1980s were a twofold loss, as economic disaster unfolded hand-in-hand with harsh political violence. The Partido Comunista del Perú-Sendero Luminoso (which we will call the Shining Path, Sendero Luminoso, or SL throughout the volume) launched what it termed its “popular war” against the Peruvian state in 1980. As chapter 1, by José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner, traces, this declaration of hostilities initially went unnoticed in the Peruvian public sphere. When news of its emergence spread early in the decade, political leaders and government agencies saw the insurrection as a bad joke. Thirteen years later, when the Shining Path was defeated and the confl ict came to an end, the country had suffered, according to the government-sponsored Truth and Reconciliation Report of 2003, more than sixty thousand conflict-related deaths (CVR 2003a). The report described the conflict as the longest and broadest in national history, while showing that it inflicted higher costs both in human and economic terms than did the war against Chile in the nineteenth century. In 1993, the same year that the Shining Path leader Abimael Guzmán asked for a halt to hostilities, Peru approved a new constitution pushed by the fujimorista majority that ended the shortlived democratic experiment embodied in the 1979 constitution. This period of democratic experiment, economic crisis, and insurgency from 1979 to 1993 is what we call the “long eighties.” The Shining Path was a Maoist faction initially situated within the highly fragmented Peruvian Left of the 1970s. Its aim, inspired by the ideology of Mao Zedong and Peruvian thinker José Carlos Mariátegui, was to trigger a bloody revolution that would tear apart the Peruvian state. The Shining Path was a peculiar insurgency from a Latin American perspective both in terms of the messianic cult of its leader,

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Introduction

Abimael Guzmán, also known as “Presidente Gonzalo,” and in terms of its indiscriminate use of violence (Gorriti 1990; Degregori 1991b; La Serna 2012; Heilman 2010; Hinojosa 1998; Portocarrero 2012). Between 1980 and 1982 violence began to escalate, especially in Ayacucho, where five provinces were placed under a state of emergency in October 1981. 2 In 1982 Shining Path actions increased in the central Andes, which resulted in the replacement of the ineffective police by the Peruvian armed forces. As a result of both of these shifts, the violence escalated at the end of 1982 and the insurrection achieved national scope. In 1983, the killing of eight journalists from important Lima media outlets in the highlands of Ayacucho brought national attention to the confl ict for perhaps the fi rst time, revealing the barbarous violence that had silently enveloped the central Andes. Between 1983 and 1986 several massacres took place in the southern and central highlands departments of Ayacucho, Huancavelica, Junín, and Apurímac.3 To make things worse, the Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA), a Cuban-inspired urban group, launched its own armed uprising against the Peruvian state in 1984.4 The second half of the 1980s saw several important shifts in the conflict. The Alan García administration elected in 1985 tried to implement a new development-centered strategy against insurgents, but this approach quickly failed. In 1986 the state massacred hundreds of Shining Path members in several jails, and the MRTA opened a whole new front of violence in the Peruvian jungle. In 1988 a paramilitary group called Rodrigo Franco burst into the confl ict, perpetrating a few selected killings. By the end of the 1980s, the economy hit bottom, which favored a brutal Shining Path offensive especially targeted at the capital city of Lima. Simultaneously, as chapter 4, by Hillel David Soifer and Everett A. Vieira III, details, the army’s counterinsurgency strategy switched from broadly indiscriminate violence to more targeted attacks. After the election of Alberto Fujimori in 1990, Grupo Colina, a new paramilitary group, carried out several massacres and other acts of violence, and by 1991 around half of the Peruvian population was living under a state of emergency. The confl ict took a sharp turn in 1992, when Guzmán was captured and the Shining Path’s fortunes declined sharply. In 1993 all the main Shining Path leaders asked for a peace accord, though a marginal contingent formed a faction called Prosequir that continued the armed conflict in jungle areas. Heavily associated with drug-dealing, Prosequir’s impact was marginal. With these events, the decade of the long eighties came to a close in 1993 and the legacies of the IAC started to be identifiable.

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Introduction

5

It was a long confl ict with traumatic effects on the country. The CVR report, using statistical techniques designed to account for the underreporting of civilian victimization, estimates that approximately sixty-nine thousand people died. Unlike in every other case of internal conflict in Latin America or most such confl icts around the world, in Peru the deadliest actor was not state forces, but the Shining Path, to which the CVR report attributed responsibility for 54 percent of all deaths. Adding to the trauma, the violence was widespread across Peru. Only two of the country’s twenty-five departments, Moquegua and Madre de Dios, had no reports in the CVR investigation of casualties related to the political violence. The CVR report found that the central Andean region was particularly affected by the violence, with Ayacucho alone containing 40 percent of the victims. Almost 40 percent of the casualties were suffered by the poorest quintile of the country’s population, mainly in rural areas, and 75 percent of all deaths were among speakers of an indigenous language, compared to some 25 percent of the total population. Hence, the demographic and territorial disparities in violence revealed deep and historical divisions within Peru. And yet all this destruction was only part of the Peruvian “lost decade.” The devastation of the IAC was accompanied by economic mismanagement that contributed to an unprecedented general crisis. Between 1980 and 1989, Peru’s gross domestic product (GDP) contracted by 4.8 percent as the productive capacity of the country plummeted (Llosa and Paniza 2015). The fiscal deficit reached 12 percent of GDP in 1989, and in the same year inflation rose by more than 3,000 percent. In 1990 inflation reached 7,500 percent, and the Peruvian GDP per capita fell to 1960 levels (Banco Central de Reserva del Perú 2005). Between 1985 and 1990 the rate of formal employment shrank from 53 percent to a mere 5 percent of the employed population (Parodi 2008). In addition to economic collapse, a cholera epidemic ravaged the country in 1991, affecting at least 700,000 citizens (MINSA 2011). In a nutshell, the IAC and other social and economic factors not only brought on a political and economic crisis but left the country on the verge of a crisis of stateness (Corrales 2003). A new phase in Peruvian history began in the mid-nineties with the 1993 constitution, which still rules the country today, as discussed in chapter 3, by Maxwell A. Cameron. This new institutional framework for Peruvian politics and society was followed in the new millennium by an exceptional cycle of economic growth that transformed much of the Peruvian society. This new phase has implied, in both ob-

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Introduction

jective and subjective terms, the onset of a post-conflict period. If we accept the objective quantitative threshold of one thousand casualties per year often used to defi ne a civil war (see, for example, Kalyvas and Balcells 2010), then Peru’s conflict ended in 1994. In more subjective terms, although a few remnants of the Shining Path have survived in the Peruvian jungle, for most Peruvians “the era of terrorism” is doubtless a matter of the past, though as Arturo Maldonado, Jennifer Merolla, and Elizabeth Zechmeister show in chapter 10, the fear of terrorism nonetheless remains highly salient. Based on this discussion and our reading of the broader literature, we use the term “post-confl ict” to refer to the aftermath of conflict within Peru that involved significant violence by multiple armed actors against both one another and the civilian population. Although we do not seek to pin down an exact moment when Peru became “postconflict,” we defi ne this period as encompassing the years from the mid-1990s to the present. This volume thus seeks to explore legacies of the conflict of the long 1980s that have affected and continue to affect Peruvian politics.

Legacies in Comparative Perspective The literature on contemporary Peruvian politics is divided between scholarship attributing a decisive effect to the confl ict and giving it a central causal role in explaining outcomes of interest, and work that downplays its effects to focus instead on other features of the country’s history or more contemporary causal factors. This volume seeks to assess this surprising disjunction by evaluating which features of post-confl ict Peruvian politics have been decisively shaped by the IAC, which have been affected in less fundamental but still important ways, and which seem to be a product of other causal forces. A significant body of scholarship on Latin American and Andean politics has argued that the Peruvian case diverges from its counterparts in several important ways. Very often the political violence of the eighties is said to be the crucial variable that explains these anomalies. Arguments along these lines have been especially common in research on the development of civil society. In these accounts, social organization in Peru is said to be distinctively fragmented and weak as a result, at least partially, of the IAC. During the fi rst years of the new millennia, when indigenous movements successfully emerged in

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Andean countries, Peru was an “anomaly” with no national indigenous movements (Yashar 2005, 240). Mallon (1998) largely attributed the absence of ethnic identification among Peru’s popular sectors to class-based conceptions of politics that dominated the Peruvian Left and Shining Path. Even more directly, Yashar (2005) compares Peru to Bolivia and Ecuador, and argues that in contrast to these neighboring countries, violence disrupted indigenous social organizations and networks in Peru, making it hard to politicize and mobilize ethnic divisions. And contrary to other cases in the Andean countries, ethnic parties also failed to emerge in Peru, which Van Cott (2005) claims was a consequence of the IAC. In essence, scholars have argued that the whole chain of ethnic politics, from identity to party representation passing through social organization, was severely impacted by the conflict. Scholars have also attributed the evolution of Peru’s political parties in the last decades to the IAC. The weakness of the Peruvian Left over recent decades is especially striking in comparative perspective (Levitsky and Roberts 2011). The IAC is said to have played a prominent role in this weakness: “If the Shining Path exacerbated social fragmentation, it also contributed to the polarization of the IU” (Roberts 1998, 260). One mechanism driving this outcome was the sense of fear that arose in Left-aligned civil society leaders during the confl ict, which had the effect of weakening social movements (Burt 2006). In the same vein, legacies of violence constituted a hurdle shared by the Peruvian and Colombian Left, two countries that did not join the socalled Left Turn (Cameron 2011, 394). On the opposite side of the contemporary political spectrum, the enduring presence of a fujimorista party has been attributed to the enormous popularity Alberto Fujimori gathered after his government defeated the Shining Path (Levitsky and Zavaleta 2016). Finally, the weakness of Peru’s regional parties and regional elites has also been traced back to the IAC (Vergara 2015a). In contrast, other studies of post-confl ict Peru have not granted the same causal importance to the IAC.5 Kenney (2004) provides an explanation of the breakdown of Peruvian democracy in 1992 that centers on the lack of cooperation between the executive and legislative branches. After the 1992 self-coup (autogolpe) that Fujimori carried out, several researchers focused on the politics and policies of the new political era. Many accounts of the neoliberal turn in Peru attribute no significant effect to the IAC in exploring either the introduction

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Introduction

of neoliberal policies or their effects (Wise 1994; Arce 2005). Nor do scholars explaining the implementation of new poverty alleviation programs (Schady 2000) or of decentralization (McNulty 2011) attribute a causal role to the violence of the 1980s. More recent research on democracy and technocracy in Peru has also given only marginal room to the IAC (Dargent 2015; Vergara and Encinas 2016). Similarly, work by scholars like Arce (2014) and Meléndez (2012) attributes the recent expansion of local conflicts and protest in Peru to contemporary political and economic factors and sets aside the causal role of the IAC, as do recent accounts of Peruvian “democracy without parties” (Levitsky 2013; Zavaleta 2014). Hence, as we see, the weight given to the IAC in scholarly explorations of contemporary Peruvian politics varies fundamentally, ranging from key explanatory piece to ignored process. By digging into the Peruvian case in detail, this book attempts to provide a systematic analysis of these issues. We seek not to challenge or confi rm any particular fi ndings cited in the preceding paragraphs, but rather to produce a synthetic account of the consequences of the IAC for contemporary Peruvian politics. To do so, we unpack several dimensions of contemporary Peruvian politics, society, and institutions to evaluate the extent to which they have and have not been shaped by the IAC. This systematic evaluation requires a framework that takes history seriously. As we explain in the next section, we need a careful temporal framework to distinguish causal chains that originated in the long eighties from factors that emerged thereafter, and also to distinguish the confl ict from the longer historical processes of a fragmented society, polarized politics, and weak institutions that long predate it, and that also shape contemporary Peru in fundamental ways.

Studying Post-Conflict Peru In laying the groundwork for the chapters that follow, several thorny methodological challenges in the study of post-confl ict politics must be confronted. First, we cannot simply draw from the existing scholarship on post-confl ict settings, because it sheds only limited light on our case. Scholars of post-confl ict politics have tended to explore issues like peace negotiations and the implementation of the resulting accords (Walter 2002; Fortna 2003; Barnett 2006), the effects of in-

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ternational intervention in bringing an end to confl ict and securing peace (Paris 2004; Fortna 2008; Stanley 2013), the political integration of former combatants (Blattman 2009; Humphreys and Weinstein 2008), and the outcomes and impact of post-confl ict reconstruction projects (Baranyi 2008; Call and Wyeth 2008). Yet none of these processes unfolded in Peru. In the Latin American context, much has been written about how violence, defi ned broadly enough to include inequality and social exclusion, has marked societies. To take but one example, the collection edited by Koonings and Kruijt (1999) investigates the “long-term consequences of violence, repression, and arbitrariness” (p. 2). Tracing the roots of this violence to social inequality, especially in the rural realm, and to struggles over political incorporation and social inclusion, they see it as one of the crucial “recurrent features of the Latin American political landscape” (p. 2). In studying the “legacies of repressive dictatorships and civil wars” (p. 3) they seek to explore the origins and consequences of violence in contemporary Latin America. Yet in focusing on the legacies of the Sendero conflict, our collection takes a distinct approach. To understand why we focus on a specific confl ict rather than the broader phenomenon of violence, one need only note a striking irony of the Peruvian confl ict: Sendero Luminoso’s armed insurgency began on the very day that democracy returned to Peru in 1980, and the end of the conflict coincided not with democratization but with the consolidation of the authoritarian regime of Alberto Fujimori. It is reasonable to situate a specific internal confl ict as nothing more than part of a broader phenomenon of structural violence in a case like Guatemala, where armed opposition emerged due to the level of repression and political closure, and thus the civil war itself can be seen as a consequence of the nature of authoritarian rule (Wickham-Crowley 1992; Goodwin 2001). But for the Peruvian case, as chapter 1, by Rénique and Lerner, and chapter 2, by Livia Isabella Schubiger and David Sulmont, make clear, the internal conflict cannot be reduced to being only a reflection or a component of broader processes of repression and inequality. We do not deny that long structural patterns of exclusion might affect the conflict—and chapter 6, by Jelke Boesten, shows these in an especially vivid manner in exploring issues of gender violence in contemporary Peru. However, beyond these longterm continuities, the armed confl ict generated its own set of independent causal impacts on politics. This book is based on the presumption that these effects are worthy of exploration in their own right.

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10 Introduction

Therefore, we deal with the political legacies of confl ict rather than post-confl ict peace and reconstruction processes (most of which did not unfold in the Peruvian case) or legacies of violence more generally. To do so, we develop a new approach to studying the impact of the conflict in Peru. We hope that our new approach might not only shed light on the political legacies of the IAC but also aid scholars of other post-confl ict settings as well, should they seek to shift their attention from the issues now central to that literature to the political impact of the conflict itself. Since our focus is the set of legacies of the IAC that shape post-confl ict politics, we need to begin by delineating the boundaries of what we mean by “political legacies.” In taking on this challenge, we seek to complement a rich body of recent work that has explored the aftermath of the conflict in ways that are distinct to the approach we seek to develop. Kimberly Theidon and others taking an anthropological approach have superbly analyzed relationships within and among local communities after the conflict (Theidon 2012; del Pino and Yezer 2013). Olga Gonzáles and Cynthia Milton, among others, have explored the traces the confl ict has left on artistic and cultural expression (Gonzalez 2011; Milton 2014; Faverón 2006). Other academics have peered into the memories of main actors (Milton 2018; Asencios 2017).6 Our book does not investigate the cultural dimensions of the confl ict’s aftermath or observe it from a micro level. Instead, we focus on the macropolitical and institutional consequences of the confl ict. In focusing on these consequences, we seek to respond to what Blattman and Miguel (2010, 43) describe as “perhaps the most pressing area for future empirical research” on post-conflict settings: the “social and institutional legacies” of confl ict. Understanding those legacies is exactly the goal of this book. However, we do not believe it is possible to generate analytically precise causal claims if we do not disaggregate the results beyond broad concepts like institutions or “democracy” (see Kier and Krebs 2010). In seeking causal precision, we explore how the legacies of the conflict shaped political institutions, civil society, and political attitudes and participation. That is, we unpack the macropolitical consequences, allowing us to provide a nuanced analysis of post-confl ict Peru disaggregated across distinct political, social, and institutional realms. But before turning to a description of these realms and introducing the chapters to follow, we need to defi ne the concept of post-confl ict legacies and identify a set of mechanisms by which the legacies of conflict can be produced.

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Disaggregating the Legacies of Conflict To explore the legacies of Peru’s conflict, we distinguish three causal channels through which its effects are produced and reproduced, and by which it has impacted contemporary Peruvian politics: wartime mechanisms, post-confl ict legacies, and the political struggle over legacies. Wartime Mechanisms By wartime mechanisms we refer to those factors that were produced by the conflict, emerged during the confl ict period, and have persisted into the post-confl ict era. These are what Wittenberg (n.d.) calls “continuation legacies” in his typology. The most prominent set of wartime mechanisms discussed by our authors relate to the violence itself: the chapters by Eduardo Dargent and Noelia Chávez (chapter 5), Maritza Paredes (chapter 7), Paula Muñoz (chapter 8), and Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas (chapter 9), among others, show that violence impacted the social and political organization of many sectors of Peruvian society in ways that endured after the conflict ended. While in most cases the effects tended to weaken societal and political actors, Paredes shows that indigenous organization in the Amazon region was strengthened in response to violence, and Vergara and Encinas show that violence led to the growth of a more powerful and more conservative Catholic Church as a central actor. In chapter 3, Cameron explores how the broader sense of crisis engendered by the confl ict created the opportunity for Fujimori not only to carry out his autogolpe but also to craft a constitution that solidified authoritarian and neoliberal control. Like Cameron, Soifer and Vieira show in chapter 4 that institutional changes made during the confl ict— in this case, reforms of the security apparatus—persisted long after the conflict ended. Post-Conflict Legacies In contrast to wartime mechanisms, which refer to aspects of the political arena that were altered during the conflict, post-confl ict legacies refer to those factors that emerge in the post-confl ict era as the result of effects of the conflict era. We thus defi ne post-confl ict legacies as factors that emerge in the post-confl ict period as the result of the con-

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Introduction

flict. Here, too, violence itself is an especially important mechanism. Maldonado, Merolla, and Zechmeister, for example, show in chapter 10 that worry about terrorism remains strikingly high in Peru by comparison to other Latin American countries, and that this fear is especially salient among the cohort of Peruvians who lived through the conflict. This fear not only persists over time but also has sizable and systematic effects on democratic attitudes. In a similar vein, Dargent and Chávez show in chapter 5 that the violence in public universities in the 1980s contributed to the weakening of student mobilization in the post-confl ict period, and Muñoz shows in chapter 8 that the Left’s inability to distance itself from Sendero’s actions during the conflict led it to “become associated in political discourse with terrorism.” Another set of post-confl ict legacies centers on civil society. Here, the effects are distinct in different sectors of society: while Vergara and Encinas show in chapter 9 that the weakening of those sectors of civil society that supported parties of the Right has empowered technocrats and therefore reinforced neoliberal continuity, Paredes shows in chapter 7 that the human rights groups and lawyer-activists that emerged during the confl ict and were strengthened by international support after the confl ict ended (and especially in the later years of the Fujimori regime) were important allies for indigenous actions in the post-confl ict period. A third set of legacies is highlighted in chapter 3 by Cameron, who seeks to explain neoliberal continuity. Cameron highlights the continuing resonance of neoliberal ideology that emerged during the conflict, and the ways it has been sustained by the kind of state built in the post-confl ict era. Struggle over Legacies Whereas both wartime mechanisms and post-conflict legacies are products of features of the conflict period, a third category of ways in which post-confl ict politics is shaped by the conflict results from the choices and struggles of political actors, who frame, shape, and manipulate features of the confl ict and its legacies for their own purposes (Krebs 2009, 255). We separate the discussion of legacies that take this form in order to highlight the agency of political actors in shaping them, and to label these constructed legacies. The most commonly echoed type of constructed legacy our authors highlight is the stigmatization of the Left (Muñoz, chapter 8), human rights issues (Paulo

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Introduction

13

Drinot, chapter 11), and collective mobilization more generally (Dargent and Chávez, chapter 5) as associated with terrorism. On the other side, activists have also at times sought to exploit acts committed by the state, especially ones that occurred under the Fujimori administration. Another use of constructed legacies appears in intra-state and intra-elite power struggles; Soifer and Vieira show in chapter 4 that memories of the conflict were used by actors seeking to strengthen the intelligence and surveillance apparatus in the Fujimori era, and Cameron shows more broadly in chapter 3 that pro-neoliberal actors have sought to frame the conflict in a way that justifies the neoliberal model as a central component of the defense against a recurrence of the unrest of the 1980s. Incorporating this type of legacy into our analysis allows us to trace both the direct and objective legacies of the confl ict, and the impact of the more subjective or constructed struggles on the legacies of the conflict. The confl ict left objective legacies, but the political struggle over the interpretation or construction of those legacies can be as important as the objective ones.

Disaggregating Consequences In all, this volume aims to provide a nuanced account of the consequences of the IAC for politics in contemporary Peru. We do not presume or argue that the IAC is the most central factor shaping politics in contemporary Peru. Peru, to put it simply, is “post-too many things”: contemporary Peru might be described as not just postconflict, but also post-hyperinflation, post-party system collapse, and post-authoritarian. Instead of arguing that the post-conflict lens is the most useful frame for understanding Peruvian politics, we seek to evaluate the extent of its utility. The country is still shaped by the IAC of the long eighties, but as time goes on, it becomes harder to disentangle consequences of the IAC from all the other variables and processes that have also affected Peru in the two decades since the IAC was fi nished.7 These include a booming economy (Ghezzi and Gallardo 2013), the emergence of a new middle class (World Bank 2013), the deterioration of political representation (Levitsky and Zavaleta 2016), and the ever-increasing presence of informality (W. Mendoza 2017), among others. However, we do believe that the IAC unleashed some legacies that

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14

Introduction

significantly shaped some areas of contemporary politics and institutions in Peru. In order to grasp them, we need to unpack the broad notion of “contemporary politics” into manageable realms and explore each in turn. The book divides contemporary politics into four realms in which we observe the consequences of the confl ict: state institutions, civil society, political parties, and public opinion, each of which is divided into specific dimensions that are the subject of individual chapters. This analytical approach allows us to make precise claims about the causal link between the IAC and each of those dimensions. Our framework distinguishing three types of legacies and the authors’ focus on case studies of the Peruvian experience rather than sustained and systematic comparisons with other Latin American countries allows us to construct a careful and detailed picture of the consequences of the IAC on contemporary Peru. The concluding chapter of this volume by Steven Levitsky synthesizes the earlier chapters’ fi ndings to establish the extent to which the country is and is not decisively shaped by the confl ict. The book’s fi rst section provides historical and theoretical background. Chapter 1 gives a detailed historical overview of the IAC in Peru, while chapter 2 places the Peruvian case in the context of the contemporary political science scholarship on internal confl icts. The next section deals with state institutions. Chapter 3 highlights how neoliberal ideology, enshrined in the 1993 constitution, both took hold in Peru in response to Sendero’s perceived threat to individual freedom and was sustained by the discrediting of other ideologies in the course of the long decade of conflict. Chapter 4 explores how the conflict shaped the state’s coercive capacity, emphasizing how reforms of the military and of policing and surveillance institutions, as well as the reach of the state over territory, were the product of all three of the types of mechanisms elaborated in this introduction. Chapter 5 investigates how the conflict deepened the crisis of Peru’s public university system in several important ways. The third section explores civil society and the impact of the IAC. Chapter 6 makes the case that both ineffectual state policies against gender violence and recent mass mobilization defending women’s rights can be traced to the IAC. Chapter 7 focuses on indigenous mobilization in the political context of the contemporary boom in extractive development in Peru, which provides a new setting for the study of indigenous movements and the responses they draw from the state. Both chapters show that the IAC had a decisive impact on contemporary Peruvian civil society, and that its effects continue to be felt.

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Introduction

15

In the fourth section, on political parties, chapter 8 analyzes the link between the IAC and the leftist sectors of the political spectrum, while chapter 9 examines connections to the political right. In chapter 8, Muñoz contends that the end of political violence came with not only the military defeat of the Shining Path but also the political defeat of the legal Left. She argues that the prospects of the Left for effectively becoming an institutionalized and electorally appealing political party were undermined by the manner in which the confl ict ended. Vergara and Encinas describe in chapter 9 the transformation of the Right from organic political parties in the 1980s to a new condition they label as a “conservative archipelago.” Part of this transformation, they contend, was related to the IAC. The fifth section contains two chapters dealing with Peruvian public opinion, though from very different perspectives. Chapter 10 provides a statistical and experimental analysis of the attitudes of Peruvian citizens toward terrorism and their implications for democratic support. In contrast, chapter 11 takes a qualitative approach in exploring the comments of YouTube users on videos related to memorials of the conflict in order to document the collective struggle to construct the memory of the IAC in the absence of a collective memory project in the country. The volume’s conclusion places all of these in-depth chapters in a wider Latin American perspective, producing a synthetic evaluation of the ways in which contemporary Peruvian politics are decisively shaped by the IAC. In all, our aim in compiling this volume is to deepen the process of analytical inquiry into the legacies of violence for contemporary Peru. Yet we seek to go beyond that: for most of the contributors of the book, the Shining Path’s brutal actions, and the consequences they unleashed, were vivid, tragic, and major events. As Schubiger and Sulmont remind us in their chapter, the department of Ayacucho, where the conflict began and had the deadliest consequences, saw an absolute loss of population between the censuses of 1981 and 1993. The “long eighties” were, in other words, a national catastrophe. Regardless of where we stand politically or how we interpret such a history of violence, it is clear that the scars and legacies of the confl ict continue to trouble its heirs in ways that cannot be ignored. Recognizing and analyzing these effects in a systematic manner is an indispensable step on the path to developing a national conversation about the confl ict. Such a national dialogue, as Drinot’s chapter shows, has not emerged in a rational or inclusive way. Instead, a systematic understanding of the conflict and its legacies seems to remain elusive and opaque for

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16 Introduction

most Peruvians. Expanding on Dargent and Chavez’s insightful description of contemporary university students, what seems to prevail in the country is a “silent majority.” Our aim, then, beyond our academic purposes, is to help the country to recognize some of the ways in which it is shaped today by the savage violence of the long eighties, and also some of the ways in which contemporary politics is rooted in other historical factors. A clear understanding of these complex processes linking past and present will always be a necessary requirement for fi nding one’s way to a better future. Notes 1. “Internal Armed Confl ict” is the term used by the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission to characterize the violence between the Shining Path and other non-state armed groups and the Peruvian state. The notion of “long eighties” is explained below. 2. The following paragraphs rely on the CVR Final Report to constitute a brief historical reconstruction of the Peruvian Internal Armed Confl ict. For a detailed account of how the confl ict unfolded, see chapter 1 by José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner. 3. The army was responsible for, among others, the Sacos, Pucayacu, Accomarca, and Putis massacres; the Shining Path perpetrated, among others, the Lucanamarca and Huancasancos massacres. 4. Since the confl ict between the MRTA and the state was less bloody than that pitting Sendero against the state, and since public perception of the violence Peru suffered focused more heavily on the latter, we describe the violence from 1979 to 1993 as the Sendero confl ict throughout the volume. 5. To be fair, it is difficult to fi nd research on contemporary Peru that fully dismisses the IAC, since most of this work does attribute some role to the general turmoil of the eighties. Yet in contrast to the work discussed in the previous paragraph, the scholarship we discuss here does not grant the IAC a central role in its analyses. 6. In addition to the academic literature on cultural legacies of the conflict, a nonacademic but vivid and fruitful body of work both on the IAC and its legacies has boomed in several genres in contemporary Peru. Scholars and intellectuals personally involved in the confl ict have produced engaging and eclectic books that have resonated far beyond the academic realm (see, among others, A. Gálvez 2009; Gavilán 2012; Agüero 2015; Cisneros 2015). Fiction writers have peered into the period as well (see, among others, Roncagliolo 2006; Colchado 1997; Cueto 2005; Thays 2008; M. Vargas Llosa 1983; see also the notable graphic novel by Cossio, Rossell, and Villar 2008); and fi lmmakers have also successfully explored it (among others, see Lombardi 1988; E. Mendoza 2017; H. Gálvez 2015; del Solar 2015; C. Llosa 2009; Calero 2016). 7. On these methodological questions relating to temporality, see the analysis of the Mexican Revolution and its consequences in Knight 1985.

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CHAP T ER 1

Shining Path: The Last Peasant War in the Andes José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

The process of modernization begins with peasant revolutions that fail. Ba r r i ngton Moor e , Soci a l Or igi ns of Dic tatorsh ip a n d De mocr ac y

In mid-1988 the hitherto mysterious leader of the Communist Party of Peru, better known as the Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso), broke his long silence. In his fi rst interview since the beginning of the insurrection, Abimael Guzmán Reynoso boasted of the successful progress of a rebellion whose central protagonists, he claimed, were “the poor peasants” of Peru. In Guzmán’s words, the poor played a primary role in the “People’s Guerrilla Army,” serving “as fighters and commanders.” Led by this organization, the “people’s war” spread through the highlands, “from one border to the other, from Ecuador to Bolivia,” along a region that was “the historic axis of Peruvian society and its most backward and poor area” (Guzmán Reynoso 1988). Eight years earlier, the start of the Shining Path uprising had been received with disbelief. Even as it continued to grow, leftist leaders had insisted that it was “infantile.” President Fernando Belaunde, during his second period in power (1980–1985), had labeled the insurgents “rustlers.” As late as 1983, military officers had declared that eliminating the Shining Path would take only a few weeks (CVR 2003a, 2:60). Was this, then, effectively a “peasant war”? If so, how was it possible in a country where one of the most radical agrarian reform efforts in contemporary Latin America had been recently enforced, and where more than 60 percent of the population had become urban? Why did other political and social actors seem to miss it? These questions lie at

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18 José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

the center of the era of violence experienced by Peru during the 1980s and early 1990s: “the most intense, widespread, and prolonged period of violence in all of its republican history” according to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación del Perú, or CVR) created by the Peruvian government in 2001 to investigate it (CVR 2003a, 8:245). This chapter presents the most salient aspects and the chronology of the Internal Armed Conflict (as the CVR defi ned it) that ravaged Peru during these years. It pays particular attention to the roles attributed to the Andean peasantry as a historical subject and agent in the ideologies and practices of the two main armed sides of the confl ict, the Shining Path and the coercive forces of the Peruvian state, amid the shifting dynamics of the conflict and the broader societal transformations that characterized the period. It was a war predominantly fought and endured by peasants. Our chapter shows that the peasant character of the war was a central aspect of the revolutionary ideology and praxis of Abimael Guzmán and the Shining Path, and also of the different counterinsurgent strategies of the Peruvian state, but that the on-the-ground experiences and effects of “peasant war,” both at the local level and in broader strategic terms, were very different from the preconceptions and theoretical perspectives of these actors. We begin with an introduction to the radical tradition of which the Shining Path was a part, but from which it also departed, and to the counterinsurgent traditions of the Peruvian armed forces. The second section of the chapter focuses on Ayacucho and its place in Peruvian society and politics during the fi rst half of the 1980s, to describe and explain how a fringe Maoist group became a serious revolutionary challenge in the highlands, and then launched a war on the national scale. We then shift to an analysis of how both the Shining Path and the new Peruvian government, led by the Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana (APRA) and president Alan García (1985–1990), switched strategies as violence expanded its reach to new territories, and new actors emerged along with a sense of deepening national crisis. Finally, we describe the end of the war during the fi rst years of the government of Alberto Fujimori (1990–2000) and touch on some of the political uses and consequences of the confl ict’s aftermath during the 1990s. The perception of Sendero Luminoso as an alien infection that suddenly attacked Peruvian society with its dogmatic violence still looms large in the country’s collective memory. And yet, already in 1998 the historian Steve J. Stern had synthesized a generation’s worth of schol-

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The Last Peasant War in the Andes

19

arship to argue that Sendero’s origins and development were located within Peruvian history while also working against it. While the Shining Path was in many ways a logical episode in a century-old radical tradition, and part of a broader social and political process, in its extreme ideological rigidity it also defi ned itself explicitly as against other projects of change, as seen in its efforts to crush the velasquista reforms and other governmental efforts as well as all non-senderista leftist parties and initiatives emanating from civil society. A Marxist revolutionary party that advocated a peasant revolution provoked a war whose main victims were peasants and other Marxist activists, and whose immediate objective was the destruction of the Peruvian state (Stern 1998a). This paradoxical trajectory mirrored the singularities of postcolonial Peru, a society that the historian Paul Gootenberg has recently described as still carrying scars that seem to be a “perpetual obstacle” to “real horizontal bonds of nationhood, a legitimate state, real dynamic capitalism, even real modernity” (Gootenberg 2014). These were the scars of empires, wars, conquests, and revolutions past; of colonialism, liberalism, centralism, and peripheral capitalism; of the divisions and durable inequality that still defi ned the country (Tilly 1999). The other key armed actors of the conflict, the coercive forces of the Peruvian state, were also trapped by these paradoxes. The nation’s police and armed forces were marked by tense relationships with civilians in charge of political power, inter- and intra-institutional conflict and organizational dysfunction, and corruption. Pervasive rifts based on ethnicity, class, region, and gender status were exacerbated by the irregular warfare that characterized the conflict. Similarly, their participation was no less driven by ideological stances than those of Guzmán and his senderista comrades. Their strategies, their conceptions about what kind of conflict they were fighting, and their ideas about the roles they and other social actors played in the confl ict were all based on inherited diagnoses of Peruvian society, and on the application of dated Cold War counterinsurgent doctrines to the Andean countryside.

Paths to War: The Radical Tradition, Maoism, and Counterinsurgency in Peru On May 17, 1980, the eve of the fi rst presidential elections in seventeen years and after more than a decade of military rule, a handful of

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José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

hooded individuals ransacked an electoral center and burned the ballot boxes in the small village of Chuschi, Ayacucho. The event went largely unnoticed in the Peruvian media’s electoral coverage. In the following months, dogs were found hanging from lampposts in Lima, with signs that denounced Deng Xiaoping’s “betrayal” of Mao Zedong’s line at the helm of the People’s Republic of China. Mystery shrouded these actions. For those familiar with the intricacies of the Peruvian Left, however, there was no doubt about their senderista origins. The Shining Path was the most radical voice in a Maoist chorus derived from the moscovita–pekines (Sino–Soviet) split of the 1960s, which produced myriad “Communist Parties of Peru,” usually distinguishable by their surnames: Red Star, Red Flag, Pukallacta, Shining Path. Each claimed to be the legitimate nuclei for the “reconstruction” of Peru’s Communist Party founded in the 1920s by Jose Carlos Mariátegui. The Shining Path’s call to launch a “people’s war” was its distinctive feature. By 1980, however, few believed it was a realistic goal. The Peruvian Left had emerged in the 1920s in the symbolic space shaped by a radical tradition fi rst articulated by Manuel González Prada after the nation’s traumatic defeat in the War of the Pacific against Chile (1879–1884). A poet and essayist, González Prada penned fiery texts denouncing the Peruvian republican project as a mere continuation of colonialism, represented by the centralist power of coastal Lima, which had been founded by conquistadors as the capital of the Viceroyalty of Peru to rule over the Andes and its peoples. He saw the conflict between coast and highlands as more than geographic: to craft a modern nation, radicals would have to end the dominance of costeños and criollos (those who lived on the coast and were of European descent) and fi nd a “true Peru” in the heart of the Andes, where the Indian masses still awaited redemption. The formula of a “long march” to redress the course taken since the Spanish conquest in 1532 would become a second skin for twentieth-century Peruvian leftists (Rénique 2015a). From then on, a range of “isms” (indigenismo, serranismo, incaísmo, telurismo) explored and illuminated the coast-highland gap, advocating for a Peruvian nationhood based on Andean roots. In the 1920s, two of them gained extraordinary traction. To varying degrees, the new revolutionary visions crafted by Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre and José Carlos Mariátegui, as well as the movements they founded, aprismo and comunismo, carried the imprint of this rhetorical arse-

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The Last Peasant War in the Andes 21

nal. While the former’s roots lay in the proletarian mixed-race (mestizo) urban and rural populations of the country’s coastal region, the latter persisted in the search for the Indians of the sierra as the main revolutionary actors. At least in theory, searching for the mobilizing myths of the Andean masses against Lima’s postcolonial domination continued to be the defi ning mark of the Peruvian Left after the defeat of the upheavals of the 1930s. Hopes for an effective long march from the countryside to the city then reappeared in the 1960s, as hundreds of peasant communities invaded haciendas throughout the highlands. Both the guerrillas of the Revolutionary Left Movement (MIR) and National Liberation Army (ELN) of 1962–1966 and Juan Velasco’s Revolutionary Government of the Armed Forces of 1968–1975 fell within the scope of the radical tradition. By the 1970s, Maoism was one of the three major branches of a Peruvian Left that was experiencing explosive growth. The “muscovite” Communists, together with the “reformist” groups, adopted a position of “critical support” to Velasco’s “revolution” and its agenda, which largely focused its efforts on a massive agrarian reform. However, as historian Jaymie Heilman has recently shown, it was not uncommon for grassroots actors to resent the implementation of the reforms as an outside intrusion. It could even derail some of the longstanding political struggles of increasingly dynamic peasant organizations and other activists—the men and women who in their everyday lives experienced, and indeed often successfully challenged, what generations of radicals, including the anti-oligarchic reformist generals, described as the quasi-static “true Peru” (Heilman 2017). Moreover, and despite the nationalist military regime’s atavistic, pro-peasant rhetoric, intensive demographic and socioeconomic transformations by then meant that the proverbial “true Peru” had in fact become something akin to a floating signifier. Following agrarian pressure and dislocation, massive immigration toward urban centers on the coast meant that the highlands were not the country’s demographic core anymore. Lima alone accounted for close to 30 percent of the nation’s inhabitants by the 1980s (Matos Mar 2004; Calderón Cockburn 2016). Under those circumstances, emerging groups and social movements could be the crucial targets for leftist expansion. The immigrants, the new limeños or informales, became the protagonists of the renewed revolutionary agenda drafted by a “new Left.” Inspired by the Cuban Revolution, the new Left consisted of a series of small organizations in a chronic state of atomization, all of which aspired to radicalize velas-

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José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

quista reforms by riding the wave of popular mobilization triggered by the military government’s initiative. For them, José Carlos Mariátegui was still a guiding source, although now largely in conjunction with the likes of Antonio Gramsci, Alain Touraine, Ernesto Laclau, or José Aricó as part of an ideological reassessment in which democracy and the “bourgeois” culture of human rights were fundamental values. Rural scenarios, and the very idea of a long march from the countryside to the city, became secondary. For this increasingly sophisticated Left, the agrarian question no longer was at the center of Peru’s revolutionary transformation. That was clearly not the case with their Maoist comrades. They chose, instead, to wholly reject velasquismo, arguing that it was a “fascist” regime that had to be resisted through radical mobilization. The “people’s war” was their obvious next step. The senderistas were, as historian Iván Hinojosa explained, the “poor provincial cousins” of Lima’s more mainstream Left (Hinojosa 1998). While leftists in Lima were distancing themselves from the revolutionary paradigm of the 1920s, senderistas saw the reforms of the Velasco regime as an opportunity for ideological and organizational reaffi rmation. This conviction compelled them to take back the abandoned “shining path” of José Carlos Mariátegui, particularly his ideas about the peasantry as the only force capable of ending the semifeudal structures that were still the pillars of what they termed “bureaucratic capitalism” in Peru (Rénique 2003, 20–53; Rénique 2015b). In this narrative, Mariátegui remained the founding figure of a proletarian party whose legacy was at risk of being tarnished by the new Left’s “revisionism,” defi ned by Guzmán as the “complete negation of Marxism,” and usually embodied in the “long and putrid experience with frontism (frentismo).” The United Left was the latest Peruvian version of that experience; it was nothing less than “a cancer” to be “ruthlessly eliminated” (Guzmán Reynoso 1988). Mariátegui had introduced the “universal truths” of Marxism-Leninism to Peru, in a process that concluded with the emergence of the Shining Path. Their ability to initiate “popular war” was proof that they were Mariátegui’s legitimate children (Guzmán Reynoso 1989). The fusion of Mariátegui and Mao made such a fi nal step possible. In Peru, according to Guzmán, “we fi nd theses similar to those that Mao has made universal; today Mariátegui would be a Marxist-Leninist-Maoist” (Guzmán Reynoso 1988). Maoist practice, however, often contrasted with such combative rhetoric. According to a study based on the major public university

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The Last Peasant War in the Andes

23

in Lima, Maoism captivated students of migrant backgrounds, who found it a useful tool for carving a place for themselves within a system that tended to marginalize them. A Peruvian brand of Maoism was forged largely through imagery—disseminated by Chinese propaganda—of the Great Cultural Revolution, such as Red Guards questioning the establishment at will, as well as through decontextualized quotations from Chairman Mao, which provided a veneer of ideological empowerment encouraged by the “Little Red Book” and the manuals of Marxism that originated in Beijing and Moscow (Lynch 1990). Under the influence of this Maoist campus culture, which compulsively encompassed all levels of the university community, public universities tended to enter into a self-destructive process of radicalization (Degregori 1990b). Whereas Lima’s leftist intellectuals tentatively hinted at the possibilities of formulas such as Cholo-comunismo (an Andean version of the “Eurocommunism” of those years), or even of Haya-leninismo (as the basis for a Left-APRA alliance), senderista identity seemed fi rmly poised to undertake the challenges to come. Its leader and ideologue Abimael Guzmán charted the route ahead in distinctively terse fashion: “The class gives birth to the Party and the Party rises and begins to walk, it is the child of the revolution. The Party can never be crushed or destroyed. The Party will inevitably triumph. This Party forged itself, Mariategui is its founder. It is done” (CC-PCP 1979). Closely following the Mao of the 1930s, Guzmán believed in the transformative power of peasant mobilization, “a hurricane so swift and violent that no power, however great, will be able to hold it back.” He framed the peasantry as a force capable of sweeping “all the imperialists, warlords, corrupt officials, local tyrants and evil gentry into their graves.” In the ideological-strategic scheme of the Shining Path’s leader, this massive, class-based mobilization would force every potential revolutionary to pick one of only three possible alternatives: to trail behind the peasant movement; to stand in its way and oppose it; or to march ahead and lead it toward the seizure of power (Mao 1927). By adopting the latter choice, Guzmán believed, his Communist Party of Peru– Shining Path would be forged as a party of “iron-clad cadres who dare to challenge death to snatch the laurels of victory” that was capable of unleashing a new era (Guzmán Reynoso 1988, CC-PCP 1986a). Sendero’s “people’s war” was, therefore, a fundamentally ideological product. The conviction and willpower that made it possible were based on the dissemination of a set of beliefs in which revolution was

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24 José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

a precondition for true Peruvian nationhood (this was “the path” of Mariátegui and the radical tradition), and on a universal revolutionary doctrine (Marxism-Leninism-Maoism) which held that at the crucial moment of revolution, subjective “spiritual factors” could be more decisive than objective “material” ones (Cook 2014). This meant that the “Initiation of the Armed Struggle” (Inicio de la Lucha Armada— ILA), the launching of the war, was the key issue of revolution. Initiation would also solve the problem of leadership. It enthroned Abimael Guzmán as “President Gonzalo,” the supreme political chief and strategist of revolution. It turned him into the infallible creator of the theory of the people’s war in Peru—the so-called Pensamiento Gonzalo (“Gonzalo Thought”). In “Gonzalo’s” view, violence was a “suprahuman historical fact” that individuals would assume without any moral qualms. After the initiation of armed struggle, war itself would provide the elements for victory (Poole 1994). The rebellion would then start as a formidable act of will, carefully planned by its leader. Guzmán himself boasted that he was perfectly aware that “rivers of blood” would flow (Guzmán Reynoso 1988). The revolution would coincide with the recurrence of crisis in the country every ten years. Those relapses, he believed, expressed the inability of “bureaucratic capitalism” to acquire stability in a society still characterized as semi-feudal, despite the military regime’s much braggedabout agrarian reform (CC-PCP 1985). From this perspective, the crisis of the late 1970s, with its massive social mobilization that included the two largest strikes in the country’s history among its social and demographic transformations, announced itself as a particularly dramatic one. Moreover, it was combined with general elections and a regime transition from an increasingly conservative and repressive military dictatorship to electoral democracy. The candidate favored to win the presidential election was Fernando Belaunde. After having been ousted in 1968 by a coup carried out by armed forces emboldened by their anti-guerrilla campaigns of the 1960s, Belaunde could hardly have been expected to decisively deploy the military against a new revolutionary insurrection. That it also would likely take a new government some time to become fully operational would make “conditions riper for revolution.” It was “a very favorable juncture for initiating the people’s war.” This is why the Shining Path launched its war on the eve of the presidential elections (Lerner 2017; Lust 2013; Guzmán Reynoso 1988). Ideology provided the necessary cohesion. Mao’s quotations consti-

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tuted the doctrinaire bedrock. Oral transmission was as important as the written word in filtering down the basic principles of the people’s war. Later, as combat progressed, “Gonzalo Thought,” based on the adaptation of Marxism-Leninism-Maoism to Peruvian reality, and on Guzmán’s interpretation of the ideas of José Carlos Mariátegui combined with those of Mao, became the blueprint for collective action. Mariátegui was portrayed as the discoverer of the revolutionary potential of Peru’s indigenous peasantry, who had synthesized a secular history of oppression into a class-based or “proletarian” view of what he termed “The Indian Problem” (Mariátegui 2007). Mao had inscribed peasant rebellion into a broader revolutionary tradition, going back to the “Paris commune” of 1871, and his was deemed the most advanced version of Marxism-Leninism because of its potential for success in peripheral countries. Guzmán made two visits to China during the 1960s, the second of which coincided with the early years of the Cultural Revolution and the doctrinaire debates of the Red Guard. During those trips, he took courses in politics, philosophy, and military strategy. He left a young cadre and obscure philosophy professor, originally schooled in the Stalinist bureaucratic ways of the local Communist Party, and returned fully converted and imbued with the prestige that contact with the Revolution provided. From then on, “Mao thought” was “the spiritual bomb of the poor” (Lin 1966), and “a single spark could start a prairie fi re” (Mao 1930). Guzmán thereafter oriented his political work to adapt the script of the Chinese peasant wars of the 1930s and the 1940s to the Peruvian scenario of the 1980s. His efforts coincided with an expansion of radical militancy (including Maoism) in Peru, particularly on university campuses (Rothwell 2013, 55–62). Some of the social and political fuel for the transformation of an organization that counted less than twenty members in 1970 into the juggernaut of the 1980s came from recent nationwide processes. The first was a unique cycle of agrarian mobilization. Peasants had been mobilizing, occupying lands, and generally eroding the traditional agrarian regime of the Peruvian highlands since the 1950s, but the process was decisively propelled by the state in support of its agrarian reform in the fi rst half of the 1970s. This led to the creation of a national network of organizations, from district leagues to departmental federations and a National Agrarian Confederation inaugurated in 1970 in the unused building of the Parliament. A heavily politicized and mobilized countryside was the result (Cant 2015). Although the turn to the

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right that followed the toppling of Velasco by the “Second Phase of the Revolution” led by General Francisco Morales Bermúdez (1975–1980) severely limited the scope of the agrarian reform, in reality its design and implementation had always proved extremely problematic. What effectively resulted was a truncated agrarian reform that left a host of unresolved problems, voids of power, and confl icts; a landscape of what Enrique Mayer has called “Ugly Stories,” many of which allowed senderista activists propitious opportunities to establish their presence locally (Mayer 2009). Finally, at the top, the unique political juncture was defi ned by a transition to democracy whereby the armed forces handed power back to the same civilian ruler they had ousted twelve years earlier. The Peruvian state was far from a unified entity as the country faced the insurgent challenge of the 1980s. In terms of the cleavage between civilian and military leaders, twelve years of a regime led by generals who constantly stressed the inability of civilians to rule had worsened lingering civilian-military distrust. As discussed in chapter 4 of this volume, the other main coercive force of the state, the police, faced numerous internal issues and also had strained relationships with both the armed forces and the civilian population. Policing was divided into three separate forces, the Civil Guard (Guardia Civil), the Republican Guard (Guardia Republicana), and the Investigative Police (Policía de Investigaciones del Perú), with different and sometimes competing and overlapping identities and functions. Recurring authoritarian regimes had used police forces for political surveillance and persecution, severely damaging their popular image. Chronic lack of funding further deteriorated police forces, marking them as unpopular, inefficient, and corrupt institutions. The military, furthermore, had tended to treat the police as their subalterns. Tensions reached a boiling point in the “Limazo” of February 5, 1975, during Velasco’s government, as a police strike in Lima was followed by widespread unrest and looting, to which the regime responded by unleashing military troops against the police and civilians. Moreover, the armed forces did not constitute a cohesive front either. The military regime of 1968–1980 had been marred by divides between “radicals” and “conservatives,” often intertwined with traditional rivalries between the army, the navy, and the air force on the one hand, and with ethnic and class differences on the other hand. Parallels between the early 1980s, with the guerrillas, and the 1960s, with counterinsurgent military interventions and Belaunde’s

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demise, did indeed seem ominous. As Guzmán hoped, this made what was already a delicate situation even more politically dangerous. The Belaunde government initially framed the Shining Path as common criminals and, as a consequence, opted for a police-based response, even after the fi rst State of Exception was declared in October 1981. The police intervention carried its own problems. Relations between police and local populations throughout Peru were already invariably strained and occasionally violent well before the onset of the confl ict. Local police officers were often in shameful material conditions and, particularly in rural settings, physically isolated. They were used to dealing with petty crime, not well-organized attacks by revolutionary groups. These conditions, along with broader issues affecting police forces, led to a mix of ineffectiveness and brutality in the immediate police response to the Shining Path in Ayacucho. The decision to grant the armed forces exceptional power over vast regions in January 1983 put them in an impossible position: the demands of the war were disproportionate to their capacities and to their constitutional mandate. They were expected to control a conflict that had already unfolded in decisive ways. They were sent to crush a fringe rebellion, only to fi nd themselves enmeshed in a surprisingly long, irregular, and bloody war, during which they became the second-greatest perpetrators of human rights violations and suffered substantial casualties. Significantly, many of their shortcomings can also be traced to their own ideas and actions, which were based on strategies unsuited to the challenge posed by the Shining Path in Ayacucho and beyond. The underlying ideology included an obsession with traditional geopolitics that led to massive spending sprees on airplanes and other ineffectual equipment. The strategy was initially based on anti-guerrilla experiences and field manuals from the 1960s, and on the leadership of high-ranking officers trained in the infamous United States Army School of the Americas. It initially framed the confl ict in the traditional military terms of regular counterinsurgency and territorial domination. The situation for Andean peasants deteriorated when the strategies and attitudes of state coercive forces encountered the everyday reality of the Shining Path’s war in Ayacucho. The quest for territorial control and for clearly identifiable sides clashed with the Maoists’ hit-andrun tactics, infiltration of the local population, and strategic exploitation of state violence to bolster their long-term claim for hegemony. Later during the confl ict, the Peruvian armed forces adopted a policy of military alliances with peasant communities, shifting to more inte-

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28 José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

gral forms of “political warfare” and to “low intensity” warfare and targeted attacks. The police, in the meantime, made significant progress in the realm of intelligence. These changes would eventually prove extremely successful in securing the defeat of the Shining Path, but also led to systematic human rights violations.

Spark into Fire: The Onset of War in 1980s Ayacucho May 17, 1980, became the key date in the Shining Path’s revolutionary calendar. It was the so-called ILA, during which the party switched from “labor with unarmed hands” to a display of the “armed word.” The ILA implied a “red zone” in the north of Ayacucho, on an axis that linked Huanta and Huamanga (Guzmán’s original strongholds), based on the gradual penetration of villages and peasant communities. It also meant that the senderista leadership would rely on a network of cadres capable of articulating regional plans to be replicated throughout the country. Ultimately, the ILA would position the organization as the revolutionary vanguard, above a “revisionist” Left that increasingly embraced “bourgeois democracy.” The regional context of Ayacucho made the rise of Sendero possible. Ayacucho offered a microcosm of the contradictions of Andean modernization that had emerged in the two decades preceding the senderista uprising, in line with a post-oligarchic national transition that offered no clear break from the past. By the late 1970s, the contradictory effects of the velasquista agrarian reform had been added to stagnation, marginality, regional dismemberment, and other traditional negative effects of capitalist penetration in the region’s countryside. The anti-oligarchic reform had hit large landowners the hardest; it was the fi nal blow to the traditional hacendado departmental elite. But it allowed the survival of small landowners at the district level: gamonal power, in many ways the “heart of darkness” of the old agrarian regime in the Andes, remained in place. The reopening of the Universidad Nacional San Cristobal de Huamanga (UNSCH) in 1957 completed the unique regional picture. It became a sociopolitical laboratory in which radical professors like Guzmán established a direct connection with the offspring of peasant communities. The exceptional opportunity was, as senderistas would put it, “a gift from the reactionary establishment.” The UNSCH represented the longpursued promise of regional development based on scientific knowl-

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edge, but also aided the radical transformation proposed by the Maoist texts discussed in student circles and “popular schools.” Students went looking for the tools of modernization and returned as agents of revolutionary change. Their exuberance resulted in posters that showed Guzmán as a blend of Amauta (the traditional image of the Andean teacher, often associated with Mariátegui) and “Great Helmsman,” followed by a mass that recalled both the Chinese Red Guard and the immemorial image of Andean jacqueries or peasant revolts. Not by chance, Huamanga was described as an “Andean Yenan” (Degregori 2011, 23–51; Rénique 2013). Similar patterns of local politicization had been established in Ayacucho since the early twentieth century, but they had always been connected to national currents originating from the political center in Lima: aprismo, trotskismo, belaundismo, and velasquismo (Heilman 2010; La Serna 2012). The endogenous peripheral origin of the movement was unusual. Never in Peruvian political history had a party with defi ned revolutionary objectives emerged in the country’s periphery to challenge central power. This peripheral status allowed Sendero to shape an era of “enigma, exoticism, surprise.” The rise of the insurgency was as shocking as the crumbling of the state (Stern 1998a). But, as Steve Stern has recently asked, again: How could a small group of revolutionaries from one of Peru’s most backward regions, so out of step with the rest of the Left’s acceptance of electoral transition from military rule to democracy, redirect the course of national political life? (Stern 2013). The backwardness, isolation, and marginality that were associated with the senderistas became factors that helped the Shining Path become such a formidable challenge, a threat that was properly understood only when it was too late to be easily contained. From its Maoist ayacuchano perspective, the movement exploited the fissures of Peruvian society with surprising effectiveness. Claiming to represent the semi-feudal character of the country, they advocated the historical significance of a peasant-based war for Peru, knowing that their strategy would sink the country into a bloodbath. Carlos Iván Degregori witnessed fi rsthand, as a political rival, the transition of the Shining Path from university party to war machine. He later wrote that the process evoked a “dwarf star,” in which “matter gets so compressed that it acquires a great specific weight, disproportionate to its size.” An accumulation of willpower, discipline, and ideological cohesion evolved from a position of exceptional marginality, just when the “revisionist” Left was reaching its zenith, leading to the extreme

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underestimation of the political acumen of senderismo (Degregori 1990a). Ayacucho offered the conditions to take this process of encapsulation to unexpected heights. There, Andean Maoism would achieve its purest form. Wearied by the vast waves of urban mobilization they had been forced to confront since 1976, which included two massive national strikes and several regional ones, the armed forces consistently disregarded intelligence reports about radical activities in Ayacucho. Even the army’s official history of the war cites early reports about Maoist organizations, and the violent struggles over free education in Huanta in 1969 had already revealed the leadership (and momentary imprisonment) of one Abimael Guzmán (Comisión Permanente de Historia del Ejército del Perú [hereafter CPHEP] 2010, 17; Degregori 2011). Furthermore, before handing over power to Belaunde, the military reportedly got rid of archives containing critical information on subversive activities in the rural districts of the south-central highlands (Gorriti 1990, 83). Blatant myopia about the enemy was an inevitable result. In April 1984 the minister of war still believed that Maoists in Ayacucho were getting support from Colombia’s M19 or Chile’s MIR guerrillas (Pease 1989, 582). In a memoir published in 1989, General Clemente Noel of the Peruvian army, who ruled Ayacucho with an iron fist as its fi rst political-military commander in 1983, still traced the roots of the conflict to the guerrillas of the 1960s, and described the strategy of the Shining Path in terms of their territorial gains (Noel Moral 1989, 25, 41). As stated in the introduction to this volume, scholarly disorientation added to the confusion of the early 1980s. Stuck in Cold War grand revolutionary equations, scholars of Peru had a hard time figuring out the singularities of provincial insurgents (McClintock 1998, 3; see also Poole and Rénique 1991; Starn 1995a; Starn 1991; Degregori 2012b, 37–70). During the fi rst years of the confl ict, the insurgents profited from their own effective strategy and organization as well as the fragility of the state in Ayacucho and poor decisions by the central government. While the attack on Chuschi’s voting center became the symbolic start of the armed struggle, the Shining Path had hit before, striking a mining camp in Cerro de Pasco in Peru’s central highlands and a police station in the lower-class suburb of San Martin de Porres in Lima. Still, the most important initial efforts were carried out by its Main Regional Committee (Comité Regional Principal) in Ayacucho, Apurímac, and Huancavelica, all poor, heavily indigenous rural regions of

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the south-central highlands. This was Sendero’s stronghold. Trained groups known as “armed groups without arms” attacked police stations and mining centers in isolated towns. These raids were conducted to execute authorities and steal weapons, ammunition, and dynamite for future targets. They also reinforced the central role of ideology in the Shining Path’s strategy: they did not need weapons to launch the revolution. Conviction sufficed. By 1982, they had made important military progress, begun attacking larger towns, and transitioned toward more vicious, symbolically charged acts of violence against police officers and other local leaders (CVR 2003a, 2:32–33). Some of the most consequential landmarks of this process were the attack on the police station in Tambo (La Mar, Ayacucho), on October 11, 1981; the escape of Shining Path militants from Huamanga’s prison on March 2, 1982; the attack against a police outpost in Vilcashuamán near the end of that month; the death of Edith Lagos, one of the militants who had fled prison, on September 2, 1982, and the funeral that followed it; and the decision by President Belaunde to grant complete control of the “Emergency Zones” to the armed forces on the last day of that year. The attack against the police in Tambo led to the fi rst declaration of the state of exception in Ayacucho. It also brought the fi rst large contingent of antisubversive police forces, a paratrooper unit known as “Los Sinchis,” into the confl ict. Their recruits came mainly from Lima and other coastal cities, and they already were notorious in Ayacucho for their repression of the movement for free education in Huanta in 1969. Their return in late 1981 was a turning point in the confl ict. Early on, the Sinchis managed to push back against Sendero’s momentum after months of initial “easy” victories against ill-prepared police officers who often were repudiated by local residents due to patterns of abusive behavior. But the Sinchis also became a symbol of state brutality. Stationed for long periods under bad conditions in regions they did not know, and fighting an enemy that was indistinguishable from the local populations they were supposed to protect, the Sinchis were the beginning of a state-led “dirty war” that led to numerous episodes of deeply racist and gendered violence against local peasants, playing directly into the Shining Path’s long-term strategy of generating a wave of “reactionary violence” that would eventually feed their peasant army (CVR 2003a, 2:109). Sendero’s attack on the Huamanga prison in March 1982 created an aura of invincibility. A Shining Path detachment launched a coordinated attack that saw armed men free prisoners, while strategically

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32 José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

located sharpshooters made sure they all could leave the city. Sendero appeared to control the whole city. More than three hundred prisoners, including seventy senderistas, escaped. Days later, police officers kidnapped wounded members of the Shining Path from the city’s hospital and murdered them, in an episode that fed widespread perceptions of police ruthlessness. Less than a month later, a minor attack against the police station in Vilcashuamán resulted in an injury to a guard. President Belaunde traveled to the site to show support for the police. This marked a defi nitive step in the insurgency’s transformation into a national issue. One of the senderistas who had escaped Huamanga’s prison in March was nineteen-year-old Edith Lagos. In September, Lagos died in an armed confrontation in Apurímac. Her funeral in Huamanga was attended by a crowd calculated by some observers to have reached tens of thousands. Even the archbishop of Huamanga, a staunch antiCommunist, performed a special mass for Lagos (Guerrero 2006; Caro Cárdenas 2006). These events, along with an ever-increasing number of attacks, seemed to turn the tides of the war, and of part of the public sphere, in favor of the unknown band of Maoists from Ayacucho. A military witness described the period as “the golden years of senderismo” (Hidalgo Morey 2004, 112). Initial victories attracted militants who had distanced themselves from the electoral path taken by their “legal Left” organizations, which they saw as a betrayal of the principles of the new Left, originally born as a response to the “pacifism” of the “old left” (Pumaruna 1967; Béjar 1990; Flores Galindo 2007; Lust 2013).1 The government’s reluctance to send the armed forces to fight the insurgents unnerved the military and large segments of the population: by mid-1982, a poll revealed that 60 percent of Peruvians wanted the armed forces to take over in Ayacucho (CPHEP 2010, 42). At the same time, the electoral Left, a political force at the time, viewed military intervention with apprehension. The minister of war, General Luis Cisneros Vizquerra, warned that if the armed forces were sent to the Emergency Zones, they would inevitably kill lots of innocent peasants. Cisneros also repeatedly confronted the legal Left, accusing them of carrying out subversive acts themselves. In the meantime, legislation passed as early as 1981 helped frame the conflict in terms of “terrorism,” eventually allowing the armed forces great leeway in combating their enemies and helping to create a long-lasting narrative about the war (CVR 2003a, 2:45, 175).

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Amid this ambivalent political climate and constant escalation of violence, the Shining Path proclaimed the formation of its “People’s Guerrilla Army” (Ejército Guerrillero Popular) on December 3, 1982, to celebrate Guzmán’s birthday. Weeks later, Belaunde gave in. In what was characterized as a true “abdication of democratic authority,” he opted for a purely military solution, giving the armed forces authority to control the Zones of Emergency, which expanded in the following years along with subversive activity to encompass vast territories (Barton 1984). Close to two thousand personnel from the army and navy were sent to Ayacucho. Military witnesses described a tremendously hostile atmosphere as the troops reached Huamanga and other cities, and, later in 1983, massive electoral absenteeism in local elections showed the degree to which Sendero swayed regional politics (CPHEP 2010, 48, 54–55). The armed forces immediately banned journalists and human rights activists from the Emergency Zones. Only days after their arrival in early January 1983, it was reported that peasants in Huaychao, a rural village in Huanta, had killed a column of senderistas. The military and the president publicly praised them and encouraged others to follow their example; others suspected it was a cover for state repression. When a group of journalists from Lima traveled to the region, despite the prohibition, to investigate, tragedy struck: Sinchis had told peasant communities to attack any newcomers, and the peasants of Uchuraccay did just that, murdering the journalists and their guide with stones and sticks. For many, the Uchuraccay massacre became the ultimate symbol of the conflict. It put Ayacucho at the center of media attention and further polarized all sides. It also led to myriad interpretations, all of which brought Andean peasants under scrutiny. Perhaps the most prominent interpretation, issued by the state-sponsored investigative commission led by the famed writer Mario Vargas Llosa, contained long-standing prejudices about “primitive” Andean peasants and reduced the problem to a clash of civilizations living in isolation from one another: a modern, coastal, urban Peru, and a “deep,” primitive, rural, Andean hinterland. As a scholarly critic later argued, these ideas, along with the violence itself, revealed that Peru was “in deep trouble” (M. Vargas Llosa 1983; Mayer 1991). Only very recently have scholars shed light on the “Uchuraccay tragedy” in all its historical and local depth, showing that it was marked by the memory of long struggles over community, land, and citizenship (del Pino 2017). The scars were the product of contact, not of isolation.

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When the armed forces entered the Shining Path’s “red zone,” the conflict acquired its full, bloody, face. The Andes had not seen such a degree of violence since the Chilean invasion in the central highlands in 1881–1884, or perhaps the Túpac Amaru rebellion of the 1780s. With no clear strategy, severely limited intelligence, and hindered by the influence of colonialist counterinsurgent formulas ranging from the French guerre révolutionnaire to the American counterinsurgency of the Vietnam era and Argentina’s “fight against subversion,” the military behaved as an occupation force (Cobas 1982; Masterson 1991; Rodríguez Beruff 1983; Villanueva 1973; Degregori and Rivera Paz 1993). The militarization of the state was an old idea among the Peruvian military, and it fueled both Belaunde’s and the Left’s misgivings and Guzmán’s boldness (Toche Medrano 2008, 3). From that perspective, the velasquista and the Southern Cone regimes had been two different modes of counterinsurgent politics: the fi rst was aimed at the cooptation of the popular sectors, while the second sought the elimination of the insurgency, expecting to obtain a quick victory regardless of social and political costs (Gorriti 2003, 97). According to a military source, “the nature of the enemy as well as the circumstances” often made “indiscriminate repression” the norm (Hidalgo Morey 2004, 211). Very few listened when the military claimed that, to achieve a lasting victory, the state would have to fulfill its role and take care of the structural socioeconomic and political problems of the country (Noel Moral 1989, 38). It took only two months for General Noel to be sued by a public attorney for the alleged murder of three Ayacucho peasants, and weeks later Belaunde told the press that he would throw human rights reports “directly into the trashcan” (CVR 2003a, 2:182–183). Army barracks like “Los Cabitos” in Huamanga became killing and torture grounds, and conflicts increased between the armed forces and the police, which had effectively become a subaltern force, trained in counterinsurgent tactics on the field by the military, frequently in brutal ways (CVR 2003a, 2:114–115). As a historian of the period put it, peasants by then often feared Sendero, but the police and armed forces were often hated (Taylor 1998, 94; CPHEP 2010, 50). Noel’s successor in 1984, General Adrián Huamán, had experience fighting the guerrillas of 1965. But he was also a native of Ayacucho, fluent in Quechua, and advocated a more “social” and developmental approach to the war that was based on efforts to gain the support of the local peasant communities. He was known for paternalistic gestures, from the traditional distribu-

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tion of bread to the organization of the harvests and control over social spending in the region. He also supported the notion of peasant self-defense organizations (comités de autodefensa, or CAD) to combat the insurgents, although he refused to arm or train them. Nevertheless, his approach clashed with civilian fears of a new military takeover of government functions and political life, and he did not last long. Crucially, moreover, human rights violations by the armed forces spiked under his leadership, and the fi rst mass graves were found in Ayacucho (CVR 2003a, 2:183). The military onslaught did see the armed forces inflict significant casualties on the rebels. The military increased its number of patrols and took back police stations and villages after a long period of absence. But they were fighting the wrong war, misreading their enemies’ strategies. The insurgents did not budge. They too chased victory regardless of human costs. The territorial approach to the war taken by the armed forces meant that they were susceptible to the Shining Path’s hit-and-run attacks, and whenever they took back a village, often brutally, they would then leave it at the mercy of senderista retaliation. It was the era of massacres and mass graves. Among many examples, the emblematic case of the Santiago de Lucanamarca massacre illustrates the level of degradation in those years. In mid-March 1983, a community vigilante group killed a Shining Path operative in a village in Huancasancos, Ayacucho, an early symptom of the gradual souring of the senderista relationship with the local population. In revenge, sixty rebels captured and killed sixty-nine individuals, including women and children, on April 3, using axes and machetes or shooting them in the head at close range. The killing was cold and deliberate. In his 1988 interview, Guzmán confirmed the authorship and its motivation. In the face of an attempt to “use the masses against the Party,” “[t]he Central Leadership itself planned the action and gave the instructions. That’s how it was. [. . .] They understood that they were dealing with a different kind of people’s fighters, that we weren’t the same as those they fought before” (Guzmán Reynoso 1988). Lucanamarca was part of a broader pattern. Numbers confi rm the dramatic turn in the conflict that many by then were calling a “war,” although another two decades passed before serious quantitative research was published. With 3,996 fatalities and 2,742 detainees, 1983 and 1984 were the bloodiest years. Between 1982 and 1983, the number of ammonium nitratefuel oil (ANFO) explosives and dynamite sticks stolen throughout the highlands went from 12,366 to 185,473 (CVR 2003a, 6:510). ANFO

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and TNT were logical weapons in a mining country, and symbols of a war built from scratch, without foreign patrons or supplies. Combatants learned on the go and stole their weapons from their enemies. It was an army rooted in values of sacrifice and commitment, and on the militants’ willingness to dissolve their individuality in the name of collective action. They paid their “quota of blood,” to use a phrase from the semi-religious senderista jargon. For some years, then, “Gonzalo Thought” proved effective with local units in charge of specific jurisdictions. Sendero’s initial success was based on a combination of cohesion and flexibility: although “the party controls everything,” decisions on how to apply a general directive dictated by the leadership was left to local commanders. Led by the graduates of the First Military School, they would decide where to attack or who to “annihilate.” Local commanders transmitted the party’s orders, and local recruits provided local knowledge. The “popular war” moved forward through a patchy dynamic carefully planned to take advantage of the countless rifts and confl icts within a rural society; depending on site-specific circumstances, it also absorbed and/or destroyed the “peasant work” of other leftist competitors. Locals responded with their own strategies of survival to an ever-changing conflict that often caught them “between two fi res” (Berg 1992; Aroni Sulca 2016b). While the paradigm of a peasantry “between two fi res” has been heavily criticized for comparable contexts, it is worth noting that in this case, Sendero’s strategy of “beating the countryside” (batir el campo) in those years consisted precisely of unbridling violence from both sides, in order to force peasant communities to take sides (Grandin 1995).

Feet of Clay: The Expansion of Violence and the Growing National Crisis during APRA’s First Government, 1985–1990 In a remarkable turn of events in the history of the Andean region, by the mid-1980s Ayacucho had produced a “syncretic phenomenon” encompassing the key elements that Raj Desai and Harry Eckstein have identified in modern peasant insurgencies: (1) the ideology and organization of “modern revolutions,” visible in the Leninist party structure of professional cadres that harnessed and directed the energy of the masses toward transformative goals; (2) the operational doctrines of guerrilla warfare as developed in Asian confl icts, which made it possi-

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ble to build strength and coercive capacity for specific political goals; and (3) the “spirit” of traditional peasant rebellion, an “archaic” element that, adequately tapped, could supply the “passionate energy” to propel a major modern insurgency. This mix, according to Desai and Eckstein, could display the force of a natural calamity, as Peruvians were tragically learning (Desai and Eckstein 1990). By the time the national government deployed the military, the Shining Path insurgents were already expanding their insurrection into new territory in the jungle, in other highland regions, and on the coast. In the Amazon rain forest, their efforts were focused on the Huallaga Valley, a potentially rich region containing the world’s main center of coca production that offered an ideal terrain for hosting a “guerrilla army.” In the highlands, the Shining Path would assert its presence in the “red zone,” move toward larger cities, expand toward the northern sierra, and, above all, focus on the central highlands. In the central sierra, key national transport and electricity grids could be sabotaged. The central highlands also included important agricultural and mining areas (crucial to getting dynamite). The region was envisioned as a “second ring” from which to pressure the central coast, particularly Lima. The national capital, with its “enormous masses of the poor in its neighborhoods and shantytowns” (the “fi rst ring”) offered promising possibilities for the “popular war,” and, as the seat of political and economic power, it was the war’s ultimate prize (Guzmán Reynoso 1988; Kernaghan 2009). But although Sendero seemed ready to take the offensive, some regions were harder than others to penetrate. Colonel Hidalgo Morey, for example, acknowledged “military maturity” in the performance of the senderistas in two critical areas: the Huallaga and Mantaro valleys (Hidalgo Morey 2004, 144). The pattern of expansion seen in Ayacucho and the neighboring provinces of Apurímac and Huancavelica was not possible in Junin or Puno, however, where peasant organizations were much stronger. The Shining Path met resistance there, despite managing to gather support early on to dismantle the agrarian units created by the national government’s agrarian reform, which were often perceived by local peasants as a continuation of the old haciendas. Their attempts to impose economic autarky and their aggressive methods of recruitment were rejected in these regions, where peasant communities were more mercantile and less “semi-feudal” than those in the original “red zone” (Manrique 1998; Rénique 1998). In Amazonian regions, even murkier situations emerged. As it was con-

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sidered a vital zone of refuge from the armed forces, the Shining Path attempted to impose extreme forms of regimentation in certain Amazonian territories, which eventually incited opposition from the locals, who were organized in ways that were frequently alien to the senderistas. In a pattern that has been all too common in the relationships between Amazonian indigenous populations and colonists, local resistance was often met with extreme violence (del Pino 1998). The Shining Path carried out some of its most devastating attacks against native populations in the jungles of central Peru. The Ashaninka peoples were hit particularly hard by actions that have been characterized as genocidal. The Peruvian Truth Commission estimated that in a total population of 55,000, nearly one-fifth (or some 10,000) of the Ashaninka were displaced, 6,000 were murdered, and 5,000 were held captive in labor camps (CVR 2003a, 5:161–162). Furthermore, in all regions, including their Ayacucho stronghold, the very strategies that had allowed Sendero to make progress were beginning to reach their limits. Their manipulation of preexisting local conflicts and tremendous use of violence to exploit power vacuums in rural areas to create “the new power” through “popular committees” eventually came back to haunt them in many places. This became particularly acute starting in 1983, when the Shining Path began employing a new generation of local cadres, who often belligerently ignored traditional communal norms, igniting all kinds of clashes and even rebellions within peasant communities. The senderistas also reacted with extreme violence when the armed forces were deployed to Ayacucho. Seeking to dispel the notion that the military offensive would defeat them by 1985, they furiously attacked the communities that had been reclaimed by the armed forces. These “counter-restorations” (contrarreestablecimientos) typically placed severe restraints on the mobility of peasants, disrupted their economic cycles, used their children for armed actions, and were marked by shocking acts of violence such as those at Lucanamarca (CVR 2003a, 2:46–47; Gavilán 2012). Therefore, senderista expansion, although sizable, was marked by a “consistent capacity” both “to win and to squander an initial political base” (Stern 1998b). Acquiring support through “popular justice” and inciting resistance to their authoritarian ways were two dimensions of the same dynamic. It would be years, however, before the state’s coercive forces could take full advantage of these contradictions. Greater success was perhaps not possible while Peru remained under Belaunde’s government, which was paralyzed by the memory of

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the mid-1960s drama, but also unwilling to engage in a more ambitious developmental and political agenda. Given the limitations of the Shining Path’s capacity to “conquer bases throughout the country,” the destiny of the war hinged on the state’s capacity to fi nally administer the countryside efficiently. The change of regime in 1985 seemed to offer that possibility of rectification. Under those circumstances, Sendero’s move toward Lima was an opportunistic quest to cover its regional weaknesses rather than a decision based on its military prowess (Hidalgo Morey 2004, 124). This explains why, in mid-1986, the Shining Path announced that the “people’s war” was now “taking the countryside and the city as a single whole, with the countryside the main theatre of armed action and the city a complementary but necessary one (CC-PCP 1986a).” Given its historical background and organizational resources, the fi rst regime of the long-vetoed Aprista Party created great expectations about what it could do in the fight against subversion. Unlike his predecessor, the young and energetic Alan García Peréz (1985–1990) seemed ready to act in two critical directions: targeting subversion in a more integral way and enforcing respect for human rights. The fi rst involved bringing in the state to act upon the socioeconomic factors that fueled rural unrest by initiating economic development programs like Plan Sierra and Trapecio Andino, and through new representative spaces like the Rimanakuy (regional forums in which the president and his cabinet met community representatives to discuss matters of development as well as security). The second was to act decisively to contain state violations of human rights. On that front, García sent a promising message just two weeks after his inauguration, in response to the “massacre of Accomarca,” another of the confl ict’s representative episodes. On August, 14, 1985, in Accomarca, a small village of Vilcashuamán, Ayacucho, at least sixty-two people, including twentysix children, were executed by two army patrols led by Sub-lieutenant Telmo Hurtado. The massacre was part of a revenge mission in response to a Shining Path ambush suspected to have been performed with the complicity of the community. Soon after the news broke, and with some pressure from the Peruvian Congress, President García dismissed the commander of the Ayacucho Emergency Zone, Wilfredo Mori, and the rest of the command of the armed forces (CVR 2003a, 7:102–112). Less than a year into García’s government, any positive intentions in this area were cut short by the impact of another infamous mas-

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sacre. Prisoners accused of terrorism were killed as police and military agents repressed a coordinated protest launched in June 18–19, 1986, in several jails in Lima. Any semblance of a civilized implementation of the counterinsurgent war sank in the blood of the victims of summary executions and bombings in prisons like El Frontón, Canto Grande, and Lurigancho. With more than 250 fatalities, the episode drew significant unwanted international attention, as it coincided with a meeting of the Socialist International hosted by García in Lima. The “massacre of the prisons” gave the Shining Path another opportunity to tout its discipline and revolutionary mystique. A few months earlier, images transmitted by the international press had emphasized the contrast between the sordid world of Peruvian jails and the frantic order prevailing in the “luminous trenches of combat” of the pavilions controlled by the Maoists. After June 1986, senderista prisoners were enshrined as the epitome of “heroism” and “sacrificial spirit” (CC-PCP 1986b; Rénique 2003; Infante 2007). Guzmán claimed that far from discouraging the senderistas, the “cold-blooded barbarism” displayed against them in the prisons actually fed their combativeness. As suggested by the following quotation, senderista texts of the late 1980s could be read, paraphrasing the theoretician of jihad Abu Bakr Naji, as a manual for the “management of savagery” (Naji 2006): “Their criminal barbarity has fi lled the masses. Their new heights of infamy have been registered forever in the memories of countless masses who will mete out crushing punishment to those who are politically and militarily responsible, no matter how long it may take” (CC-PCP 1986a). Writing from his hideout in Lima after a decade in hiding, and physically detached from most of the bloody realities of war, by 1988 Guzmán seemed to believe that the “people’s war” was moving toward its next critical stage: “strategic equilibrium.” This was, in theory, a transition between “strategic defense” and “strategic offense,” which would be possible through the acquisition of “modern means of war.” In the meantime, “humble dynamite” would remain the “weapon of the people.” How could a war fought with “the simplest weapons that everyone from among the masses can wield” turn into a full-scale war for national power? Although Guzmán thought his party had a “mass character,” he never purported to turn it into a “mass party” like those embracing “rotten revisionist positions.” Rather, it was “an instrument of war like the one Lenin himself would demand”—the kind of party that led the October Revolution with 80,000 members in a country of 150 million

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inhabitants. Through the organisms of “the new power,” they would be able to bring to the center of the system the energy accumulated in the peripheries. This would provoke a crisis of such magnitude that it would bring about foreign intervention, a situation in which “the United States can mobilize our neighboring countries” or “they could intervene directly, with their own troops.” Then, “the oppressed nation-imperialist contradiction would become the main one, and that would give us an even broader basis on which to unite our people” (Guzmán Reynoso 1988). This scenario was clearly drawn from the experience of China after the Japanese invasion of 1937. Was it an even remotely realistic scenario in fin-de-siècle Latin America? According to this idea, the possibility of transforming the “popular war” into a “patriotic war” led by the Shining Path depended on its capacity to push the country into further chaos. This alone would have been no small feat, but the rest of Guzmán’s plan was based on an even shakier premise: a worldwide revolutionary offensive. By then, however, “capitalist roaders” had taken over even Mao’s fatherland, and both the Berlin Wall and the Soviet Union were disintegrating. The world was marching in the opposite direction to that imagined by “President Gonzalo.” The burden of fulfi lling this pipe dream fell squarely on the shoulders of his ragtag “People’s Guerrilla Army” and the increasingly younger and inexperienced “masses,” who periodically convened to destroy and kill throughout the country. Guzmán believed that by the end of the 1990s, his party’s historical mission would be to usher in a new millennium in which communism “will be defi nitively stamped on history and humanity will take a leap from the realm of necessity into the realm of liberty.” Unsurprisingly, the new historical chapter began with the Shining Path’s providential decision to “climb the slopes of another mountain in order to scale more brilliant summits.” Absolute victory was the only acceptable outcome, and all compromise was the “black flag of the reaction” (Guzmán Reynoso 1988). Achieving their ends would justify spilling copious amounts of blood, as the suicidal resistance in the prisons, ordered by Guzmán, showed. But not, of course, the blood of the leader, who guaranteed the party’s continuity. The twentieth-century era of revolutionary militancy was withering away everywhere, as the world entered neoliberal times. Somehow, attempts to relaunch it continued in Peru. In 1984 the Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA), a new armed organization, entered the fray as a renewed expression of the classic guerrilla insurgents of

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the 1960s. A detailed analysis of the MRTA is beyond the scope of this chapter, but suffice it to say that at numerous points they added to the atmosphere of violence and confusion in 1980s Peru. They usually followed the laws of war more closely than the Shining Path, but they also kidnapped and murdered civilians. In some cases, they fought the senderistas over resources and strategic territory. They also made the waters of the political arena murkier. For example, after reaching an agreement with President García for a year of truce, they put him under the spotlight again when, days before the end of his presidential term, more than forty inmates associated with the MRTA (including their leader and the member of a prominent family linked to APRA, Víctor Polay Campos) escaped prison. They also complicated Alberto Fujimori’s triumphalist narrative between December 1997 and April 1998 when they held dozens of high-profile hostages for four months in the residence of the Japanese ambassador to Peru. Emerretistas, as militants of the MRTA were known, managed to be a thorn in the side of everyone for more than a decade (Meza Bazán 2012). With his proposal to blend socialism and Andean traditions within the framework of “mariateguismo,” the historian Alberto Flores Galindo reignited discussions about the political traction of the radical tradition. “Millenarism and messianism loom in Peru because politics here is not just a secular activity,” Flores Galindo remarked in 1986. By then, the Partido Unificado Mariateguista, the largest party of the legal Left, was wracked by an internal debate triggered by a proposal to create an armed self-defense organization (Rénique 2004, 245–250). Other less politicized Peruvians looked for hope among the profusion of evangelical groups (some of which featured an undeniably nativist slant) that seemed to crop up throughout the margins of “official Peru” (Curatola 1997; De la Torre 2005; Ossio Acuña 2015). As Stern observed, in the 1980s and the early 1990s “the sense of enigma and surprise was not really limited to Sendero Luminoso alone [. . .] Peru as a whole seemed to lurch from surprise to surprise” (Stern 1998a, 3). Economic ruin was widespread from 1988 onward. After García’s demand-driven economic policies succumbed to a cycle of combined hyperinflation and recession, as well as to intense liberal opposition, his response, a structural adjustment, unleashed a social crisis of unknown proportions (Parodi Trece 2002). The discovery of a state-led paramilitary extermination group with close ties to APRA’s higherups contributed to the feeling of instability and further eroded the gov-

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ernment’s legitimacy (Comisión investigadora de grupos paramilitares 1989). The widely shared notion that the country was confronting the worst crisis in its republican history fueled both despair and radicalization. Was Lima ripe for a fi nal assault? Were Sendero Luminoso’s regional bases strong enough to sustain this leap forward, or was this ultimately an escape forward? Apparently, although they had extended their clandestine network throughout most of the country, their expansion was not accompanied by a net growth of their forces (Hidalgo Morey 2004, 144). To fill this growing gap they resorted to two strategies, one rural and one urban, that led to a spiral of death matched only by the period from 1982 to 1984. More than two thousand fatalities occurred each year between 1987 and 1992, with victims now in almost every department of the country. In the cities, particularly in Huamanga, Lima, and Huancayo, the Shining Path made growing use of urban terror by means of car bombs and the so-called “commands of annihilation.” They also added to the anxiety of the urban populations with attacks against the power grid that generated long blackouts, “armed strikes,” and infiltration of local grassroots organizations, particularly in shantytowns and other popular neighborhoods, and of public universities (CVR 2003a, 1:55). In the countryside, Sendero intensified demands upon its rural bases by using ever more coercive methods of recruitment. Sendero’s actions, in combination with the extended presence of the armed forces, took yet another turn for the worse. The intricate configurations of those years are only starting to be disentangled by researchers. The anthropologist Kimberly Theidon recently described the complexity of the local rural milieus: Without denying the pressures exerted by the senderista cadre as well as the armed forces, the idea of being “caught between two fi res” does not help us understand the brutal violence that involved entire pueblos or the fact that there was a “third fi re,” comprised of peasants themselves. In the words of many villagers, “we learned to kill our brothers.” (Theidon 2012, 5)

Amid these dramatic developments, the state and its coercive forces had begun adjusting their strategies. The Counter-Terrorism Direction (DIRCOTE), a specialized investigative police unit, was created in 1983. Despite working for long periods in extremely precarious and dangerous conditions, DIRCOTE achieved striking results that pro-

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vided better intelligence on the Shining Path and led to important captures. State forces quickly realized that the hits that would hurt the Maoists the most were not military, but political. They targeted the leaders, often with a majority of the funding coming from foreign sources (including from the US Central Intelligence Agency and the Israeli Mossad). DIRCOTE eventually managed to work in relative independence from the political pressures of the time. Since the captured Shining Path members rarely exposed their comrades, partially because the party’s compartmentalized structure limited such knowledge, the police unit focused heavily on analyzing documents found in raids. DIRCOTE eventually underwent several changes of names and personnel, but kept a core of capable investigators. Its resources were limited, despite increased support during the years of the APRA government, so by 1987 they decided to focus solely on the Shining Path’s political and logistical apparatus in Lima. This decision proved fateful five years later, when one of their raids led to the capture of Abimael Guzmán in the capital. Given Sendero Luminoso’s vertical organizational structure, his capture proved to be a crucial moment in the history of the war (Jiménez 2000; CVR 2003a, 2:110–150). The armed forces also adapted. In 1989 they changed their geographic orientation from traditional military regions to “AntiSubversive Fronts” based on the Shining Path’s spatial expansion (CVR 2003a, 2:198). More importantly, a trend emerged that would help define the course of the confl ict and of Peruvian politics in the decade to come. Influenced by the Taiwanese School of War, the armed forces adopted a more integral and political conception of war. This led to broadly approaching the political realm as part of the war effort, a strategy that Fujimori and his spymaster, Vladimiro Montesinos, would later exploit to rule the country (CVR 2003a, 2:225–234). But in the countryside, the integration of the conflict’s social and political aspects with its military facets led to the formation of an armed alliance between the military and the peasants: “for the fi rst time in nine years the Armed Forces were securing peasant confidence in the most disputed areas of the conflict” (Degregori and Rivera Paz 1993, 13). This approach led to the formation of thousands of self-defense committees armed by the Peruvian state, a critical force in undermining the senderista rearguard. By the early 1990s there were some 3,445 rondas campesinas, which would ultimately defeat Sendero at its “peasant war” (Hidalgo Morey 2004, 158). Still, during those years, tragic setbacks slowed the process. One

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such event was the massacre of Cayara, Ayacucho, in May 1988, during which thirty-five adults and children were killed by two military patrols that accused the cayarinos of collaborating with Shining Path. The massive cover-up that ensued exhausted what little credibility the regime still had (CVR 2003a, 7:203–214). Moreover, the armed forces approved a new Manual of Military Operations in the Emergency Zones while Peru was still under APRA’s rule. The manual explicitly established a policy of eliminating non-armed members of the Shining Path—the members of its “people’s committees.” Its application, said Ollanta Humala Tasso, then an army captain, encouraged human rights violations and stirred crises of conscience among young officers like himself (Humala Tasso 2009, 40–42). Meanwhile, the Shining Path’s goal of bringing the insurgency to the country’s capital raised daunting challenges for the senderistas. From infiltrating cultural groups through organizations such as the Movement of Popular Artists to preparing “armed strikes” that resembled rehearsals for a fi nal assault on Lima, the party was working to the limits of its resources. Mistakes, therefore, were costlier than ever before. Two in particular epitomized the new turn. The fi rst was the assassination of María Elena Moyano on February 15, 1992. Moyano was a popular leftist and feminist Afro-Peruvian grassroots leader from the Villa El Salvador neighborhood; her body was blown into pieces in front of her family after she had been shot for opposing Sendero’s infiltration of local politics. In the second, on July 16 of that year, a car bomb placed in the Tarata street of the traditional uppermiddle- class district of Miraflores caused twenty-five fatalities and wounded as many as two hundred. The viciousness of these two events captured the imagination of limeños of all classes: not coincidentally, popular movies have been produced about both. Eventually, Guzmán and his second in command (and living partner), Elena Iparraguirre, apologized for them. They argued that the car bomb was supposed to explode in front of a nearby bank at off-hours without causing civilian casualties, and that the use of dynamite against Moyano had been an excess committed by those in charge of an otherwise justifiable execution of someone alleged to be collaborating with the security forces (Burt 2011). At the national level, the battle for the Upper Huallaga Valley appeared by the late 1980s to be the key for propelling the “people’s war” to a “strategic offensive” given the growth of the illegal coca market. Control over part of its income would provide the Shining

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Path with the means to acquire the modern weaponry required to take the offensive. The region was also a key source of manpower for the assault on Lima. After a complex, multisided struggle that involved MRTA, the US Drug Enforcement Agency, the Peruvian armed forces, international drug cartels, and coca planters, the Shining Path managed to gain a degree of control over the region by 1989, establishing itself as a mediator between producers and the Colombian cartels in a chapter of the Latin American Cold War that seemed to forecast the subsequent era of the “wars on terror”: an apocalyptic orgy of violence fueled by the insurgents’ capacity to sustain themselves through autonomous revenue streams linked to drug trafficking (Dreyfus 1999; Kay 1999; Gonzáles 1992; Dawson 2011, 226). But Sendero’s role was challenged by a growing counterintelligence force that had no moral qualms about making deals with the cartels—the armed forces’ more “integral” approach to counterinsurgency could show remarkable ethical flexibility, particularly when there was money to be had under the table. Vladimiro Montesinos, an obscure lawyer with ties to both the cartels and the CIA as well as a former Peruvian army captain who had been expelled on espionage charges, began a meteoric ascent that would turn him into the country’s foremost behind-the-scenes political operator by the early 1990s (CVR 2003a, 2:201). In retrospect, it is understandable that not only the morality but also the effectiveness of Guzmán’s strategies has been questioned from all sides. Colonel Hidalgo Morey has pointed to the theoretical inconsistency of Guzmán’s “strategic equilibrium,” questioning how an organization that increasingly depended on forced recruitment could trust its recruits to operate modern weaponry (Hidalgo Morey 2004, 161–162). Even one of Guzmán’s comrades, Oscar Ramírez Durand, also known as “Comrade Feliciano,” questioned Guzmán’s integrity. Ramírez, who would lead a Sendero column that remained at war long after Guzmán had abandoned the group, doubted Guzmán’s reasons for perpetually postponing a move to the countryside. Guzmán’s absence created an insurmountable divide between his clique and those who carried the burden of the war on the ground. His lack of field experience—“he never faced a siege, he has never been in an operation,” “Feliciano” accused—made any serious debate about military issues with him impossible (CVR 2002a). Unlike the accounts of Hidalgo Morey and Oscar Ramírez Durand, a report prepared by Gordon McCormick for the US Secretary of Defense was written before the Shining Paths’ collapse. McCormick argued that he could not imagine the

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Maoists “taking Lima,” but he believed they could generate “political disintegration”; they were able and willing to “make a bad situation worse.” Whether they would cause such a collapse hinged on their strength in the countryside, their ability to isolate Lima from the rest of Peru, and, ultimately, whether the Peruvian government would finally understand the way Sendero worked (McCormick 1990, 77).

Authoritarian Epilogue: Fujimorismo and the Narrative of Success In a 1992 US congressional hearing about the situation in Peru, Bernard W. Aronson, the US assistant secretary of state for Inter-American Affairs, minced no words: “Make no mistake,” he said, if the Shining Path were to take power, “the result could be genocide,” as its goal was “to remake Peruvian society just as the Khmer Rouge set out to reduce Cambodia to the Year Zero.” Reinforcing his somber warning, Aronson then quoted Abimael Guzmán himself: “The revolution will triumph after the Peruvian people ‘cross over the river of blood’” (Crossette 1992). Six months later, Guzmán was in custody. In the fi rst speech given after his capture, President Alberto Fujimori referred to him as “Abimael the exterminator,” a “monster” who with inhumane coldness had ordered the assassination of María Elena Moyano, the slaughter of Tarata, and countless other incursions into neighborhoods and villages in which men and women had been executed in the most horrific ways (Burt 2011). Guzmán’s capture, on September 12, 1992, was a turning point in the making of a powerful narrative of what Carlos Iván Degregori labeled “the fi rst media-based dictatorship in Latin America” (Degregori 2000a). The coup on April 5 of that year, when Fujimori ordered the military to close the Congress and imprison key critics, was legitimized in the eyes of many by the capture of Guzmán. The regime then acquired its fi nal shape during the next months through two decisive events: the failed “constitutional coup” led by General Jaime Salinas Sedó, and the elections of a Democratic Constituent Congress on November 13 and 22. The years from Fujimori’s surprising electoral victory over Mario Vargas Llosa in June 1990 to the legalization of the “Fujicoup” in May 1992 were, as the title of a propagandistic video suggested, “Three Years That Changed Peruvian History” (Fujimori 1993). The master fujimorista narrative was displayed in that piece. It presented Presi-

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48 José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner

dent Fujimori as a man who saved the nation from an evil alliance of terrorists and drug traffickers attempting to transform Peru into “the world’s fi rst república cocalera”; “an empire of vice and crime” that would have destroyed millions of lives. This nefarious objective relied on the passive complicity of the traditional parties—the partidocracia that held power during most of Peru’s recent democratic history. Suddenly, through Fujimori, the enigmatic drama of the last few years had found a plausible explanation. Importantly, now words were supported by deeds. Fujimori was quick to develop an effective presidential style. Freed from hyperinflation, and with Guzmán in jail and the terrorists on the run, Peru’s future looked promising for fi rst time in a long while. According to polls, 70 percent of the population agreed with the Fujicoup (Fujimori 1993). The path seemed clear for realization of the fujimorista promise: a democracy based not on speeches but on good administration, “conducted by selfless technocrats instead of self-serving politicians” (Conaghan 2005, 3). The video also featured an ad hoc, self-serving historical plot. From the military caudillos of the past to the civilians and their crony political parties of more recent times, a depressing continuity of selfish and incompetent rulers was described. It was a history of frustration in which even innovators like Haya de la Torre ultimately betrayed their ideals. This accumulation of wrongdoings was crowned by the “worst crisis in republican history,” providentially solved through the rise of Alberto Fujimori, a man with a different vision and values rooted in his immigrant condition who was courageous enough to take the reins of a country in ruins (Fujimori 1993; see also Jochamowitz 1993). To his popular touch, Fujimori quickly added the critical support of the military command and the economic elites, as well as that of the international fi nancial community. By late 1992 a consensus had emerged: a legally and morally unrestrained government was needed to end the calamities of the 1980s (Vergara 2013, 176). It was not, of course, a novel proposition: from Odría to Velasco, the call for ironfisted rule evoked other moments of Peru’s troubled recent political history. Fujimorism emerged as a suitable vehicle to bring the country back from the brink of collapse, because it was capable of creating consent around neoliberal reform, provided political support to run an anti-insurgent campaign unencumbered by “excessive” legal constraints, and presented itself as a voice of the people in spite of the unpopular nature of his economic policies. The “people’s war” came to its end as a result of defeats on two

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fronts. The fi rst was effective investigative police work. Anti-terrorist intelligence forces captured Sendero Luminoso’s leaders without fi ring a single shot, and the organization fell apart as soon as Guzmán was imprisoned. The second breakthrough resulted from the mass mobilization of the so-called self-defense committees, or anti-subversive peasant rondas. The peasant war was turned on its head: those expected to be the central protagonists of the “people’s war” had rebelled against it. For many of the ronderos, siding with the armed forces meant emancipation from senderista abuses. Rondero identity, under these circumstances, became defiant: a rondero’s aggressiveness could be directed toward a variety of purposes. This ambiguity was reflected in the Peruvian Truth Commision’s characterization of ronderos: “In no other actor of the war is the line between perpetrator and victim, between hero and villain, as thin and porous as in the case of the CAD [comités de autodefensa]” (CVR 2003a, 2:288; Starn 1993). The rondas had been several years in the making, but only in late 1991 were they fully embraced by the state. They were then acknowledged as “free and spontaneous” civil society associations, although many of them had been created by the armed forces. Their numbers doubled between 1993 and 2000, by which time there were around eight thousand legally recognized CADs, with some half a million members. While opponents saw in them the “militarization” of society, Fujimori believed they still had a role to play in the broader scheme of national security (CVR 2003a, 2:300). A new rural armed player, under governmental control, had been born in the territory in which autonomous and rebellious peasant organizations had prevailed during the 1960s and 1970s. The CADs offered direct local connections for a regime that loved to emphasize Fujimori’s hyperactive agenda. Disregarding regional bureaucratic structures, Fujimori toured the Andean areas, usually accompanied by the minister of the presidency, who directed an agency that played a fundamental role in expediting the process of funding small infrastructural projects and coopting leaders at the local level. The military acted as Fujimori’s political platform, organizing his tours, providing security and transportation, and even organizing “spontaneous” demonstrations of public support. In this sense, parallels between fujimorismo and velasquismo point to continuities that deserve deeper analysis (Vergara 2014). The “people’s war” had, paradoxically, afforded Fujimori the opportunity to continue the peculiar kind of counterinsurgent work developed by Velasco. It was an opportunity to handle the old problem

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of integration, the so-called “Indian problem” of the early twentiethcentury, which had historically frustrated the making of the Peruvian nation. Velasco conceived a corporatist solution in which, under the inspiration of Túpac Amaru, an organized peasantry would take its place in a militarized republic. In contrast, Fujimori offered a style of doing things, without the nuisance of professional politicians and palabrería (excessive talk). Instead, his was a pragmatic tone, where gente sencilla (simple people) like himself would stand on hierarchies to build a nation tailor-made to meet its population’s greatest needs. It was a “sui generis democracy” that would open channels for Peruvians to become the protagonists of modernization (Conaghan 2005, 4, 7). The state would thus meet the “popular overflow” (desborde popular) that had transformed Peru into a vibrant but chaotic urbanizing nation since the mid-twentieth century. In the “capitalist revolution” to come, millions of former peasants would, somehow, fi nally fi nd their place in the “official Peru” from which they had until then been excluded (Collier 1976; Degregori, Blondet, and Lynch 1986; Golte and Adams 1987; de Althaus 2008; Rochabrún 2007). Few could have predicted that by 1993 the man who had described dialogue with other political forces as “cheap demagoguery” would recognize the achievements of the Fujicoup. Fujimorismo had coopted even Abimael Guzmán (Rénique 2003, 106–108; Guzmán Reynoso 1988). Fujimori’s “intelligence adviser,” Vladimiro Montesinos, used the opportunity to articulate a reelection campaign and, further ahead, an authoritarian, murderous regime that has been described as “the most corrupt in the history of Peru” (Quiroz 2008, 439). Note 1. For a more detailed discussion of this issue, see chapter 8 in this volume.

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CHAP T ER 2

Civil Wars and Their Consequences: The Peruvian Armed Conflict in Comparative Perspective Livia Isabella Schubiger and David Sulmont

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Peru was ravaged by the longest and deadliest armed conflict in the Republic’s history (CVR 2003a). It has been estimated that between 1980 and 2000, about seventy thousand people lost their lives in the conflict (Ball et al. 2003). Most of the victims have been attributed to the insurgent group Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso) and the Peruvian government, although other armed actors were active as well, in particular rural self-defense forces (known as the comités de autodefensa or rondas campesinas) and the Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA), a revolutionary armed group much smaller and shorter-lived than the Shining Path.1 While some small remnants and splinters of Sendero Luminoso are still active in remote pockets of Peru’s periphery as of 2017, the Shining Path has been considered defeated in most regions of the country since the mid to late 1990s. Nevertheless, the legacies of political violence still impact Peruvian politics and society to significant degrees. This chapter puts the conflict and its repercussions into theoretical and comparative perspective. We largely focus on the armed conflict between Sendero Luminoso and the Peruvian government, and less so on the MRTA or the peasant rondas, the latter of which were central to the eventual weakening of the Shining Path. We argue that recent scholarship on political violence helps to illuminate a number of seemingly idiosyncratic aspects of the Peruvian case regarding both the dynamics of the conflict and postconflict politics. We conclude by highlighting several puzzling features of the Peruvian confl ict that may yield fruitful avenues for future research.

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Armed Conflict in Peru The Peruvian Internal Armed Conflict, as it is called in the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación del Perú, or CVR), sprang from a very particular Peruvian historical context. When Sendero Luminoso decided to initiate its armed struggle on May 17, 1980, Peru was on the eve of its first democratic elections after twelve years of military rule. The Revolutionary Government of the Armed Forces, which had deposed the democratic government of Fernando Belaunde in October 1968, undertook some of the most radical and progressive social reforms in Peruvian history (McClintock and Lowenthal 1985). The economic and social reforms of the military government, particularly the agrarian reform, put an end to the rule of traditional landowners over millions of indigenous peasants in the Andes as well as the political and economic hegemony of the oligarchic class of hacendados and landowners over Peruvian society (Pease 1986). By the end of the 1970s, a democratic transition took place in the midst of an economic crisis and popular mobilizations against the military government. A Constitutional Assembly was elected in 1978, a new constitution was approved in 1979, and general elections took place in 1980 when Belaunde won the presidency for a second time. The new constitution included many progressive civil, political, and social rights and universalized political citizenship by allowing illiterate adults over the age of eighteen to vote. Under the previous constitution, voting had been restricted to literate people over twenty-one years of age, excluding millions of citizens—mainly from rural areas and with indigenous backgrounds. Contrary to other military dictatorships in Latin America (such as in Chile from 1973 to 1990 and Argentina from 1976 to 1983), which targeted left-wing parties and militants and caused massive human rights violations, left-wing organizations and leaders had suffered relatively low levels of repression under the Peruvian military government. They were able to build political organizations that played an important role in the social and political mobilizations during the second half of the 1970s and the electoral processes of the 1980s. Indeed, leftwing political parties (including radicals and Communists) successfully participated in the new elections. The Izquierda Unida electoral alliance received the second-most votes in municipal elections in 1980,

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in which people from more than a thousand constituencies in rural and remote areas were able to elect their local authorities. Although stark social and economic inequalities remained, in 1980 Peru was a society undergoing major social, political, and democratic transformations. A large portion of its rural and indigenous population was claiming fuller citizenship rights; vast amounts of land were redistributed among peasant and indigenous peoples; and radical leftwing parties and social organizations were gaining access to the formal democratic process. In that context, Sendero Luminoso, a small radical Maoist political party, decided to initiate its armed struggle for a Communist revolution in Peru. Sendero’s influence at the time was mainly limited to some provinces of the department of Ayacucho, one of the least-developed regions of the country. 2 Sendero’s fi rst “military” action took place in Chuschi, a small town in Ayacucho’s countryside, where they burnt the electoral materials the day before the general elections of May 18, 1980. As Carlos Ivan Degregori points out (Degregori 2012a, 38–40), the insurgency of Sendero Luminoso came as a “triple surprise”: it was not anticipated by the government and its intelligence services, the political parties and social organizations, or the social science and academic community. None of them foresaw that this small and highly radicalized group would be able to unleash such a wave of violence in the coming years—at the very moment when the democratic transition was opening new channels of participation and representation for diverse sectors and social groups in Peruvian society. In sharp contrast to other cases of civil wars in Latin America (e.g., El Salvador, Guatemala, or Nicaragua), during the most violent years of the conflict, democratic institutions (a free press, parliamentary politics, some judiciary independence, and elections) continued to function (with many limitations) in Peru between 1980 and 1992. As chapter 1 discusses in detail, the Internal Armed Conflict spanned almost two decades. According to the statistical estimates of the CVR, the conflict’s seventy thousand deaths were attributed to Sendero Luminoso (46 percent); state agents and countersubversive forces, including autonomous or state-organized self-defense peasant forces (30 percent); and other agents or circumstances, such as the MRTA, nonidentified agents, and combat casualties (24 percent) (CVR 2003a, Annex 3, 34).3 The conflict is generally considered to have begun on May 17, 1980,

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Figure 2.1. Peru 1980–2000: fatal casualties reported to the Truth and

Reconciliation Commission by year and perpetrator. Data source: Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación (CVR 2003a).

the day of Sendero’s fi rst armed attack against the state. The end of the conflict is more difficult to determine. By the close of the 1990s, Sendero Luminoso was essentially defeated, both militarily and politically. However, small and sporadic actions carried out by remnants and splinters of subversive organizations were still being reported in remote regions of the country at the time of this writing in 2017. The mandate of the CVR was to investigate events and human rights violations that occurred between 1980 and 2000, but as can be seen in figure 2.1, most of the reported victims died between 1982 and 1993 (94 percent), with two clearly identified peaks in 1984 and in 1989– 1990. Figure 2.1 shows different patterns of violence across time and among actors. A fi rst period of intense violence by both Sendero Luminoso and the state’s agents occurred in 1983 and 1984, and was focused mainly in Ayacucho. In this time period, Ayacucho’s country-

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side witnessed a bloodbath within its peasant population: 18 percent of the fatal victims reported to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission correspond to events that took place in 1984, mostly in that region. During the second peak of violence from 1989 to 1992, Sendero became by far the main perpetrator of fatal attacks. In this second period, the state’s counterinsurgency strategy became less indiscriminate and relatively less lethal. The fi nal phase of the confl ict started with the capture of Abimael Guzmán in September 1992. At about the same time, a “repentance” law granted immunity to militants of subversive organizations who surrendered themselves to the authorities and provided information that could lead to the incrimination of other members of their organization. In October 1993, television broadcasts showed Guzmán and most of the higher leaders of Sendero Luminoso who had been captured by the police; from their prison, they recognized their defeat and asked for negotiations to “end the war.” After that, violent events in the country declined sharply. The conflict’s massive toll of victims destroyed thousands of families and hundreds of communities. Despite some high-profile condemnations of prominent figures such as Alberto Fujimori on human rights crimes, most of the crimes committed by state agents remain unpunished. Thousands of victims and their families still wait for justice and reparation.

Civil Wars and the Peruvian Conflict During the past decade, scholarship on political violence has moved away from an understanding of civil wars as a homogeneous category (Fearon and Laitin 2003; Collier and Hoeffler 2004). Scholars have instead started to appreciate and theorize the various layers of consequential diversity across and within civil wars, recognizing variables such as armed actors’ identities and motivations, as well as patterns of mobilization and violence in armed confl ict (Cederman and Gleditsch 2009; Kalyvas 2003; Weinstein 2007). We focus here on those theories and typologies that have emphasized the implications of warfare technology (Kalyvas and Balcells 2010), ideology (Gutiérrez Sanín and Wood 2014; Thaler 2012), and identity (Cederman, Wimmer, and Min 2010; Wucherpfennig et al. 2012) for the internal dynamics and development of civil wars.

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Warfare Technology To begin with, the Peruvian confl ict represents an unambiguous case of “irregular” (i.e., asymmetric) civil war, often treated synonymously with “guerrilla war” and also encountered in cases such as El Salvador (FMLN), Afghanistan (Taliban), or Nepal (CPN-M) (E. Wood 2008; Kalyvas and Balcells 2010; Balcells and Kalyvas 2014; Balcells and Kalyvas 2015).4 Kalyvas and Balcells (2010) distinguish irregular conflicts from those in which military power is distributed more symmetrically, either at high or low levels: in conventional civil wars, state forces and rebel groups engage in direct confrontations with access to heavy weaponry (e.g., the Bosnian and Croatian wars in the 1990s), while in symmetric nonconventional civil wars, both state actors and rebel groups are militarily weak (e.g., Congo-Brazzaville in the 1990s). According to Kalyvas and Balcells (2010), 54 percent of all major civil wars5 between 1944 and 2004 were fought as irregular civil wars, a proportion that is higher (66 percent) for wars that started before the end of the Cold War era (1944–1990). Insurgent groups emerging under these conditions not only operate covertly to avoid direct confrontations with their militarily superior opponents, but also face particular challenges of coordination and internal control if they are to thrive as cohesive organizations. This makes internal institutions for screening and recruitment, discipline, and ideological indoctrination particularly important (Gutiérrez Sanín 2012; E. Wood 2010; Hoover Green 2011; Schubiger 2013). Moreover, and likely to a greater extent than in other types of armed conflict, civilian collaboration and support is often critical for the survival of insurgent groups in this type of war (E. Wood 2008; Balcells and Kalyvas 2014).

Ideology Many irregular wars have been fought by rebel groups that represent some flavor of Marxist orientation (the latter broadly defi ned). Of those 147 armed conflicts studied by Kalyvas and Balcells, 38 were fought by Marxist armed groups, of which 10 had secessionist aspirations and 28 pursued nonsecessionist revolutionary goals. In other words, 26 percent of these confl icts saw governments being confronted by armed groups with a generally Marxist outlook, and 19 percent by groups that were both Marxist and revolutionary, like the Shining

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Path, the FARC in Colombia, the CPI-M in India, or the CPN-M in Nepal (Balcells and Kalyvas 2015, 7–8). Balcells and Kalyvas (2015, 6) identify four common organizational principles shared by Marxist insurgent groups, regardless of their exact ideological orientation: (1) a strong political party, (2) a heavy emphasis on centralization and discipline, (3) mass indoctrination of both combatants and civilians, and (4) well-developed institutions for state-like governance. The Shining Path indeed adopted all those principles. In particular, its own blend of Marxist-Leninist-Maoist ideology played a central role. Sendero Luminoso is also a clear case of an armed group endorsing an ideology that was both externally intrusive and implied a fi rm internal institutionalization within the organization’s ranks (Schubiger and Zelina 2017). The group’s leadership placed high emphasis on the indoctrination of not only its cadres but also the “masses” in areas it controlled.6 Consistent with the principles of guerrilla war, the Shining Path rarely confronted state forces directly, instead focusing on indirect strategies such as targeted assassinations of state representatives and suspected collaborators, massacres against communities of alleged civilian defectors, and eventually also high-profile bombing attacks in urban areas (CVR 2003a). In contrast to many other Marxist movements during the Cold War, however, Sendero Luminoso was remarkably independent from external sources (Kalyvas and Balcells 2010; Balcells and Kalyvas 2015). Moreover, and even more strikingly, Sendero Luminoso was much more violent toward the civilian population than comparable leftist Latin American armed movements of its time (CVR 2003a). Identity Despite its origins in the impoverished and predominantly indigenous regions of a country rife with horizontal inequalities—the latter a main driver of protracted ethnic civil wars (Cederman, Gleditsch, and Buhaug 2013)—the Peruvian armed conflict does not qualify as an “ethnic confl ict” in the canonical understanding of the term, according to which both claim-making and mobilization map neatly onto ethnic divides (Wucherpfennig et al. 2012; Vogt et al. 2015). In Peru, the insurgents’ Marxist-Leninist-Maoist mobilization frame was clearly ideological, revolutionary, and nonethnic. And while the senderistas claimed to fight on behalf of the most marginalized segments of the population, neither the government nor the insurgents recruited

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their fighters exclusively from one particular ethnic group. This mirrors broader patterns in Peruvian society: during the second half of the twentieth century, ethnicity rarely figured as an explicit focal point of social and political mobilization, despite—or because of—the fact that it has long been a major source of horizontal inequality and discrimination (e.g., Sulmont 2011; Sulmont and Callirgos 2014; Thorp, Caumartin, and Gray-Molina 2006; Yashar 2005; Paredes 2010; Thorp and Paredes 2010). Especially among the most marginalized indigenous people of Peru, identity-based categories such as ethnicity have often been perceived as a barrier to social mobility, rather than a basis for collective action (Sulmont 2011, 25). Viewed from this perspective, Sendero Luminoso’s mobilization approach is similar to those leftist revolutionary movements in Latin America that also clearly adopted a nonethnic discourse, such as the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC) or the Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FMLN) in El Salvador. At the same time, as we will discuss later, the Peruvian case shares some similarities with those confl icts in which armed movements have likewise adopted a class-based ideology, but where ethnicity nevertheless remained highly salient throughout the war, as in the confl ict between the Ejército Guerrillero de los Pobres (EGP) and the government of Guatemala, for example.7 During the armed conflict, while issues of ethnic identity did not dominate claim-making and mobilization, ethnicity was an important correlate of people’s vulnerability to violence (we return to this subject later in the subsection entitled “Violence”). Moreover, the relevance and complexity of ethnicity for power relationships still visible in Peruvian society at large was mirrored in the armed groups’ internal hierarchy: Sendero’s leadership was dominated by light-skinned educated elites, while lower-ranking members often represented more indigenous and more marginalized segments of the society (CVR 2003a, 8:99; Starn 1995b, 551; Starn 1998, 229). Insurgent governance over communities sometimes at least temporarily reversed such hierarchies, as “insurgent-allied residents who ruled some towns briefly in the early 1980s were generally poorer and more indigenous than those they supplanted” (E. Wood 2008, 551). At the same time, indigenous communities were also among the fi rst to openly—and violently—resist the Shining Path (e.g., Coronel 1996; del Pino 1998). In summary, the Peruvian armed conflict seems a paradigmatic example in the universe of armed insurgencies during the Cold War era

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in Latin America and elsewhere, classifying as a clear case of irregular, nonethnic civil war. Moreover, like many other rebel groups of its time, the Shining Path was an insurgency of Marxist orientation against a government alleged to represent a capitalist future and a colonial past. At the same time, however, Peru is also a very complex case that does not neatly map onto established typologies and theoretical divides. Having discussed the Peruvian conflict with reference to the dimensions of warfare, ethnicity, and ideology, we turn to patterns of violence, governance, and mobilization next.

Violence, Governance, and Mobilization As outlined previously, the armed insurgency came as a surprise for many analysts in Peru. Why did many people join the Shining Path? Why did the confl ict reach such unexpected levels of intensity, and how can we explain the patterns of mobilization, violence, and governance the confl ict saw? Insurgent Mobilization Debates on the microfoundations of civil wars, and individual participation in war in particular, have centered on the relative importance of factors such as grievances rooted in horizontal inequalities (Cederman, Gleditsch, and Buhaug 2013), selective material incentives (Collier and Hoeffler 2004), and outright coercion (Humphreys and Weinstein 2008). On the reasons for joining the Shining Path rebellion of the 1980s and 1990s, scholarship on Peru resonates with several arguments advanced in this broader literature by highlighting economic and political marginalization, the lack of social mobility for young people (including many educated men and women), and political indoctrination, but also coercion in Sendero recruitment (e.g., CVR 2003a; Chávez de Paz 1989; del Pino 1998; Degregori 1998a; McClintock 1989; E. Wood 2008). Only rarely do scholars point to the role of selective economic incentives, although some argue that those were relevant for certain subgroups of Sendero recruits as well (Weinstein 2007), particularly in regions where Sendero extracted taxes from drug traffickers and protected coca-growing peasants. One strategy to evaluate the validity of competing arguments on insurgent mobilization for the case of Peru is to directly examine who

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joined the Shining Path. Unsurprisingly, there are no probabilistic sample data on the social composition of Sendero Luminoso, as systematic surveys have not been feasible in this context of clandestine mobilization. Moreover, data on theoretically relevant variables are challenging to collect. For example, ethnic identities are difficult to measure in Peru due to the fluidity and complexity of how ethnic identity is experienced and perceived (e.g., Sulmont 2011; Sulmont and Callirgos 2014). However, based on the testimonies of men and women detained and accused of terrorism in various prisons within the country, the Peruvian Truth Commission built a database of 1,158 inmates accused of terrorism. For 821 of these prisoners, it was possible to determine the alleged affiliation, with the overwhelming majority allegedly belonging to the Shining Path (85.3 percent) and a minority to the MRTA (14.7 percent) (CVR 2003a, statistical annex, dataset dec_pen_est).8 Even if there are no means of evaluating the statistical representativity of these data, it is the most comprehensive and systematic database on insurgent militants in Peru up to this date. The data set compiled by the Truth Commission shows that a minority of the 821 inmates had an indigenous mother tongue (29 percent in the Shining Path, 14 percent in the MRTA) (CVR 2003a, statistical annex, dataset dec_pen_est) although the percentage of Sendero’s inmates with an indigenous fi rst language was higher than in the general population (29 percent vs. 19 percent).9 Both the members of the Shining Path and the MRTA were better educated than the average for members of their generation and their departments of origin. Moreover, their members were young: Over 50 percent of the Sendero inmates were from 20 to 30 years old at the time of their arrest. More than 75 percent of the arrested senderistas were 40 or younger at the time of being interviewed by the CVR (CVR 2003a, statistical annex, dataset dec_pen_est). Using court records to construct a different data set of 183 prisoners convicted of terrorism in Lima during the period from 1983 to 1986, Chávez de Paz (1989) comes to similar conclusions. Not distinguishing between members of the Shining Path and the MRTA, he fi nds that most convicts were young and from the most economically marginalized provinces of the country, but that a significant proportion of them were highly educated. Specifically, 35.5 percent of those examined had enjoyed some form of university education, with or without having attained a degree. The proportion of highly educated convicts was even higher among women (Chávez de Paz 1989). Despite the obvious limitations concerning statistical representa-

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tiveness, the available data support the notion that many of Sendero’s recruits with rural and/or indigenous backgrounds had experienced some form of social mobility by migrating to the cities and becoming more educated (CVR 2003a). The Peruvian Truth Commission argues that, when confronted with prevalent social inequalities, racial discrimination, and economic exclusion, a minority of those young people felt attracted to Sendero’s ideology and discourse of radical change promising the chance of a better and fairer life in a new society (CVR 2013a, 8:247). This last argument echoes theories of “relative deprivation” (Gurr 1970) that link social grievances to the propensity of people to rebel. In a study comparing attitudes toward illegal protest among the general public and the students of two public universities in Lima in 1987, Muller, Dietz, and Finkel (1991) found that alienation from the political system was an important source of discontent among students (many of them migrants or children of migrants from other parts of the country).10 At the same time, discontent alone could not explain the propensity to participate in illegal protest, which was strongly conditioned by the expectancy of success and the perceived importance of personal participation in illegal protest. As Gonzalo Portocarrero (1998) suggests in another study of attitudes toward violence among young people in Lima in the 1990s, those latter factors can be enhanced by exposure to an organization which promises radical social change and an improvement of the social conditions for their participants and their communities. A significant proportion of Sendero recruits were women, a fact that received considerable attention (e.g., Nash 1992). Wood and Thomas (2017) argue that political ideologies affect both the demand for and supply of female fighters in rebel groups. Their cross-national study of rebel organizations active between 1979 and 2009 suggests that leftist rebel organizations are more likely than groups endorsing other types of ideologies to feature high proportions of women in combat roles. Sendero Luminoso is a case in point. However, and again, the exact numbers are highly debated. Among the subpopulation of those imprisoned and studied by the Peruvian Truth Commission, 18 percent were female (CVR 2003a, statistical annex, dataset dec_pen_est); women constituted 16 percent of the small sample of those convicted of terrorism examined by Chávez de Paz (1989, 27), while other estimates go up to 40 percent (Barrig 1993, 96–97). Again, though, the limited quality and representativity of these data and estimates must be kept in

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mind. Overall, the proportion of women in the Shining Path has been assessed to be comparable to that in the insurgencies in El Salvador (FMLN) or Sri Lanka (LTTE) (E. Wood 2008, 552), around 30 percent, and as unusually high in the universe of armed groups (ibid.). Despite this high proportion of female members, Sendero Luminoso did not devote special attention to gender equality in its writings, instead largely subsuming issues of gender under the discourse of class. Consistent with assessments that have described Sendero’s relationship to women as largely instrumental (Coral 1998, Balbuena 2007), women that held highly influential positions inside the Shining Path often did so due to their personal relationships with men— the most prominent examples being Guzmán’s partners Augusta la Torre and Elena Iparraguirre (CVR 2003a; E. Wood 2008, 552). At the same time, the very fact that women did have the opportunity to play significant roles in the Shining Path across all ranks clearly did not go unnoticed, and was perceived by some women as a hitherto unavailable avenue to social mobility. Based on field research in Ayacucho and Junín, Steven Zech notes that “significant female leadership/participation within Sendero affected the movement’s discourse when they rounded up the community for ‘chats’ and indoctrination efforts. One ex-Senderista I’ve spoken with numerous times over the past few years even went so far as to suggest that one of the key objectives of the revolutionary movement was to confront a society that relegated a woman’s role to procreation. So, in some cases, Sendero may have given women new ideas about their role within their communities and Peruvian society more broadly.”11 Overall, for both men and women, participation in war was shaped not only by their position in society, but also to significant degrees by their exposure to strategies of recruitment, governance, and violence, factors emphasized in theories that stress the endogenous nature of preference and network formation during war (Kalyvas 2006; E. Wood 2003; E. Wood 2008; Arjona and Kalyvas 2012). Counterinsurgent Mobilization One very consequential dynamic of the war was the mobilization of rural residents into counterinsurgent groups. In some cases—particularly in the mid-1980s and the 1990s—these rondas campesinas or comités de autodefensa (CADs) were imposed, organized, or co-opted

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by government forces, who actively tried to foster armed resistance against the Shining Path. In the 1990s, the rondas were officially incorporated into the state’s counterinsurgency efforts (Degregori et al. 1996; Fumerton 2002). To a presumably greater extent than in cases such as Guatemala, however, civilians also rose up autonomously against the insurgents (Degregori et al. 1996; Starn 1995b; Fumerton 2002; Schubiger 2013). Many conventional theoretical approaches that privilege the prewar social or economic position of individuals as explanatory factors for wartime mobilization are challenged by the overlapping motives of insurgent and counterinsurgent recruits (Arjona and Kalyvas 2012; Humphreys and Weinstein 2008; Gutiérrez Sanín 2008), as well as instances of collective and individual side-switching that have been documented in cases ranging from Colombia to Sierra Leone (Oppenheim et al. 2015)—and also Peru (Gavilán 2012; del Pino 1998). Indeed, and as with militia mobilization more generally (Jentzsch, Kalyvas, and Schubiger 2015), variation in ronda formation in Peru seems to be inadequately explained with an exclusive focus on structural variables. While the quality of preexisting institutions has been shown to be an important motivating and enabling factor facilitating resistance to Sendero (La Serna 2012),12 the insurgents’ abusiveness and authoritarianism as well as an ideological position at odds with the values and traditions of local communities likely played an equally important role (Degregori et al. 1996; Degregori 1998a). In other words, while grievances certainly served as a mobilizing resource for Sendero, the insurgents also strongly alienated the local population from early on (Degregori 1998a). Less acknowledged is exposure to state violence as a driver of autonomous counterinsurgent mobilization. Schubiger (2013) shows that the state-led collective targeting of civilians during the counterinsurgency campaign of 1983–1985 had a lasting effect on the incentives of communities to organize armed resistance against the Shining Path, if at times only to publicly signal their nonaffiliation with insurgent groups,13 and in spite of the tendencies of indiscriminate state violence to also foster insurgent recruitment. The latter effect of state violence is well documented beyond the Peruvian case (e.g., Goodwin 2001; E. Wood 2003). These dynamics underscore the endogenous nature of civilian collaboration during war (Kalyvas 2006; E. Wood 2003; E. Wood 2008) that was also central for insurgent recruitment: as the

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conflict went on, exposure to violence and other wartime experiences became important sources of motivation to join or support particular actors, to defect to their opponents, or to stay neutral or flee. Violence While ethnicity did not serve as the defi ning source of mobilization and claim-making during the armed conflict, it was one of the major correlates with people’s vulnerability to violence. Indeed, wartime violence was by no means evenly distributed across ethnicities, with about 75 percent of the victims of the armed confl ict speaking one of the country’s native languages (CVR 2003a, 8:108–109).14 While this partially reflected higher proportions of indigenous people in the areas most affected by the conflict, both state forces and the Shining Path displayed certain racist tendencies in their application of violence (Degregori 1998a; del Pino 1998; CVR 2003a, vol. 8). At the same time, patterns of targeting adopted by insurgent and counterinsurgent actors varied markedly, both in comparison to each other and over time. As outlined previously, the counterinsurgency approach of the Peruvian government changed drastically over the course of the conflict: after an initial period of passivity, counterinsurgent violence turned intense and became indiscriminate when the armed forces entered the emergency zones in 1983. The ensuing years bear some resemblance to the counterinsurgency campaigns in other Latin American countries, where state violence against civilians was even more extreme (e.g., Goodwin 2001; E. Wood 2003; E. Wood 2008; Wickham- Crowley 2015). However, over the course of the whole conflict, and in stark contrast to cases such as Guatemala or El Salvador, Sendero Luminoso appears to have surpassed even the government in the extent of its lethal violence against civilians (CVR 2003a; E. Wood 2008). Moreover, while insurgent violence grew more indiscriminate and intense over the course of the war, state violence turned increasingly selective over time (Degregori 1998a; CVR 2003a; E. Wood 2008). Insurgent and state violence also displayed wide variation in regard to particular forms of victimization: sexual violence, for example, was mostly conducted by state agents, who were recorded as responsible for 83 percent of the reported cases by the Peruvian Truth Commission, while 11 percent were attributed to Sendero Luminoso and the MRTA (E. Wood 2008; CVR 2003a, 6:201–202).15 Using a data set

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on state-perpetrated sexual violence in Guatemala and Peru compiled from the Truth Commission documents and nongovernmental human rights organizations, Leiby (2009) fi nds that in contrast to Guatemala, where sexual violence was most often perpetrated during sweeps and massacres, most victims of state sexual violence in Peru were violated while in detention (Leiby 2009, 454–455). At the same time, she states that while the Shining Path adherents committed sexual violence much less often than state personnel (still outstripping the MRTA), many of Sendero’s actions “were among the most brutal attacks” (Leiby 2009, 466). Chapter 6 in this volume provides a more detailed discussion of this particular instantiation of violence. In a bid to explain both the timing of Sendero’s decision to launch the armed conflict as well as its extensive use of violence against members of other leftist groups, Ron (2001) argues that tactical choices were shaped by ideology in consequential ways. It is indeed difficult to understand the particular strategies and forms of violence adopted by Sendero Luminoso and the armed forces without taking their ideologies and institutions into account. This insight resonates with recent research on other cases that has started to explore the role of ideology and armed group institutions in shaping patterns of wartime violence against civilians (Hoover Green 2011; Thaler 2012; E. Wood 2010; Gutiérrez Sanín and Wood 2014). These studies have shown that the type and quality of insurgent institutions—for example, institutions for regularized political indoctrination—themselves typically shaped by ideology to significant degrees, influence not only the extent to which armed group leaders manage to control the intensity of violence against civilians, but also the consistency with which combatants wield particular forms of violence while eschewing others (Hoover Green 2011; Thaler 2012; E. Wood 2010; Gutiérrez Sanín and Wood 2014). Ideology can also “overload” actors’ strategies with meanings that become increasingly disconnected from the social, cultural, and political frames of the previous life of individuals involved in highly ideologized organizations, as well as from the experience of those whose lives these organizations claim to be improving (e.g., Wieviorka 2009, 152). Sendero Luminoso’s use of openly displayed violence to sanction behavioral transgressions of community members in areas where it held early influence was intrinsically connected to its aspirations to shape and rule over the everyday lives of civilians according to their ideological principles. During the early years of its establishment in areas of endemic state weakness, the Shining Path was able to garner considerable

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support through acts of “social cleansing” (Degregori 1998a, 136), the violent punishment of thieves, adulterers, and other community members accused of violating the local order (see also, e.g., del Pino 1998, 161). However, this support vanished once both insurgent rule and violence escalated to extremes (e.g., del Pino 1998; Degregori 1998a). Governance Rebel governance—defi ned as the “set of actions insurgents engage in to regulate the social, political, and economic life of non-combatants during war” (Arjona, Kasfi r, and Mampilly 2015, 3)—took an intrusive form in the case of the Shining Path, with the insurgents striving to impose their own set of tight social rules in the areas they controlled. That insurgents establish state-like structures is by no means unique to the Peruvian case. A growing body of literature studies how armed groups govern civilian life in areas they control (e.g., Weinstein 2007; Mampilly 2011; Arjona 2014; Arjona, Kasfi r, and Mampilly 2015; Arjona 2017). Marxist insurgencies, but also revolutionary insurgencies of other ideological orientations (Kalyvas 2015), appear to have been particularly dedicated in their aspirations to govern territory through comprehensive political institutions (Balcells and Kalyvas 2015; Huang 2016). As Guillermo O’Donnell (2004) argues, many Latin American states have not been able to fully enforce and ensure the monopoly of coercion and administrative means throughout their territories, leaving aside areas where different types of informal, patrimonial, or mafia rule can persist. Those areas often coexist with democratic national institutions, but the government is unable to fully enforce the rule of law.16 Wickham-Crowley (2015) shows that, in line with his theory on the conditions favoring insurgent governance and its collapse, Sendero Luminoso was able to establish a strong presence in areas largely sidestepped by the land reform under Belaunde’s fi rst government (1963– 1968) and the following military regime (1968–1980). He further holds that, similar to certain regions in El Salvador and Guatemala, Sendero governance was strongest in regions affected by violent government repression (cf. Goodwin 2001; E. Wood 2003), and that it was weaker where other political parties or social organizations had been established fi rst. At the same time, the heavy blows infl icted by targeted, intelligence-driven actions on behalf of the state in addition to long-term and massive counterinsurgency operations eventually helped to undermine insurgent military power and territorial control,

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hence also destroying the insurgents’ capacity to act like counter-states (Wickham-Crowley 2015, 66–67). To be sure, Sendero undermined its own ability to govern by violating its obligations to their presumed civilian constituency, failing to protect the population from state violence (McClintock 1989, 90; Isbell 1992, 90; Degregori 1998a, 141; Fumerton 2001, 482, 484; Weinstein 2007, 191–192), escalating its own level of coercion and civilian abuse (Degregori 1998a), and undermining its constituencies’ livelihoods, for example by closing off markets (Wickham-Crowley 2015, 65; Degregori 1998a). These fissures turned many citizens against the Shining Path (e.g., Degregori et al. 1996; Degregori 1998a; del Pino 1998). Importantly, the insurgents were not the only nonstate actors providing wartime governance and local order where state presence was weak; the rondas also frequently fulfilled that role (García- Godos 2006; see also Fumerton 2001; Schubiger 2013). The rondas transformed their communities in ways that reached beyond the conflict, for example by reshaping their relationship to the state (García- Godos 2006).

(Some) Legacies of Political Violence The legacies of the armed confl ict are multiple and complex. As political legacies of the conflict are discussed in-depth in other chapters of this book, we focus here on three areas that are not the main subject of those chapters: sociodemographic transformations, economic impact, and truth and justice. Sociodemographic Transformations The conflict in Peru destroyed thousands of lives and families, as well as hundreds of communities in the areas most affected by violence. Particularly in Ayacucho, the conflict had deep demographic repercussions. As we have shown in figure 2.1, most of the lethal violence occurred between 1982 and 1993. In about that same time period, Peru performed two national censuses, the fi rst in 1981 and the second in 1993. A comparison of these censuses reveals that Ayacucho was the only region in the country that experienced a net loss in population in those years: in 1993 it had a 2.2 percent smaller population than in 1981. According to the CVR statistical estimates, the number of victims in Ayacucho between 1981 and 1993 could amount to 24,237, or roughly 4.8 percent of the total population of Ayacucho in 1981. Con-

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sidering that the fatal casualties were mostly young men in a reproductive age, the economic consequences and the disruption of family lives were especially severe in that region. Although the significant number of victims and the indiscriminate character of violence in some periods and regions (particularly in Ayacucho in 1983–1984) might suggest otherwise, Sendero Luminoso and state agents frequently targeted particular members of the society. Casualties were especially high among social and political leaders in the most affected locations, mostly in rural and indigenous regions. The Peruvian Truth Commission has estimated that 23 percent of the victims killed by the Shining Path were local elected authorities and leaders of social organizations. In fact, according to the CVR database, the number of civil local authorities (majors, councilmen, judges, public officials, etc.) and social organization leaders killed by Sendero Luminoso is higher than the number of military or police casualties caused by that organization (1,682 vs. 1,671) (CVR 2003a). Those fatalities represent a loss of social and political capital that severely affected political parties (from both the left and right wings of the political spectrum) as well as social organizations from peasant and indigenous communities. This kind of violence also had a deterrence effect, preventing people from engaging in political or social mobilization and provoking lasting effects within the Peruvian party system and civil society organizations (see chapters 7, 8, and 9). Forced displacement was probably one of the most important demographic consequences of the civil war in Peru. It has been estimated that 600,000 people—approximately 2.7 percent of the national population, according to the 1993 census—were forced to leave their residences during the confl ict in Peru (Diez Hurtado 2003). Other conflicts in the Latin American region have also forced huge numbers of displaced people: 6 million in Colombia up to 2014, from a total population of 48.9 million (12 percent of the population) (Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre 2014); between 500,000 and 1.5 million in Guatemala from a total population of 10 million during the conflict years there (Comisión de Esclarecimiento Histórico 1999, 3:211). In Peru, as in Colombia, forced displacement was mostly internal. In contrast, for Guatemala it has been estimated that 100,000 people became refugees in neighboring countries (W. Wood 1994, 610). As in other confl icts, forced displacement or migration is a source of deep social transformation, destroying economic resources and disrupting traditional cultures, communities, and ways of life (Castles 2003; W. Wood 1994). During the fi rst phase of displacement, peo-

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Table 2.1. Peru 1981–1993, change in social development indicators in Ayacucho and at national level Ayacucho Social indicators Access to running water (% households) Access to public sanitation (% of households) Access to electricity (% of households) Post-secondary education (% of people)

Peru

1981 1993 Change 1981 1993 Change 17

27

159

43

47

109

8

14

175

35

40

114

10

25

250

46

54

117

4

11

289

7

17

232

Data source: INEI (2017a, 2017b).

ple are very vulnerable to serious problems such as mental health issues, domestic violence, and alcohol abuse (Moya Medina 2010). Two decades after the conflict, mental health problems remain an important consequence for affected families and survivors (Velazquez 2014). These issues might have aggravated the problem of gender violence against women, which is part of a longer history of violence and inequality in Peru, as Jelke Boesten discusses in chapter 6. Within-region displacement transformed the geographical distribution of the population. Flight from the countryside to the cities was a widespread phenomenon in the areas affected by the armed conflict, particularly in Ayacucho. According to the 1981 census, 36.5 percent of Ayacucho’s population lived in urban areas, whereas in 1993 it was 48.1 percent, the highest relative increase in urban population of any region in the country (the national urban population rose from 65.2 percent to 70.1 percent between those years). Adaptation to new living conditions was extremely difficult for people fleeing conflict-ravaged areas, particularly when they lost relatives (mostly young males) and most of their belongings. But resettlement in urban areas over time gave displaced people access to better living conditions and social services that were unavailable in remote rural areas. Moreover, as we can see in table 2.1, some social development indicators (access to running water, sanitation, and electricity; rate of postsecondary education) actually rose at higher rates in Aya-

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cucho than the national average during the confl ict years, even in the midst of a severe economic crisis at the end of the 1980s. After a harsh initial phase of adjustment, many displaced people from rural areas in Ayacucho’s main cities gained access to health care services (pre- and post-natal control, hospitalized childbirth, pediatric services) that improved some health indicators like mother and child mortality rates (Moya Medina 2010). Economic Impact It is difficult to assess the economic impact of the conflict. Some studies estimate that its economic cost between 1980 and 1993 rose to approximately US$21 billion (CVR 2003a, 8:230), a figure that represents 48 percent of Peru’s gross national product in 1993. Insurgent groups targeted public infrastructure, mainly electric pylons, causing frequent blackouts in major cities, but no strategic infrastructure was severely damaged during the conflict. Violence in several regions discouraged private and public investment, and it mostly affected regions that already had a marginal role in the overall economic output of the country. The conflict overlapped with a severe economic crisis that affected Peru—as well as many other countries in Latin America—during the 1980s, although the economic crisis had structural causes different from the ones related to the armed conflict. Thus the armed conflict added additional burdens to the economic and political instability of Peruvian society by the late 1980s and early 1990s. The conflict also had an indirect and more lasting impact on the ideological framing of economic policy. The fact that Sendero Luminoso presented itself as a Communist and Marxist group seeking radical social transformations severely damaged the public perception of legal left-wing leaders, parties, and movements. This produced a sort of stigmatization of left-wing politics and policies (see chapter 8), including economic policies that, among other things, emphasized the state’s central role in economic and social development. This might have facilitated the rise and hegemony of the neoliberal economic thinking in Peru and the consolidation of the right-wing political spectrum that supports these policies (see chapters 3 and 9). Truth and Justice As in other Latin American countries where large-scale human rights violations were committed (e.g., Chile, Argentina, Guatemala, and El

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Salvador), the armed confl ict in Peru led to the emergence of a human rights movement. Several victims’ organizations and human rights NGOs were created during the conflict, some of them sponsored by the Catholic Church, the Evangelical churches, and international partner organizations. As Maritza Paredes argues in chapter 7, the human rights movement played an important, and somewhat unexpected, role in Peruvian politics and civil society in the decades following the conflict. During the democratic transition in 2000, the Peruvian human rights movement was particularly engaged in the advocacy for and the formation of the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Following and studying the best practices of previous truth commissions in Chile and Argentina, but particularly in South Africa and Guatemala, the Peruvian CVR set new standards for this kind of project, which later influenced similar commissions in other parts of the world (Hayner 2011; Landman 2006). The CVR presented an alternative narrative of the conflict that challenged the “victorious” version of the Fujimori regime and the military as defeating Sendero Luminoso and pacifying the country. It also presented strong evidence that portrayed Sendero Luminoso as the main perpetrator of deadly violence during the confl ict, in sharp contrast with other confl icts in Latin America. The CVR provided the human rights movements and the victims with important tools (legitimacy, data, forensic evidence, recommendations concerning reparations, etc.) to advance their claims for justice and reparations from the state and the judiciary system. However, as in the cases of other truth commissions (Hayner 2011; Bakiner 2016; Landman 2006), the role of the CVR is still a matter of controversy. Even if some public opinion polls have portrayed a relatively favorable image of the CVR, most people saw it as unable to directly contribute to a reconciliation process (Sulmont 2007; Barrantes 2007). Despite those controversies and their temporary character, as Onur Bakiner (2016) points out, truth commissions can produce important changes in human rights accountability, and the short- and long-term effects of those impacts ultimately depend on the interplay of forces in civil society, political actors, and the institutions in a particular country. Since most of the victims were members of some of the most marginalized groups of Peruvian society, their political leverage to advance judiciary processes or reparation policies remains limited. In contrast, sectors of the political establishment that were in power during the

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1980s and 1990s have regained political influence, enhancing their ability to contest the narrative produced by the CVR.17 As this volume’s chapter 11 shows, contested memories of the Internal Armed Conflict are one of the recurrent features of political and historical debates in contemporary Peruvian society. The consequences of high-profi le judicial trials or cases on human rights abuses are still shaping or influencing the political careers of some of the most important political actors in Peru. To give a few examples, Alberto Fujimori’s sentence in 2009 to twenty-five years in prison for human rights violations has been a crucial issue for the fujimorismo as a political movement and its identity. In June 2017 the office of the attorney general decided to reopen a human rights violation case involving former president Ollanta Humala (2011–2016) dating to when he was the military commander of a countersubversive base in the Amazon region in 1992 (Redacción EC 2017).18 And in September 2017 a new trial began concerning the 1986 “Massacre of El Frontón,” the extrajudicial execution of surrendered inmates when units of the Peruvian Navy suffocated a mutiny of Sendero inmates on the prison island of El Frontón. This trial may involve Alan García, Peru’s president from 1985 to 1990 and 2006 to 2011, and a presidential candidate in 2016, who ordered the navy to intervene in this operation (Mejía Huaraca 2017). The huge number of human rights violations committed during the armed conflict still represents a heavy burden for the victims’ relatives and, at an institutional level, for the judiciary system, where several cases are still pending or are being prosecuted many decades after their occurrence. In mid-August 2017, after twelve years of trial, lengthy prison sentences where issued to military personnel found responsible for human rights violations in the case of Los Cabitos, a military base in the city of Ayacucho where many “suspected terrorists” were tortured, assassinated, or disappeared in the 1980s and 1990s.19 In June 2016 the Peruvian parliament enacted the law “For the Search of the Disappeared Persons during the Period of Violence 1980–2000,” which committed the Peruvian state to researching, locating, identifying, and returning to their relatives the remains of an estimated thirteen thousand people who disappeared during the confl ict (Ministerio de Justicia y Derechos Humanos 2017). Concerning justice and reparations, there is a case to be made for either a glass half-filled or half-empty, depending on the perspective of the observer. Justice and reparations are still actively pursued and de-

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bated, with some advances and setbacks (Macher 2014). These issues will continue to challenge the commitment of the Peruvian state to human rights protection and democratic values for many years or even decades to come. As long as democratic institutions will allow public debate on these matters, we can expect continuing discussion regarding the legacies of the Internal Armed Confl ict in Peru.

Remaining Puzzles and Avenues for Future Research The Peruvian armed conflict illuminates several issues and dynamics that are still poorly understood in the literature on political violence. In this conclusion, we would like to highlight four: (1) the role of ideology in armed conflict; (2) the intersection of social inequalities and the consequences for wartime violence and mobilization; (3) the social and institutional legacies of armed conflict; and (4) the capacity of transitional justice mechanisms to foster long-term post-conflict reconciliation. In their conclusions, the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission fi nds that the “immediate cause” of the confl ict was the decision of the PCP-Sendero Luminoso to initiate an armed struggle against the Peruvian government, and that this decision was mainly driven by its “fundamentalist” brand of ideology (CVR 2003a, 8:246). French sociologist Michel Wieviorka (2009, 2015) argues that violence can emerge when individuals and social groups in a society are not able to engage in institutionalized confl ict relationships. From this perspective, there is an important distinction between confl ict and violence. Confl ict is an inherent feature of societies, implying several actors—in most cases with unequal assets and social status—that compete against each other with the aim of transforming their relationship. For some groups, the unavailability of institutionalized channels to engage in such relationships can lead to what Wieviorka calls “desubjectivation.”20 “Desubjectivation” is the impossibility to become a subject, which he argues gives rise to the appearance of individuals or groups that may resort to instrumental or expressive violence in order to manifest their existence or transform social relationships on their own terms, without engaging in negotiation with other actors. 21 When groups reach a high level of isolation from mainstream social processes and social movements, they can become “hyper-subjects,” overloading their actions with new meanings through a dogmatic and fundamentalist ideology, political

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or religious (Wieviorka 2004). From this perspective, Sendero can be described as a “hyper-subject.” Indeed, through its violence and ideological purism, the Shining Path increasingly distanced itself from the population it claimed to represent. Why, however, did Sendero adopt this particular ideology, and why did it choose such an extreme and counterproductive approach? Why do armed groups adopt specific ideologies, and what are the implications? Pronounced and often highly counterproductive forms of violence demand a deeper engagement with armed group ideology than the reduction to its instrumental use (Ron 2001; Gutiérrez Sanín and E. Wood 2014). Scholars of political violence are just beginning to understand the role of “ideas and normative commitments that motivate and coordinate, as the bearers of identities, strategies, and institutions” (Gutiérrez Sanín and E. Wood 2014, 222) in armed confl ict. The issues to be explored range from the endorsement of particular ideas and programs by the leadership to the mechanisms that foster ideological transformations and the micro-foundations underlying the normative commitments of rank-and-file combatants (Gutiérrez Sanín and E. Wood 2014; Hoover Green 2011). Another question scholars should continue to explore is why specific social, economic, and political inequalities are sometimes incorporated in armed group mobilization frames—and indeed, become the very core of a conflict’s cleavage—while in other very similar circumstances they are not. Similarly, why do patterns of targeting and violence often overlap with these cleavages, but sometimes do not? Despite a large body of literature that has illuminated the role of ethnicity in armed conflict (e.g., Cederman, Gleditsch, and Weidmann 2011), the complex intersections of identity, mobilization, and violence are still poorly understood, partially due to an often overly simplifying distinction between different “types” of conflict. Peru is a case in point. The fact that ethnic cleavages were not the primary source of insurgent claim-making and mobilization should not be mistaken as an indicator for the nonethnic character of violence. As we have seen, the Peruvian case challenges common conceptualizations of the role of ethnicity in armed conflict. While clearly not qualifying as an “ethnic civil war,” and despite the irrelevance of ethnicity for the conflict’s “master cleavage” (Kalyvas 2003), wartime patterns of violence revealed a stark degree of ethnic discrimination, although in complex ways. In this regard, the confl ict mirrored dynamics in politics more generally, both in Peru and other Latin American countries, where the salience and

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relevance of ethnicity failed to disappear despite the general tendency to mobilize citizens based on class-based rather than identity-based issues (Yashar 2015). Future research should look more closely at the role of ethnicity, even in conflicts where identity-based categories have seemingly little relevance at fi rst sight. Another area that needs further exploration are the social and institutional legacies of political violence. War, through violence, transforms individual and group preferences, behaviors, and identities. Being a victim or perpetrator of violence can lead to new meanings for social action, or to actions whose initial meanings or purposes become lost as others arise. Armed conflict also transforms social relationships in other ways and more indirectly, through the destruction of social capital via the removal or killing of leaders and the disruption of whole communities through forced displacement. Another socially disruptive legacy of civil war that has been documented in Peru is social and political polarization at not only the national and regional level but also the very local level, induced through the simultaneous dynamics of pro- and counterinsurgent mobilization (Theidon 2006; E. Wood 2008). At the same time, and as documented in various postconflict contexts, exposure to wartime violence can also increase the capacity of communities and individuals for political participation and local collective action (Bellows and Miguel 2009; Blattman 2009; Gilligan, Pasquale, and Samii 2014). One of the most notable consequences of the confl ict was the emergence and growth of a very vibrant human rights movement that leveraged its influence to shape the transitional period, for example, by successfully advocating for the installment of a truth and reconciliation commission. Yet many questions regarding the legacies of the civil war still remain to be explored. How did the war affect gender relations, for example, and how does this effect vary across subgroups— such as ordinary citizens, former senderistas, and members of civilian self-defense groups? How did wartime mobilization at the local level affect postwar collective action, and what are the mechanisms driving this transformation? What determines the trajectories of former combatants as they reintegrate into society, and how are social, economic, and ethnic inequalities affected by exposure to violence wielded by state actors and armed groups? Finally, future research should continue to explore the role of truth commissions in post-confl ict societies. When political independence and high scientific and methodological standards are met (Landman

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2006), truth commissions can challenge some “common knowledge” about the confl ict and enhance the cause of human rights movements and victims. However, high expectations concerning reparations and “reconciliation” can undermine the legacy and role of such commissions (which are transitory by defi nition). Some actors involved in the conflict can regain power and influence in post-confl ict societies, particularly when some of them have always been a part of the “power elites,” rendering it more difficult to implement mechanisms for transitional justice. The role of truth commissions in empowering democratic actors, movements, and institutions should be a matter of future discussion and research. 22

Notes We warmly thank Fabian Morgenthaler, Abbey Steele, Manuel Vogt, Steven Zech, the editors, and two anonymous reviewers for helpful comments and input. 1. The comités de autodefensa (CADs) were in many cases promoted by the state and embedded into its counterinsurgency policy, especially during the 1990s. This is also the reason why the Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación, when aggregating the victims, often attributed fatalities identified as victims of the CADs to agents of the state. 2. According to the 1981 national census, Ayacucho had 503,392 inhabitants, or 3 percent of the national population; 63.5 percent of them lived in rural areas, in contrast to 34.8 percent of the national population. The illiteracy rate was 45 percent, the third-highest in the country (the national illiteracy rate in 1981 was 18.1 percent), and more than 88 percent of Ayacuchanos spoke an indigenous language (mainly Quechua), in comparison to 25 percent of the national population (INEI 2017a). 3. It is important to make a distinction between casualties or victims reported to the CVR and CVR’s own statistical estimates. During its fieldwork, the CVR received nearly 17,000 testimonies, through which it could identify 23,969 fatal casualties (CVR 2003a, 1:119). Fatal casualties were defi ned as including people who were murdered, disappeared, or died in combat. Among the reported victims, Sendero Luminoso was identified as the perpetrator in nearly 54 percent of the cases; 33 percent were attributed to state agents (excluding self-defense forces); and the rest were ascribed to other or nonidentified actors or circumstances (CVR 2003a, 1:136–137). To assess the probable magnitude of the confl ict, estimates were performed using statistical methods described in Annex 3 of the fi nal report (see also Ball et al. 2003). 4. While the classification of the Peruvian armed confl ict as a “civil war” is contested in the Peruvian literature, according to the standard defi nition of a civil war used in political science—an internal armed confl ict between the

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government of a state and at least one opposition group reaching certain fatality threshold—this categorization is straightforward; see, for example, Kalyvas and Balcells (2010). 5. Kalyvas and Balcells include internal armed confl icts that resulted in at least one thousand war-related deaths in total and during at least one single year. Many internal armed confl icts do not reach this threshold. The Peruvian case did. 6. For examples, see the cases of the “Comité Zonal Fundamental CangalloVictor Fajardo, comité principal,” “La Violencia en las comunidades de Lucanamarca, Sancos y Sacsamarca,” and the studies concerning the presence of Sendero Luminoso in public universities, described in volume 5 of the Peruvian Truth Commission Final Report (CVR 2003a). 7. According to the crossnational ACD2EPR 2014 data set (http://www .icr.ethz.ch/data/acd2epr), the EGP also engaged in ethnic claim-making (Vogt et al. 2015), which was not the case in Peru. 8. We refer to the data set published by the CVR, which deviates slightly from the figures in volume 8 of the report, as the latter was fi nalized before the data set. 9. Compared with data from the 1993 National Census (INEI 2017c). 10. On the subject of Sendero Luminoso and its effects on Peru’s public universitities, see chapter 5. 11. Steven T. Zech, personal (written) communication, January 2016. 12. See also Arjona 2017 on the relationship between the FARC and civilians in Colombia. 13. On similar consequences of indiscriminate state violence in other confl icts, see also Lyall 2009, 337; Kalyvas 2006, 167–168. For anecdotal evidence on Peru, see, for example, Fumerton 2002; García-Godos 2006; Weinstein 2007. 14. This compares to Guatemala, for example, where the proportion of indigenous victims was even higher (Thorp, Caumartin, and Gray-Molina 2006, 456). 15. Focusing on rape as one particular form of sexual violence, Cohen (2013) fi nds that in a data set of eighty-six civil wars between 1980 and 2009, a minority of isolated rape incidents were reported as perpetrated by armed actors in 8 percent of confl icts. In those cases with reported rape, both state and nonstate actors committed this form of sexual violence in 62 percent of confl icts. In 31 percent of these cases, only state actors reportedly committed rape, and in 7 percent rape was only perpetrated by insurgents (Cohen 2013, 467). 16. Using some version of Tilly’s (1990) theories on warfare and state building, other authors, like Centeno (2002), also highlight the “incomplete” features of state building in Latin American countries and their limited capacity to ensure the monopoly of coercion in their societies. 17. Alan García, president from 1985 to 1990, was reelected with a new mandate in 2006–2011; Keiko Fujimori, the daughter of Alberto Fujimori, contested the second round of presidential elections in 2011 and 2016. 18. In August 2017 Ollanta Humala and his wife were issued “preventive”

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78 Livia Isabella Schubiger and David Sulmont

arrest warrants on corruption charges, but one of the judge’s arguments for issuing the warrants was the possible implication of the former president in a human rights violations case (extrajudicial executions) in the town of Madre Mía in 1992. 19. Evidence discovered at Los Cabitos suggests that crematorium ovens were used to dispose of victims’ corpses. 20. The “subject” can be defi ned as an autonomous social actor (either an individual or a group) capable of formulating choices despite dominant social pressures and engaging in social relationships with other actors. On the theory of the subject, see the following works by the French sociologist Alain Touraine: Touraine 1992; Touraine and Khosrokhavar 2000. 21. It is possible to see in those insights the classical sociological theme and theory of anomie developed in Durkheim 1933; Durkheim 1951; and Merton 1968. 22. On those issues concerning the role and impact of truth commissions, we fi nd the work of Onur Bakiner (2016) particularly interesting.

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CHAP T ER 3

From Oligarchic Domination to Neoliberal Governance: The Shining Path and the Transformation of Peru’s Constitutional Order Maxwell A. Cameron

Out of the chaos created by the Shining Path’s prolonged people’s war, there arose in Peru a new constitutional order. The constitution of 1993, written in the aftermath of President Alberto Fujimori’s 1992 presidential self-coup, or autogolpe, replaced the constitution of 1979, which had been drafted as part of the transition from military rule. Whereas the fi rst constitution preceded Peru’s internal confl ict, the second occurred during it. By comparing the two texts, and the circumstances surrounding their adoption, we can begin to assess one element of the legacy of the internal confl ict: the emergence of the neoliberal governance system that persists to this day. Two lessons are apparent. First, the internal confl ict influenced the development of Peru’s constitutional order in two ways: it created the crisis that enabled a new constitution to be written, and it weakened the Left and popular organizations necessary to contest neoliberalism.1 Analysts agree that the 1993 constitution was more authoritarian and neoliberal than its 1979 predecessor (Rubio Correa 2012; Teivainen 2002; Planas 1999; García Belaunde 1996). It rolled back social features of the 1979 constitution and facilitated the concentration of power in the hands of the executive branch of government. 2 It also proved remarkably enduring, in large measure because it aligned Peru with neoliberal precepts. Peru did not emulate other countries in the region that undertook constitutional reforms (often called republican “refounding”) as part of a left turn (Cameron and Hershberg 2010; Levitsky and Roberts 2011; Ellner 2014). One could argue that the Shining Path foreclosed the possibility of a left turn by creating an emergency situation which resulted in a constitution that locked in a neoliberal economic model and, with it, a correspondingly limited electoral democracy.3

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Second, and more optimistically, the confl ict weakened but did not destroy Peru’s defective democracy. The constitutions of 1979 and 1993 provided similar protections for fundamental rights and freedoms. The 1993 constitution was written under Fujimori, but it did not fully sanction the kinds of abuses of power that occurred under his rule, and indeed the president almost immediately found himself chafing against the constraints it imposed on his government. If we place both constitutions within a longer historical perspective, the 1979 constitution appears to reflect a deeper process of societal democratization under military rule and thereafter. Furthermore, although the 1993 constitution rolled back certain social democratic features of the 1979 constitution and rolled out neoliberal ones, it nonetheless retained other constitutional and democratic elements; moreover, some of the authoritarian features were ultimately overturned. The role of the Shining Path within this larger process of democratization was negative but insufficient to destroy Peru’s electoral democracy. To support these claims, this chapter is organized into six parts. The fi rst examines the breakdown of oligarchic domination and the process of social democratization that culminated in the 1978 Constituent Assembly. The second interprets the Shining Path within the context of this transformation. The third section examines how, due to the emergency situation, the stresses imposed on the newly democratized political regime led to a rupture of the constitutional order. The fourth section compares the 1979 and 1993 constitutions. The fi fth section discusses the emergence of neoliberal governance techniques fostered by the 1993 constitution. The sixth section places Peru in the context of left turns elsewhere in Latin America. The fi nal section concludes.

The Breakdown of Oligarchic Domination The initial crisis of the oligarchic state in the 1920s and 1930s did not result in the breakdown of oligarchic domination, which remained entrenched, especially in the countryside, into the mid-twentieth century. Conflict between Peru’s military and the leader of the American Popular Revolutionary Alliance (Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana, or APRA), Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre, resulted in a veto on Haya de la Torre holding public office and the postponement of necessary social, political, and economic reforms. When these reforms were fi nally adopted, it was, paradoxically, under the tutelage of reformist

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military officers who seized power in a coup in 1968. The rural oligarchy was fi nally destroyed by an extensive land reform, the creation of peasant cooperatives, unionization, industrial communities, and corporatist institutions. The aim of the military was to modernize the nation while limiting class confl ict. Instead of attenuating class confl ict, however, the reforms exacerbated it, and Peru entered a period of violence that would ultimately cost tens of thousands of lives and untold amounts of property damage. Prior to the sweeping reforms undertaken by the military regime between 1968 and 1980, Peruvian society was characterized by structural dualism between the coast and the sierra—a source of cultural heterogeneity that dated to the colonial period (Cotler 1976, 35). The coast was the seat of criollo culture; the highlands, of indigenous cultures. The urban areas along the coast monopolized technologies of social communication, including newspapers and television, and were integrated into global economic markets. The sierra, with its preindustrial economic arrangements, was a sort of archipelago containing “vast pockets of isolation” in which “traditional social forms of organization,” like indigenous communities, coexisted with large landholdings, called latifundias or haciendas (Cotler 1976, 36). On the haciendas and latifundias, the relationship between landlords and rural bosses (or gamonales), on the one hand, and peasants and landless indigenous workers (or colonos), on the other, was particularly repressive and exploitative. The gamonal system relied on savage punishment and discipline to dominate the “Indians.”4 But it also rested on manipulation that was “made possible, among other causes, by the monopoly exercised by the dominant on knowledge of the Castilian tongue” (Degregori 1989, 10). Power was concentrated in the person of the landowner. Mestizos dominated the professions: lawyers, judges, governors, police, merchants, mayors, and tax collectors were recruited overwhelmingly from among them. They monopolized access to written texts and restricted literacy and education to guarantee their domination. Only the literate could elect or be elected to public office in this system. The rural oligarchic system resembled a “triangle without a base.”5 It was a system of total and despotic power.6 There was less oppression, but life was still precarious for those living in indigenous communities. These communities were based on collective ownership of land, and internal cohesion was structured by kinship and particularistic networks. Indigenous communities relied on ancestral norms and communal practices to coordinate the activi-

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ties of their members. Small in scale, their social lives were organized around face-to-face communication and anchored in generational hierarchies; their collective knowledge was stored in biological memory and transmitted orally; their connection to the larger division of labor was precarious and sporadic. Yet they were cohesive collectivities, bound together in tightly knit groups based on reciprocity and mutual aid, and capable of surviving many external threats, both environmental and human. There were constant tensions, however, as large landlords sought to expand their holdings at the expense of indigenous communities. The ultimate collapse of oligarchic domination began in the late 1950s. The expansion of literacy and education in the countryside, combined with the spread of mass communication networks, especially radio, diminished the power of mestizos and gamonales and enabled challenges to oligarchic domination (Handelman 1975, 55–58; Heilman 2010, 96–119). Peasant unrest in La Convención near Cuzco in 1958–1962 focused on the inequities of a system of domination based on massive haciendas. Peasants began to organize into unions and to undertake land invasions. Inspired by the example of the Cuban revolution, urban intellectuals joined the struggle (Blanco 1972). In short order land invasions spread throughout the highlands, involving hundreds of thousands of peasants. Although an incipient guerrilla movement was quickly put down, it called attention to the ways in which Peru’s socioeconomic problems stemmed from the backwardness of the rural oligarchy, the lack of national integration, and a weak and dependent state (Béjar 1970). Military officers who fought against the guerrillas were able to directly observe the oppression and misery created by the very order they were expected to defend; some of them decided it was time for change (Cleaves and Pease García 1983, 216). One such officer was Juan Velasco Alvarado, a junior officer who seized power in a coup on October 3, 1968. As the leader of the self-styled revolutionary government of the armed forces, he embarked on sweeping reforms to break the domination of the rural oligarchy and lay the foundations for a new development model based on the inclusion of workers and peasants, appreciation of indigenous culture, and redistribution of land and income (Lowenthal 1975; Chaplin 1976; McClintock and Lowenthal 1983). “One of the major goals of antioligarchic and nationalist revolution,” according to Julio Cotler (1975, 50), was “the homogenization of the social structure, which facilitates the expansion of capitalist forms of production.”

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The military introduced agrarian reform, peasant cooperatives, job stability, industrial communities, educational reform, expansion of social security, and support for unionization (Alberti, Santistevan, and Pásara 1977; Balbi 1989; Eckstein 1983; Stephens 1980; McClintock 1981). In state corporatist style, the officers attempted to carry out reforms while minimizing class confl ict and guaranteeing the unity of the state (Stepan 1978).7 The opposite was achieved: the reforms unleashed the kind of social forces that would call into question all constituted power, especially the military. This transformation enabled pent-up demands for change to be expressed in diverse forms of collective protest and unrest (Mayer 2009). The promotion of unions and industrial communities led to unprecedented worker mobilization. Support for higher wages and better working conditions increased militancy. One union leader said that if he could get the same increase in wages for his members by striking or bargaining with the employer, he would always strike because this taught workers the importance of militancy and solidarity.8 Such strategies encouraged clasismo—a “class-oriented and confrontational political mentality” in which “struggle” was seen as the most appropriate means by which to achieve collective goals (Stokes 1991, 87, 91, 97). The struggle fueled an uneven, incomplete, and precarious process of “social democratization” (Lynch 1991, 72). The new pressures for citizenship and participation were no less significant because they occurred under military rule. Workers and peasants experienced the sense of dignity that comes from recognition as fully human agents capable of collective action and the exercise of political power (Parodi 1986). To a considerable extent, this process of social democratization would continue in urban areas as waves of rural-urban migrants moved to the cities. As peasants and indigenous peoples moved to the cities and founded new urban communities in the shantytowns around Lima, they became pioneers of new settlements; as agents of change, they carried within them the potential for democratization of the society.9 Massive general strikes in the late 1970s and regional protest movements, often led by teachers, contributed to a process of radicalization of the population. Other middle-sector groups that became more militant were bank and public-sector employees. The union movement, long under the control of the APRA party, was captured by the Community Party during the military regime, and the General Confederation of Peruvian Workers (CGTP) emerged as a unifying voice for organized labor. Maoist radicals controlled the teachers union;

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Trotskyists were influential within peasant confederations. These groups formed the nucleus of an emergent “new Left” (Stephens 1983; Bernales 1987). The military decided to extricate itself from government—but, or so the generals insisted, not from power. Between 1977 and 1980 an elite-controlled process of transition was initiated. Unlike the situation in some other Latin American nations that would undertake transitions to democracy in the 1980s, the Peruvian transition involved drafting a new constitution.10 The military government decided to convene a constituent assembly in an effort to manage the transition and ensure the reforms it had implemented during its decade in office were ratified (Teivainen 2002, 59; Lynch 1991, 135). To the surprise of nearly all concerned, the Left captured about one-third of the seats in the Constituent Assembly (Bernales 1980, 70).11 The result was a remarkably progressive, albeit aspirational, constitution that recognized popular sovereignty as the basis of government, stressed the dignity of all citizens as equals, acknowledged the importance of the common good and life within community, and called for a free, just, and educated society without exploitation in which the economy would be at the service of the people, not vice versa. The right to vote was given to illiterates, enfranchising an estimated one million souls (Lynch 1991, 135). The constitution contained an expansive list of human rights, including social and economic rights like the right to social security, health, work, and to negotiate collective agreements. Multiple forms of property, private and public, social and individual, were recognized. The new constitution stated that “the state could have extensive direct intervention in the economy through public enterprises and other means,” wrote political scientist Teivo Teivainen. According to its Article 110, the economic regime was primarily based on “principles of social justice” (cited in Teivainen 2002, 59). The constitution captured the spirit of the political transformation that had begun and which represented a significant step toward the democratization of Peruvian society. It outlined a highly democratic political regime that enshrined the separation of powers, a bicameral legislature with a senate to represent the regions, a five-year presidential term without reelection, and a nondeliberative military. New institutions were created, such as the Tribunal of Constitutional Guarantees and National Magistrature Council. The Public Ministry and Senate were redesigned (García Belaunde 1996, 37–38). With this progressive constitution in place, Peru was able to move to elect a democratic gov-

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ernment in May 1980. That election day would also mark the start of a confl ict that would ultimately take upward of sixty-nine thousand lives and inflict extensive material and psychological damage on the nation.

The Shining Path One interpretation of Peru’s internal conflict is that it was an unintended consequence of the transformation of Peru that began with the breakdown of oligarchic domination. The Shining Path exploited divisions within Peruvian rural society to construct a powerful collective identity and mobilize deeply felt resentments against an unjust order; in so doing, however, it reproduced and exacerbated the injustices of that order. Whereas land reforms are often designed to prevent peasant rebellions, in Peru they triggered one. The land reform broke the back of the rural oligarchy, but it also displaced mestizos, ending their monopolies of knowledge, and creating a vacuum of power. This vacuum was filled by the Shining Path. The violence instigated by the Shining Path, in turn, further eroded the division between coast and highlands as waves of migrants abandoned the countryside for the cities, especially Lima. The Shining Path reflected the provincial social order from which it emerged, even as that order passed into extinction.12 Fire was fought with fi re in an effort to fundamentally remake the state and society. Unlike other revolutionary movements in Peru and Latin America, the Shining Path sought to replace what it called a corrupt, bureaucratic, corporatist, and fascist state with a new Maoist state. The party would be the nucleus of an entirely new political, social, and economic order. This meant that the party had to be everything to its members—a total organization—and its leadership had to wield absolute power. The Shining Path has also been described as a project by provincial mestizos to reestablish power in a disrupted social system, as well as a channel for social mobility and political power for ambitious, newly educated members of the indigenous population. The leaders of the Shining Path were heavily drawn from among educated mestizos whose social status was undermined by the agrarian reform (Degregori 1997, 182). The displaced middle strata sought new routes to status and domination through the revolutionary party. Their most successful recruitment efforts targeted young men and women from

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peasant communities who had achieved a level of education sufficient for them to expect to occupy greater status and power than they could by remaining within their families’ communities. The Shining Path offered not only a recipe for change, but also a guide to objective Truth. According to this vision, “traditional power, based not only on the monopoly of the means of production but also, moreover, on the monopoly of knowledge and its deceptive manipulation, is brought down by the dominated who break both monopolies” (Degregori 1989, 13). The guide to a new objective Truth would be the leader, Abimael Guzmán. He sought to construct a new monopoly of knowledge based on quasi-religious devotion to foundational texts and authors. Hence the insistence that Guzmán, who held degrees in philosophy and law, was a major intellectual force not only in Peru, but worldwide, and was comparable in stature to Marx, Lenin, and Mao. Devotion to the leader was modeled on the Old Testament-style construction of a people of the book. Pensamiento Gonzalo, as Guzmán’s thought was called, was a vehicle for indoctrinating recruits and forging them into instruments of revolution. Under the guidance of a vanguard steeped in knowledge of supposedly profound and inaccessible texts, they were asigned a sacred mission.13 With the grandiloquence of the parochial intelligentsia, Guzmán proclaimed Peru the epicenter of global revolution.

Democratization under Stress Writing in the 1980s, anthropologist José Matos Mar (1985) argued that “official Peru” had lost its monopoly on power and could no longer exclude and marginalize the Andean majority (or what he called the “marginal Peru”). “Popular overflow” (desborde popular) signaled the end of despotic oligarchic power: Peru’s popular sectors could no longer be ignored or marginalized by the nation’s social, economic, and political institutions.14 The revolution toward which the Shining Path sought to direct the popular overflow was avoided only because there was a democratic alternative. As precarious as Peru’s democracy seemed at the time, it was the decisive obstacle to the Shining Path’s designs, as was implicitly recognized by that organization’s leadership when they initiated the armed struggle by burning ballot boxes on election day in May 1980. The resiliency of democracy was not fully appreciated by the Peruvian Left, which was divided between the

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kinds of commitments needed to participate in the democratic process and the desire to build a mass movement with the potential option of seizing power by revolutionary means. The various parties that created the United Left were attracted by the prospect of gaining political power by electoral means, but they were not ready to abandon mass politics outside democratic institutions. Their most promising democratic leader, Alfonso Barrantes, won the mayoral race in Lima in 1984, positioning him to run for president in 1985 and 1990. For others, mass struggle included the possibility, eventually, of armed struggle. The suggestion that Peru in the mid-1980s was in a prerevolutionary phase did not seem wildly implausible. For some activists, Shining Path militants were showing that revolutionary struggle was still possible, while the United Left was caught up in the decidedly unrevolutionary politics of electioneering. “If the Shining Path had not existed,” speculates Gustavo Gorriti (1999, 11), “the left’s incorporation into the system would have been more visible and complete, and today the Marxist left would be a pillar of democratic stability, part of a lively and vibrant political process, and an entirely peaceful one.” The other stress on democracy was economic crisis. Although the center-right developmentalist Popular Action party won the 1980 election under the leadership of Fernando Belaunde Terry (1980–1985), it quickly became apparent that the new democratic government was not up to the twin challenges of insurgency and economic crisis. Monetarist policies adopted by industrialized nations in the early 1980s increased Peru’s debt burden, while competition among exporters lowered the prices of commodities that were the primary source of hard currency. Peru was forced to renegotiate its international debt obligations just as the country emerged from military rule. President Belaunde implemented orthodox economic policies that placed the burden of adjustment on Peru, particularly the urban poor, many of whom were forced into the informal economy in unprecedented numbers. He left the counterinsurgency strategy to the military and seemed unaware of the extent of the violence and repression in Ayacucho. By the end of Belaunde’s term there was a pervasive sense of ungovernability and drift. Drastic measures to restore economic growth and governability seemed in order. The 1985 election brought APRA to power, and for about eighteen months there was a renewed sense of optimism among Peruvians. The youthful president, Alan García Pérez, promised to place a ceiling

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on debt payments and stimulate growth through heterodox or populist economic policies: deficit spending, price controls, and wage increases. For the Right, these policies did not seem too different from what the Left had to offer, and so the term “Apro-Communism” reentered the political vocabulary after many dormant years, despite the fact that there was certainly no alliance between APRA and the IU. After an initial spurt of economic growth, heterodox policies generated the predictable evils of inflation, capital flight, and shortages, to which García responded, in a fit of pique, by attempting to nationalize the banks. Armored vehicles broke down the doors of the Banco de Crédito and entered in a cloud of tear gas.15 Conservative sectors rallied behind novelist Mario Vargas Llosa and his movement, Libertad. Vargas Llosa teamed up with the author of The Other Path, Hernando de Soto, to propose a radical reorientation of Peru’s economy, society, and politics. It was the inception of Peruvian neoliberalism (see M. Vargas Llosa 1991; A. Vargas Llosa 1991; A. Vargas Llosa 1994). De Soto spent his formative years in Switzerland, Canada, and the United States. He studied in the Graduate Institute of International Studies in Geneva, which had recruited Ludwig von Mises and Wilhelm Röpke, founding members of the Mont Pèlerin Society. Upon his return to Peru, de Soto invited Friedrich von Hayek to a meeting in Lima and subsequently founded the Instituto Libertad y Democracia to help create an intellectual climate favorable to neoliberalism (Mitchell 2009, 396). De Soto’s fi rst contribution to public policy was working under the García government in a project for property rights legislation and administrative reform. In 1989 he published The Other Path, an ambitious effort to interpret the migration of indigenous Peruvians to the cities and their survival strategies as reactions to a state that had failed to provide property rights to the poor. De Soto explicitly linked governance and markets. Either Peru would carry out a capitalist revolution driven by the emerging entrepreneurs of the informal economy, or there would be a violent revolution (de Soto 1989, 233).16 The fi nal years of the García administration were so chaotic and destructive—hyperinflation reached levels comparable to Weimar Germany, and a campaign of car bombs hit Lima as Shining Path activists expanded operations into the capital city—that a growing number of Peruvians began to accept that major sacrifices would be necessary to restore economic growth and political order. Although Vargas Llosa lost the 1990 election to Alberto Fujimori, his ideas were adopted. Vargas Llosa even offered his program and his team of neoliberal

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From Oligarchic Domination to Neoliberal Governance 89

technocrats to the newly elected president. De Soto quickly made the transition and began to work with Fujimori. He was instrumental in providing international connections that would consolidate the new president’s commitment to reforms. Fujimori may have cast himself as a candidate who would not implement shock therapy, but once in office he was quickly persuaded that economic austerity and aggressive counterinsurgency measures were unavoidable. A hastily arranged trip to Washington and Tokyo convinced the president-elect that he would get little international support unless he adopted what had come to be known as the “Washington Consensus”: privatization, liberalization of trade and investment, deregulation, labor market flexibility, monetary conservatism, fiscal restraint, and, above all, limiting the role of the state in the economy. This was tough medicine to swallow for a country already in a virtual state of economic collapse, but, as is so often the case, the depth of the crisis created an opportunity to implement thoroughgoing reforms. The perception—ill-informed, perhaps, but widespread—that the Shining Path was at the cusp of a strategic equilibrium with the armed forces created the conditions for an interruption of the democratic order. Important sectors within the armed forces concluded that Peru needed a period of prolonged political stability that could only be achieved by hard-line (mano dura) measures. Although they initially plotted to topple Fujimori, their scheme (the plan verde,17 as it was known) fell into the hands of Fujimori’s security adviser, Vladimiro Montesinos, who then adapted the strategy to build a civil-military coalition that would support the April 1992 presidential autogolpe, in which the Congress was closed, the courts purged, and the constitution suspended. The autogolpe was a moment of institutional dissolution. It is far from clear that this draconian measure was necessary to arrest the deteriorating security situation. The Congress appeared to be quite prepared to concede extraordinary powers to the president, and the counterinsurgency strategy was beginning to work. Within a few months a meticulous police investigation that had started before the autogolpe would result in the capture of Guzmán in a safehouse in Lima, but that only seemed to vindicate Fujimori’s mano dura. Moreover, although it was less clear at the time, Fujimori and Montesinos had implicated themselves and others within the armed forces in human rights crimes. Whatever the logic of power that led to the autogolpe decision, the

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public was clearly prepared to support it, as Fujimori intuited from the way in which his attacks on Congress and the political establishment played in public opinion. Following the autogolpe, opinion polls showed Fujimori had most Peruvians behind his authoritarian measures. The support was neither capricious nor unreasonable; it was rooted in profound and widespread fear (Schulte-Bockholt 2013, 97). The fear was not limited to the business community and the armed forces. It extended to virtually the entire middle class as well as working- class and poor rural communities, which felt the brunt of the confl ict. The pervasive sense of fear paralyzed social movements and made it hard to articulate opposition to Fujimori (Burt 2009b, 315–349). Of course, there was opposition from lawmakers, lawyers, judges, and constitutional law experts, as well as other defenders of the rule of law, and this opposition would wind up expressing itself in extremely important ways as legal professionals within the courts and in lawyers’ guilds challenged the erosion of constitutional protections throughout Fujimori’s tenure in power. But their defense of the rule of law had few echoes among the public. Privileged groups like the business community and technocrats were willing to surrender legal guarantees in return for order and stability; underprivileged groups were never protected by the rule of law in the fi rst place. Tepid opposition came from the international community, particularly the Organization of American States (OAS). Such opposition was mollified when Fujimori traveled to a General Assembly of the OAS in the Bahamas and, at the advice of Hernando de Soto, agreed to convene a “pretentiously—and redundantly—named Democratic Constituent Congress” (CCD) to rewrite Peru’s constitution and call new elections in 1995 (García Belaunde 1996, 39). Elected on November 22, 1992, the CCD did not have any members from the parties Acción Popular, APRA, and Libertad, all of which abstained. The CCD met from January to September 1993 and produced a text that was submitted for a referendum on October 31, 1993. Fifty-two percent of the public gave it their approbation, but one-third of the electorate abstained and 9 percent cast blank or void ballots.18 Peru was, of course, facing an institutional crisis, but “the constitution had little or nothing to do with this crisis” (García Belaunde 1996, 39). Fujimori did not announce the need for a new constitution on April 5, 1992. The idea of changing the constitution came about in response to criticism of the autogolpe—it was not part of Fujimori’s initial intention, which was to govern by plebiscitarian means and

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for longer than a single term. Rewriting the constitution was a fallback position to salvage a course of action that faced unexpected obstacles. But Fujimori must have felt emboldened by the outpouring of popular support for his hardline measures. He quickly realized that he could rewrite the constitution to his advantage. He approached the task not in a spirit of constitutionalism, however, so much as a desire to perpetuate himself in power.

Comparing the 1979 and 1993 Constitutions Despite its more centralist and neoliberal character, the constitution of 1993 was otherwise quite similar to its predecessor. There were those, like the members of the Andean Commission of Jurists19 who argued that a change in the constitution was not really necessary. Instead, the CCD should have simply modified the 1979 constitution. “However,” as Domingo García Belaunde (1996, 40) observed, “the regime’s ‘jurists’ warned that it would be dangerous to leave the 1979 Constitution in force, even with important reforms. Article 307 drastically sanctioned all authors of coups. This was the Sword of Damocles that could be used in the future against the current government.”20 Fundamental questions for any constitution include: who is the author and with what right does that author claim the power to create a new order? (Bernal 2017; Cameron 2013). The framers of the 1979 constitution described themselves as “We, representatives to the Constituent Assembly,” who, exercising the “sovereign power of the people” (“ejercicio de la potestad soberana del pueblo”) that the people “have conferred upon us,” promulgate the constitution. The language is active and inclusive. The appeal to popular sovereignty places the constitution within the Enlightenment tradition of the French and American Revolutions. The 1993 constitution made no reference to popular sovereignty. Shifting to the third person rather than the fi rst-person plural, it says that the “Democratic Constituent Congress, obeying the mandate of the Peruvian people” (“obediciendo el mandato del pueblo peruano”) has “resolved to give the following constitution” (“ha resuelto dar la siguiente constitución”). The term “representative” is not used. The image conjures a delegation of power to a third party which returns to the people in the form of a gift. The omission of any reference to popular sovereignty in the 1993

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constitution must have been deliberate. The framers of the 1993 constitution feared popular sovereignty and sought to order society from above. They also dropped the references to the integration of Latin American peoples and independence from imperialism, which in the Latin American context are also important features of popular sovereignty, as well as to historic and revolutionary leaders like Túpac Amaru and Simón Bolívar. The 1993 constitution created a unicameral legislature of 120 members with a single electoral district, which can be dissolved by the executive if he or she lacks confidence in two consecutive cabinets. Participatory innovations were adopted, including the use of referenda and recall (García Belaunde 1996, 42). The neoliberal cast of the 1993 constitution has been widely noted (Rubio Correa 2012; Teivainen 2002). García Belaunde (1996, 43) wrote that “the state practically disappears from the economic sphere taking on a modest subsidiary role.” Whereas the 1979 constitution described the state in interventionist terms, the constitution of 1993 sought to minimize state involvement in the economy and give space to private enterprise. Article 60 stated that “the State may subsidiarily engage in business activities, directly or indirectly, for reasons of high public interest or manifest national convenience,” only when authorized by law (emphasis mine). This norm, according to Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas (2016, 162) “is the cornerstone of the neoliberal citizenship regime and its derived policies that have progressively taken root in Peru.” The constitution also extended national treatment to foreign enterprises and reinforced private property rights. Article 70 made the right to property inviolable, stating that there can be no expropriation unless it is justified by national security or public necessity, and only then with full compensation. “Social interest” or “public utility” were no longer sufficient reasons, as in the 1979 constitution. Article 58 enshrined free enterprise. The role of the state is defined to prevent monopolies and ensure competition. Public enterprises are not to be given special treatment relative to the private sector, and the state should only play an entrepreneurial role in cases of “high public interest or manifest national convenience.” The right to strike is regulated “so that it will be exercised in harmony with the social interest,” according to Teivo Teivainen (2002, 157, 158). Certain contract laws (involving agreements between the state and investor) cannot be modified subsequently by legislation. Otherwise, conflicts over contracts are to be resolved in the courts. Article 79, which states that the Congress cannot increase spending, deprives the legislature of one of its biggest levers—the power of the purse. Arti-

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cle  89 deals with the agrarian regime, establishing that native lands are imprescriptible, meaning they cannot be acquired through possession due to occupancy or other requisites. However, the constitution does not say these lands are unembargable or inalienable, as in the previous constitution, which means they can be bought and sold or foreclosed. This was a key reform to enable the breakup of peasant cooperatives in favor of parceleros (small private ownership of land). Perhaps the most authoritarian features of the 1993 constitution are its emergency provisions: under chapter VII, constitutionally guaranteed rights can be suspended during a regime of exception. In these periods the executive has extraordinary powers. Marcial Rubio Correa (2012, 224) refers to this as the constitutionalization of temporary dictatorship. However, after forty-five days the suspension of constitutional guarantees must be approved by Congress. Under Article 200, no judge can challenge the decision to impose a state of exception. The constitution of 1993 also recognizes the rondas campesinas (peasant self-defense organizations). No sooner was the constitution adopted than Fujimori began to seek ways around it. His style of leadership—chaotic, delinquent, and unpredictable—was incompatible with basic principles of constitutionalism. For example, he insisted that he had the right to run for three terms in office. 21 Accordingly, shortly after Fujimori’s fi rst reelection, Congress introduced the so-called Law of Authentic Interpretation of the Constitution, which stated that the president was eligible for another term since he had only been elected once under the new constitution. 22 Since the law had the clear intent of benefiting a single individual, it violated the principle of generality, as well as the hierarchy of laws, by imposing a particular interpretation of the constitution by means of ordinary legislation. The Lima Bar Association challenged the constitutionality of the law in the Constitutional Tribunal that had been created by the 1993 constitution. The government passed an “organic law” requiring an extraordinary majority of six out of seven votes in order to declare a law unconstitutional. This meant only two votes were necessary to veto any decision, and two members of the Tribunal had close ties with the intelligence service. They upheld the law while the rest rejected it. When a majority declared the law inapplicable to Fujimori, the majority in Congress fi red the members who had ruled against reelection, leaving the Constitutional Tribunal inoperative for the remainder of Fujimori’s term and opening the way for his unconstitutional attempt to run for a third term. And yet, despite Fujimori’s contempt for his own constitution, the

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nondemocratic manner in which it was contrived, the absence of a compelling necessity to rewrite the entire constitution, and, above all, the fact that the constitution was conceived and implemented in the middle of an emergency situation, the 1993 constitution stands as a remarkably enduring document. It survived Fujimori and the Shining Path. The process of social democratization in Peru since the 1950s was to some extent irreversible. But the neoliberal tenets of the constitution have become irreversible as well. The 1993 constitution established a clear neoliberal policy order that has remained untouched, even as reforms have modified many of its important political features.

Neoliberal Governance The pro-market policies adopted by Fujimori, which remained intact after he fled the country in 2000, fundamentally reordered Peruvian politics by linking political and economic stability to the success of market-led development. Fujimori would later return to face trial and imprisonment, but his constitution survived intact. Four successive elected governments upheld the economic model it enshrined. In part, the continuity reflected a fear of returning to the past. Peru became more like Chile, which, after the Pinochet dictatorship from 1973 to 1990, elected left-wing governments (under presidents Ricardo Lagos and Michelle Bachelet) that refrained from tampering with the promarket economic model of the military regime, although they modified political features of that regime and introduced compensatory social programs. Chile did not experience political violence on the same scale as the internal confl ict in Peru, but the 1973 coup was a traumatic event without precedent in Chile’s history, and the fear it generated discouraged governments from tampering with the economic model after the transition from authoritarian rule. The constitutions of Peru and Chile were adopted by referenda under authoritarian governments in circumstances that were neither revolutionary nor democratic, yet both have endured. Neoliberalism fundamentally reconstructed the Peruvian body politic. By neoliberalism I mean not merely a list of policies (for example, the “Washington Consensus”) designed to promote competitiveness and growth, but more basically the rules and incentives that encourage competition throughout society (Foucault 2004; Brown 2015; Drinot 2014, 171). The goal of neoliberalism has never been simply to

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change policies and institutions, but to do so in order to shape the behavior of individuals and organizations. Although the purpose of getting incentives (and policies, or institutions) “right” is often framed in terms of the need for growth and competitiveness, these goals are normatively desirable because they enable public officials to employ techniques of governance grounded in economic rationality. The neoliberal project in Peru as elsewhere has been about the constitution of a social order around a specific set of freedoms—above all, those associated with property, competition, and entrepreneurship. It is not, however, a constitutional project that involves any notion of popular sovereignty. Neoliberalism is designed to be a guarantee against collectivist efforts at social engineering and forms of rationality that transcend the individual’s pursuit of his or her own ends. A threat to individual liberty and rationality was, above all, what the Shining Path represented to neoliberals. In few countries around the world can the link between neoliberalism and governance be seen more clearly. Teivo Teivainen sees what he calls “economism” as a defi ning feature of the 1993 constitution. “The neutrality and autonomy of the economic sphere vis-à-vis the political organs of the state was in various ways enshrined in the constitution of 1993,” Teivanen writes, “which made it a clear example of the constitutional politics of economism, one of the central elements of which is the attempt to make an economistic social order persist through the creation of constitutional constraints. The new constitution had various such constraints designed to ‘bind the future’ so that neo-liberal policies could not be easily reversed” (Teivainen 2002, 157). Teivainen draws upon the work of Gramscian scholar Stephen Gill to argue that in the “new constitutionalism”23 associated with neoliberalism, “the scope of democracy is restricted by defi ning various governance institutions and the issues they deal with as ‘economic’ and using the doctrine of economic neutrality to produce a dichotomy between the economic and political spheres” (Teivainen 2002, 17). Building on work by Michel Foucault (2004; see also Brown 2015), I argue that the “economism” of neoliberal governance is accompanied by a political dimension. 24 And it is not merely destructive but also creative. Neoliberalism was not just a set of policy prescriptions, or even prohibitions, but rather a technique of governance based on the use of rules and incentives to promote maximizing competitive utility in all spheres of life (Foucault 2004, 118–121). These measures also serve to discourage collective action and collectivist identities, and they may be

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more important in this respect than any legal or constitutional limitations imposed by the constitution. By fostering competition and entrepreneurship, they encourage the active pursuit of growth, investment, and monetary gain. It is important, however, to make a distinction that may not have been sufficiently obvious to Foucault: neoliberalism, operating through a micropolitics of competition, is entirely compatible with oligopolies, cartels, price fi xing, predatory practices, lobbying, influence peddling, and other noncompetitive arrangements within and among major corporations. These arrangements, which are anything but competitive, give Peru’s electoral democracy oligarchic features. 25 A small handful of major corporate groups dominate much of the productive and fi nancial activity in the country, and these groups exert enormous lobbying and direct influence over policy as well as the market (F. Durand 2004; Crabtree and Durand 2017). These de facto corporate powers enjoy what I call negative power: power that rests on the purposeful destruction of those forms of infrastructural power that might enable collective action threatening property, market competition, and corporate power. Negative power is the opposite of the kind of power that mobilizes society’s resources for collective purposes: it is the power to dissolve, to obstruct, to discourage, to exclude, to undo or not do things. This is power that primarily operates through the micro-level effects of competition, but it also comes in the form of direct (but rarely transparent) interventions in politics in which major corporations exercise their veto over almost any area of public policy that affects their interests. It restricts elected officials’ scope for policy choice. The 1993 constitution guarantees that even if an elected official promises to do something or has a mandate to implement a policy, it does not happen unless it is consistent with the logic of the market. It discourages elected officials who may wish to deviate from neoliberalism, and it guarantees freedom in the marketplace, market-led growth, and macroeconomic stability. This freedom is purchased at the expense of collective action or public policy initiatives that would achieve ends beyond what is permissible within a neoliberal model of development. In short, neoliberal governance presents itself as a solution to both economic backwardness and collectivist threats to individual and entrepreneurial liberty, and it does so by promoting competition and incentives to get ahead at the micro level while preserving the macrolevel corporate power of oligopolies. The neoliberal state is not the night watchman state of classical liberalism—a state that regulates

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competition and ensures that people freely express their natural inclination to barter and trade—but a state that actively establishes competitive economic rationality through demobilization, deregulation, depoliticization, privatization, surveillance, targeting, and thereby fosters a culture of entrepreneurship and consumerism. Demobilization, or breaking up nonmarket “guilds and combines” in de Soto’s (1989, 208) terms, is achieved by promoting flexibility and the deregulation of certain spheres of economic activity, particularly in relation to the labor market. The prohibition against guilds and combines does not apply to major corporations. Deregulation means “increasing the responsibilities and opportunities of private individuals and reducing those of the state.” The objective is to “depoliticize the economy in order to protect the state from the manipulation of redistributive combines” (1989, 249). The state should focus on enforcing efficient rules rather than managing production or allocating resources. Demobilization and the deregulation of collective bargaining were intended to undermine union activity; to reduce the density of unionization; and to discourage the use of strikes and other forms of collective bargaining and struggle by making such action useless. The Ministry of Labor stopped facilitating collective bargaining or upholding workers’ rights, and began to do just the opposite—it worked to promote a flexible workforce and a labor market with minimal regulations and safeguards. Private service contracts proliferated at the expense of stable work. In the rural areas, efforts were made to continue to promote the parceling of land and the breakup of peasant cooperatives. The ongoing power of the teachers’ union was blamed for the slow progress of educational reform. Privatization was vigorously pursued in not only the sphere of production but also a wide range of critical social services like education, health care, and pensions. Privatization has been advanced somewhat by stealth. Rather than denying access to free public education, successive governments have instead failed to make improvements and allowed the educational system to fall into such a state of disrepair that private schools have proliferated and become the norm even among the poor. The same is true of the health care system, where private pension plans, following the Chilean model, have been introduced. Even coercive authority was deregulated (de Soto 1989, 251). Policing has become reliant on para-police organizations, such as Seranazgos in certain neighborhoods of Lima, as well as the use of informal

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urban police (or “cops for hire”), gangs deployed for protection, reservists, and private security forces (Schulte-Bockholt 2013, 60–66). At the same time, the media whips up a climate of fear through a grotesque focus on violent criminal activity. Spying and monitoring have become normalized by the surveillance functions of the state. Successive governments have exhibited intense hostility toward nongovernmental organizations and have criminalized the activities of protest movements. Public policy making has focused on targeted spending rather than policies aimed at achieving universality. Government spending has focused heavily on infrastructure projects, which have helped link rural communities, facilitate commercialization of agricultural goods, and promote internal trade. Social programs have been financed through special funds (with organizations like FONCODES devoted to the disbursements of such funds). As a result, a patchwork quilt of channels and mechanisms earmarks particular resources for specific communities and purposes. The use of special funds to channel resources is justified by the need to avoid redistributive pressures from legislative appropriations (Barrantes 2009). A cultural shift is apparent in the rise of entrepreneurship and rampant consumerism. De Soto’s glorification of the small entrepreneur is widely accepted in mainstream media. The clasismo of the 1970– 1980 period was replaced with a new ethic of getting ahead: todo se consigue por la lucha (“everything is achieved through struggle”) was replaced with hay que competir para ganar (“one must compete to win”). A substantial market for self-help books for budding entrepreneurs has arisen, and the media celebrates the success stories of provincial entrepreneurs and merchants. A whole section of El Comercio is devoted to emprendedores. 26 The pioneering TV program Promoviendo, hosted by Guido Pennano, the minister of industry under Fujimori in 1990–1991 before he was imprisoned for fraud, is devoted to success stories of small-scale entrepreneurship.27 Business gurus like Nano Guerra García provide models for budding capitalists. 28 Yet despite the spread of emprendedurismo, there are no collective associations of emprendedores. 29 Consumerism forms part of this culture shift. Alberto Vergara (2015b) uses the phrase compra y calla (“buy and be quiet,” a play on the familiar exhortation of parents to children to come y calla, or “eat and be quiet”) to capture the mix of conspicuous consumption and political paternalism that characterizes contemporary Peru.

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Neoliberalism as a technique of governance has advantages: it is easier to govern a nation of aspiring entrepreneurs than one of class warriors. Yet neoliberalism has been beset by internal contradictions. Despite very high rates of growth—due in large measure to favorable international commodity prices and foreign investment in extractive industries—Peru continues to be a mediocre performer in international rankings of competitiveness. In part, this is because competitiveness requires robust institutions and substantial public investments; it also requires planning and coordination, and it assumes investments in the well-being and productive capacity of the working population. And yet Peru has lagged in the implementation of these sorts of institutional reforms. The bad externalities that proliferate—disease, pollution, congestion, violent crime—affect the poor disproportionately. In the roulette of market opportunities, the dice are loaded against small entrepreneurs and workers. Peru’s state has underperformed in terms of redistribution. This is not to deny successes in the area of poverty reduction; indeed, it is consistent with the strictures of neoliberalism to spend money on poverty alleviation programs. De Soto (1989, 251) wrote that “to redistribute to the poorest and least fortunate members of the population” is an important function of the state, provided it does not discourage production or distort markets. Yet the various programs devoted to poverty alleviation in Peru have been modest in impact compared with similar programs in other countries.30 Part of the problem appears to be a technocratic orientation in the implementation of the programs, which inhibits the scale and speed of their delivery (a point to which I return below). The Peruvian state has also underperformed in the area of the predistribution (as opposed to the redistribution) of resources. The canon minero is a program for redistributing royalties from mining operations that has the unintended effect of generating confl ict. Regional and local governments compete for resources disbursed by the central government through the powerful Ministry of Finance. There are hundreds of flashpoints of conflict throughout Peru. Extractive industries tend to be located precisely in poor rural areas where governance is most precarious. These industries generate enormous wealth, but they impose huge social, economic, and environmental costs on impoverished regions. The canon minero system exacerbates these tensions. Public services have been allowed to deteriorate despite macroeconomic growth and stability. Public education, especially in rural areas,

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is of extremely poor quality. In Lima, half of all school-aged children go to inexpensive and poor-quality private schools because the public schools are so bad. There have been improvements in health, as well as public infrastructure, but the contrast between public and private services remains like night and day. Public insecurity caused by everyday crime and violence is another persistent social ill. Despite the many limitations of neoliberalism in Peru, changing this policy orientation and model of governance has thus far proved to be impossible. On the one hand, opposition to neoliberalism has been undermined by the policies of demobilization, deregulation, depoliticization, privatization, surveillance, social targeting, and the culture of entrepreneurship and consumerism. On the other hand, legacies of violence and conflict have made it particularly difficult to develop collective capacity for popular mobilization, including the construction of political parties and movements of the Left. In the absence of collective pressures for change, the urgency to undertake comprehensive reforms to address Peru’s social deficits is lost, and the capacity to hold governments accountable for their failures is minimized. This helps us to understand—and perhaps begin to resolve—the debate over neoliberal policy continuity. The debate has been framed as a disagreement between the state capture thesis, associated most recently with the work of Crabtree and Durand (2017), and the thesis, articulated by Vergara and Encinas (2016) and Dargent (2015), that technocrats and bureaucrats enjoy extraordinary power and autonomy within the Peruvian state. I argue that the highly concentrated economic power of the business elite in Peru allows it to exercise inordinate political power over policy-makers operating in a highly constrained neoliberal state, but this power is fundamentally negative and exclusionary; it entails the power to exercise a veto over public policies that might threaten the core interests of the organized business community. The neoliberal state operates in accordance with economic rationality, but the high degree of autonomy of technocrats is possible because of the weakness of the Left and social movements. Vergara and Encinas (2016, 163, 170) implicitly acknowledge this when they suggest that the weakness of the political class in relation to technocrats is due to the lack of organized political parties and the precariousness of their connections to civil society, as well as the “fragmented and uncoordinated” nature of civil society itself. Such weakness, they note, “undeniably contributes to the general weakness of the political class and reform attempts.” In other words, neither the weakness of

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the state vis-à-vis the business establishment or the relative autonomy of technocrats vis-à-vis politicians can be treated in isolation from the devastating effects of both the internal confl ict and neoliberal restructuring on Peru’s party system and civil society. This condition is necessary to explain the continuity of neoliberal governance and Peru’s abstention from Latin America’s left turns.

Peru and Latin America’s Left Turns At the dawn of the twenty-fi rst century, many Latin American democracies made “left turns” (Cameron and Hershberg 2010; Levitsky and Roberts 2011). This was an unexpected reversal of two decades of deepening neoliberalism. The end of the Cold War had seemed to promise an end of history and politics. Latin America’s left turns showed, however, that politics and history never really ended; they were part of a larger and more diffuse movement of opinion against neoliberalism born of globalization, financial and monetary crises, and rising inequality (Rosanvallon 2006, 147–159). Latin America’s left turns did not constitute a repudiation of liberalism so much as a desire to overcome its insufficiencies in the Latin American context— whether the lack of human development, the neglect of public institutions, or the absence of effective legal guarantees.31 The alternative was not illiberalism but post-liberalism.32 Given a history of radicalism and political instability, it seemed odd that when the tide turned, Peru missed the current.33 The puzzle can be explained by comparing Peru with its neighbors and by analyzing recent elected governments. The imperviousness to the regional leftist trend seemed particularly curious because Bolivia and Ecuador, the two Andean nations most similar to Peru in terms of inequality, long-standing histories of social exclusion, and persistent political instability, both elected (and reelected) left-wing governments. They also achieved high levels of economic performance and improvements in social indicators. Bolivia is a far poorer country than Peru, but it invested more than twice as much in education and now has rates of educational attainment higher than Peru. It also invested more in health care. Ecuador also invested substantially more in health care and education. 34 In both countries, powerful social movements prepared the ground for left turns. Internal conflict appears to be a powerful deterrent to left turns. Bolivia today faces many of the same challenges as Peru, but the na-

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tional revolution of 1952 gave it an earlier start on a reformist project that has many similarities to the current reforms under its president Evo Morales. The revolution, while not exactly a peaceful affair, was not a major bloodbath either, and Bolivia did not experience heavyhanded repression in the subsequent decades on the same scale as Peru. Historically, the Bolivian military has been weak and corrupt. As a result, powerful social movements have emerged that were unafraid to push their case to the point of winning power by electoral means. “In Peru,” as Eduardo Silva (2009, 231) notes, “significant insurrectionary movements and a turn to authoritarianism that closed political space during Fujimori’s presidency inhibited the formation of associational power and horizontal linkages across social movement organizations.” Colombia is the only other country in Latin America that has also been forced to grapple with a comparably brutal insurgent movement: the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, or FARC. The Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica estimates that nearly 220,000 people were killed in Colombia between 1958 and 2012.35 So powerful was the rejection of the Left that the Colombian government, after painstaking negotiations with the FARC, was unable to secure the favor of a majority of voters in an October 2016 peace plebiscite. Like Peru, Colombia did not undergo a left turn. This is not to say that all internal conflicts militate against the left turns. The Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front, which led a broadly supported popular insurrection that fought the Salvadoran government to a standstill before negotiating a peace accord, committed relatively few human rights violations. As a democratic political party, it successfully ran candidates in municipal elections across El Salvador, fought for a share of legislative seats, and ultimately won presidential elections in 2009. It was the brutality of the Shining Path and the FARC that damaged the prospects for the legal Left in those cases, as well as the ongoing repression of leftist activists that these internal confl icts generated. Turning to the experience of recent governments, of the four presidents elected following the Fujimori decenio, two were neoliberal technocrats, and two were politicians (one of whom was an outsider). Alejandro Toledo rode to power on the wave of protests that contributed to the collapse of the second Fujimori government, but he had neither the inclination nor the social base necessary to alter the economic development model enshrined in the 1993 constitution. A rupture with the neoliberal model was clearly on the political agenda in 2006 with the campaign by Ollanta Humala and his insurgent ethno-nationalist

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movement. It is extremely significant that Humala was a former military officer who fought against the Shining Path in Tingo María, Huánuco. Thus, even though he ran on a program of progressive reforms called “La gran transformación,” nobody could accuse him of being tainted by subversion. If anything, there were serious questions about whether he had participated in human rights crimes. Humala narrowly lost that election to Alan García, who strategically positioned himself as a newly converted defender of the status quo with a promise of “responsible change.” Despite his catastrophic mismanagement of government in the 1980s, García seemed like the safer choice. As the leader of Peru’s last remaining organized political party, he could have chosen to emphasize social inclusion, but instead he governed according to neoliberal priorities. 36 As Paulo Drinot observes, notwithstanding his adoption of neoliberal rhetoric, García was prepared to use the sovereign power of the state to crush opposition to his neoliberal policies (Drinot 2014, 177). When Amazonian peoples opposed the expropriation and destruction of their land by extractivist companies, his repressive response was reminiscent of the massacre in El Frontón during his fi rst term in office. When Humala won office after his second bid for the presidency in 2011, the results were instructive for our analysis. “While Humala won the second round on a platform of much more moderate social change than in 2006, on reaching office he switched abruptly to the right” (Crabtree and Durand 2017, 126). He agreed to focus on promoting economic growth, macroeconomic stability, and the avoidance of any destabilizing measures. This as a perfect example of negative power.37 Humala found himself constrained by a hostile business community, critical media, and powerful right-wing adversaries in the Congress and the courts. The strategy of the Right was to ensure that Humala would avoid any temptation to follow the populist example of Hugo Chávez in Venezuela. They expressed outrage when he appeared to be considering the nationalization of the Spanish multinational Repsol, which would have provided resources for populist redistribution; they fought hard against efforts to require prior consultation of indigenous peoples; and they lobbied to ensure that major mining projects like Conga would be approved.38 There was no countervailing force against these pressures. Humala lacked a strong party organization or social base to hold him accountable. The result was that he was able to accomplish little of what he promised, leading to disappointment in the ranks of his electoral base and defections of allies in Congress.

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The election of Pedro Pablo Kuczynski was, in a sense, the ultimate vindication of technocratic neoliberalism. A wealthy white investment banker with extensive experience working in the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund, Kuczynski could hardly have been more unlike the majority of Peruvians. As the oldest leader to be elected president in Peru—having worked under the fi rst government of Fernando Belaunde Terry in 1967–1968, and returning in the 1980s to serve in cabinet under the second Belaunde government and then as minister of fi nance under Alejandro Toledo—Kuczynski was, however, well known to Peruvian voters. When matched against Keiko Fujimori in a runoff election after two potentially stronger contenders were disqualified by the National Election Board, Kuczynski benefited from a strong anti-fujimorista animus among voters. A respectable thirdplace showing for the Left put its leader Verónika Mendoza in the position of being able to endorse Kuczynski, helping him win the runoff. In December 2017, President Kuczynski, facing allegations of corruption, narrowly survived an impeachment vote and then proceeded, to the dismay of the Left, to pardon Fujimori. When it emerged that allies of the president offered opposition politicians financial rewards if they voted against impeachment, Kuczynski resigned in March 2018.

Conclusion I began this chapter by suggesting that two different—but not incompatible—lessons could be drawn from an analysis of the impact of the internal conflict on the transformation of Peru’s constitutional order. The fi rst was a version of Naomi Klein’s shock doctrine: the internal conflict had a major impact on Peru because it created the emergency situation within which it was possible to adopt a more neoliberal and authoritarian constitution. The second lesson is that the Shining Path failed to revolutionize Peruvian society and politics. The inability of criollo republican institutions to contain the pressures of popular mobilization, and the inevitable pressures for redistribution in an extremely unequal society, led to a process of social democratization that was arrested but not reversed by neoliberal governance in the 1990s. There is evidence for both claims. The perception of an existential threat allowed a pro-market economic model that could be implemented as not just a solution to the effect of populism and economic crisis, but also a technique of gov-

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ernment. The 1993 constitution would not only enshrine a neoliberal economic model and reconstitute political power around its inviolability, but also lock in an approach to governing that would direct the power of the state to neutralizing collective movements through a combination of demobilization, privatization, surveillance, targeting, and entrepreneurial culture. As a result, two decades later, Peru did not follow its Andean neighbors Venezuela, Bolivia, and Ecuador in adopting post-neoliberal constitutional reforms. But it is also important to recognize that the Shining Path failed in large measure because there was a democratic alternative to revolution. Not an incrementalist or reformist movement, the Shining Path presented itself as a harbinger of wholesale transformation of state and society. It threatened constituted power by exploiting the greatest vulnerability in Peru’s social order: the unequal and oppressive nature of social and political institutions, and the enduring and ongoing cultural legacies of colonialism, including political centralism, social exclusion, and denial of cultural recognition. The challenge for Peru’s democracy is to show that these problems can be addressed within the framework of a democratic regime and state. Those who advocate progressive change could do worse than to return to the path of reform and social democratization initiated before the Shining Path and the Peruvian military scorched the earth, while learning from more recent experiences with constitutional change that have flourished in the region. The 1979 constitution is likely to remain a point of reference for such an agenda.39

Notes An early version of this chapter was presented in a workshop at Harvard University, May 19–20, 2014. I am grateful to Hillel Soifer, Alberto Vergara, Teivo Teivainen, Francisco Durand, Fabiola Bazo, and two anonymous referees for advice and guidance. 1. See chapters 7 and 8 in this volume. 2. On the meaning of neoliberalism see Foucault 2004; Brown 2015; Jones 2012. See also the section of this chapter on the emergence of neoliberal governance techniques fostered by the 1993 constitution. See Peck (2010, 26) on roll-back versus roll-out neoliberalism. 3. In effect, Peru is a case of Naomi Klein’s (2009) “shock doctrine.” 4. It involved the torture of the body that Foucault (1979, 9) called “punishment-as-spectacle.”

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5. This term was fi rst used by Cotler, and subsequently by others including Handelman (1975, 45) and McClintock (1981, 65). 6. Michael Mann (1986, 169–170) makes a useful distinction between despotic power, which involves actions that are implemented by rulers without routine, institutionalized negotiation with opposition groups, and infrastructural power, which is the capacity to penetrate society to implement political decisions. For a discussion, see Soifer 2008. 7. “We [represented] the Aristotelian Mean,” said one officer. “We wanted the law to be upheld—as it has to be—but with liberty.” Cited in Pásara (1983, 329). 8. For an excellent and thorough discussion of clasista unionism, see Balbi 1989, 79–90. See also Tovar 1985. 9. Consider the eloquent words of Carlos Iván Degregori, Cecilia Blondet and Nicolás Lynch (1986, 21), writing about the Cruz de Mayo barrio in Rímac (italics in original): “De ser siervos, waqchas, clientes o plebeyos, a lo largo de su periplo los fundadores de Cruz de Mayo se convierten en parte del contigente de pioneros que, al invadir tierras y construir nuevos asentamientos llevan (o traen) el proceso de democratización social al corazón mismo de dominio oligárquico y burguéz dependiente, a Lima.” (“From being servants, waqchas [poor], clients or commoners, through their journey, the founders of Cruz de Mayo became part of the continuum of pioneers who, by invading lands and constructing new settlements, carry (or bring) social democratization into the very heart of the oligarchy and bourgeoisie, to Lima.”) 10. Brazil also adopted a new constitution as part of its transition to democracy. 11. The major groups were FOCEP, PSR, PCP, UDP. 12. Given inevitable social change, the Shining Path was in a “race against time” (Degregori 1992, 35). 13. Guzmán professed to be influenced by Thomas Mann’s account of the story of Moses in The Tables of the Law. 14. A similar process of popular overflow was reflected in the music scene (see Bazo 2017). 15. As a graduate student at the time, I observed the tank attack and inhaled the tear gas while walking through downtown Lima to post a grant application in the Correo Central. 16. De Soto appears to have concluded that his advocacy of informal entrepreneurs actually contributed to the defeat of the Shining Path. Eduardo Dargent (2014) disagrees. 17. See Schulte-Bockholt 2013, 91–92. 18. By contrast, there was only 16 percent abstention in the Constituent Assembly elections (Bernales 1980, 44). 19. See the essays in Del Golpe de Estado a la Nueva Constitución (Lima: Comisión Andina de Juristas, 1993). 20. Similar deliberations occurred within the Chilean military junta after the 1973 coup. See Barros 2002. 21. Article 112 read: “The presidential term is for five years. The president can be reelected immediately for one additional term. After another consti-

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tutional period has transpired, the ex-president can run again, subject to the same conditions.” 22. The law stated: “interpreted in an authentic manner, the reelection to which Article 112 of the Constitution refers is limited to presidential terms initiated after the date of promulgation of the text of the Constitution. In consequence, interpreted authentically, in the calculation one does not retroactively include presidential periods initiated prior to the entry into force of the Constitution.” 23. See Gill and Cutler (2015) for a more recent discussion. 24. Paulo Drinot (2014) draws on Foucault’s discussion of neoliberalism in his essay on García’s second term. 25. I am grateful to Teivo Teivainen for this point. 26. See http://elcomercio.pe/noticias/emprendedores-516839. 27. See http://www.promoviendo.tv. 28. See http://aeg.pucp.edu.pe/boletinaeg/notaegresados/189_egresados .htm. 29. I am grateful to Francisco Durand for this observation. 30. Peru’s Ministry of Development and Social Inclusion is involved in a number of projects aimed at poverty alleviation. These programs include PRONAA (which prevents malnutrition affecting three million children); FONCODES (offers temporary job creation for 400,000 people); CUNA MAS (supports early child development in the fi rst three years of life, benefiting 80,000 children); JUNTOS (a conditional cash transfer program with 700,000 users); and PENSION 65 (supports 170,000 elderly people over sixty-five years of age in highlands). 31. The sense of disappointment with market reforms could be read in the subtitles of the two major books written by Hernando de Soto. The Other Path, written in 1989 (its title is a play on the name of Peru’s revolutionary movement, the Shining Path), heralded an “invisible revolution in the Third World” as an alternative to underdevelopment and “Marxist-Leninist fundamentalism,” as Mario Vargas Llosa wrote in a preface for the book (p. xx). De Soto’s second book, The Mystery of Capital, written in 2000, promised to explain “Why capitalism triumphs in the West and fails everywhere else.” 32. Scholars like Yashar (1999) and Arditi (2010) wrote of “post-liberal” democracy. 33. Roughly a dozen countries (including Venezuela, Brazil, Chile, Ecuador, Bolivia, Paraguay, Argentina, Uruguay, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica), encompassing most of the population of the region. Latin American nations often move in packs: shifts in policy from export-oriented growth to substitution industrialization and then to neoliberalism have often been taken by the region’s nations in tandem. Peru has occasionally been an outlier—it was a “late adopter” of populist reforms, and it adopted them under military rule. Nevertheless, there are broad similarities in the patterns and sequences of national development trajectories across the region, to which Peru is no exception. 34. See http://hdr.undp.org/en/countries/profi les/PER and http://hdr.undp .org/en/countries/profi les/BOL.

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35. See http://www.centrodememoriahistorica.gov.co/micrositios/informe General/estadisticas.html. 36. This argument is developed in Cameron 2011. García (2005, 10–16), in a book published before the election, argued that globalization demanded modernization. Chile was the most successful case in Latin America, and free trade agreements could prevent the erosion of competitiveness. His position was consistent with an emphasis on social inclusion and justice, but in practice his main concern was investment, growth, and free trade. 37. See http://elcomercio.pe/politica/gobierno/ollanta-humala-presento-hoja -ruta-que-buscacambio-rumbo-noticia-756721. 38. For an account of the attempt to acquire Repsol, see Vergara and Encinas 2016, 174–175. 39. Such an agenda could recognize popular sovereignty and the right to self-determination of indigenous people within their ancestral territories; seek a new balance between the rights of workers and the rights of employers, as well as the elimination of labor services and support for unionization; restore the right to renegotiate contracts with foreign investors; democratize political parties; and perhaps include buen vivir (living well, in harmony with nature) as a principle to guide public policy and an alternative to the neoliberal focus on growth. See Gudynas 2011.

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CHAP T ER 4

The Internal Armed Conflict and State Capacity: Institutional Reforms and the Effective Exercise of Authority Hillel David Soifer and Everett A. Vieira III

This chapter draws on existing research, contemporary newspaper accounts, and novel analysis to investigate the effect of Peru’s Internal Armed Conflict on the capacity of the state, and specifically its coercive capacity. On the one hand, we fi nd that the confl ict played an important role in shaping the design of state institutions in the coercive realm, but on the other, the confl ict had a more limited impact on the ability of those institutions to exercise authority and extend their influence over territory. We argue that a holistic perspective on state capacity that takes into account both institutional design and institutional strength allows us to paint a more nuanced picture of how conflict has and has not shaped the contemporary Peruvian state. Our chapter explores the three facets of the armed conflict’s potential effects that frame this book as a whole: wartime mechanisms, conflict legacies, and the politicization of the conflict. We trace how each might have influenced state capacity. The fi rst section evaluates a series of changes to the state’s coercive capacity that took place during the armed conflict. We examine trends in the funding and size of the state’s armed forces, showing that while the conflict brought increases in this dimension of coercive capacity, these vanished as soon as the conflict ended, leaving no lasting shift. By contrast, the confl ict did have some impact on the structure of these institutions; it spurred institutional changes that shaped their effectiveness and the unity with which they operated. It also resulted in significant learning in the realm of counterinsurgency. The second section investigates the ways in which the memory or lessons of the confl ict have been manipulated by political actors and institutions in Peru’s security apparatus. Here we examine how state

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actors seeking to increase the power of the intelligence agencies and to limit the salience of human rights reforms have leveraged the recent past of confl ict in the service of their goals. We conclude that a significant effect can be found here: the conflict has played an important role in shaping the strategies used by actors within the state as they struggle for institutional resources, autonomy, and power. In the third section, we turn to lasting legacies of the confl ict affecting the state’s coercive capacity. Here our findings show once again that the conflict has shaped institutional design more than institutional strength. We fi nd that institutional changes made during the conflict have tended to remain after it came to an end, despite their long-term suboptimality. We also fi nd a surprising pattern of increased postwar state territorial reach focused precisely in those areas where the state was unable to oversee elections in 1989. After presenting these findings, we consider the broader implications for the study of state capacity in the conclusion. Broadly speaking, we suggest that our fi ndings pose a paradox to studies of confl ict and state capacity. On the one hand, they dovetail quite well with the robust body of scholarship on the role of conflict as a historical cause of long-term institutional outcomes, and on the striking stability of institutional design (Ertman 1997; North 1990; Soifer 2016). On the other hand, we show that even as it has shaped their design in lasting ways, the confl ict has relatively little lasting effect on the capacity of those institutions. We also suggest that scholars of war and the state should incorporate the territorial dimension into their study of state capacity.

Studying State Capacity Scholars have long explored whether and how confl ict shapes state capacity. While focused exclusively on the Peruvian case, our chapter builds on this literature. Most research fi nds that conflicts like that seen in Peru, in which (as detailed further below) the state did not mobilize massive manpower or resources, are unlikely to lead to significant and lasting increases in state capacity (Downing 1992; Tilly 1992; Centeno 2002; Thies 2005). Yet because these studies focus on cross-national evidence rather than within-case analysis and rely on crude proxies for state capacity, they lack the nuance possible in a deep investigation of a single case such as the one we conduct.

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Our chapter makes three important choices in terms of how we approach the study of state capacity. First, we focus on its coercive facet. In so doing, we move away from the focus of most existing studies that explore how conflict affects state capacity by focusing on the extractive efforts of the state (Centeno 2002; Thies 2005; Slater 2010). We make this analytical move for several reasons. First, because the most direct consequence of state-making efforts that respond to security threats is military mobilization, we argue that the effect of conflict on state capacity is best evaluated in its coercive facet. Second, because other elements of state-making such as taxation are shaped (even during wartime mobilization efforts) by many factors other than state capacity, they provide a more indirect assessment of how confl ict makes the state. The second distinctive feature of our approach to state capacity is that we make a multifaceted assessment of coercive capacity. Rather than choosing one indicator, we examine separately the size and fi nancing of coercive institutions, various aspects of their institutional design, their effective extension across the national territory, and the effectiveness with which they operate. This multifaceted approach, which fits well with recommendations by Saylor (2013) and Soifer (2008) on the measurement of state capacity, lets us bring a new perspective to the debate about how confl ict shapes “stateness” by showing that it affects some aspects but not others. Third, in the spirit of the volume as a whole, we shift away from cross-case comparison to a concerted exercise in within-case analysis that is intended to tease apart the legacies of the conflict from those of the broader political and economic crisis of the 1980s. In so doing, we speak both to the Peruvian experience and to the broader question of what kinds of conflicts, under what kinds of circumstances, produce state-building.

Wartime Mechanisms We begin our analysis by investigating how state coercive capacity changed during the years of confl ict itself, tracing the evolution of the resources devoted to security provision and counterinsurgency as well as the quality of security institutions. Much scholarship on the state argues that when mobilization, extraction, and other elements of stateness are increased during wartime, they will remain high thereafter (Tilly

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1975; Centeno 2002). This relationship derives from various mechanisms that underpin the so-called ratchet effects (Campbell 1993) by which state capacity increases during a confl ict but does not decline after its end. Based on the broad consensus that war-making shapes state capacity, we should expect that increases in military spending and manpower taking place during the confl ict should not be reversed in its aftermath. We examine whether a step change or ratchet effect can be observed as military size and manpower respond to the conflict. Money and Manpower Perhaps the simplest way to assess the state’s capacity is to examine the resources at its disposal that can be used to implement its chosen policies.1 In the coercive realm, those resources are both fiscal and material; we can assess both the spending on security and the size of coercive organizations—in other words, money and manpower. We begin here with the very basic question of how the funding and size of the Peruvian military evolved during the confl ict with Sendero. Military spending data from the Correlates of War project, measured in current-year US dollars, shows no ratchet effect for this operationalization of state capacity. We observe an upward trend in military spending during the pre-confl ict era of the 1970s, when the country was under military rule. This is followed by a highly unstable pattern during the years of confl ict: spending rose more than 50 percent from 1979 to 1980, and nearly tripled between 1981 and 1982. It then decayed over the remainder of the Belaunde years, falling back to 1979 levels before tripling from 1986 to 1987. That year, however, was an outlier, and thereafter spending remained relatively constant for the remainder of the confl ict, with a small uptick in 1996 likely due to mobilization for the border conflict with Ecuador. Thus we see no lasting effect of the conflict on military spending; levels in the 1990s were no higher than those of the pre-conflict decade. We also use data from the Correlates of War project to chart the size of the armed forces, measured on a per capita basis, over the same time period. The data reveal a significant increase in military mobilization in the pre-conflict period: from 1970 to 1980 the per capita size of the military nearly doubled. Given that the country was ruled by the armed forces during these years, that pattern is not surprising. Yet the trends in military mobilization after the onset of the Inter-

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nal Armed Conflict are quite striking: after a 10 percent increase between 1980 and 1983 in per capita military size, the manpower of the armed forces fell by 33 percent over the remainder of the decade, and remained at a constant level during the fi nal years of the confl ict. In terms of military manpower, then, no significant increase in state capacity happened during the conflict. There was no lasting ratchet effect in this case, nor even evidence of temporary gains in state capacity during the confl ict. Trajectories of coercive resources do not fit with the expectations of the “bellic” school of state-building. Military spending returned to pre-conflict levels by 1990, and remained there except for the brief spike in 1996–1997. This suggests the absence of the classic ratchet effect of war-making on state capacity; rather than a step change in military spending that persisted after the confl ict, we see instead a temporary increase that decayed after the confl ict ended. Similarly, the data show no ratchet effect for military size either. After a peak in the early 1980s, the per capita size of the armed forces slowly declined over the remainder of the period of internal confl ict and the subsequent decade. While this level remained higher than that of the early 1970s, the per capita size of the armed forces is actually smaller than it was during the late years of military rule. Institutional Changes Overall, in terms of resource-based assessments of state capacity, we fi nd no lasting impact of the Internal Armed Conflict. Yet state capacity cannot be reduced to the resources at its disposal; one must also examine the quality of state institutions to get a broader picture of the state’s capability to impose order. In this area, we fi nd that the Peruvian case follows the expectations of the bellic school of state formation more closely: the threat posed by the Sendero insurgency spurred a series of fundamental shifts in state institutional design, which we trace below in the police, the military, and the intelligence services. In each instance, we see significant institutional reforms during wartime, which are the focus of this section. Later in this chapter, we show that these institutional reforms, though suboptimal in the longer term, tended to remain in place after the confl ict came to a close; thus they represent a significant legacy of the confl ict, and one that persisted despite longer-term negative consequences in the post-confl ict setting.

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Police At the onset of the internal confl ict in 1980, Peru had three different national police organizations: the Guardia Civil (GC), which had a loose military structure; the Policía Investigaciones del Perú (PIP), the most clearly civilian; and the Guardia Republicana (GR), the most militarized of the three (Costa and Neild 2005, 218). These forces competed for resources and power within Peru’s security apparatus, and tensions manifested in armed clashes among police units, including a “police rebellion” (Gorriti 1999, 73) on September 6, 1980, that was defused only by presidential intervention. The consistent pattern of “fragile armed standoffs” between units of distinct police forces (ibid., 113) was also a product of corruption, as elements within each of the three police forces competed for control over illegal activities including, but not limited to, the narcotics trade. The quality of each of the police institutions was also hampered by poor leadership resulting from the politicization of the initial appointments made by Belaunde (ibid., 39). The interior minister, under whose aegis all three police forces were housed, saw “imposing his authority over his police chiefs” to be a bigger challenge than the insurgency (ibid., 72). The organizational problems within each force, and tensions between them, impeded the state’s efforts to respond to Sendero Luminoso, and to perceive the broad challenge the insurgency posed (Gorriti 1999, 62). In 1981, as the intensity of the confl ict ramped up, the police continued to identify and arrest a significant share of the perpetrators of individual actions, but did little to address the organization behind these actions. This can be seen in the effects of the fi rst state of emergency declared in the armed confl ict, which was announced on October 12, 1981, and applied to five provinces of Ayacucho. Though the police were able to take control of the emergency zone, their inability to gain civilian support and their poor intelligence hamstrung their ability to do significant damage to the Shining Path, which simply went dormant for this brief period. The police played a limited role in the conflict for the remainder of the Belaunde years, as military intervention took center stage. Upon taking office in 1985, Alan García and his administration sought to alter the course of counterinsurgency efforts away from a military focus that had been ineffective as well as responsible for massive human rights violations. Doing so, however, required police reform. A series of initiatives unfolded over subsequent years, culminat-

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ing in the December 1988 creation of the Policía Nacional del Perú (PNP), which unified the three forces in the police sector (CVR 2003a, 186). Many experts and the leaders of various police institutions saw this unification as hasty and potentially unwise, and proposed postponing it until it could be planned more carefully (ibid., 186). But unification went ahead largely because it was seen as a key element of the state’s response to Sendero’s gains in the central and southern sierra. Police unification was one example of the conflict’s effects on the design of state coercive institutions. It is less clear, as we will show, that these changes had a significant impact on the quality of policing.

T he A r m ed Forces As their counterinsurgency interventions proved both ineffective and politically unpalatable, the armed forces also became a site of reorganization. Efforts in this area were intended to bring the armed forces under the control of the elected government in order to provide better oversight of counterinsurgency policy (CVR 2003b, 275). Organizational changes were highlighted by the April 1987 creation of the Ministry of Defense, which consolidated the various heretofore separate security agencies, including the Ministries of War, Air, and Navy, the Joint Command of the Armed Forces, and the National Defense Secretariat. But another institutional shift that occurred in the course of the conflict worked in the opposite direction, and also had important implications for how the military would subsequently operate. Working at cross-purposes to military consolidation under civilian authority was the granting of complete autonomy to zone commanders and the leaders of individual military units in the zonas de emergencia, beginning with Law 24150, which was introduced at the very end of Belaunde’s presidency and persisted nearly untouched until 2004 (Jaskoski 2013b, 42, 87). As we will discuss, the autonomy of coercive actors has persisted, with important consequences for state capacity.

In t elligence Serv ices Another crucial change to Peru’s security apparatus over the course of the conflict was a series of efforts to bolster the intelligence services beginning in the mid-1980s. At the onset of the confl ict, the intelligence services were of extremely poor quality. The Servicio de Inteligencia Nacional (SIN) had been weakened sharply under the Morales Bermúdez administration in terms of its reach into the rural highlands, as the

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number of paid informants fell sharply (Gorriti 1999, 199). This left the police “groping around” (ibid., 45) as it confronted the fi rst insurgent actions. Military intelligence, in particular, consistently sought a foreign element underpinning the Shining Path, and “could only conceive of guerrillas in terms of a classic Castro-style movement” (ibid., 52). Reporting was “not only seriously deficient but intentionally in error” (ibid., 51) as intelligence officers sought to curry favor with their superiors. As strategists became aware that counterinsurgency tactics were alienating the rural population, the emphasis on intelligence increased (Weeks 2008, 53). This prompted officials to seek an end to the fierce rivalries and lack of coordination between the various intelligence agencies, and to improve their quality. Facing political obstacles that limited his ability to eliminate existing agencies, García chose instead to create a new unit to complement those already present. He established a special intelligence group within the PIP intelligence unit, the Grupo Especial de Inteligencia del Perú (GEIN), and tasked it with the explicit purpose of capturing Abimael Guzmán and striking at Sendero’s political structure (Tapia 1995b, 34; Taylor 1998, 51; CVR 2003a, 198). The role of intelligence grew even more sharply under Alberto Fujimori (Obando 1994, 119). Though the SIN had been the formal coordinating body for the various intelligence organizations for more than a decade, the Fujimori-Montesinos years saw its power grow. One important moment in this process was Law 25635, which took effect on July 28, 1992, and formally established the SIN as the consolidated and centralized hub for counterinsurgency (CVR 2003a, 229). A key consequence of this move was a shift of control over intelligence to an institution that came under limited government oversight; the independent operation of the intelligence service was a key characteristic of the Fujimori regime. Though the growing sway of the intelligence apparatus was, in large part, a consequence of the president’s close relationship with the head of the SIN, Vladimiro Montesinos, it was also very much influenced by the security concerns engendered by the internal conflict. Learning In addition to resources and institutional design, state capacity is also affected by institutional quality. To explore this, we focus on the ex-

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tent of learning in the realm of counterinsurgency. Here, once again, we fi nd that significant institutional change occurred. We examine whether there were changes in the state’s counterinsurgency strategy, whether these changes increased effectiveness, and whether improvements can be attributed to the lessons obtained in the course of the conflict. Since the bulk of our evidence supports the role of the conflict and learning in the evolution of counterinsurgency strategy, it supports the fi nding that the Peruvian coercive apparatus was strengthened as the result of the confl ict. At the onset of the Sendero uprising, the training and expertise of the armed forces had been principally focused on external threats rather than internal ones (Taylor 2006, 35–37). As a result, the military lacked the training necessary for internal, unconventional warfare (Koc-Menard 2006, 335–336). As discussed previously, though the police were reasonably effective in direct response to Shining Path actions—suspects were arrested with regularity—this mode of response was ineffective in terms of addressing the broad sweep of the insurgency, as manifested in the failure of the police to weaken the Shining Path during the initial emergency declaration of late 1981. The fi rst coherent counterinsurgency strategy emerged autonomously within the military, without guidance from Belaunde, as it faced its initial deployment to Ayacucho in late 1982 (Jaskoski 2013b, 40–41). This was nothing short of a scorched-earth campaign intended to eradicate the insurgency and instill in the minds of the population that they should support the military over Sendero, combined with an expectation (unmet due to economic crisis) that other state agencies would fund economic development to win over peasants (Taylor 1998, 43; Jaskoski 2013b, 42). In the vernacular of Stathis Kalyvas (2006), this type of indiscriminate violence did not differentiate between senderistas and local residents, but whereas Kalyvas emphasizes the inability of armed actors to differentiate between civilians and insurgents, the Peruvian military appears to have been unwilling to make this distinction. This sentiment is captured by the former minister of war, General Luis Cisneros: “If to kill two or three senderistas it is necessary to kill 80 innocents, then it does not matter . . . The peasants have to decide where they wish to die: with Sendero or the armed forces” (Granados 1987, 27, 33). Unsurprisingly, human rights violations committed by the military spiked during this period of indiscriminate violence (Obando 1998a, 196; Koc-Menard 2006, 336). Toward the end of the 1980s, a retreat from indiscriminate violence

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under García began to cohere into a new counterinsurgency strategy. This new approach “gave emphasis to the socio-political, economic, and psychological dimensions of waging unconventional warfare” (Taylor 2006, 36). Elements of this strategy, several of which are discussed elsewhere in this chapter, included programs to appeal to civilians, encouragement of the rondas campesinas, intelligence service reorganization and unification to improve coordination, giving the military political control in zones of emergency, and increasing the penalties for those accused of terrorism (Tapia 1995b, 35–36; Obando 1998a, 198–199; Taylor 1998, 50–52; Taylor 2006, 36–37). This new strategy was carefully delineated in a new counterinsurgency manual issued in August 1989 (Ministerio de Defensa 1989). This manual suggests a conscious effort by the military to shift its emphasis to an effort to win over the hearts and minds of the population in order to defeat Sendero, centering on the acquisition of local knowledge and the importance of gaining local support. And while local tactics were left up to individual zone commanders and unit leaders, there was a clear shift toward this new model of responding to Sendero after the late 1980s. There is strong evidence that counterinsurgency became strikingly more effective in the late 1980s. Perhaps the clearest instance of these fruits of learning can be seen in the direct gains against the Shining Path achieved by General Alberto Arciniega during his deployment in the Upper Huallaga Valley. Rather than view the cocaleros as criminals and eradicate their crops, he sought favorable relations with the locals. Arciniega also improved the morale of his troops through increased interaction between officers and their subordinates. These improvements led to increased cooperation with the local population and led to victories against Sendero (Taylor 1998, 50). More broadly, the increased effectiveness that resulted from the shift away from scorched-earth policies could be seen in various parts of the country in the beginnings of trust-based relationships between peasant communities and local military units, in alliance against a common enemy (Tapia 1995a, 24). And this emergence of a faint but crucial degree of trust facilitated the spread of the rondas campesinas, which were fatal to Sendero (Starn 1996, 245). The spread of more effective counterinsurgency efforts was marked by both horizontal and vertical mechanisms of diffusion. First, the decentralization of counterinsurgency was an organizational feature facilitating learning. While, as discussed above, this limited the extent to which edicts from the center were implemented in a consis-

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tent and rule-bound manner, it also facilitated learning by allowing a climate of experimentation. Because zone commanders were rotated regularly and were independent of the units stationed in various locations, experiences from one region could travel to other parts of the security apparatus. There was, therefore, space for a horizontal form of learning in the military organization. But policy change also resulted from top-down pressures from the commanding heights of the state. The growing salience of human rights abuses on the part of the military, and their negative implications for counterinsurgency, led García to opt for a change in strategy to avoid the policy trap of terrorism whereby a heavy-handed response to the violence killed innocents along the way and thus reinforced support for Sendero (Taylor 1998, 37; Gupta 2008, 205). This learning on the part of the security apparatus resulted in more effective counterinsurgency, and represents one way in which the conflict spurred a significant increase in state coercive capacity. Whereas earlier we traced how the confl ict sparked changes in institutional design but not necessarily in the effectiveness of the state, here we highlight an important counterexample. Disaggregating state capacity into multiple indicators allows the observation of this complex pattern of mixed consequences.

The Conflict as Strategic Frame Beyond its direct effects, we also fi nd evidence that the confl ict has shaped how actors in the post-conflict context view their roles and the means by which they seek to pursue power and resources. We fi nd that the conflict has in this way shaped both state-society relations and interactions among institutions within the state. Two arenas in which this type of legacy is particularly clear are the intelligence apparatus and the military. As mentioned above, much of the increase in the surveillance capacity of the intelligence services under Fujimori can be traced not to necessities of the internal confl ict, but to the logic of the regime; as subsequent revelations showed, surveillance was a key component of its strategy of holding power. But the role of intelligence in counterinsurgency served as justification for its further expansion in the post- conflict period and generated resistance to attempts to increase oversight over surveillance through intelligence reform. Once the sur-

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veillance apparatus had grown in power and escaped the oversight of state leaders, it became very hard to put the genie back in the bottle. The intelligence apparatus continued to grow in budget and in surveillance capacity, and to operate autonomously from government oversight, both under Fujimori and thereafter. This continued even after the SIN was deactivated and a replacement established under Alejandro Toledo (Weeks 2008). Even after a series of intelligence-related scandals under Toledo and the CVR’s call for reforming or eliminating the military’s role in intelligence, little has changed. In consequence, this aspect of security remains largely outside the oversight of national government institutions despite a wave of security sector reforms, and despite its formal separation from the armed forces2 (Obando 2008– 9). Thus references to the conflict were used to justify the increased power and autonomy of the surveillance apparatus during the Fujimori era. References to the conflict have also served as justification in the military’s challenges of government oversight, especially in episodes of contention over human rights reforms since Fujimori’s fall. Military officers continued to see the army’s central mission as counterinsurgency, and felt that they could not adequately carry out this mission in a context where they were restricted by human rights oversight (Jaskoski 2013b). In addition to the expected efforts of the military hierarchy to protect its members from prosecution for violations during conflict, Maiah Jaskoski’s interviews with officers who served in emergency zones during the 1980s and 1990s show that they saw accountability measures as hampering their central mission of continued counterinsurgency against the remnants of Sendero Luminoso. Rather than protesting or rebelling against human rights reforms, the military has pressed against them by underperforming its missions in the realm of counterinsurgency, regularly disobeying orders to “conduct more assertive counterinsurgency operations” (Jaskoski 2012a, 81). Civilian authorities under Toledo and early in the second García administration were unable to compel the army into full performance of counterinsurgency. Only when the García government passed Law 29166 in December 2007, which once again broadened the jurisdiction of military courts and modified the rules of engagement to reduce the vulnerability of soldiers to human rights charges, did the army resume assertive efforts (ibid., 83). Thus lessons learned during the confl ict led the armed forces to resist control on the part of the central state, which undermined coercive capacity in important ways for much of the decade after the confl ict ended.

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Legacies We have already discussed a series of changes to institutions made in the course of the conflict. A vast body of scholarship in sociology (Ertman 1997), political science (Barnett 1992), and economics (North 1990) has argued that state institutions tend to endure in their initial form despite their suboptimality. Building on this scholarship, we now examine whether some of the changes discussed previously have persisted into the post-confl ict period, and show that these have affected state capacity in lasting and negative ways. We also examine a novel legacy of conflict for state capacity: the extent to which the state can reassert effective control over territory that fell outside its grasp during the confl ict. Institutional Continuity in Government-Military Relations State capacity is defi ned by the extent to which the central state can generate the implementation of its chosen policies to their fullest capability. Thus it is shaped by relations between the commanding heights of the state and its bureaucratic agents (Migdal 1988; Soifer 2008). In the coercive realm, then, state capacity is affected by the extent to which authorities can command and control military institutions. We therefore examine the evolution of government-military relations in Peru. Against the common tendency to explore these issues under the rubric of democratization, we show that they cannot be understood without reference to the confl ict, which shaped government oversight over the coercive apparatus in important and lasting ways.3 We must concede that factors other than the confl ict did play a role. In particular, the fact that 1980 marked a transition from military rule to democracy meant that the military entered the decade, and the conflict, under a strained relationship with state leaders (Obando 1998b, 386). These tensions shaped Belaunde’s reticence in deploying the armed forces to Ayacucho until Christmas of 1982 (DeGregori and Rivera 1993, 9). We identify a dramatic decay of civilian control over the course of the 1980s that can be traced directly to the conduct of the confl ict. A broad scholarly consensus supports this view that the fight against Sendero Luminoso reduced government control over the military. As described above, a key element of this reduced control was the autonomy of military officers in emergency zones, to whom much discretion was given, whether de facto (DeGregori and Rivera 1993, 7) or

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de jure (Mauceri 1991, 98). These officers were accountable to the central state only to a very limited extent, and even then only to military, rather than civilian, institutions of justice. Except for fragmentary efforts during the fi rst two years of the García administration, the 1980s saw “few efforts to assert civilian control over the military” (Cameron and Mauceri 1997, 240). Indeed, even García’s changes to the military command structure reveal that rather than serving as an agent of state leaders, the military enjoyed significant autonomy from the state. García had to co-opt high-ranking officers with promotions, political appointments, and access to resources to guarantee their support for the regime. While this strategy cemented alliances between civilian and military leaders, it further undermined the control state leaders exercised over the military leadership (Obando 1998b). The Fujimori years saw a deepening of patterns that had emerged in the previous decade rather than significant institutional change. While the counterinsurgency conflict continued to rage during Fujimori’s fi rst years in power, the fragmentation and local autonomy that had marked the late García years escalated (Mauceri 1991, 98–99). Military officers’ lack of accountability remained a theme as human rights abuses escalated and protection from prosecution (and especially civilian prosecution) was extended. Particularly striking was the legal construction of protection of soldiers for delitos de función, which came to cover any action committed in an emergency zone (Jaskoski 2012a, 76), and the ban on review of sentences handed down by military tribunals in civilian courts. Institutional changes, such as the 1991 decree that empowered the military to confiscate resources and conscript individuals as it saw fit, increased military autonomy (Mauceri 1991, 99). The military enjoyed influence over not only these reserved domains of counterinsurgency and human rights, but also government policy more generally. At the same time, however, the internal institutions of the military came to be deeply politicized, generating a debate about how much autonomy the military really enjoyed during the fujimorato (Obando 1998a, 199; Avilés 2009). Scholarship on this period minimizes the impact of the counterinsurgency conflict, focusing instead on regime dynamics to account for patterns of governmentmilitary relations and arguing that Fujimori’s lack of party support, tensions between branches of government, and the role of Montesinos are sufficient to account for these patterns. Yet we highlight that many of the changes observed during this period represent continuity with trends that fi rst emerged during the confl ict. Thus, our fi ndings fit well

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within the framework developed by North (1990), Ertman (1997), and other scholars who show that institutional changes made as states seek to respond to severe challenges will persist thereafter, even when they limit state capacity in the long run. State Territorial Reach Yet we reach a puzzling fi nding when state capacity is instead assessed in terms of its ability to effectively exercise control across its national territory. This final section of the chapter shows that places where the state could not exercise control at the height of the conflict saw significant state-building in the post-conflict period. Existing theories of the effects of internal conflict on the state overwhelmingly neglect this territorial aspect of state capacity. This is a striking omission, given that internal conflicts have a fundamentally territorial nature (Kalyvas 2006). By showing how this dimension of state capacity evolved in the post-confl ict period, we paint a more holistic picture of the relationship between conflict and stateness. As will be detailed further, we also fi nd some suggestive evidence of state-building in the post-conflict period that has not been explored by scholars of contemporary Peru. This section seeks to measure the extent and limits of the reach of the Peruvian state by improving on existing measures such as those developed by Kent (1993), Koc-Menard (2007), and McDougall (2013). We assemble original data on a new measure of state territorial reach, assessed at the provincial level.4 This allows us to develop more spatially disaggregated measures than those used by other scholars, and to measure state reach over the entire national territory rather than just the conflict zones. We assess the reach of state institutions at the height of the conflict, using election irregularities in the municipal elections held on November 12, 1989, which Sendero tried to spoil, as an indicator. The failures of these municipal elections represent a good measure of limits on the state’s ability to implement a basic set of policies, and in particular they capture variation in the security climate at the local level, since insecurity (as will be discussed) was central to explaining why candidates withdrew from elections and voters opted not to risk going to the polls. We then examine the extent to which the state’s authority has been restored to those regions, or whether state weakness has remained constant, thus revealing the extent to which state weakness that appeared5 in the course of the conflict continues to mark Peru to the present.

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During the November 1989 municipal elections, Sendero Luminoso attacked municipal officials and candidates, threatened to kill many others, and seized and burned libretas electorales in an effort to disrupt the vote. Candidates withdrew in many municipalities, and in others none could even be found who were willing to run.6 We use data on district-level election returns to assess the extent of four types of electoral irregularities that occurred in each province and thus capture state territorial reach.7 A fi rst type of irregularity is No Elections, which refers to entire provinces for which no election results are available. A second, related, type is Missing Districts, which refers to provinces in which more than 25 percent of districts have no election results reported. Because voting was mandatory, we can also assess two other kinds of election irregularity. Our third type of irregularity is Spoilage, which refers to provinces where null and blank votes made up 60 percent or more of votes cast in at least one district.8 The fourth type is Low Turnout, which refers to provinces that had one or more districts where fewer than 100 total votes (including null and blank ballots) were cast.9 We assemble district-level data into scores for each province on four kinds of election irregularities, which might reflect the limited ability of the state to implement voting procedures. We use the province (n = 188) as the unit of analysis rather than the district because our measures of contemporary state reach are available at this level of aggregation. Our portrait of election irregularities in the 1989 municipal election sheds light on the limits to the state’s reach at this moment in the conflict. These irregularities were found in many parts of the country; only 72 of the country’s 188 provinces were unaffected. Of the country’s 25 regions, all but two (Moquegua and Tumbes) saw election disruptions. Problems were widespread within many regions: in Ayacucho, Huancavelica, Ucayali, and Junín, every province saw electoral disruptions, as did all but one in Huánuco. Seven of ten provinces in the department of Lima suffered from election irregularities, as did the capital’s port of Callao, which represents its own province. All four types of irregularities we examined were widespread. No elections at all took place in 29 of the country’s 188 provinces, including four in Ayacucho, Apurimac, and La Libertad, three in Huánuco, and two each in the regions of Amazonas, Ancash, Cusco, Junín, and Ucayali. The complete absence of elections was not limited to remote provinces with few residents; provinces in this category included Cajatambo on the outskirts of Lima. Returns were missing from at

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least 25 percent of districts in an additional 30 provinces, including five in Huánuco, four each in Arequipa and Junín, and three each in Ancash, Puno, and Lima. Thus missing returns affected at least some share of elections in nearly one-third of the provinces in the country, impacting 410 districts. Widespread spoilage affected 203 districts in 61 provinces. Finally, low turnout was found in an additional 103 districts spread across 43 provinces. But our fundamental interest is in the question of whether this territorial weakness of the state persisted after the confl ict ended. To assess this, we drew on an Index of State Density (Indice del Densidad del Estado—IDE) constructed by the UNDP (2009) for each province in Peru and calculated for 1993 and 2007. Scores are composed of five dimensions: doctors per ten thousand residents, percentage of households with electricity, percentage of households with water and sewage provision, secondary school enrollment rate, and percentage of the population possessing an official identity card. Though this set of indicators moves our object of examination away from the purely coercive facet of state capacity, it allows the assessment of the subnational reach of state institutions. To examine whether state weakness revealed in the 1989 elections continued to resonate thereafter, we ran a series of regression models that explore whether election irregularities are associated with subsequent differences in scores on the UNDP state density index. To avoid saturating the models, we added few control variables. We controlled for the human development indicator level (available from the same UNDP data set) in the province to account for the direct or indirect effects of socioeconomic development on the IDE, which has increased steadily over the course of the post-conflict period. In the models for 2007, we also controlled for a lagged dependent variable: the relevant measure of state reach in 1993. As our independent variables, we used each of the four types of election irregularities, as well as an election disruption index for each province that aggregates all four. This disruption index can take on values from zero to three, since the absence of results for the entire province cannot co-occur with any of the other three types of irregularities.10 The mean value for this province-level index of electoral irregularity is 0.84, with a standard deviation of 0.77. Table 4.1 shows the results of our fi rst set of analyses. Model 1, which explores the effects of the overall election disruption index on state reach, fi nds that disruptions have a positive and statistically significant effect on provincial levels of state presence in 2007, even if we

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Table 4.1. Models 1–3, effects of electoral irregularities on post-conflict state reach Model 1

Model 2

Model 3

DV: IDE 2007 DV: IDE 2007 DV: IDE 2007 Constant HDI 1993 Boycott index

0.382*** (0.091)

0.354*** (0.090)

0.013*** (0.005)

Spoilage

0.288*** (0.008)

No election results Missing districts Low turnout IDE 1993 HDI 2007 # obs Prob > F R-squared Adjusted R-squared

0.418 (0.092)

0.639*** (0.042) 0.008 (0.174)

0.063 (0.172)

188 0.0000 0.8460 0.8435

188 0.0000 0.8514 0.8490

0.015* (0.009) 0.640*** (0.043) −0.429 (0.177) 188 0.0000 0.8423 0.8398

*p < .10 **p < .05 ***p < .01

control for state presence in 1993 and the HDI scores. The remaining models explore different manifestations of election irregularity separately: model 2 shows the results for the spoilage indicator, and model 3 for low turnout.11 Most strikingly, the effects of spoilage are not only statistically significant, but positive: provinces that contained districts with high ballot spoilage in 1989 had higher levels of state capacity in 2007. This suggests that in the intervening years, the state extended its reach into those areas where it had lacked control in 1989. Models 4–8, shown in table 4.2, examine the five separate indicators of the IDE as dependent variables. They show that spoilage is associated with an increase in all aspects of the state’s presence, suggesting

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that the state has been able to extend its reach into areas where Sendero was able to spoil the 1989 election. The spoilage of the 1989 election is associated with statistically significant increases in all but one of the indicators of state capacity, and these effects are substantively quite large. In 2007, the provinces where one or more districts had a spoiled election in 1989 saw increased presence of state institutions in several ways. All else equal, in provinces where Sendero was able to spoil elections in 1989, 2007 saw electricity provided to 4.2 percent more households (unweighted average of provincial rates  = 56.3  percent) and water and sewage to 3.9 percent more households (average = 39.8 percent). Similarly, where spoilage had occurred, secondary school enrollment was increased by 2.1 percent (average = 67.4 percent) and identity registration (average = 96.0 percent) had increased by 1.1 percent. The fact that this relationship remains after controlling for HDI sugTable 4.2. Models 4–8, effects of spoilage on individual dimensions of stateness in 2007 Model 4

Model 5

Model 6

DV: DV: Water/ DV: Electricity sewage Doctors Constant Spoilage HDI 2007 Lagged DV (1993 score) # obs Prob > F R-squared Adjusted R-squared

Model 7

Model 8a

DV: Education

DV: ID Cards

11.106 36.350** 12.010*** (12.303) (14.538) (3.219) 4.183** 3.870* 0.706 (1.732) (1.996) (0.450) 40.042* −33.582 −15.489*** (22.237) (26.126) (5.704) 0.666*** 0.905*** 1.344*** (0.040) (0.053) (0.062)

48.874*** 100.193*** (7.466) (5.128) 2.077* 1.082** (1.067) (0.429) −8.122 −10.407 (13.922) (9.754) 0.688*** 5.645** (0.040) (2.367)

188 0.0000 0.7018 0.6969

188 0.0000 0.6856 0.6805

188 0.0000 0.6733 0.6679

188 0.0000 0.7551 0.7512

188 0.0020 0.0769 0.0618

a

Because there is no 1993 value for identity registration, we use the 1993 overall IDE here. This likely explains the poor fit of this model. *p < .10 **p < .05 ***p < .01

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gests this is not simply a function of economic development, but a manifestation of an increasingly present Peruvian state. This pattern of increasing state presence in the post-confl ict era in zones heavily controlled by Sendero has gone unnoticed in existing scholarship.12 As the introductory chapter to this volume shows, much scholarship on contemporary Peruvian politics has been written without systematic engagement with the legacies of confl ict. The issue of social spending and public good provision is no exception: our fi ndings here, though suggestive, show a clear pattern of investment in public good provision in confl ict-affected areas, and in particular in those areas where Sendero Luminoso exercised control at its height, which cannot be accounted for by existing explanations. Scholarship on FONCODES and on social welfare provision more generally under Fujimori has tended to emphasize motives of clientelism and political mobilization (Schady 2000) as well as compensation for the costs of the radical economic restructuring his government implemented. Under Toledo, social provision is commonly explored through the lens of poverty reduction (St. John 2010, 109). Yet beyond our suggestive fi nding about public good provision outcomes such as school enrollment and electricity provision, the historical record also reveals that the conflict seems associated with the targeting of public good efforts: for example, the Fondo de Compensación Municipal, founded in 1994, focused on rural areas (Degregori, Coronel, and del Pino 1998, 244), and the Juntos CCT program introduced by Toledo in 2004 was fi rst rolled out in one hundred districts in Ayacucho, Apurímac, Huancavelica, and Huánuco. Though commentators (St. John 2010, 117) describe these as being the “poor” regions of the country, it may be no accident that they are also the most confl ict-affected. In all, our results show that the lack of state reach was erased relatively quickly after the confl ict ended. Though its effects should not be overstated, we fi nd that some degree of state-building in terms of state territorial reach seems to have occurred in the post-confl ict period. We suggest that this issue is worthy of further exploration in terms of our understanding of the politics of social welfare in recent decades in Peru. A logic that begins with conflict legacies suggests that in addition to poverty alleviation and clientelism as motivations for state spending in these areas, we might uncover a state-building project— limited by fiscal conditions and the economic model (see chapter 3)— that sought to extend the state’s control over areas where Sendero held sway at the end of the 1980s. Understanding the extent and nature of

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this state-building project might lead scholars to adjust their understandings of the post-confl ict governments in important ways.

Conclusion This chapter has assessed the effects of the Internal Armed Conflict on several different dimensions of state coercive capacity. On the one hand, we found few lasting effects in terms of the size and funding of the armed forces. Though these facets of coercive capacity did see change to some degree in the course of the confl ict, wartime shifts disappeared after the confl ict came to a close. Yet on the other hand, we fi nd that the confl ict impacted the design of state coercive institutions in important and lasting ways. The war with Sendero spurred a series of reforms of the army and police, as well as significant shifts in counterinsurgency doctrine, which have persisted after the confl ict ended, though as Jaskoski (2013b) shows, that doctrine is only implemented to a limited extent. Moreover, the experiences of confl ict served as a central justification used by the military and intelligence apparatus for expanded autonomy and scope of action during the Fujimori administration and subsequent post-confl ict administrations. In this way, the Peruvian coercive apparatus and its relationship to the state’s commanding heights remain shaped by the conflict. Finally, we show that significant territorial extension of the state occurred in the post-confl ict period, focused precisely on those regions where the state had been weakest at the confl ict’s height. Our fi ndings suggest that conclusions about the effects of confl ict on state capacity depend on how one defines and assesses the outcome. Peru’s Internal Armed Conflict seems to have transformed coercive institutions in important ways, as did the wars in early modern Europe that have been the focus of the bellic school of theory on state-building that began with Tilly (1975). This fi nding seems quite surprising given the claims of Centeno (2002) that confl ict in Latin America generated “blood and debt” but little institution-building, and the claims of Thies (2005) that internal conflict weakened rather than built states. Yet in fact it is consistent with both of these seemingly contradictory claims in the literature. Like Centeno and Thies, we fi nd limited effects of the conflict on the effective exercise of authority by the state. Yet like Downing (1992), Ertman (1997), and other studies of European state formation, which buttressed their claim that war made states by refer-

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130 Hillel David Soifer and Everett A. Vieira III

ence to the institutional changes that confl ict spurred, we fi nd that it led to significant institutional shifts. Whether state capacity should be studied in terms of institutional design or institutional effectiveness is, of course, beyond the scope of our analysis. But our findings suggest that the conclusions we can draw about how it is changed by confl ict depend on how state capacity is measured. Notes For comments on earlier versions of this chapter, we thank Jorge Domínguez, Angelica Durán Martínez, Tulia Falleti, Gustavo Flores-Macías, Agustina Giraudy, Matthias vom Hau, Diana Kapiszewski, Jennifer Pribble, and Deborah Yashar as well as participants in the conference organized by the editors at DRCLAS, Harvard University, members of the Princeton Latin American Politics Working Group, and the anonymous reviewers. We thank Noelia Chávez and Madai Urteaga for assiduous research assistance. 1. In broader cross-national studies of state capacity, this is often done through the use of national income or government revenue as a proxy for those resources. See, for example, Fearon and Laitin (2003), who use GDP per capita as a proxy for state capacity. For a discussion of the strengths and weaknesses of input-based approaches to assessing state capacity, see Soifer 2008; Soifer 2012; and Fukuyama 2013. 2. Indeed, this lack of civilian oversight over intelligence remained a concern under the Humala administration as well. See Angel Páez, “DINI destina el 70% de su presupuesto para acciones secretas,” La República, June 14, 2013, http://www.larepublica.pe/14-06-2013/dini-destina-el-70-de-su-presupuesto -para-acciones-secretas. 3. Because our focus is on government control rather than civilian control in particular, we use the term government-military relations rather than civilmilitary relations throughout. 4. See de la Calle (2017) for a similar, though not identical, use of the same data as an indicator of territorial control during Peru’s confl ict. 5. The lack of similarly widespread failures to implement elections earlier in the decade supports our claim that this manifestation of state weakness emerged in the course of the confl ict. 6. Contemporary news reports indicated problems in regions ranging from Tingo María (see Mario Munive “Uchiza le dice Sí a las elecciones,” La República, November 5, 1989) to Ayacucho (Carlos Valdez, “Candidato IU se reinscribe para elecciones en Ayacucho,” La República, November 9, 1989), while scholarly accounts point to similar issues in locations including the Mantaro Valley (Manrique 1998, 205), Puno (Rénique 1998, 320), and Huanta (Coronel 1996, 61). 7. We use the province as the unit of analysis rather than the district because our measure of post-confl ict state reach, as described below, is measured

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at the provincial level. Election data are drawn from http://www.infogob .com.pe/Eleccion/eleccion.aspx, last accessed May 30, 2016. 8. In addition to Sendero Luminoso’s attempts to prevent the elections from proceeding, the MRTA called for spoiled ballots (“Uchiza le dice Sí a las elecciones,” La República, November 5, 1989). While blank and null ballots might be interpreted as evidence of a protest vote in other contexts, the calls for such behavior on the part of insurgents combined with threats of violence against voters in a context of mandatory voting leads us to include spoilage as an indicator of state weakness. 9. We are reluctant to use the 1981 or 1993 census data to calculate turnout as a percentage of population due to the high levels of internal displacement during the confl ict. Our threshold of 100 total votes is a very conservative measure: the mean of votes per district was 2,755. 10. A binary index of the form “boycott = 1 if no results for province OR two of the other three conditions hold” produced nearly identical results, as did various other specifications for the election irregularities variable. 11. Models with the missing results indicators as an outcome produce no statistically significant results; this suggests that these indicators may be capturing data problems rather than an insecure electoral climate. This hunch is supported by the fact that electoral results are missing for the entire province of Cusco, which was not likely a place where Sendero was able to disrupt elections to this degree. 12. One exception is a brief discussion in Degregori, Coronel, and del Pino 1998, 245, which points to a “particularly impressive” increase in social spending in “areas of the country previously hit by the war with Sendero Luminoso” but does not explore the reasons for this systematic pattern.

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CHAP T ER 5

Impact and Legacies of Political Violence in Peru’s Public Universities Eduardo Dargent and Noelia Chávez

No one would deny the severe impact of political violence on Peru’s public universities from 1980 to 1995. As highlighted by diverse works about the causes and consequences of political violence, the Shining Path (PCP-SL) was born in, and its trajectory was closely intertwined with, public universities.1 A significant number of PCP-SL leaders were university professors, many of its members were students, and the group acted violently within universities, including such acts as threats and assassinations. State repression carried out by military and paramilitary groups also struck public universities, with disappearances and selective killings on campuses (Degregori 1990a; Sandoval 2002; CVR 2003a; Sandoval and Toche 2007; Reátegui 2008; Jave, Cépeda, and Uchuypoma 2014, 44–81). Universities were described as insecure, politicized, permanently on strike, and incubators of terrorism. Thus it is reasonable to see in political violence one of the main causes of the current crisis of public universities. Nonetheless, many other problems also affected public universities before and during the internal confl ict (Lynch 1990; CVR 2003a, 582–594; MINEDU 2005; Degregori and Sandoval 2009, 28–49; Jave, Cépeda, and Uchuypoma 2014, 35–44; Disi 2017). As discussed in the next section, the academic degradation of public universities started at least two decades before political violence, and was driven by a set of internal factors as well as elements of the broader context. Mass enrollment coupled with low budgets led to a severe decline in academic quality in what had heretofore been small and elitist institutions. Moreover, radicalism was not limited to Sendero: during the 1970s and 1980s radical Marxist and Maoist groups were prevalent in universities (Lynch 1990; CVR 2003a, 594–598). University authorities’ patrimonial and frequently corrupt management of these institutions, a char-

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acteristic that has remained salient for the last forty years, also contributed to the decline of public universities (Lynch 1990; Degregori and Sandoval 2009, 38–41; N. Chávez 2014), as did the economic crisis that hit Peru in the late 1980s. In sum, although we focus on the impact of violence on public universities, this effect cannot be studied in a vacuum, separated from other issues affecting them since the 1960s. Without pretending to fully disentangle the effects of violence from these preexisting trends and the impact of the economic crisis, we propose that violence fundamentally changed the image of public universities and deepened their many problems. Violence, we argue, was fundamental to making public universities a “non-issue” in the public debate and to determining their current precarious state. In specific terms, we argue that political violence produced three legacies that continue to have a significant impact to the present day. First, violence installed an image of public universities as chaotic and violent in the minds of political elites and society at large. Since the onset of the internal confl ict, not only have these institutions come to be perceived as precarious and politicized, but some political and economic elites have portrayed them as being violent, a radical threat for society. This “stigma” remains strong in public opinion even if such trends have significantly reduced (Gamarra 2010; Jave, Cépeda, and Uchuypoma 2014; Nureña 2016). As discussed in the introduction to this book by Soifer and Vergara (p. 12), the frequent struggle of political actors and other elites that “frame, shape, and manipulate features of the conflict and its legacies for their own purposes” reproduces these negative images, keeping them salient still today. The second legacy refers to the departure from these institutions of two groups that are crucial for quality and meritocracy: as a result of the chaos among public universities, both middle- and higher-income students and high-quality professors migrated to private universities that bloomed in the 1980s. Violence also had an effect on the quality of education, as competitive professors shifted to private universities or just stopped teaching out of safety concerns.2 Public universities never regained their quality after the confl ict, and this weakness led to decreased salience in the country’s public and academic debates. Third, though more tentatively, we also propose that violence and its memory played a part in weakening students’ capacity for collective action. Even today students retain an association between the excessive politicization and radicalism of the eighties and students’ political organization, leaving university politics in the hands of clientelistic student representatives and radical political groups. This weak capac-

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134 Eduardo Dargent and Noelia Chávez

ity for student collective action contributes to the absence of student mobilization in pursuit of higher education reforms or other political issues in Peru, a clear contrast with countries such as Chile, Colombia, or Mexico that have witnessed student mobilization and protests in recent years. Together, these three legacies constitute severe obstacles to external or internal efforts to reform public universities. While neoliberal higher education reformers in the rest of Latin America debated in the nineties about what to do with public universities, they were not an issue for market reformers in Peru, who instead promoted profit in higher education as a response to the growing demand for university education and ignored public universities almost entirely. And despite important efforts in recent years, public universities still remain low as a political priority and in public salience, despite their relevance for educational reform in Peru. To advance these claims, we focus mainly on the case of the Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos (UNMSM). Although it has better quality and infrastructure than other public universities in Peru, it portrays well the common trajectory of public universities affected by violence. Also, as Peru’s most important public university, San Marcos attracted significant attention from the media and became a referent for the public as a result of the events there. Throughout this chapter we also present information from other universities, particularly the Universidad Nacional San Cristobal de Huamanga (UNSCH), the institution where Sendero started its actions and built its initial support. The chapter proceeds as follows: in the fi rst section we briefly present some antecedent conditions to document the problems of public universities before violence. We then focus on the impact of violence in these institutions from 1980 to 1995, showing how these events were reported to the public. Third, we present the above-mentioned legacies, provide evidence to justify our claims, and explain how these legacies impact the possibility of reforming public universities. We conclude with some general thoughts about the implications of our fi ndings for the challenge of reforming public universities.

Antecedents: The Public University before Violence (1950–1980) Although we cannot properly discuss in detail the causes of the current crisis of Peruvian public universities, our aim in this section is to

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provide a baseline from which to judge our analysis of the independent impact of violence and its legacies. We focus on three contributory factors that predate the conflict: the massive growth of students without a comparable budget increase, Marxist radicalism that affected pluralism and quality within universities, and clientelism in university government. The crisis of public universities was heavily influenced by a process that started in the 1960s: the massive growth of student recruitment without a similar growth in budgets (CVR 2003a, 582–587; Degregori and Sandoval 2009, 25–34; Sandoval 2002). Efforts to democratize higher education resulted in a significant increase in the number of public universities, from five in 1955 to twenty-three in 1979. At the same time, there was no significant increase in the budget for higher education. The process of democratization achieved its goal of opening public academic institutions to lower socioeconomic classes, especially students from rural areas (CVR 2003a, 582–587). However, the resulting shortfall in funding crippled academic quality in what had traditionally been relatively small and elitist institutions. As public universities expanded, considerably less attention was given to academic quality. There were more than budgetary reasons for this shortcoming; politics also played a role. Progressive political forces saw universities as recruitment grounds for progressive or even revolutionary politics (Lynch 2002, 301). As a result, politics within universities became more about demanding bigger enrollments and defending students’ stability rather than addressing academic quality. With only a few exceptions, academic quality strongly decreased in these institutions in the years to follow, and the poor quality of many academic programs left the promise of higher education unfulfilled. Some governments showed more interest than others in reforming these institutions, but in general political elites were disinterested in public universities. One of our interviewees explains this lack of interest by the growing distance between radical groups and political elites, who saw no point in fi nancing an institution controlled by groups that portrayed the state as an enemy (interview with Burga; all interviews are listed at the end of the chapter). In sum, low budgets, high enrollment levels, and lack of political interest were all problems affecting academic quality by 1980 when the internal confl ict began. Second, by 1980 Marxist radicalism was already strong in the universities, and it was not limited to the PCP-SL. Throughout the fifties and sixties, APRA and Acción Popular (AP) were gradually pushed out of universities by increasingly radical leftist groups. Eventually,

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these more radical groups achieved control over administrative and academic positions, and eroded academic pluralism with a quite simplistic version of Marxism (Degregori 1989; Degregori 1990a; Degregori 1990b; Lynch 1990). Furthermore, the resources provided by universities allowed these radical groups to detach themselves from national politics. In open contrast to APRA or Acción Popular, or even to other leftist groups that started to compete in elections in the democratic transition from 1978 to 1980, these radical groups saw universities as an end in themselves. Universities provided them with resources and jobs, and served as recruitment grounds. These groups therefore rejected democratic politics and criticized other leftist parties for taking part in a “democratic fiasco” (CVR 2003a, 588–594). Political isolation and tight control of universities became the political identity for these groups. Yet unlike the PCP-SL, these groups believed that revolutionary conditions did not exist in the country, justifying in this way their decision not to take up arms (CVR 2003a, Conclusion 137). A quite radical (and simplistic) version of Marxism became dominant within public universities, limiting academic pluralism and meritocracy. This is highlighted by the number of Marxist-oriented courses taught during these years. A review of courses taught in 1985 within three academic disciplines at San Marcos (history, anthropology, and sociology) shows that at least 18 to 30 percent of courses, including many core courses in each discipline, had significant Marxist content. This is a modest estimate, as we are only defi ning as “Marxist” those courses with evident Marxist names, but others with a more neutral name may also have included strong Marxist content. Although the SP was also present within universities, it was never one of the dominant groups: academic radical Marxism and Maoism cannot be reduced to its presence. Radicalism that included quite extreme versions of Maoism was broadly present in national universities by 1980 even in the absence of Sendero, with serious consequences for academic pluralism and university quality. This radicalism coexisted with our third factor, a patronage-oriented use of resources by university authorities and student representatives. By controlling government and administrative positions and developing clientelistic linkages with student representatives, political groups achieved tight control over public universities. By Peruvian law, student representatives have a one-third share in public universities’ representative bodies, which elect authorities such as deans and presidents (rectores). In the 1960s and 1970s, an already clientelistic tradition deepened

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and became aligned with ideologies. Positions were obtained on the basis of loyalty and ideological agreement more than on academic merit. For the external observer, this mixture of pragmatic clientelism with bursts of radicalism is counterintuitive. But as suggested by Lynch (1990), this radical discourse can serve to justify closure to more transparent processes and meritocratic reforms. As we show below, this clientelism existed alongside violence, remained strong and even grew under governmental intervention in the late 1990s, and is prevalent to this day, although in a more pragmatic form. Clientelism would have been a problem with or without violence. In sum, there were already severe problems in public universities before 1980 that affected their academic quality and public image. It is quite likely that these problems would have kept them on a negative trajectory, gradually leading to the growth of private universities as an option for professors able to garner higher pay and students with the capacity to pay more for education. The economic crisis that affected budgets and salaries also would have contributed to this process. Yet we will argue that within this trajectory, violence constituted a tipping point, deepening these problems and damaging popular perceptions of public universities. The image of chaos and violent radicalism that came to be associated with public universities, the degree of talent and quality lost during those years, and the accelerated growth of private universities in the 1980s and 1990s are all phenomena related to political violence. These trends partly explain why these institutions were largely ignored in Peru, while in the rest of the region neoliberal reformers initiated, or tried to initiate, reforms in public universities.

Conflict-Era Mechanisms: The Impact of Violence on Universities (1980–1995) Violence by both the PCP-SL and state security forces impacted public universities. The insurgents targeted universities, aiming to recruit students and build support for their armed struggle (CVR 2003a, Conclusion 137). The PCP-SL was successful in becoming a long-standing presence on campuses, though it was considerably less successful in achieving control over academic and administrative positions. Control over dorms and dining halls served to create connections with poor students, many of them migrants from rural areas who became attracted to Maoism (CVR 2003a; Sandoval and Toche 2007, 56–58).

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Members of the academic community lived side by side with professors, students, and administrative workers known or suspected for their militancy or sympathy with Sendero. Violent actions by the PCPSL included death threats against professors and students, surveillance, and even disappearances. According to the CVR, the PCP-SL was responsible for killing or disappearing thirty-one students (17.6 percent of all students killed or disappeared) (CVR 2003a, 610). Security forces also acted violently within universities. In the fi rst years of the armed conflict the state carried out few activities in universities, but gradually these institutions became the center of intelligence surveillance, police intervention, and later military (and paramilitary) actions including disappearances and selective killings. The army and the police carried out repressive actions at several universities. According to the CVR, 2.3 percent (118) of all the victims attributed to the state were university students (CVR 2003a, Conclusion 140). The direct attacks against universities critically changed these institutions. Although the press presented a dramatized view of the actual conditions and overgeneralized the case of universities such as San Marcos, the Universidad Nacional San Cristobal de Huamanga, and La Cantuta to other institutions barely touched by violence, the situation was certainly chaotic. Professors of social sciences at San Marcos interviewed for this chapter recall how members of Sendero were constantly interfering with academic activities, which led some of their colleagues to teach their classes off campus for their own security. Critical thinking was associated by external actors and the military with terrorismo. The presence of violent groups within universities, state repression, and the mounting economic crisis combined to create an institution in chaos. As will be discussed later, this degree of violence had an impact on the decision of high- and middle-income students and of competitive professors to leave public universities for private ones, a trend that did not reverse after the violence ended. And these risks increased the costs of becoming involved in university politics, weakening student associations. Our goal in this section is not only to show through the review of media sources the dramatic impact of violence during those years, but also to make the reader appreciate the extent of the negative perceptions of public universities as presented by the media. In this way, we give plausibility to our claim that these years increased the stigmatization of public universities as violent and radical “focos subversivos.” A review of three national press sources—a centrist political magazine

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(Caretas), a leftist-inclined newspaper (La República), and a conservative paper (Expreso)—show these dramatic events and the way they were framed by the media. Most of these reports focus on San Marcos and, to a lesser degree, La Cantuta. Other universities, even if deeply affected by violence, as were the UNSCH and the Universidad Nacional del Centro, did not receive similar coverage in a national press that focused on Lima. News reports about violence within universities were frequent in the eighties. In 1984, Caretas reported the presence of pro-PCP-SL students in the demonstrations against a proposed new higher education law. La Cantuta was frequently presented as the main center of Marxist-Leninist indoctrination in Lima (see, for example, “Cuando Sendero Sopla,” Caretas no. 786 [February 1984]). But most news stories refer to state interventions in these institutions. During the government of Alan García (1985–1990), the police conducted raids in universities at least four times, and images of the raids were published in the press. For example, in 1987, approximately 4,400 troops broke into La Cantuta, San Marcos, and UNI, arresting 793 people and fi nding weapons and propaganda. Similar news coverage circulated in 1989 when the minister of defense deployed military forces to San Marcos and La Cantuta (“Disparo al Aire,” Caretas no. 1054 [April 24, 1989]). That same year, Caretas published a report about Sendero’s control of the student cafeteria at San Marcos and its participation in student elections (“Apanado Senderista,” Caretas no. 1066 [July 17, 1989]). During those years we find similar stories and images displayed on the covers and in the headlines of La República. The image of a university in chaos was thus produced by not only conservative media, but all media sources. Consonant with the rise of law-and-order discourse discussed in other chapters in this volume, various groups in society saw these interventions as justified. For a growing sector of the population, the PCP-SL was taking advantage of a weak democracy. As will be shown, political parties like the rightist Partido Popular Cristiano (PPC) demanded fi rmer action by the government. University authorities usually opposed these actions on the principle of university autonomy, a hard-fought concession achieved by professors and student representatives. But the image presented in the media was one of the PCP-SL using public universities to their advantage, somehow similar to the news reports of jails turned into schools of ideology and recruitment. In the 1990s some of these trends persisted, and in some cases, such as the Universidad Nacional del Centro, they intensified. Government

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Figure 5.1. Universities and violence in newspapers, 1985–1988. Source:

La República, PUCP Newspaper Archive.

Figure 5.2. Universities and violence in newspapers, 1985–1989. Source:

La República, PUCP Newspaper Archive.

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Figure 5.3. Universities and violence in newspapers, 1992–1995. Source:

Diario La República and Diario Expreso, PUCP Newspaper Archive.

interventions in universities continued on four occasions after Alberto Fujimori was elected in 1990: once in 1991, twice in 1992, and again in 1995 in a more permanent manner (discussed later). Two of the interventions were conducted after the PCP-SL’s attacks in Miraflores, which had great public impact, as the government argued that both attacks were planned in public universities. In sum, public universities were closely associated with violence during the eighties and early nineties: they harbored terrorists and were a threat to society. This image was transmitted through media sources. Though universities were in chaos and the PCP-SL was very much present, a closer look shows that the reality within universities did not fully match these images. An overwhelming majority of students were not radical, much less PCP-SL sympathizers, and starting in the late 1980s internal resistance to terrorist groups began to grow. Beginning in 1988, San Marcos students organized to resist the PCP-SL (Caretas no. 1023 [September 2, 1988]). In 1991, Caretas reported an increasing demand among students to deradicalize universities. After Abimael Guzmán’s capture in September 1992, violence gradually declined

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Figure 5.4. Universities and violence in newspapers, 1992–1995. Source: Diario La República and Diario Expreso, PUCP Newspaper Archive.

within the universities. By 1995 the unrest was considerably ameliorated. However, as some press reports show, the predominant image projected by the media continued to be one of violence and radicalism. After the violence subsided, universities continued to struggle with many of the problems of previous decades. Academic and student radicalism is less prevalent, but budget shortages, low academic quality, and patrimonialism still are very much present in these institutions. Even if conditions are better than in the 1980s, the quality of public universities is still very low (with some important exceptions, such as Universidad Nacional Agraria, Universidad Nacional de Ingeniería, and some schools in the University of San Marcos). If many problems in higher education are similar to the ones before 1980, what are the distinctive legacies of political violence for these institutions?

Legacies of Political Violence (1995–2015) We propose that political violence produced three legacies that impact public universities and the possibility of their reform. First, a percep-

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tion that they are violent and chaotic has remained strong among the public and elites, even after the 2000 democratic transition when violence was no longer part of the daily life of these institutions. Second, the migration of students and professors from public to private universities because of violence not only affected these institutions’ quality, but also reduced the internal demand for reform. Third, and more tentatively, we also suggest that violence affected students’ capacity for collective action, which has reduced the possibility of internal demands for reform and reduced the capacity of student associations to mobilize and to wield influence in the public sphere. The Radical Image of Public Universities Intervention commissions were appointed for six public universities, including San Marcos, by the Fujimori government in May 1995, just a month after his reelection.3 The interventions were justified by pointing to the risk these institutions were said to still represent for society. Congress approved the intervention in a secret session after a bomb killed four in the María Angola hotel in Miraflores. According to Caretas (no. 1365 [June 1, 1995]), a leader of the government majority linked the bomb with public universities to justify the intervention. Although the measure had reorganization of these institutions as its alleged goal, no significant reforms were carried out. The commissions focused on reducing Marxism in academic plans and purging professors justly or unjustly associated with the PCP-SL and other radical groups. In San Marcos, around 150 professors who were Patria Roja activists were dismissed (interview with Germaná). Marxist classes at San Marcos were drastically reduced. In the 1994 academic plans of two of the above-mentioned schools, we only fi nd two Marxist courses, and none in a third school. Although most professors remained in their positions, radical Marxism lost considerable theoretical predominance in academic programs.4 What we see in this episode is a fi rst example of how the image of chaos on campus can be used politically by elites: no matter what the internal conditions of public universities were in reality, politicians and the media were easily able to depict these institutions as centers of radicalism and a threat to society. This image of public universities remains strong within elite and public opinion, as if the 1980s are still with us. To this day, when the issue of public universities makes it to the front pages, it is usually in violence-related news, such as an alleged resurgence of the PCP-SL. Political elites frequently depict pub-

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lic universities as spaces where the “terrorist threat” is alive and well (Sandoval and Toche 2007, 59). To be sure, radicalism still is present in these institutions, and we do not intend to minimize this problem. As we will discuss, there still are sympathizers of Sendero in public universities, an issue that deserves political attention. And radical Marxism of a quite simple and dogmatic style is still part of everyday campus life. But our main point is that despite the fact that this radicalism is much weaker than in the past, and that violence has been drastically reduced within universities, the depiction of these institutions as centers of radicalism remains strikingly strong. As documented by some authors, this creates a strong stigma among professors and students, especially those from UNSCH, that affects their professional careers (Gamarra 2010; Jave, Cépeda, and Uchuypoma 2014). A second event that shows the relevance of this legacy in a somewhat less direct manner was the approval of Decreto Ley 882 in November 1996. Through Decreto Ley 882 the government allowed profit at all levels of education, allegedly to respond to a rising demand for quality education (Sandoval 2002). The result was a dramatic increase in for-profit private universities, of which the vast majority were of very poor quality. We see this development not as an instance of how government elites used the legacy of violence to advance reform of higher education, but as an example of how public universities were so thoroughly discredited and weakened by their recent violent past that they simply became absent from debates that deeply affected them. Interestingly, in striking contrast to other countries in the region where neoliberal reforms aimed to reform higher education through changes in public universities, the Peruvian reform simply marginalized public institutions (Degregori and Sandoval 2009, 34–35).5 The “neoliberal” higher education reform in Peru consisted of allowing private entrepreneurs to open universities rather than reforming public institutions in line with neoliberal prescriptions. The government did not have to justify the reform, nor their abandonment of public universities, in political terms simply because the Peruvian public was not interested in the fate of these institutions. Our news search shows almost no reaction to the reform. As concluded by Degregori and Sandoval (2009, 48), rather than a neoliberal reform of public universities, what prevailed in Peru was “una lógica casi deliberada de mantener en precariedad permanente a las universidades” (“a quasi-deliberate logic to permanently keep universities in this precarious condition”).

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Later in the decade, during the democratic protests against Fujimori’s government from 1997 to 2000, higher education’s legacy of poor public perception was used by the government to attack and delegitimize students demanding democratization and economic reforms. Government leaders frequently disqualified student protesters as PCP-SL sympathizers or as manipulated by violent groups. One of the phrases used by students during protests in response to this type of government propaganda was “somos Estudiantes, no somos terroristas” (“we are students, we are not terrorists”).6 The intervention commissions allowed the Fujimori regime to exercise tighter control over opposition organizations that emerged within the public universities. The stigma did not recede with the end of fujimorismo. Even in democratic times in which the discrediting of democratic protestors is not necessary, the legacy remains quite strong. How does this image of dangerous universities reproduce itself two decades after the end of violence? In part, it is carried forward by the memories of those who directly experienced those dramatic events. But it also remains strong partly because media sources have continued to present this negative image of public universities over and over again during the subsequent two decades. Media headlines and news reports frequently link public universities with this latent danger. As shown in figure 5.5, the stigma against public universities and students remains strong, especially among students of San Marcos and Huamanga (Jave, Cépeda, and Uchuypoma 2014, 132).7 Political elites use this image as part of their rhetoric. For example, the media have recently reacted with great alarm to the activities of the Movimiento por la Amnistía y los Derechos Fundamentales (MOVADEF), which advocates the liberation of PCP-SL members. As shown in the news headlines, these activities are reported as a revival of the PCP-SL in San Marcos and other public universities. Even university authorities sometimes depict student protests as examples of radicalism linked to MOVADEF, despite the fact that many of these protests center on accusations of abuses and corruption by university authorities. Yet the reality within public universities is quite different from this image. Not only are the activities of these radical groups marginal, but also there is no evidence to suggest that radicalism is growing.8 Despite the prevalent view of universities as hotbeds of radicalism, the latest research on students’ political opinions in San Marcos shows that the image of “young troublemakers” is a stereotype that has become obsolete.9 A 2011 poll (SENAJU 2011) shows an overwhelming majority

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Figure 5.5. Universities and violence in newspapers, 2007–2013. Source:

Diario Correo, El Comercio, and Perú 21, Internet images.

of students within San Marcos rejecting MOVADEF and the PCP-SL. Eighty percent consider MOVADEF a façade of Sendero; 78 percent of the students think that their actions and proposals are negative for the country, while only an insignificant 2 percent think otherwise. Other questions provide similar evidence. A sizable majority rejects radical ideologies. Only 16 percent of students surveyed think MOVADEF’s presence is worrisome, and few see the PCP-SL’s presence as a concern. All our interviews and our own experience doing research in public universities confi rm this contrast between the public image of these institutions and their internal reality. But perception is sometimes more important than reality. Ongoing perceptions of chaos and violence help us to understand why public universities were abandoned for almost three decades in Peru. Until quite recently, reform proposals for public universities have been absent. Democratic governments after the transition irresponsibly created new universities (five by Alejandro Toledo and sixteen by Alan García), but without proposing and advancing reform plans. We believe our fi rst legacy—the negative image of public universities as sites

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of subversion and violence—strongly determined this outcome by reinforcing the idea among popular and elite audiences that investing in public universities is a waste of public funds. Not until 2014, fourteen years after the democratic transition and after more than thirty years had passed since the last serious debate over the role of public universities, was a new university law governing both public and private universities debated and approved in Congress. The law launched a broad reform effort in the Peruvian state, replacing ineffective institutions and promoting higher standards in universities. As a result, the Ministry of Education now has a special office in charge of higher education (Dirección General de Educación Superior, DIGESU) and a new institution, the Superintendencia Nacional de Educación Superior (SUNEDU) aims to assure basic quality in public and private universities. Although the ongoing reform is not a priority for the current administration, it is still underway. It is too soon to tell if these changes will fundamentally change the perception of public universities. Cohort and Quality Effect A second legacy of violence was that it led to the exit of two crucial groups from public universities, deepening a process that had already started in the previous decades. First, middle- and higher-income students that had in the past chosen to study in public institutions due to their remaining prestige gradually moved to good private universities, and the composition of student cohorts also declined in quality. Second, quality professors, especially those with sufficient capacity to fi nd positions in private universities, also left public universities. After the violence ended, these trends did not reverse, as middle- and higher-income students now predominantly attend private institutions and quality professors fi nd better career opportunities in these institutions. These students and teachers are crucial drivers of internal reforms, which are less likely to occur in the absence of pressure from these groups. Regarding the cohort effect, in the 1980s, many students with the capacity to pay for education left public universities for private ones. This process enhanced the rising private institutions, a trend that deepened with the 1996 reform. Students from more comfortable fi nancial backgrounds who choose a public university despite being able to afford private university tuition contribute to enhance academic quality

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at the public institutions, their option to exit allows them to demand better educational quality and to be less fearful of retaliation. Losing this group of students is thus costly for public universities. We lack hard data from the 1980s to document this cohort effect, especially our claim about the better academic quality of these students. Yet some indirect information confi rms this shift in the socioeconomic composition of public university student bodies. First, the exponential growth of private institutions and the number of students registered in them shows this migration toward private institutions. In 1980 there were thirty-five universities in Peru, ten private and twentyfive public. By 1994 the numbers were equal, with twenty-eight public and private universities apiece (MINEDU 2005). The recruitment rate at private institutions kept growing in the 1980s, while the rate at public ones grew only very moderately (Sandoval 2002). But it is not just an issue of numbers; our argument centers on the departure of the middle and higher classes from public institutions. Although we do not have numbers for the 1980s and 1990s, information from national polls in 2000 and 2006 combined with actual recruitment numbers in private and public institutions show this trend. According to Diaz (2008), in 2000 the upper socioeconomic quintile had consolidated their presence in private universities: approximately 56.8 percent of all upper quintile registered students were in private universities. In 2006 this figure increased to 72.4 percent (Diaz 2008, 104, 113). The fi rst university census in 2010 confi rms this socioeconomic divide between private and public universities: the higher the income level, the lower the number of students in public universities. Nowadays, with the mushrooming growth of low-quality but affordable private universities, only the bottom income group (earning less than approximately US$165 per month) are more likely to attend public than private universities. During the 1980s competitive professors also abandoned public universities, bringing down academic quality. Professors had to teach in an atmosphere of fear during the armed conflict. Sometimes they had to teach with candles due to blackouts, or to deal with radical students who insulted them during classes. Furthermore, many professors were threatened, attacked, and even murdered (interviews with Burga, Germaná, and López). We have only anecdotal evidence of this effect in San Marcos from our interviews. But it is quite clear in the case of UNSCH, the university where the Shining Path started its actions. UNSCH had seen significant gains in the 1970s that resulted in bet-

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ter conditions for teaching and doing research. Although still weak in comparative perspective and very much politicized, this university attracted good professors and built connections with academic communities in Peru and abroad after it was reopened in the 1960s (Degregori 1990b). International professors taught in UNSCH during those years, and young academics with high-quality credentials saw working there as an interesting career option (interviews with Sala and Méndez). Part of this success was built through an alliance between university professors and development projects funded by the international community: foreign funds passed through UNSCH, raising levels of academic quality and providing resources for research. Paradoxically, at the same time that Sendero was growing within UNSCH, a more serious academic community was also gaining in relevance. For the fi rst years of the internal confl ict, the PCP-SL and the military kept armed actions away from UNSCH, but violence gradually penetrated the institution (Gamarra 2010, 66–71). Both the PCP-SL and the armed forces threatened professors, who left the university. Foreign aid projects were cut back or canceled during those years, especially those calling for research in rural areas. As a result, by the end of the decade Huamanga had lost the faculty that had made it a better public university (CVR 2003a, 640–648). In this case we can more safely conclude that violence altered the university’s trajectory and made competitive professors leave. Of course, the economic crisis also contributed to both currents of departure. The diminished budgets caused strikes that paralyzed universities for many months, reduced salaries, and degraded equipment and building facilities. With or without violence, students with economic means would have likely eventually migrated to private universities. And a university in crisis may not have been able to respond to a growing demand for higher education. Nonetheless, violence speeded the process of migration, and the chaotic condition of the public universities prevented even a partial adaptation of the public system to this growing demand.

Diminished Student Collective Action and Its Effects Within and Outside Universities Although more research is necessary to document this claim, we tentatively propose a third legacy: we suggest that violence within pub-

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lic universities affected students’ collective action capacity. The violent period beginning in the 1980s not only undermined student associations by increasing the risk for taking part in them, but also strongly delegitimized student political participation by associating university politics with violence and radicalism. Student organizations were weakened during those years both as a direct result of violence and by this growing stigma. We propose that a silent majority within universities now perceives university politics as corrupt or too radical to take part in, and leaves political activity in the hands of individuals and groups that do not advance proposals for academic quality. Furthermore, this weakness and detachment depresses student mobilization for higher education reform in the public sphere. As we discuss in the concluding section, only deeper research can clarify the soundness of this legacy. There are two arenas in which politics take place within the university: elections for student representatives in instances of cogovernment (official bodies in which students have representatives), and through student political organizations that compete for student unions (federaciones, or centros federados). Yet neither arena now sees student mobilization for improved educational quality. As mentioned previously, several studies indicate that student representatives on governing bodies receive clientelistic benefits from authorities in exchange for their support in internal elections to maintain these groups in power. And political groups competing for student unions tend to be considerably more radical than the average student rather than representing widespread student interests. Furthermore, and partly due to this internal weakness, Peru is a negative case of student mobilization, with few students in the public arena either demanding better higher education or supporting other political agendas (Disi 2017). How can we relate violence to this outcome? As discussed before, in the 1970s radicals and antisystemic speeches spread among students (Sandoval and Toche 2007, 55). University politics were more extreme than the positions favored by most political parties, more centered in radical debates than in electoral competition outside campuses. Internal politics were also a competition between these radical groups, who won representative positions in governing bodies and controlled student unions. But in general, the student body was more involved at that point both in national politics and internal politics than it is today. And even if it was well known that student representatives received patrimonial benefits, many of these benefits were directed toward their organizations, not for their personal gain.

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The violence and radicalism of the 1980s further delegitimized politics within universities. On the one hand, as discussed, violence itself weakened student organizations. The suspicion over these groups, and the way political elites brought other radical groups and Sendero Luminoso together, increased the risk of active engagement in student unions. But a more widespread problem was that student organizations were frequently linked in the public discourse to this radicalism. University politics was associated with violent radicalism, even if these groups had important differences with the PCP-SL and frequently opposed it. The abstract radicalism of university politics was difficult to distinguish from active radicalism of the kind promulgated by Sendero. Student unions lost representativeness among a student body tired of ideological and violent discourses. As evidence of the lack of patience with this radicalism, a considerable number of students supported the government intervention in 1996. In the 1990s student political organization was disarticulated and lost relevance. There was a gradual detachment of representatives in governing bodies from the weakened student representative organizations. By the mid-1990s, just a few student federations remained (J.  Chávez 1999, 56). Their activities were focused on recreation, sports, and services, leaving behind political activism (Venturo 2001, 99). Since 1997–1998 we have witnessed a growing interest in national politics through democratic protests against fujimorismo, but no significant change in regard to participation in university politics. After the democratic transition, these public protests declined again (Disi 2017, 172–173). Students, in general, do not trust and are not active in their representative institutions, nor in student organizations. This internal weakness has obviously affected students’ capacity to mobilize in the democratic arena in favor of university reform or other political issues. In this vacuum created by the legacies of the internal confl ict, a new type of student representative has emerged. Students who take part in representative institutions tend to be independent actors that negotiate their support with university authorities. These negotiations are quite different from those before or during the 1980s, when radical groups occupied these positions; representatives now demand and receive benefits in return for supporting authorities (interview with Germaná; N. Chávez 2014). These clientelistic coalitions fear meritocratic and quality-centered reforms that could weaken their control over resources. As a result, few real reform efforts were conducted or demanded within universities and in the public sphere after the demo-

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cratic transition. In the recent upsurge of university protests for quality education in Latin America, Peru is (again) a negative case. Two recent case studies show the strength of this patrimonialism among student representatives. When documenting the problems faced by Quechua-speaking students in UNSCH, Villacorta (2012, 179– 180) fi nds that authorities seek the support of representatives by providing them with benefits such as better access to the students’ restaurant and dormitories, and by providing scholarships or material goods.10 Noelia Chávez (2014) fi nds a similar situation at the Universidad Nacional de la Amazonía Peruana (UNAP) in Iquitos. The university does not have a student federation, and representatives in governing bodies are closely associated with authorities. The authorities fi nance these students’ campaigns in exchange for their support once elected. Their handouts include money, laptops, cell phones, and plane tickets for academic congresses. In general, students do not trust or engage with political groups acting within universities. Political groups competing for the control of student unions are now mainly radical organizations such as Patria Roja and the even more radical MOVADEF. These groups compete every two years for control over the national federation, Federación de Estudiantes del Perú. The majority of students are little interested in these contests. Academic works since the nineties underscore the lack of interest in university politics among public university students. A research project about political participation of young people in twenty-five universities between 1996 and 1997 shows how negatively ideas and political groups within universities were viewed (J. Chávez 1999). The students interviewed considered university politics to be corrupt and negative for public universities. Most of them believed that those involved in university politics were seeking their own material good or other goals not related to improving academic quality (J. Chávez 1999, 96). The prevailing view was that student representatives are corrupt, bought by authorities or political groups. The case of San Marcos shows some of these trends. The university does not have a federation representing the entire student body. Furthermore, recent studies (for example, Nureña et al. 2014) show that only 13 percent have a strong interest in university politics, 16.4 percent have taken part in student assemblies, and 13.8 percent are part of a political organization. Similarly, Jave, Cépeda, and Uchuypoma (2014, 102–107) fi nd a strong contrast between students’ interest in national politics and other collective activities (study groups, political activism, cultural activities) and university political participation.

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By weakening student organizations and building a strong stigma against student politics, political violence of the eighties seems to have affected students’ political engagement within the universities. And the weakness of student associations and collective action in general helps to explain the comparatively low student mobilization in Peru. This weakness becomes more striking when we compare the Peruvian case to Chile, Colombia, and Mexico, countries where student associations frequently take part in protests to demand better education and conditions in universities (Disi 2017). Yet we are aware that there are good reasons to consider the relationship between political violence and the current disengagement of students from university politics as tenuous. The patrimonialism, radical politics, and corruption at the root of this disenchantment existed before the eighties. Some scholars have questioned whether there continues to be a link between violence and lack of political interest or participation. Focusing on San Marcos, Nureña (2016) argues that we should not confuse lack of participation in internal politics with lack of political interest. San Marcos, he argues, is considerably politicized, or at least as politicized as other sectors of Peruvian society. Political participation there occurs through less traditional organizations (e.g., academic circles, cultural groups). The lack of political participation within universities is better explained by a range of mechanisms used by authorities and current student representatives to close and limit students’ participation (e.g., clientelism, corruption, formal requirements), and also by the perception of many students that political representatives are ineffective, radical, or corrupt, not necessarily because they think university politics is associated with radicalism (Nureña 2016, 124). More generally, the current weakness of political parties and civil society associations in Peru makes it difficult to expect high political engagement from university students within or outside of universities. Universities seem to be a microcosm of larger trends seen in Peruvian society. In his comparative study of student mobilization in Latin America, Disi proposes that links between student movements and opposition parties are an important factor.11 In Peru, his negative case, the weakness of leftist parties limits the possibility of student mobilization. Thus there are good reasons to think that even without violence, student participation in internal politics or in the public sphere will be low in Peru. Nonetheless, though we agree that more research is necessary to confi rm this link and that, as shown by Nureña, there are important

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caveats to consider, we believe violence is still a relevant factor in comparative perspective, and not only due to its impact on student organization. The perception of university students as radicals or violent is a legacy that certainly affects and delegitimizes student organizations, and stigmatizes political activism in a more fundamental way than in other societies. The weakness of student associations, partly attributable to violence, also limits students’ participation in the public sphere. The counterfactual argument we propose is that without violence we could expect more internal politics, as well as more relevant expression of students’ concerns in the public sphere. More research is needed to properly assess this causal claim.

Conclusion This chapter has shown that the violence of the Internal Armed Conflict had a strong and independent effect on public universities, leaving strong legacies that persist to this day: an image of violence and radicalism; sizable effects on student and faculty composition, with implications for academic quality; and obstacles to students’ capacity for collective action. By limiting the possibilities of external and internal reform efforts, these legacies contribute to sustaining the current crisis condition of public universities. If our diagnosis about these legacies is right, then those interested in the reform of public universities should pay attention to two issues. First, any serious reform plan must take into consideration the strength of the negative and violent image of public universities among the population in order to mobilize popular support and legitimacy. The image of radicalism is not ingrained only among elites. The memories of the 1980s and the repeated discourse in which public universities are perceived as lairs of terrorism have rooted this idea in the broader population. Thus, reformists must come to terms with this fact in their efforts to show the population that the deeper problems in public universities relate to clientelism, corruption, academic mediocrity, and lack of funding rather than to radicalism. Second, there seems to be a silent majority within the public universities waiting to be politicized. The anger, frustration, and political disengagement of a majority of students seems a fertile ground to advance new ideas about the benefits of reforming public universities. But advancement will require a very different student politics that breaks

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from current clientelistic patterns. Reformist academic authorities may fi nd in students the allies they need to break down resistance to reform. The current support of some student organizations for the ongoing university reform is an optimistic sign in the midst of the many problems and challenges of Peruvian public universities.

Interviews Burga, Manuel. Former dean of UNMSM. Lima, January 16, 2014. Germaná, César. Professor, Social Sciences Department, UNMSM. Lima, January 20, 2014. López, Sinesio. Professor, Social Sciences Department, UNMSM. Lima, January 16, 2014. Méndez, Cecilia. Former professor of history in UNSCH, current professor in UC Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara, California (interviewed via Skype), March 11, 2014. Mori, Jorge. Former student activist at UNMSM and expert in higher education. Lima, February 8, 2014. Sala, Núria. Former professor of history in UNSCH. Lima, March 7, 2014. Sandoval, Pablo. Profesor, Anthropology Department, UNMSN and researcher in the Instituto de Estudios Peruanos. Lima, January 28, 2014.

Notes 1. The relevance of public universities within the Peruvian conflict is exemplified in the fi nal report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación, or CVR), which dedicates a thematic chapter and four case studies to the universities. 2. In Peru, it is quite common to have professors that are only part-time lecturers; they do not make careers within universities but teach there out of vocation and/or for prestige. 3. These universities were UNMSM, Universidad Nacional de Educación Enrique Guzmán y Valle “La Cantuta,” Universidad Nacional Federico Villarreal, Universidad Nacional San Luis Gonzaga de Ica, Universidad Nacional Faustino Sánchez Carrión de Huacho, and Universidad Nacional Hermilio Valdizán de Huánuco. 4. A second goal was to expel the so-called eternal students, who profited from lenient rules to remain registered for many years and often were political leaders. 5. For a review of neoliberal reforms in higher education in Latin America, see Schwartzman 1996. 6. “Con Alegría Juvenil por Tercer Día Marcharon Universitarios,” La República, June 5, 1997. 7. Some more examples of these headlines and reports: “Avanza la Infi ltra-

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ción del Movadef en las Universidades del País,” Perú 21, September 11, 2012; “Toman a la Ligera Infi ltración del Movadef en las Universidades,” La Razón, April 4, 2014; “Terroristas del Movadef se Infi ltran en más Universidades,” La Razón, February 6, 2014; “ANR: El Movadef está en las Universidades,” El Trome, November 10, 2012; “Movadef y Simpatizantes de Abimael Guzmán Regresan a San Marcos,” Diario Correo, August 23, 2013. 8. Jeffrey Gamarra, a professor at UNSCH, argues that students in this university today are quite different from those of the 1980s; he says they are much more interested in technical careers than in any sort of radical activities (Gamarra 2012). 9. Jave, Cépeda, and Uchuypoma (2014, 132) show the extent to which social science faculties at San Marcos and UNSCH have been stigmatized. 10. Villacorta also documents a series of problems mentioned previously, including lack of meritocratic faculty recruitment, poor quality, and abuses against students. 11. Disi explains mass mobilizations in Chile and other Latin American countries as being due to increased enrollment of lower-income students in higher education, eased by the availability of bank credits that can be repaid by students after their graduation. These costs, coupled with the difficulty graduates of low-quality institutions have in fi nding jobs and increased grievances about academic quality, mobilize students to demand reforms. Disi argues that Peru did not witness a similar process mainly because lower-income students accessed higher education through low-cost private institutions and there were no easily available bank or public credits. Also, in contrast to Chile, public universities were free of charge. The author argues that “the differences in mobilization between Chile and Peru can be attributed to a great extent to the relative absence of fi nancial grievances among Peruvian college students” (Disi 2017, 169). Also important, as mentioned, is the lack of connections with political parties.

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CHAP T ER 6

Peace for Whom? Legacies of Gender-Based Violence in Peru Jelke Boesten

In August 2016, a multitude of women, their families, and their friends took to the streets of Lima to protest the high levels of violence against women in Peru and the impunity routinely accorded to the perpetrators of this violence. Never before had so many Peruvians protested violence against women, even if there had been ample reason to do so. In this chapter, I will explore why this mass mobilization happened at that particular point in time by examining the extent to which the violence against women in 2016 might be interpreted as a legacy of the violence of the Internal Armed Conflict (IAC) or as a result of persistent historical structures of violence and inequality. I also consider whether the contemporary response to such violence from both civil society activists and the state should be seen in light of the continuous battles over truth, justice, and reconciliation. In exploring the hypothesis that the contemporary violence against women is a legacy of a much longer history of violence and inequality, I will focus in particular on what aspects might be seen as a sequel to the Internal Armed Conflict. I will ask if high levels of peacetime violence might be seen as either a wartime mechanism or a post-conflict legacy. To examine this, I draw from my research in the archives of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and other sources for my book Sexual Violence during War and Peace: Gender, Power, and Post-Conflict Justice in Peru (2014). But I am also interested in exploring how the lack of justice and visibility regarding cases of conflict-related violence against women contrasts with the more recent mobilization of hundreds of thousands of people to protest against continuous high levels of violence against women. I argue that perhaps historic cases are too politically and socially divisive to work as examples that promote

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broader gender justice; instead, it may be that the struggle against the everyday violence women and girls experience across lines of class, ethnicity, geography, and age has fi nally found its historic momentum, with capable activists to lead the way and a political opportunity to rise to the challenge of demanding justice and social change.

High Levels of Violence against Women as Sequel and Continuum As is now widely known but not necessarily widely accepted in and beyond Peru, gender-based violence was an important dimension of the political violence that enveloped Peru in the 1980s and 1990s. Genderbased and sexual violence, understood as violence perpetrated for specifically gendered reasons (i.e., because of being a woman, or because of being queer, or employing sexual violence), was used by all the armed groups involved in the IAC: Shining Path, MRTA, the Peruvian military, and indeed the peasant self-defense forces. It is slowly coming to light that the MRTA, and possibly the Shining Path as well, targeted queer men and women in the Loreto region (CVR 2003a, 2:432– 433). In addition, the Shining Path stands accused of mass enslavement of the Ashaninka people of the Amazon, including sexually enslaving Ashaninka women and girls (CVR 2003a, vol. 5). The use of different forms of gender-based violence within the Shining Path still requires research, as there is evidence of forced marriages, rape, and infanticide (CVR 2003a, vol. 6). These incidences of gender-based violence are all expressions of male dominance in precarious and contested spaces. Most notable is the use of sexual violence on the part of the Peruvian military against civilians as well as people suspected of terrorism. This topic is comparatively well researched (Henriquez and Mantilla 2003; Henriquez 2006; Boesten 2014a). Drawing on testimonies of witnesses, perpetrators, and survivors of sexual violence, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación, or CVR) found that sexual violence was widespread and even systematically used against populations suspected of terrorism, as well as against civilians (CVR 2003a, vol. 6). The CVR documented 538 cases of rape in which the victim-survivor could be identified by name and surname, but estimated that this represented only 7 percent of actual cases of rape. The victim profile of this violence reflects geographical, ethnic, class, age, and gender divides: young, rural, and in-

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digenous women were most vulnerable to sexual violence and abuse. But this was not the only vulnerable group: according to the CVR, 80 percent of women imprisoned in Lima experienced sexual assault and abuse from security personnel, and 25 percent were raped. Based on the data, the CVR concluded that members of the police and armed forces were the main perpetrators of systematic rape. While we must recognize the need for further research on the use and practice of gender-based violence by all armed groups in the conflict, it is worth noting that state forces were the main perpetrators of such violence. This is especially important because it is the state’s function to provide security for its citizens, because it points to the state as a major agent in reinforcing and reproducing existing inequalities, and fi nally, as will be discussed later, because none of the perpetrators of such violence have been held to account. The data confirms that gender-based violence is highly political, not only in war, but also in peacetime. The patterns of rape perpetrated by state forces reflect the widespread idea that rape is used as a weapon of war. The military used sexual torture in its prisons and rural military bases, raped women and girls during raids in homes and villages as a means to terrorize the population, and used women and girls as booty and as tools for a politics of divide-and-rule between communities as well as to establish and maintain hierarchies between soldiers (Henriquez 2006; Boesten 2014a). Hence rape was used, albeit not formally, as “part of a systematic political campaign with military purposes,” that is, as a weapon of war (Skjelsbæk 2010). It is difficult to establish whether soldiers were ordered to rape prisoners or civilians, and it is unlikely that evidence of such orders will ever be found. As I have argued (Boesten 2014a), testimonies of victim-survivors and others suggest that specific military masculinities, which rely heavily on performances of heteronormative dominance and the use of extreme violence and sexual violence as social capital within military hierarchies, facilitate the widespread practice of sexual violence. For example, hierarchies between more and less available women based on perceptions of race and class—a hierarchy of sexual availability which draws strongly on existing societal stratifications— was used to establish and reproduce hierarchies between soldiers. According to testimonies from soldiers, young poor indigenous women were available to be raped by the troops, even if they were “just” community members, civilians, and not suspected of any political activity. But women who were captured on suspicion of terrorism and who

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were seen as whiter or better educated than the cholitas from the village would fi rst be raped by the commander in charge. The men highest in rank could choose among the prisoners, and could even choose to keep women and “enamorarlas” (seduce them) for longer periods of time. Such abusive behavior from military officers clearly encourages the rank and file to do the same. There are further indications that sexual violence against local women and girls was turned into a practice that created social capital within the armed forces: girls were ordered to come to military bases and prostitute themselves during parties, girls were forced to negotiate with soldiers about the conditions of their abuse, such as whether they would be raped by one or two soldiers rather than gang raped, or the reward for being abused, such as receiving information about loved ones. In such ways, sexual dominance over local girls may have given these soldiers certain masculine credibility in the eyes of their peers and, especially, their superiors. There is evidence of soldiers boasting to each other about their conquests and their violence; there is evidence of collective pornographic spectacles in which soldiers violently gang raped girls and women, dead or alive, watching each other and spurring each other on (Boesten 2014a, 19–42). Such experiences suggest a process of drawing soldiers into a spiral of brutalization (Mitton 2015), using the most “obvious” victims—the most vulnerable to abuse—as a tool. From such a perspective, the sexual abuse of women served as a means not only to terrorize, fragment, and dominate the rural population or the prison population but also to foment a loyal army of young men willing and able to continue to perpetrate atrocities. The idea that gender-based violence during the conflict reflects the patterns of inequality that existed before and after the war is important: it suggests that such violence is an exacerbation of existing relationships. The abuse of women during the war may have been extremely cruel and very widespread, but at the same time, such violence was imaginable, possible, and scripted along lines of existing violence and inequalities. This means that some women are more vulnerable than others to harassment by men in public spaces, or in the workplace, because of vectors of inequality such as race/ethnicity, class, and age. But all women are vulnerable to gender-based violence in their own homes. There is no data concerning levels of violence against women before the 1980s, but women reported to the CVR that during the confl ict the armed forces were not the only perpetrators of violence against them.

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Henriquez and Mantilla (2003) show how violence against women in their own homes and communities often escalated in zones with high levels of political conflict. We do not know whether that is caused by a breakdown of social order, opportunism, or the frustration and traumatic context in which families were forced to live. What we do know is that most men and women in the highly affected areas were compromised by the violence, either through victimization or recruitment by the Shining Path, the self-defense forces, or the armed forces (Theidon 2012). If we add that fact to the idea of what armed groups do to the young men and women who become involved in the confl ict, including the possibility of brutalization among those forced into spirals of violence, then perhaps the rise of domestic violence in a context of participation in political violence is not surprising.1 Following the analytical framework set out by Soifer and Vergara in the Introduction to this volume, the high levels of gender-based and family violence in areas most affected by the armed conflict of the 1980s and early 1990s could be called a “wartime mechanism.” However, despite the lack of verifiable statistics, violence against women, including sexual violence, also seems to have been high before the armed confl ict. Violence against women in wartime is not the same as violence against women during peacetime, but there certainly is a continuum. The difference lies in the extreme cruelty and frequency of wartime violence, as well as the drawing in of those who might otherwise not have become victims or perpetrators of gender-based violence. But there are also similarities: in wartime and peacetime, women and girls perceived as being of lesser value because of race and class—often determined by criteria such as citizenship status (does she have papers?), poverty, geography, language, education, dress and physical aspects such as height, color of eyes, and type of hair—are more vulnerable to rape. Young women perceived as being cholas—of indigenous descent—who work in wealthier households are historically perceived as legitimate targets for men’s sexual satisfaction (Boesten 2014). Likewise, young women, or rather, adolescent girls—the main victims of soldiers’ sexual abuse—are also the main victims of contemporary peacetime sexual abuse (Mujica 2011). The scale of peacetime violence should also be taken into consideration: according to data from the Programa Integral de la Lucha Contra la Violencia Familiar y Sexual in Ayacucho (2005), physical violence against children is common, and sexual violence against children rampant (see also Boesten 2010, 148). Current figures of violence

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against women collected by the National Bureau of Statistics through a household survey method show that in 2014, 32.3 percent of women experienced physical violence perpetrated by their intimate partner at least once in their lifetime, 7.9 percent experienced sexual violence, and a staggering 72.4 percent experienced psychological and/or verbal violence, often in addition to other forms of violence (ENDES 2014). A study that looked at police statistics and data from women’s emergency centers (one-stop multisectoral centers set up in the 1990s to report abuse and seek support) and the Ministry of Women and Social Development for the years 2000 to 2009 concluded that on average, about 7,000 cases of sexual violence were reported each year to such institutions. However, in 2009 the Institute of Forensic Medicine alone carried out 34,153 exams of “sexual integrity,” examinations of women and girls who reported sexual abuse but whose claims were not entered into the statistics of the police, emergency centers, or the ministry. Seventy-eight percent of the formally reported denunciations concerned girls eighteen years old or younger. Of these, 10 percent concerned children aged nine and under; 25 percent involved children aged ten to thirteen; and 45 percent represented adolescents aged fourteen to seventeen (Mujica 2011). Wartime mechanism or not, these are extraordinary figures which raise the question of whether peacetime is truly peaceful for women and girls. One conclusion could be that a high rate of post-conflict violence against women is a consequence of confl ict-related violence. Epidemiologists agree that a range of factors contribute to high levels of interpersonal violence, particularly sexual and gender-based violence, which tend to be more prevalent in post-conflict societies. These factors include high levels of trauma among both men and women, alcoholism and drug use, violence against children in their homes, and the prevalence of “toxic” masculinities (Gould and Jewkes 2013; Guedes et al. 2016). In Peru, NGOs, civil society organizations, and state institutions such as Women’s Emergency Centers in Ayacucho cite trauma and alcohol and drug use as strongly affecting levels of violence against women and children (Boesten 2014a, 127). Violence against children as a form of disciplining them, i.e., as communication, was also reported to be high throughout the 1990s and early 2000s (Boesten 2010, 148). According to the National Household Survey from 2014 (ENDES 2014), 25 to 29 percent of parents still use corporal punishment with their children. But the practice of corporal punishment (and the effects it may cause) is more likely attributable to historical-cultural factors rather than political violence.

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The idea of “toxic” masculinities—understandings of manhood as necessarily violent, controlling, and (hetero)sexually predatory—has gained traction among feminist researchers and epidemiologists. The prevalence of toxic masculinities is often associated with histories of violence and exclusion. For example, South African scholar Pumla Dineo Gqola (2015) asserts that a history of violence, dispossession, and exclusion experienced by large parts of that nation’s population has created a situation in which asserting dominant masculinities could become a form of resistance against the violence of the system, as well as the preferred form in which the dominant group asserted its power within its own group and against the marginalized population. Other scholars, such as Chris Dolan (2003), who examines masculinities in post-confl ict Uganda, or Kimberly Theidon (2009), who looks at men’s reintegration in Colombia, suggest that the undermining of men’s roles as breadwinners and heads of households has created a masculine crisis often compensated for through violent and controlling behavior, especially against more vulnerable groups such as women. These studies all indicate that the social, political, and economic history of postconflict societies shapes social relationships, and the prevalence of sexual and gender-based violence, in the present. Thus high levels of gender-based violence could be seen as a post-confl ict legacy. But in Peru, a complex historical dynamic of violence against and dispossession of the indigenous population forms the background to continuing high levels of gender-based violence. In patriarchal societies, women have long been subordinated to men, with certain male privileges—including the right to rape one’s wife—enshrined in law until fairly recently. Furthermore, in postcolonial societies, whiter men’s dominance over indigenous people continues to shape women’s vulnerability to racialized and sexualized violence in their homes, communities, and places of work. Peruvian literature is littered with narratives of the abuse of chola domestic servants, largely perceived as legitimate sexual targets for coming-of-age of adolescent boys and as legitimate targets for men in venting their sexual frustration. The vulnerability of this group of women was recently attested to by Obdulia Guevara Neyra, the general secretary of the Union of Domestic Workers-Lima (SINTTRAHOL), who claims that 60 percent of domestic workers today experience some form of sexual abuse.2 The experience of gender-based violence, then, runs along a continuum from cat-calling to emotional, physical, and sexual violence in homes, communities, and workplaces, and to rape and femicide in war and peacetime. The continuum also runs through history, from colonial times to

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modern Peru. Perpetrators may be powerful men who feel entitled to women’s bodies of all colors, or they may be subaltern men who feel entitled to women and girls still more vulnerable than themselves. An authoritarian political culture grounded in patriarchal and racist relationships across society fuels these toxic masculinities and perpetuates the vulnerability of women and girls. Thus, it is fair to say that the widespread sexual violence during the Internal Armed Conflict in Peru showed parallels to sexual violence in peacetime. Wartime rape worked as a means to reproduce and perpetuate existing historical inequalities based on gender, race, class, age, and sexuality. Contemporary peacetime sexual violence does so as well, but in a less obvious and more privatized manner. Post-conflict societies such as Peru, but also Guatemala or South Africa, show high levels of interpersonal violence, including sexual violence, and this is certainly related to wartime histories of violence and confl ict. But while high levels of peacetime violence are not necessarily a direct sequel to a particular conflict (although they may be in specific communities or families), we should recognize the broader role and function of gender-based violence, and particularly of sexual violence, in reproducing structures of inequality in war and in peace, before, during, and after armed conflict. In this light, the idea of gender-based violence as a wartime mechanism or post-conflict legacy is difficult to sustain. Explicit efforts to reach reconciliation and justice among former enemies make post-conflict eras an important opportunity to address historical hierarchies such as those associated with ongoing sexual violence. Transitional justice could, and should, transform the social relations that feed into violence, providing the state and society a chance to address gender inequality and violence associated with it. In that sense, the way in which the state and society deal with confl ict-related sexual violence in the post-conflict moment could start a process of positive change for women and men. The CVR did the best it could in the limited time it had to uncover the truth about the systematic perpetration of sexual violence by all armed groups. Likewise, the institution tasked with documenting victims of violence, the Registro Único de Víctimas, did an important job in recording cases of sexual and gendered violence. Thus, the information needed to build a policy of accountability exists, and it is the responsibility of the state to acknowledge and account for what was done in its name. A formal apology on the part of the state, the military, and the police to all women and men harmed by the sexual violence would send a power-

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ful message heralding a new era in which gender-based violence is no longer acceptable, and paving the way for effective judicial and policy interventions to address wartime victimization as well as continuing widespread violence in contemporary Peru. Unfortunately, this has not happened; perpetrators of sexual violence still evade punishment, and patriarchy is alive and well.

Patriarchy and Impunity The protests of August 2016 in Peru were triggered because men continue, with impunity, to inflict violence on women. Criminal justice may not solve the root causes of gender-based violence, but the problem will certainly persist if perpetrators are consistently getting away with violence and abuse. Two particular cases of unpunished violence against women entered the public consciousness in July 2016. In both cases, the courts decided to give the perpetrators suspended sentences after deciding the forensic evidence suggested the harm done was “minor.” In the fi rst case, in Ayacucho, a woman named Arlette Contreras was assaulted by her boyfriend, who beat her up when she tried to flee the hotel where he had taken her. In a video that was widely circulated on the Internet, footage from security cameras showed the boyfriend, Adriano Pozo, naked, dragging Contreras by her hair through the reception area. Pozo was captured and put on trial, but a judge gave him a suspended sentence and a fi ne, arguing that the nature of Contreras’s wounds suggested that he had not intended to rape or kill her, and had inflicted only minor harm.3 The sentencing judge, a woman, was an acquaintance of Pozo’s father, an Ayacuchano governor. The second case was that of Lady Guillén, a celebrity in the world of cumbia, who endured assaults by her boyfriend for a year before reporting the violence when she felt her life was in danger. Photos of her beaten, disfigured face, with stitches around her eyes, were widely circulated in newspapers since 2012. But in 2016, the judge in the case considered Guillén’s wounds minor and decided that her life had not been in danger.4 The aggressor, Ronny García, received a suspended sentence after having spent several years in pretrial imprisonment. Released, García now stands accused of violence by a new girlfriend. These two emblematic and well-publicized cases were matched by similar cases throughout the country. Women and girls were disfigured, raped, and killed by their partners or former partners, and their cases

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were reported in small corners of the printed media, but justice was generally not done. The massive protests of 2016, never seen before in the history of activism against gender-based violence in Peru, led to new investigations of the Contreras and Guillén cases, but many other cases have yet to receive the attention they merit. As I have detailed elsewhere (Boesten 2012; Boesten 2014a), impunity for violence against women is generally high in Peru. Despite the presence of well-established laws and protocols, there are multiple problems in the Peruvian state’s response to sexual violence. A lack of training in gender awareness and recognition of sexual violence continues to debilitate the police, judiciary, and forensic medicine services designed to support battered women. A lack of adequate funding for services that work, or should work, such as women’s police stations and emergency centers, undermines the promise these services embody. A lack of political collaboration among the district and municipal authorities who are in charge of allocating funding to some of these services further impedes them, while the lack of a sufficiently independent and effective judiciary constrains gender justice. Overall, the dissonance between a relatively good legal and policy framework on the one hand and weak implementation on the other stems from the unresolved tension between a patriarchal state which puts the maleheaded family at the center of all considerations, and the need for a policy that treats women’s rights as inalienable. As in many parts of Latin America, the role of a conservative Catholic Church is particularly harmful in Peru. The progressive Liberation Theology that emerged in the late 1960s largely disappeared with the demise of the Left in the 1990s, and as Vergara and Encinas show in chapter 9 of this volume, the more conservative sectors of the Church gained a more central presence. Opus Dei, led by Cardinal Luis Cipriani, archbishop of Lima, is now the dominant Christian voice and holds tremendous power over politics and institutions, particularly with regard to gender politics. Recently, in response to campaigns for the decriminalization of abortion in cases of rape, as well as in response to the demonstrations of August 2016, Cipriani has spoken out against what he calls the danger of the “gender ideology,” wielding his influence to denounce campaigns that could unsettle the Church’s patriarchal power. While it is difficult to sustain a position that endorses violence—indeed, a whole range of agencies, state institutions, and businesses supported the August 2016 march against

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gender-based violence—it appeared possible to defend heteronormativity and the “sanctity of life” by accusing women and girls of provoking sexual harassment and even rape.5 Hence, patriarchy is not the archaic concept that it should be by now, but rather, continues to build and rebuild its historic momentum. The persistence of patriarchal relationships, underpinned by a normative belief in a natural gender inequality, stands in contrast with the increasing number of women in higher education, in formal employment, and in national and local politics. Whereas many scholars judge women’s representation in national politics during the 1990s as affi rming gender stereotypes rather than unsettling them (Blondet 2002; Schmidt 2006; Boesten 2010), women’s participation has become consolidated since the start of the twenty-fi rst century, if not without encountering resistance (Krook and Restrepo Sanín 2016). In 2015–2016 we saw the rise of a new generation of left-of-center female politicians: Verónika Mendoza stood for president for the Frente Amplio, and Marisa Glave and Indira Huilca proved to be strong voices in Congress in support of human rights. Mendoza, Huilca, and Glave are unafraid to defend women’s rights and to discuss sexism in politics, representing a new feminist voice in national politics. Considering the increased prominence of women in public life and the gap in progressive politics that is now being filled by a new generation of feminist politicians and activists, perhaps the pushback from conservative sectors in society should be seen as a response to that increasing cry for gender equality. For example, the newly approved school curriculum for 2017, which includes gender equality as an objective, was considered to promote gender “ideology” and homosexuality, undermining the family as cornerstone of society according to conservative sectors,6 and was given as a reason to force the widely popular and acclaimed education minister Jaime Saavedra to resign in December 2016. This tension between increasing gender equality on the one hand and persistent patriarchal attitudes in some institutions and sectors on the other hand is what allows for impunity from punishment for sexual violence to persist, but it also allows for protest, in Peru and indeed throughout Latin America. In Peru, this tension is also coming to the fore in relation to historic crimes against humanity, particularly regarding criminal justice in relation to sexual violence perpetrated by the Peruvian military in the 1980s and truth fi nding and political accountability in the case of forced sterilizations in the 1990s.

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Truth, Justice, and Reconciliation; or, Struggles over Legacies When the CVR concluded that sexual violence in the Internal Armed Conflict had been systematic, particularly on the part of the armed forces, it also allowed for several cases to be identified and investigated more thoroughly in the interest of seeking criminal justice. By 2012, human rights organizations had investigated and presented sixteen cases to the public prosecutor. In Febrary 2018, three military figures were convicted and given prison sentences for the kidnapping and rape of a student in 1992. This fi rst positive result is a landmark ruling, and it may help the emblematic case that is currently under way against eleven more former military personnel.7 This case, commonly known as Manta y Vilca after the two communities affected, concerns fourteen complainants.8 The hearings before the National Criminal Court started in July 2016 and could last for several years. It has taken thirteen years since the publication of the CVR report for this case to come to court. There are several reasons for this slow process, and of course for the continuing impunity in most other cases of conflict-related sexual violence. First, there is an overall reluctance to prosecute military officers for violations of human rights. The Peruvian military and police force commanded counterinsurgency efforts against two very destructive insurgent groups, and for obvious reasons they do not like to be criticized for their actions. In addition, while the transitional government of President Valentín Paniagua in 2000–2001 purged the relevant institutions (military, National Intelligence Service, judiciary, and electoral committee) of corrupt and violent officials who had upheld the Fujimori regime (Taylor 2005), this did not prevent the election of Alan García or Ollanta Humala. García, in power from 2006 to 2011, was also the president in 1986 when the navy was sent in to suppress a prison uprising in El Frontón, where at least ninety senderistas were killed in extrajudicial executions. Ollanta Humala served in the military in the 1990s and was accused of being involved in human rights violations in Tingo María. Electoral support for García and Humala, as well as for Keiko Fujimori, the still-popular daughter of Alberto Fujimori, indicates that perhaps there simply is not much governmental or popular support for positions which seek to address the excesses of the counterinsurgency of the 1980s and 1990s, including prosecution of former military figures for violations of human rights.

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Of course, the military and the Ministry of Defense also influence what is possible in terms of who can be prosecuted and who cannot, and what evidence is available and what is not. As such, as soon as human rights organizations started to investigate specific cases of military rape based on CVR testimonies, the Ministry of Defense refused to release documents which could reveal the identity of specific soldiers in specific times and places. It claimed these particular archives had burned down. Furthermore, a lack of resources and investigative capacity in human rights law impedes the adequate prosecution of cases of sexual violence. Cases of sexual violence are notoriously complex in any context; hence the relatively low conviction rates in most parts of the world. But the complexity of such cases is highly influenced by normative understandings of what rape is, who can be victimized, and who can be a perpetrator. Historically, rape in marriage has seldom been recognized, as husbands were accorded an unquestioned right to their wives’ bodies, and women were expected to acquiesce. Likewise, rape was often denied both by society as well as in the courts because of how women behaved, what they wore, where they went, or what they had done. Traditionally, the only prosecutable forms of rape have been those involving a clearly innocent victim and a perpetrator who is a stranger to that victim (data shows, however, that most sexual violence is perpetrated by people in relationships of trust with the victim). So gendered prejudices impede adequate prosecution. In Peru, the historical divisions along lines of race, class, and gender further constrain a more objective legal perspective upon cases of rape. This is widespread in “everyday” peacetime cases such as that of Lady Guillén and Arlette Contreras, as well as in cases of conflict-related rape. For example, while international law says that in a context of war there cannot be a context of consent, in practice, the lines between consent and coercion seem just as porous as during peacetime: CVR interviews show how interviewers sometimes dismissed women’s claims of having been raped based on assumptions about the nature of consent, even in the overall violent context of war. Likewise, conceptions of what constitutes an injury, or of who speaks the “truth,” have been questioned by judges presiding over cases of state-perpetrated rape—even when the evidence is a child born in captivity. Prosecuting cases of confl ictrelated rape are difficult for the same reasons that human rights violations perpetrated by the military are difficult to prosecute, but in ad-

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dition, the specific coordinates of sex crimes and the institutionally embedded prejudices based on race, class, and particularly gender further impede successful prosecution in Peru. The successful prosecution in 2016 of two former military officers in Guatemala for crimes against humanity, sexual violence, and domestic slavery perpetrated against indigenous women in the community of Sepur Zarco in the 1980s is groundbreaking because of this complexity. This success is now followed by the Manta y Vilca case considering crimes against humanity and sexual violence in 1980s highland Peru. Although Manta y Vilca might take years to resolve in court, that it has reached court in the fi rst place is already an achievement. But however revolutionary the case might be, there is little public interest in Manta y Vilca, for all the reasons described previously. In addition, the victim-survivors, poor indigenous women of mature age, are not interesting to the wider public, nor are the perpetrators of much public interest as mestizo and cholo former soldiers living at the margins of contemporary society. At the same time, there has been increasing pressure on the Peruvian government in recent years to investigate and account for forced sterilizations carried out in the mid-1990s by the Fujimori administration under the banner of the Programa Nacional de Planificación Familiar. The goal of this National Family Planning Program was to reduce population growth to 2 percent by decreasing average fertility from 3.6 to 2.5 children per woman by 2000. One program objective was to improve maternal and child health, and the effort on the whole emphasized freedom to choose, reproductive rights, and gender equality. In practice, however, rural physicians were given quotas to sterilize a certain number of women each month, and were promised improved working conditions and resources for their cooperation. Doctors who were uncooperative were threatened with negative consequences. According to various sources, many poor, largely indigenous women were sterilized, including between 600 and 10,000 forcibly or against their will. Many more—up to 300,000—were treated in unhygienic and unprofessional circumstances (CLADEM 1999; Congreso de la Republica 2002; MINSA 2002; DEMUS 2008). The developmental rationale for the program—to reduce population growth for the sake of economic stability—was based on the idea that one can reduce poverty by reducing the poor population. Misconceptions founded on sexism (only women are responsible for reproduction and hence for poverty) and racism (indigenous women and men are

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too ignorant to control their own fertility even when given the right resources) among both those in command as well as those implementing the policy made coercion in the sterilization program possible (Boesten 2010). Several investigations have taken place since the coercive practices behind the sterilization program were uncovered (Congreso de la Republica 2002; MINSA 2002; DEMUS 2008) including one by the US Congress in 1998 to account for the role of USAID funding for the program.9 However, to this day, no in-depth research has documented the actual number of women affected, nor has any criminal investigation accounted for the actors involved. Research shows that local physicians and nurses had an important role to play in the program’s implementation (Boesten 2010; Gianella 2014). Although it seems necessary to hold them accountable, it would be too easy to blame only some individual doctors. Rather, it is essential that those who designed and enforced the program be held to account for the harm they have done. Governmental responsibility for the violence perpetrated in its name is crucial if the objective is to break through the gendered and racialized structures of inequality. After the fi rst uncovering of the program by human rights activist Giulia Tamayo in 1997,10 the forced sterilization program at fi rst drew the attention of only a relatively small group of academics and activists. The case revealed a series of tensions and contradictions in Peruvian society and its desire for change that are difficult to reconcile: progressive feminist ideas about equality and inclusivity clash with conservative and patriarchal ideas about women’s roles and their responsibility for reproduction. Since 2012, a new generation of activists has worked to document and publicize forced sterilizations carried out by the Family Planning Program, and to pressure the government into creating a register of victims that can be used in administering reparations, conducting an investigation into political accountability, and exploring criminal accountability (Ballón 2014). Despite this heightened activism, the judiciary permanently closed the case in November 2016. There are several ways of understanding the state’s lack of enthusiasm for addressing these historic abuses. First, and most importantly, both the sexual violence of the armed conflict as well as the forced sterilizations are representative of persistent inequalities grounded in ideas about race, class, and gender. Clearly, the racist connotations of the sexual violence meted out on the rural and prison population in the 1980s and 1990s, and of the forced sterilizations of the late 1990s,

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have helped reproduce and further entrench those inequalities. Any transitional justice policy would have to address this in order to challenge these inequalities. While the report of the CVR certainly focused on these structural inequalities and the violence that it produced, it was not able to unsettle the narrative by drawing in new voices or significantly challenging existing hierarchies. Challenging structures of inequality grounded in entrenched prejudices perhaps requires new thinking and new actors on the political stage. The entrenchment of inequality means that indigenous women (and, arguably, most indigenous men) simply do not have a voice in Peruvian society. Most claims that indigenous women want to make on the state, or on broader society, have to be channeled via urban activist networks and NGOs, which draws them into a whole different set of political struggles. Another way of explaining the lack of enthusiasm for addressing the historic abuses is by placing them in the broader context of contemporary post-IAC battles over truth and justice. Transitional Peru is divided between those who view the confl ict through a military- conservative perspective, and those who are grounded in a human rights perspective as laid out by the CVR’s fi nal report (Drinot 2009). In regard to gender issues, the conservative-military perspective employs a patriarchal orientation akin to contemporary opposition to “gender ideology” as discussed previously. Human rights groups, in contrast, support gender equality and women’s rights. Human rights organizations also actively seek to provide a voice to those marginalized by the persistent inequalities in Peruvian society. For the victim-survivors of sexual violence at the military bases of Manta and Vilca, Huancavelica, as well as for those sterilized under the Fujimori regime, this means that their cases are channeled into the public sphere via vocal human rights groups such as APRODEH, IDL, COMISEDH, and DEMUS. This places victim-survivors and their legal cases in the middle of the battles over truth and memory, between those who support a military-conservative narrative and those who favor a human rights perspective. But it is victim-survivors’ human rights that are at stake here. Their past, present, and future are largely lost in the struggles among urban elites over IAC legacies that Paulo Drinot describes in chapter 11.

Conclusion In 2016, two emblematic historical cases of institutional sexual violence against women, one involving the systematic rape of women in

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rural Huancavelica, and the other the forced sterilization of poor rural women, could not get civil society to mobilize as effectively as could the two “everyday” cases of Lady Guillén and Cindy Contreras. While there are reasons to believe that high levels of contemporary violence against women are related to the long and complex history of institutionalized racism, sexism, and political violence, it is apparent that it will be difficult to use the post-confl ict moment to unsettle the entrenched and intersecting inequalities that are the root of this violence. There is no clear causal relationship between conflict-related genderbased violence and peacetime levels of violence that can be quantified and made concrete. Considering these constraints, how was it possible for three women in July 2016 to mobilize fifty independent organizers in twenty-four hours, forty-five thousand collaborators and protesters in five days, and about half a million women, men, and children in time to march against gender-based violence on August 13? First, I believe that the three Ni Una Menos instigators managed to mobilize a cross-class alliance with women who did not have a history of activism or politics. This is unique, and was largely accomplished through social media, which does not discriminate (as much) as does word-of-mouth mobilization. The effective use of different Facebook pages as well as instant messaging had a democratizing effect upon the often-unequal relationship between civil society organizations or NGOs and grassroots groups. The Facebook page set up to serve as an organizational platform quickly turned into a platform for sharing painful memories, many of which had never been revealed before. The organizers respected this rain of testimonies and set up alternative social media tools to continue organizing the protest march. An open confessional space used by fifty thousand people is a conscience-raising forum beyond most feminists’ dreams, and it allowed for people to speak and participate who otherwise would have stayed invisible. The number and severity of the experiences shared on this page, as well as the speed at which they circulated, also drew in allies who are usually more difficult to mobilize for cases of gender-based violence: men, private-sector participants such as business sponsors, and indeed even representatives of the state (the police, the judiciary, and the newly appointed president all made public statements and appearances as part of the protests). The political moment was important: Keiko Fujimori, a symbol of a guilty and violent past, and arguably representing (or at least defending) the conservative-military historical perspective, lost the elections

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held in April 2016. Verónika Mendoza, a representative of a hopeful new left-wing alliance arguably championing a human rights historical perspective, also lost. The winner, Pedro Pablo Kuczynski, if not a political outsider or a representative of a new generation, was chosen for his technical perspective, or, one could argue, for his seeming neutrality in long-standing political feuds. The Ni Una Menos campaign stepped into a political vacuum in which progressive politics, as well as opposition to them, was in disarray. The fi rst weeks of this new government was the perfect moment to mobilize the Peruvian population against something that often falls in the gaps between two highly divided political camps. At the same, the Ni Una Menos campaign focused on ongoing everyday violence that women and girls experience regardless of their political, ethnic, geographical, or class origins. While this campaign was certainly supportive of emblematic historical cases of sexual violence, these cases were not central to the Ni Una Menos narrative. Much of the transitional justice literature advocates for the post-confl ict moment to be crucial in effecting transformational change. We hope that the shock of truth will lead to justice, and that criminal justice and reparation will lead to conciliation and transformation. But perhaps it is the other way around: fi rst things need to change, and then perhaps there will be justice. Notes 1. We also need to consider the possibility that the CVR asked women questions about the violence they experienced that were not often asked before more systematic monitoring of rates of violence against women began. Holly Porter found that a majority of raped women during the Ugandan internal confl ict claimed to have been raped by intimate partners, not by active combatants (2015). 2. Obdulia Guevara Neyra, interview with Gabriela Wiener in La Republica, http://larepublica.pe/impresa/domingo/835623-en-lima-mas-del-30-de -trabajadoras-del-hogar-todavia-esta-en-una-situacion-de-semiesclavitud. 3. See http://larepublica.pe/impresa/sociedad/785994-siento-miedo-ahora -yo-soy-la-prisionera-dice-cindy-arlette-contreras. 4. See http://www.peruthisweek.com/news-lady-guillen-110009. 5. “[They tell us] there are many abortions among young girls, but nobody has abused these girls. Often it is women who put themselves on display, provoking men.” Cardinal Juan Luis Cipriani, archbishop of Lima, Peru, on national radio in response to campaigns against sexual violence and in favor of the legalization of abortion in case of rape, July 30, 2016, RPP Radio.

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6. See http://larepublica.pe/politica/829690-el-85-aprueba-que-curriculo -escolar-promueva-igualdad-de-genero-segun-ipsos. 7. See Jacqueline Fowks, “Perú condena por primera vez a militares por violaciones sexuales cometidas en los años de confl icto interno,” El País, February 9, 2018, https://elpais.com/internacional/2018/02/09/america/1518201 594_889441.html. 8. One more case is under investigation by the Interamerican Commission for Human Rights: http://idehpucp.pucp.edu.pe/comunicaciones/notas -informativas/cidh-admite-caso-emblematico-de-violacion-sexual-ocurrido -durante-periodo-de-violencia/. 9. The Peruvian Population Control Program Hearing Before the Subcommittee on International Operations and Human Rights, 105th Cong., February 25, 1998, http://commdocs.house.gov/committees/intlrel/hfa48459.000 /hfa48459_0f.htm. 10. Tamayo had to flee the country as a consequence of her work.

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CHAP T ER 7

Indigenous Activism and Human Rights NGOs in Peru: The Unexpected Consequences of Armed Conflict Maritza Paredes

In the following pages, I address the armed confl ict’s unintended effects on indigenous activism. In particular, I focus on the increasing cooperation between indigenous organizations and human rights NGOs arising from the context of internal conflict. The existing literature has thoroughly explored the damage inflicted on indigenous mobilization by the war initiated by Sendero in the central Andes at the end of the last century (Yashar 2005; Van Cott 2005; Burt 2009b). War records showing the impact of the internal conflict on indigenous fatalities reveal that 75 percent of those killed in the conflict were of indigenous origin, mainly from the departments of Ayacucho, Huancavelica, Huánuco, and San Martín (CVR 2004).1 Moreover, a well-known direct negative consequence of the internal conflict on indigenous mobilization at the turn of the twenty-fi rst century has been the lack of convergence between integrating indigenous organizations in the highlands and emerging and dynamic indigenous organizations in the Amazon (Yashar 2005; Van Cott 2005; R. Smith 1996). Unlike in Bolivia and Ecuador, indigenous peasant organizations in Peru’s highlands did not transform their “class-based” frames into “ethnic-based” ones. 2 The declining reputation of class ideologies, which were embraced by indigenous peasant organizations in the highlands, left these groups without political resources for legitimate mobilization (Paredes 2010). Grassroots indigenous organizations from the Amazon moved away from their peers in the highlands and converged with one another in a process of indigenous internationalization, intersecting with the demands of the global environmental movement (R. Smith 1996). As noted by a vast literature, at the turn of the century, Peru did not see the emergence of a pan-ethnic indigenous move-

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ment in reaction to neoliberal policies that undermined indigenous collective rights. Nonetheless, this study departs from these previous analyses, as it focuses on the unexpected effects of armed conflict on indigenous activism in contemporary Peru. Indigenous activism in this new century has taken place in a context characterized by the end of the internal conflict and democracy, economic growth based on booms in the markets for metals and hydrocarbons mainly extracted from indigenous territories, and the internationalization of legalized structures for the protection of indigenous rights. By examining the development of these conditions, this chapter concludes that the effects of internal conflict on contemporary indigenous mobilization are complex, with multidirectional configurations. In particular, this chapter focuses on a second and less-studied indirect consequence of the internal confl ict on indigenous mobilization: the increasing impact of human rights NGOs on indigenous activism. In the following, I focus on the building of new alliances with human rights NGOs and how these alliances reshape both the opportunities and the challenges for indigenous organizations to mobilize in contemporary Peru. These NGOs became an important actor, with capacities to provide legal advice to indigenous organizations and communities in a context of internationalization and expanding legalization of indigenous rights (Morgan 2004). In Latin America, legal activism has become increasingly prominent over the last two decades (Rodríguez-Garavito and Rodríguez-Franco 2015), particularly on indigenous and environmental issues (Sieder and Barrera 2017). Indigenous mobilization in the region has been portrayed as a form of “legal subaltern cosmopolitanism” (Rodríguez-Garavito and Sousa Santos 2007, 19–20) connected to transnational networks of activists, which act and exercise pressure on highly legalized structures (Keck and Sikkink 1998; Brysk 2000; Sieder 2011). The most important of these structures has been International Labor Organization convention 196 acknowledged by most Latin American countries and ratified by the Peruvian state in 1994. Indigenous mobilization in Peru and Latin America is occurring today in this new context that includes both threats from extractive industries acting in indigenous territories and opportunities from legalized structures providing new forms of activism. Human rights organizations in Peru emerged from the internal confl ict with significant legal training on constitutional and human rights, local and in-

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ternational advocacy expertise, and grassroots connections in rural areas where indigenous communities live. On the basis of these capacities, human rights NGOs have been crucial to the revitalization of indigenous activism in Peru, in spite of the challenges of grassroots organizations. The role of human rights NGOs has become crystallized in the significant events of the so-called Bagua protests and the subsequent approval and implementation of the Law on Prior Consultation (no. 29785, 2011) and its regulating decree (Supreme Decree 001-2012-MC, 2012). This law is the fi rst of its kind in the region, and its implementation is still highly controversial in the country (Schilling–Vacaflor and Flemmer 2013; Flemmer and Schilling–Vacaflor 2016; Sanborn, Hurtado, and Ramírez 2016). Human rights NGOs supported the legalization and formalization of consultation rights. In turn, the promulgation of the Law on Prior Consultation (no. 29785) has expanded the possibilities of domestic litigation around these rights and their implementation. Relying on the analysis of events and interviews around the case of the so-called Bagua protest, I will trace the history of alliances between indigenous organizations and human rights NGOs as an indirect consequence of the internal war. The chapter is organized in six sections. The next section presents the old and new setting for indigenous mobilization in Peru. The third section explains how armed conflict in Peru stimulated the formation of significant human rights organizations, closely connected to broad international networks that sought to defend citizens from the injustices of internal war. The fourth section shows how as political violence diminished, and subsequently postconflict efforts (such as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, or Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación [CVR]) faded, these human rights organizations with crucial legal capacities became important allies of indigenous organizations and activists on indigenous rights. The fifth section suggests that the role of these organizations, however, cannot compensate for the still significant Andean and Amazonian divisions in the movement. In the sixth section, I offer my conclusions.

Old and New Settings for Indigenous Activism in Peru Pioneering studies argued that restricted political association during the armed conflict (Yashar 2005) and violence against leaders and their communities (Burt 2009b) weakened indigenous networks in

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Peru (Yashar 2005, Van Cott 2005). At the end of the twentieth century, Bolivian and Ecuadorian indigenous peasants and lowland organizations produced broader and more powerful pan-ethnic coalitions that eventually became indigenous political parties, such as the Movimiento al Socialismo (MAS), which brought Evo Morales to power in Bolivia.3 In Peru, these pan-ethnic coalitions were not formed, and the weakness of its indigenous movement is often seen as exceptional in regional perspective.4 Other authors have also noted the distinctive influence of the Peruvian radical Marxist Left on the class identity of indigenous peasant organizations at the communal level (Van Cott 2005; Degregori 1989; Paredes 2010; Paredes 2011). For Paredes (2011), who reported an increase in indigenous association activity by peasants in the highlands at the end of the 1980s, 5 the problem was not the lack of opportunity for association as reported by Yashar (2005), but that the radical discourse of “class confl ict” propagated by the Shining Path made mobilization on class terms virtually impossible in Peru throughout the 1980s and 1990s. As explored in detail in chapter 8, within a context of brutal internal war and economic and political crises, it was easy in the 1990s for the government of Fujimori to blame the chaos on political parties, and particularly on the Marxist Left and their message of “class conflict.” Peasant organizations in Peru that traditionally had been built along class lines openly associated with the Left, such as the fi rst national indigenous peasant union (the Confederación Campesina del Perú, or CCP), were hurt by the campaign against the Left. This harm was due to not only the increasing persecution of their leaders and direct attacks on their organizations and their lives by Sendero and Fujimori’s government, but also the confusion created among the public concerning the difference between these peasant organizations and Sendero. The persecution and stigmatization of class-based ideologies in Peru seriously dampened the potential for an indigenous movement to emerge from previously active indigenous peasant organizations (Paredes 2010). At the end of the 1980s, the CCP incorporated about 250,000 members of 500 organizations—federations, unions, community groups, and others—from seventeen of the twenty-five departments in the country, mostly from the highlands (Matos Mar and Mejía 1980). Yet in the 1990s this incorporation failed to transform itself into a vigorous indigenous organization, as did its peers in Bolivia and Ecuador. In contrast to the experience of highland indigenous peasant organi-

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zations, Amazonian indigenous organizations converged into a movement that was able to mobilize and grow, even during the 1990s and the ongoing internal confl ict. They organized during this decade on the basis of a multicultural rights framework and drew support from a growing number of international allies from the environmental movement (Greene 2009; R. Smith 1996). The divergence between highlands and lowlands organizations in Peru, with almost no bridges connecting them, is the most direct and persistent consequence of the internal conflict on indigenous mobilization in the late twentieth century. As we will see, this direct consequence of the internal conflict would subsequently interact with other indirect and unintended consequences to shape the complex dynamics of indigenous activism in Peru today. In the new century, indigenous activism has taken place in a changed domestic and international setting. The political, economic, and institutional scenario in which Yashar, Van Cott, and others studied indigenous activism and politics has changed. The new century is characterized by new political regimes and a super cycle of commodity boom in the region. Since 2004, Peru and the Andean countries have experienced a natural resources boom with increasing investments in the extractive sector, focused on mining and hydrocarbons (Thorp et al. 2012). Based on this region-wide boom across the Andean countries, Peru has experienced a cycle of sustained growth, with average annual growth rates of 6 percent for the period 2002–2013 (Dargent et  al. 2017). The other side of economic growth has been social confl ict (De Echave et al. 2009; Paredes and de la Puente 2017; Defensoría del Pueblo del Perú 2013). Communities have accused extractive industries of land and resource grabbing (Haarstad and Fløysand 2007; Bebbington and Bury 2013), contamination (Muñoz et al. 2007; Orta-Martínez and Finer 2010; Orihuela and Paredes 2017), and unfair or ineffective redistribution of economic and social benefits (Arellano-Yanguas 2011; Arce 2014; Ponce and McClintock 2014). Indigenous people have been crucial actors in these confl icts as mining and hydrocarbons concessions and indigenous land rights have increasingly overlapped in the last decade. In the Amazon, at the end of 2008, 72 percent of the territory belonging to indigenous communities was under concession to petroleum and gas exploration and exploitation (Benavides 2010; Orta-Martinez and Finer 2010). In the Andes, by 2017, 40 percent of indigenous community lands overlap with mining concessions (Martínez 2018). In many cases, there is uncer-

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tainty over property rights due to poor land titling, and indigenous communities are ready to defend the lands they have been rightfully occupying.6 The commodity boom cycle in indigenous territories is thus provoking a rapidly emerging set of challenges in the region that has revealed the weakness of institutionalized relations between indigenous peoples and the state. However, the internationalization of indigenous movements has set forth an agenda centered on environmental justice, territorial autonomy, and the political implementation of collective and international rights (Brysk 2000; Keck and Sikkink 1998) and has increased the salience of the international and domestic setting for indigenous legal action (Anthias 2014; Sawyer 2013a; Sawyer 2012; Sawyer 2004; Perreault 2013; Bebbington 2011; Bebbington 2013; Sawyer and Gomez 2008; Sawyer and Gomez 2012; Rodríguez-Garavito 2011). Indigenous people now have an internationally recognized legal right to consultation when a development is going to affect their territory and livelihoods. They can also appeal to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (ICHR) when their states fail to comply with established conventions.7 The effectiveness of international pressure varies from country to country. However, as we argue here, in Peru, the opportunity to work together with human rights NGOs in this new context of legal complaints is adding new characteristics and dynamism to a previously weak setting for indigenous activism.

The “Dog in the Manger” of Garcia’s Government and the “Bagua Protests” Indigenous mobilization in Peru experienced a tipping point under the government of Alan García from 2005 to 2010. In 2007, President Garcia received special legislative powers from the Congress to implement the Free Trade Agreement signed between the United States and Peru. With this power, he approved a package of decrees known as the “Law of the Jungle” in 2008. The new legislation sought to tailor the national legal system to global markets by facilitating increased foreign direct investment in Peru and greater integration of the nation’s economy into the global economy. The García administration sought to adapt the national legal system to the requirements of international capital by facilitating procedures for foreign investment in indigenous territories (Hughes 2010; Schmall 2011).8

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The aggressive defense of these legal measures by President García showed that his goal was not only to achieve economic growth but also to drive cultural transformation through the “de-indigenization” of the country. In a public campaign led by García himself, the government portrayed communal rights (especially in the Amazon) as an “impediment” to economic development in Peru (García Perez 2007b). In a series of articles called El Perro del Hortelano (the dog in the manger),9 García described indigenous people as “incapable” of economic production on their “abandoned” lands. In García’s “dog in the manger” philosophy, indigenous communal ownership was an anachronism preventing development and causing poverty in the Amazon (Merino 2015; Drinot 2011; Hughes 2010). As Drinot argues, by invoking “communists, protectionists and environmentalists” as enemies of the country, García was referring to “a recalcitrant anti-capitalist Other, which is Peru’s indigenous population.” He claimed the indigenous population represented “backwardness” (Drinot 2011, 183). Indigenous peoples opposed the government’s decrees. Drawing particularly vehement opposition were Decrees 1090 and 1064, which transferred 45 million hectares of protected Peruvian Amazon forest to private companies (Merino 2015). Additionally, Decree 1015 jeopardized the collective territorial rights of indigenous communities by weakening protections guaranteed under Peruvian law. For example, it changed the condition that in order to reallocate a communities’ land to outsiders, two-thirds of the general assembly of the community must approve reducing the threshold for acceptance to a simple majority (Merino 2015). The Inter-Ethnic Development Association of the Peruvian Amazon (Asociación Interétnica de Desarrollo de la Selva Peruana, or AIDESEP), the major organization of Amazonian indigenous peoples, called for demonstrations in 2008 that lasted for fifteen months during 2008 and 2009. This conflict between indigenous communities and the central government has been the longest that has Peru has faced in the new twenty-fi rst century, and the most serious in terms of its consequences. When the conflict emerged, indigenous organizations from both the highlands and the Amazon had begun sustained coordination for the fi rst time in Peruvian history. Organizations from the Amazon and the Andes both saw danger in legislation that reduced indigenous territorial rights in both regions. The situation created an opportunity for building pan-ethnic alliances. During this crisis, indigenous organizations strengthened their alliances with an agreement10 known as the Pacto Unidad, which includes eight organizations from the two re-

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gions.11 This alliance became part of a dynamic network of activism, in which human rights NGOs and the Peruvian government’s Ombudsman’s Office also participated, campaigning in the Congress and the media for the institutionalization of prior consultation for indigenous communities. In the new century, organizations like the CCP embraced international indigenous rights and framed their demands around communal rights and the identity of “original peoples.” After years of emphasizing class discourse and alliance with leftist parties, new leaders managed to rearticulate alliances and demands along the lines of indigenous international legal rights for indigenous peoples.12 Another organization, the Confederación de Comunidades del Perú Afectadas por la Minería (CONACAMI), also emerged from communities affected by mining, mainly in the highlands (Paredes 2006). Still, the strongest organization was the AIDESEP. Established in the 1980s, its strength was based on the affiliations of 1,350 communities, approximately 80 federations and regional organizations, and 65 different indigenous peoples of the Amazon, as well as its multiple national and transnational alliances, mainly with the international environmental movement (R. Smith 1996). The coordination among all of these organizations represented a new step forward in the building of pan-ethnic alliances that had not previously been possible. La Coordinadora Nacional de Derechos Humanos (CNDH) hosted many of these meetings of coordination among indigenous organizations from the highlands and lowlands, which were aimed at creating an integrated national indigenous platform.13 In these meetings and through open letters, indigenous leaders invoked the implementation of indigenous rights provided for in the 169 ILO Convention for Indigenous and Tribal People.14 After the government ratified this convention in 1994, the state of Peru was criticized by both national and international human rights organizations for the absence of adequate legislation on prior consultation with indigenous peoples, and the failure to implement such legislation. The problem became more serious when the high prices of minerals and hydrocarbons triggered a massive expansion by extractive industries on indigenous lands and resources, and when the García government threatened legislation protecting communities’ collective land rights in 2008. The indigenous organizations decided on a joint response to the decrees issued by the García government. However, most of the political action occurred in the Amazon, a reflection of the strength of the movement in this region. On August 9, 2008, activists blocked the op-

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erations of a number of oil facilities in various areas of the northern Amazon and forced the government to initiate negotiations. Though these negotiations between indigenous organizations and the government continued for months, they ultimately failed, leading to a stronger round of protests in April 2009. Fifteen months of protest and mobilization culminated in tragedy: on June 5, 2009, thirty-three people died in Bagua, an area in the Amazonas region also called the “Devil’s Curve,” when police officers tried to evict protesters who had occupied a highway (Anaya 2009; Cavero 2011; A. Durand 2010; Sosa 2017). Days before these events, President García had condemned the actions of indigenous peoples, saying, “These people do not have a crown, they are not fi rst-class citizens, 400,000 natives cannot tell 28 million Peruvians: ‘You have no right to come here.’ No way, that’s a very serious mistake, and whoever thinks that way wants to take us to irrationality and the primitive mindset of the past.” For Santiago Manuin, an Awajun leader who suffered eight bullet wounds during the protest,15 the mobilization was not only peaceful but rightful: “The government of that time confronted us, police followed the order of their high command and the native people defended its right, its identity, its culture, its own development, its forest, its rivers, its cosmos and its territory. The strike was peaceful; until that fateful day of June 5, our protest was to reject the decrees that affected us, and the government did not consult with us as it is required by the ILO Convention 169.”16 The tragic events in La Curva del Diablo had multiple consequences for indigenous organizations. On one side, it had a negative impact on the AIDESEP. The group’s main leader, Alberto Pizango, had to leave the country after being charged with sedition, conspiracy, and rebellion. Another fi fty-three leaders were also accused of sedition and of shooting at police, which rapidly undermined the most important resource of the Amazonian indigenous movement, its leadership (Greene 2009). The next section explains how, during a significant period of mobilization and potential demobilization after the events of the “Curva del Diablo,” alliances with human rights NGOs created new opportunities for indigenous activism in Peru.

Human Rights NGOs and the Indigenous Movement in Peru Human Rights, NGOs, and the Indigenous Issue During the armed conflict, only a small number of human rights organizations focused on indigenous issues. Though many of these or-

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Indigenous Activism and Human Rights NGOs 185

ganizations worked mainly with indigenous communities in the Andes that saw especially dramatic abuses of human rights, there were also a small number of NGOs centered in the Amazon in the years before the beginning of political violence in Peru (CAAAP 1992; Chirif 2012; Espinosa de Rivero 2009). Among the best examples of organizations with this profi le are the Episcopal Conference (Comisión Episcopal de Acción Social, or CEAS), the NGO Evangelical Peace and Hope, and the Amazon Center of Anthropology and Practical Application (Centro Amazónico de Antropología y Aplicación Práctica, or CAAAP), founded in 1974.17 Though in the Amazon there were many other national NGOs and international affiliates, these were the main ones dedicated to Amazonian politics and environmental issues.18 During the 1980s and 1990s, political violence became the central axis of these human rights organizations’ work, as groups came to fulfill two primary functions during this time period. First, they played a key role in recording and circulating evidence of crimes against humanity for the CNDH, especially in the 1990s when violence in the Amazon was at its most severe (author’s interview with Coronado 2015; interview with Torres 2015; interview with Jugo 2015; all interviews are listed at the end of the chapter). For example, the CAAAP and its network of allied organizations (other small NGOs and Catholic Church parishes and prelatures) were the main actors responsible for collecting information on human rights abuses in the Amazon for the CVR. Second, organizations such as the CAAAP and its allies served as the base for other human rights organizations—the Instituto de Defensa Legal (IDL) and Ombudsman’s Office, among others—to initiate their human rights work in the Amazon region (interview with Coronado 2015; interview with Torres 2015). Toward the end of the armed conflict, community self-defense committees became a challenge for governance because the state did not have control over these local organizations, many of which were situated in indigenous communities. This problem created an opportunity for human rights organizations, which had no previous experience with indigenous populations, to offer legal advice on community justice, which has since gained international legitimacy as a right of indigenous people. Self-defense committees spread across the Peruvian territory during the armed conflict, but they were fi rst created in the northern highlands to solve problems of cattle-rustling (Starn 1999; Paredes 2011; Degregori et al. 1996). Because of its success, the model of community self-defense was replicated in other regions, especially in the north-

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Maritza Paredes

eastern area of the country (CVR 2003a). Although military authorities adapted the model to other communities in the central highlands to combat the Shining Path, outside of this area self-defense committees were autonomous and worked with other social and local organizations (Starn 1998; Starn 1999; Degregori et al. 1996).19 By 1993, there were 4,205 self-defense committees across the country, with 235,465 members that had 16,196 weapons (del Pino 1996). 20 Once the Shining Path’s retreat was accomplished, these organizations became a challenge for the state, as it intended to resume authority in areas where historically its presence had been weak. Human rights NGOs like the IDL, which had no previous experience with these populations, as well as agencies such as the Ombudsman’s Office began to work in the midst of this confl ict between the state and the communities on indigenous justice issues. Community justice became a recognized component of the multicultural framework. (Sieder 1998; Yrigoyen 2004). Toward the end of the 1990s, and especially during the democratic transition, the human rights network’s agenda thus became more diverse (interview with Coronado 2015). During this process, indigenous issues gained greater institutional presence in NGOs within the human rights network. In particular, the CNDH, the IDL, and the Asociación Pro Derechos Humanos (APRODEH) became involved in indigenous issues (interview with Coronado 2015). Gradually, the Ombudsman’s Office took advantage of decentralization to work with peasant and native Amazonian groups (interview with Abad 2014; interview with Luque 2014; interview with Abanto 2013). The CNDH founded the Working Group of Indigenous Peoples, composed initially of the NGOs that traditionally had worked with indigenous groups such as the CAAAP, the CEAS, and Paz y Esperanza. The Working Group brought together indigenous organizations to develop concrete proposals that were responsive to indigenous people’s necessities. Moreover, the Ombudsman’s Office, which was a pioneer institution in this realm when it founded the Program for Indigenous Persons toward the end of the 1990s, was convened to participate. 21 As of the early 2000s, indigenous activism in human rights had been limited in terms of growth (interview with Coronado 2015). Within the context of Peru’s democratic transition and especially under the Paniagua government, a window of opportunity appeared to open for addressing indigenous issues in the country. A series of formalized dialogues known as the Mesa de Diálogo were convened, which resulted in the Plan of Priority Action for Peasant and Native Communities.

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This plan was the fi rst of its type, and it was developed with the participation of both Andean and Amazonian organizations. This process was widely recognized by indigenous organizations and a variety of NGOs. However, the plan never materialized into concrete policy initiatives in any sector, and during the Toledo administration it was instead transformed into the National Commission of Andean and Amazon Peoples (Compañía Nacional de Peritos Agrícolas, or CONAPA), under the direction of the fi rst lady, Eliane Karp. During Toledo’s administration, CONAPA did not have the autonomy to promote the plan, and indigenous demands were deemed as mere declarations instead of something that would actually be met (Pajuelo 2007). The Legislative Decree package of 2008 that reduced indigenous territorial rights, and the protests that began that same year, generated a sense of emergency which brought together diverse indigenous organizations to initiate a response that was also coordinated with NGOs in the human rights network (interview with Coronado 2013; interview with Coronado 2015; interview with Torres 2015; interview with Lanegra 2014). At this time, the CNDH Indigenous Working Group added more members, incorporating a range of organizations not traditionally associated with indigenous issues as well as their sources of funding. 22 These organizations included those traditionally concentrated on campesinos (farmers), like Servicios Educativos Rurales (SER), and environmental NGOs such as Sociedad Peruana de Derecho Ambiental (SPDA) and Derecho, Ambiente y Recursos Naturales (DAR) with extensive experience in indigenous and environmental issues in the Amazonian region which had yet to develop a human rights agenda.23 The Ombudsman’s Office had a more autonomous role, but began to play a part in strengthening interactions between indigenous organizations and members of the human rights network (interview with Coronado 2015). The shift of these organizations toward indigenous issues resulted in the development of indigenous repertoires of mobilization with a legal approach, which was not previously a prevalent feature of indigenous mobilization. Given that the legislative decrees were the origin of protests, indigenous organizations began to fi le lawsuits to channel their demands. The fi rst example of this strategy appeared in reaction to the approval of DL 1015, when the Ombudsman’s Office filed a claim before the Consitutional Court (Tribunal Constitutional, or TC) arguing that the government had failed to meet the prior consultation requirement, and thus that the DL was unconstitutional. 24

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With the support of the human rights network, indigenous organizations began to prepare legislative proposals that would transform existing processes into national policy innovations regarding indigenous peoples. After the events in Bagua, the Congress opened a space for negotiation that resulted in the legal project that later became the Law of Previous Consultation of 2011 (Alva 2010; Brito 2012; Merino and Lanegra 2013). The abovementioned unconstitutionality process, led by the Ombudsman’s Office, served as a basis for discussions in Congress (Merino and Lanegra 2013; Villenas, Pautrat, and Samaniego 2010; Gamboa and Snoeck 2012). In the Bagua events, the Ombudsman’s Office found an opportunity to apply an advocacy plan they had been preparing for a long time. In 2006 they initiated a training process with the ILO in preparation for a process of prior consultation in Peru (interview with Abanto 2013; interview with Lanegra 2013). When the controversial DLs were approved, the Ombudsman’s Office was well prepared to challenge them on constitutional grounds, arguing that pursuant to the Peruvian legal framework, if prior consultation was not enforced, then the DLs were unconstitutional. This claim was reproduced by indigenous organizations and supported by institutions such as the IDL and the CNDH (Gamboa and Snoeck 2012, Ruiz 2009). Once the concept of unconstitutionality was proposed regarding the conflict of 2008–2009, the debate shifted to constitutional rights. The political structure opened opportunities for indigenous peoples to achieve their objectives, including the possibility of making claims based on the state’s compliance with its international obligations concerning indigenous rights. In this regard, the CNDH wrote: We call upon the Congress of the Republic, to revise, debate, and pronounce in a positive and timely way regarding the request to repeal the following laws . . . , that affect rights of Indigenous Peoples, as recognized by Convention 169: Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries, of the International Labor Organization, ratified by Peru, through the Legislative Resolution No. 26253, published in the Official Newspaper “El Peruano” on December 2, 1993. 25

In this debate, organizations such as the CAAAP and the CEAS gave way to the IDL and the Ombudsman’s Office, which had the tools to fi le claims and initiate legal actions. 26 Given that organizations from civil

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Indigenous Activism and Human Rights NGOs 189

society participated as observers in congressional table discussions, coordination with indigenous organizations did not stop (interview with Coronado 2013; interview with Coronado 2015; interview with Burneo 2013; interview with Torres 2013). Instead, the CNDH’s Working Group was one of the many spaces where indigenous organizations were nurtured to participate in congressional legislative debates. Thus, thanks to the mobilization of indigenous organizations, a direct negotiation space with the executive and legislative branches was established. This was also achieved because of the support received from human rights activists, NGOs, and the Ombudsman’s Office, which raised visibility and facilitated the achievement of negotiation. Indigenous organizations found in human rights NGOs the support and resources to mobilize for the implementation of prior consultation, and after the events of Bagua and the approval of the Prior Consultation Law, they increasingly counted on those NGOs for legal support. This alliance has brought dynamism to the movement, in a context where indigenous mobilization largely occurs within transnational networks of activism and is shaped by the international legalization of indigenous rights (Sieder 2011; Rodríguez-Garavito and Sousa Santos 2007).27 The next section explains how these human rights NGOs that have come to be a resource for contemporary indigenous mobilization emerged as social actors in the context of the internal war during the 1980s and 1990s. The Development of Professional Human Rights Organizations during the Internal Conflict The human rights movement emerged in Peru before the spread of political violence in the country. These organizations arose during the military authoritarian regime commanded by Velasco Alvarado (1968– 1980). The movement was nonpartisan: although these organizations began with an affi nity with activists on the Left, no human rights organizations had a party affiliation (CVR 2003a; Youngers and Peacock 2002). Initially, these organizations were part of a secular movement in the Catholic Church, a network of vibrant neighborhood and rural organizations that emerged from the links formed between parishes and the liberation theology movement that began in the 1970s (Levine 1990; Levine 2006). 28 In Peru, the Second Vatican Council, the episcopal conferences of Medellin and Puebla, and the expansion of lib-

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eration theology guided the Church’s role into an activism “from below.” Bishops and priests who went to the countryside to build a more inclusive church found in the course of their work the growing political dynamism of indigenous communities, which were seeking to strengthen their peasant unions, advocate for land titles, and (later) protect themselves from the violence of Sendero. A discourse of human rights became central to the Church’s effort to build its pastoral network, which tied together a significant set of organizations among the most excluded populations in society, including in particular rural, indigenous peasant communities. Young members of these secular organizations, motivated by their concern about civil detentions during the military regime, pushed for the creation of a Human Rights Office in 1977 as part of the CEAS.29 Secular organizations had significant independence from the Church’s hierarchy at the time: although initial support from bishops and priests was crucial for the establishment of human rights organizations, these organizations were not subordinated to the ecclesiastical hierarchy (CVR 2003a; IDL 2003). Indeed, during the armed conflict, the Church took a highly conservative stance in areas where the worst of the confl ict was occurring, such as in Ayacucho. 30 Human rights regional committees multiplied during the early 1980s in the form of social organizations linked to the Church.31 The CNDH appeared in the mid-1980s, and over time it became the mouthpiece for a growing network of organizations concerned with human rights, many of them with an important presence in rural areas and among indigenous peasant communities. In the early 1980s, when political violence seemed to have spread throughout the countryside, human rights organizations across the country were overwhelmed by the magnitude of human rights abuses. At that time their aim was to make visible the increasing number of forced disappearances, deaths, and tortures at the hands of both terrorist groups and military forces, which were ignored by the government in Lima and the international community (Youngers and Peacock 2002).32 The CNDH sought to unify human rights appeals and to connect regional organizations with one another, providing the movement with “one voice” to make international demands. However, in places where the Church was not present, it was almost impossible to obtain information about human rights violations. In the central Andes, where violence was most severe, it was especially difficult. While organizations such as the mothers of the National Association of Kidnapped, Detained, and Disappeared Relatives

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in Emergency Zones (Asociación Nacional de Familiares de Secuestrados, Detenidos y Desaparecido del Perú, or ANFASEP) demanded justice for their disappeared relatives, these organizations faced permanent harassment from law enforcement. 33 The CNDH was not an attempt to unify groups from Lima and other regions within one organization, given that they were very diverse, but rather to create connections among them and thus generate knowledge and a national register of violations (interview with Jugo 2015). The result was a large and flexible network, capable of portraying the armed conflict’s consequences. In 1989 these organizations staged the impressive “March for Peace” in the country, as well as the fi rst visit of the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights to Peru in 1990 (CNDH 2015).34 Over time, the increased association with international human rights mechanisms in a difficult and repressive internal context strengthened Peru’s human rights movement. In the 1990s the Fujimori government deployed an aggressive antisubversive campaign that included illegal tactics such as selective forced disappearance, arbitrary imprisonment, and the annihilation of people and groups by state forces (CVR 2003a; IDL 2003). Two groups created in the 1980s gained prominence in these years by bringing together a significant number of young lawyers interested in defending human rights in the context of Peru’s violence and impunity from prosecution. These two groups were the APRODEH and the IDL, formed in 1983 and 1984, respectively. Both institutions centered their efforts on defending detained civilians and fi ling international complaints regarding crimes against humanity. Both gained visibility in the public debate and in international circles upon taking judicial action. Fujimori’s search for international legitimacy and support from international fi nancial institutions presented an opportunity for a further strengthening of the movement. Though it had gained legitimacy due to its extreme economic and security policies (Morón and Sanborn 2007), 35 Fujimori government faced consistent national and international opposition to its methods due to human rights concerns (Youngers and Peacock 2006).36 After the 1992 autogolpe, Fujimori closed the Congress and caused the collapse of the national justice system. Furthermore, alleged terrorists faced judgment in the so-called faceless military courts (Roberts and Penecy 1997). In general, the justice system was full of abuses, and law enforcement representatives who had committed human rights violations enjoyed a remarkable de-

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gree of impunity (Burt 2009b; Degregori et al. 2003). The OAS, the United States, and the international community began to take actions that forced Fujimori to call for new congressional elections and a Constituent Assembly. It was especially favorable for the human rights movements that Fujimori’s government needed international legitimacy for fi nancial reinsertion just at the time that Bill Clinton took office as the US president in 1993. Clinton’s government “appointed proPeruvian human rights sympathizers for key positions associated with Latin America” (Youngers and Peacock 2006, 172) and placed prohuman rights conditions on US support for Peru’s reinsertion in the international fi nancial community.37 This same set of international pressures also compelled Fujimori to call a referendum in October 1993 that resulted in the approval of a new constitution, pursuant to which an Ombudsman’s Office was created. Although the constitution had many questionable aspects, including its treatment of the reelection issue and the placement of communal property in jeopardy (see chapter 3), articles 161 and 162 of the 1993 constitution mandated the creation of the Ombudsman’s Office as “an autonomous constitutional body, with the function of promoting the protection of basic human rights and monitoring compliance with state administrative duties and the provision of public services to the general population.” The human rights movement in Peru, and eventually indigenous organizations as well, gained a valuable ally in the state with the creation of the Ombudsman’s Office, which not only increased the movement’s popular legitimacy but also provided the rare democratic credentials that the US government and the international community had sought (Pegram 2008; Roberts and Penecy 1997). As the free media, the legislative branch, and the judiciary became limited, the Ombudsman’s Office rapidly transformed into a key state agency, acting as a guarantor of democracy and human rights vis-à-vis the government (interview with Luque 2014; interview with Abad 2014). The ombudsman also took on an important role in reporting the corruption and fraud cases that resulted in the collapse of the Fujimori regime. After the defeat of the SL and the collapse of Fujimori’s government, a democratic transition ensued, which included the creation of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (CVR). The CVR served as a valuable site of professionalization for many organizations and activists of the human rights movement—it generated “shared values, a body of scientific knowledge, and procedures and systems to apply

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Indigenous Activism and Human Rights NGOs 193

that knowledge” (O’Flaherty and Ulrich 2009). This was an initiative that emerged from both Valentín Paniagua’s transitional government and the international human rights movement: the end of confl ict in Guatemala, apartheid in South Africa, and dictatorships in Chile, Argentina, and Uruguay set off an international proliferation of Truth and Reconciliation Commissions.38 The objective of these commissions was not only to produce a cathartic and restorative process, but also to prevent the emergence of new deadly conflicts (Gonzáles and Varney 2013; Hayner 2011; Goodman and Pegram 2012).39 The CVR in Peru brought together efforts of activists, intellectuals, and human rights NGOs, who received an official mandate and US$19 million in funding to work on the identification and registration of human rights abuses and to train people committed to the cause.40 The CVR not only increased visibility for human rights organizations through its actions, but also strengthened them through professionalization and promotion of links with international cooperation. When new conflicts between the state and indigenous organizations arose in 2008, human rights organizations had accumulated significant experience and professionalism in the legal defense of constitutional rights, and represented an unprecedented resource for indigenous people. Although the history of the human rights movement in Peru has not always been well connected to the indigenous movement, human rights lawyers had encountered indigenous people in their rural work during the internal confl ict. Lawyers found these communities to be those most deprived of their fundamental human rights during these years, and gained significant experience in working with their organizations.

Legal Activism under Persistent Regional Fragmentation Legal activism, however, does not compensate for the range of difficulties that the indigenous movement has inherited from its regional fragmentation, which was a direct consequence of the internal confl ict. Today, the Amazonian indigenous movement still rests on a dense network of regional organizations, which counterbalance the complexity and geographic breadth of the Amazon. Unlike in the Amazon, indigenous organizations in the highlands are characterized by a weaker network of regional organizations. Some regional branches of the CCP in places like Cusco and Puno are strong actors, but regional organi-

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zations generally maintain low profi les and are weakly coordinated. Some organizations of indigenous women have been created in an effort to diversify the agenda of the predominantly male indigenous organizations (Rousseau and Hudson 2016). Table 7.1 shows a list of the national and regional organizations that participated in the process after the Prior Consultation Law was approved to negotiate the protocol for application of this norm. The results of this process have been highly controversial, and this chapter sets aside outcomes including limitations on the technical, legal, and political specifications that can be made to the Prior Consultation Law and its approved regulations (see Benavides 2012; Benavides 2010; Sanborn, Hurtado, and Ramírez 2016; Schilling-Vacaflor and Flemmer 2013; Sosa Villagarcia et al. 2012). I simply highlight instead the more active participation of regional branches of the Amazonian Movement, which is reflected in the table. These regional organizations, moreover, made decisions independently from their national organizations while negotiating and agreeing upon regulations of the Prior Consultation Law. They allowed the process to continue moving forward and to be implemented in spite of the opposition of national leaders (Sosa 2017). Regional differences between Amazonian and Andean indigenous organizations still influence how legalized structures are applied and operate. During the fi rst years of the law’s implementation, it was applied primarily to hydrocarbon projects and other projects in the Amazon. Mining projects that mostly operate in the Andes continued to be approved in indigenous communities without implementing the Law on Previous Consultation for several more years.41 It was only five years after the Prior Consultation Law was approved and began to be applied, and after a persistent campaign by NGOs and the Ombudsman’s Office, that the government announced the norm also would be applied to mining in the highlands. Another example of the persistent weakness of Andean indigenous organizations relative to the Amazonian organizations was the publication of the Official Database of Indigenous Peoples compiled by the Vice-Ministry of Interculturality. This is one of the most important state instruments regarding which communities are officially entitled to exercise indigenous rights. According to an interview with Paulo Vilca, a former vice minister of interculturality, the database contained indigenous peoples from both regions, the Amazon and the Andes, when it was fi rst organized in January 2012, but it was not pub-

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Indigenous Activism and Human Rights NGOs 195

Table 7.1. Indigenous organizations participating in the deliberations over the elaboration of the Prior Consultation Law Organization Asociación de Nacionalidades Ashaninka del valle Pichis Asociación Regional de Pueblos Indígenas de Selva Central Indígenas de Selva Central Arpisc Central Ashaninka del Río Ene Central de Comunidades Nativas de la Selva Central Comisión Especial Permanente de los Pueblos lndígenas Awajún Wampís Comité de Gestión del Bajo Urubamba Consejo de Nacionalidades Indígenas del Perú Consejo Machiguenga del Río Urubamba Coordinadora Regional de los Pueblos Indígenas de San Lorenzo Federación de Comunidades Ashaninka del Bajo Perené Federación Indígena Regional y del Alto Mayo La Asociación Indígena de Estudiantes Universitarios de la Amazonia Peruana Organización de Pueblos Indígenas del Oriente Organización Regional de los Pueblos Indígenas de la Amazonia Peruana del Norte del Perú Unión de Comunidades Aymara

Acronym

Affiliation

ANAP

AIDESEP

ARPISC

AIDESEP

CARE

AIDESEP

Ceconsec

AIDESEP

CEPPAW

–

CGBU Conaip

– AIDESEP

Comaru Corpi-SL

AIDESEP AIDESEP

Fecomabap

AIDESEP

Feriaam Aaupi

AIDESEP –

Orpio

AIDESEP

Orpian-P

AIDESEP

Unca

–

Source: Compiled by Politai (Sosa Villagarcia et al. 2012).

lished, largely as a result of the mining industry sector’s opposition to the inclusion of Andean indigenous communities. This statement is in line with the declarations of another vice minister of interculturality, Iván Lanegra (Lanegra 2015), who stated that the mining industry’s opposition to publishing the Database of Indigenous Peoples derived from the fact that it showed the extent of overlap of indigenous community territories with major mining projects.42 Despite Lanegra’s res-

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ignation under pressure from the government, there were no regional organizations that supported or pushed the publication of this database, even though communities in conflict with mining projects in the Andes had frequently claimed their right to prior consultation. These communities, however, are local and not linked to a regional organization. The database was fi nally published at the end of 2013, and many Andean communities are now learning to draw on the new rights it entails (Málaga and Ulfe 2017). According to Vilca, there were few links of solidarity between Amazonian and Andean organizations during these debates. For Amazonian peoples, the Andean people’s fight to be recognized in the database constituted a problem because it delayed many prior consultation processes in the Amazon region. In fact, there is still no defi nitive list of communities recognized as native peoples, but rather only a “preliminary” list. It is significant that the consultation process to be implemented in the mining sector within the Andes appears to be the result of pressure from the Ombudsman’s Office and human rights organizations rather than Andean indigenous movement efforts. In summary, the major accomplishment of Amazonian organizations has been to establish consultation as a legal space of negotiation between the state and indigenous peoples. In this legal space, human rights organizations working on legal cases involving regional indigenous organizations are the main facilitators, and they are working with communities in both regions. However, it is hard to foresee how these legal resources will interact with the legacy of regional fragmentation. Legal resources open new opportunities for indigenous activism. This activism may strengthen indigenous organizations, but it remains to be seen whether this will be enough to transcend the legacy of fragmentation and build a fi rmer national movement.

Conclusions In this chapter, I have examined the unexpected and multidirectional legacies of the internal war on indigenous mobilization today by explaining the politics of extractive development in Peru that provide a new contemporary context for indigenous mobilization in the twentyfi rst century. I have aimed to analyze the legacies of political violence within this new context that produced the violent clash between indigenous protesters and the police in Bagua. Some institutional transformations, such as the Prior Consultation Law, illustrate a different

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form of activism where legal allies such as the Ombudsman’s Office, NGOs, and other human rights stakeholders play a crucial role, and this change is a legacy of the armed conflict. I have shown how indigenous communities in Peru have found the support to use the influence of the human rights and judicial systems for mobilization. I conclude that the Peruvian human rights actors working on indigenous issues and supporting mobilization and legal claims are a legacy of the internal war. Last but not least, I argue that the post-confl ict period extended the participation and enhanced the professionalization of many of these actors through the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and, more recently, the Ministry of Interculturality. However, these new legal resources and capacities coexist with the still deep division between Andean and Amazonian indigenous organizations, thus reducing the opportunities for encompassing indigenous activism at a national level.

Interviews Abad, Samuel. Former member of Ombudsman’s Office. Lima, April 2014. Abanto, Alicia. Former member of the Department for Indigenous Peoples, Ombudsman’s Office. Lima, October 2013. Burneo, Zulema. Former member of Vice Ministry of Intercultural Affairs; member of International Cooperation. Lima, September 2013. Coronado, Hernan. Former member of the CAAAP, the CNDH, Vice Ministry of Intercultural Affairs. Lima, September 2013 and July 2015. Jugo, Miguel. Member of the CNDH. Lima, July 2015. Lanegra, Ivan. Former vice minister of Intercultural Affairs, Ombudsman’s Office. Lima, September 2013. Luque, Rolando. Former CVR commissioner, Ombudsman’s Office. Lima, April 2014. Quinn, Albano. Former archbishop. Puno, October 28, 2008. Sanchez, Diego. Current Indigenous People Office commissioner, Ombudsman’s Office. Lima, July 2015. Soberón, Francisco. Member of the APRODEH. Lima, July 2015. Torres, Javier. Member of SER. Lima, July 2015. Vilca, Paulo. Former member of Vice Ministry of Intercultural Affairs. Lima, October 2013. Zambrano, Gustavo. Former director of INDEPA. Lima, September 2013.

Notes 1. “Indigenous origin” refers to those who have an aboriginal language as their mother tongue.

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2. Although indigenous communities in Ecuador and Bolivia also created “class-based” organizations influenced by leftist parties, communities in the countryside were free of radical class-based Marxist ideologies. Rather, parties from the Left such as the Kataristas ended up introducing elements of an ethnic, pro-indigenous discourse into their ideology. See Paredes 2011. 3. Other such parties included Ecuarunari (Confederación Kichwa del Ecuador), CONAMAQ (Consejo Nacional de Ayllus y Markas de Bolivia), and CSUTCB (Confederación Sindical Única de Trabajadores Campesinos de Bolivia.) 4. In her influential book, Deborah J. Yashar argues that unlike in Bolivia and Ecuador, rural zones in Peru (and Guatemala) became a complicated setting for political and social organization because of the outbreak of the internal war (Yashar 2005, 249). According to Yashar, the Shining Path destroyed potential frameworks for legal organization along ethnic lines (247–249). 5. Confederación Campesina del Perú (CCP) bases were more dynamic in the southern highlands (where the concentration of indigenous populations is higher) at the end of the 1980s during the worst period of violence in the highlands. By 1987, the total number of delegates attending the National Congress of 1987 was twice the number of the delegations in 1978, and seven times the number in 1974. 6. Land titling in Peru has been poorly enforced. The official public count is 1,647 and 1,823 Andean and Amazonian communities, respectively. Nevertheless, other organizations, NGOs, and academic institutions estimate a larger number. The IBC (Instituto del Bien Común) calculates that there are 666 native communities and 3,303 peasant communities waiting for land titling, but the Vice Ministry of Intercultural Affairs argues that there are only 500 communities that lack land titles. 7. The case of the Uwa Indigenous Community in Colombia is an example of indigenous struggle for land titling, sovereignty, and the importance of international legal mechanisms and transnational activism in establishing collective rights. See Rodríguez-Garavito and Sousa Santos 2007. 8. This was done through the Law Project 840, the so-called Ley de la Selva. 9. The fi rst article appeared in October 2007, the second in November 2007, and the third in March 2008. 10. See Perú: Informe alternativo 2013 sobre el cumplimiento del Convenio 169 de la OIT (Derecho, Ambiente y Recursos Naturales [DAR], 2013). 11. The eight organizations were the AIDESEP, —CCP, the Confederación Nacional Agraria (CNA), the Confederación de Comunidades del Perú Afectadas por la Minería (CONACAMI), the Organización Nacional de Mujeres Indígenas del Perú (ONAMIAP), the Federación de Mujeres Campesina, Rurales, Indígenas, Nativas, Asalariadas del Perú (FEMUCARINAP), the Central Única Nacional de Rondas Campesinas del Perú (CUNARC), and the Unión Nacional de Comunidades Aymaras (UNCA). 12. See https://www.servindi.org/actualidad/4799. 13. See https://www.servindi.org/actualidad/4086. 14. See https://www.servindi.org/actualidad/3258.

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15. See http://larepublica.pe/politica/844884-santiago-manuin-un-guerrero -por-la-paz. 16. See http://www.noticiasser.pe/26/04/2014/nacional/reconocido-dirigente -awajun-y-ambientalista-santiago-manuin-denuncia-persecucion. 17. Historically, the CAAAP worked closely with communities and indigenous organizations, supporting diverse projects with the main objective of promoting development in Amazonian indigenous zones. 18. Other organizations that began developing during the 1990s were more focused on conservation and environmental issues, such as SPDA, ProNaturaleza, DAR, Instituto del Bien Común (IBC), and national affi liates of WWF, TNC, and CI. 19. The peasant patrols and self-defense committees (CAD) were organizations that played a crucial role in the war against the Shining Path. Upon becoming trapped in the violence between the military and the terrorists, the population understood that it had to organize to survive. In the northern and southern highlands, there were already peasant patrols before the Shining Path arrived (Starn 1999). In the central southern highlands, where violence was more intense, CADs arose as a product of the alliance between the military and peasants (Starn 1999; Degregori et al. 1996). 20. The original source is drawn from the Joint Command of the Armed Forces 1993. See del Pino 1996. 21. It is important to mention that from the late 1990s on, the Ombudsman’s Office contained a unit specifically formed to address indigenous issues (Defensoría del Pueblo 2015). 22. International cooperation after Bagua increased for many of these organizations in support of the effective application of rights such as prior consultation and the right to communal territory. 23. These organizations included the Asociación Paz y Esperanza, APRODEH, CAAAP, Centro de Derechos y Desarrollo (CEDAL), CooperAcción, CEAS, DAR, Forum Solidaridad Perú (FSP), Fundación Ecuménica para el Desarrollo y la Paz (FEDEPAZ), IDL, IBC, SER, and Servicios en Comunicación Intercultural (SERVINDI). 24. File no. 00014–2008-PI/TC, Records of the Tribunal Constitucional. 25. See http://derechoshumanos.pe/2009/04/pronunciamiento-sobre-el-paro -indigena/. 26. It is worth noting that organizations concerned with rural issues, such as Centro Peruano de Estudios Sociales (CEPES), or environmental issues, such as DAR and SPDA, also produced observations, thanks specifically to their group of legal specialists. 27. Latin American indigenous mobilization in the twenty-fi rst century is characterized by a struggle against nation-states and transnational corporations through networks of transnational activism and the use of legal strategies (Rodríguez-Garavito and Sousa Santos 2007). 28. Liberation theology had a profound influence not only in the religious and ecclesiastical world, but also on the political world and civil society, especially in grassroots organizations (Levine 1990; Levine 2006). 29. The CEAS was created on March 11, 1965, under the framework of

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the Second Vatican Council and is a service organ of the Peruvian Episcopal Conference. See http://www.ceas.org.pe/nosotros.php?n=1. 30. Indeed, the CVR criticized the Catholic Church’s failure to take a stand against the abuses in Ayacucho. The archbishop of Ayacucho, Juan Luis Cipriani, today cardinal of Peru, publicly criticized human rights organizations. “La Coordinadora de Derechos Humanos es una cojudez” (“The Human Rights Coordinating Committee is bullshit”) he said once to the press (Revista Caretas, April 14, 1994). 31. In the southern highlands, for instance, the Vicaría de la Solidaridad was created by Monsignor Albano Quinn “to defend human rights, and the dignity of the person.” Interview with Monsignor Albano Quinn 2008. In Cajamarca’s northern highlands, Monsignor Dammert built a church with Poncho and Sombrero to serve people and satisfy their fundamental rights (Knecht 2005). 32. In 1983, a group of mothers from Ayacucho in search of official answers regarding the disappearance of their relatives founded ANFASEP. ANFASEP is the fi rst organization of its kind and an example of local dynamics in emergency zones that found a voice at a later time than the rest of human rights organizations. 33. Its president, Angélica Mendoza, known in Peru as “Mama Angélica,” tirelessly searched for disappeared relatives in Peru for almost three decades, despite receiving a death threat after the fi rst day that she denounced her son’s disappearance. The original citation is from Amnesty International 1989. 34. In 1990 the Pro-Human Rights Organization of Spain gave its first international recognition to the CNDH, giving it “Special Advisory Status” before the United Nations Social and Economic Council. The CNDH is also accredited to participate in OAS activities. 35. Among these policies, there was a structural adjustment package, the privatization of many state companies, continuing the payment of the external debt, which restored international credit, the especially controversial signing of anti-drug agreements with the United States; and fi nally, the intensifying of the Auto-Defense Committees (CAD) (Morón and Sanborn 2007, 27). 36. What began as an antisubversive strategy eventually became state terrorism. According to Burt, both the Shining Path and the state used fear and intimidation to “destroy the moral and material base of civil society organizations” (Burt 2009b, 28). 37. During their fi rst official visit to Peru, Clinton’s representatives met with the staff of the National Coordinator of Human Rights before seeing Peruvian government officials (Youngers 1994, 45). Fujimori’s economic policy applied structural adjustment policies and relied on the country’s reinstatement into the international fi nancial community. In this context, Clinton was in a favorable position to pressure Fujimori’s government to apply at least four human rights measures: a guarantee of access to detention centers for the International Red Cross Committee, the acceptance of United Nations Human Rights Commission assessment and a visit of the International Commission of Human Rights of the OAS, the initiation of official dialogue with the human rights coordinator, and public recognition of the importance of working

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with international and national human rights groups (Youngers and Peacock 2006, 172). Given that Fujimori’s government needed the credit, it had to accept these requested measures. 38. On the international level, between 1974 and 2009, forty Truth and Reconciliation Commissions were established in all types of regimes and socioeconomic contexts (Hayner 2011). 39. Despite the unique features of each Truth Commission, most of them share basic characteristics: they complement the criminal judicial system of each country, focus primarily on severe human rights violations, establish research time periods, produce a great amount of information, and have a victim-focused approach (Gonzáles and Varney 2013, 14). 40. The CVR was funded by a cooperative agreement with the United Nations Development Program (PER 01/023). Other funds came from the state, but also from international agencies such as USAID, German Cooperation GIZ, Belgian Development Cooperation, and the European Union. See http:// www.cverdad.org.pe/lacomision/ifi nanciera/fi nanciamiento.php. 41. The fi rst prior consultation for indigenous peoples related to mining projects will take place in the community of Parobamba (Calca, Cusco). This Quechua peasant community will be consulted about the exploration project of Minera Aurora Company. 42. “Los secretos mineros de trás de la lista de comunidades indígenas del Perú.” Ojo Público, July 22, 2015, accessed August 6, 2015, http://ojo-publico .com/77/los-secretos-detras-de-la-lista-de-comunidades-indigenas-del-peru.

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CHAP T ER 8

Political Violence and the Defeat of the Left Paula Muñoz

We do not agree with the use of terrorist methods, because now they will only contribute to inciting repression, isolating the Left from the people and giving arguments to the right and the government to reduce our margins of action. Rol a n do Br e ña , l e a de r of PCdel P –Pat r i a Roja (au t hor’s t r a nsl at ion)

This poor provincial cousin, previously scorned by its Communist relatives, arrived in Lima without asking anyone’s permission, burned down the house, and ended up with the family name. I vá n H i nojosa 1

For the new generations of Peruvians it comes as a surprise to learn that during the 1980s there was a political front called Izquierda Unida (IU) that governed Lima, was represented in the parliament, and was an active participant in public debates. This is shocking considering the widespread attention that the IU once received within Latin America. To be certain, after the transition to civilian rule, the Peruvian Left was exceptionally strong in the region, both electorally and socially, and it continued to be so for most of the 1980s (Roberts 1996, 69). The political “ignorance” of the new generations is partly explained by the tremendous discredit that the whole traditional party system (and politics itself) has suffered since its collapse in the 1990s in Peru. However, new generations are at least aware of the existence of other traditional parties, such as the Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana (APRA), the Partido Popular Cristiano (PPC), and even Acción Popular (AP). These parties were able to “resuscitate” during the early

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2000s (Kenney 2003), although they faced many problems (Levitsky 2013; Levitsky and Cameron 2003; Tanaka 2005). In contrast, Peru so far has not seen the revival of an electorally viable and enduring leftist political party. In this chapter, I attempt to account for the limited recent achievements of the Left by examining what happened during the 1980s when a competitive leftist group did exist. I will appraise the ways in which political violence in that era affected the Left in Peru. Were the Left’s fortunes shaped by the conflict? In particular, how did the Partido Comunista del Perú–Sendero Luminoso (SL)’s decision to initiate an armed struggle against the Peruvian state and the democratic political system impact the fate of the rest of the Left? Moreover, can we identify post-confl ict legacies that at least partly explain the difficulties faced today by those actors who want to organize and represent this side of the political spectrum? To answer these questions, I distinguish between the political violence’s immediate effects and the war’s long-term effects (or political legacies) on the leftist camp. While the wartime mechanisms that unfolded during the confl ict help to explain the weakening of the Left and its practical disappearance during the 1990s, the legacies (and their political manipulation) help us to better understand the difficulties faced by leftists in reorganizing today. I contend that the legal Left’s initial fear, well expressed by Rolando Breña, was fulfilled. With the end of political violence came not only the military defeat of SL but also the political downfall of the legal Left. Two wartime mechanisms directly weakened the Left. First, the SL’s armed uprising posed a serious ideological challenge for the IU front. Not being able to provide a clear and unified stance about the use of violence as a political means to an end, the IU ultimately split. Thus an important consequence of the SL’s rise in arms was the ideological division of the IU. Second, through other wartime mechanisms, violence also weakened and dispersed the Left. The IU ranks and militants became a target of direct physical violence and repression from both SL and the state. Moreover, the IU’s ranks defected to the two groups that had risen in arms. The escalation of violence and fear also made it more difficult for the IU to recruit new members. And after the IU’s split, the Fujimori government harassed and/or coopted former leftist cadres as well, making it more difficult for the Left to reorganize. A third factor not related to the conflict, the organizational legacies of the Left at the time of its inception, provides a complementary

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explanation of why the IU split. There was simply no party organization capable of making collective decisions and reacting strategically toward moderation. In addition, and particularly important, this nonwar mechanism allows us to understand the emergence of the fi rst legacy of the confl ict for the Left. The IU’s incapacity to provide a clear and unified position against the use of revolutionary violence helped the right-wing and state actors to normalize the association of the Left with terrorism in the political discourse. Finally, the association of the Left with terrorism and Fujimori’s active manipulation of this legacy buried the political chances the Left had for effectively becoming an institutionalized and electorally appealing political party after the confl ict was over. Moreover, the persistence of this legacy and its manipulation still poses a great challenge for leftist actors and may lessen their chances of improving electorally. I organize this chapter in the following way. First, I discuss the origins of the Left in Peru and the creation of the IU. Second, I show how the rise of the SL posed an ideological challenge for the Left that eventually led to the split of the IU. Third, I present and discuss the organizational approach to the division of the Left. Fourth, I distinguish other wartime mechanisms that weakened the Left. In these sections, I discuss the causal processes that destroyed the Left’s political chances for becoming an institutionalized political party. Subsequently, I contend that the main legacy for the Left is stigmatization: its association with terrorism. This legacy was successfully manipulated by Fujimori, who simultaneously attacked the parties on the left side of the political spectrum while gaining the popular sector’s trust and coopting several local cadres of an already shaky legal Left. I conclude by discussing how these processes shaped the political defeat of the Left and made the chances of reconstructing and consolidating an electorally appealing political party a daunting project.

The Origins of the Peruvian Left Ideologically, the development of the Left in Peru has been circumscribed to the Marxist-Leninist camp. Peru did not experience the emergence of a difference between socialism and Communism or between a social democratic Left and a Communist radical one, as happened in other Latin American countries (Adrianzén 2011, 45). Moreover, also in contrast with other countries in the region, the Peruvian

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Left that eventually joined the IU did not have a long partisan tradition (interview with Hinojosa 2015; see also Letts 1981). The Peruvian Left developed a mass political base principally in the 1970s (Roberts 1996, 71). In that decade the leftist cadres and ranks grew significantly, despite the fragmentation of its bases (Rochabrún Silva and Yañez 1988). The Peruvian Communist Party (PCP), originally founded as the Socialist Party by Peruvian Marxist José Carlos Mariátegui in 1929, remained small after its inception (Adrianzén 2011). This party had to compete for popular support with Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre’s party, APRA, which was founded in 1930. Both parties were proscribed from the political system, but while APRA managed to expand its ranks and become a mass party despite political repression (VegaCenteno 1991; Collier and Collier 1991), the PCP remained relatively small and marginal. APRA’s triumph reinforced the PCP’s political isolation and dependence on the Third Communist International, not allowing room for the development of Democratic Socialism (Adrianzén 2011, 46). Indeed, during the 1930s and early 1940s the PCP showed not only uncritical submission to the Soviet party line but also accommodating behavior that made it suspicious of a “rightward” transformation (Guadalupe 1988). Despite APRA’s preeminence, the Marxist Left continued its development in the following decades. Peruvian Communism grew to be principally inspired by the Chinese and Cuban revolutions. In particular, Mao’s revolution offered a very persuasive model for Peruvian leftists disillusioned with the PCP. They found many parallels between Mariátegui’s indigenism and the Maoist focus on the peasantry (Navarro 2010, 157; Rénique 2003, 41). This ideological proximity was further cultivated by the Chinese government through funding and training of Peruvian cadres. Increasing disagreement within the PCP ranks provoked a Sino-Soviet split in 1964 between the PCP-Unidad and the PCP-Bandera Roja. Through the years to come, Maoism would take hold intensively in Peru, acquiring unprecedented levels of influence by Latin American standards (Hinojosa 1998). For its part, the Cuban revolution inspired the rise of armed guerrilla movements in the early 1960s. A group of Communist APRA dissident youngsters (the Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria, MIR) advanced into the jungle to wage its warfare, while another group, the Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN), did the same in southern Peru. The guerrillas were quickly and brutally crushed by the military in

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1965. While their existence was brief and disastrous, the dead leaders became martyrs who inspired a new generation of leftists to follow the insurrectional path for political change. Thus, in the years following the guerrillas’ defeat, Peru saw the rapid expansion of the so called new Left. This was an insurrectional Left, critical of the PCP and the Soviet approach to Communism (Rénique 2003, 40–41). While the new Left included a myriad of ideological strands—Trotskyists, Christian Left, “campesinistas” (propeasants), and Maoists (Rénique 2003, 41)—Maoism gradually gained widespread acceptance during the 1970s (Rochabrún Silva and Yañez 1988; Hinojosa 1998). 2 Amid increasing political polarization, in 1968 the Peruvian military seized power and launched a progressive military regime that enacted bold reforms long demanded and fought for, including the agrarian reform. These reforms were carried out through an intense campaign that called for the elimination of exploitation but claimed to be neither capitalist nor Communist (Rochabrún Silva and Yañez 1988, 78). The military government was very permissive with the Left. This allowed for its considerable growth. With policies promoting industrialization and the expansion of public education, unionization expanded significantly, and the Left took advantage of it. At the same time, leftists were barely repressed by the military government, particularly when compared with the harsh-line authoritarian regimes most Latin American countries experienced (Nogueira-Budny 2013). Indeed, the military worked instead to weaken APRA’s grip on the labor and the student movement (Sanborn 1991; Hinojosa 1998), 3 thus benefiting the Left.4 Furthermore, the military promoted the mobilization and organization of the popular sector through the Sistema Nacional de Movilización Social (SINAMOS) (Dietz 1980). However, the regime did not build a party to politically channel these masses, leaving them available for mobilization from the Left (McClintock and Lowenthal 1983; Stokes 1995). More important, the Peruvian military experiment not only allowed the Left’s expansion but also unintentionally radicalized it (Rochabrún Silva and Yañez 1988; Stokes 1995; Sanborn 1991; Hinojosa 1998). As Rochabrún Silva and Yañez point out, With the exception of the Partido Comunista Peruano (Peruvian Communist Party, or PCP), the Marxist left criticized and combated this government and these reforms, mostly in ideological terms, trying to

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prevent the popular classes from being attracted by the rhetoric of the generals. The countless parties of the Left that appeared then sought to demonstrate that such policies were reactionary, or a hoax, or not sufficiently revolutionary. In any case, the greatest efforts on the part of the Left were exerted trying to differentiate themselves from the military government (Rochabrún Silva and Yañez 1988, 79).

During the second (conservative) phase of military rule, nascent leftist groups connected social discontent with rising economic problems, organizing a national strike in 1977 that toppled the military government. Legal restrictions on participation in the upcoming elections were not imposed on the Left during either the second phase of the military regime or the initial phase of the democratic regime (Sanborn 1991); even the most radical militants who explicitly eschewed democracy and publicly embraced revolution were not prohibited. Thus, the country was surprised when a number of the parties on the Left not only competed in elections for the fi rst time in Peru in 1978, but won (together) almost one-third of the seats in the Constituent Assembly.5 The Left had emerged as a powerful political actor, although a fragmented one.

No Ideological Change In assessing the legacies of political violence, it is essential to think of 1980 as a critical turning point for the Left. Two important changes occurred during this year. On the one hand, the SL declared its war against the political system and rose in arms on the same day the transitional election was being held. On the other hand, after a poor showing in the 1980 congressional elections, several left-wing political parties decided to join forces and create an electoral front (the IU) to improve their chances in the upcoming municipal elections.6 These divergent choices and the tensions each created would mark the Left for the rest of the decade. An early consequence of the SL’s rise and of the war itself was the ideological challenge that the confl ict implied for the rest of the Left. Surprised by the SL’s decision to take up arms, the IU was not able to provide a clear, unambiguous, and coherent position on the SL, the use of violence as a political means, or the SL’s participation in the democratic system.

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Despite ratifying their decision to participate in the legal political system in 1980, most of the political parties that had formed the IU did not reject revolution as their ultimate political goal (Pásara 1990; Tanaka 1998; Hinojosa 1998; CVR 2003a). On the contrary, as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (CVR) has documented, within the IU, participation in the so called bourgeois democracy was conceived as a transitory stage that would allow the Left to accumulate strength before conducting a future “revolutionary transformation” of society (CVR 2003a, 177–178). As Diez Canseco7 says, within the IU, the electoral, the democratic realm, was subordinated to the accumulation of revolutionary forces. This goal prioritized mass struggle and included the vision that all forms of struggle were pertinent to achieving revolution. At the same time, this shows the vision that we, as members of this political period, shared: it was a propitious time for revolution. Our foundational declaration says “We fight for the destruction of the Bourgeois state and the conquest of a Government that arises from the masses’ revolutionary action.” (Diez Canseco 2011, 107)

The SL’s armed insurgency questioned the legal Left’s discursive radicalism. During the initial phase of their armed struggle, however, the IU minimized the SL’s insurrectional potential, ignoring and despising their actions. The SL was very radical, but still a part of the leftist Peruvian tradition (Hinojosa 1998) and more generally of the Peruvian radical tradition of thought (Rénique 2003). Within the Left, the SL was always perceived as the “provincial and poor relative” within the “family” of Maoist organizations (Hinojosa 1998). While most Maoist parties were composed predominantly of young Andean migrants, the SL distinguished itself by virtue of its local, parochial, and dogmatic character (Hinojosa 1998, 76–77). Consequently, leftist militants despised this dogmatic, provincial group, underestimating its insurrectional capability. And as the SL’s initial actions were attacks in rural areas, information about them was scarce and imprecise (interview with Zapata 2015). As the SL’s actions increased and became more aggressive, most leaders on the Left questioned not the method but the form (terrorist acts) and timing of the Shining Path’s struggle (CVR 2003a, 180). Certainly, differences existed within the IU’s party members regarding what exactly revolution meant and how it should be achieved. For in-

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stance, Maoists understood revolution as warfare, but the “izquierda clasista” had a revolutionary discourse that understood revolution from a Bolshevik perspective—as demonstrations and street fighting— rather than equating it to war (interview with Zapata 2015). However, while these nuances existed internally and some groups openly criticized the SL from the beginning, the image they continued to provide externally was one of radicalism. It was (and still is) impossible for uninitiated people to understand and follow all the intricacies of these ideological discussions within the Left. For an outsider, all leftists were the same, especially since the IU indeed had a “double discourse” that accepted “all the forms of struggle,” including the electoral struggle as well as the armed one (interview with Mejía 2015. See also Diez Canseco 2011, 100; Guerra García 2011). As the IU militant Susana Villarán recognizes, “I believe that the motto ‘power is born from the rifle’ continued even after hearing about the frightening massacres Sendero committed against the poorest peasant people. That is in the testimonies the Truth and Reconciliation Commission gathered. I believe this is something that must be acknowledged[;] we must say that we were wrong” (interview with Villarán in Adrianzén 2011, 501). The IU’s position appeared at best as ambiguous and did not allow their members to provide a convincing position to the public. As the CVR stressed, By sharing a similar ideological matrix, these parties could not take a clear stance regarding the “revolutionary violence” issue, nor did they mark boundaries with PCP-SL and MRTA’s actions and thought. This ambiguity and lack of defi nition towards democracy were the seeds of future tensions within IU that ultimately led to its rupture when the parties that comprised it ventured to face them. (CVR 2003a, 181)

Undeniably, the IU’s ambiguity toward revolutionary violence was even more striking when judging the actions of the Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA). The MRTA was ideologically and socially closer to other non-Maoist groups within the IU than to the SL (CVR 2003a; interview with Zapata). Moreover, in contrast to the SL, the MRTA did not see its political-military project as alternative or exclusive to the participation of other political parties on the Left (CVR 2003a, 388). Indeed, the MRTA’s political diagnosis was similar to the one developed in other leftist parties within the IU. The MRTA believed the conflict’s militarization would lead to an armed

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confrontation that would end with a “fascist” military coup which would wipe out all the legal Left as well. As Hinojosa explains, there was a difference between believing that you were initiating an armed struggle, as the SL did, and thinking that the situation was inevitably leading to a general armed confrontation (interview with Hinojosa 2015), that is, to a revolutionary situation. Thus, while many militants and leaders within the IU easily settled their differences with the SL, even after the beginning of their armed struggle (interview with Hinojosa 2015; interview with Zapata 2015),8 it was more difficult for them to distance themselves from the MRTA’s actions and to eschew revolution as a legitimate political path. This had to do with leftist parties’ origins and their insurrectional horizon. The IU was ambivalent mostly about the use of violence for making the revolution: “it was a verbal resource, an aspect of emotional identity” (interview with Ronaldo Ames in Adrianzén 2011, 211). In this context, elections and democratic institutions were, indeed, an enormous additional challenge for the legal Left. Most of these parties “were to apply the Leninist sentence of using the elections and the parliaments as tribunes of agitation and propaganda, but ended up trapped by the system they intended to transform (or destroy)” (Hinojosa 1998, 86). Within the IU, “we lived in a schizophrenic manner: there was an ardent discussion about how power would be taken by violence, while we already governed many district and provincial municipalities, and in Lima and elsewhere in the country the leaders fought tooth and nail with each other to access positions in Parliament” (interview with Santiago Pedraglio, former member of the IU, in Adrianzén 2011, 470). Moreover, distracted by the violence and the question about their position on the increasing violence, the IU did not take full advantage of its experience of local government to produce a programmatic alternative (Gil 2013), as other former revolutionary parties in Latin America did (Holland 2016). With time, the electoral logic and democratic experience forced the Left to reconsider their discourse and actions. This led to the development of two incompatible positions within the IU (CVR 2003a, 185– 189). On the one hand, a group of radicals greatly distrusted democratic institutions, practiced a more confrontational political style, and maintained revolution as their maxim. This position was represented by most Maoist and “new Left” parties within the front.9 On the other hand, organizations and leaders such as Alfonso Barrantes gradually

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developed a reformist position that favored a democratic regime and political moderation. The tension between these two positions grew as the SL and the MRTA expanded their military presence in the territory and the repression and violence increased. The insurrectional radicalism grew as many militants, particularly the youngsters, demanded a more consequential position from their leaders. In fact, several parties split and formed new factions, some of which even joined the MRTA and SL ranks (Pásara 1990; CVR 2003a, 193–197). As the chances of defection to the subversive groups grew, some parties tried to prepare military forces to fight from a “tercera vía” when the time came (Rénique 1998; Rénique 2004). While Peruvian society moved away from radical positions and strongly rejected the SL, the IU was internally divided about how to act. This lack of programmatic unity eventually led to the IU’s division (Guerra García 2011; interview with Tapia in Adrianzén 2011, 497). In 1989, during the infamous National Congress held in Huampaní, the moderates abandoned the front. Finally, ideologically, the legal Left also confronted an additional challenge that they could not surmount: their programmatic proximity to Alan García’s reformist government (interview with Hinojosa 2015). As soon as this government began, tensions grew within the IU regarding how to position themselves in relation to it, with moderates who proposed to collaborate with the government opposing those who favored a clear stand against APRA (Roberts 1996, 85; Tanaka 1998, 132–133). Moreover, in 1990, after the policies implemented by APRA resulted in an unprecedented hyperinflationary crisis, the leftist parties that competed for office could not express an alternative and credible solution to the crisis. To this we must add the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, which was devastating programmatically for the Marxist Left. As will be discussed, what remains of the Peruvian Left has been unable to provide a credible alternative to the neoliberal paradigm implemented and solidified since the early 1990s. In a nutshell, violence left the Left without its most powerful fantasy: revolution. This was one of the most important direct effects of political violence on the Left. As Caro contends, the Left ultimately died because the vision that inspired them was exhausted. Because the Left was not able develop an alternative discourse (interview with Caro 2015), the legal Left ended up without anything new to say.

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A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy? The prediction made by Rolando Breña in the chapter’s opening epigraph came true. As time passed, political violence led to increased repression, diminished the Left’s options, and distanced it from the electorate. After the IU’s split, the Left presented two candidates in the 1990 election—Henry Pease for the IU and Alfonso Barrantes for Acuerdo Socialista—who between them received only 13 percent of the vote. Henry Pease, the IU’s candidate, ended up 8.2 percent behind APRA’s candidate, who fi nished third in the race despite its disastrous record of governance. The prognosis was fulfi lled, to a great extent, because the legal Left could not solve its internal contradictions in time to provide a united and unambiguous position about political violence (CVR 2003a). But is there something else that could explain the IU’s inability to change in this context of extreme violence? Some authors have pointed out to how the organizational legacies inherited from the Left’s period of inception made it more challenging for the IU to adapt to the democratic context and moderate its positions, even when it was politically imperative to do so (Nogueira-Budny 2013; Gil 2013). As several authors have stressed, the actions of the reformist military government unintentionally marked the characteristics of the nascent Left as radicalized and highly fragmented (Rochabrún Silva and Yañez 1988; Stokes 1995; Sanborn 1991; Hinojosa 1998). To begin with, the IU could never have a unified position during the 1980s because it was not one Left (interview with Hinojosa 2015). As explained previously, during the reformist military government, a myriad of leftist parties flourished, with distinct organizations and partisan identifications. In contrast to other Latin American cases in which leftist parties were forced to adapt to adverse conditions during their formative years (Nogueira-Budny 2013; Van Dyck 2016), in Peru the Left developed during the 1970s within a more permissive context and, thus, had little incentive or need to change. These organizational legacies made adaptation difficult, even when it became evident in the 1980s that change was needed (Nogueira-Budny 2013; Gil 2013). Consequently, until its division in 1989, “the IU remained a loose electoral coalition of small parties that continued to compete among themselves” (Roberts 1996, 83). The IU was not created with the aim of becoming a political party with long-term interests of institutionalization in democratic arena.

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It was formed as the coalition of five political parties and two fronts that, as has already been stressed, were created not to compete electorally but to pursue revolution. Thus, the IU was born specifically as an electoral alliance, with the electoral space understood instrumentally (Diez Canseco 2011, 102, 107). These parties allied to compete in the municipal elections of 1980, after a very poor showing in that year’s general elections when the Left entered the race divided into five candidacies (CVR 2003a). Another common goal they shared was to counterbalance the alliance on the Right that was in power, the coalition between Acción Popular and the Partido Popular Cristiano (Diez Canseco 2011, 109). The IU was not only an electoral front but also a heterogeneous one that carried the organizational legacies of the Left’s origins. Given that the parties were highly ideological, disputes abounded and provoked factionalism. At the same time, partisan identities were very strong, with markers easily recognized and including such things as the way militants dressed, how they talked, and even their skin color (interview with Mejía 2015). Moreover, each party maintained its popular base and fought to make its worldview and interests prevail; since they usually antagonized each other, it was difficult to reach a consensus when decisions were made (interview with Zapata 2015). In the PCdelP-Pr leader Rolando Breña’s words, There were 7 or 8 groups that sought to conquer political spaces for future actions, but they were rivals not allies. We united because we had to unite, to avoid being weak independently. But the zeal, the distrust, the sectarianism, and the caudillismo of the big and the small persisted.10

Second, and more important, the IU remained an electoral front, and it did not build a common partisan structure in the years to come. The IU persisted as an inchoate party without a professional structure and could never develop an effective, centralized leadership (NogueiraBudny 2013, 141). They did not invest in party-building. A Comité Directivo Nacional (CDN), composed by a representative of each party and two representatives of each of the two fronts (the Unidad Democrático Popular, or UDP, and the Unión de Izquierda Revolucionaria, or UNIR) that composed the alliance, oversaw the IU. The CDN was a collegial body that elected a coordinator every two months. This meant that, in practice, every two months the IU had a

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different leader, and sometimes the leaders even held different political positions (Tanaka 1998, 134). The only “independent,” nonpartisan member who could participate in the CDN was Alfonso Barrantes, due to his position as coordinator of the IU (Diez Canseco 2011, 102). Moreover, the CDN governed the IU by consensus, not by majority, “And, since getting eight dogmatic, sectarian, leftist caudillos to agree on anything is considerably difficult, little could be agreed upon. [. . .] Consensus-based decision-making stifled much needed reforms and critical measures got derailed by ideological disagreements, tactical differences, and even personal vendettas” (Nogueira-Budny 2013, 141). The IU avoided incorporating a vast social sector of nonpartisan sympathizers into its ranks because the parties managed to impose and maintain the partisan quota mechanism in the CDN (Diez Canseco 2011, 114). Indeed, the IU never created local committees of its own as did leftist fronts in other countries, such as Unidad Popular in Chile (interview with Zapata 2015).11 Antonio Zapata contends that the parties did not want the IU committees. Each party had its own slogans, chants, and candidates, and they contested with each other—particularly the dominant ones in the majority of districts such as the Partido Unificado Mariateguista (PUM), Patria Roja (PR), and PC-Unidad (interview with Zapata 2015). The meetings of the parties (or “cells”) were very different from those of the IU: while the former were embedded in defi ning identity and developed in the midst of important ideological discourses and discussions, the latter consisted mostly of interparty fights for positions or to impose their ideas (interview with Mejía 2015). As Barrantes once demanded, “[W]e have to overcome this form of political feudalism where everyone wants to have their own feudal castle, their coat of arms, and insignia. It does not contribute to unity and the people do not want it; the people want a big thing” (interview with Barrantes in Adrianzén 2011, 226). In general, nondemocratically elected party leaders were averse to building up democratic institutions for decision making because such a process would necessarily come at the expense of their own parties and privileges (Nogueira-Budny 2013, 138). Thus, when a modernizing sector within the IU pushed to provide a uniform system of identification (“carnetización”) and implement universal elections to elect leaders (“one militant, one vote”), the IU was dissolved (interview with Zapata 2015). These tensions within the IU grew as elections revealed the front’s contradictions. For one, the Left had more than enough candidates for

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the position but lacked undisputed leaders (Hinojosa 1998). When the IU was formed, the parties within it accepted Barrantes as its coordinator because he was an independent and an attractive electoral leader. But they struggled all along to accept his leadership and questioned him almost from the beginning. According to Zapata, Barrantes was a very charismatic and electorally attractive figure, but he maintained a tense and complicated relationship with the parties’ leadership (interview with Zapata 2015). In Zapata’s view, Barrantes’s leadership within the front hindered the IU’s consolidation as a party. However, other leaders thought he was crucial in maintaining the front’s unity for as long as it lasted (interview with Rolando Ames in Adrianzén 2011; interview with Henry Pease in Adrianzén 2011). Either way, the questions around Barrantes’s leadership indicate a deeper problem with the IU: its inability to reconcile the electoral and the partisan arenas, or of articulating them and investing capital accumulated in one into the other (Tanaka 1998, 139). Finally, it is important to mention that the IU’s low degree of institutionalization and professionalization did not allow the Left to exploit (local) management to develop a brand and gain legitimacy within a population that still questioned their ability to take on the government (Gil 2013). As the former PUM militant Carlos Paredes comments while accounting for the Left’s relatively poor electoral performance in Cusco in 1980, “they saw us on the left as good defenders for direct struggle but not as rulers” (interview with Paredes 2009). As years passed, an ineffective, fragmented, and undisciplined organizational structure that made decisions by consensus became entrenched. The IU’s “adaptation was thwarted because undemocratically elected veto-players could derail the institutional and ideological change required by external changes” (Nogueira-Budny 2013, 142). The moderate wing, led by Barrantes, was unable to effect top-down change and fi nally left the front. But soon it became clear that their political calculus had proved wrong. The divided Left participated in the 1990 presidential elections. As mentioned previously, both leftist candidates were very far from obtaining the votes needed to attain even the third place.12 Thus, an important percentage of voters who supported the IU in 1985 were no longer supporting the Left in 1990.13 But what is particularly surprising from this election is that the radicals, who retain the IU label, obtained 229,851 more votes than the moderates (IS). In other words, more votes were taken by Alberto Fujimori from the moderate Left than from the more radical electorate. This means that Barrantes’s

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electorate was substantially different: those who voted for him were more pragmatic and moderate, and did not feel adequately represented by existing social-movement-based parties (Tanaka 1998).14 In sum, the key weakness of the IU was based on its internal characteristics: never able to come together as a party, “they could not merge” (interview with Zapata 2015). The organizational legacies that the IU inherited from the Left’s period of inception made it more difficult to respond to the external circumstances and challenges, including the violence process. The IU was not able to adequately respond to this looming threat during the 1980s (at least not in a timely way). The SL’s strategic moves militarized the country and questioned the legal Left. Pushed by the SL’s irrational insurgency, the IU was not able to moderate itself, discipline its heterogeneous cadres, and unambiguously break with its radical rhetoric to support democracy. Because of this, the legal Left ended the decade divided and electorally defeated.

The Crossfire: Weakening and Dispersing the Left A second, obvious way in which political violence impacted the legal Left was by physically targeting it. The Left was attacked by both the SL and state forces. Moreover, the escalation in violence that came with militarization disrupted social and political organization in the popular sector, the most affected by the confl ict (CVR 2003a). The conjunction of violence and economic crisis further disorganized and demobilized the Left’s social bases. In the midst of these crises, the remains of the Left fi nally disintegrated (or were co-opted) during Fujimori’s tenure. From early in the conflict, a considerable number of IU militants and local cadres were harassed, attacked, and/or killed by both the SL and security forces. On the one hand, the security forces were surprised by the emergence of the SL, which did not resemble at all the foquista-style guerrillas they were expecting (CVR 2003a). Security forces knew almost nothing about the SL and its peculiarities within the leftist camp. Moreover, the National Security Doctrine in which they were trained included leftist militants as part of the enemy profi le they had to target (CVR 2003a, 130). Therefore, it is not surprising to suspect that the armed forces targeted many legal Left militants and sympathizers, and that these were subject to indiscriminate repression, at least during the fi rst years of the confl ict. There is no precise way of knowing how many of the victims of state repression were leftists.

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In addition, leftist militants were accused by the Acción Popular’s government of being senderistas and consequently imprisoned and tortured. The antiterrorist law (DL 046), enacted in March 1981, lay the foundation for easily characterizing public protests as terrorist acts. Consequently, the government imprisoned many leftist militants who were not associated with the SL and union leaders accused of terrorist charges (CVR 2003a). Thus, of the 123 prisoners held at Lurigancho prison on charges of terrorism, almost 36 percent were leaders of social organizations (Comité de Presos Políticos de Izquierda Unida e Independientes 1985). The IU was hit directly and indirectly by subversive groups as well. Throughout the decade, the SL managed to attract to its ranks other radical leftist militants who were dissatisfied with democracy and the IU’s inconsistency, or who imagined the SL victorious (Pásara 1990; Hinojosa 1998, 91–92), particularly Maoists (interview with Zapata). The following testimony of a former Puka Llacta militant illustrates this point: When SL began the armed struggle, in ’80, ’81, ’82, a division occurred in the university and the magisterio. In Patria Roja, Puka Llacta was the fi rst faction that split. Then a new faction, Renovación, split and then other one, Viraje, and then another, the Bolchevique faction. . . . At least half of all these factions became members of Sendero. And a part of the other half joined the MRTA. And they began their actions in Cusco, which were basically propaganda, fundamentally making paints and distributing flyers. (interview with Mamani 2010)

In effect, the IU also suffered defections from militants who joined the MRTA, which was socially and ideologically closer to other groups on the Left such as the UDP, the PUM, and the Christians (interview with Zapata 2015). While the MRTA competed mostly indirectly with the IU, the SL confronted it explicitly. The SL never approached or tried to ally with other Left groups, but instead harassed and killed them. From the beginning of the confl ict, the SL used violent and coercive methods to gain control of social organizations. These actions included the “selective annihilation” of their leftist competitors, paralyzing the IU’s political organizations (CVR 2003a). The violence against leftist militants and leaders increased over time. Trapped in the crossfi re, particularly in rural areas, the IU gradu-

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ally reduced itself to an urban force (interview with Zapata 2015). Between 1989 and 1992 the crisis accelerated (CVR 2003a). The double crisis (political and economic) “eroded the structural basis for classbased collective action by creating a more heterogeneous and informal work force; it diminished the centrality and strength of organized labor, while fragmenting civil society” (Roberts 1996, 70). Terrorized people no longer trusted anyone who was not well known to them (such as family members) and stopped participating in unions and social organizations. Thus, for instance, after the union leader Pedro Huilca’s death, no one attended the CGTP anymore (interview with Mejía 2015). In Lima, a crucial event that fragmented the IU was the savage assassination of the social leader María Elena Moyano in February 1992: with that action, the SL succeeded in scattering the Left; “after that the [IU’s] diaspora began” (interview with Zapata 2015). After the assault on Moyano and the coup, the relationship between the Left and the “popular movement” was irreconcilable. In this context of profound socioeconomic and political crisis, Fujimori built relationships with frightened popular sectors. He won the political battle for the Left’s “popular base” (interview with Hinojosa 2015). While skillfully attacking the partidocracia, Fujimori recruited several local cadres of an already shaky legal Left to work for his reelection. In some cases, the government blackmailed radical leftist cadres: it made them choose between being charged with terrorism or working for the political state that Fujimori was building. In other cases, the government blatantly co-opted political operators to build popular support for its reelection efforts (Muñoz forthcoming).15 The change was symbolically sealed when Martha Moyano, María Elena’s sister, and the Women’s Federation, previously an IU organization, joined Fujimori.16 It is clear that Fujimori occupied the electoral and social space vacated by the Left.

Legacies and Their Manipulation: The Stigmatization of the Left Fujimori finished killing the corpse. Au t hor’s i n t e rv i e w w i t h R ic a r do C a ro, 2015

For the Left, the main legacy of the political violence was that it became associated in the political discourse with terrorism. This associ-

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ation began well before Fujimori entered the political stage. To begin with, the SL, which was part of the radical Left, unleashed a national trauma through its excessive violence, sweeping away popular support for everything connected to leftist ideologies.17 As the Left came to be associated with irrational terrorists, by 1988, 60 percent of respondents to public opinion polls in Lima believed the SL had infi ltrated the unions, particularly the Mining Federation and the CGTP. In time, even the popular sectors stopped seeing the Left as its defender, turning instead to Fujimori.18 The SL dragged the Left down with it and provided others with elements to corner the legal Left.19 Indeed, from the beginning of the conflict, each succeeding government discursively equated the Left with terrorism (interview with Hinojosa 2015). Even other congressmen called the IU representatives “senderistas” (interview with Rolando Breña). 20 The Right found it politically advantageous to criminalize the Left and thus weaken or eliminate it as a political competitor. Of course, the association between the Left and terrorism was even stronger among police and military personnel, who saw the legal Left as allies of the SL (CVR 2003a, 268). But even some of the leading newspapers, such as El Comercio, Expreso, La Prensa, and Oiga, held the Left responsible for terrorist attacks and other escalations in violence (CVR 2003a, 492). Certainly, the IU’s ambivalent position on the use of violence as a legitimate political tactic made it easy to blame the Left as a whole for the SL’s insanity. By December 1989, 46 percent of respondents to public opinion polls considered it probable that sectors within the IU would engage in subversion. In many ways, the IU remained trapped in highly ideological and unintelligible political discussions that were disconnected from the general public. By June 1988, polls in Lima indicated that 79 percent of the city’s residents believed such subversion was unjustifiable. Moreover, at least in Lima, public opinion did not differentiate much between the SL and the MRTA, as leftists did, and thus the two groups were regarded with nearly equal disfavor. A strong association with terrorism was the Left’s main war-related legacy. That this association remains pervasive, however, is also partly the result of the political manipulation of the legacy carried on by Fujimori during the 1990s. The Left suffered from Fujimori’s attacks, as did parties from the rest of the political spectrum (Tanaka 1998; Degregori 2000a). However, the Left had to confront an additional challenge: the stigma of

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the military defeat of the SL and MRTA, which occurred within an international context in which Communism elsewhere was crumbling. Particularly after the coup, antisubversive policies became harsher and delivered “results,” although at very high humanitarian costs such as selective disappearances and killings, torture, failure to uphold due legal process, and widespread imprisonment of innocent people (CVR 2003a). Violence had created a “culture of fear” in which “citizens willingly surrendered rights in exchange for the promise of order and stability” (Burt 2006, 35). The Fujimori regime manipulated this fear to bolster support for its increasingly authoritarian rule (Burt 2006; CVR 2003a, 120–134). Thus, for example, in his rhetoric, Fujimori put trade unionists in the same category as the SL and the MRTA (Burt 2006, 48). In this way, the government made sure that “opponents dared not voice their criticism publicly for fear of being labeled a ‘terrorist’ and receiving the same treatment they receive—death, imprisonment, torture, silencing” (Burt 2006, 51). Fujimori effectively capitalized on the antisubversive policies, particularly after the capture of the top SL and MRTA leaders beginning in 1992. After many years of despair, by June 1994, public opinion polls in Lima showed that 68 percent of respondents believed terrorism would decrease, and 45 percent thought that the SL would be defeated (APOYO, Poll June 1994). Between January 1993 and November 1995, polls of Limeños consistently showed around 70 to 80 percent approval for the government’s antisubversive policies (APOYO, Poll November 1995). In 1995 Fujimori was reelected with 64 percent of the vote. Meanwhile, the IU lost its registration when it failed to capture 5 percent of the vote (Tanaka 1998, 53). For the rest of the decade, the Left and other opposition groups continued to be associated in the public political discourse with “terrorism,” even after terrorist actions diminished (CVR 2003a). The regime was successful in its efforts to reinforce the association between social protest—a traditional tactic of the Left in Peru—with legacies of “terrorism” and disorder (CVR 2003a, 122). It did so through continued deployment of psychosocial operatives directed by Vladimiro Montesinos from the National Intelligence Service and by using an increasing number of bought media organizations to spread its messages. Accusing members of government of being “terrorist” or “red” was one of the tactics most frequently used (CVR 2003a,122; Fowks 2000). Thus during the 2000 presidential race the attacks through the media against opposition candidates or activists linked with the Left

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included association with terrorism or accusations of being tolerant toward terrorist extremism as a constant theme (Fowks 2000, 192). Despite these attacks, some former IU leaders, such as Diez Canseco and Pease, played an important role as opposition congressmen, gaining recognition within certain niches. However, as we will see, this was not enough for them to succeed as political candidates in the new democratic context. While the Left started the new decade electorally defeated, it ended it politically stigmatized. The force and endurance of the Left’s stigmatization due to its association with terrorism can be observed in multiple occasions in the subsequent post-transition period. But the political manipulation of this legacy was certainly more blatant during the 2016 elections, in which a younger leftist leader with more popular appeal, Verónika Mendoza, came close to qualifying for a run-off. As soon as it became clear that Mendoza might capture second place in the presidential election, references linking her with the SL, the MRTA, and “terrorism” multiplied. Among other things, Mendoza was accused of being linked to a social leader charged with terrorism, 21 with joining a meeting for the fiftieth anniversary of VR (Vanguardia Revolucionaria) that discussed former VR cadres joining the SL, 22 including former terrorists and violent radicals in her congressional list, 23 and even of being herself a terrorist. On this last point, some months before the campaign started, Carlos Tubino, a fujimorista congressman, also declared that if Mendoza had been a politician in the 1980s, she would have been a terrorist. 24 After the campaign was over and some weeks before the new leftist parliamentary group led by Mendoza joined Congress, another fujimorista congressman, Héctor Becerrill, showed a falsified photo on Twitter as part of an accusation that Mendoza sympathized with Sendero Luminoso.25 A child when the confl ict took place, Mendoza was nonetheless unfairly linked to totalitarian extremism. Although it is not possible to assess what influence this negative campaign had over voting, we can certainly see the reproduction and political manipulation of the internal confl ict and its legacy.

The Current Limited Political Relevance of the Left: Final Thoughts The SL’s strategic moves militarized the country and cast doubt on the legal Left and its ideological positioning. Pushed by the SL’s extrem-

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ist and uncompromising insurgency, the Left divided in two irreconcilable ideological positions. The IU was not able to moderate itself, or to unambiguously break with its radical rhetoric to support democracy. It was not able to adequately respond to the crises of the 1980s (at least not in a timely way) partly due to its organizational characteristics. The lack of a truly partisan structure with a centralized command posed insurmountable practical challenges when the Left had to take a position on the armed struggle, because it was too difficult for the different leftist parties to agree on anything. Because of this joint process, the legal Left ended the decade divided and electorally defeated. What would have happened to the IU if there had been no political violence? Was it condemned to split anyway due to its organizationalhistorical legacies? It is certainly difficult to answer this counterfactual question. Even without armed violence, the IU may have contained the seeds of its own destruction due to the organizational shortcomings within the Left. That said, Peru was unique in the region due to the extreme radicalism of the SL and the bloody character of the struggle it launched against the state. Even if the IU had split in the 1990s for other reasons than the armed conflict and its legacy, it seems more likely that a new leftist party could have formed and that its chances of success might have been greater. What in other countries was an abstract, theoretical discussion—armed struggle and the revolutionary road to power— became all too concrete in Peru; in failing to respond effectively to the crisis, the Left became divided and stigmatized. As seen in the 2016 elections, this legacy remains a powerful lever that is still manipulated actively by the Left’s rivals. Ultimately, the political defeat of most former leftist forces was sealed in Peru when the radical version of neoliberal reforms implemented by the government brought hyperinflation under control and resumed economic growth, legitimizing the emerging right-wing and mano dura order that now prevails. The impressive economic record achieved by neoliberal governments in the context of the mineral boom hindered the reemergence of the Left in the early 2000s. If the main legacy of political violence for the Left has been stigmatization, for the political Right it has been unorganized success. 26 Although more than a decade has passed since Fujimori’s regime collapsed, it is clear that the main effects of political violence on the Left have been, fi rst, its political defeat and, later, a legacy of obstacles to overcome in advancing any new leftist alternative. Post-confl ict

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legacies also explain the long odds of constructing a party that is both democratic and electorally viable. Although there are voters who are dissatisfied with the current state of affairs and willing to support progressive and redistributive policies, it is difficult for leftist coalitions to become a credible option for these citizens. And even when some groups effectively confront this adverse situation, as happened with the ticket led by Mendoza in 2016, they still face the stigma of past violence and show a surprising inability to behave more strategically to increase their chances for electoral success and political survival.

Interviews Caro, Ricardo. Sociologist, historian, and expert on the history of the Peruvian Left. Lima, February 23, 2015. Hinojosa, Iván. Historian and expert on the history of the Peruvian Left. Lima, March 26, 2015. Mamani, Adolfo. Former Puka Llacta militant. Cusco, December 16, 2010. Mejía, Carlos. PCP-Unidad militant. Lima, March 17, 2015. Paredes, Carlos. Former member of PUM. Lima, November 7, 2009. Zapata, Antonio. Historian and former member of PUM. Lima, March 3, 2015.

Notes I want to thank Madai Urteaga for her diligent work as research assistant to this project. I also thank Melina Galdós, who initially collaborated with me on it, and Viviana Baraybar, who helped me fi nish revising it. 1. Breña is quoted in Equis (October 1980): 214; the quotation also appears in CVR 2003a, 179. For Hinojosa’s remark, see Hinojosa 1998, 78. 2. For many, after the guerrilla failure, Maoism seemed to be the only viable approach to revolution. According to Navarro, “BR’s [Bandera Rojas’s] central criticism of the MIR’s attempt at revolution was its lack of support from the campesinos who inhabited the regions in which most of the fighting took place. To the Maoists, this was a clear sign that the MIR lacked sufficient understanding of Mariátegui’s teachings about the role of indigenous people in improving Peruvian society, not to mention its total disregard for Mao’s view of the role of the peasantry in the revolution” (Navarro 2010, 161). 3. APRA was the traditional rival of the Peruvian military. 4. The government even recognized the Central General de Trabajadores del Perú (CGTP)—controlled by the Communist Party (PCP-Unidad) as the official representative of labor (Hinojosa 1998, 83). 5. Some important political groups, such as VR–Político Militar, VR–

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Proletario Comunista, PCP–Patria Roja, as well as the Shining Path, refused to participate on that occasion (CVR 2003a, 173). 6. The IU was initially formed by the following political parties: Unidad Democrático Popular (UDP), Unión de Izquierda Revolucionaria (UNIR), Partido Comunista Peruano (PCP), Partido Socialista Revolucionario (PSR), Partido Comunista Revolucionario (PCR), Frente Obrero Campesino Estudiantil y Popular (FOCEP), and Partido Comunista del Perú–Patria Roja (PCdelP-PR). 7. Javier Diez Canseco (1948–2013) was an important leader of the Partido Unificado Mariateguista (PUM) during the 1980s. 8. Zapata stresses how the IU published a release condemning the SL’s terrorist actions as early as 1982. The existence of this release in July 1982 was effectively recorded by the CVR’s Political Chronology 1978–2000, which was based on newspaper and archival research. 9. For an overview of the development of the radical Left in Peru, see Hinojosa 1998; Rénique 2003; Navarro 2010. 10. Breña was the leader of the Patria Roja. “Rolando Breña Pantoja: ‘El Partido Comunista también es conservador,’” interview in La República, August 12, 2012, http://larepublica.pe/19–08–2012/rolando-brena-pantoja-el -partido-comunista-tambien-es-conservador. 11. According to Zapata, the IU did not have local committees even in renowned IU strongholds such as Villa El Salvador, where he worked as municipal director. 12. Together they obtained just 13 percent of the valid votes. See Fernando Tuesta’s blog at http://blog.pucp.edu.pe/fernandotuesta/fi les/1990%20Elec ciones%20Generales%201ra%20NAC%20PRES.pdf. 13. In 1985 Barrantes obtained 1,605,139 votes, which represented 24.7 percent of all valid votes. In 1990 Pease obtained 8.2 percent of the valid votes and Barrantes 4.8 percent. See electoral results at Tuesta’s blog: http:// blog.pucp.edu.pe/fernandotuesta/node/919. 14. I thank Alberto Vergara for suggesting this interpretation. 15. Many of these former leftist militants were left on their own to survive the economic crisis and the aftermath of the party system collapse. In talking with them, one could perceive the deep estrangement they felt from their parties. Many militants felt betrayed and mistreated by their limeño and middleclass leftist caudillos. One common accusation was that while these leaders took refuge in their NGOs during the crisis, the provincial “little brothers” were left to fend for themselves (interviews with former leftist militants in Piura and Cusco, held between 2010 and 2011). 16. Ibid. 17. Interview with Zapata. See also DESCO’s chronology of political violence (DESCO 1989). 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid. 20. See “Rolando Breña Pantoja: ‘El Partido Comunista también es conservador,’ ” La República, August 12, 2012, http://larepublica.pe/19–08–2012 /rolando-brena-pantoja-el-partido-comunista-tambien-es-conservador.

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21. See “Verónika Mendoza rechaza estar vinculada con procesado por terrorismo,” La República, April 2, 2016, at http://larepublica.pe/politica /758033-veronika-mendoza-rechaza-estar-vinculada-con-procesado-por -terrorismo. 22. See “Verónika Mendoza: ‘Me llaman terrorista por rechazar a Sendero Luminoso,’ ” RPP, March 30, 2016, http://rpp.pe/politica/elecciones /veronika-mendoza-me-llaman-terrorista-por-rechazar-a-sendero-luminoso -noticia-949791. 23. See “¿Hay terroristas en la lista congresal de Verónika Mendoza? Respuesta al artículo difamatorio de  Carlos García Tapia,” La Mula, April 9, 2016, https://estadocritico.lamula.pe/2016/04/09/hay-terroristas-en-la-lista -congresal-de-veronika-mendoza/ricardomilla/. 24. See “Carlos Tubino: si Verónika Mendoza fuese una política en los 80s habría sido terrorista,” La República, September 1, 2015, http://larepublica .pe/politica/700327-carlos-tubino-si-veronika-mendoza-fuese-una-politica -en-los-80s-habria-sido-terrorista. 25. See “Héctor Becerril ‘patina’ con foto trucada de Verónika Mendoza,” El Comercio, July 19, 2016, http://elcomercio.pe/politica/congreso/hector -becerril-patina-foto-trucada-veronika-mendoza-238143. 26. See chapter 9 in this volume.

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CHAP T ER 9

From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago: Political Violence and the Transformation of the Right-Wing Spectrum in Contemporary Peru Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

We have two objectives in this chapter. The fi rst is to describe the mutations of the Peruvian Right during the last three decades; that is, the transformation of a Right organized around traditional political parties but without ideological cohesiveness into a new Right that we call the “conservative archipelago.” This new Peruvian Right did not develop organic organizations, but it is strongly cohesive in ideological terms. Its main agenda is to defend the neoliberal economic model that emerged with the 1993 constitution. Despite party and electoral weakness, the Peruvian Right has effectively defended its interests during periods in which national circumstances could have propelled changes in the country’s handling of the economy. This could have occurred, for example, during the geopolitical period when several Latin American countries shifted to the Left, but the conservative archipelago has been and still is the main political force in contemporary Peru. The second objective is to assess the extent to which this transformation and consolidation is related to Peru’s Internal Armed Conflict (IAC) from 1980 to 1995.1 To meet these two objectives, we will proceed as follows. After showing the transformation of the Peruvian Right over the last three decades, we will establish a theoretical framework and time frame to assess the potential impact of the IAC on this transformation. This is followed by an empirical assessment of the alleged relationship. Finally, we conclude by framing the transformation of the Peruvian Right in the Latin American context.

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From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago 227

From the Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago When Fernando Belaunde’s second government tried to introduce a few initial neoliberal reforms in the 1980s, it faced resistance from not only “popular” forces, such as the left-wing spectrum and the Peruvian Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana (APRA), but also groups within its own party, Acción Popular (AP), and its conservative ally, the Partido Popular Cristiano (PPC). While it is frequently observed that the Peruvian party system of the 1980s captured the leftright ideological spectrum quite well (Tanaka 1998), rather less noted is that the right-wing parties lacked ideological cohesion. The Right had organizational prominence since the political parties were rooted in society, but they attracted sectors with very different ideological views. Both the AP and the PPC contained strong interests from the industrial sector, which distrusted the opening up of trade and blocked any attempts at liberalization. Likewise, free trade was resisted, especially within the AP, by several sectors, and especially those linked to Christian democracy, which dismissed any possibility that such economic proposals could be positive.2 In the second half of the 1980s—when Mario Vargas Llosa entered politics, aware of the new economic ideas that were thriving, politically and academically, in Europe and the United States—an initial link was established between neoliberal ideas and the right-wing parties. It became an occasion in which the AP, the PPC, and the new Movimiento Libertad, led by Vargas Llosa, converged (Requena 2010). Additionally, it was through Vargas Llosa that the ideas of the Peruvian economist Hernando De Soto came to shape the Peruvian version of global neoliberalism (Adrianzén 2014). Thus, for this brief moment, the old right-wing parties became connected to the new neoliberal ideas to create a comprehensive liberal Right that was pro-free market policies and politically liberal. Mario Vargas Llosa and his cohort introduced new neoliberal economic ideas, but the traditional vehicles of liberal representation—political parties—made the alliance eminently democratic and institutionalist. While open markets were defended in the economy, democratic institutions received political backing, even when it came to the delicate antisubversive situation that moved Vargas Llosa to explicitly defend the notion of “civilizing” the Internal Armed Conflict (M. Vargas Llosa 1993a, 177). Thus, for a brief time, El Frente Democrático (FREDEMO, the alliance of right-wing parties

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and the new Movimiento Libertad) embodied a liberal and neoliberal right-wing party project. Still, this model of a liberal Right proved fleeting, since the election of Alberto Fujimori in 1990 gave rise to a new type of Right: one that was economically neoliberal but politically illiberal. The fi rst two years of the 1990s were a critical juncture for the Peruvian Right. Fujimori’s autogolpe in 1992, and the success of his administration in stabilizing Peru’s economy and quelling insurrection, served to legitimize the combination of neoliberal economic policies and the illiberal approach to politics and institutions. Not surprisingly, Vargas Llosa unleashed a fierce critique of it: “What a dictatorship can lead you to is, provisionally, a type of growth that is more or less biological, statistical: rather than comprehensive development, which includes the field of education, of culture, of the democratization of society and its values” (Hildebrandt 2008, 353). Yet the model Vargas Llosa criticized was about to endure, in both spirit and actions. It entailed the development of a Right based on personalistic politics, without parties, but with great ideological cohesion regarding the neoliberal economic model established by the 1993 constitution. Whereas in the 1980s industrial sectors linked to right-wing parties could boycott neoliberal measures, in the 1990s and thereafter they would be denounced and stigmatized as “mercantilistic” actors and agendas. To illustrate the differences on economic matters between the conservative archipelago, which has prevailed in Peru for the past two decades, and the old partisan Right of the 1980s, it is worth highlighting two cases. In 2013, President Ollanta Humala proposed that the state purchase some shares in the Spanish energy company Repsol, which has considerable operations in Peru, in a weak attempt to change the course of the country’s neoliberal economy. The right-wing opposition was unanimous, with a striking level of cohesion and reach, in its rejection of this proposal. First, most of the print and television media constantly attacked the initiative. Second, the most important factor in dissuading the government from following the aforementioned path came from within its own ranks. Humala’s minister of the economy, an official with several years of service in the Ministry of the Economy and Finance, was against the measure and convinced the president not to pursue it (Uceda and Rivera 2013). In conclusion, the Peruvian Right succeeded in neutralizing an antineoliberal endeavor with considerable ideological cohesion despite being weak in organizational terms. This Right, effective in defending the economic status quo through an ide-

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From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago 229

ological unity that belies its organizational fragmentation, is what we call the “conservative archipelago.” Ideologically, the conservative archipelago advocates maintaining the economic order that emerged and was institutionalized with the 1993 constitution. Organizationally, it is composed of six types of actors (the “islands”): three of them are political and institutional, and the other three are social. The fi rst group of actors consists of several traditional political parties (especially the PPC and APRA) that no longer play a prominent role as parties with societal roots. Instead, they have become what we call partidos-bancadas3 whose existence and activity is limited to a discredited legislature with little relevance in Peruvian politics and policy (Valladares 2012). Second, fujimorismo, which also shares the partido-bancada characteristics, has become an effective party brand capable of competing in national elections and projecting a presence, albeit a weak one, in the subnational arena. The third important group of political and institutional actors to defend the conservative agenda is the technocrats and bureaucrats. Having controlled the state for many years, they have managed to institutionalize and defend neoliberal practices without being challenged by the increasingly weak politicians (Vergara and Encinas 2016). In addition, there are three “social” islands in the conservative archipelago. First, there are the business associations, which have great influence in the state and on public opinion, especially through the Confederation of Private Businesses and Institutions (La Confederación Nacional de Instituciones Empresariales Privadas, or CONFIEP). Second, over the last two decades the Catholic Church—especially through the very public and vocal Cardinal Juan Luis Cipriani—has played a decisive role in defending the status quo. Finally, most of the Lima-based national media has exerted great influence since becoming ardent supporters of the Peruvian economic model. In sum, there is an archipelago consisting of six actors who, in an ideologically cohesive but organically fragmented manner, uphold the economic system that emerged in early 1993. As seen in the example of the state’s failed attempt to purchase shares in Repsol (as well as in several other more everyday dynamics), the conservative archipelago is sufficiently effective to defend and institutionalize the prevailing economic order in contemporary Peru. Thus, a neoliberal consensus that is not politically liberal is what unifies this Peruvian Right. The origin of the conservative archipelago—the authoritarian government of Alberto Fujimori—was therefore a critical juncture that ushered in

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230 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

a cohesive neoliberal Right, while the defeat of the FREDEMO Project in 1990 closed off the path for a comprehensive liberal Right. And the path that the juncture opened is directly linked to the IAC of the 1980s. But how? That is the subject of the next section.

The Internal Conflict and the Transformation of the Peruvian Right In a country with a tradition of institutional weakness where the rules change rapidly and frequently (Levitsky and Murillo 2009), the emergence, survival, and entrenchment of the neoliberal economic model, as well as the overwhelming consensus around it, is a peculiar occurrence in Peruvian history. Since the early twentieth century, the implementation of national projects was constantly interrupted and/or thwarted. Thus, the neoliberal project, constitutionalized in 1993, has acquired remarkable stability. Before continuing with the analysis of the transformation mentioned in the previous section, two things should be made clear. First, the neoliberal economic model was highly successful in transforming Peru, and the plan largely fulfilled its promises (Vergara 2013). This success explains why politicians and large segments of the population have united to maintain it. But (and secondly), the implementation of the neoliberal model came after not only the economic disaster of the 1980s but also the IAC of that same decade. These crises were strongly entangled together. Therefore, to what extent did the violence of the 1980s influence the transformation of the Peruvian Right? As with all the outcomes analyzed in this book, it is difficult to isolate the effects that arose out of the economic crisis from those that arose out of the IAC. To analyze the links between the IAC and the transformation of the Peruvian Right, this study is organized around the framework suggested in the book’s introduction. First, we look at the open IAC period, between 1980 and 1990. Second, we focus on the resolution of the IAC between 1990 and 1995. Finally, we look at the post-conflict period from 1995 to the present. In each stage, we show the mechanisms that allowed the transformation of the Peruvian Right. In particular, we emphasize the relationship between the IAC and the destruction of the traditional partisan Right, along with the gradual construction of the conservative archipelago.

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From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago 231

The IAC and Partisan Destruction (1980–1990) Political parties have two types of assets: material assets and ideological assets (Hale 2006). This categorization allows us to observe the fi rst part of the transformation of the Peruvian Right. During the IAC, the main assets of the Peruvian right-wing parties were severely damaged, which laid the foundations for the formation of the “conservative archipelago.” We begin by showing the damage to material assets, followed by the damage to ideological assets. This fi rst stage is significant in the destruction of the traditional Right, but not for the formation of the new Right. As explained in detail in the opening chapters of this book, the violence experienced during the 1980s was brutal. The confl ict that started with the Shining Path’s (SP) declaration of war against the Peruvian state caused more destruction than any other Latin American armed movement (Degregori 2010). The SP’s offensive plan involved “the murder of local authorities: mayors, governors, lieutenant governors, and justices of the peace, and national authorities: ministers, parliamentarians and other representatives of the state” (CVR 2004). The goal of the SP was to “create a power vacuum so that they could establish control over the population more easily” (CVR 2003a, 6:16) Clearly, this had consequences for the entire country, including its multiple sectors and actors. Chapters 7 and 8 in this volume show the considerable consequences of the IAC for the Left and for civil society. But what was the cost for the right-wing parties? Let us begin with the erosion of material assets. First, according to the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Committee (Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación, or CVR), 12 percent of those killed or missing during the IAC caused by the SP4 were authorities.5 When local leaders are included in the category, the CVR shows that authorities represented 17 percent of the total dead or missing6 and 21 percent of the SP’s victims.7 This means that after peasants, authorities were the group most affected by the violence. Most of these authorities “were members of political parties that supported the democratic regime inaugurated in 1980,” so the fatalities represented “a heavy blow to the capacity for political mediation in areas affected by the internal armed conflict” (CVR 2003a, 1:169). The AP, the PPC, and APRA bore the brunt of the attacks, but it is even more difficult to quantify the SP’s direct threats and damage caused in areas under military control. For example, according to a former APRA secretary, around a

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Table 9.1. Main targets of terrorist activity during the 1980s

Target Political party offices Police stations High-voltage towers Railways Bridges Banks Special projects CORDES SAIS Municipalities Electric power plants Homes Registers of electors Settlements a Total

May 1980 to July 1985 to July 1985 June 1988 104 412 390 23 69 135 7 5 8 96 19 1 17 1,286

202 464 349 50 96 329 42 59 38 114 48 411 2 213 2,417

Total 306 876 739 73 165 464 49 64 46 210 67 412 19 213 3,703

Source: Ministry of Defense; compiled by the authors based on DESCO 1989. a “Centro poblado” in Spanish.

thousand party members were assassinated (Vergara 2015a, 294). In the case of other human rights violations such as torture, state authorities and local leaders were also the second-most targeted group. Attacks on party venues and offices also precipitated the erosion of the parties’ material assets, while increasing the fear of party members. Among the many examples of the SP’s targeting of municipalities and party offices cited in the Final Report of the CVR is an account of the attack on the AP’s main offices in Lima on July 11, 1983. But besides this crucial incident experienced by a right-wing party, the Ministry of Defense’s database shows that party offices and municipalities were among the main targets of the Shining Path during the 1980s. It is quite difficult to accurately measure the damage caused exclusively by the Shining Path to right-wing parties because the information from the CVR does not separate the parties ideologically. However, a more qualitative approach such as the DESCO (1989) database8 shows that the right-wing parties were indeed victims of attacks on party offices, party members’ homes,9 and other types of private properties as well as victims of assassinations and assassination attempts.

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From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago 233

Table 9.2. Attacks on right-wing political partiesa Number of representative cases, 1980–1988 Attacks on party offices and property Attacks on homes and private property of authorities, leaders, and members

22 8

Assassinations and assassination attempts against party leaders

19

Assassinations and assassination attempts against authorities

10

Assassinations and assassination attempts against party members

9

Total

68

Source: DESCO 1989; compiled by the author. a Classifications made by the authors. Party property includes vehicles; private property includes local businesses; party leaders includes previous authorities; and party members include candidates.

In short, the material assets of political parties were weakened severely during the course of the IAC, in which party offices, leaders, and members were constantly targeted by the SP. Thus, the violence weakened the standing of these political parties so that they struggled to compete electorally, especially in local and rural areas. Additionally, the SP “was able to establish its presence and operate in large regions of the country, particularly where the state was absent or largely ineffective, thus building alternative structures of authority [. . .] that sometimes challenged and sometimes replaced the state” (Burt 2004, 249). Furthermore, toward the end of the 1980s, 32 percent of Peruvian territory and 49 percent of the population was under military control (Degregori 2010). According to Javier Diaz Orihuela, an AP leader, “terrorism had a strong impact on our ability to get elected.”10 In addition to damaging the material assets of political parties, the IAC also affected their legitimacy. The deterioration of the country’s political and economic climate during the 1980s gradually led to a general perception that these parties, through their elected officials, were incapable of governing (Tanaka 1998, 54). This was particularly

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234 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

evident during the APRA administration from 1985 to 1990 when the government was unable to solve the crisis, and in fact aggravated it in every possible way. Beginning in 1988, the economic crisis escalated, and the country’s collapse created desperate conditions in which opportunities abounded for SL to recruit new fighters and supporters (M. Smith 1992). As the institutional weakness of the state worsened and inflation soared, the myth of “Sendero ganador”11 grew stronger (Chávez 2012). Thus, APRA’s failure was instrumental in promoting widespread rejection of political parties and further delegitimizing an entire institutional structure unable to fulfill even the most basic duties of the constitutional state. The political parties’ difficulties led to poor electoral outcomes at the national and subnational levels. For example, the AP’s performance at the municipal level illustrates its growing disconnect with the public: in 1980, it won 100 provinces (67.1 percent) and 814 districts (57.1 percent); in 1983, this number dropped to 36 provinces (23.2 percent) and 465 districts (32.1 percent); and in 1986, there were no AP candidates running in any part of the country. All of this foreshadowed its disastrous results of the 1985 general election (G. Ruiz et al. 2013). According to Kenney (2004), in the 1986 municipal elections, the four traditional parties together lost only 8 percent of the national vote. However, in the following elections of 1989, this number increased to 29 percent. During that vote, the last of the 1980s, the country’s capital experienced a shock when an outsider, the broadcaster Ricardo Belmont, won the coveted Lima mayoral race against the FREDEMO candidate, the AP’s Juan Incháustegui. Thus the partisan liberal-right was defeated by a new, personalistic politics based on nonorganizational ties with the electorate. It would not be the last time this would occur. In 1990, Alberto Fujimori used social unrest as a weapon against the political parties that had pushed the country toward economic failure. At the same time, the unsuccessful fight against the SP led voters to seek stronger government (Crabtree 2010, 364). Thus, the renewed economic ideas that Vargas Llosa introduced to the Peruvian Right were not enough to restore the strength of the parties, which slowly crumbled throughout the 1980s as voters looked on. The IAC was conducive to the formation of the contemporary conservative archipelago, since the confl ict eroded the material and ideological foundations of the previous representative order. This entailed the destruction of party infrastructure, intimidation and assassination of party

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From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago 235

leaders and competitive candidates, replacement of democratic rules in certain areas of the country, and punishment by voters of deficient governmental handling of the crisis (and, often, aggravation of that crisis). Ultimately, this total collapse prevented the economically and politically liberal Right, represented by Vargas Llosa and backed by parties with democratic credentials, from obtaining power.

Conflict Resolution and the Emergence of the Archipelago (1990–1995) The resolution of the IAC, a crucial moment for the formation of the conservative archipelago, occurred in parallel with the establishment of Alberto Fujimori’s government, the April 1992 self-coup, and the approval of the 1993 constitution. The weakened parties were defeated during this period, while the political and institutional foundations were laid for the new conservative ideology and its islands of support. The resolution of the IAC came at the hands of a neopopulist and neoliberal outsider, and led to the collapse of the right-wing parties. Here, an important distinction must be made between the Peruvian Right and the Left vis-à-vis the armed confl ict. The Left was greatly affected by the unfolding of the confl ict in the 1980s. However, by 1989, before Fujimori appeared on the national political scene, the Peruvian Left was already weakening “autonomously.” Initially, the Left was divided by an insurmountable rift between those who denounced the SL and those who sought to appease it (M. Smith 1992; Rénique 2004). Once it had been divided in two, the Left won only 7 of the 42 district municipalities of Lima in the 1989 elections—after having held 21 of them in the middle of the decade. Then, in the 1990 general elections, the Left managed to place only 9 senators and 20 deputies in power (out of a total of 60 and 180, respectively), well below the numbers of the AP, APRA, PPC, and Cambio 90 (Alberto Fujimori’s fi rst party brand). Thus, the Left’s breakdown was already underway well before Fujimori’s authoritarianism took root. Indeed, the resolution of the IAC by Fujimori did not do much to weaken the partisan or electoral Left, but it did weaken the societal Left. This allowed the SL to easily absorb the Left’s weakened foundations on the peripheries of Lima and Peru, instilling a sense of fear in unions and other sectors of organized civil society (Burt 1997). The Right experienced the opposite. Until 1992, right-wing parties

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236 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

were electorally successful, having had 20 senators and 62 deputies in power in addition to holding 82 provincial municipalities (nearly twice the number of the left-wing platform Izquierda Unida holdings). But Fujimori’s consolidation of power destroyed the right-wing parties. They went from being the most important coalition within national and subnational representative institutions to overall collapse following the autogolpe of 1992. Still, unlike the Left, the societal Right was strengthened during this period. Thus, the resolution of the IAC and the emergence of Fujimori’s authoritarianism led to inverse outcomes for the Right and Left: on the one hand, Fujimori did not eliminate the partisan Left (it had already started to break down by itself) but did erode the societal Left; on the other hand, he destroyed the partisan Right but revived the societal Right. With that, the brief Vargasllosian liberal-rightist experiment came to an end, and the formation of the conservative archipelago began. The resolution of the IAC explains the difference in outcomes. Between July 1992 and July 1993, the SL’s leaders were killed or captured. Abimael Guzmán was caught in September 1992 and petitioned the government to grant his surrender a year later. The conflict, which had seemed destined to endure, ended more quickly than anyone had foreseen. And once the myth of “Sendero ganador” had been shattered, popularity soared for the figure responsible for the demise of the SP and his antirepublican form of government. This had direct and indirect consequences for the Right, ultimately hastening the dissipation of the partisan Right and paving the way for the new conservative archipelago. First, the defeat of the SL (along with the stabilization of inflation and Peru’s reintegration into the international fi nancial community) allowed Fujimori to style himself as the personification of an effective Right. Two decades earlier, General Juan Velasco had accomplished something similar with the reformist parties. Velasco implemented the land reform by authoritarian means and borrowed other measures from the agenda of the reformist parties (APRA, AP, Democracia Cristiana), which had never implemented them, thus stripping them of their reformist legitimacy and eroding their ideological bases. Similarly, Fujimori successfully adopted the right-wing agenda, stressing security and economic order. Like Velasco, Fujimori added an anti-party rhetoric to his authoritarian efficacy, which was instrumental in the collapse of the right-wing parties.12 According to the AP leader Víctor Andrés García Belaunde, who was a congressman un-

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From a Partisan Right to the Conservative Archipelago 237

til the 1992 autogolpe, “when Fujimori captured Guzmán, it was all over, we could no longer compete.”13 At the same time as the disintegration of the partisan Right, the seeds of the conservative archipelago, the new Right, were planted. First, technocrats emerged in areas connected to the economy, but without any links to political parties. As Dargent (2015) showed, the degree of isolation that Peruvian technocrats achieved between 1992 and 1993 was linked to the authoritarian context. This isolation was vital for the further development of a new cohort of technocrats and bureaucrats in the Peruvian state. These technical leaders quickly realized that the right-wing parties had been defeated, and that it was no longer necessary to deal with them in their attempts to implement market reforms. It made little sense for them to become members of a dilapidated right-wing party when they could influence the state without that failed intermediary. Upon closer examination, it can be seen that the business sector expanded its presence in Peruvian politics during these developments. Several business leaders entered politics in a shift that would be sustained over time. Influence administered through the CONFIEP, given its proximity to the Fujimori government, became more important than personal influence (Arce 2005). In 1994, with CONFIEP funding, the Peruvian Institute of Economics (Instituto Peruano de Economía, or IPE) was created as a think tank to supply the government with recommendations and policies. This cementing of close ties between the business sector and political power left an important legacy for the future. Furthermore, the influence of these two factors on the public sphere only increased during the 1990s and into the new century. In turn, the IAC played a major role in fostering a more conservative and politically active Catholic Church. The church had been moderately critical of the government performance on human rights until the early 1990s, but this began to change in 1992. An important relationship emerged between Fujimori and Archbishop Monsignor Cipriani of Ayacucho. Cipriani was the president’s man in Ayacucho, the region most affected by the violence. His work went far beyond his religious duties, and he played a key political role during the IAC. In fact, Fujimori appointed him as the president of the Social Development and Compensation Fund (Fondo Nacional de Compensación y Desarrollo Social, or FONCODES), the fujimorista social policy (and clientelistic) entity in Ayacucho. Cipriani held this position for most of

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238 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

the decade. When the regional governments dissolved after the 1992 coup and the Transitory Councils of Regional Administration (Consejos Transitorios de Administración Regional, or CTAR) were set up in their place, each council president was appointed on Cipriani’s recommendation: “Monsignor Cipriani was Fujimori’s personal representative in Ayacucho” (Pásara 2014, 16). In short, the IAC era forged a Church with fujimorista tendencies and experience defending conservative political positions in the public sphere. Finally, the IAC and the undemocratic manner of its resolution created favorable conditions for the endurance of the new economic regime that accompanied the 1993 constitution. The remarkable continuity and stability of the Peruvian economic model would seem to support the idea that institutional arrangements tend to endure when their supporters completely defeat the opponents of the new institutions (Przeworski 1991). In fact, if the stability of the neoliberal institutional arrangements were compared with the mechanisms and actors responsible for the frustration of similar reforms in the 1980s, one would note the substantial differences that occurred in Peru over a short period of time. One would observe that the right-wing parties disappeared; the organizations and politicians of the protectionist Right were swept away; a body of neoliberal technocrats embedded themselves in a state which constrained itself; the partisan Left committed suicide; the unions were demobilized; the SP requested a peace deal from Fujimori’s government; and lastly, the fujimorista brand made its entry into Peruvian politics. These, and especially the dissolution of the liberal Right and the birth of a conservative archipelago, are the lasting political legacies of the resolution of the IAC.

The Post-Conflict Period: Legacies and the Struggle over Legacies (1995–2015) In a text published in 2000, Catherine Conaghan accurately foresaw the future of the post-Fujimori Peruvian Right. She predicted that with the foundations for a right-wing style of government established, the fall of Fujimori would not result in the restoration of the old partisan Right in Peru. Indeed, after Fujimori fell, the conservative archipelago became autonomous from the government that had created it and shaped a new, nonpartisan way of defending the 1993 economic model. In this section, we examine the consolidation of the conserva-

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tive archipelago and how it relates to the IAC. Then, we assess the dispute of political discursion surrounding the IAC. In other words, we look at the struggles over legacies, or the way actors used and shaped the IAC based on their political preferences. When Alberto Fujimori was reelected in 1995 with more than 60 percent of the vote, the international community accepted that the government had been democratically purified of the original authoritarian sin of 1992. After then, the conservative archipelago was consolidated through a community of ideologically cohesive actors who defended the new economic model that came with the 1993 constitution, but who had no organizational umbrella or party. During the second half of Fujimori’s government, the weakness of the political parties and the relationship between the executive and the legislature, which survived the fall of the Fujimori regime, were consolidated. In other words, “rampant presidentialism” (Morón and Sanborn 2007) and the subordinate role of the legislative branch (Degregori and Meléndez 2007) were established. After the collapse of Fujimori’s government, this subordination continued not because of the actions of a competitive authoritarian regime, but because of the weakness of political parties, which, without societal foundations, became mere “partidos-bancadas” that support or oppose the wishes of the executive without major consequences (Valladares 2012). Thus, the right-wing parties, weakened by the IAC and its resolution as they are, became the unwavering legacy of the post-Fujimori Peruvian democracy, and they now play a limited role in defending the conservative agenda from within the legislature. Within the general legacy of party weakness, the political coalition that represents fujimorismo is a unique case. As recalled by Roberts (2006), fujimorismo was not interested in forming a partisan vehicle, and this disinterest carried a high cost when Fujimori fell from grace. However, a decade later—in large part because Fujimori’s daughter, Keiko, was old enough to be a presidential candidate— fujimorismo took more of an interest in building a party organization (Urrutia 2011; Navarro 2010). Rather than an institutionalized party, the movement resembles a weak organization supported by a strong memory and a strong and enduring leader in Keiko Fujimori. Urrutia (2011) calls fujimorismo no more than a “partisan vehicle.” Following Lupu (2014), we might suggest that fujimorismo is limited to being a party brand that enjoys popular support when a member of the Fujimori family runs for office. Keiko Fujimori has reached the sec-

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240 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

ond round of two presidential elections, and she and her brother Kenji have been the Congress members with the most votes in the 2006 and 2011 elections, respectively. However, whenever someone outside the Fujimori family has led the movement, the number of votes won has decreased significantly.14 As Max Weber (1995) pointed out in his explanation of charisma, only a relative of the providential individual or leader can inherit that leader’s charisma. In this case, the inherited charisma of the chosen leader stemmed from the resolution of the IAC by Alberto Fujimori’s government.15 It is defeating terrorism, rather than ending hyperinflation or stabilizing the country’s economy, that is fujimorismo’s biggest electoral asset, as well as the main rallying point for fujimorista members and supporters (Urrutia 2011; Meléndez 2014). A 2009 nationwide survey by Ipsos-Apoyo found that 66  percent of respondents considered the “defeat of terrorism” to be the greatest success of Alberto Fujimori’s government, far ahead of the 33 percent who cited “economic stability.” In addition, a nationwide survey conducted after the fi rst round of the 2011 presidential elections revealed that 43 percent of those who voted for Keiko Fujimori did so because of “the good government of her father, Alberto Fujimori.” Ultimately, Meléndez (2014) refers to these elements of recognition as the birth of political identification or “partisanship.” The enemies of fujimorismo—the “other” that helped give it an identity during the 2000s—are organizations and individuals linked to human rights (Urrutia 2011). In other words, this “other” was composed of actors who would have objected to the resolution of the IAC through the effective “fi rm hand” approach taken by fujimorismo. Still, neither the institutionalization of fujimorismo nor its material assets are the most important aspects of the movement; they are outweighed by the cohesive force provided by the memory of Alberto Fujimori’s government, Keiko Fujimori’s repeated strong showings in presidential elections, and the electorate’s conception of fujimorismo as a propagated brand of order through a fi rm approach. In this way, fujimorismo is a dual legacy of the IAC and its resolution. This means that, like all Peruvian political parties which must depend on a civil society weakened by the IAC, fujimorismo is organizationally weak. However, the main appeal of fujimorismo, which unifies members and supporters alike, is as the destroyer of the SL. In the national elections of 2011 and 2016, these assets were linked to the conditions of the early 1990s and recalled through the key issues of security and economic slowdown. Thus, the construction of this partisan brand, with

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its ability to compete in national elections and play a role alongside other parties in the legislature, became a central island of the Peruvian conservative archipelago.16 Furthermore, the technocratic nucleus, which emerged and gained independence after the 1992 coup and the implementation of the neoliberal reforms, endured into the 2000s. Like many legacies, the consolidation of the technocratic core was based on not only the inertia of the 1990s but also decisions made during the post-Fujimori period. It is important to note that Valentín Paniagua’s transitional government retained many of the technical plans of the Ministry of the Economy and Finance and of other entities linked to the economic sphere, institutions which were dominated by the experts who delivered the neoliberal reforms years earlier (Dargent 2015). During the government of Alejandro Toledo (2001–2006), who had no party-political backing, the technocratic sector gained power and became a powerful actor, especially against weak politicians without the leverage needed to influence other strong actors in the Peruvian state (Vergara and Encinas 2016). While significant state technocratization also occurred in other countries, such as Chile and Mexico, in those countries the presence of institutionalized political parties forced technocrats to consult or negotiate with the parties to advance their proposals (P. Silva 2009; Centeno 1997). However, in Peru, the legacy of technocratic strength and autonomy combined with the legacy of party weakness, which allowed the technocrats to become the main actors in the conservative archipelago and in the defense of the 1993 economic model. Something similar happened in the Catholic Church. If the relationship between Fujimori and the archbishop of Ayacucho was reinforced by the IAC, then the resulting legacy deepened during the post- conflict period, transforming the Church into a central actor in the conservative archipelago. In 1995, Archbishop Cipriani openly defended the laws that absolved military and police officers involved in human rights violations. Then, when the Túpac Amaru Revolutionary Movement (Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru, or MRTA) stormed the residence of the Japanese ambassador in 1997 and took hundreds hostage, the Peruvian government appointed Cipriani to negotiate with the subversive group.17 Shortly after, Cipriani became the archbishop of Lima and thus the head of the country’s Catholic Church. Following his formal appointment, Cipriani developed ties to political power, both at a personal level and as part of the influence enjoyed by many politicians with links to the Opus Dei (Cipriani’s denomina-

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242 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

tion), especially during the government of Fujimori and Alan García. Additionally, the cardinal also took on a role in the media, thus adding to his mechanisms of influence. Since 2000, Cipriani has broadcast a two-hour radio show every Saturday morning on Radio Programas del Perú (RPP), the country’s most influential radio station. On his show, under the guise of religious preaching, Cipriani often couches unmistakably conservative views in his commentary regarding issues on the national public agenda, whereby the defense of the 1993 economic model is essential. For example, through his show, he joined the petition to pardon former President Alberto Fujimori and regularly advocates a Church whose role “is not to change society, but bring order to it” (Pásara 2014, 94). This influence in the public sphere amounts to a sizable capacity for political mobilization within Peruvian society, which is significant for a country that otherwise has shortcomings in this respect.18 In short, the activity of the church under the leadership of the cardinal, and his role in the conservative archipelago, are inseparable from the IAC. While it is a legacy that was strengthened and consolidated in the post-confl ict era, its origin is ultimately tied to the IAC. Finally, the business associations, whose influence on the state took hold during the period of the authoritarian resolution of the IAC, maintained and strengthened their links to power and their influence on the public sphere. When it came to the creation of public policies, the Peruvian Institute of Economics (IPE) gained importance through its proposals and leaders. No right-wing party had more influence than this think tank. The IPE worked through an effective “revolving door” mechanism between government institutions and the business sector. For example, Roberto Abusada and Jorge Baca moved from the IPE to the government, while Leoni Roca and Fritz Du Bois went in the opposite direction.19 Overall, the influence of the business sector during the 1990s was such that according to an expert, “it became virtually impossible to discern which sets of policy proposals were drawn from the business sector as opposed to the government itself” (Arce 2005, 136). In the 2000s, the direct influence over public policies diminished but did not disappear. Several businessmen held important positions in the executive on a constant basis. Of the 262 ministerial incumbents from the beginning of the democratic transition to 2013, the percentage of ministers who were also businesspersons was 12 percent during Toledo’s government, 14 percent during García’s government, and 19 percent during the Humala government. 20 During the fi rst year of

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Kuczynski’s administration the trend deepened. These figures, then, are relatively stable: the number of ministers who are professional politicians is steadily decreasing, and that of technocrats and/or businessmen is steadily increasing (Vergara and Encinas 2016). Likewise, the role of private organizations in the public sphere remained active and influential. It is undeniable that in several sectors of the state, the business sector became an important veto player (Vergara 2012). In this way, the business sector has become a crucial island of the conservative archipelago and of the defense of the 1993 economic model.

The Struggle over Legacies Thus far, we have seen that the gradual consolidation and defense of Peru’s neoliberal economic regime is associated with the success of the conservative archipelago, whose formation was the legacy of the IAC and its resolution. A strong conservative Right was consolidated that prioritized the maintenance of market freedom but placed less importance on other freedoms. It was also a Right whose working mechanism within traditional liberal institutions was based more on influence than on public deliberation. In this regard, the formation and consolidation of the conservative archipelago stemmed from the failure of the liberal and institutionalist Right that was active during the 1988–1992 period, in which the convergence of traditional right-wing parties and the new economically liberal Right was proposed. Thus, the defeat of one Right and the consolidation of another is a legacy rooted in Peruvian society and linked to the IAC. The structuring of the conservative archipelago is the sum of interrelated legacies (ideological and organizational). Still, the different actors of the archipelago utilize the memory the IAC and their interpretation of the conflict to defend the economic order. Of course, this approach is not unique to the conservative archipelago. All actors and sectors of Peruvian politics seek to build their own narrative of the IAC. While the Left was the most successful at building academic and scholarly concern for the violence, the Right has succeeded in vulgarizing and disseminating an interpretation of the conflict in which the Left is linked to the pre-Fujimori economic failure of the country and to the SP chaos. 21 This narrative then allows for a discourse where the defense of the neoliberal model becomes the defense of a country free of terrorism. Thus, in addition to the political and institutional lega-

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cies, there is an open and ongoing race to continue building discursive and narrative legacies. Two recent events in the national political arena facilitate an analysis of how this works. The fi rst example is the 2010 mayoral electoral campaign in Lima. Faced with the possible victory of the leftist candidate Susana Villarán, many islands of the conservative archipelago attacked her with arguments tied to the IAC. The leaders of the partidosbancadas quickly charged that extremist movements surrounded Villarán. She was accused of having a pact with the MRTA and being surrounded by convicted terrorists, 22 and the front pages of several national newspapers alluded to a (nonexistent) association between Villarán and Abimael Guzmán. 23 The technocrats also joined in to claim that Villarán’s candidacy posed danger. Pedro Pablo Kuczynski, for example, declared that the arrival of extremists to the municipality of Lima would produce “a shock” in the international markets.24 The Church likewise had its say. Cardinal Cipriani stated with reference to Villaran’s candidacy that it was not the right time for ideologies, and that he sensed “a fear, like the one during the period of the Shining Path.”25 Consequently, Villarán’s performance in the opinion polls during the last few days before the election, when these attacks escalated and the electorate took fright, decreased sharply (Tanaka 2010). This type of discourse, which links terrorism with a challenge to the economic model, recurs whenever social movements emerge in opposition to certain large mining investments. The confl ict over the Conga mining project in Cajamarca is a case in point. 26 In 2011, various local and regional actors mobilized against the project. Faced with the danger of losing one of the largest investments projected for the upcoming years in Peru, Ollanta Humala’s government, politicians, the media, the Church, and technocrats raised the specter of terrorism and anti-investment. Among the technocrats, a former minister of the environment stated, “these groups, Santos’ Patria Roja, Saavedra’s MRTA, and Marco Arana’s Grufides group, are extremists. [The protests] will result in a terrorist movement.”27 Another minister claimed that “Santos and Abimael [Guzmán] have caused the same damage to Cajamarca, Santos even more [.  .  .] Cajamarca is in a terrible recession.”28 The fujimorista congressman Octavio Salazar said, “Gregorio Santos acts like a terrorist when he calls for a revolution.”29 Finally, as always, Cipriani voiced the Church’s position, stating that the protesters contained “few groups, but nevertheless terrorists.” These two examples, coupled with the Repsol case mentioned at the start of this chapter, show how the conservative archipelago acts to de-

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fend the 1993 economic order in Peru. There is considerable ideological cohesion surrounding the economic model, even though there is no organic structure that allows different islands to coordinate their statements or actions. Thus, its defenders do not respond to party lines, and they are at once inside and outside the government, and inside and outside the institutions.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have examined how the IAC and its resolution affected the Peruvian Right. Furthermore, we have shown the ways in which these legacies have facilitated the persistence of the neoliberal economic model that emerged with the 1993 constitution. While much research has been done about the IAC’s impact on the Left, its impact on the Right is less studied but just as important. Indeed, we have seen how the Right mutated from a traditional partisan Right with low ideological cohesiveness to a new Right, which lacks organic partisanship but has a group of actors with ideological cohesiveness based on the defense of the neoliberal regime. This is an important transformation borne of the IAC’s various legacies. Therefore, one way of providing context to our observation is to offer a comparative perspective: How significant is this transformation within the Latin American region? Neoliberal reforms were a crucial moment for Latin America that significantly altered the social and political landscapes in many countries. According to Kenneth Roberts (2014), these reforms were a critical juncture that reshaped Latin American political systems. Thus, the Peruvian political system was not the only one fundamentally transformed by the economic crisis of the 1980s and the subsequent introduction of neoliberal reforms. Roberts also states that “neoliberal critical junctures were especially destabilizing where they eroded party-society linkages and blurred the distinctions between major parties” (Roberts 2014, 20). Both phenomena he describes are remarkably close to what happened in Peru. Thus, it is tempting to claim that the neoliberal reforms alone explain the Peruvian case and the transformation of the Right. However, it is important to highlight that Peru is not only a post-Washington consensus country but also a post-confl ict country. This certainly does not invalidate Roberts’s general thesis regarding Latin America, but it does suggest that the IAC introduced a dose of specificity to the Peruvian case. The fact that party systems were reshaped (strengthened or weak-

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246 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

ened) by the neoliberal reforms does not explain the extent of the changes that Peru experienced compared to other countries in similar situations. First, the defeat of the Left and of organized civil society was more resounding in Peru. If neoliberal reforms alone were enough to weaken the Left and civil society everywhere else, the addition of an IAC meant more devastating consequences for Peru. As we have explored in this chapter, the transformation and hegemony of the Right cannot be understood without considering the brutal defeat of the societal Left during the IAC. Moreover, neoliberal reforms led to the technocratization of Latin American states (Grindle 2012), but in few cases other than Peru did technocrats achieve such high levels of isolation and direct influence in the government (Dargent 2015). This technocratic strength is directly linked to the IAC’s resolution and the defeat of right-wing partisan political forces. Perhaps Chile is another case where, like Peru, the technocratic sector achieved autonomy and influence in the wake of an authoritarian government that had emerged following widespread social unrest. Still, even though neoliberal reforms placed more importance on the business sector and weakened political parties everywhere else, both outcomes were more profound in Peru. Furthermore, when the right-wing parties weakened in other countries, it led to the long-term weakening of the rightwing agenda and not to the strengthening that occurred in Peru. Thus, the fragmented but ideologically cohesive islands that form the Peruvian conservative archipelago are significant for their singularity in the Latin America context, beyond the common results that neoliberal reforms tend to produce. However, the peculiarity of the Peruvian case stems not only from the significant changes caused by the IAC but, above all, from the persistence of these changes over time. The fact that neoliberal reforms fundamentally reshaped party systems did not mean their political systems were frozen. For example, Bolivia and Argentina are like the Peruvian case in that they share the two characteristics, mentioned previously, that Roberts describes as most harmful to party systems. However, in Bolivia and Argentina, the breakdown of the party system subsequently led to a post-neoliberal political life, even though the party system was not fully restored. In Peru the party system was likewise not restored, but in this case a post-neoliberal political life did not emerge. In other words, the Peruvian case is a significant variation within a common pattern for the dismantling of systems of representation. One viewpoint regarding Latin America’s shift to the Left

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claims that Latin America adopted populism in places where party systems collapsed and outsiders emerged (Kaufman 2011; Flores-Macías 2012). Peru meets both general prerequisites, but they were not crucial there. This is because in this case, the IAC’s unique and dreadful trajectory was added to the well-traveled path of Latin American neoliberal reforms. In Peru, the sticky neoliberal reforms adhered with twice as much intensity. Therefore, the Peruvian conservative archipelago defended neoliberal reforms more successfully than any other South American country because the reforms that emerged were linked to the IAC and its consequences. Notes 1. Internal Armed Confl ict (Confl icto Armado Interno) is the term used by the Truth and Reconciliation Committee (Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación, or CVR). 2. For more about the confl icts within the Peruvian Right during the 1980s, see Conaghan and Malloy 1994. 3. In the term “partido-bancadas,” partido refers to a political party and bancada refers to a number of congresspersons acting as a group in the legislature. 4. This percentage was calculated by the Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación. CVR 2003a, Conclusion 27. 5. According to the CVR, this label includes both local authorities (such as mayors, governors, lieutenants, and justices of the peace) and national authorities (such as ministers, congressmen, and congresswomen). In other words, it includes state authorities. 6. This percentage was calculated by the authors based on the CVR’s Statistical Appendix (2,359 of 13,470 victims with information for the occupation variable). CVR 2003a, Statistical Appendix, p. 86. 7. This percentage was calculated by the CVR. See CVR 2003a, 1:169. 8. This is a record of the SL’s activity based on reports in national newspapers. In this sense, it should be considered a database of representative cases rather than a database from which exact frequencies can be obtained. 9. We could infer that at least some of the attacks on homes showed in table 9.1 correspond to right-wing authorities, leaders, and party members. 10. Personal interview by the authors of this chapter, May 2014. 11. “Winner Shining Path” refers to the idea that the Shining Path was unbeatable and would win in the war against the state. 12. For more about the way in which Velasco and Fujimori represent two similar movements against civil society and political parties, see chapter 3 of Vergara 2015a. 13. Personal interview, May 2014. 14. As a candidate for the fujimoristas, Martha Chávez obtained only 7.4 percent of the vote in 2006.

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248 Alberto Vergara and Daniel Encinas

15. A September 2012 national survey by IPSOS-Apoyo showed that 50 percent of respondents named Alberto Fujimori as one of the main individuals to have contributed to the demise of the SL. 16. When Pedro Pablo Kuczynski was elected president in 2016, fujimorismo acquired a more prominent role in Congress, having won 53 percent of the congressional vote share. This triggered frequent spats and horse-trading with the executive, but despite all the political noise, little has changed in terms of the cohesiveness of right-wing actors regarding the neoliberal regime. 17. The MRTA launched its struggle against the Peruvian state in 1984, and is responsible for 1.5 percent of the fatalities during the IAC (CVR 2003a). 18. For example, the show was useful in organizing the 2013 “March for Life” in which thousands of people mobilized against all types of abortion, even therapeutic abortion (for medical necessities such as saving the life of the pregnant woman). 19. Roberto Abusada founded the IPE and then became an economic adviser for the government. Jorge Baca was the IPE’s director and then became minister of the economy and fi nance. Leoni Roca was adviser to the prime minister and later director of the IPE. Fritz Du Bois left his post as an economic adviser for the government to take the position of IPE director (Arce 2005, 45). 20. We examined all the ministers in each ministry from the Toledo government (2001) to Humala’s third cabinet (June 2013); there was a total of 262 incumbents, who were classified as “businessmen,” “politicians,” “technical,” and other such categories. 21. See chapter 11 in this volume. 22. “Unidad Nacional exigió a Susana Villarán que revele si lleva en su lista a miembros de Patria Roja y el MRTA,” Diario El Comercio, August  6, 2010, http://elcomercio.pe/politica/gobierno/unidad-nacional-exigio -susana-villaran-que-revele-si-lleva-su-lista-miembros-patria-roja-mrta -noticia-619057. 23. See García Llorens 2010. For more on a previous time period (1990– 2006), see Fowks 2006. 24. “Kuczynski advierte ‘un sacudón’ en los mercados internacionales por preferencias electorales hacia la izquierda,” Diario El Comercio, September 21, 2010, http://elcomercio.pe/economia/peru/kuczynski-advierte -sacudon-mercados-internacionales-preferencias-electorales-hacia-izquierda -noticia-642490. 25. “Cipriani sobre elecciones municipales: ‘No es momento de ideologías,’” Diario La República, September 25, 2010, http://www.larepublica .pe/25–09–2010/cipriani-sobre-elecciones-municipales-no-es-momento-de -ideologias. 26. The mining project was approved during Alan García’s government (2006–2011), and with almost US$5 million invested, it should be one Peru’s largest investment projects. The investors are the Newmont Mining Corporation, from the United States (51.35 percent); Buenaventura, from Peru (43.65 percent); and the World Bank as a minority partner through the International Finance Corporation (5 percent).

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27. “Brack: ‘Protestas en Cajamarca terminarán en atentados terroristas,’ ” Diario Perú 21, July 7, 2012, http://peru21.pe/2012/07/07/actualidad/ brack-protestas-cajamarca-terminaran-atentados-terroristas-2032087. 28. “Silva: ‘Gregorio Santos le hizo más daño a Cajamarca que Abimael Guzmán,’” Diario Perú 21, May 7, 2013, http://peru21.pe/politica/silva -martinot-gregorio-santos-le-hizo-mas-dano-cajamarca-que-abimael -guzman-2129918. 29. “Octavio Salazar: Gregorio Santos actúa como terrorista,” Diario Correo, December 31, 2011, http://diariocorreo.pe/ultimas/noticias/EPENSA -060024/octavio-salazar-gregorio-santos-actua-como-terrorista.

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CHAP T ER 10

Public Opinion, the Specter of Violence, and Democracy in Contemporary Peru Arturo Maldonado, Jennifer L. Merolla, and Elizabeth J. Zechmeister

Democracy and violence have an intricate relationship in Peru. At the moment of Peru’s transition to democracy in 1980, Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) launched a guerrilla war. The government’s program against Sendero and, after 1987, against the Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA) employed a range of counterinsurgency tactics, many of which involved incursions on civil and human rights. As the rebel groups’ efforts became more lethal and visible, the government’s commitment to democratic rules of the game diminished, reaching a nadir in 1992 when President Alberto Fujimori executed an autogolpe under which he temporarily closed the Peruvian Congress. We are now over three decades removed from Peru’s 1980 democratic election and the public emergence of Sendero Luminoso, and roughly two decades past a period in which the violence was at its peak and democracy suffered near-fatal blows. Today Peru’s democracy is mostly recovered and terroristic threats of violence have mostly receded. In this context, we ask about the public opinion legacies of the confl ict: to what extent does worry about violent attacks occupy the contemporary Peruvian public, and with what implications for democratic values? We address this question by examining data generated from public opinion polls and from an original experiment fielded in the summer of 2012. We fi rst provide an overview of relationships among the threat of violence, democracy, and public opinion in Peru. Second, we assess responses to the AmericasBarometer 2010 study in which respondents across the Latin American region were asked the extent to which they are worried about violent terrorist attacks; the question

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Public Opinion, Violence, and Democracy in Peru 251

was intentionally vague so as not to presume a particular perpetrator. We document that mean levels of worry are higher in Peru than in most other Latin American countries. We then examine predictors of concerns about terroristic violence in Peru. Here we are able to assess the extent to which, and how, experiences have translated into what, for some, are memories of conflict. We fi nd that those who were young during the peak of terrorist incidents tend to be somewhat more worried about the possibility of new violent attacks. Yet concern about the threat of violence is not geographically concentrated in regions that experienced more fatalities during Sendero’s campaign in the 1980s and 1990s; instead, worry has diffused and taken root to a greater degree in parts of the country that were comparatively less affected by the violence. One possible explanation is that while these parts of the country lack the same level of direct experience with the confl ict, they also have less information about the degree to which high confl ict areas have returned to a safer everyday norm. Third, we assess the relationship between worry about terroristic violence and support for democratic values. We show that those who are more worried are more likely to prefer iron-fisted rule and less likely to be politically tolerant, but are more likely to prefer that police respect the rule of law. Fourth, we introduce an experiment designed to assess the causal effects of raising the salience (via media reports) of domestic terrorism in contemporary Peru. We find some evidence, although it is weak, that exposure to news about terrorist threats corrodes democratic public opinion in general. This may reflect a reality in which news about terrorist plots is not uncommon and the public is already tuned into terrorism, so that there is little marginal consequence to new information. Nonetheless we also fi nd strong evidence of important heterogeneity in reactions to terroristic threats: those who express support for fujimorismo become comparatively more supportive of iron-fisted rule and less politically tolerant when exposed to the threat of violence. We conclude that Peru’s violent past has left indelible marks on public opinion in the post-confl ict era. The confl icts that ravaged Peruvian society and democracy in the 1980s and 1990s are reflected today in a unique public opinion landscape, one which stands apart from that found in other Latin American countries and contains important fissures in orientations toward the threat of terroristic violence and democratic values within the country.

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Violence, Democracy, and the Peruvian Public Sendero Luminoso surfaced at the very moment of Peru’s return to democratic electoral politics in 1980 when the group claimed responsibility for burning polling stations in Ayacucho. With intellectual roots grounded in a Maoist tradition, Sendero embarked on a campaign of terroristic acts. The Peruvian government and armed forces responded in an arguably tit-for-tat fashion to Sendero’s attacks, using a range of confrontational counterterrorist tactics and ultimately conspiring with paramilitary units in the confl ict. The confl ict reached a zenith in terms of fatalities in the mid-1980s, around the time that the government found itself on the defensive against both Sendero and the newly emerged MRTA. Economic and political problems, seriously aggravated by the domestic strife, fueled the presidential candidacy of political outsider Alberto Fujimori in 1989. Fujimori’s fi rst years in office witnessed an increase in the severity of the conflict, as paramilitary and guerrilla groups increased the brutality of their actions. Under the specter of terrorist, economic, and governance crises, in 1992 Fujimori took the extreme measure of executing an autogolpe, in which he shut down Congress, neutered the courts, suspended the constitution, and ruled by decree until, under international pressure, new elections were held for a constituent congress. Despite the government’s capture of Sendero Luminoso leader Abimael Guzmán that same year, the armed conflict with militant insurgents continued, peaking in 1997 with the MRTA’s attack on the Japanese Embassy, where they took hundreds hostage and kept seventy-two individuals captive for more than four months. The standoff ended when the armed forces stormed the embassy and killed all fourteen rebels. In 1999 the government won another victory against the guerrillas when Sendero’s second-in-command, Oscar Ramírez Durand, was captured. In 2000 Alberto Fujimori’s government came to an abrupt end under accusations of corruption and human rights abuses. Conflict with armed guerrilla movements in the 1980s and 1990s took a heavy toll on both the Peruvian population and its democracy. According to the Truth Commission report (CVR 2004), nearly seventy thousand individuals were killed as a result of the insurgency and counterinsurgency. Forty percent of dead and disappeared victims were from the department of Ayacucho, with another 45 percent spread across the departments of Junín, Huánuco, Huancavelica, Apurímac,

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and San Martín.1 Most of those killed were poor, less educated, rural, indigenous, young, and male: 38 percent of the victims were from the poorest quintile; 68 percent had less than a secondary education; 79  percent were from rural areas; 75 percent spoke Quechua or another indigenous language as their fi rst language; and most of the victims were young males.2 The government’s war against the guerrillas left the state responsible, directly or by association with paramilitary groups, for many deaths. The Truth Commission report indicates that agents affiliated with Sendero were responsible for most of the victims (54 percent), but state actors and tactics contributed to the death toll. The government’s willingness to side-step the rule of law and its apparent tolerance for collateral damage in the war against rebel groups led to accusations of human rights violations. Ultimately, Alberto Fujimori was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for his responsibility in two killings in Lima in the early 1990s, and Vladimiro Montesinos, Fujimori’s former main adviser, and several military officials were also condemned to prison for human rights abuses. Briefly put, both the functioning and quality of democracy decayed in serious ways during the 1980s and especially in the 1990s. The Peruvian state ultimately emerged victorious in its war against the guerrillas, as evidenced in the fact that the insurgents’ strength and efforts decreased substantially by the year 2000. But this victory came at a significant cost to Peru’s democracy. Following his autogolpe, Fujimori was reelected to the presidency in 1995 with 64 percent of the vote and maintained a presidential approval rating between 45 percent and 80 percent until the fi nal period of his presidency.3 In 1993, one-third of Peruvians identified terrorism as one of the most important problems in the country. Arce (2003) mentions that “the defeat of terrorism” was the second most important reason for reelecting Fujimori in 1995 and, even in 1999, 70 percent of Peruvians declared this was a reason for approving of Fujimori’s performance.4 After Fujimori’s resignation and exile in 2000, 57  percent expressed the opinion that he would be remembered in twenty years for defeating terrorism, but just 4 percent mentioned terrorism as an important problem for the country. In a systematic analysis, Arce (2003) fi nds that political violence (the number of “subversive actions”) can be a significant predictor of presidential approval in Peru, but it is negative for García (1985–1990) and positive for Fujimori (1990–1997). Thus, while guerrilla activity hurt García’s pop-

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ularity, Fujimori’s approval increased with insurgent actions. Arce argues this difference is due to public perception of state actors as either soft-liners (García) or hard-liners (Fujimori). Though the toll that terroristic violence took on Peruvian society and politics was extensive, the willingness of a population to trade civil liberties for security is not unique to Peru. As we have discussed in previous research (see Merolla et al. 2014), scholars have found that the mass public tends to accept greater restrictions on basic rights when exposed to terrorist threat (e.g., Davis and Silver 2004; Davis 2007; Huddy et al. 2005; Merolla and Zechmeister 2009). Some work also shows an elevated willingness among a threatened public to accept extralegal activities by security officers (Fernandez and Kuenzi 2010; Pérez 2003; Pérez 2009; Malone 2010; Malone 2013; Merolla, Mezini, and Zechmeister 2013; but also see Ceobano, Wood, and Ribeiro 2010). And in previous research we have shown a tendency for individuals in some countries to prefer a centralization of power in the executive under conditions of terrorist threat (Merolla and Zechmeister 2009). Today in Peru the topic of violent conflict remains salient, though it no longer is identified by more than a small portion of the public as the most important problem. Peruvians mentioned the fight against terrorism and narco-trafficking (a related issue) as reasons for their approval of García’s government in 2010, but the numbers are small (9 to 11 percent)5 in comparison with the percentage that mentioned these reasons for approving Fujimori’s government. While Peruvians may not be as concerned about terroristic violence, they do not think that the threat has completely receded and have been dissatisfied with the way the government is handling the issue. For example, in 2012, 66 percent of the public expressed the opinion that Ollanta Humala’s administration would not defeat terrorism prior to the end of his term in 2016,6 and 54 percent disapproved of his efforts on the issue.7 These concerns were likely fueled by sporadic incidents attributed to remnants of Sendero. Reflecting terrorism’s continued salience, knowledge of groups affiliated with terrorism remains high. In a September 2012 poll, 83 percent of individuals could correctly name the founder of Sendero Luminoso and 62 percent could identify the department where domestic terrorism emerged in the early 1980s.8 In this chapter we examine public opinion in Peru in the contemporary, post-confl ict period. As a fi rst objective, we seek to understand the legacies that the conflict has left in terms of worry about violence

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in the country. In Peru, as in many post-conflict societies, there is a debate over how memories of the conflict have persisted, and among whom (see Hamman et al. 2003; chapter 11 in this volume). We want to know whether concerns about terrorist attacks are higher in Peru than they are in other countries and, if so, then among which populations do we fi nd the highest levels of worry about violence? A key distinction we consider is between those with more or less connection to conflict-era violence. It is the case that in some areas of the country the conflict was more exacerbated, and certain demographic groups were more affected by violence during the conflict. Yet levels of worry and awareness about the confl ict may not necessarily be circumscribed to those who directly experience confl ict. For example, there is evidence that the memory of the Peruvian confl ict has spread to younger generations (but see chapter 11 of this volume). In Ayacucho, older individuals are a primary source of information about the political conflict for younger students (Muñoz-Nájar and del Pino 2012). In short, one potential mechanism for diffusion is conversations with older relatives who experienced the confl ict and communicate their knowledge, generating awareness and possibly concern in younger generations. As indicated above, extant evidence suggests that levels of awareness and worry may have decreased over time, but still remain salient.9 It is possible that over time concerns about terrorism have diffused across and taken root in locations and subgroups that were not particularly affected by conflict-era violence. Generally speaking, concerns among the public are likely heightened when particular incidents call up memories of the past, such as when remnants of Sendero Luminoso, acting through their affi liate MOVADEF (Movimiento por Amnistía y los Derechos Fundamentales), try to participate in political affairs, or when narco-traffickers in alliance with former guerrilleros attack police and military patrols or stations. The fact that current incidents can serve to heighten concerns about terroristic violence leads us to our second core objective, which is to assess the extent to which the heightened threat of violence in the postconflict era correlates with diminished democratic attitudes among the Peruvian public. Theoretically, we could expect one of at least two relationships: fi rst, it is possible that the legacy of the country’s experience with democratic decay in response to terrorist threats may leave the public numb to or unwilling to make such trade-offs in the modern time period; second, it is possible that the tendency for democratic attitudes to erode under conditions of threat persists as part of a univer-

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sal tendency. In addition to assessing the general reaction of the public, we look at subgroups within the public with respect to those who live in regions that were most affected, and with respect to those who continue to support the fujimorista political camp.

Worry about Violence in Peru We begin by assessing levels of worry about the threat of terroristic acts in Peru. Our data come from the 2010 AmericasBarometer by the Latin American Public Opinion Project (LAPOP).10 In those national surveys, citizens across the Americas were asked to report on their concerns about the possibility of violent terrorist attacks in their country and, as well, their worry about the possibility that they or a family member will be a victim of a terrorist attack. The specific wording of these two questions is as follows (with their original survey code in parentheses): 1. (WT1) How worried are you that there will be a violent attack by terrorists in [Country] in the next 12 months? Are you very, somewhat, a little, or not at all worried, or would you say that you have not thought much about this? 2. (WT2) How worried are you that you or someone in your family will become a victim of a violent attack by terrorists? Are you very, somewhat, a little, or not at all worried, or would you say that you have not thought much about this?

We recoded responses on a four-point scale, where a higher value indicates more worry. For the analyses here, we omit those who responded that they had not thought about it or otherwise did not answer the question. Notably, however, the mean proportion of those who had not thought about it for the eighteen Latin American countries as a whole (0.23 for WT1 and 0.22 for WT2) is higher than those found in Peru (0.15 for both WT1 and WT2). This is consistent with the notion that concerns about terrorism are more salient in Peru than in other countries in the region on average. Figure 10.1 presents average levels, for each country, for the two worry measures. Examining mean public opinion across the eighteen countries that are commonly considered to constitute Latin America, we fi nd that mean concerns about terroristic acts in general and with

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Figure 10.1. Mean worry about terroristic acts across countries. Source:

AmericasBarometer 2010; © AmericasBarometer, by LAPOP.

respect to personal victimization are 2.5, in each case, for the region.11 Thus, across Latin America as a whole, concerns about terrorism are moderate: the average response is between “a little” and “somewhat” worried. In Peru, however, these mean concerns each register at 2.9. In short, Peruvians are more worried about violent attacks than the average Latin American; the average response to each question in Peru is equivalent to “somewhat” worried on the question’s response scale. The differences between Peru’s average responses to these questions and the regional averages are statistically significant (p < 0.001). In terms of general worry about terrorist attacks, Peru ranks fourth among the Latin American countries; it trails just slightly behind Colombia, Ecuador, and Paraguay. In terms of concern about personal victimization, Peru ranks third in Latin America, just behind Ecuador and Colombia.12 While recent incidents, even if sparser than during the conflict era, likely play a role in the comparatively elevated levels of concern in Peru, it is also probable that current levels of worry in Peru are linked to experiences with political violence that took place decades ago, during the peak of the confl ict era. To the degree that is the case, then the evidence presented here provides some support for those who argue against the notion that Peru is a community without mem-

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ory of the past confl ict; that is, the results in figure 10.1 suggest that the past casts a shadow over public opinion in post-conflict era Peru, in the form of elevated levels of concern about the possibility of new violence perpetrated by terrorist groups in the country. What predicts concerns about violent attacks by terrorists in Peru? We consider a number of socioeconomic and demographic characteristics of individuals, paying particular attention to factors that distinguish those who were more affected by violence and those who were less affected during the conflict era. As noted above, victims of the terrorist conflict tended to be young, male, poor, indigenous, rural, and less educated. We consider age by creating a set of age cohort indicators that capture whether an individual was a young adult in 2010; was a young adult during the peak of the confl ict (we call this belonging to the “affected generation”); or belongs to the older cohort.13 In considering gender, it is important to take into account that there is a significant and wide-ranging body of evidence that women tend to express more concern about terrorist threats than men (e.g., Brück and Müller 2009; Friedland and Merari 1985; Huddy et al. 2005; Klar, Sharvit, and Zakay 2002; Lemyre et al. 2006; Nacos, Bloch-Elkon, and Shapiro 2011; Nellis 2009). Thus, while men were more affected in Peru, we expect women to be more concerned. We also include a measure of wealth,14 ideology,15 indigenous identity (the baseline is white identity, and we also include dummy variables for mestizo and other), rural residence, and education.16 In addition, we include a measure intended to capture the extent of the toll that past violence took in terms of fatalities in the province in which the individual lives.17 This measure is extracted from the records of the Truth Commission in Peru. We include a region measure that is coded as intervals of fatalities in the province in which the individual lives, where a higher value means a province with more deaths and disappearances. We use this measure in our models as a series of three dummy variables for regions (intervals) 2, 3, and 4; the comparison category is region (interval) 1.18 The number of fatalities increases with each region measure, with the fewest in region 1.19 The results of two OLS analyses, one for each dependent variable, are presented in figures 10.2 and 10.3. 20 For the analyses, all independent and dependent variables have been rescaled (via linear transformations) from 0 to 1 for ease of comparison and interpretation. The figures present the nonstandardized regression coefficients and a 90 percent confidence interval for each independent variable.

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Figure 10.2. Predicting general worry about violent attacks. Source: AmericasBarometer 2010 v14; © AmericasBarometer, by LAPOP.

Figure 10.3. Predicting personal worry about violent attacks. Source: AmericasBarometer 2010 v14; © AmericasBarometer, by LAPOP.

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Considering age fi rst, we see that those in the affected age cohort are more worried in general and with respect to personal victimization, in comparison to the younger cohort (and to some extent in comparison to the older cohort, which is indistinguishable from the younger cohort). Thus, there is evidence that the generation of individuals that was most intensely affected by the violent confl ict expresses greater levels of concern about the threat of terroristic acts in comparison to the rest of the Peruvian public. As anticipated, we fi nd that women are more worried about terrorist threats, a result that is consistent across both measures. We do not find significant results for wealth, rural residence, or ethnic identity, though, interestingly, the coefficients on the ethnicity dummy variables are all negative, suggesting that there may be some negligible tendency for those who identify as white (13 percent of the sample) to be more concerned about the threat of violent attacks by terrorists. The coefficient on education in both models is also negative; it falls outside of a standard boundary for statistical significance in the fi rst model (at p = 0.213) and is statistically significant in the second model (p = 0.017). This set of results supports the conclusion that those who are less educated are in some ways more worried about terrorist threat in Peru. Finally, the results by region are significant but perhaps somewhat counterintuitive: those who live in regions that were most affected with respect to fatalities are less worried than those who live in the least-affected region (the baseline category for the analysis). It seems that contemporary fear is greater where there is less immediately accessible information about past terrorist threats and experiences. This fi nding is in line with the fact that indigenous people, the most affected group by ethnicity, report (marginally) lower levels of worry. Yet the result seems to run counter to the fi nding that those who are less educated and those of the affected generation by age cohort are more worried. Collectively, then, the results speak to the complexity of the dynamics by which the public opinion legacy of the confl ict era has diffused across the population, taking root to a greater degree among some subgroups than in others. With respect to the fi nding on region of the country, it may be that those who live in regions that were previously affected are influenced by their direct observation of these regions in the contemporary time period, an experience that may leave them more certain of their current security than those who live at a distance from these places from which the past conflict sprang.

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The Relationship between the Threat of Violence and Democratic Values Worry about terroristic acts is not a static property: it ebbs and flows within and across a society over time. One factor that influences this dynamic is the content of media reports. As noted above, information periodically appears in the Peruvian news that raises the salience of terrorism. In addition to the news of actual violent incidents, discussion of organizations that are legacies of the confl ict era might heighten public awareness and concern about terrorism, as might news on contemporary crime and violence associated with narco-traffickers or other groups.21 Given that media stories can and do raise the salience of terrorism among the Peruvian public, we now turn attention to this question: what consequences does the threat of violence have for democratic public opinion in the post-confl ict period? Our basic contention is simple: fear of terrorist attacks and raising the salience of the threat of violence have consequences for the ways people think about others and about government. A chief objective of terrorism is to induce anxiety and fear, and extant research focused primarily on the United States shows clearly that the threat of terror significantly affects political attitudes, evaluations of leaders, and behaviors in ways that can place stress on democratic values, processes, and even institutions (Brooks and Manza 2013; Davis 2007; Huddy et al. 2005; Malhotra and Popp 2012; Merolla and Zechmeister 2009). While much of this research has been limited to a focus on specific values and preferences, in other work we argue and fi nd support for the contention that on average, worry about terroristic violence undermines individuals’ support for democracy and democratic practices across the Latin American region (Merolla et al. 2014). This line of research supports an expectation that worry about terrorist attacks will be associated with lower democratic values in Peru. Yet context may matter, and in a country that experienced a prolonged period of internal conflict, and in which the government was culpable for many casualties, and in which concerns about terrorist threats are quite elevated in comparison to other countries (thus potentially at a saturation point), we may fi nd that individuals either are not as perturbed by news of the threat of terroristic acts or even rally around democratic institutions. In this section we further develop these two rival expectations. As we have stated elsewhere, the threat of terrorism highlights indi-

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viduals’ inability to control external circumstances that threaten their fi nancial, psychological, or physical well-being (e.g., Merolla and Zechmeister 2009; see also Huddy et al. 2005). In attempting to reestablish feelings of control and safety, individuals may adopt one or more coping strategies that carry political consequences (Merolla and Zechmeister 2009). In particular, those in a condition of threat may become less trusting of others, more intolerant of out-groups, and more supportive of authority. Moreover, individuals might select to turn over control to a political actor, such as the chief executive, whom one deems capable of solving or handling the crisis. In the face of terrorist threats, individuals may come to prefer that the balance of power tilt decidedly in favor of a stronger executive, one who can then pursue a quick, unhindered resolution to the crisis. 22 These tendencies may also extend to the practice of the rule of law more generally, as individuals prioritize handling the threat, even if actors go outside the law. Existing scholarship demonstrates support for a negative relationship between the threat of terrorist attacks and support for democratic values. In the US context, those with high levels of worry about future terroristic acts are more willing to increase surveillance on Arabs and Arab Americans, increase security checks on Arab visitors, and decrease visas to Arab countries (see Huddy et al. 2005; Das et al. 2009; but see also Kalkan, Layman, and Uslaner 2009). They are also more willing to trade civil liberties for more security on a range of counterterrorism measures (e.g., Brooks and Manza 2013; Davis and Silver 2004; Davis 2007; Huddy et al. 2005; Malhotra and Popp 2012; Merolla and Zechmeister 2009). With respect to general measures of political tolerance outside of the United States, Merolla and Zechmeister (2009) fi nd that subjects exposed to a terror threat condition in Mexico are less willing to provide various rights to their least-liked group. Peffley, Hutchinson, and Shamir (2015) demonstrate a similar relationship between terrorist incidents and decreased political tolerance using the same type of measure over time in Israel. Finally, Merolla et al. (2014) show that individuals worried about terrorism in Latin America tend on average to be less politically tolerant. Empirical evidence connecting terror threats to support for a stronger executive and weaker support for democratic rules is more limited, but suggestive. In the US context, in the aftermath of 9/11, the US public became highly supportive of the administration in general and with respect to particular policies such as a unilateral foreign policy approach (Huddy et al. 2005) and “terrorist surveillance” programs,

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which have entailed wiretapping without approval from courts following the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (Brooks and Manza 2013; Malhotra and Popp 2012). In a systematic analysis of survey data from LAPOP, Merolla et al. (2014) show that individuals worried about terroristic acts are more supportive of strong leaders and iron-fisted leadership, and are more supportive of coups under certain circumstances. Some of these relationships have also been supported in experimental work. For example, Merolla and Zechmeister (2009) show that research participants in Mexico who read a news story about the threat of terrorist attacks expressed preferences for a stronger executive, compared to those who read an article highlighting relative well-being in that country.23 Taking stock of all of this scholarship, one could expect to fi nd similar linkages between worry about terrorist attacks and support for democracy in Peru. More specifically, individuals worried about violence may be less supportive of basic democratic values, such as political tolerance; less supportive of the democratic rules of the game; and more supportive of strong, unencumbered leaders. Raising the salience of the threat of terroristic acts may also lead to these outcomes. However, Peru’s particular historical context may condition how individuals react to the threat of violence. Two aspects of the Peruvian case make it unique. First, as shown in figure 10.1, mean scores of concerns about terroristic acts are comparatively high in Peru relative to other Latin American countries. One likely cause for these elevated concerns is that the remnants of Sendero Luminoso continue on occasion to carry out violent attacks, which may leave the public generally more anxious and essentially saturated in its exposure to the threat of violence. In fact, as evidenced in our earlier discussion of public opinion polls, we know that information about domestic terrorism is high in Peru. We may find in particular that when considering exposure to new information about terrorist threats, effects are muted because this information is introduced in a saturated context. 24 Second, Peru has had a unique experience—in comparison to other countries in the region—with respect to terrorist threats and democracy, particularly with President Fujimori’s temporary shutdown of the Congress and other governmental institutions in the context of terrorist and economic threats. While he was subsequently reelected, the tide of public opinion eventually turned against his administration, and he was sentenced for his complicit role in human rights abuses by Peruvian security forces. This history may have

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a sobering effect on Peruvian public opinion, inducing a resistance to nondemocratic options, and even possibly, at least for some individuals, a rally around some democratic values in the face of the threat of violent incidents.

The Relationship between Worry about Violence and Democratic Values: Survey Data To test the relationship between worry about terroristic violence and democratic values using the AmericasBarometer 2010 survey data for Peru, we fi rst combine the two measures of concern about terrorist attacks into a single additive index, Worry about Terrorism.25 We assess three democratic values: Anti–Iron Fist, Abide by Rule of Law, and Political Tolerance.26 These measures are based on the following questions and are rescaled to run from 0 to 1 so that higher values correspond to more democratic responses (original survey codes in parentheses): Anti–Iron Fist (Dem11): Do you think that our country needs a government with an iron fist (coded 0), or that problems can be resolved with everyone’s participation (coded 1)? Abide by Rule of Law (Aoj8): In order to catch criminals, do you believe that the authorities should always abide by the law (coded 1) or that occasionally they can cross the line (coded 0)? Political Tolerance Factor:27 1. (D1) There are people who only say bad things about the Peruvian form of government, not just the incumbent government but the system of government. How strongly do you approve or disapprove of such people’s right to vote? Please read me the number from the [original 1–10] scale. 2. (D2) How strongly do you approve or disapprove that such people be allowed to conduct peaceful demonstrations in order to express their views? 3. (D3) Still thinking of those who only say bad things about the Peruvian form of government, how strongly do you approve or disapprove of such people being permitted to run for public office? 4. (D4) How strongly do you approve or disapprove of such people appearing on television to make speeches?

Figure 10.4 shows the results for the Anti–Iron Fist analysis.28 In addition to including the Worry about Terrorism measure, we include as

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Figure 10.4. Predicting anti–iron fist attitudes. Source: AmericasBarometer

2010 v14; © AmericasBarometer, by LAPOP.

controls all variables that were accounted for in the previous analyses in this chapter. Because the dependent variable is dichotomous, we run a logistic regression analysis. The results show that those who are more worried about terroristic acts are less likely to select the anti–iron fist option, which prioritizes the notion of broad participation to solve problems. That is, the negative coefficient shows that those who are more worried are more likely to select the iron fist option. This fi nding is consistent with the framework suggesting terrorist threats increase support for a strong executive. We also see that, even controlling for worry about terrorism, the affected age cohort has a negative coefficient. This may suggest that this group is more likely to select the iron fist option in comparison to the younger age cohort, but the coefficient does not reach conventional levels of statistical significance (at p = 0.209). The oldest age cohort is more likely to choose the iron fist option than the younger age cohort. In this case, the coefficient is statistically significant (p = 0.003). The fact that the younger age cohort is comparatively more likely to select the democratic option is interesting, given other scholarship and fi ndings suggesting that young age groups in Latin America are more likely to express populist and related orientations that run counter to

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liberal democracy (e.g., Seligson 2007). 29 The results further show that (all else equal) those who are wealthy are more likely to select the anti– iron fist option. Interestingly, those who live in regions that experienced the highest degree of violence are also more likely to select the anti–iron fist option. The positive sign on the coefficient for region 4 (which included provinces with more than 250 deaths and disappearances, such as Huamanga, Huanta, and La Mar in Ayacucho) is robust to a model that includes only the region dummy variables. Figure 10.5 presents the results of a logistic regression analysis for the Abide by Rule of Law measure. Interestingly, we see here that worry about violence is significant but associated in a positive direction with this dependent variable. Those more worried about terroristic acts are more supportive of police abiding by the rule of law. Though this is speculation, we posit that it may suggest a concern among worried individuals that terrorism will be addressed with policies that encroach on civil and human rights in a manner consistent with the Fujimori era. It is noteworthy, in this regard, that the police represent one of the least-trusted institutions in Peru, scoring 38.5 points on a 0–100 trust scale in the 2014 round of LAPOP’s AmericasBarometer. In addition to the significant result for worry about terrorism, we fi nd that those who are more educated are less likely to respond that police should abide by the rule of law. This is also an interesting fi nding, in that it runs counter to perspectives that stem from a working-class authoritarianism framework (Lipset 1959). It may be that those who are lower on the socioeconomic scale are more likely to believe that their own rights will be negatively affected by police crossing the line.30 Finally, we turn to Political Tolerance. In this case, we run an OLS regression analysis. The results, presented in figure 10.6, show that worry about terrorism is negatively associated with political tolerance. The results mirror those we fi nd for the Anti–Iron Fist measure: those more worried about terroristic acts are less politically tolerant, while those who live in the most affected region are more politically tolerant. Again, we see that the younger age cohort (the baseline) tends toward being more democratic in its public opinion compared to the older cohorts (though the differences here are not statistically significant). In sum, in our analyses of survey data from the 2010 AmericasBarometer survey of Peru, we fi nd that worry about violent attacks by terrorists is significantly related to democratic public opinion on the three measures we consider here. The direction of this relationship

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Figure 10.5. Predicting abide by rule of law attitudes. Source: AmericasBarometer 2010 v14; © AmericasBarometer, by LAPOP.

Figure 10.6. Predicting political tolerance. Source: AmericasBarometer 2010 v14; © AmericasBarometer, by LAPOP.

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varies, such that those more worried about terrorism are more supportive of iron-fisted approaches to politics and less politically tolerant; yet, at the same time, those more worried about terrorism are less likely to support the police crossing the line to catch criminals.

The Relationship between the Threat of Terrorism and Democratic Values: An Experiment The survey data analyses provide insight into the ways in which concerns about terrorist threats are related to democratic values in the Peruvian public, but we are also interested in the causal effect that the specter of the threat of terroristic attacks has on public opinion. To assess the relationship between exposure to information about terrorism and democratic values in contemporary Peru, we need an experimental design. Therefore, and following our previous work (Merolla and Zechmeister 2009), we designed a survey experiment in which participants were randomly assigned to a control group, a condition in which they read either about good times in the country, or a condition that discussed domestic terrorism. They then answered a variety of questions on support for democracy. The sample was designed to be representative of the adult population in the metropolitan area of Lima.31 Table 10.1 presents a small set of descriptive statistics for the sample. The average respondent was forty years old, with twelve years of education. Half of the sample was female and 37 percent reported working full-time. Participants were fi rst consented into the research project. They then responded to a pretreatment survey that asked about their demographic and socioeconomic characteristics and their political predispositions. Subjects were then randomly assigned to one of the experimental conditions.32 Participants in the treated conditions were asked to read a news story and then to respond to two close-ended questions that asked them to recall two facts from that article (with the option to consult the news story as needed). All participants then responded to a set of questions asking about their emotional state (using questions recommended by Marcus et al. 2006). Finally, all subjects responded to a survey asking about their preferences regarding democratic politics, including institutions and values. The core feature of the experimental design is the set of short (around 400–500 words) news stories that were randomly assigned to treated

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Table 10.1. Selected experiment sample descriptives

Obs. Lima, Peru

760

Mean Working Percent education full-time (years) (%) Mean age female 40

50

12

37

Note: Values in the table are based on the entire study, which included two threat conditions that are not analyzed in this chapter.

subjects. These take two basic forms: a “good times” story or a domestic terror threat story. The intention of the good times story is to induce individuals to reflect on some positive indicators around the world and within the country rather than to think about current threats. It therefore serves as one potential baseline to examine: threat conditions compared to a context of relative well-being. Our other baseline for comparison is the control group. The information presented was drawn from actual sources but edited together by the authors. The good times treatment began with a statement that the country is “headed toward a time of increased well-being.” It referred to positive trends in areas such as education, the environment, and health in the country, as well in the world. The first paragraph ended with a note that, according to a recent survey, a “majority” of citizens of that country report “moderate to high levels of life satisfaction.” The next four paragraphs focused on positive information about education, the environment, advances in science (e.g., energy use), and general health and welfare. The fi nal paragraph read as follows: “In global surveys of happiness, most countries surveyed have experienced an increase in happiness over time. High levels of life satisfaction in Peru and around the globe make sense when viewed from the perspective of these and other indicators of well-being.”33 The domestic terror threat news story was modeled after those applied in our prior research (see Merolla and Zechmeister 2009). The fi rst paragraph referenced warnings that the country is “on the brink of experiencing a major terrorist attack” by domestic terrorist groups. The last sentence of that fi rst paragraph indicated that a “majority” of citizens of that country “are somewhat or very worried about the possibility of a violent terrorist attack.” The next paragraph talked about the increase in violence across regions in the country, and spe-

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270 A. Maldonado, J. L. Merolla, and E. J. Zechmeister

cifically referenced an attack in 2010 by Sendero Luminoso in Aucayacu. The third paragraph referenced the intention of domestic groups to continue to mount coordinated, lethal attacks on citizens in various public areas. The fourth paragraph referenced the risk of biological and chemical weapons, and a report of a terrorist group working with the materials required to make ricin. The fifth paragraph referenced a statement by a public official about the lethal intentions of terrorists: “Terrorists still have innocent people in their sights and the will to murder them. They are always working on the next attack, refi ning their methods.”34 Main Experiment Results We make use of two of the same measures that we analyzed in the survey analysis section: Anti–Iron Fist and Abide by Rule of Law. In the latter case we asked specifically about catching terrorists rather than criminals. The measures are coded such that a score of one is anti–iron fist and thinking that police should abide by the law, respectively, and zero otherwise. Figure 10.7 presents the proportion of individuals giving the democratic response across experimental conditions. The proportion of individuals giving the anti–iron fist response is 56 percent in the control group, 49 percent in the good times condition, and 58 percent in the domestic terror condition. We therefore see essentially no difference between the control and domestic terror group. If anything, we see a rally around democracy when comparing those in the domestic terror condition to the good times condition, though the difference between these two conditions is outside of conventional significance levels (p = 0.15). On the second measure, we do not observe any significant differences across conditions. In each case, roughly two-thirds of respondents think that police should abide by the law when catching terrorists. We also included several other indicators in the experiment on support for democratic values. In a factor analysis of these measures, we identified a factor that captures support for Democratic Security Values. The questions that loaded highly on this factor include (factor loadings in parentheses): if the police suspect that drugs, guns, or other criminal evidence is hidden in someone’s house, they should be allowed to enter without fi rst obtaining a search warrant (0.77); if a person is suspected of a serious crime, the police should hold him in

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Figure 10.7. Proportion preferring anti–iron fist and police abide by law, by

condition.

Figure 10.8. Mean support for democratic security values by condition.

jail until they can get enough evidence to charge him (0.81); and, it is a good idea for the government to keep a list of people who take part in demonstrations (0.60). Higher values on the factor indicate more disagreement and thus greater expression of liberal democratic values. In figure 10.8, we show the mean on the factor by experimental condition. Mean support for Democratic Security Values is higher in the control group (0.138) than in the domestic terror condition(-0.095), and this difference is statistically significant (p = 0.058). Somewhat surprisingly, mean support for democratic security values is also low

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272 A. Maldonado, J. L. Merolla, and E. J. Zechmeister

in the good times condition (–0.056), and there are no significant differences between this condition and the domestic terror condition. As with the survey analyses, we also assess attitudes related to political tolerance. In this case, to measure Political Tolerance, we rely on the method developed by Sullivan, Pierson, and Marcus (1982), in which respondents are fi rst shown a list of groups and asked to indicate which group they like the least (they can also fi ll in their own response). They are then asked the extent to which they agree or disagree on a seven-point scale that the group should: be allowed to protest against the government; be banned from running for political office; have their phones tapped by government. We recoded the measures such that higher values reflect more political tolerance, and figure 10.9 shows mean tolerance levels by experimental condition. We see that mean support for letting one’s most disliked group protest is higher in the domestic terror condition (3.59) compared to both the control group (3.36) and good times condition (3.38), though these differences are not statistically significant. With respect to letting the group run for office, we again fi nd no significant differences across experimental conditions, though on this measure mean support is lowest among those in the domestic terror condition (3.85). Finally, with respect to phone tapping, opposition is highest in the control group (4.89) and lowest in the domestic terror group (4.50), though this difference is outside of conventional significance levels (p = 0.195). Considering all three measures, in two of them there is a tendency for political tolerance to be lower in the domestic terrorism condition, though the effects do not reach statistical significance. Overall, when considering the effect of exposure to news about terrorist threats on democratic public opinion in Peru, the pattern of results differs from what we observed in the survey data. In the experiment, some results trend in a negative direction (that is, terrorist threats appear to lower democratic values in comparison to the control, good times condition, or both), but the only significant negative effect is with respect to democratic security values and its difference from the control condition. Weak main effects in the experimental data could be driven by one of several factors. First, public opinion in Peru may in general be relatively inoculated to information about terrorist threats, perhaps because such information has already saturated the population (recall the comparatively high levels of worry about terrorist attacks we fi nd in Peru relative to other countries). Second, inconsistency in the pattern of results we fi nd in the survey and experi-

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Figure 10.9. Mean political tolerance by condition.

ment data analyses could be driven by the different samples across the two studies as well as sample size. Since the experiment is based on a sample in a major metropolitan area, the sample is likely higher in socioeconomic status compared to the national sample used by LAPOP. Among such a group, we may fi nd in particular that the negative effects of threat register only among certain subgroups in the population. Thus, in the next section, we explore whether the domestic terror treatment has differential effects among those whose sympathies lie with Fujimori. The Moderating Effects of Fujimori Support Earlier, we identified two potential ways in which individuals in Peru may react to the threat of domestic terrorism. On the one hand, given historical experiences with violence in the country, they may resist democratic decay (or they could rally around democracy) when domestic terrorism is made salient. On the other hand, we may fi nd a negative effect of conditions of domestic threat on democratic attitudes. Which pattern of results we fi nd may depend on one’s political dispositions. We expect that the negative effects of domestic terrorism on support for democratic attitudes may be more likely among those with sympathy toward Fujimori, while a rally around democracy would be likely among those with antipathy toward Fujimori.

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Table 10.2. Effect of treatments and Fujimori proxy on support for democracy measures

Good times

Anti–iron fist

Abide by law

Security values

Support protest

Coef. (S.E.)

Coef. (S.E.)

Coef. (S.E.)

Coef. (S.E.)

Coef. (S.E.)

Coef. (S.E.)

−0.014 (0.193)

−0.213 (0.203)

−0.182 (0.157)

0.288 (0.391)

0.399 (0.422)

−0.314 (0.387)

Run for office No phone tap

Domestic terror

0.386** (0.190)

−0.219 (0.197)

−0.330** (0.153)

0.597* (0.364)

0.358 (0.395)

−0.049 (0.363)

Fujimori supporter

0.184 (0.216)

−0.443** (0.218)

−0.233 (0.169)

0.899** (0.455)

0.847* (0.488)

0.509 (0.447)

GT*Fuji

−0.214 (0.297)

0.432 (0.306)

−0.002 (0.238)

−0.778 (0.629)

−0.700 (0.672)

−0.115 (0.614)

DT*Fuji

−0.729** (0.302)

0.481 (0.310)

0.276 (0.246)

−1.108* (0.653)

−1.466** (0.697)

−1.042* (0.637)

0.611** (0.146)

0.232** (0.111)

3.045** (0.270)

Constant N R-squared

0.044 (0.136)

3.667** (0.293)

4.708** (0.269)

445

441

423

317

323

321

0.015

0.007

0.018

0.015

0.017

0.017

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Note: Given that Anti–Iron Fist and Abide by the Law are dichotomous, we use probit analysis. We use OLS for the other measures. *p ≤ .10 (two-tailed) **p ≤ .05

Public Opinion, Violence, and Democracy in Peru 275

We were not able to test for this relationship in the survey data given the lack of available measures. While we did not ask respondents in the experiment to evaluate Alberto Fujimori, we do have a few proxy measures with which to explore these expectations. First, we asked respondents to report their party identification, and fujimorista (Fuerza 2011/Partido Fujimorista) was one of the options. Second, we asked participants to rate Keiko Fujimori, the daughter of Alberto Fujimori and leader of the right-wing Fuerza 2011 Party on a ten-point feeling scale.35 We combine these two measures to create a dichotomous variable in which a one indicates that the respondent identifies as a fujimorista and/or has warm feelings toward Keiko Fujimori (6–10 on the scale). About 41.38 percent of the sample either identified as a fujimorista and/or registered warm feelings toward Keiko Fujimori.36 In the discussion of the results, we refer to respondents as either Fujimori supporters or nonsupporters. To test whether our Fujimori proxy variable moderates reactions to the domestic terror condition, we regress each of our dependent variables on dummy variables for the treatment conditions (with the control group as the baseline), the Fujimori proxy measure, and interactions between the treatment and the Fujimori proxy measure. A significant p-value on the interaction term indicates that there is support for a moderating relationship (Kam and Franzese Jr. 2007). The results across all of the dependent variables are depicted in table 10.2. We fi nd that the Fujimori support proxy has a significant moderating effect on the domestic terror condition for four out of the six measures: Anti–Iron Fist and the three Political Tolerance measures. We do not fi nd evidence of a moderating relationship for Abide by Rule of Law or for Democratic Security Values. For the latter, the domestic terror condition has a significant main effect only of reducing support for democratic security values relative to the control group. Since interaction terms are not directly interpretable, we calculate the effect of the domestic terror condition (relative to the control group) for Fujimori supporters and nonsupporters. With respect to anti–iron fist attitudes, we fi nd that those who do not support Fujimori in the domestic terrorism condition are more likely to select the anti– iron fist option relative to their counterparts in the control group, and this effect is statistically significant (p = 0.042). This is evidence of a rally around democracy for this group. In contrast, Fujimori supporters in the domestic terror condition are more likely to fall into the iron fist category relative to their counterparts in the control group, though

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A. Maldonado, J. L. Merolla, and E. J. Zechmeister

Figure 10.10. Effect of the domestic terrorism condition relative to the

control group, by Fujimori support proxy.

this effect is just outside of conventional significance levels (p = 0.14). The general pattern of these results supports our expectations for the two groups. In figure 10.10, we graph the coefficient on the domestic terror condition (relative to the control group) for supporters and nonsupporters of Fujimori on the tolerance measures. With respect to the protest measure, we again see a rally around democracy among those who do not support Fujimori when exposed to the domestic terror condition. They become just over a half unit, 0.597, more supportive of allowing their disliked group to protest relative to their counterparts in the control group, and the effect is statistically significant (p = 0.10). For Fujimori supporters, we instead see a negative effect of the domestic terror condition relative to the control group (–0.511), though the effect is not statistically significant (p = 0.347). For the running for office measure, we again see a positive effect of the domestic terror condition among those who do not support Fujimori, though the effect is not significant (p = 0.366). We fi nd a negative effect of the domestic terror condition among Fujimori supporters, who become more than a full unit less tolerant (–1.107), and this effect is statistically significant (p = 0.055). We fi nd the same basic pattern for the question on opposition to tapping the phones of one’s disliked group. There is no signif-

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Public Opinion, Violence, and Democracy in Peru 277

icant effect for the domestic terror condition among those who do not support Fujimori, but those who do support Fujimori become over a full unit (–1.091) less tolerant compared to their counterparts in the control group, and this effect is significant (p = 0.038). In sum, on a subset of the democratic values indicators assessed here, we fi nd evidence of the negative effects of increasing the salience of domestic terrorism among those who identify as fujimoristas and/or have warm feelings toward Keiko Fujimori. Meanwhile, those who do not identify as fujimoristas and/or have cool feelings toward Keiko Fujimori display a tendency to rally around democracy when exposed to the domestic terror condition, at least with respect to becoming more opposed to iron-fisted leadership and more supportive of the rights of their disliked group to protest.

Conclusion What is the state of public opinion with respect to the threat of violence and support for democracy in contemporary, post-confl ict Peru? We fi nd, fi rst, that concerns about the potential for terroristic acts are more elevated in Peru than in the average Latin American country. This comports with survey data that documents that Peruvians tend to be very aware of the country’s recent history with Sendero Luminoso and other groups associated with domestic terrorism campaigns. While the issue is no longer as relevant to assessing the job performance of the incumbent president as it was during the Fujimori era, Peruvians remain aware of and concerned about terrorist groups. While we suspect that the relatively higher concern about terrorism in Peru is driven in part by continued violent incidents in recent years (though they have been limited in scope and number), we also suspect that some of this fi nding may be driven by what anthropologists and others would refer to as “collective memory” of the confl ict era. One way or another (either because of continued, if infrequent, incidents and/or a diffusion of memory), one legacy of the confl ict era is heightened concern about the possibility of new terrorist attacks in contemporary Peru. Perhaps in part because of the relatively high mean (and low variation) in worry about violent attacks by terrorists, we do not find many significant predictors of these concerns. Yet we do fi nd that those who were young during the peak of the Sendero period tend to be more

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278 A. Maldonado, J. L. Merolla, and E. J. Zechmeister

worried than the current young cohort and, at the same time, that those in regions that were more affected tend to be less worried than those from regions that saw little violence. This suggests important heterogeneity in considerations of threat by individuals both within and across regions in Peru. Contrary to those who think that citizens in Peru are involved in a “pact of silence” about tragic events in those years (see discussions in del Pino 2008 and Rénique 2012), we suggest that elevated levels of worry about violence indicate the presence of a memory of the confl ict in public opinion in Peru, but one that has diffused in complex ways across regions and subgroups. Second, we fi nd that there is a tendency in the mass public for concerns about terrorist attacks to be associated with greater preference for iron-fi rst rule and lower levels of political tolerance. This association fits with the general theoretical framework that we have presented in other work on the threat of terrorism and public opinion, which suggests that individuals tend to favor centralization of power in a strong executive and to become less tolerant in the face of terrorism (Merolla and Zechmeister 2009). Interestingly, we fi nd that attitudes about rule of law (specifically, the police crossing the line) are not connected to terrorist threats in the same way; rather, in this case, those concerned about terrorism are more inclined to prefer that the police respect the rule of law. It could be that the association between the war on terrorism and human rights abuses by Peru’s security forces has left those worried about violence resistant to a solution that sets the police loose in confronting the threat. Third, we fi nd that exposure to a news story about domestic terrorist threats in Peru has only minor direct effects on public opinion in the capital, only decreasing support for democratic values related to security. It may be that the relative salience of the topic, spurred on by occasional news stories in Peru, creates a situation in which the public is relatively inoculated against exposure to information about terrorist threats. That is, reactions may have preceded our treatment in this saturated environment, and thus little direct effect is found (Druckman and Leeper 2012). The survey data evidence is in line with this interpretation. Results indicate that less-affected regions, such as Lima, are where citizens express elevated levels of worry in comparison with more-affected regions. Of course, it may also be that few significant effects are found because of the particular sample and its relatively small size. When we drill down another level in the experiment data, we do fi nd that those who fall in line with Fujimori react differently

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Public Opinion, Violence, and Democracy in Peru 279

to news about terrorist threats in comparison to those who are not supportive of the Fujimori political camp. That is, we fi nd that exposure to news about terrorist threats tends to lead those who are antiFujimori to express more democratic attitudes on several measures (anti–iron fist and one political tolerance measure), while the reverse is the case for fujimorismo proponents (across almost all of the tolerance measures). This provides strong evidence of an important public opinion divide in contemporary Peru, with some who favor addressing terrorist threats through more authoritarian measures and others advocating the opposite. We conclude that Peru’s experience with Sendero Luminoso and other violent groups, coupled with the democratic decay that came to characterize the government’s war against terrorism, has left important and unique imprints on public opinion. Public concerns are comparatively heightened, though more so among particular groups and in particular regions than others. Those who are more worried display relatively greater tendencies toward favoring iron-fisted rule and less political tolerance, but also more respect for the rule of law. And exposure to information about terrorist threats leads to distinct reactions among those in the pro- and anti-Fujimori camps.

Appendix: Compliance and Manipulation Checks We included two types of questions that allowed for compliance and manipulation checks on the experimental design: a set of questions focused on information about the news stories and another set focused on emotions. We fi rst wanted to measure the extent to which individuals were paying attention to the newspaper articles. We therefore included questions about facts from the news stories that were presented. Following presentation of the news stories, respondents in the treated conditions were asked two close-ended questions about the articles. During this time, they were offered the chance to return to the article as needed. The fi rst question asked whether, according to the news story, more or less than half of citizens are moderately to highly satisfied with their lives (for the good times condition) or are worried about the possibility of a terrorist attack (the threat condition). The correct answer is more than half. The second question asked whether, according to the news story, global air quality has improved or deteriorated in the past de-

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A. Maldonado, J. L. Merolla, and E. J. Zechmeister

cade (for the good times condition) or about the location of a terrorist attack referenced in the news story (for the threat condition). The correct answer for the former is improved; for the latter, respondents were asked to select between two choices, one correct and one incorrect. We then created an Information Acquisition score (0, 1, or 2) for each individual by tallying the number of correct responses they gave to the two questions we asked following exposure to the treatment. A mean of 2 would indicate perfect compliance with the treatment. We fi nd much higher compliance among those exposed to the domestic terror condition (mean = 1.47) compared to those in the good times condition (mean = 0.82).37 That recall was higher for the threat conditions is consistent with research suggesting that negative events and threats elicit heightened attention and information-seeking (see discussion in Merolla and Zechmeister forthcoming); however, it could also be that respondents resisted the information in the good times condition. To assess the extent to which the treatments successfully induced the expected emotional reactions (more negative for those in the threat condition versus more positive for those in the good times and control conditions), we examine a set of emotions questions. Following the treatments (or not, in the case of the control condition), respondents were presented with a series of emotions and asked, for each one, to “indicate to what extent you are feeling this way right now” on a five-point scale. Since we needed to use a reduced battery given space constraints, we followed the advice of Marcus et al. (2006) and used the markers Watson identified as most reliable: Afraid, Anxious, Worried, Enthusiastic, Hopeful, Proud, Hatred, Contempt, Bitterness, and Resentful. We performed a principal components factor analysis on the ten questions and ran differences in means tests between the terror threat condition and the control and good times condition for each factor. We fi nd three factors with an eigenvalue over 1, one on which positive emotions load highly, one on which emotions related to fear load highly (Afraid, Anxious, Worried), and one on which emotions related to anger load highly (Hatred, Contempt, Bitterness, and Resentful). As expected, we fi nd that those in the domestic terrorism condition are angrier (mean = 0.105) and more fearful (mean = 0.082) than those in the control group (mean for anger = 0.009; mean for fear = –0.059) and good times condition (mean for anger = −0.116; mean for fear = –0.025).38 Furthermore, they are less positive (mean = −0.076) than individuals in the control group (mean = 0.074; p = 0.10, one-

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Public Opinion, Violence, and Democracy in Peru 281

tailed) and good times condition (mean = 0.003; p = 0.26, one-tailed). These results affi rm the effectiveness of the treatments in inducing negative emotions in the threat condition relative to the control group or good times conditions.

Notes An earlier version of this chapter was presented as a paper at the Legacies of Political Violence in Contemporary Peru Conference, May 19–20, 2014, David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies (DRCLA), Harvard University. We are grateful for feedback from the participants, the volume editors, and the anonymous reviewers. Support for some of this project was granted from the National Science Foundation (Award IDs 0850824 and 0851136). 1. These departments are in the Andean region, with the exception of San Martín, which is in the Amazon area. 2. Fifty-six percent worked in agricultural activities. Comparing these statistics to the broader population, the 1993 national census registered that just 29 percent of Peruvians lived in rural areas and 28 percent worked in the agricultural sector. The 1993 national census registered that just 16 percent of the population spoke Quechua or another indigenous language. 3. All public opinion data in this section come from Ipsos-Perú databases. We used the “Opinión Data Plus” search engine to look for “terrorismo” and “violencia política” descriptors and identified information from polls from January 1999 to August 2013. Some of these polls are based on representative samples of Lima and some others represent all of Peru. We present in this section what we consider the most relevant fi ndings from our review of available public opinion data. 4. Ipsos Perú, data from a poll representative of Lima of June 1999, extracted from Opinión Data Plus. Percentage is of those who expressed approval of Fujimori’s government. 5. Ipsos Perú, data from polls representative of Lima from August 2010 to April 2011, extracted from Opinión Data Plus. Percentages are of those who expressed approval of García’s government. 6. Ipsos Perú, data from a national poll of February 2012, extracted from Opinión Data Plus. 7. Ipsos Perú, data from a national poll in October 2012, extracted from Opinión Data Plus. 8. Ipsos Perú, data from national poll in September 2012, extracted from Opinión Data Plus. 9. This topic has been recently salient because of two publications: Los Rendidos (Agüero 2015) and Memorias de un Soldado Desconocido (Gavilán 2012). These books have received broad media attention, and the aca-

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282 A. Maldonado, J. L. Merolla, and E. J. Zechmeister

demic community has intensely discussed them (see Saucier 2015; Torres 2015; González Cueva 2015; and Pajuelo et al. 2013). 10. We are grateful to LAPOP and its major supporters (the US Agency for International Development, the United Nations Development Program, the Inter-American Development Bank, and Vanderbilt University) for making the data available. The AmericasBarometer surveys are conducted via face-toface surveys in respondents’ homes on the basis of a complex national sample; our analyses in this chapter account for the complex sample design by use of Stata’s svy command and weights provided by LAPOP. 11. In calculating regional averages, we weight all countries to an equal size, a decision that reflects our belief that countries are an appropriate unit of analysis. An alternative is to weight countries by population, but then mean values reflect the public opinion of the most populous countries. 12. While the means vary just at the margins, a series of difference of means tests affi rms that the mean values in the countries that rank higher than Peru are statistically distinct from that registered in Peru (at p < 0.001). 13. In our analyses individuals aged 18 to 37 are considered part of the contemporary young cohort and serve as the baseline, those aged 38 to 67 are part of the affected cohort, and those aged 68 to 87 are part of the older age cohort. 14. The wealth measure is constructed based on responses to questions about ownership of household items. It reflects quintiles of wealth. For more information on this measure, see Córdova 2009. 15. Ideological self-placement is measured on a 1 to 10 scale, where 1 means “left” and 10 means “right.” 16. The education measure captures four cohorts: none, primary, secondary, or higher. 17. The data on deaths and disappearances capture individual fatalities. In each case, the province and district where the criminal acts occurred are reported. We aggregate data at the province level and input it into the AmericasBarometer data set. As such, individuals in the AmericasBarometer data set are tagged to the reported number of dead and disappeared people in their provinces. We do not aggregate and input data at the district level because it increases missing cases; for individuals in the AmericasBarometer data set for whom there is no information at the district level on the numbers of dead and disappeared people, there is information at the province level. 18. We have classified regions according to the number of dead and disappeared people that occurred in a province. We have divided the data into four groups according to quartiles: provinces with fewer than 10 victims (21 provinces, 30.6 percent of observations), provinces with 11 to 70 victims (17 provinces, 19.3 percent of observations), provinces with 71 to 250 victims (9 provinces, 8.7 percent of observations), and provinces with more than 251 victims (8 provinces, 41.5 percent of observations). Region 1 is the group with provinces with the least number of victims and serves as the baseline. In the LAPOP 2010 data, 414 individuals reside in region 1; 261 in region 2; 118 in region 3; and 562 in region 4. Individuals residing in regions not cov-

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ered by the statistics in the Truth Commission are dropped from the analysis (n = 145). 19. As a check, we logged the variable that gauges number of victims because it is highly skewed. We ran models using the logged variable, and results are robust to the fi ndings presented here (that is, they are significant and have negative signs). 20. We present results from OLS analyses for the sake of easy interpretation of the results; the results are robust to ordered probit analyses. 21. Often a direct connection is made between terrorism and narco-trafficking and related activities. For example, in the summer of 2015, the president’s party introduced a bill in the Peruvian Congress that connected the contemporary climate of crime victimization, narco-trafficking, and insecurity to a proposal to make “sicariato” (murder by hire) a crime that can be prosecuted under antiterrorism laws. 22. This discussion draws from our previous work, including Merolla et al. 2014. 23. At the same time, they did not fi nd a similar effect in their US 2007 study; thus, it is not always the case that terror threat will compel citizens to be willing to cede extra institutional power to the executive. An important and growing body of scholarship supporting a link between security issues and support for democracy focuses on common crime; a number of scholars have found links between citizens’ feelings of safety regarding neighborhoodrelated crime and their opinions about democratic values, processes, and institutions (e.g., see Fernandez and Kuenzi 2010; Pérez 2003; Malone 2010; Malone 2013; Merolla, Mezini, and Zechmeister 2013; but also see Ceobano, Wood, and Ribeiro 2010). 24. Yet note that Peffley, Hutchinson, and Shamir (2015) fi nd negative effects of terrorism on tolerance in Israel, a context characterized by persistent terrorist threats. 25. The measures are correlated at Pearson’s 0.71. 26. We select these dependent variables because we have the same or similar indicators in the experiment data that we present later in this chapter. 27. In the Peru data set, the Cronbach’s alpha score for these four variables is 0.87. 28. The confidence intervals are set at p < 0.10, two-tailed; the variables are all scaled 0 to 1. The constants are not depicted in the graphs for the logistic regressions, but they are available from the authors along with all raw output from regressions and other analyses conducted for this chapter. 29. The results are robust to a simple model that regresses the anti–iron fist measure on the age cohort dummy variables. 30. The results for Worry about Terrorism and Education are robust to models that include only these individual independent variables, respectively. 31. The Instituto de Opinión Pública at Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú carried out the survey from August 18 to August 31, 2012. They interviewed 760 people in Lima in a face-to-face survey using a complex representative sample of voting-age adults, with selection at the household based on gender and age quotas that mirror census statistics. The survey has a +/− 5

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percent margin of error. The experiment was designed by two of the chapter’s authors (Merolla and Zechmeister) and its implementation was overseen in the field by the other author (Maldonado). 32. Random assignment was achieved by numbering the paper questionnaires, randomly drawing those numbers to generate a random order, and then reordering the questionnaires according to that order prior to going into the field. We also had conditions related to international terrorism, but we focus here on the treatments most relevant for this chapter. 33. Contact the authors for the full texts to the news stories. 34. The experiment instrument contained several checks for compliance and manipulation. We report on these in the appendix. 35. This question was asked post-treatment, but the experimental conditions had no effect on evaluations of Keiko Fujimori. 36. 38.21 percent of the sample registered warm feelings toward Keiko, while 11.1 percent identified with the fujimorista party option. If we run the analyses with these measures separated, the pattern of results is the same. 37. The difference between these two conditions is statistically significant at p < 0.001. 38. The differences between the domestic terror condition and the control group are significant for fear (p = 0.10, one-tailed) but not significant for anger (p = 0.22, one-tailed). The differences between the domestic terror condition and the good times condition are significant for anger (p = 0.03, onetailed) but not significant for fear (p = 0.18, one-tailed).

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CHAP T ER 11

Contested Memories of the Peruvian Internal Armed Conflict Paulo Drinot

As the 2016 presidential elections showed, the Internal Armed Conflict (IAC) and the contested memories that reflect, and shape, its legacies, remain at the heart of political contestation in Peru. During the fi rst round of elections the fujimorista campaign mobilized a familiar narrative of the confl ict and of the role of Alberto Fujimori in the defeat of the Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso, or SL). The anti-fujimorista movement, which, as in previous elections, played a key role in the electoral process, countered with its own narrative of the confl ict and challenged the notion that Fujimori alone was responsible for the defeat of SL. Instead, it stressed the authoritarian and corrupt nature of the Fujimori regime, warning that a victory for Fujimori’s daughter, Keiko, would return Peru to its darkest days. The fujimorista campaign replied by accusing its critics, and particularly the members of the leftwing coalition the Frente Amplio, of being “terrucos” (see Aguirre 2011). As this suggests, contested memories of the IAC are evident in Peruvian political life today, twenty-five years after the SL leader, Abimael Guzmán, was arrested and the conflict began to unravel. In this chapter, I argue that these contested memories are one of the key struggles over the legacies of Peru’s Internal Armed Confl ict. These contested memories are evident in ongoing debates over El ojo que llora (The Eye That Cries), a monument in a park in central Lima that memorializes the victims of Peru’s IAC, one of the most emblematic post-confl ict legacies. In this chapter, I examine the ways in which the monument serves as a point of departure for online debate on Peru’s “time of fear” by studying several cyberfora, particularly YouTube videos, which operate as websites of memory. I show that El ojo que llora monument has come to function as a synecdoche (a part

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that stands for the whole) of the Final Report of the 2001 Truth and Reconciliation Commission (CVR), but also, arguably, as its simulacrum, a site where the CVR’s report is commemorated but also where adherence to its principles and recommendations can be manifested and performed, as well as challenged. Because of this double function as synecdoche and simulacrum, El ojo que llora has become a privileged site in which ongoing contestation over the IAC, and particularly over how, and indeed if, the IAC should be remembered, takes place. While some of this contestation occurs at the physical site of El ojo que llora, much more occurs in other media and fora, not least in cyberspace. Both as synecdoche and as simulacrum, El ojo que llora expresses remarkably well the post-history of the CVR Final Report. Although it is only one of many monuments and sites of memory in Peru, El ojo que llora is the most emblematic of all.1 But it is not an “official” site of memory. It is used by human rights groups and victim-survivor associations, but not by government authorities. To the best of my knowledge, no serving or past president has visited the memorial, let alone used it as the site of an official act. In this sense, the memorial’s fate since its construction reflects government attitudes toward the CVR Final Report which express, at best, neglect, and at worst, hostility. 2 In this sense Peru is different from Chile and Argentina, where under Lagos and Bachelet and the Kirchners respectively, the state took an active, indeed official, if far from uncontroversial or unproblematic, position in relation to human rights abuses of the past and the politics of memory (see, for example, Collins 2011; Collins, Hite, and Joignant 2013; Lessa 2013; Allier Montaño and Crenzel 2015). As such, the memory battles that are fought in, and over, El ojo que llora take place against the backdrop of state silence regarding the violent past. This is not a position of neutrality. It is a position that not only enables but arguably strengthens memory projects which are explicitly anti-CVR. But it is a position made possible because there is limited demand among the Peruvian population for the CVR’s repertoires of memory, that is to say, for the range of narratives about, and interpretations of, Peru’s IAC put forward in the Final Report of the CVR.3 In the context of the 2016 elections, the contested memories of the IAC were thrust into the political arena, as noted. Yet most of the time, these memories are not fully visible and only occasionally bubble to the surface. As I will discuss in this chapter, and as I have discussed in greater detail elsewhere, these contested memories reflect incommen-

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surable views about the causes of Peru’s internal confl ict, the responsibilities and culpabilities of different actors for the violence, and how Peruvian society must manage the post-conflict phase (Drinot 2009). But they are not part of an open or official reckoning with the past. In part this reflects the fact, as the CVR report showed, that the victims of the conflict were marginal to Peruvian society: they were predominantly poor, rural, and Quechua-speaking. Despite the efforts of human rights and victim-survivor groups, these victims had or have today little political leverage, which is not to say that they exist outside of politics. The weakness of the Peruvian Left, arguably the natural political channel for these victims’ claims for recognition and reparation, has lowered the visibility of the victims and, more generally, the visibility of the conflict itself in post-confl ict Peru (see chapter 8 of this volume). For this reason, though presidential elections can generate renewed attention from the general population regarding how the violent past is remembered, in the absence of either state interest in addressing the violent past, or political movements or civil society groups with sufficient political leverage to place the unresolved legacies of the violent past and its victims on the political agenda, the battles for memory in Peru, with few exceptions, do not translate into concerted state policies. Nor do they generate sustained interest among the population at large. And yet, as I will show, these contested memories and the antagonism that they generate in those who engage in Peru’s politics of memory are clearly essential to understand the broader post-confl ict legacies of the IAC. The memory struggles that I discuss in relation to El ojo que llora express not only incommensurable views about the violent past but also incommensurable views of the present and the future that are in turn reflected in the politics of Peru today, not least in the ways in which contested memories of the IAC are operationalized in the politics of fujimorismo and anti-fujimorismo.

El ojo que llora and the Memorialization of Peru’s IAC Although the Cold War shaped the experience of violent confl ict throughout Latin America, in Peru, unlike in the Southern Cone in the 1960s and 1970s and Central America in the 1980s, it occurred in a context, the 1980s and 1990s, in which the country was exiting from a period of dictatorship.4 As such, the Peruvian IAC is relatively sui ge-

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neris within Latin America. The IAC included several armed actors, including the insurgent groups SL and MRTA, the Peruvian armed forces, and peasant self-defense committees, which played a decisive role in the outcome of the war. It was broadly national in scope, although concentrated primarily in the southern Andean region and in the shanty towns of Lima. However, though it had a nationwide impact, scholars of the IAC have shown that at the local level, and particularly in Ayacucho, which bore the brunt of the violence, the IAC was shaped by conflicts both between and within Andean indigenous communities. These confl icts, between pro-SL and anti-SL communities, or between pro-SL and anti-SL individuals within communities, refracted and reproduced in a new, vastly more violent register the conflicts over land, power, and influence that often antedated the SL insurgency. Elsewhere, and particularly in Lima, the confl ict took on other, equally complex, dynamics which scholars are only beginning to uncover.5 The CVR was set up in 2001 to investigate the causes and nature of the IAC and to report on human rights violations that took place in the period from 1980 to 2000. It published its multivolume Final Report in 2003. The CVR concluded that the Internal Armed Conflict had produced a far greater number of victims, some sixty-nine thousand in total, than had previously been thought. It blamed SL for the highest percentage of the violence, above that committed by the armed forces or the self-defense committees, or indeed by the MRTA.6 It also was highly critical of the actions and inactions of the governments of Fernando Belaunde, Alan García, and Fujimori, of political parties of the Left and the Right, and of several institutions, including the Catholic Church. But it also accounted for the violence by framing it in a sociohistorical analysis that stressed the ways in which Peru’s deep and intersecting inequalities based on ethnicity, class, and gender were reflected in and reproduced through the violence. The CVR made several recommendations, including personal and collective reparations and prosecution of cases of human rights abuses, which have largely been ignored by successive governments (Macher 2014; Huber and del Pino 2015). However, the arrest, trial, and imprisonment of former President Alberto Fujimori and of his intelligence chief, Vladimiro Montesinos, as a well as of some high-ranking military officers, on charges of human rights abuses (as well as corruption) in the late 2000s was a significant victory for Peru’s human rights community (see Burt 2009a and R. Gamarra 2009).

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The CVR’s report became the object of intense criticism and remains a matter of contention. Some of the criticism, largely wrongheaded, focused on the methodology used for calculating the number of victims. Some, mostly from the Left, criticized the CVR’s report for attributing the largest number of victims to SL and not the armed forces. However, the bulk of the criticism focused on the CVR’s supposed inherent bias. Even though the composition of the commissioners reflected diverse political opinions, right-wing commentators, from members of Acción Popular (Belaunde’s party) to former president García to newspaper columnists such as Aldo Mariátegui have accused the CVR of being “caviar,” by which they imply that it merely reflected left-wing opinion, and even terruco sympathies. Similarly, even though the armed forces were represented on the commission, the military, both institutionally and in the personal capacity of several high-ranking officers, has questioned the legitimacy of the CVR and produced its own accounts of the confl ict (Milton 2018). The Catholic hierarchy too, and particularly Cardinal Juan Luis Cipriani, was hostile to the CVR and its report. However, it is within the ranks of fujimorismo that the hostility to the CVR is greatest. Fujimoristas have accused the CVR of being inherently biased against Fujimori and of whitewashing the crimes of SL and the MRTA.7 Far from providing an account of the IAC around which a consensual memory of the violence and a politics of reconciliation could be built, as originally intended, the CVR and its Final Report have been thrust regularly into the very center of the politics of memory and, indeed, into the center of politics itself, serving as an issue that is regularly mobilized and operationalized politically by those who support its fi ndings, primarily the Left and human rights organizations, and those who oppose it, primarily fujimoristas but also other right-wing members of what Vergara and Encinas refer to in chapter 9 as a “conservative archipelago.” It is, itself, a contested site of memory, as is, indeed, the memorial El ojo que llora, which, as I have suggested, has acted more than any other memory site as both synecdoche and simulacrum of the CVR’s Final Report.8 Designed by the recently deceased Dutch-born Lima resident artist Lika Mutal, the memorial consists of a large central rock from which water spurts, surrounded by small stones arranged in a way that forms paths around the central rock, on which are engraved the names of over thirty thousand victims of the violence. The memorial, part of the symbolic reparations envisaged by the CVR, has been the site of regular commemorations of the publica-

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tion of the Final Report of the CVR and other activities organized by human rights and victim-survivor organizations. In late 2006, Peru’s right-wing press criticized the memorial for including the names of Shining Path members killed during a police raid on Castro Castro prison, where they were being held (see Aguirre 2013; Feinstein 2014). The controversy was sparked by a ruling issued by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, which ordered the Peruvian state to include the names of these senderistas, now considered “victims,” in the memorial. However, it soon was discovered that the names of the senderistas already were featured in the memorial, since they had been added to a list of names given to Lika Mutal by human rights organizations. In late September 2007, El ojo que llora memorial was again the scene of controversy when it was attacked during the night. The attackers threw orange paint on the central rock and on the stones and battered the monument with a sledgehammer. The attack followed the decision of the Chilean authorities to extradite Fujimori to Peru to face human rights and corruption charges. In 2000, facing allegations of corruption and malfeasance, Fujimori had fled the country and taken refuge in Japan. Why he decided to travel to Chile remains unclear, but his arrest, extradition to Peru, and eventual trial and sentencing was a landmark process. Fujimoristas continue to claim that Fujimori’s conviction was a sham. Typically, they blame human rights organizations and what they call the “caviar” class for his wrongful imprisonment. Fujimori, they insist, saved Peru from SL, and that he is a hero, not a criminal. As this suggests, and as I have argued elsewhere (Drinot 2009), the attack on and defacement of El ojo que llora, and the debates that surrounded the memorial in 2006 and 2007, reflected the tensions between two antagonistic and mutually exclusive narratives of the IAC: a fujimorista “memory of salvation,” and a “human rights memory” initially mobilized by human rights organizations and later largely reproduced in the CVR report. These narratives, in turn, are expressive of different ontologies of violence, i.e., of different interpretations of (1) the causes of the violence, (2) the responsibilities and culpabilities of different actors in the confl ict, and (3) how Peruvian society must manage the post-conflict phase. These narratives of the IAC are not the only ways Peruvians remember the confl ict, as many scholars have shown. The range of engagements with the violent past discernible in Peruvian society cannot be neatly reduced to a human rights repertoire of memory and a fujimorista repertoire of memory. Nevertheless,

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these conflicting memories or narratives of the violent past are routinely mobilized and operationalized. As such, they shape both how the violent past is remembered and, in particular, how that past is politicized, as the recent 2016 elections demonstrated. I will discuss this in greater detail later in this chapter with regard to El ojo que llora’s cyber projection. As Cynthia Milton has noted, “the socio-political opening that gave rise to the CVR also created other spaces for public discussion that were previously unavailable, thus allowing for alternative media of ‘truth-telling’: for instance, visual and performance art, memory sites, cinema, stories, humor, rumor and song” (2009, 64–65). The study of such media as a means to explore how Peruvians make sense of their recent violent past has produced an expanding and sophisticated literature. Scholars working in several disciplines have turned their attention to cultural artifacts such as novels, films, photography, plays, comics, song and other music forms, art, and testimony in order to access and analyze the construction of personal and collective memories of the violent past.9 Such studies reveal the broad range of memory practices that Peruvians engage in, often at the local level and in highly specific contexts, as well as the distinctive memory politics that they participate in through such practices. I stress, however, that these practices are not reducible to either the memory of salvation or the human rights memory, but are nevertheless informed and in some ways framed by these repertoires of memory with hegemonic pretensions. Cyberspace offers another medium through which to explore how such memory practices are engendered and deployed. Scholars increasingly recognize the potential of the Internet as a medium through which to study what Elizabeth Jelin (2003) has called the labors of memory. Students of memory are well aware that what Wulf Kansteiner has called “media of memory” (2002, 195) not only transmit memory but actually construct it: “all media of memory, especially electronic media, neither simply reflect nor determine collective memory but are inextricably involved in its construction and evolution.” Increasingly, therefore, scholars interested in how memory operates on the Internet have turned to examining cyberfora such as personal and institutional websites as well as digital artifacts such as Facebook, Flickr, and YouTube (see Bhattacharya 2010; van Dijck 2011; Knudsen and Stage 2013; Ferron and Massa 2014). In an article published in 2011, I examined this potential in relation to Peruvian and Chilean memories of the War of the Pacific (1879–1884) by study-

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ing the comments attached to YouTube uploads of sections of a Chilean documentary on the war (Drinot 2011). However, so far, there have been few attempts to draw on the Internet within the broader, and largely productive, effort to explore the circulation and constitution of collective memories of the IAC.10

CVR Memories In this section and the next, I analyze a dozen or so videos on Youtube and one on Vimeo. These videos vary in several ways. Most are short, around two to three minutes, although one is over six minutes long. They fall into three broad categories: (1) professional or semiprofessional productions, (2) amateur productions, and (3) reproductions of news items. Among the amateur videos, two stand out as attempts to present an artistic proposal. Of those that are not simply reproductions of news items recorded from television, several include specially selected music; some “Muzak,” often poignant violins or piano; some “Andean” music (huaynos); in two cases Silvio Rodríguez tunes; and in one case the music from the film Schindler’s List, scored by John Williams. One video includes a live performance. A few videos are, in effect, a succession of still images overlaid with text, music, or a voiceover. In most cases, however, video dominates. Some videos have generated no comments at all, while others have as many as sixty or ninety comments attached to them. These videos were uploaded at different times. The earliest dates from May 2007, and the most recent from September 2012 (at the time the research was undertaken). Several, however, were uploaded shortly after the attack on El ojo que llora in September 2007. The dominant narrative in these videos is broadly consonant with the CVR’s narrative of the confl ict and post-confl ict. This is clearest, perhaps not surprisingly, in the video uploaded by “Programa lo justo,” an online program produced by the Coordinadora Nacional de Derechos Humanos, a human rights NGO, fronted at the time by Rocío Silva Santisteban, a human rights campaigner.11 The video focuses on the events organized at El ojo que llora in commemoration of the eighth anniversary of the publication of the CVR’s Final Report. It starts with the camera flying over the stones with the names of the victims of the violence. The music is poignant (ethereal strings) and we hear the voice of a woman (she is almost crying as she speaks): “the

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names of more than 15,000 disappeared [.  .  .] who do not have the right to fi nd [. . .] our loved ones.” It becomes clear that the speaker is a relative of one or more of the disappeared. The camera then shows children at the monument, looking at the stones and laying hands made of paper which carry written messages (“we must forget what happened and must continue building collective memory”) next to a floral arrangement in the shape of Peru. The camera fi nally cuts to the speaker, who is seen addressing schoolchildren. She is telling them: “You must have another future, you must build a nation, a dignified citizenship, with rights, with opportunities, with equality, and fight inequality and corruption, the discrimination that occurs in every corner of our country.” The camera then cuts to a middle-aged woman who says she is moved to see young people engaging with human rights issues. She suggests that human rights should be included in the school curriculum. Then, after showing children standing around and further images that suggest the didactic activities that have been undertaken on that day (sheets of paper with texts such as “What does the state do?”), the camera cuts to interviews with several schoolchildren. The message, it soon becomes clear, has gotten through to them: “It gives us a lot to think about,” says one; “it is moving, and it motivates us so that in the future we will be able to answer for all of them (podamos responder por todos ellos) and improve the situation.” Another says: “It is right that they honour them [. . .] also so that the young can learn what happened during the twenty years of terrorism.” Yet another: “It encourages us to avoid this happening again and to not forget our past.” Yet another: “We are today the future of the nation, and therefore we are the new actors who must make sure that this does not happen again.” In other words, remembering is an act that allows us to avoid repetition of the past and to construct a better tomorrow. This video expresses perfectly how memory work services the CVR project: memory is mobilized to instruct through didactic devices but also to move through a series of affective devices. El ojo que llora is instrumental to this didactic and affective mobilization of memory. The Advocacy Project, an NGO based in Washington, DC, produced and uploaded a video which similarly emphasizes the nature of El ojo que llora as an active site of memory.12 This video combines moving music (Silvio Rodríguez but also Andean huaynos), superimposed text, and an interview with Renzo Aroni, a historian who works with the Equipo Peruano de Antropología Forense (EPAF). Aroni is

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seen in the fi nal part of the video playing guitar and singing a song in Quechua. The video was shot on August 23, 2010, the seventh anniversary of the publication of the CVR report. On this day, relatives of victims added new stones with the names of their loved ones to the monument. We see Gisela Ortiz, “a relative of the Cantuta case,” according to a caption, who tells those who have congregated at El ojo que llora: “Today we are again present in this space of memory in homage to each one of our relatives, in homage to the thousands of disappeared Peruvians, cruelly assassinated during the years of political violence and today we do not only remember them [. . .] we also reaffi rm the hope that the day will arrive when injustice is defeated by justice in our country.” Another speaker, identified by a caption as Rocío Paz Ruiz of APRODEH, a Peruvian human rights organization, stresses the hope that “fi nally it will be possible in our country to achieve justice, to preserve the memory of what happened so that it is not repeated.” The video then shifts to the act of commemoration itself, which involves placing additional stones engraved with the names of victims on the monument. Another video by the Advocacy Project similarly stresses the function of El ojo que llora as an active site of memory in the context of All Saints Day or the Day of the Dead commemorations in November 2011.13 Titled “Remembering the Peruvian Disappeared on the Day of the Dead,” the video, which at over six minutes long is one of the longest studied, features several interviews fi lmed at El ojo que llora with relatives of the disappeared. Some of the interviews are in Spanish, others in Quechua. The video also includes white text on a black background to inform viewers that the IAC resulted in around seventy thousand dead, of which some fifteen thousand were disappeared and are still unaccounted for. Through the text and the interviews, the video emphasizes the importance of El ojo que llora as a site where the memory of the disappeared can be kept alive as part of a project of redress, collective and public reparations, and a quest for justice. It is a site from which civil society, with the help of advocacy groups, can pressure the government to act. Enrique Pólido Espinoza from Colcabamba, Ayacucho, one of the interviewed, tells the camera that his relative is buried in Putaccasa and that he is requesting that the body be exhumed: “my relative has been abandoned on a mountain as if he were an animal or as if he was worthless.”14 The camera then turns to Gisela Ortiz, now identified as “Representative of La Cantuta Relatives,” who speaks to the dead: “Today we are here in

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our Ojo que llora, in this place of memory, to remember each one of the tears that we have shed for you, the pain of not having you here, the anxiety of not knowing, the long absence, the compromised silences, the impunity, and today, here, we tell you that there will be no forgetting, no impunity, no one will impose forgiveness without justice” (my emphasis).15 The video emphasizes the importance of El ojo que llora as a place in which the remembrance of the disappeared can be performed, and therefore a place in which their status as absent or missing can be confi rmed or made real (this is also, more specifically, the function of the pebbles inscribed with the names of victims). But it also emphasizes the monument’s role as a place from which demands for justice can be made: Luis Arones, from Raccana, Ayacucho, says into the camera: “It is a special moment to remember our relatives, our friends, who are victims of political violence [. . .] It is nostalgia, remembrance, it hurts in our souls, and I hope that soon this will end and that the government will consider the petitions we are making.” Similarly, Emilia Auccasi Julian from Sacsamarca, Ayacucho, speaking in Quechua, tells viewers: “I’ve come to Lima in search of justice, to claim my rights all the way from a forgotten village. I want to thank EPAF, which has come to our village and now has brought us here to demand our rights and make sure they are respected.” The video concludes with a sequence of white text on a black background set to a score of Andean panpipe music: “There are over 4,500 known mass graves dotting the Peruvian countryside, most of them in the region of Ayacucho / Peru still does not have a state policy for the search and identification of its more than 15,000 disappeared / Neither has it signed the UN International Convention on Enforced Disappearances.” These videos present El ojo que llora as a site at which the report of the CVR can be not only commemorated but also restated and indeed activated as both synecdoche and simulacrum by what Elizabeth Jelin has called memory entrepreneurs—a particular kind, perhaps, of professional memory entrepreneur, as I suggest in the next section.16 These memory entrepreneurs’ statements and performances, through a combination of didactic and affective strategies, mobilize particular memories of the IAC that are consonant with the analysis put forward by the report of the CVR. As such, these videos express the success of the CVR in establishing a repertoire of memory that human rights and advocacy groups, as well as victim-survivor groups such as COFADER (Comité de Familiares de Detenidos Desaparecidos) can, and do, draw

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from in their campaigns.17 However, they also express the failure of the CVR to achieve much beyond establishing this repertoire. After all, these yearly acts of remembrance and claims-making on the part of human rights groups and victim-survivor associations also demonstrate that the Peruvian government has largely ignored and failed to enact the recommendations of the Final Report of the CVR, at least until very recently, in regard to individual reparations.18

Amauteur Memories In addition to these professional or semi-professional videos put together by human rights and advocacy groups, several amateur, or perhaps amauteur, videos on El ojo que llora can be found on YouTube and Vimeo. These videos present their produsers’ understandings of, and interventions in, the memory politics of the memorial (see, among others, Grinnell 2009). As such, they constitute a particularly interesting aspect of the battles for memory over El ojo que llora. They reflect the participation of nonprofessional memory entrepreneurs who operate independently of, indeed at the margins of, the human rights and advocacy groups whose memory entrepreneurship is part of a broader human rights and social activist agenda. For the amauteur memory entrepreneurs, such videos are personal contributions to a broader debate. Though some have artistic ambitions, these memory entrepreneurs are not, properly speaking, activist-artists like Lika Mutal, the artist who designed El ojo que llora; the theater group Yuyachkani, which performs plays that evoke and reflect on the IAC; the retablistas of Ayacucho who, through their art, intervene in the memory politics of Peru; or comics artists like Jesús Cossio.19 But their videos illustrate a demotic, bottom-up participation in the politics of memory in Peru in cyberspace. They also reveal the ways in which the CVR project has provided a usable repertoire of memory that extends beyond the human rights community. Two of these amauteur videos present explicitly “artistic” treatments of the memorial. Juan Javier Cuadro’s video is a black-andwhite time-lapse which lasts less than a minute. It is accompanied by a soundscape which includes birdsong, unclear voices, and gunshots followed by silence and then the sound of the wind blowing. The video ends with a quotation in white text on a black background, which makes reference to the September 2007 attacks on the monument:

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“‘Controversy is the word that defi nes the monument which is a complaint against violence and that is why it is violated, it is there to remind us of what no one wants to relive but which relives that which everyone wants to forget’—Carlos García.”20 Similarly, “El ojo que llora en una Noche en Blanco,” by VictorE50, is a short fi lm that consists of a handheld traveling shot of the stones engraved with names as the filmmaker walks around the monument. The filmmaker’s shadow occasionally appears in the shot, as do other visitors to the monument. These sequences are occasionally cut by stills of what appear to be people attending a “white night,” or nighttime celebration. The video maker has uploaded a short description of the video: “The video aims to introduce the ojo que llora in a white night. As such, we start without sound, taking the dynamism of the white night, in the sections of the video where the stones do not have engraved names. This way, the sound is so silent that we can hardly hear the steps, as a way to keep a moment of silence for the fallen who were not recognized or whose identities were not known.”21 Beto Serquen’s video, uploaded in May 2007, reflects artistic intentions of a somewhat different kind.22 It starts with about thirty seconds of white text on a black background. The text, in small print, explains the history of the memorial. The rest of the video consists of a sequence of photographs (the names of the photographers are listed in the video credits at the end). The sequence begins with images from the Qoyllur riti festival, images of the Andes, and images of a group of indigenous people chewing coca leaves; these images appear to have been chosen to establish the Andeanness of what is being represented. The video then switches to images of El ojo que llora memorial, starting with a close-up of the crying stone, and then a series of shots of different parts of the memorial, followed by images of people at the memorial, including a shot of Salomón Lerner, one of the CVR commissioners. The video’s poignancy is marked primarily by the choice of music that accompanies the images. The polyphonic choral composition Hanaq Pacha, sung in Quechua, and believed to date from the seventeenth century, further stresses the Andeanness of the video. In this way, it is fair to assume, the video maker has attempted to reflect through both images and sound one of the key fi ndings of the CVR report; that is, that the Internal Armed Conflict had an overwhelming impact on Andean Peru and on Peru’s indigenous population. It was a conflict that impacted the whole of Peru, but it disproportionately affected the indigenous peasantry in the Andes in a way, the CVR report

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suggested, that reflected and reproduced the racialized exclusions that have characterized Peruvian society since the colonial period. A video by Ricardo Cuya Vera, titled “Crónica visual,” takes a far more direct, didactic approach. Uploaded in November 2008, the video, shot in handheld mode, shows a virtually empty memorial. At 6.42 minutes, the video is one of the longest studied here and includes a real-time voiceover, which describes El ojo que llora in some detail. The video maker adopts a portentous form of enunciation in parts of the video; it is quite likely an attempt to appear to speak from a position of authority. Although largely a description of the memorial itself and how it was built, the video is not mere neutral reportage. The video maker clearly takes sides in the debates that surround the memorial: “This is not a monument to terrorism; it is a cry for peace,” he declares. 23 Cuya Vera’s voiceover focuses on the September 2007 attack on the memorial: he explains that it “was attacked, painted and partly destroyed on 3 September 2007. Orange paint was thrown on it [. . .] funnily enough this is the color of the party of the Japanese dictator Alberto Fujimori.” As he walks around the memorial, Cuya Vera reads out several of the names engraved on the stones, including a whole group who share the same surname, Baldeón: “There were more than two Baldéons, there were more than half a dozen, it could have been a whole a street, a whole village, only history knows this.” Like Cuya Vera’s video, other videos similarly focus on the attack on the memorial. In November 2007 a Youtube user identified as nuovavita2 uploaded two videos which are simply recordings of TV news reports on the attack. Although the videos are not produced by nuovavita2, they are clearly used to express a point of view on the attack. This is made clearer still by the title given to one of the uploads, “Profanación a El Ojo que LLora,” and by a short description of the video which they have added: “Profanation of El ojo que llora. With paint, sledgehammers and pickaxes, a group of violent hooligans entered the park where this monument to the dead of the political violence in our country is located.” Nuovavita2 also adds a comment: “This issue should be everywhere, not just to talk about it, but to demand immediate and well-thought-out action so that it will no longer be just ‘a matter for the cholos’ [. . .] only when people in Lima start dying [. . .] often that was the view of things.”24 Through both the act of uploading videos captured from the television news reports on the attack on the memorial and the description and comments, this Youtube user employs the medium to position him or herself in relation to

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the debates on El ojo que llora, and, by extension and implication, in relation to the debates on the CVR. These amauteur videos are cyber-projections of El ojo que llora: they restate the memorial’s intended message and function as a synecdoche and simulacrum of the Final Report of the CVR. But they are also means through which these produsers of videos position themselves in relation to the memorial and its message and function. The videos therefore are memorials in their own right. Like El ojo que llora they are a means, a technology perhaps, to mobilize memories consonant with the interpretation of the IAC and the recommendations put forward in the Final Report of the CVR. They mobilize what I am calling the CVR’s repertoire of memory by employing a combination of music, video, still photography, and text, all contributing to a narrative and an atmospherics that invoke, and evoke, key arguments in the CVR’s Final Report, such as the disproportionate impact of the IAC on the Andean population of the country or the fact that many victims of the conflict remain unacknowledged; a lack of acknowledgment, moreover, expressive of the broader conditions that helped bring about the conflict. More generally, like the professional memory entrepreneurs examined in the previous section, these amauteur memory entrepreneurs mobilize, through their videos, the CVR’s repertoire of memory of the IAC as a didactic and affective device in their explicit rejection of the counter-memories, or the fujimorista memory of salvation, expressed in the attack on the memorial in 2007. In this way, the videos bear witness to the work of largely unknown, yet clearly committed, memory entrepreneurs deeply invested in the project of the CVR.

Counter-Memories The repertoire of memory of the CVR, reflected in El ojo que llora and projected by the videos, is contested in online debates enabled by the YouTube comment function. These online debates reflect closely, if in the particularly abrasive register of online interaction, the broader debates in Peruvian society over how, or indeed whether, the IAC should be remembered. More specifically, in relation to El ojo que llora memorial, the debate focuses on the question of which deaths should be grieved or are deserving of commemoration.25 For many of those who contest the narrative of the IAC put forward by the CVR and the ways in which the memorial understands the category of victim, which in-

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cludes those who were the victims of state violence, El ojo que llora is a travesty. As Roberto García Armas writes in the comment section to one video: “I challenge anyone to show me if in the famous ‘monument’ are the names of the policemen who were ambushed in a cowardly manner in Quebrada Honda Sayapullo, also the names of the authorities and villagers of the district of Sayapullo who were murdered in a cowardly manner by Sendero Luminoso [. . .] but I’m sure that we will fi nd the names of the ‘students’ of La Cantuta [University].”26 This hostility toward a memorial that is believed to overlook and therefore deny the sacrifice of those who fought against and were the victims of the Shining Path while commemorating those who were killed by the armed forces as part of a legitimate strategy to defend the nation from an internal foe is a key leitmotiv of the contest over the CVR narrative in other video comment sections. In the comments attached to Ricardo Cuya Vera’s video, for example, all four comments are hostile to the memorial: Beatrizz2011 says, “That would be a good place to take my dog to piss and shit”; David Panebra says, “THAT MONUMENT IS ONLY VENERATED BY TERRORISTS [the term used is terrucos]. WHAT INJUSTICE.”27 Several posters criticize the location of the monument and its intended purpose, or, as I have suggested, its function as both synecdoche and simulacrum of the Final Report of the CVR. El blanco78 writes: “If that ‘monument’ (?) was a homage to the victims of terrorism, they should have built it somewhere in Ayacucho where THE MOST AFFECTED lived, not in Jesus María [a middle-class district of Lima] WHERE NO ONE WAS AFFECTED, the creators of that monument are crazy and the authorities who gave the authorization [to build the monument] are stupid.”28 According to enrike molinares: “This stupid sculpture which venerates the terrorist assassins should be moved to La Cantuta [.  .  .] or some hill far from the city [. . .] that city which for many years was a target, a victim of car bombs, blackouts, assassinations, etc, etc.”29 These somewhat contradictory comments resignify the memorial to the victims of violence as a monument to terrorism, a claim put forward in much of the right-wing press and by prominent fujimoristas such as congresswoman Martha Chávez.30 In the comments attached to a video produced by NAPA 18, that is targeted at children, we fi nd similar comments. One poster, XXjUdAs85xX, challenges the idea that the children whose names are engraved on the stones were innocent as claimed by the narrator in the video: “Innocent??? I can tell that that pseudo-journalist who writes

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blogs is younger than 20 years of age.” Another, neko-chan joyjoy, laments the fact that “WE ARE THE ONLY COUNTRY IN THE WORLD THAT RAISES MONUMENTS TO TERRORISTS.”31 In the comments to another video, the status of those commemorated by the memorial is called into question by Troyano2011: “VICTIMS[?] THEY WERE TERRORISTS FOR FUCK’S SAKE.” Another poster attacks both the relatives of the victims and the human rights organizations which support them: “Where were all these crybabies when the terrorists were killing left and right. Now that they are given money for ‘reparations’ they go on marches and lie about. Thank God the real Peruvians, the armed forces and some politicians manned up and eliminated the terrorist fi lth. It’s a shame that these terrorist sympathizers, these NGOs who help them and the champagne socialists still proliferate, scoundrels.”32 These comments represent counter-memories of the IAC, that is, memories counter to those memories elicited by, and in some ways made possible because of, the CVR Final Report. Like the memories reflected in the videos I have analyzed, this alternative repertoire of memory is also mobilized by El ojo que llora memorial. The videos are therefore perhaps best understood as an “interactive commemorative space” (Knudsen and Stage 2013) where different and opposed memories of the IAC are mobilized and brought into confrontation (of course, the memorial itself is an interactive commemorative space). This is especially evident in the discussions that unfold in the comments sections of some videos, particularly those in which one or more posters engage in exchanges over several years. Take for example, the ninety-one comments attached to the video uploaded by Beto Serquen in May 29, 2007.33 The fi rst comment dates from that year. When this research was conducted, the most recent dated from 2013. In this exchange, although several posters participate, much of the discussion is led by two posters, ellesar19 and nuphi. These exchanges reflect quite closely the ways in which the memories of the IAC overlap, and in many ways come into conflict, with memories of Fujimori’s regime. The context is the attack on the memorial of September 2007, which, as we have seen, was blamed on fujimorista supporters, who, it was claimed, acted out of frustration and in retaliation against the decision of the Chilean authorities to extradite Fujimori to Peru to face trial. As is well known, the trial of Fujimori led to his conviction and imprisonment (Burt 2009a). Nuphi’s rhetorical strategy focuses on discrediting Peru’s human rights organizations and the CVR, which he or she claims are mere

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fronts for Sendero Luminoso. He or she, moreover, dismisses these organizations as being “caviar” and claims that both the report of the CVR and the memorial cost vast sums, $10 million in the case of the former and $300 million in the case of the latter: “They are left-wing pitucos [well-off elites racialized as white], they are impoverished red whiteys with a complex who have recycled themselves into human rights NGOs funded by Sendero Luminoso money and they don’t want to be brought to account. [Enrique] Bernales, [Javier] Diez Canseco, Sofia Macher [human rights activists and left-wing politicians] before were pro Sendero.” Nuphi also condemns the fact that the names of the forty-one senderistas murdered in the Castro Castro prison are included in the memorial and reproduces the argument, fi rst made by right-wing journalist Aldo Mariátegui, that whereas the CVR demands justice for the Castro Castro dead, it says nothing about Carlos Hidrogo, a police officer murdered by SL: “How stupid to put the names of the murderers next to those of their victims. For example, Carlos Idrogo [sic] the policeman, those from Castro Castro who also appear there, he was murdered fi rst they gouged out his eyes with a spoon and then they killed him, this reveals the sick minds of those terrorists who are now ‘victims’ according to the CVR, how much did their 10 million dollars ‘Report’ cost the country[?]. The ojo que llora a rock with some stones how much did it cost[?] 300 million dollars. Do your research and you will fi nd the truth behind the lies.” Finally, Nuphi also criticizes the methodology used by the CVR to extrapolate the number of victims, a criticism that has been leveled time and again: “There is a caviar theory to infer that there were not 25 thousand but rather 70 thousand dead, on the basis of a small sample they infer that if in the little village XXX they killed 100 (obviously not by SL) according to the terrorist human rights NGOs in the other villages the same thing happened [. . .] this theory is used to CALCULATE FISH STOCKS and not in order to fi nd out the number of people killed by Sendero Luminoso and the MRTA.” In contrast, Nuphi stresses the role played by the armed forces and by Fujimori in defeating the SL insurgency. He or she dismisses the claim that the armed forces and Fujimori were responsible for human rights violations: “How many poor people [gente del pueblo] did Fujimori kill? La Cantuta, Barrios Altos, this is the only thing they repeat over and over like a broken record, I can tell you are a terrorist trying to influence opinion but you have no arguments, the MURDERERS WERE THE TERRORISTS, the Armed Forces manned up in a war people

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die or do you think that they only take prisoners. Think fi rst and then talk.” As this suggests, Fujimori may have ordered some assassinations, but such acts were justified. For Nuphi, those who criticize Fujimori are siding with the insurgency: “THE MURDERERS OF SENDERO LUMINOSO AND THE MRTA can stick with the caviares, the liberator FUJIMORI is for the people, thank you Fujimori for peace, for stability and progress [. . .] thank you for your public works [. . .] by the fruit of their labor shall you know them.” For Nuphi, the CVR not only was a waste of money but also “opened wounds.” It was heavily biased and notoriously anti-fujimorista: “The famous CVR is a commission that was named personally by [former president] Toledo to throw mud on Fujimori, and the predictable conclusion was that ‘el Chino’ [Fujimori] was the same as Hitler, Pol Pot, Mussolini, etc. The only thing missing was for them to say that the terrorists were held in concentration camps.” He or she dismisses the attack on the memorial as a “psicosocial,” a staged political action aimed at discrediting Fujimori, and finally suggests that the decision by Chile to extradite Fujimori to Peru was part of a broader anti-Peruvian strategy devised by that country in alliance with the caviar class: “They ignore the fact that Chile is behind the protests against the mining companies because in 20 years’ time they will have run out resources, they give Fujimori back in order to wash their hand of the assassin and thief Pinochet [. . .] CAVIAR TERRORISTS UNITED WITH THE CHILEANS AGAINST FUJIMORI.” These views are echoed by other posters. Namer Letnemip calls on Peruvians to recognize and celebrate the sacrifice of Peru’s armed forces in the war against the Shining Path: “I hope that justice will be served to so many Peruvian soldiers who died defending us from the terrorist criminals [. . .] hopefully one day [. . .] we Peruvians will stand up to applaud those who freed us from the terrorist scourge.” Oscar Palomino calls for the destruction of the memorial on similar grounds to those expressed in the debates that followed the discovery that the names of forty-one senderistas killed at the Castro Castro prison had been included among the engraved stones: “THAT PIECE OF SHIT MUST BE DESTROYED, or turned into a public urinal, because it is not acceptable to have the name of a terrorist next to that of an innocent victim.” Mauritopr interpellates the sculptor Lika Mutal directly and points to what he or she perceives as the absurdity of the memorial by establishing an equivalence with Nazi atrocities during the Second World War: “Lika Mutal, why don’t you make a sculpture in Holland and put the name of the Dutch people who died of hunger (during the Nazi oc-

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cupation) and of their executioners the Nazi leadership, all together [. . .] Let’s see if they let you make an ojo que llora in your country, because in Peru you can add the name of 41 Senderista murderers but not that of the courageous policeman Hidrogo whose eyes were gouged out with a spoon by these monsters. Lika MUTAL FUCK YOU [in English in the original]!!.” Finally, Namer Letnemip expresses succinctly what many posters doubtless feel about the memorial (as confi rmed by the fact that his comment receives a total of five “likes”): “I would have more respect for the memorial ‘THE PENIS THAT PISSES.’” These counter-memories are, in turn, countered by restatements of the repertoire of memory of the IAC established in the CVR report and reflected in El ojo que llora memorial. A poster with the online tag ellesar19 takes it upon himself or herself to refute the arguments of Nuphi and others. In so doing, he or she restates, in broad strokes, several of the key arguments that the CVR put forward in presenting its interpretation of the causes of Peru’s descent into violence. For example, ellesar19 argues that the causes of the violence were structural, linked to poverty and marginalization: “Terrorism has not been defeated like you believe[.] As long as marginality racism injustice exist, as long as our brothers from the highlands are forgotten there will always be a breeding ground for terrorism.” Moreover, he or she suggests, the senderistas were also victims. Many were young and were manipulated into becoming foot soldiers of the insurgency: “Many of those terrorists were young people who were brainwashed and were used as foot soldiers and they also have a mother like you or me who has suffered because her son was lost (in all senses of the word).” For ellesar19, there were no victors in the IAC: “Those were 20 years of war during which we all lost, even the terrorists[.] The only ones who did not lose were the leaders on both sides Abimael Guzmán and Alberto Fujimori both traitors to the Fatherland and Fujimori will not be executed—as happened when he was in power [a reference to extrajudicial killings conducted by paramilitary groups during the Fujimori government]—but he will receive due process with lawyers and everything.” In refuting the arguments put forward by Nuphi and others, ellesar19 quotes directly from the CVR report: “I am going to quote what the CVR says in its preface: ‘But there is a basis to argue that these two decades of destruction and death would not have been possible without the deep contempt toward the poorest in society, as evidenced in equal measure by the members of the PCP-Sendero Luminoso and by agents of the state, the contempt that is interwoven into each moment of the daily life of Peruvians.’”

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Several of these posters engage each other in debate in the comment section of more than one video. In the sixty-odd comments that appear below the video uploaded by Carlos Quispe Geronimo (which is almost identical to the one uploaded by Beto Serquen), for example, we fi nd again ellesar19, Oscar Palomino, Namer Letnemip, nuphi, and others who feature in one or more additional video comment sections.34 The nature of the debate is broadly similar, if at times even more verbally violent. An exchange between Oscar Palomino, ellesar19, and a poster with the tag aravelciers illustrates the antagonistic and mutually exclusive repertoires of memory that each camp mobilizes. For Oscar Palomino, who claims on several occasions that El ojo que llora is a monument to terrorism, the human rights abuses committed by agents of the state, such as in the cases of Barrios Altos and La Cantuta, which the CVR presented as case studies in its Final Report, were fully justified: “TERRORISTS, TERRORISTS, TERRORISTS, I’m glad that those from Barrios Altos and La Cantuta are dead, HEROIC GRUPO COLINA THANK YOU!!!! I hope they burn in hell for ever.” Confronted with such an argument, ellesar19 reproduces an argument used in the debate with nuphi and which reflects the idea that the violence ultimately had structural causes: “because of people like you terrorism will return because you have become an animal worse than the terrorists, the fight against terrorism cannot depend on rifles but fighting against poverty, discrimination, abuse and marginalization.” For aravelciers, Oscar Palomino’s position is a perfect reflection of the fujimorista narrative: “you are so ignorant that you don’t really know the history but you dare to comment. Poor you, you are the typical lost generation created by fujimorismo, what a shame.” In the same way that the Final Report of the CVR produced a repertoire of memory that both professional and amateur memory entrepreneurs can mobilize for a series of objectives, a repertoire of memory aligned with the fujimorista “memory of salvation” has emerged which memory entrepreneurs of an opposed political and ideological persuasion can mobilize to refute the CVR. In this repertoire, as we have seen, the senderistas were terrorists who deserved to be killed, extrajudicially if necessary. The armed forces were unquestioned heroes who saved the nation from a certain apocalypse. And the CVR and its supporters are at best naïve fools and at worst terrorist sympathizers or indeed terrucos tout court. The genealogy of this repertoire of memory is not difficult to trace, although unlike the repertoire of memory of the CVR, it does not have a foundational text such as the Final Report.35 Yet, it is clearly discernible in the ontologies of vi-

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olence that certain sectors of the media (most notably journalists such as Aldo Mariátegui) and certain political actors, particularly in the fujimorista and APRA parties, the armed forces, the Catholic Church hierarchy, and sectors of the business community, have privileged. El ojo que llora, as both synecdoche and simulacrum of the Final Report of the CVR, serves as an emblematic post-confl ict legacy over which a seemingly unresolvable struggle is waged between these opposing repertoires of memory.

Conclusion In August 2017, the director of the Lugar de la Memoria, Tolerancia e Inclusión Social (LUM), Guillermo Nugent, was forced to resign when the minister of culture, Salvador del Solar, under pressure from fujimorista parliamentarians, blamed him for having agreed to host an exhibition titled “Resistencia Visual 1992” that was accused of being overly critical of Fujimori. The minister claimed that the exhibition was “biased.” Surprisingly, the exhibition was not canceled, doubtless to avoid accusations that the minister had, in effect, censored it. However, this did little to allay widespread suspicion that the minister and, by extension, the government was willing to sacrifice basic principles, in this case freedom of expression, for political survival in a context where the fujimoristas, with full control of the legislature, were using their leverage to attack the government. The incident demonstrates vividly the extent to which, under the current Kuczynski administration as well as during the Humala administration, the fujimoristas’ power to police how the past is remembered can, and is, operationalized politically. It also raises questions about what memories are permissible in Peru, and why, ultimately, some memories fail to gain traction while others can develop hegemonic pretensions.36 The fujimorista power to police how the past is remembered, and therefore the politics of the present, was confirmed when in December 2017 President Kuczynski, who faced an impeachment proceeding called by the fujimorista majority in Congress, decided to pardon Alberto Fujimori. Kuczynski justified his decision by invoking the fujimorista “memory of salvation”: Fujimori, he argued, had committed errors and transgressions (not crimes) during a “violent chaotic crisis” but had set Peru on the path to national progress. It was time, he urged

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Peru’s young, to set old hates aside, reconcile, and “turn the page.”37 This call for Peru to embrace an amnesic amnesty, however, was met with mass protests. As this suggests, Peru’s IAC remains an open historical wound, one kept open by the seemingly unending, and unresolvable, struggles for memory over Peru’s violent past. El ojo que llora memorial, as a physical site and a cyber-projection, as both synecdoche and simulacrum of the Final Report of the CVR, and as an emblematic post-conflict legacy, provides professional and amauteur memory entrepreneurs with a physical and virtual emplacement from which to mobilize the repertoire of memory established by the Final Report of the CVR. They mobilize in order to insist on the fulfillment of the CVR’s recommendations and to advocate on behalf of victim-survivors. But El ojo que llora’s actual and virtual presence also enables those who oppose the CVR to mobilize their own counter-memories, to perform their own repertoire of memory based on the fujimorista “memory of salvation.”38 As I have shown, while the extreme verbal violence of the debate may be specific to the online format, the repertoires of memory that inform the debate are part of a much broader memory politics that, in turn, informs and refracts a mainstream politics characterized to a significant extent by a fujimorista/anti-fujimorista divide. Yet while it is important to recognize this active “memory market,” to use the term given it by Bilbija and Payne, we must also consider its scope. For some sectors of the Peruvian population, particularly for those most directly affected by the IAC such as victim-survivor groups, these debates are obviously crucial. But for the majority of the Peruvian population, they appear largely marginal outside of specific political conjunctures that evoke them. In contrast to countries like Argentina or Chile, where an official engagement with the violent past has been a central policy of recent governments, the opposite is true in Peru, where the governments of Alan García and Ollanta Humala, both of whom have been directly implicated in human rights abuses during the IAC, and now of Pedro Pablo Kuczynski have at best sidelined the issue; directly opposed any official engagement; intervened to effectively dampen open debate on the violent past; or, as happened in the context of Fujimori’s pardon, embraced the fujimorista “memory of salvation.” But equally important is the fact that whereas in Argentina and Chile numerically and politically important sectors of the population have mobilized around such issues, in Peru mobilization on a similar scale either has not materialized or has tended to be re-

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stricted to particular political conjunctures such as the recent electoral process, Fujimori’s pardon, or localized contexts. To some extent this is a product of the fact, as argued earlier, that those most invested in the issues that these contested memories express, the victims, have limited political leverage. It is also a product of the fact that in Peru most political forces, as well as much of the media, the armed forces, the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, and many business groups—Peru’s conservative archipelago—are largely hostile to, or, at best, disinterested in, human rights agendas and fi nd no political capital in engaging with the recommendations of the CVR. It is a situation made worse by the weakness of the Left, which in other circumstances would be the natural channel for such initiatives. But the weakness of the Left, a result of a complex set of circumstances not unrelated to the IAC, is arguably itself expressive of the Peruvian population’s limited interest in the interpretations of Peru’s IAC and the recommendations put forward in the Final Report of the CVR, and of the lack of “appetite” for the type of politics that a full engagement with the Final Report would entail. The combination of an official disinterest in, and at times hostility toward, the human rights memory and the Left’s weakness creates space for the fujimorista narrative to thrive. However, this should not be seen as evidence that the contested memories I have discussed in this chapter are merely shared or produced by either a small group of activist NGOs and human rights groups or a few memory entrepreneur hotheads who express them online. Neither should it be seen as evidence that the contested memories cannot fi nd broader audiences, or that they are irrelevant to broader questions about Peruvian politics and society. As should be clear, these contested memories, and their mobilization and operationalization in the context of fujimorista and anti-fujimorista political jousting, are a key dimension of Peru’s struggles over the legacies of the IAC. Their contested nature is an expression of how Peruvians engage with the past, but also a reflection of how Peruvians understand the present and envisage the future, even when they do not engage actively in the politics of memory. As such, these memories must not be approached merely as an expression of the ongoing debates over how to interpret the IAC. They reflect how, for many Peruvians, as Fujimori’s pardon demonstrates, the violent past continues to inform the present, and to alert us to the continued importance of its legacies within current and future politics.

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Notes 1. On other sites of memory in Peru, see, for example, Feldman 2012 and Delacroix 2014. This chapter draws on an ever-expanding scholarship on the contested memories of the Internal Armed Confl ict, including del Pino and Yezer 2013; Degregori et al. 2015; Milton 2014; Milton 2018. 2. For example, the hostility of the Alan García regime (2005–2010) to the CVR is well known and came to the fore in the context of the plans to build the Museo de la Memoria. Although García backtracked on his initial rejection of German funds offered for the building after Mario Vargas Llosa intervened, this episode illustrated the more general policy of his regime toward human rights organizations and their attempts to foster a productive engagement with the IAC among the Peruvian population. On Peru’s Museo de la Memoria, or as it is now known, Lugar de la Memoria, Tolerancia e Inclusión Social (LUM), see Milton and Ulfe 2011. 3. On the idea of demand for memory and the associated notion of a memory market, see Bilbija and Payne 2011. 4. For recent interpretations of the Revolutionary Government of the Armed Forces, see Mayer 2009 and Aguirre and Drinot 2017. 5. On the rise of the Shining Path, the best account is arguably the Final Report of the CVR. See also Palmer 1992; Poole and Rénique 1992; Stern 1998c; Portocarrero 1998; McClintock 1998; Degregori 2012a; Portocarrero 2012. See also Flores Galindo 2010. On the origins of the insurgency and how it played out at the local and regional level, see Rénique 2004; Taylor 2006; Heilman 2010; González 2011; La Serna 2012; Wilson 2013; Meza Salcedo 2016; del Pino 2017. See also Theidon 2004; Theidon 2012. Recently, scholars have started to explore the conflict in greater detail in urban contexts, particularly Lima, and among urban youth. See Greene 2016 and Asencios 2016. 6. For further elaboration on this point, see chapter 2 in this volume. 7. For reactions to the CVR and its report, see the online database Centro de Documentación e Investigación at LUM. See, for example, http://lum .cultura.pe/cdi/video/congresista-martha-chávez-indicó-que-el-informe-fi nal -de-la-comisión-de-la-verdad-y-la. Accessed September 17, 2017. 8. On El ojo que llora see Hite 2007; Drinot 2009; Milton 2011; and Moraña 2012. On memorials and memory in other Latin American contexts, see Jelin and Langland 2003. 9. For general accounts, see Milton 2014; and Saona 2014. On photography, see Poole and Rojas Perez 2010; Murphy 2015; Ulfe and Sabogal 2016. On novels and literature, see Vich, Hibbett, and Ubilluz 2009. On art, see Vich 2015. On music, see Ritter 2012 and Aroni Sulca 2016a. On comics, see Drinot 2017 and Milton 2017. See also Denegri and Hibbett 2016 for an important discussion of testimony and memory. 10. Saona 2012 is a short article that explores the Facebook page “Un día en la memoria,” which deals directly with memories of the Internal Armed Confl ict in Peru. But this study remains an exception.

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11. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JRvnhtzetY. Accessed May 11, 2014. 12. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GudouYSRn_o. Accessed May 11, 2014. 13. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nc3uHtCYqD4. Accessed May 11, 2014. 14. On the politics of exhumation, see Rojas-Perez 2017. 15. On the case of “La Cantuta,” see chapter 5 in this volume. 16. Jelin (2003, 33–34) defi nes memory entrepreneurs as those who “seek social recognition and political legitimacy of one (their own) interpretation or narrative of the past. We also fi nd [memory entrepreneurs] engaged and concerned with maintaining and promoting active and visible social and political attention on their enterprise.” 17. Two videos uploaded by a certain “Chaskky” in September 2006 illustrate how victim-survivor associations use El ojo que llora in their campaigns. The videos show processions of relatives of victims in El Ojo que llora. In one of them, the relatives are identified as members of COFADER. They are shown carrying a large cross on which have been stuck photographs of the disappeared. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nc3uHtCYqD4 and http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTygU41o62s. Accessed May 11, 2014. On victim-survivor groups, see de Waardt 2013. 18. On reparations, see, among others, LaPlante and Theidon 2007 and de Waardt 2013. 19. On Yuyachkani and the retablistas, see Ulfe 2014; Garza 2014; see also Ulfe 2011. On Cossio, see Milton 2017. 20. http://vimeo.com/47354511. Accessed May 11, 2014. 21. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5ltX5Opz5A. Accessed May 11, 2014. 22. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHN9P7xaptQ. Accessed May 11, 2014. 23. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ioc5HkPfxz4. Accessed May 11, 2014. 24. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8JGm2Ok0rY. Accessed May 11, 2014. 25. On the notion of “grievable” life and death, see Butler 2010; also Butler 2006 and Boesten 2014. 26. This is a reference to the students and their professor murdered by a government death squad called Grupo Colina. Fujimori has been accused of responsibility for the actions of this group. See Burt 2009a. http://www .youtube.com/watch?v=NQ_9vNKfagk. Accessed May 11, 2014. 27. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8JGm2Ok0rY. Accessed May 11, 2014. 28. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3otNKiFM2nE. Accessed May 11, 2014. 29. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3otNKiFM2nE. Accessed May 11, 2014. 30. http://panamericanatv.pe/politica/48412.

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31. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olB5dl95kpM. Accessed May 11, 2014. 32. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMS9ZfHtPl8. Accessed May 11, 2014. 33. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHN9P7xaptQ. Accessed May 11, 2014. 34. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3otNKiFM2nE. Accessed May 11, 2014. 35. Of course, the Final Report built on years of human rights activism, so its foundational text was not an ab initio interpretation of the IAC. 36. The virtual absence of senderista and MRTA memories of the confl ict in the public sphere is a case in point. Though some accounts are beginning to circulate, they do so only within a register that is broadly consonant with the repertoire of memory of the CVR. See the testimonial literature of Agüero 2015, Gavilán 2012, and Gálvez 2015. This is in part a product of a controversial legal framework that criminalizes not only senderista “apología” (condoning the Shining Path or advocating terrorism) but also, more broadly, a moral, intellectual, and political climate that denies space to such memories. 37. See http://larepublica.pe/politica/1162485-ppk-habla-de-excesos-y -errores-de-fujimori-pero-no-absuelve-dudas. Accessed February 6, 2018. 38. Again, what is lost in this hostile debate are the subtler and more complex stories of the IAC that scholars such as Theidon, Heilman, La Serna, del Pino, and others are beginning to uncover. These stories show that the strict lines of separation between victim and perpetrator which both the fujimorista memory of salvation and the CVR’s human rights memory privileged were politically expedient, but not always historically accurate or compatible with attempts by communities to come to terms with the violent past.

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Conclusion Steven Levitsky

Contemporary Peruvian politics often seems to diverge in important ways from that of its neighbors. As Latin America’s third wave of democratization reached its zenith in the early 1990s, for example, Peru suffered the region’s only full-scale democratic breakdown. Whereas Bolivia and Ecuador experienced the rise of powerful national indigenous movements in the 1980s and 1990s, no comparable ethnic mobilization occurred in Peru (Yashar 2005). And whereas the Left ascended to power in most of Latin America during the 2000s, Peru remained a beacon of neoliberal continuity (Vergara and Encinas 2016). When one asks scholars of Peru why the country’s recent political trajectory has been so distinctive, responses almost invariably include mention of its bloody Internal Armed Confl ict (IAC). Yet the causal processes underlying these claims remain poorly understood. Indeed, research on the political and institutional legacies of the Shining Path war has, until recently, been limited. As Soifer and Vergara note in the Introduction to this volume, isolating the political consequences of the Shining Path is a challenging task. Several other developments that occurred just prior to, at the same time as, or in the immediate aftermath of the IAC also powerfully shaped Peru’s late twentieth- and early twenty-fi rst-century politics (often interacting in complex ways with the IAC). Among these potential confounders are the collapse of the rural oligarchic order in the 1960s and 1970s, the economic crisis of the 1980s, the expansion of the urban informal sector, the radical neoliberal reforms in the 1990s, and the post2002 commodities boom.

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Evaluating the consequences of the IAC is further complicated by the fact that its effects were both direct and indirect. Direct effects include the weakening of party and civic organizations via the killing, imprisonment, and widespread intimidation of grassroots activists (see chapters 5, 8, and 9 in this volume), the redesign of internal security institutions in the face of insurgency (chapter 4), and the reshaping of public opinion in a more conservative, law-and-order direction (chapter 10). Other consequences of the IAC are plausible but indirect. For example, the crisis generated by the IAC contributed to both the rise of Alberto Fujimori and the success of his 1992 autogolpe, which, in turn, contributed to a host of outcomes, including the 1993 constitution, the acceleration of party system collapse, and the consolidation of neoliberalism (chapter 3 in this volume). It was Fujimori’s authoritarianism, not the Shining Path, that “locked in” neoliberalism, constitutionally and sociopolitically, but the success of fujimorismo was clearly rooted in the IAC. As José Luis Rénique and Adrián Lerner (chapter 1 in this volume) put it, the capture of Abimael Guzmán provided Fujimori’s nascent authoritarian regime with a “fundamental credibility” that both emboldened and empowered it. This highlights a broader point made by Soifer and Vergara in their Introduction: the political legacies of conflict are constructed, contested, and constantly reshaped by political actors. The IAC did not automatically give rise to any particular institutions, policies, discourse, or public attitudes. They were created—by state officials, politicians, media, and other important “memory entrepreneurs” (chapter 11 in this volume). Thus, any evaluation of the political legacies of the IAC must pay close attention to how those legacies are mediated by politics—to how they are constructed, manipulated, opposed, and often weakened by social and political actors. To be sure, the IAC produced certain “raw materials” that favored some outcomes over others. For example, it created an arsenal of new political weapons for potential use by conservatives while leaving behind a set of difficult organizational, ideological, and discursive challenges for the Left. Nevertheless, it is social and political actors who turn these raw materials into political reality. With these important caveats in mind, this concluding chapter attempts to synthesize some of the ideas generated by the chapters in this volume. At the same time, it seeks to place the Peruvian case in a broader comparative perspective.

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A Conservative Democracy The IAC appears to have produced a fundamental shift in the distribution of political power in Peru. In Argentina, Bolivia, Chile, Brazil, Ecuador, El Salvador, Uruguay, and elsewhere in Latin America, two or more decades of democracy empowered progressive and popular sector forces, shifting politics and policy leftward during the 2000s. In Peru, by contrast, the distribution of sociopolitical power continued to favor conservatives, even after seventeen years of democracy. As several chapters in this volume show, this outcome can be plausibly traced to the IAC. On the one hand, the Left and allied popular movements were weakened dramatically. On the other hand, an array of forces on the Right emerged from the confl ict both empowered and unusually cohesive. As a result, Peru’s post-Fujimori democracy was marked by a striking degree of conservative policy continuity. A Weakened Left The IAC nearly destroyed the Peruvian Left. The United Left (Izquierda Unida, or IU), which had been a serious contender for the presidency as late as 1989, disintegrated in the 1990s and fell into “irrelevance” in the 2000s (chapter 8 in this volume). Although the Left’s demise may be attributed to numerous factors (including the 1980s economic crisis, the growth of the informal sector, ties to the disastrous García government, the crisis of Communism, and the fact that, unlike many of its South American counterparts, the Peruvian Left underwent little ideological renovation in the 1970s and 1980s),1 Paula Muñoz compellingly argues that the IAC played a central role. The armed conflict weakened the partisan Left in at least two ways. First, it destroyed much of the Left’s human infrastructure. As Muñoz shows, leftist politicians and activists were hit hard from both sides during the war. On the one hand, they fell victim to the Shining Path’s strategy of “selective annihilation” of its left-wing rivals, the most notorious case of which was the brutal assassination of María Elena Moyano. On the other hand, numerous leftists were either killed or imprisoned during the indiscriminate repression unleashed by the state-led counterinsurgency (CVR 2003a). Amid the climate of fear created by the confl ict, countless left-wing activists abandoned politics, particularly in the interior. As a result, the Left, which had devel-

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oped an impressive grassroots presence in the 1970s and 1980s, saw its organizational bases disintegrate. Even more consequential, however, was the IAC’s impact on the Left’s partisan brand. As Muñoz’s chapter shows, Peru’s legal Left failed to differentiate itself from armed guerrilla movements during the 1980s—and this failure proved politically costly. Much of the Peruvian Left remained openly Marxist and revolutionary in the 1980s (Roberts 1998). Thus, although IU leaders took great pains to distinguish themselves from the Shining Path, their continued commitment to revolutionary struggle and ambiguous position on violence rendered these distinctions meaningless in the eyes of many ordinary Peruvians (Muñoz, chapter 8 in this volume). The Left’s ambiguity with respect to violence was exacerbated by the rise of the MRTA, a more traditional leftist guerrilla group with ties to elements of the legal Left. Much of the Peruvian public did not draw sharp distinctions between the Shining Path and the MRTA, or between the MRTA and the legal Left. All of these organizations, for example, flew red flags, employed Marxist discourse, and embraced revolutionary struggle. The IAC thus engendered a “strong association between Left and terrorism” that endures—and is actively perpetuated by right-wing politicians—to this day (see chapter 8 of this volume). Because Marxism was so strongly linked in the public mind to violence and chaos, leftists who employed any traditional leftist discourse and symbols— the color red, the hammer and sickle, class-based discourse, the clenched fist in the air—were easily stigmatized as “terrorists.” Leftists of virtually all stripes—including moderates with impeccable democratic credentials, such as Lima’s former mayor, Susana Villarán— were vulnerable to red-baiting. Indeed, there emerged a virtual cottage industry of red-baiting in the Lima media, as influential figures such as Aldo Mariátegui dedicated themselves almost exclusively to attacking the Left. The enduring association between leftism and terrorism undermined the Left’s electoral performance throughout the post-Fujimori period. Indeed, at a time when leftist candidates were winning national office throughout South America, including in neighboring Bolivia, Chile, and Ecuador, no leftist party in Peru won even 1 percent of the vote in the 2001, 2006, or 2011 presidential elections.2 Although leftist candidate Verónika Mendoza won nearly 19 percent of the vote in 2016, she, too, was bombarded with accusations of terrorism (even though

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she was only a child during the IAC), and anti-leftism was a major factor in her failure to qualify for the second-round runoff. The Left’s weakness extended beyond the electoral arena, however. The IAC also undermined what Vergara and Encinas call the “social left,” or popular and civic organizations that often align with left-wing parties, providing them with grassroots linkages and muscle for mobilization (see chapter 9 of this volume). Peru’s social Left—particularly the General Peruvian Workers Confederation (Central General de Trabajadores del Perú, or CGTP)—peaked in strength during the massive popular mobilizations of the late 1970s, providing the IU with a powerful grassroots base (Roberts 1998). The IAC clearly weakened these popular movements. Senderista attacks and state repression thinned the ranks of many popular organizations. Thousands of social activists were killed or imprisoned during the 1980s (CVR 2003a). Fear pushed many Peruvians out of the public sphere and deterred many others from joining it, leaving behind a far more demobilized social movement landscape than had existed in the 1970s and early 1980s (Burt 2007). The IAC also weakened the social Left indirectly by facilitating Alberto Fujimori’s 1992 coup and subsequent authoritarian rule. Freed of legislative and judicial constraints, the Fujimori government took numerous steps to weaken the legal and organizational bases of the labor, student, and other progressive associations (see chapter 3 in this volume; also Burt 2007). The destruction of the social Left was perhaps most evident in the case of the labor movement. The CGTP, which had been the backbone of leftist mobilization in the late 1970s (Roberts 1998), was decimated in the late 1980s and 1990s. Violence against union leaders and activists—most notably, CGTP leader Pedro Huilca—had a direct demobilizing effect by deterring union activism (see chapter 9 in this volume). At the same time, as Cameron notes in chapter 3, the Fujimori government undertook a series of measures to weaken unions and inhibit class-based collective action, including measures to expand labor market flexibility that were far more extensive than those carried out in most Latin American democracies (see Roberts 1998). Union membership declined from a peak of 25 percent of the workforce in the late 1970s to 5.7 percent in the 1990s—one of the steepest declines in the region (Roberts 2014, 100). Although this decline was rooted in various factors, including severe economic crisis, industrial restructuring, and the informalization of the economy, Fujimori’s anti-union measures clearly exacerbated it.

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The IAC also devastated the student movement. As Dargent and Chávez show in chapter 5, both the Shining Path war and the Fujimori regime undermined university-based student activism. For one, Shining Path and MRTA penetration of public universities helped to create an “image of chaos and violent radicalism” that deterred student participation (see chapter 5 in this this volume, p. 137).3 At the same time, the state’s intervention and takeover of public universities during the initial authoritarian period (1992–1995), followed by farreaching neoliberal reforms that encouraged the growth of for-profit private universities (while public universities were badly neglected), resulted in the flight of many of the “best and brightest” from public to private universities and a long-term depoliticization of university students. Thus, as Dargent and Chávez point out, student political organizations were “disarticulated and lost relevance” in the 1990s and did not recover in the 2000s. A major legacy of Shining Path insurgency and Fujimori’s authoritarian counterinsurgency, then, has been the long-term demobilization of Peruvian university students. This outcome contrasts sharply with other countries in the region, such as Brazil, Chile, and Mexico, where students played a central role in protest movements during the 2000s. The IAC may also have inhibited the growth of a national indigenous movement in Peru, as Paredes suggests in chapter 7 (see also Yashar 2005). In much of the highlands, where indigenous organizations might have mobilized in the 1980s and 1990s, Shining Path violence and state repression dampened or inhibited popular mobilization (Yashar 2005). Thus, whereas indigenous organizations emerged as powerful national-level actors in Bolivia and Ecuador, in Peru such organizations remained small, largely confi ned to the Amazon region, and largely unconnected to national-level parties or social movements (see chapter 7). Finally, the stigmatization of protest—another clear legacy of the IAC—reinforced the weakness of the societal Left. Lima’s conservative establishment and much of the media routinely associate student, labor, and now environmental protest with radicalism, violence, and terrorism (see chapters 3, 5, 7, 8, and 9). Anti-mining protests are frequently characterized by the media, businesspeople, and rightwing politicians and technocrats as violent and radical, and they almost invariably trigger charges that they are orchestrated by terrorists. Indeed, the association of protest with violence and terrorism has at times been used to justify police repression of protest and the ar-

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rest of protest leaders (such as in Espinar, Cusco, in 2012). This “criminalization” of protest is clearly facilitated by collective memories of the chaos and violent radicalism of the 1980s. Indeed, as Maldonado, Merolla, and Zechmeister show in chapter 10 of this volume, fear of terrorism in Peru is among the highest in Latin America. The stigmatization of protest has important consequences for the Left. As scholars such as Eduardo Silva (2009) and Kenneth Roberts (2014) have shown, the most robust left turns in contemporary Latin America— for example, in Bolivia, Ecuador, and Venezuela—have taken place in wake of sustained popular mobilization. In sum, the IAC and Fujimori’s authoritarianism weakened the partisan Left and decimated (or inhibited the growth of) the kinds of social organizations—unions, student organizations, indigenous groups— that played a central role in reviving the Left in Bolivia, Chile, Ecuador, Mexico, and elsewhere during the 2000s. Thus not only was the Left’s partisan brand badly tarnished, but its social and organizational bases were eviscerated. An Empowered (and Cohesive) Right In contrast, right-wing forces emerged strengthened in the aftermath of the IAC (see chapters 3 and 9). As Vergara and Encinas remind us, the established partisan Right suffered considerably during the IAC. Local leaders and activists from the PPC, AP, and APRA were major targets of Shining Path violence.4 All three parties saw their human infrastructure depleted, especially in the interior. Moreover, the dramatic failure of the AP (1980–1985) and APRA (1985–1990) governments to prevent Peru’s plunge into bloody internal confl ict led to a steep decline in public support for the established parties (chapter 9 in this volume; also Cameron 1994). Yet if traditional conservative parties fared poorly during the 1990s, the “social Right” strengthened considerably (chapter 9 in this volume). The strength, self-confidence, and political influence of the business elite expanded considerably during the Fujimori period (F. Durand 1999; F. Durand 2003). Not only did the private sector thrive, but it established a greater political presence via business organizations such as La Confederación Nacional de Instituciones Empresariales Prividas (CONFIEP), pro-business think tanks such as the Peruvian Institute of Economics (IPE), and a range of influential right-wing media. The technocratic elite also emerged strengthened from the Fujimori

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regime (Dargent 2015; Vergara and Encinas 2016; chapter 9 in this volume). As Vergara and Encinas show, neoliberal technocrats and bureaucrats thoroughly penetrated the state during the 1990s. And in the absence of viable partisan or political counterweights, this technocratic predominance persisted throughout the post-Fujimori period. Finally, the Church, which shifted markedly to the Right during the 1990s, was also strengthened during the IAC, as President Fujimori awarded Archbishop Juan Luis Cipriani a high-profile political role during the counterinsurgency (chapter 9). Appointed cardinal in 2001, Cipriani remained an active and influential political actor, advocating on behalf of numerous right-wing causes during the 2000s (Pásara 2014). Vergara and Encinas thus describe the emergence of a loose but powerful coalition of right-wing business, media, political, and technocratic elites in the wake of the Fujimori regime. Although the empowerment of business, neoliberal technocrats, and conservative Church figures was not a direct product of the IAC, it was clearly facilitated by Fujimori’s authoritarian rule—and as Cameron observes in chapter 3 of this volume, it was likely reinforced by Fujimori’s 1993 constitution. Fujimori’s authoritarianism and the constitutional order, in turn, are clearly rooted in the confl ict. Equally important as the strength of individual members of Peru’s right-wing archipelago, however, is the striking cohesion among them. Indeed, notwithstanding the fragmentation described by Vergara and Encinas, the Right consistently and forcefully closed ranks in the face of perceived threats during the 2000s. Even minor threats to economic orthodoxy such as center-left politician Susana Villarán’s election as mayor of Lima, anti-mining protest in Cajamarca, and President Ollanta Humala’s floating of a proposal for the state to purchase shares of the Spanish energy company Repsol triggered a strong and unified response from across the conservative archipelago. This elite cohesion, which contrasts starkly with previous periods in Peruvian history (Cotler 1978), enabled right-wing actors to exercise a virtual veto power over macroeconomic policy in the 2000s. Arguably, then, the most impressive characteristic of the postFujimori Right is not its fragmentation but its cohesion in defense of the economic status quo. This cohesion was likely rooted in the prolonged existential threat posed by the IAC (see chapter 3 in this volume). Much like the Chilean economic elite in the 1970s, Peru’s economic elite faced a powerful threat to its core class interests in the late

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1980s and early 1990s, which, as Jeffry Frieden (1991) argues in the Chilean case, tends to generate upper-class cohesion. In sum, the IAC and its authoritarian aftermath had important consequences for the distribution of sociopolitical power in Peru. The weakening of the electoral Left and the erosion of its social bases, together with the emergence of a stronger and more cohesive “societal” Right, shifted politics in a conservative direction (see Cameron 2011 and chapter 3 in this volume). Even under democracy, social protest was stigmatized, leftist politicians faced constant red-baiting, and efforts to shift policy away from the neoliberal status quo faced resistance from a strikingly unified conservative elite. This new balance of forces had significant consequences for policy. Peruvians elected presidents in 2001 (Toledo), 2006 (García), and especially 2011 (Humala) who might have embraced the regional “left turn” and broken at least modestly with the Washington Consensus by expanding the role of the state in the economy or substantially increasing social spending. Yet, facing intense pressure from inside (technocrats) and outside (business, media) the state on the one hand, and limited popular mobilization on the other hand, all three presidents governed on the right (Cameron 2011; Vergara and Encinas 2016). Even politicians with clear left-of-center platforms, such as Ollanta Humala, quickly concluded that the neoliberal status quo was the path of least resistance. Some scholars point to this striking neoliberal continuity as evidence that Peru did not fully democratize in the 2000s (Lynch 2009). For these scholars, the persistence of Fujimori’s 1993 constitution is an indicator of Peru’s “incomplete” transition. Yet by standard definitions, the post-Fujimori regime is clearly democratic. And although the origins of the 1993 constitution were authoritarian, the document itself is broadly compatible with liberal democracy. As Cameron notes in chapter 3 of this volume, Fujimori’s authoritarianism after 1993 was based on gross violation of his own constitution. Rather than a product of authoritarian persistence, then, the conservatism of postFujimori democracy is better understood as a product of a fundamental reshaping of the balance of political power produced by the IAC.

Limited State-Building If the IAC clearly reshaped the distribution of sociopolitical power in Peru, its impact on the state’s coercive structures appears to have been

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more modest. Given that recent scholarship has identified counterinsurgency as a potential impetus for longer-term state-building (Slater 2010), this outcome merits some discussion. The armed forces are strikingly absent from Vergara and Encinas’s discussion of Peru’s “conservative archipelago.” This absence is not an oversight on the authors’ part; rather, it reflects the fact that the conservative forces that predominated in post-Fujimori Peru were almost exclusively civilian. Given Peru’s history of military intervention, and particularly given the centrality of the security apparatus to Fujimori’s authoritarian regime (Obando 1993; Obando 1998b; Obando 1999; Rospigliosi 2000; Soifer and Vieira, chapter 4 in this volume), such an outcome may appear surprising. Counterinsurgency tends to bring militarization and an expansion of the domestic security apparatus, often with authoritarian consequences (Burt 2007; Slater 2010). Indeed, in Peru, the IAC eroded civilian control over the military, contributed to the 1992 coup, and brought the military into power as part of a civil-military regime (chapter 4 in this volume; Rospigliosi 2000). As Soifer and Vieira show, Fujimori’s counterinsurgency brought a vast expansion of the state intelligence apparatus, which began to operate outside the control of civilian authorities. Even after the notorious National Intelligence Service (SIN) was deactivated in the early 2000s, a series of intelligence scandals—some related to illegal surveillance of politicians, journalists, and other civilians—continued to mar Peruvian democracy (Weeks 2008). Nevertheless, military power eroded quite dramatically in the 2000s. Unlike other cases in which military regimes confronted powerful left-wing threats, such as in Chile, Colombia, El Salvador, and Guatemala, Peru’s security forces largely vanished from the political scene after 2000. The military command was restructured under interim President Valentín Paniagua (2000–2001), and top military officials—including armed forces chief Nicolás Hermoza Rios—were tried and convicted of corruption or human rights abuses. Military influence eroded considerably. As Soifer and Vieira show, both the size and the budget of the armed forces were reduced to 1970s levels. Unlike Colombia, moreover, Peru did not experience the emergence of powerful paramilitary forces in the aftermath of the IAC. Although the Peruvian IAC triggered the emergence of a range of paramilitary groups, including death squads such as the Rodrigo Franco Command and the Colina Group and armed peasant militias, or rondas campesinas, these organizations were either dismantled or (in the case of many

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rondas) redirected into civilian activities that did not involve the kind of extralegal repression seen in Colombia. Thus, whereas other Latin American counterinsurgencies left undemocratic legacies such as powerful militaries (Guatemala) or extensive paramilitary organization (Colombia), in Peru such legacies were weaker. This outcome may have been a product of the 2000 transition. The security forces were corrupted and politicized under Fujimori (Rospigliosi 2000; Soifer and Vieira, chapter 4 in this volume), which left them discredited, politically weakened, and vulnerable to prosecution after Fujimori’s fall. Neither Colombia (a stable civilian regime) nor Guatemala (which underwent a controlled, military-led transition) experienced such a rupture with the past. Nevertheless, the question of why militarism and paramilitarism were so limited during the 2000s remains a puzzle that merits further exploration.

The Resurgence of Fujimorismo The persistent strength of fujimorismo—a phenomenon that receives only modest attention in this volume—is one of the most significant (and unexpected) legacies of the IAC. At the time of Fujimori’s fall in 2000, few observers believed that he or his followers had a political future. Leaked videotapes had revealed to the world that Fujimori’s government not only had been authoritarian but also engaged in scandalous levels of corruption and abuse of power (Cameron 2006). Moreover, Fujimori had been a notoriously personalistic ruler, creating and discarding four different political parties during his decade in power. After Fujimori’s fall, his latest political vehicle, Peru 2000, disappeared. The fujimorista movement fragmented and was widely expected to fade away, much like Odrismo—the political movement founded by former dictator Manuel Odría—did in the 1960s. Yet today, fujimorismo is Peru’s largest and best-organized party. While Alberto Fujimori languished in prison, his daughter, Keiko, rebuilt the fujimorista organization (renaming it Popular Force, or FP). Keiko Fujimori nearly won the presidency in 2011 and 2016, and the FP captured an absolute majority of seats in Congress in 2016. Fujimorismo is an example of what James Loxton calls authoritarian successor parties, or political parties born of authoritarianism (and founded by former regime elites) which survive and compete under democratic regimes. Authoritarian successor parties are surpris-

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ingly common. According to Loxton, they emerged in forty-seven of sixty-five new democracies between 1978 and 2010—eventually returning to power in thirty-five of them (Loxton 2016, 12). Loxton (2016) argues that authoritarian successors enjoy several advantages in party-building, including established brands, leftover patronage and clientelist networks to build upon, and ties to economic elites that often serve as a key source of funding. However, authoritarian successor parties are likely to thrive under a democracy only where autocrats are perceived by much of the electorate as having achieved important policy successes (e.g., Pinochet in Chile, the PRI in Mexico). Fujimorismo clearly met these conditions. Not only could it draw upon networks of former state officials, old clientelist brokers, and friendly business elites to build what became Peru’s best-organized party (see Levitsky and Zavaleta 2016), but it also maintained a clear—and for many Peruvians, appealing—brand. As observed in chapter 10 of this volume, Fujimori is widely credited by Peruvians for defeating terrorism. Indeed, this success has produced a relatively favorable view of his presidency—despite its authoritarianism and corruption (Carrión 2006a). In a 2006 survey, for example, 48 percent of respondents expressed a positive view of Fujimori’s presidency.5 In 2011, 30 percent of respondents in a poll carried out by IPSOS ranked the Fujimori government as the most effective in the last fifty years, and in a 2013 survey, 42 percent described Fujimori’s performance as “good” or “very good.”6 Fujimorismo’s resurgence was thus fueled, in part, by the persistent strength of what Drinot in chapter 11 calls the fujimorista “memory of salvation” (see also Urrutia 2011 and Deming 2013). Public perceptions of Alberto Fujimori’s success in combating terrorism enabled the FP to credibly brand itself as a “law and order” party. This branding proved especially useful during the 2000s, as rising violent crime rates placed security issues at the top of the public agenda.7 The resurgence of fujimorismo reshaped patterns of partisan competition, establishing fujimorismo versus anti-fujimorismo as Peru’s primary electoral fault line. This cleavage was the source of intense polarization during the 2011 and 2016 presidential election campaigns. The fujimorismo/anti-fujimorismo divide cross-cuts the Left-Right divide. Whereas illiberal sectors of the Right tend to sympathize with fujimorismo, many center-right liberals—most notably, Nobel Laureate Mario Vargas Llosa—staunchly oppose it. In 2011, for example, Vargas Llosa and other liberals backed left-of-center candidate Ollanta

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Humala over Keiko Fujimori. This support was arguably decisive in Keiko’s defeat. Fujimorismo thus had a twofold effect on the Peruvian Right. On the one hand, it strengthened the Right, infusing it with a popular sector base that traditional right-wing parties had lacked (Meléndez 2014). On the other hand, fujimorismo divided the Right. This division becomes particularly manifest when perceived leftist or populist threats are weak, as was the case, for example, in the 2016 presidential runoff, when Keiko Fujimori faced the right-of-center candidate Pedro Pablo Kuczynski. Fujimorismo’s resurgence thus threatens to undermine the extraordinary cohesion that has marked the right-wing archipelago since 2001. In this sense, it is somewhat similar to Uribismo, another child of an internal armed conflict, which both strengthened and divided the Right in Colombia.

The Resilience of Post-Fujimori Democracy In light of the many challenging legacies of the IAC, Peru’s democracy has performed surprisingly well since 2001. To be sure, the regime suffers from a range of shortcomings (Vergara and Watanabe 2016). Levels of public dissatisfaction with democratic institutions are among the highest in Latin America, and in 2016, fujimorismo came within a hair’s breadth of winning the presidency. Nevertheless, Peru has now maintained a democratic regime longer (seventeen years) than in any other period in Peruvian history. Indeed, never before has the military been so marginal, human rights and civil liberties so broadly protected, or presidential power so limited. Peru’s democratic performance since 2001 stands in contrast to several of its Andean neighbors. Peru has experienced no constitutional ruptures or slides in its competitive authoritarianism, as occurred in Venezuela, Ecuador, and Bolivia. Nor have there been the kind of human rights and civil liberties violations seen in Colombia. Indeed, if one examines comparative democracy indices such as Freedom House, Polity IV, and Variety of Democracies, Peru’s democracy score since 2001 has remained consistently superior to those of Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador, and Venezuela. Peru’s contemporary democratic stability has been achieved despite several challenging legacies of the IAC, including the militarization of the 1990s (chapter 4 of this volume), the collapse of political parties

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(chapters 3, 8, and 9), a weakened civil society (chapters 5 and 7), illiberal attitudes associated with fear of terrorism (chapter 10), and the persistence of deeply contested memories of the past (chapter 11). It was also achieved despite various structural conditions—such as vast social inequality and pervasive state and institutional weakness—that have been associated with regime instability elsewhere in the region (e.g., Bolivia, Ecuador, and Venezuela). What explains Peru’s relative democratic success since 2001? One could argue that the regime survived largely by default, in a context of favorable exogenous conditions. Due to the post-2002 commodities boom, Peru’s economy grew vigorously in the post-Fujimori period. High growth rates are associated with democratic survival, even in countries with relatively unfavorable structural conditions (see Przeworski et al. 2000). Yet the chapters in this volume highlight some legacies of the IAC that may have contributed to democratic stability (though not necessarily democratic quality). One of these is the absence of a significant threat to elite economic interests. In contrast to the 1980–1992 period, the post-Fujimori era has been characterized by a weak Left and low levels of popular mobilization. Although popular sector weakness hardly contributes to the quality of democracy, the absence of serious or sustained threats to elite economic interests likely contributed to regime stability.8 Business and right-wing elites had little to fear under post-Fujimori democracy (Cameron 2011; see also chapter 3 of this volume). Indeed, Peru became a technocrat’s paradise—in which technocrats’ ability to make and sustain economic policies was largely unaffected by democratic politics (Vergara and Encinas 2016). Voters may elect left-of-center candidates, as they did in 2011, but in the absence of sustained popular mobilization or effective leftist or populist parties, state bureaucrats have had little difficulty maintaining the orthodox economic model established during the 1990s. Such an outcome may be problematic from the standpoint of democratic representation (Vergara and Watanabe 2016), but in the 2001–2016 period, the security it provided to economic elites likely enhanced democratic stability. The IAC and the Fujimori experience may also have produced a legacy of greater societal resistance to authoritarianism and rights abuse. As Maritza Paredes argues in chapter 7, one “unexpected legacy” of the IAC was the emergence of a vibrant human rights movement with “wide international networks of support to defend citizens from inter-

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nal war injustices” (see also chapter 2). These organizations not only survived Fujimori’s fall but expanded their activities, embracing, for example, the cause of indigenous and environmental rights. There is also some evidence that the violence and authoritarianism of the 1990s may have strengthened liberal democratic values within an important sector of Peruvian society. As chapters 10 and 11 make clear, Peruvians remain deeply divided over how to interpret the violence of the past and how to respond to contemporary and future violence. As Drinot discusses in chapter 11, many Peruvians continue to embrace the authoritarian “salvation” memory associated with fujimorismo. As Maldonado, Merolla, and Zechmeister point out in chapter 10, these citizens are more likely to fear terrorism—and to be willing to cede civil liberties to combat it. At the same time, however, another sector of society emerged from the 1990s with a strengthened commitment to human rights and liberal democracy. In their survey experiment examining Peruvians’ responses to exposure to domestic terrorism, Maldonado et al. found an “important public opinion divide.” Whereas fujimorista supporters were more likely to respond to terrorist threats by adopting intolerant, pro-“iron-fist” views, nonfujimoristas displayed a “tendency to rally around democracy” when exposed to domestic terror. In other words, non-fujimoristas grew more liberal when confronted with IAC-like conditions. Arguably, then, the “contested memory” that emerged out of the IAC had a mixed effect on democracy and human rights. Due to a combination of conservative resistance and state indifference, the “official” memory associated with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission never achieved predominance in Peruvian society (see chapter 11). Nevertheless, it took hold in an important sector of society. Many contemporary Peruvian citizens place considerable importance on issues of human and civil rights. As a result, government actions that threaten those rights, such as efforts to reverse human rights prosecutions and instances of state repression (such as in Bagua in 2008 and Espinar in 2012) have often generated strong public opposition. And the electoral ascent of fujimorismo has triggered the emergence of a vibrant anti-fujimorista coalition—a heterogeneous front, united by political liberalism, that mobilized to defeat Keiko Fujimori in 2011 and 2016. Whether this latent coalition can sustain Peru’s fragile liberal democracy in the face of its many structural challenges, however, remains uncertain.

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Notes 1. On the crisis of the Peruvian Left in the 1980s and 1990s, see Roberts 1998. 2. Many leftists backed successful presidential candidate Ollanta Humala in 2011, but Humala ran under his own Nationalist Party label and broke with the Left soon after taking office. In 2016 leftists were a minor part of his coalition and broke with him soon after he assumed office. 3. As Dargent and Chávez note in chapter 5, the Shining Path reportedly killed or disappeared 31 students, while 118 university student deaths during the IAC have been attributed to state security forces. 4. Although APRA was a center-left party during the 1980s, it grew more conservative in the post-Fujimori period, such that Vergara and Encinas include it as part of their “conservative archipelago.” 5. Ipsos Apoyo survey, January 2006. 6. GFK survey, June 18–19, 2013. 7. Indeed, the FP’s greatest electoral success in 2011 and 2016 came along Peru’s north coast, where perceptions of crime were highest. 8. For a similar argument applied to the Chilean case, see Kurtz 2004.

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Contributors

Jelk e Boest en is a reader in gender and development at King’s College London. Her latest book is Sexual Violence in War and Peace. Gender, Power and Post-Conflict Justice in Peru (Palgrave 2014). M a x w ell A. C a m eron is a professor in the Department of Political Science and the director of the Centre for the Study of Democratic Institutions at the University of British Columbia (UBC). His latest book, Political Institutions and Practical Wisdom: Between Rules and Practice, is forthcoming with Oxford University Press.

Noeli a Ch áv ez is the head of the Communication Office of Peru’s National Superintendency of Higher Education (SUNEDU). She has a degree in sociology from the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú (PUCP).

Edua r do Da rgen t is an associate professor of political science at Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. His main teaching and research interests are comparative public policy and the state in the developing world. His book Technocracy and Democracy in Latin America (Cambridge University Press) was published in 2015.

Paulo Dr inot is a senior lecturer in Latin American history at the Institute of the Americas, University College London. His most recent publication is an edited volume titled La Patria Nueva: Economía, sociedad, y cultura (2018).

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372

Contributors

Da niel Encinas is a PhD student in political science at Northwestern University and has published articles in journals such as Revista de Ciencia Politica and Latin American Research Review. A dr i á n L er n er is a PhD candidate in the Department of History at Yale University. His most recent book, coauthored with Marcos Cueto, is Indiferencias, tensiones y hechizos: medio siglo de relaciones diplomáticas entre Perú y Brasil, 1889-1945 (Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2012)

St ev e L ev i tsk y is a professor of government at Harvard University. His two most recent books are the coauthored How Democracies Die (Crown, 2018) and the coedited Challenges of Party Building in Latin America (Cambridge University Press, 2016).

A rt uro M aldona do is a professor of political science at the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. He contributed a chapter to the book Advancing Electoral Integrity (Oxford University Press 2014). Jen nifer M eroll a is a professor of political science at the University of California, Riverside. She is coauthor of Democracy at Risk: How Terrorist Threats Affect the Public (20009), published by the University of Chicago Press, and Framing Immigrants: News Coverage, Public Opinion and Policy (2016), published by the Russell Sage Foundation. Paul a Mu ñoz is a professor in the Department of Social and Political Sciences at the Universidad del Pacífico (Peru). Her book Buying Audiences: An Informational Theory of Campaign Clientelism for Weak Party Systems is forthcoming with Cambridge University Press.

M a r i tz a Pa r edes is an associate professor of sociology at Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Her most recent book is the coauthored Resource Booms and Institutional Pathways: The Case of the Extractive Industry in Peru (Springer, 2017).

José Luis R énique is a professor of history at City University of New York–Lehman College and the Graduate Center. His two most

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Contributors 373

recent books are Imaginar la nación: Viajes en busca del ‘verdadero Perú’ (1881–1932), (Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2015) and Incendiar la pradera: Un ensayo sobre la revolución en el Perú (La Siniestra Ensayos, 2016).

Li v i a I. Schubiger is an assistant professor in the Department of Political Science at Duke University. Her research focuses on repression, conflict, and political violence and has been published or is forthcoming in the Journal of Conflict Resolution, the Journal of Peace Research, and Conflict Management and Peace Science, among others. Hill el Dav id Soifer is an associate professor of political science at Temple University. His book State Building in Latin America (Cambridge University Press) was published in 2015.

Dav id Sul mon t is a professor at the Department of Social Science at Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Along with Juan Carlos Callirgos, he published “¿El país de todas las sangres? Race and ethnicity in contemporary Peru,” in Pigmentocracies: ethnicity, race, and color in Latin America, edited by Edward Eric Telles (University of North Carolina Press, 2014) Alberto V erga r a is an assistant professor at Universidad del Pacífico. His most recent book is La Danza Hostil: Poderes Subnacionales y Estado central en Bolivia y Perú (1952-2012) (Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2015).

Ev er et t A. V ieir a III is an assistant professor of political science at California State University, Fresno. His dissertation focuses on the Shining Path to develop a theory for explaining variation in nonlethal violence by armed actors in internal confl icts. Eliz a bet h J. Zech m eist er is the Cornelius Vanderbilt Professor of Political Science and director of the Latin American Public Opinion Project (LAPOP) at Vanderbilt University. Zechmeister coauthored Democracy at Risk: How Terrorist Threats Affect the Public (Chicago, 2009) and Latin American Party Systems (Cambridge, 2010).

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Index

Acción Popular, 87, 135–136, 202– 203, 213, 217, 227, 231–237, 289, 318 agrarian reform, 17, 21–22, 25–26, 28, 37, 52, 83, 85, 93, 206 Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana, 2–3, 23, 80, 87–88, 90, 212, 235, 223n3, 306; attacks against, 231–232, 318; and labor movement, 83, 206; and Peruvian Left, 202, 205–206, 211–212; and Peruvian Right, 227, 229, 231, 234–236, 327n4; response to expansion of violence by, 18, 36– 47, 234; and universities, 135– 136, 206 Amazonian and Andean divide, 178–180, 194–197 authoritarianism: in constitution of 1993, 79–80, 93, 104; and Peruvian Right, 229, 235–242, 246; public opinion about, 266, 279; Shining Path, 38, 63; and toxic masculinities, 164. See also under Fujimori, Alberto autogolpe. See under Fujimori, Alberto Ayacucho, role in Shining Path of, 28–36 Bagua protests, 178, 184, 188–189, 196, 199n22, 326

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Barrantes, Alfonso, 87, 210–216, 224n13 Belaunde Terry, Fernando: deposed, 24, 52, 81–82, 206; and military, 33–34, 87, 117, 121; and police, 114; presidency of 1963–1968, 26–27, 38–39, 66, 104; presidency of 1980–1985, 17, 30–34, 38–39, 52, 87, 104, 227; response to insurgents by, 17, 27, 30–34, 87, 117, 121; and state capacity, 112, 114–115, 117, 121 Bolivia, 7, 101–102, 105, 176, 179, 198n2, 246, 312, 315–318, 324–325 Breña, Rolando, 203, 212–213, 219 Catholic Church: in Ayacucho, 190, 200n30, 237–238, 241; CVR on, 200n30, 288, 289; and human rights NGOs, 71, 185, 189–190; and indigenous populations, 185, 189–190, 200n30; liberation theology in, 166, 189, 199n28; and memory, 288, 289, 306, 308; and Peruvian Right, 166, 229, 237– 238, 241–242, 244 Central General de Trabajadores del Perú, 83, 218–219, 223n4, 316 Chile, 30, 70, 94, 97, 108n36, 134, 153, 156n11, 193, 214, 241, 246, 286, 307, 314–321; extradition of

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Index 375

Fujimori from, 290, 301, 303; Pinochet as leader of, 52, 94, 193, 303, 323; War of the Pacific, 3, 20, 34, 291–292 China, 20, 23, 25, 29, 41 Cipriani, Juan Luis, 166, 174n5, 200n30, 229, 237–238, 241–244, 289, 319 civil society, 71, 173, 199n28, 294; gender-based violence in, 157– 174; human rights NGOs in, 184–193; indigenous activism in, 176–184, 193–197; and Peruvian Right, 231, 235, 240, 246; weakening of, 6–7, 12, 19, 68, 100– 101, 153, 178–179, 200n36, 218, 235, 240, 246, 325. See also comités de autodefensa civil wars: and authoritarianism, 9, 63; counterinsurgent mobilization in, 62–63; defi nition of, 6, 76– 77n4; future research on, 73–76; and governance, 66–67; and identity, 57–59; ideology, 56–57; insurgent mobilization in, 59–62; versus irregular confl icts, 56; legacies of political violence from, 67–73; scholarship on, 55; violence in, 64–65, 77n15; and warfare technology, 56 coercive capacity. See state capacity Cold War, 19, 30, 46, 56–59, 101, 287 Colombia, 7, 30, 46, 63, 68, 134, 153, 163, 198n7, 257, 321–322, 324; FARC, 57, 58, 102 Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación del Perú (CVR): casualties considered by, 3, 5, 76n3, 231, 252–253, 258, 288; and Catholic Church, 200n30, 288, 289; controversy surrounding, 71–72, 189; and cost of the confl ict, 70; creation of, 71, 75, 192– 193, 288; El ojo que llora monument, 285–307, 310n17; ethnicity and violence as considered by,

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64; funding for, 201n40; and human rights organizations, 71, 75, 178, 192–193; immediate cause of the confl ict identified by, 73; “Internal Armed Confl ict” used by, 16n1, 18, 52; mandate of, 54, 288; and memory, 286–297, 299–308, 326; and military’s role in intelligence, 120; and Peruvian Left, 208–209; prisoners accused of terrorism considered by, 60–61; publication of Final Report, 288; recommendations of, 71, 120, 286, 288–289, 296, 307–308; and reported versus estimated victims, 76n3; on sexual violence, 64–65, 158–160, 164, 168–169, 172, 174n1, 231; on violence against civilians, 64, 158; on violence against indigenous peoples, 38, 176, 178, 185– 186, 192–193, 197; on violence against social and political leaders, 68, 231–232; on violence against university students, 138; on violence attributed to MRTA, 158, 158, 247n17, 288, 289; on violence attributed to self-defense committees, 49, 53, 76n1, 76n3, 158, 288; on violence attributed to Shining Path, 5, 53, 64, 67–68, 71, 76n3, 138, 158, 253, 288– 289; on violence attributed to the state, 53, 64–65, 76n3, 138, 158, 159, 168, 253, 288–289; on violence by geographical region, 67– 68, 176; on violence in Ayacucho, 55, 67–68, 252 Comisión Episcopal de Acción Social, 185, 186, 188, 190, 199n23, 199–200n29 comités de autodefensa: and indigenous activism, 185–186, 199n19, 200n35; legacy of, 44, 49, 51, 62–63, 67, 118, 185–186, 199n19; and rondas campesinas, 44, 49, 51, 62–63, 67, 93,

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Index

comités de autodefensa (continued) 118, 321–322; and the state, 35, 42, 44, 49, 62–63, 76n1, 185– 186, 200n35; violence attributed to, 49, 51, 53, 76n1, 76n3, 158, 161, 288 Communism: Apro-Communism, 88, 182; Communist Parties of Peru, 20, 220; election of 1980, 3, 52–53; in international context, 205–206, Peruvian Communist Party, 20, 23, 205–206, 224n6; Peruvian Left, 21, 23, 204–207, 220, 314; Shining Path, 17, 20–25, 41, 53, 70, 220. See also Maoism; Marxism; socialism constitution of 1979, 52, 79–80, 91– 94, 105; Constituent Assembly, 2–3, 80, 84–85, 91, 207; suspension of, 89 constitution of 1993: authoritarianism in, 79, 93, 94, 313, 319–320; constitution of 1979 compared with, 79–80, 91–94; creation of Ombudsman’s Office by, 192; and demobilization, 97, 100, 105; Democratic Constituent Congress, 47, 90–91; and deregulation, 97, 100; and entrepreneurial culture, 88, 92, 95–100, 105, 106n16; Fujimori and, 3, 79– 80, 90–94, 102, 192, 313, 319– 320; and neoliberalism, 14, 79, 80, 91–105, 226, 228–230, 238– 239, 245, 313, 320; and Peruvian Right, 226, 228–230, 235, 238– 239, 245; and post-confl ict period, 5–6, 235; and privatization, 97, 100, 105; and reelection, 93, 107n22, 192; and surveillance, 97, 98, 100, 105; and targeting, 97–98, 100, 105 Degregori, Carlos Iván, 29–30, 44, 47, 53, 66, 81, 85–86, 106n9, 106n12, 131n12, 144, 233 democracy: conservative democracy,

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314–320; in constitution of 1979, 2–3, 52, 80; in constitution of 1993, 80, 83–84, 93–94; and fear of terrorism, 2, 5, 250–252, 255, 261–279, 326; and human rights, 71, 186; and indigenous activism, 186–187; and insurgency, 66, 86– 90, 105; and long eighties, 52–53; and Peruvian Left, 204, 207–208, 210, 212–215, 221, 315; and Peruvian Right, 227, 231, 235, 238– 239, 242; in post-Fujimori era, 192, 239, 242, 320, 324–326; and protest, 145, 151–153; and public opinion, 2, 5, 250–252, 255, 261–279, 326; threat of violence in, 261–281; and transition of 1978–1980, 2–3, 52–53, 80, 136, 143, 151, 186; and universities, 145–147, 151–153 democratization: of education, 135, 145; in Latin America, 3, 312; neoliberalism, 320; social, 80, 83–91, 94, 104–105, 106n9, 228; social media, 173 Derecho, Ambiente y Recursos Naturales, 187, 199n18, 199n23, 199n26 Diez Canseco, Javier, 208–209, 221, 224n7 disappeared persons: indigenous peoples, 190–191, 200nn32–33; and memory, 293–295; law, 72; statistics in, 76n3, 252, 258, 266, 282nn17–18; and universities, 132, 138, 327n3 Ecuador, 7, 105, 176, 179, 257, 312, 317, 324–325; border confl ict between Peru and, 112; leftist politics in, 101, 198n2, 314, 315, 318 election irregularities, 123–127, 126–127; effects of, on postconfl ict state reach, 125–129, 126; low turnout, 124–125, 126; missing districts, 124, 126, 131n11; no elections, 124, 126;

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Index 377

spoilage, 27, 123, 124–127, 126–127, 131n8; types of, 124 El ojo que llora monument, 285– 307, 310n17 entrepreneurship, 88, 92, 95–100, 105, 106n16, 144; memory entrepreneurs, 295–296, 299, 305– 308, 310n16, 313 ethnicity, 7, 312; and civil wars, 57– 60, 64, 74–75; indigenous peoples, 176–177, 179, 182–183, 198n2; and inequality, 75, 160; mobilization according to, 58, 176–177, 179, 182–183, 198n2, 312; pan-ethnic alliances, 182– 183; and violence, 64, 74–75, 158–159, 174, 288; and worry about violence, 260 Fondo Nacional de Compensación y Desarrollo Social, 98, 107n30, 128, 237 FREDEMO (El Frente Democrático), 227–230, 234 Fujimori, Alberto: and authoritarianism, 1, 9, 11, 47–50, 90, 102, 189, 220, 229, 235–237, 239, 285, 313, 316–326; and autogolpe, 7, 11, 47–48, 50, 79, 89– 90, 191, 228, 235–237, 250, 252–253, 313; and constitution of 1993, 3, 79–80, 88–91, 93– 94, 102, 192, 313, 319–320; corruption by, 72, 98, 191–192, 253; imprisonment of, 72, 98, 253; and intelligence services, 116, 119–120, 122, 128–129; pardon of, 104, 242, 306–308; and Peruvian Left, 202–204, 215–216, 218–222; and Peruvian Right, 228–229, 234–244; public opinion about, 250–254, 256, 263, 266, 273–279; and state capacity, 116, 119–120, 122; “Three Years That Changed Peruvian History,” 47–48; and universities, 141, 143, 145, 151. See also fujimorismo

Soifer_6844-final.indb 377

Fujimori, Keiko, 77n17, 104, 168, 173, 239–240, 275, 277, 284n35, 322–326 fujimorismo, 47–50, 72, 145, 151, 287, 289, 305; and antifujimorismo movement, 104, 279, 285, 287, 303, 307–308, 323, 326; and authoritarian successor party, 322–323; and “memory of salvation,” 290–291, 299, 305, 306, 311n38, 323, 326; and Peruvian Right, 229, 239–240, 248n16; public opinion about, 251, 276–279; renamed Popular Force, 322–323; resurgence of, 322–324 gamonalismo, 28, 81–82 García Peréz, Alan, 4, 18, 39–40, 77n17, 87–88, 139, 146, 254, 248n26, 309n2, 320; CVR on, 288, 289, 309n2; and human rights, 39–40, 72, 165, 168, 307; and indigenous peoples, 103, 181–184; and neoliberalism, 42, 103; and Peruvian Left, 209, 211, 314; and police reform, 114–115; and state capacity, 114, 116–120, 122 gender-based violence, 157–174; against Ashaninka people, 158; case of Cindy Contreras as exemplifying, 165–166, 169, 172–173; case of Lady Guillén as exemplifying, 169, 172–173; as exemplifying patriarchy, 163–167, 171– 172; forced sterilizations, 167, 170–173; during Internal Armed Confl ict, 158–161; justice, 168– 172; Manta y Vilca case, 168, 170; by military, 158–160, 168; Ni Una Menos campaign, 173– 174; prosecution of, 168–170; protests against, 157, 165–167, 173; rape, 77n15, 158–161, 163– 169, 172–173, 174n1, 174n5; Registro Único de Víctimas, 164;

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378

Index

gender-based violence (continued) within Shining Path, 158; stateperpetrated, 64–65, 159, 169 Guatemala, 58, 77n7, 77n14, 164, 170, 321–322; civil war in, 9, 53, 63–66, 68, 70, 71, 77n14, 193, 198n4 guerrilla movements, 21–27, 30, 34, 41–42, 82, 116, 205–206, 223n2, 252–254; Shining Path as “People’s Guerrilla Army,” 17, 33, 37, 41. See also individual movements guerrilla warfare, 36–37, 56–57, 250. See also irregular warfare Guzmán Reynoso, Abimael, 3–4, 17–19, 22–25, 27–30, 33–35, 37, 40–41, 46, 50, 106n13, 244; capture of, 4, 47–49, 55, 236–237, 252, 285, 313; contested memories of, 285, 304; interview, 17, 35, 37; Pensamiento Gonzalo, 24–25, 36, 86 Haya de la Torre, Víctor Raúl, 2–3, 20, 23, 29, 48, 80, 205 Hinojosa, Iván, 22, 205, 208, 210– 212, 215, 218–219 Huamanga: prison escape, 31–32; Shining Path, 28–34, 43, 266 Huancavelica, 4, 30, 37, 124, 128, 172–173, 176, 252 Huanta, 28, 30, 31, 33, 130n6, 266 Huánuco, 103, 124–125, 128, 176, 252 Humala Tasso, Ollanta, 45, 72, 77– 78n18, 102–103, 130n2, 168, 228, 242, 244, 248n20, 254; election of 2011, 323–324, 327n2; and human rights abuses, 307; ideology and policy of, 319–320; and memory, 306, 307 indigenous activism: Amazonian and Andean divide, 178–180, 194– 197; Asociación Interétnica de Desarrollo de la Selva Peruana,

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182–184, 198n11; Asociación Pro Derechos Humanos, 172, 186, 191, 199n23, 294; and Catholic Church, 185, 189–190, 200n30; Central Única Nacional de Rondas Campesinas del Perú, 198n11; Centro Amazónico de Antropología y Aplicación Práctica, 185– 186, 188, 199n17, 199n23; Centro de Derechos y Desarrollo, 199n23; Centro Peruano de Estudios Sociales, 199n26; comités de autodefensa, 185–186, 199n19, 200n35; Compañía Nacional de Peritos Agrícolas, 187; Confederación Campesina del Perú, 179, 183, 193, 198n5, 198n11; Confederación de Comunidades del Perú Afectadas por la Minería, 183, 198n11; Confederación Nacional Agraria, 198n11; Coordinadora Nacional de Derechos Humanos, 183, 185–191, 200n34, 292; CVR on, 176, 178, 185–186, 192–193, 197; and disappeared persons, 190–191, 200nn32–33; during Fujimori administration, 179, 191–192, 200–201n37; during Garcia administration, 181– 184; and human rights NGOs, 176, 184–193; ILO Convention 169, 177, 183–184, 188; Instituto de Defensa Legal, 172, 185–186, 188–189, 191, 199n23; Instituto del Bien Común, 198n6, 199n18, 199n23; Mesa de Diálogo, 186; Ministry of Interculturality, 194– 195, 197; Official Database of Indigenous Peoples, 194–196; Ombudsman’s Office, 183, 185–189, 192, 194, 196–197, 199n21; Pacto Unidad, 182–183; pan-ethnic alliances, 182–183; El Perro del Hortelano articles, 182; Peruvian history of, 178–181; and prior consultation legislation, 103, 178, 183, 188–189, 194–

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Index 379

196, 195, 199n22, 201n41; and regional fragmentation, 193– 196; and right to communal territory, 199n22; and Shining Path, 176, 179, 186, 190, 192, 199n19, 200n36; during Toledo administration, 187. See also Bagua protests Inicio de la Lucha Armada, 19–20, 24, 28, 52–54 Instituto Peruano de Economía, 237, 242, 248n19, 318 intelligence services, 46, 116, 138; military intelligence, 116; military oversight of, 120, 130n2; post-confl ict legacy of, 115–116, 118–120, 129; reform of, 116, 118–120, 321; scandals in, 321; Servicio de Inteligencia Nacional, 115–116, 120, 168, 220, 321; surveillance capacity of, 119–120 Internal Armed Confl ict, use of term, 16n1, 52, 76–77n4 irregular warfare, 19, 27, 36–37, 56– 57, 59 Izquierda Unida, 7, 22, 52–53, 87– 88, 202–222, 224n6, 224n8, 224n11, 236, 314–316 Jelin, Elizabeth, 291, 295, 310n16 Kalyvas, Stathis, 56–57, 74, 77n5, 117 Kuczynski, Pedro Pablo, 104, 174, 242–244, 248n16, 306, 307, 324 labor movement: collective bargaining, 97; demobilizing of, 97, 238, 316–317; and destruction of the Left, 81–84, 179, 217–220, 316; fear of, 219, 220, 235; peasant unions, 82, 179, 190; and Peruvian Right, 235, 238; student unions, 150–152; teachers union, 83, 97; and velasquista reforms, 81, 83, 206. See also Central General de Trabajadores del Perú

Soifer_6844-final.indb 379

Left, Peruvian, 202–247; APRA, 202, 205–206, 211–212; current limited resources of, 221–223; decline of, 314–318; division of, 207–216; in elections, 207–208, 212; and human rights, 232, 237, 240–241, 307; Izquierda Unida, 7, 22, 52–53, 87–88, 202–222, 224n6, 224n8, 224n11, 236, 314–316; legal Left, 15, 32, 42, 70, 102, 203–204, 210–212, 216, 218–222, 315; new Left, 21–22, 32, 84, 206, 210; origins of, 204– 207; Partido Comunista Peruano, 20, 23, 205–206, 224n6; and political violence, 202–223; Shining Path’s effect on, 207–211, 216– 223; social left, 316; and stigmatization of terrorism, 218–221 Leninism, 22–25, 36, 57, 107n31, 139, 204, 210. See also Communism; Marxism long eighties, 2–6, 8, 13, 15–16 lost decade, 3–5 Maoism: labor movement, 3, 20– 25, 83; and new Left, 205–206, 208–210, 217; and peasant mobilization, 23, 25, 205, 223n2; and revolution, 3, 208–210, 223n2; Shining Path, 3, 20–30, 32, 53, 57, 85, 208–210, 252; and universities, 28–29, 132, 136–137 Mao Zedong, 3, 20, 23–25, 86 Mariátegui, Aldo, 289, 302, 306, 315 Mariátegui, José Carlos, 3, 22–25, 29, 223n2; and Peruvian Communist Party, 20, 23, 205–206, 224n6 Marxism: and fall of Berlin Wall, 211; and indigenous peasant organizations, 179, 198n2; Marxist-Leninist ideology, 22, 25, 107n31, 139, 204; MarxistLeninist-Maoist ideology, 22– 25, 57; and Peruvian Left, 22–

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380 Index

Marxism (continued) 25, 204–206, 315; principles of insurgent groups espousing, 56– 57, 66; Shining Path, 19, 22– 25, 59, 70, 87; and universities, 132, 135–136, 143–144. See also Communism masculinities, 159, 162–164 memory: amateur videos as, 296– 299; biological, 82; collective, 15, 18, 277, 291–293, 318; contested, 72, 285–308, 325, 326; countermemories, 299–307; CVR on, 286, 292–296, 326; and El ojo que llora monument, 285–307, 310n17; and fujimorista as “memory of,” 290–291, 299, 305, 307, 311n38, 323, 326; and genderbased violence, 172, 173; human rights memory, 290–291, 308, 311n38; labors of, 291; media of, 291; memory entrepreneurs, 295– 296, 299, 305, 307–308, 310n16, 313; and Peruvian Right, 239– 240, 243; and public opinion, 251, 255, 277–278; and state capacity, 116–119; and stigmatization of protest, 145, 154, 318 Mendoza, Verónika, 104, 167, 174, 221, 223, 315 Montesinos, Vladimiro, 44, 46, 50, 89, 116, 122, 220, 253, 288 Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria, 21, 30, 205, 223n2 Movimiento por la Amnistía y los Derechos Fundamentales, 145– 146, 152, 255 Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru: battle for the Upper Huallaga Valley, 46; compared to Shining Path, 16n4, 41–42, 51; CVR on, 288, 289; deaths attributed to, 53, 248; and electoral irregularities, 131n8; and emerretistas, 42; history of, 4, 41–42, 250, 248n17; and Japanese embassy hostage crisis, 214, 252; and memory, 302–303, 311n36;

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and political violence, 209–212, 217, 219–221; prisoners identified with and accused of terrorism, 60; public opinion of, 219, 315; and revolution, 209–210; sexual violence attributed to, 64–65, 158; and universities, 317; uprising of 1984, 4, 248n17 Moyano, María Elena, 45, 47, 218, 314 Mutal, Lika, 289–290, 296, 303–304 neoliberalism: constitution of 1993, 14, 79, 80, 91–105, 226, 228– 230, 238–239, 245, 313, 320; and neoliberal turn, 7–8; and Peruvian Right, 226–230, 235, 238, 241–247, 318–320; and technocracy, 12, 88–90, 99–104, 229, 237–238, 241, 243, 246; and universities, 134, 137, 144 “official Peru,” 42, 50, 86 Organization of American States, 90, 192, 200n34, 200–201n37 Paniagua, Valentín, 168, 186, 241, 321 Partido Comunista del Perú– Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path): “armed groups without arms,” 31; assassination of María Elena Moyano by, 45, 47, 218, 314; Ayacucho’s role in, 28–36; Comité Regional Principal, 30; “commands of annihilation” from, 43; and Communism, 17, 20–21, 23, 25, 41, 53, 70, 220; Ejército Guerrillero Popular, 17, 33, 41; and gender, 61–62; and governance, 79– 80, 85–89, 94, 95, 102, 104–105; and Huamanga prison escape, 31–33; and indigenous activism, 176, 179, 186, 190, 192, 199n19, 200n36; Initiation of the Armed Struggle, 19–20, 24, 28, 30, 52– 54; as Maoism, 3, 20–25, 27, 29–

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30, 32, 53, 57, 85, 208–210, 252; “people’s war” waged by, 17, 20, 22–25, 28–40, 45, 48–50, 79; peripheral origins of, 29; “popular war” against Peruvian state waged by, 3, 22, 36–37, 41; preconfl ict history of, 19–28; Prosequir faction of, 4; recruitment by, 31, 36–37, 43, 46, 57–59, 61– 63, 85–86, 135–139, 148, 161, 234; senderistas, 19–23, 26, 28– 29, 32–33, 35–38, 40, 42–45, 49, 57, 60, 62, 75, 117, 168, 217, 219; and Universidad Nacional San Cristobal de Huamanga, 28– 29, 134, 138–139, 144–145, 148– 149, 152, 156nn8–9; Vilcashuamán police outpost attack by, and aftermath, 31–32, 39. See also Guzmán Reynoso, Abimael Partido Comunista Peruano, 20, 23, 205–206, 224n6 Partido Popular Cristiano, 139, 202, 213, 227, 229, 231, 235, 318 Partido Unificado Mariateguista, 42, 214–215, 217, 224n7 Patria Roja, 143, 152, 214, 217, 224n10, 244 Pease García, Henry, 212, 215, 221, 224n13 Peruvian Communist Party, 20, 23, 205–206, 224n6 police: attacks on police stations, 30–32, 232; in Bagua protests, 178, 188–189, 196, 199n22, 326; and Counter-Terrorism Direction, 43–44; Guardia Civil, 26, 114; Guardia Republicana, 26, 114; in the Limazo, 26; and memory, 300, 302, 304, 317; parapolice organizations, 97–98; Policía Investigaciones del Perú, 26, 114, 116; Policía Nacional del Perú, 115; post-confl ict legacy of, 114–115; public opinion about, 26, 251, 255, 266, 268, 270, 271, 278; rebellion by, 114; reform, 114–115; response to Shin-

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ing Path by, 26–28; unification of, 114–115; in university actions and raids, 138–139; and sexual violence, 159, 164–166, 168, 173 postcolonial societies, 19, 21, 157, 162–164, 173–174 public opinion: and democracy, 2, 5, 250–252, 255, 261–279, 326; exposure to news as determining, 251, 261, 263, 268–273, 278– 279; and fujimorista identification, 256, 273–277; and Fujimori support, 273–279; about ironfist rule, 251, 263, 268, 277–278; Latin American Public Opinion Project, 256–273; and political tolerance, 251, 262–263, 266, 267, 272, 273, 276–279; about rule of law, 251, 253, 262, 266, 267, 278–279; worry about terrorist attacks, 256–279; worry about violence, 256–281 Ramírez Durand, Oscar, 46, 252 revisionism, 22, 28, 40 Revolutionary Government of the Armed Forces, 21, 52, 82 Revolutionary Left Movement, 21, 30, 205, 223n2 Right, Peruvian: Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana, 227, 229, 231, 234–236; and Catholic Church, 166, 229, 237–238, 241– 242, 244; cohesion of, 226, 228– 230, 239–240, 245–246, 248n16, 314, 318–320, 324; and conservative archipelago, 15, 226–247, 319, 321, 324, 327n4; and emergency of archipelago, 235–238; empowerment of, 318–320; and human rights, 240, 241, 308; internal confl ict of, 230–235; and neoliberalism, 226–230, 235, 238, 241, 243–247, 318–320; Partido Popular Cristiano, 139, 202, 213, 227, 229, 231, 235, 318; partisan right, 227–230; political parties in, 231–235, 245–246;

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Right, Peruvian (continued) in post-confl ict period, 238–243; and social right, 318; struggle over legacies of, 243–245; technocracy, 229, 237–238, 241, 243– 244, 246, 318–319. See also Acción Popular Roberts, Kenneth, 212, 218, 245– 246, 316, 318 rondas campesinas, 44, 49, 51, 62– 63, 67, 93, 118, 321–322 Santiago de Lucanamarca massacre, 16n3, 35, 38 self-coup. See Fujimori, Alberto: autogolpe self-defense forces. See comités de autodefensa Sendero Luminoso. See Partido Comunista del Perú–Sendero Luminoso sexual violence. See gender-based violence Shining Path. See Partido Comunista del Perú–Sendero Luminoso shock doctrine, 89, 104, 105n3 social inclusion, 9, 103, 107n30, 108n36 socialism, 40, 42, 204–205. See also Communism; Marxism social provision and spending, 35, 128, 131n12, 320 Sociedad Peruana de Derecho Ambiental, 187, 199n18, 199n26 Soto, Hernando de, 88–90, 97–99, 106n16, 107n31, 227 Soviet Union: and moscovita– pekines (Sino–Soviet) split, 20; October Revolution, 41; and Peruvian Left, 205–206 state building, 66, 77n16, 113, 129, 320–322 state capacity, 109–130; coercive capacity, 111–120, 125, 129–130; confl ict as strategic frame for, 119–120; confl ict legacies of, 121–129; defi nition of, 121; and institutional continuity in govern-

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ment-military relations, 121–123; and institutional design, 109, 110–111, 113–116, 119, 129– 130; and institutional effectiveness, 109, 111, 116–119; and intelligence services, 115–116; and learning, 116–120; and military, 111–122, 129; multifaceted approach to, 111; and police, 114– 115; and politicization, 109, 114, 122; and ratchet effects, 112– 113; and resources, 111–114, 122, 130n1; scholarship on, 110–112, 121–123, 128; and territorial reach, 123–129; and wartime institutional changes, 113–119; and wartime mechanisms, 111–119; and wartime money and manpower, 112–113. See also state building States of Exception, 4, 27, 31, 93, 144 state territorial reach, 110, 123–129 Stern, Steve J., 18–19, 29, 42 subject theory, 73–74, 78n20 technocracy, 8, 99, 317, 325; fujimorista as, 48, 88–90, 102, 318– 319; and neoliberalism, 12, 88– 90, 99–104, 229, 237–238, 241, 243, 246; and Peruvian Right, 229, 237–238, 241, 243–244, 246 terrorism: Counter-Terrorism Direction, 43–44; Internal Armed Confl ict framed as, 32; and memory, 293, 298, 300–305, 326; public opinion about, 15, 250– 281, 318; stigmatization of the Left as supporting, 13, 204, 208, 217–221, 315, 317; stigmatization of universities as supporting, 132, 138, 141, 144–145, 154, 317 terrucos, 285, 289, 300, 305 Theidon, Kimberly, 10, 43, 163, 311n38 Tilly, Charles, 77n16, 129 Tingo María, Huánuco, 103, 130n6, 168

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Toledo, Alejandro, 102, 104, 120, 128, 146, 187, 241–243, 248n20, 303, 320 “true Peru,” 20–21, 24 Truth and Reconciliation Commissions, 71, 75–76, 193, 201nn38– 39. See also Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación del Perú Túpac Amaru, 34, 50, 92 Uchuraccay tragedy, 4, 33 Unidad Democrático Popular, 106n11, 213, 217, 224n6 United States, 27, 41, 44, 46, 88, 181, 191, 200n35, 227, 261; Clinton administration and human rights, 192, 200–201n37; McCormick report on Shining Path, 46–47 Universidad Nacional de Educación Enrique Guzmán y Valle (La Cantuta), 138, 139, 155n3, 294–295, 300, 302, 305 Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, 134, 136, 138–139, 141– 143, 145–146, 148, 152–153, 155n3, 156n9 Universidad Nacional San Cristobal de Huamanga, 28–29, 134, 138– 139, 144–145, 148–149, 152, 156nn8–9 universities: capacity for collective action by, 133–134, 149–154; corruption in, 132–133, 145, 150, 152–154; and democracy, 135, 145–147, 151–153; departure of students and professors from, 133, 147–149; Dirección General de Educación Superior, 147; and disappeared persons, 132, 138, 327n3; impact of violence (1980–1995) on, 137–142; and intelligence services, 138; and legacies of violence (1995–2015), 142–149; and Maoism, 28–29, 132, 136–137; and Marxism, 132, 135–136, 143–145; media on, 134, 138–143, 140–142; and

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neoliberalism, 134, 137, 144; and patrimonialism, 132, 136, 142, 150, 152, 153; and police, 138– 139; pre-violence history and, 134–137; and Shining Path, 28– 29, 132, 137–139, 144, 146, 148– 149, 151; and silent majority, 16, 150, 154; stigmatization of, 133, 143–147; student mobilization in, 12, 133–134, 149–154, 156n11; suggested reform of, 154–155. See also individual universities urbanization, 50, 69 urban population increase, 21, 69, 83, 85, 106n9 urban terror, 43, 45, 57, 88, 300 Van Cott, Donna Lee, 7, 180 Vargas Llosa, Mario, 107n31, 309n2; and fujimorismo, 47, 323–324; and Movimiento Libertad, 88, 90, 227–228; and Peruvian Right, 88–89, 234–236; and Uchuraccay investigation, 33 Velasco Alvarado, Juan, 49–50, 247n12; and authoritarianism, 48, 189, 236; and coup of 1968, 24, 82; and labor movement, 81, 83, 206; and Peruvian Left, 21– 22, 206; and Revolutionary Government of the Armed Forces, 21, 52, 82; and rise of Shining Path, 21–22, 26, 28, 34; and velasquismo, 22, 29, 49; and velasquista reforms, 19, 28, 34, 81, 83, 206, 236 Vilca, Paulo, 194–196 Vilcashuamán, 31, 32, 39 Villacorta, Ana María, 152, 156n10 Villarán, Susana, 209, 244, 315, 319 Washington Consensus, 89, 94, 320 Yashar, Deborah J., 7, 179, 180, 198n4 Zapata, Antonio, 208–210, 213– 218, 224n8, 224n11

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