Practical Approaches to Peacebuilding: Putting Theory to Work 9781685853754

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Practical Approaches to Peacebuilding

Practical Approaches to Peacebuilding Putting Theory to Work edited by

Pamina Firchow Harry Anastasiou

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

Published in the United States of America in 2016 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com

and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU

© 2016 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Firchow, Pamina, editor. | Anastasiou, Harry, editor. Title: Practical approaches to peacebuilding : putting theory to work / edited by Pamina Firchow and Harry Anastasiou. Description: Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc., Boulder, Colorado, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015038596| ISBN 9781626374577 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781626374584 (pbk. : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Peace-building—Case studies. | Rotary International. Classification: LCC JZ5538 .P768 2016 | DDC 303.6/6—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015038596

British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States of America

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992.

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To the memory of Paul Harris, for his vision of peace and international cooperation through fellowship

Contents

Foreword, Peter Wallensteen Acknowledgments 1 2

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Peacebuilding in Theory and Practice Pamina Firchow and Harry Anastasiou

The Peace Triangle: Capturing Peace After Military Victory in Sri Lanka Kristine Höglund, Mimmi Söderberg Kovacs, and Waradas Thiyagaraja Development and Peacebuilding: Dam Construction and Violence in the Amazon Anderson Freitas and Francis Lethem

Religion and Peacebuilding: Human Insecurity and the Colonial Legacy in Myanmar Giorgio Shani and Sana Saeed

Gender and Peacebuilding: Hybridity and Friction in the Pacific Islands Nicole George and Chantelle Doerksen Refugees and Peacebuilding: “Poor Country Problems” in Cambodia and Bosnia-Herzegovina Sharon Edington and Caroline Hughes Engaging the Liberal Peace Paradigm: The Case of Rotary International Pamina Firchow vii

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9 35 65 81 109 127

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Appendix: Rotary International’s Contribution to Peace Harry Anastasiou References The Contributors Index About the Book

137 145 166 169 180

Foreword

In its latest report on trends in armed conflict, the Uppsala Conflict Data Program records an unusual spike in 2014. This constitutes a strong challenge to international peace and security. It makes clear that a trend of declining numbers of smaller and larger wars during the two decades after the end of the Cold War is not sufficient for making peace durable. Still, any economic development or general improvement for the inhabitants of this planet requires peace with a quality of tolerance, safety, and durability. The efforts to move in that direction have to be intensified, and indeed, there are initiatives around the world to promote a long-term perspective on peace. The emergence of peace research, peace studies, conflict resolution analysis, and conflict prevention stems from such ambitions. Today they are joined by those promoting the importance of gender analysis and research into religions, as well as resilience in environmental sciences. Thus, peace studies now constitute a global undertaking. This is well illustrated in Practical Approaches to Peacebuilding: Putting Theory to Work, with contributions from around the world. The included authors offer examples that cover multifaceted experiences. Certainly, peace studies disseminate knowledge based on fundamental research in whatever disciplinary form it comes, as long as it is relevant for global peace issues. It is also significant that practice is part of this endeavor, something stressed by the contributors to this volume. Progress toward an understanding of the conditions for peace has been made from investigations into the causes of war (between or within states) and the practices of peacemaking (in the forms of mediation and negotiations), as well as from observing the level of analysis (global and local). This volume demonstrates some of these insights and that they need to inform political action. Peacebuilding is largely understood as the conditions that emerge after the end of civil war, in particular after a peace agreement is reached. This volume adds to this concept by also focusing on the situation after a victory (in Sri Lanka) and by connecting peacebuilding to development issues ix

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(notably dam construction) and other concerns (such as refugees, religion and colonialism, and the role of gender). By including examples that are less common in the literature (notably from the Amazon, Fiji, and Myanmar), the book helps broaden the topic in a constructive way. The book also emphasizes that teaching is a dialogue, and thus each chapter is done as a teacher-student joint contribution. The chapters have emerged from master’s programs around the world, all with an emphasis on the importance of peace as a subject of investigation and action. This book is a unique representation of a modern approach to the subject of global peace and practical peacebuilding: a critical commitment to peace, interdisciplinarity in research, and participatory teaching. Practical Approaches to Peacebuilding: Putting Theory to Work, ably and timely brought together by Pamina Firchow and Harry Anastasiou, demonstrates achievements, suggests ideas for teaching, stimulates further thoughts on what students of peace need and can do, and provides input to further study of peacebuilding. Peter Wallensteen Uppsala University and University of Notre Dame

Acknowledgments

The first ruminations about this volume started over lunch in the cafeteria of Rotary International’s headquarters in Evanston, Illinois. We found ourselves together in Evanston every October over a three-year period for the Rotary Peace Program Committee’s annual meeting. Our encounters there led to discussions about the perspectives and approaches to peace studies of each Rotary Peace Center and to the consideration of more general questions about the applicability of academic theories to the practice of peacebuilding. These occasions caused us to think more about the need not only to provide an epistemological overview of how each Rotary Peace Center approached the topic of peacebuilding but also to address how theory and practice intersect in our field. Our hope is that this book, which grew out of these conversations, will lead to further discussions about the intersections of theory and practice in the classrooms of the Rotary Peace Centers and beyond. First and foremost, we thank the Rotary Foundation for hosting these meals and committee meetings and bringing us together to think about these important issues. The Rotary Peace Centers and center directors were instrumental in helping find the appropriate author teams, since the chapters in this book are all coauthored by a faculty member of a Rotary Peace Center with a current or former Rotary Peace Fellow. This effort was sometimes a challenge to coordinate, and it was only with the help and support of Rotary Foundation staff that we were able to move forward. Some individuals merit mention here: Rebecca Crawl, Kathleen O’Brien, Mike Pfriem, Emily Ruf, and Renee Reiling, among others, helped us in this process. Thanks to their support and guidance, we received a Rotary Special Initiatives grant, which gave us the financial support needed to make this book a reality. The royalties from sales of the book are being donated to the Rotary Foundation to fund future Rotary Peace Fellowships. In addition, we are grateful to our publisher, Lynne Rienner, for her support and patience, as well as to our colleagues, friends, and the anonyxi

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mous reviewers who provided us with feedback on our chapters. We thank the Rotarian Action Group for Peace for offering the services of their staff members Natalie Prater and Krystal Conniry to help us in preparing the manuscript, and we appreciate Natalie and Krystal’s meticulous attention to detail and enthusiasm. Finally, we thank our families for the support and understanding they continue to provide us as we dedicate time and effort to reflecting on matters of peace and conflict. Pamina Firchow Harry Anastasiou

1 Peacebuilding in Theory and Practice Pamina Firchow and Harry Anastasiou

Peacebuilding is a term that spans a wide array of activities influencing sustainable peace in different phases of conflict. It can be found at all points on the war to peace continuum, but it attends primarily to the requirements of conflict-affected communities. This includes concerns related to development, security, legal and institutional reform, peace education, and indigenous peacemaking efforts. Because the term is so broad, it can also be easily co-opted and used by local and international actors to promote programs that do not build peace. In this regard, there are examples, such as the Iraq war, where conflict resolution and peacebuilding processes have been used to win over factions in violent conflicts in an attempt to build a bigger coalition to militarily defeat a targeted enemy. In instances like these, conflict resolution and peacebuilding knowledge and skills can be nefariously coopted into functions of warfare, transforming them into instruments of war efforts and skewing their original intentions to work for sustainable peace. Yet, many communities have benefited from international peacebuilding efforts and studies have found that multilateral, United Nations peace operations have made a positive difference on sustainable peace (Doyle and Sambanis 2000), but many others have become political pawns or, worse, have borne the brunt of harmful policies that were carried out thoughtlessly or, worse yet, imposed on communities without their inclusion. With these communities in mind, we developed this book about peacebuilding. We believe that the path to peace is paved with good intentions, but can be perilous to maneuver. Therefore, reflection on experience and the rigorous study of the components of peace must be a fundamental part of any discussions on peacebuilding. Most conflicts around the world share some similar general features. Scholars in peace and conflict studies have studied the dynamics of conflict escalation and the ensuing alienation between rival parties that result in the construction of divergent narratives, which often portray mutually exclusive worldviews and become a part of the collective memory, precipitating 1

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inverse perspectives, where one side’s hero is the other side’s villain (Anastasiou 2002). Although these crucial, dynamic features tend to be common to conflicts in general, they do not suffice for helping us understand a particular conflict, especially in diagnosing specific conflicts and developing case-specific, appropriate peacebuilding strategies. It is also important to acknowledge and attend to the equally crucial fact that the specific structure and content of conflicts—be they local, national, international, or global—vary widely. For this very reason, any elaboration on peacebuilding theories and practice requires not only knowledge of the general features of certain conflict dynamics but also a focused knowledge of the unique and localized features of each conflict, that is, of the sui generis nature of each conflict analyzed. In peace and conflict studies, the relationship between theory and practice is historically dynamic and highly interactive. The momentum of this relationship flows not only from theory to practice but from practice to theory. On one hand, the professional peacebuilding community seeks to develop intellectual frameworks on the theoretical plane that are credible, stable, and sustainable enough to facilitate understanding and accurate appraisal of conflict and peacebuilding pathways. On the other hand, the professional peacebuilding community is challenged to be cognizant of historical change and varying cultural contexts, with the emergence of new phenomena that inevitably test and pose critical questions for theories of conflict and peacebuilding. At this critical juncture, the interactivity between theory and practice gravitates from the latter to the former. We are presently at a historical juncture where the practice of peacebuilding is encountering novel phenomena that must inform and further develop peace and conflict theory. These include rising postsecularist trends with the resurgence of religiosity in nationalist and civilizational narratives; the novel challenges that globalization poses to the traditional role of the nation-state; the crisis in legitimacy in the sphere of governance vis-à-vis populist discontentment, minority rights, and militant insurgencies; the religiously justified militancy of terrorism; the increasing examination of the liberal peace perspective as one that tacitly endorses and is party to economic injustices and power asymmetries—these are but a few of the pressing phenomena the peace and conflict studies community is called to attend. Many of these challenges inevitably and intentionally become the focus of attention for peace scholars and peace practitioners, who strive to effectively contribute to the theory and practice of peacebuilding as catalytic mechanisms for positive and constructive sociopolitical change in the world. In light of this perspective, the chapters in this volume integrate peacebuilding theories and the practical exigencies of the conflicts analyzed. The authors not only take conflict analysis and peacebuilding theories deep into

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the unique structure and content of the conflicts, but they also elaborate further theoretical perspectives that update and facilitate the development of peace and conflict theory, including peacebuilding theory in particular. Why Peacebuilding in Theory and Practice?

Peace and conflict studies has had an active place in academia since the 1950s and secured its role with the establishment of important journals such as the Journal of Peace Research and the Journal of Conflict Resolution, which are now among some of the highest ranked and well-respected journals in the social sciences. Several university programs sprung up during this time, such as the University of Bradford’s program, which began with the appointment of Adam Curle in 1973, and the establishment of the Department of Peace and Conflict Research at Uppsala University in 1971. Today, there are more than 400 university peace and conflict studies programs, with more emerging. Journals such as the Journal of Peacebuilding and Development and the journal Peacebuilding have been more recently established. The field continues to grow, and this has allowed for a progression of theories to develop surrounding questions on the causes of peace, the causes of war, the mitigation of peace and war, models of conflict resolution and transformation, protracted social conflict, the relationship between human rights and peace and between development and peacebuilding, etc. In contrast to war studies and security studies, the field of peace and conflict studies (also referred to as peace research or conflict analysis and resolution) focuses on the normative goal of resolving conflicts and moving toward what Johan Galtung called positive peace—the goal of peace through legitimacy and justice, eliminating the underlying structural issues that lead to war (Galtung 1969b). Unlike classical political science and current security studies, the perspective of peace and conflict studies is not exclusively concerned with raw power dynamics and potential or actual hard power as the dominant determinants of the political world. Peace and conflict studies assumes a stance that is critically cognizant of the degree to which these elements are maintained as the dominant determinants and how the political world, nationally and internationally, becomes increasingly shaped in the direction of conflict and uncertainty, creating and sustaining the very anarchic world that the socalled realist theory of international relations promotes in its prioritization of raw power as the primary modality of international relations. Rather, in transcending but also complementing key aspects of classical political science and current security studies, the perspective of peace and conflict studies prioritizes a normative approach, where power relations are diagnostically attended and equally as important as the nature of relationships between groups, nations, and civilizations. In doing so, the approach of

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peace and conflict studies lies in seeking and fostering perspectives and strategies that facilitate and orient historical change toward power symmetries, socioeconomic justice, human rights, and sustainable cultural diversities as the foundations for restructured relationships in the interest of peace and thus security. The Practice and Theory Divide

The application and utility of peace and conflict studies theories for students of peace have not always been apparent, and there is an underlying tension in the field between peacebuilding practitioners and those who study peace. The applicability of theories created by scholars is sometimes contested, and there is a disconnect between the realities practitioners face and the theories scholars produce. Students are often eager to grasp how these lacunae may be bridged and how they can find ways for real-world application of what they learn in the classroom. When dealing with concrete problems in the international development and peacebuilding fields, practitioners have often seen academic social scientists as esoteric. The ivory tower that surrounds these so-called experts gives them the immunity to debate trivial minutiae and impractical theories. The value attributed to critical thinking in scholarly work creates an environment where scholars are encouraged to criticize but do little to be constructive apart from offering some abstract policy recommendations every now and then. However, as Robert Chambers has pointed out, this can be salutary (Chambers 1983). Critical thinking can lead scholars to find that women’s involvement in peace processes is fundamental to their success, that trickle-down economics usually doesn’t work, or that development projects can sometimes harm the lives of their intended recipients. These are all ways scholars have helped dispel myths and assumptions held by practitioners and policymakers by applying a critical lens to their research. Yet these studies often don’t offer alternatives, or in the cases where alternatives are offered, these are not always empirically tested. Arguably, this division has diminished since the advent of the Internet with communication between scholars and practitioners through blogs and online magazine and newspaper articles. However, this is often more of a one-way street, with academics promoting their findings to policymakers with little discussion or interaction. The agenda of what is researched and highlighted is led by the scholar rather than the practitioner—and definitely not by the recipient of any policy or social analysis. Many scholars are removed from their communities and the individuals they study through surveys or statistical analysis and, more recently, units established by research universities to conduct fieldwork. These research units have become common at most of the top research universities in the United States and allow faculty to get grants to support fieldwork they don’t

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actually conduct themselves. Of course, this kind of distance from the researched has existed for decades through the survey process and by hiring fieldworkers and enumerators in the field to conduct survey work for later analysis by experts. Among other objectives, this book constitutes an effort at filling this gap—tackling peacebuilding challenges from both theoretical and practical perspectives. The authors include the faculty and students (former or current) of the Rotary Peace Centers at the University of Bradford, UK; Uppsala University, Sweden; International Christian University, Japan; the University of Queensland, Australia; and the joint center of Duke University and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, United States. Founded and supported by Rotary International since 2002, the centers offer a master’s program of academic and practical training in peace and conflict studies for Rotary Peace Fellows, students selected from around the world. This book provides a window on the important work of these centers, as well as a basis for current and future scholars, alumni, Rotarians, and faculty to understand the work and perspective of other centers in the area of peacebuilding. A Global Cross Section of the State of the Art in Peacebuilding

Peace and conflict studies is inevitably a multidisciplinary and sometimes interdisciplinary field, and this is reflected in the chapters in this volume. Although the majority of the chapters are admittedly heavily influenced by political science and international relations, they also demonstrate how methods and literature from anthropology, psychology, sociology, and other disciplines influence peace and conflict studies. The topics represent the current wider debates that exist in the literature on peacebuilding and engage with questions of the effect of development on peacebuilding, the liberal peace, interfaith peacebuilding, the role of gender and peacebuilding, and the evolution of traditional peace theories, among others. Following this introduction, Chapter 2, by Kristine Höglund, Mimmi Söderberg Kovacs, and Waradas Thiyagaraja, makes use of a conceptual tool—the Peace Triangle—which was developed to capture the character and quality of peace in postwar societies. The Peace Triangle has its theoretical foundation in the Conflict Triangle, originally developed by Johan Galtung for analyzing the complexity of armed conflicts. The Peace Triangle analyzes three essential dimensions on which to determine the quality of peace in postwar societies: residual conflict issues, conflict behavior, and attitudes between the parties. Though it was initially designed to capture the nature of peace in societies where the parties have reached a negotiated settlement, here the framework is applied to the case of Sri Lanka, where the war between the government and the separatist Liberation

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Tigers of Tamil Eelam came to an end with military victory in 2009. As part of their analysis, the authors discuss the relationship among the elements of the Peace Triangle, the challenges those elements pose for establishing a sustainable peace, and the implications for policymakers concerned with peacebuilding efforts. Chapter 2 is reflective of efforts to uncover the structural basis for peace in postconflict contexts and, in this case, after military victory. Chapter 3, by Anderson Freitas and Francis Lethem, exemplifies the multidisciplinary and holistic approach to peacebuilding and conflict-sensitive sustainable development adopted by the Duke-UNC Rotary Peace Center. The chapter deals with the Brazilian government’s plan to construct several large hydropower dams in the Amazon region. These dams play a central role in the country’s current energy strategy, which is designed to ensure that energy supply meets the demand generated by anticipated economic growth in the next two decades. Nevertheless, they have become the object of violent conflict involving the indigenous groups that oppose them and the workers who are building them. As they examine the various factors leading to that conflict and consider strategies for mitigation, Freitas and Lethem look into the history of Brazil’s relations with indigenous peoples, the emergence of national development priorities that affect areas traditionally occupied by them, environmental issues, and international concerns about human rights. Chapter 4, by Giorgio Shani and Sana Saeed, reflects the growing interest in religion and interfaith peacebuilding in the field of peace and conflict studies. The authors approach peace and conflict studies from a “postsecular” standpoint, which entails an engagement with the multiple religiouscultural contexts in which human dignity is embedded. They focus in this chapter on the nexus between human security, secularism, and religion in Myanmar, and in particular on the statelessness of the Rohingya Muslim community in Rakhine State. They also provide some more general reflections on the role of religion and interfaith movements in peacebuilding and reconciliation today. In Chapter 5, Nicole George and Chantelle Doerksen engage scholarly discussions on the liberal peace and present a critique of hybrid approaches to conflict transformation. Approaching these issues from a gendered perspective, they examine the complex politics that surround women’s peacebuilding work in the Pacific Islands. The case study is that of FemLINK, a Fiji-based women’s media organization committed to promoting gender security in a country that has experienced four coups in the past thirty years. Chapter 6, by Sharon Edington and Caroline Hughes, focuses on how liberal approaches to peacebuilding and humanitarian intervention—considered radical during the Cold War—have been increasingly co-opted to

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oppressive ends since the 1990s. Presenting the cases of the resettlement of Cambodian refugees in the early 1990s and the plight of the stateless Roma populations in the Baltic states today, the authors demonstrate how the treatment of displaced populations, excluded from liberal models of citizenship, is a key example of the uneven and typically unquestioned power relations implicit in the post–Cold War liberal peace. They also assess alternatives that incorporate respect for the dignity and knowledge of local populations. In the concluding chapter, Pamina Firchow presents the example of Rotary International as a case study of a civil society organization that joins actors from the global North and global South to implement service projects that emulate liberal models and integrate indigenous knowledge and prowess. She discusses some of the limitations of this model and the serviceoriented approach. Finally, the Appendix by Harry Anastasiou provides a historical overview of Rotary’s role in peacebuilding. The Parameters of Peacebuilding

The contributions to this volume demonstrate the expansive and elastic nature of peacebuilding. As we have already discussed, the concept spans a vast amount of interventions and activities in conflict-affected contexts and is often difficult to delineate. As illustrated by the contributions herein, peacebuilding clearly overlaps significantly with many other types of interventions, including development, human rights, and humanitarianism (Firchow and Mac Ginty 2013). Figure 1.1 on the next page demonstrates the parameters of peacebuilding. Although peacebuilding constitutes a subset of activities in conflictaffected contexts such as mediation, negotiation, and dialogue, it also encompasses elements from other areas. For example, there is significant overlap between peacebuilding and rule of law interventions, as there is between statebuilding and peacebuilding activities, and so on. Essentially, those activities with an explicit normative goal of establishing peace and the transformation of conflict are considered part of the extended sphere of peacebuilding activities. This volume gives us an intimation of many of these sectors and presents the tensions that often arise between them. By better understanding the relationship between peacebuilding and its overlapping areas, we begin to make the transformation of conflict into a palpable reality. The following chapters represent an attempt to understand these intersections and apply theoretical approaches to real-world problems in the pursuit of peace.

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Figure 1.1 Parameters of Peacebuilding

STATEBUILDING RULE OF LAW Peacekeeping, Humanitarian Aid, and Emergency Relief

WAR

PEACEBUILDING PEACE CULTURE

Power Sharing, Constitution Building, Multilateral Engagement Human Rights, Transitional Justice Mediation, Negotiation, Dialogue, Memorialization, Truth Telling, Reconciliation, Indigenous Forms of Peacemaking Peace Education, Journalism, Art

DEVELOPMENT

Infrastructure, Public Health, Agriculture

SECURITY

Stabilization, Disarmament, Security Sector Reform

RECONCILIATION

2 The Peace Triangle: Capturing Peace After Military Victory in Sri Lanka Kristine Höglund, Mimmi Söderberg Kovacs, and Waradas Thiyagaraja It is widely acknowledged that peace is a multifaceted concept. Yet the empirical study of postwar societies has so far largely failed to capture the diverse character of countries emerging from civil war.1 It was not until recently that the academic community began to explore a much more multidimensional picture of peace and its implications for our understanding of the local realities of these societies and our most common policy tools for ending violence and promoting sustainable peace in countries devastated by civil wars.2 This chapter makes use of a conceptual tool—the Peace Triangle—that has been developed to capture the character and quality of peace in postwar societies.3 It has its theoretical foundation in the Conflict Triangle, originally developed by one of the pioneers in peace research, Johan Galtung, for analyzing the complex nature of armed conflicts. The Peace Triangle outlines three essential dimensions of postwar societies on which to gauge the nature of the emergent peace: residual conflict issues, conflict behavior, and attitudes between the parties. For instance, in some countries the main political issues over which the war was fought may not have been solved (conflict issues), and other situations may involve continued violence and insecurity (behavior). Yet another scenario is a postwar context where polarization has grown and efforts toward intergroup reconciliation have failed or are lacking (attitudes). The Peace Triangle was initially designed to capture peace in societies where the parties have reached a negotiated settlement. In this chapter, the framework is applied to the case of Sri Lanka, where the war between the government and the separatist Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) came to an end in 2009 through military victory by the government. The outright victory rendered the LTTE with no power to demand concessions. Although victories are less common than peace agreements as a way to end war, its implications for sustainable peace remain contested.4 Moreover, the 9

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environment in countries where a civil war ended with victory is fundamentally different than in cases of peace agreements. This important difference has been largely neglected in the literature on peacebuilding and conflict prevention. Instead, most theories build on an assumption of at least minimum agreement between the warring parties and do not sufficiently consider the cases where one of the main actors has been eliminated (Höglund and Orjuela 2011). The context of victory therefore makes Sri Lanka an important case to explore in terms of the type of peace that emerged and the potential for building sustainable peace. We argue that the Peace Triangle is a useful heuristic device to understand the challenges of postwar societies in moving toward sustainable peace. We know that many societies become frozen in a situation of “no war, no peace,” with manifest or latent violence, social polarization, and authoritarian rule or political instability. 5 By moving beyond a simple dichotomy of “failed” and “successful” cases of war termination and peacebuilding, it is possible to analyze the conditions for and potential remedies of such situations. This chapter proceeds as follows. We present a brief overview of the concept of peace and outline the key elements of the Peace Triangle as a conceptual tool to capture the various dimensions of peace in postwar societies. In the third section, the case of Sri Lanka is presented and the peace that emerged after 2009 is analyzed with the help of the Peace Triangle. We focus specifically on developments from May 2009 until the end of 2014. During this time period, the rule of President Mahinda Rajapaksa and the decisive military victory of the Sri Lankan government in 2009 determined how peacebuilding in Sri Lanka was approached. A new government came into power in January 2015, which influenced the dynamics of peacebuilding and affected the prospects for sustainable peace. However, it is too early to assess the outcome of the regime change. Where relevant, we also discuss previous peace initiatives to understand how the trajectory of the conflict influences the current postwar situation. In the final section, we discuss some of the key challenges for creating sustainable peace in Sri Lanka, including implications for future research and policy. The Peace Triangle

It is generally understood that the concept of sustainable peace is something more than the mere ending of direct violence or war. The terminology of negative versus positive peace has been invoked as useful for capturing the different dimensions of sustainable peace. Although negative peace entails the absence of violence or war, positive peace has a broader connotation and includes features beyond security, such as democracy, justice, and development.6 In both international relations and peace and conflict research, the

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most common way of defining peace has been the absence of war. Research on war termination has primarily defined peace in terms of the end of largescale collective violence, which conversely is seen as equal to peace. This assumption and usage of the concept has, however, been criticized from methodological and ontological perspectives, which has resulted in a more nuanced usage of the term beginning to emerge (Richmond 2006a). Contrary to research on peace, peacebuilding policy and practice have followed a different development in postwar societies. With the advent of multidimensional peacekeeping operations after the end of the Cold War, peace was promoted not just by separating the warring parties and creating conducive conditions for conflict resolution by ending violence. In addition, peace processes with international involvement saw the deliberate promotion of institutional, political, and economic reforms, particularly in the shape of Western accounts of democracy, often labeled “liberal peace.” Yet this form of intervention has sometimes had significantly negative consequences and has failed to resonate with local perceptions and understandings of peace.7 This has resulted in a realization of the obstacles both external and domestic actors encounter in efforts to promote sustainable peace in postwar societies. In this chapter we define sustainable peace as more than the absence of large-scale collective violence. In situations of both negotiated settlements and war victories, the process of creating sustainable peace entails a shift from a focus on war termination to the prevention of new violent conflict by transforming attitudes, behaviors, and norms in a direction that supports the peaceful regulation of conflict (Ohlson and Söderberg Kovacs 2002, 20– 21). In this sense, it has a qualitative dimension. Over time it can become more consolidated, but equally well a postwar country can experience a reversed process, where attitudes harden and violent behavior escalates. It is well recognized that how war ends will shape postwar conditions and the implementation of peace (DeRouen and Sobek 2004, 305). Yet most theories of peacebuilding fail to problematize the different conditions from which peace is to develop and most conceptualizations of peace do not sufficiently problematize the features of the peace that actually emerge. At a most general level, we know that wars that end through a military victory create an environment in which the losing side is often either eliminated or co-opted into the winning side. Negotiated settlements, on the other hand, tend to produce a peace process in which the belligerents have to coexist and substantive concessions are needed if peace is to prevail. However, even within the broad distinction of different war endings, there is great variety in the types of peace that may emerge. The Peace Triangle is an analytical tool that has been developed to capture a more nuanced classification of the different components of peace and was originally used to analyze the diversity of peace after negotiated settlements (Höglund and Söderberg

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Kovacs 2010). 8 This article builds on this classification but extends its application to wars ended with a military victory. The Peace Triangle has its theoretical underpinning in Johan Galtung’s conceptualization of conflicts as being composed of primarily three different components—conflict, behavior, and attitudes—that make up the three corners of the Conflict Triangle, an analytical construct that illustrates the complex and interrelated nature of conflicts (see Figure 2.1). These three constituent elements influence each other in either negative or positive spirals of dynamic effects, underscoring the need for a dynamic approach to studying conflict. It also illustrates that conflict has the potential to originate in changes that occur in any of the three components (Galtung 1969a, 486–491; 1996, 70–73).9 The component labeled “conflict” refers to the issues at stake, over which the main actors are disputing. An incompatibility arises when two parties aspire to the same resource and their demands cannot be reconciled at the same time (Wallensteen 2007, 14). “Conflict behavior” instead concerns the manifestation of the conflict in terms of the actions the parties take to pursue their goals. Conflict behavior includes direct physical violence but also threats, boycotts, or sanctions. What separates conflict behavFigure 2.1 Galtung’s Conflict Triangle

Attitude

A

C Conflict

B Behavior

Source: Reprinted with the permission of the author and publisher. The Conflict Triangle has appeared in several of Galtung’s writings, originally in Hugh Freeman (ed.), Progresses in Mental Health (London: Churchill, 1969).

The Peace Triangle

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ior from other forms of actions is the deliberate intention behind the behavior, which aims to either pursue one’s own goals or force the opponent to abandon or modify their goals (Mitchell 1981, 29–32; Wiberg 1990, 24–26). Finally, “conflict attitudes” signifies the psychological processes and conditions— attitudes, emotions, and perceptions—which accompany conflict dynamics and have a destructive impact on the parties’ relationships. While being symptoms of the conflict, they serve to justify conflict behavior and the furthering of extreme positions (Mitchell 1981, 27). Examples of conflict-related emotions are anger, distrust, and fear, and cognitive processes such as stereotyping and dehumanization along ethnic, religious, or racial lines (Wiberg 1990, 29–30).10 The Peace Triangle uses these three constituent elements of conflict— issues, behavior, and attitudes—to analyze the nature and constellations of peace after war (see Figure 2.2). The different components of the Peace Triangle and the variations of it discussed here are not mutually exclusive categories. Any postwar society can display characteristics that place it in several different categories at the same time. Rather than being a typology in a strict sense, it serves as a framework for analyzing the different dimensions of peace in a particular postwar setting. Figure 2.2 The Peace Triangle

Issues UÊ1˜Ài܏Ûi`Ê*i>Vi UÊ,iÃ̜Ài`Ê*i>Vi UÊ œ˜ÌiÃÌi`Ê*i>Vi

Behavior UÊ*>À̈>Ê*i>Vi UÊ,i}ˆœ˜>Ê*i>Vi UʘÃiVÕÀiÊ*i>Vi

Attitudes UÊ*œ>Àˆâi`Ê*i>Vi UÊ1˜ÕÃÌÊ*i>Vi UÊi>ÀvՏÊ*i>Vi

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Höglund, Kovacs, and Thiyagaraja

Issues: Unresolved, Restored, and Contested Peace The first element of the Peace Triangle relates to the main incompatibility or issues at stake. This component covers the extent to which conflict issues have been solved or remain in society, relating both to the stated aspirations of the parties and the underlying grievances. In the context of a negotiated settlement, some issues may have been left out, sometimes deliberately, to be solved later in the process. In other cases, there has been no attempt to actually solve the key issues; instead, the war ending has primarily been concerned with stopping the violence. Instances where the main issues have not been addressed may be described as postwar societies characterized by unresolved peace. An example of such a peace was the fragile IsraeliPalestinian peace process in the 1990s, where the Oslo Peace Accord in 1993 failed to address key issues, such as the status of Jerusalem and the return of Palestinian refugees. A different situation exists when the main conflict issues as expressed by the warring parties have been managed within the peace process, but the primary underlying grievances remain. Examples include economic discrimination toward minorities or denial of expression of identity, issues that may have mobilized people for conflict to begin with. Such cases can be referred to as situations of restored peace. Finally, a postwar situation may give rise to new conflict issues, which may fuel new tensions. For instance, when a war subsides and parties no longer face a clear enemy, tensions within parties may surface. Reform of political institutions may create new winners and losers, and certain actors may want to challenge the emerging peace. We refer to these situations as cases of contested peace. A prime example is the peace agreement in Versailles following World War I, which created conditions that eventually fueled World War II. Behavior: Partial, Regional, and Insecure Peace In postwar societies, conflict behavior concern issues related to violence and insecurity. In cases where former warring actors or militant groups opposed to the peace process or the postwar developments reengage in violent acts, this may lead to renewed or escalated fighting. Even if continued conflict behavior does not lead to a breakdown of peace across the country, among all parties, or in all aspects of the conflict resolution process, residual violence and insecurity may cause obstacles in the progression toward establishing sustainable peace (Darby 2001; Höglund 2008; Newman and Richmond 2006). A first situation is what has been labeled “partial peace.” Continued violence by former belligerents or new actors formed in opposition to peace may be very localized and concentrated in a specific region. This means that different parts of a country may progress toward peace differently and geo-

The Peace Triangle

15

graphical variations within the same postwar country in terms of degrees and levels of violence may be substantial. Distinct regional patterns are common during any civil war, where structural factors such as population density, climate, and infrastructure influence where fighting takes place and where peace is more likely to take root.11 This kind of regional peace may also be influenced by transnational conflict behavior, and conflicts in neighboring countries creating obstacles for peace due to refugee and arms flows across borders. Finally, sustainable peace in postwar societies may be challenged by situations of insecure peace. In these cases, armed and organized violence between the warring parties has ended, but citizen security is threatened by widespread and violent crime, directly or indirectly linked to the ending of the war (Mac Ginty 2006; Steenkamp 2011). South Africa, Guatemala, and Afghanistan are illustrative cases. Wars tend to generate a large presence of arms in society, and even in cases of relatively successful disarmament processes, a lot of weapons are never turned in or destroyed and continue to circulate on the illicit market or kept in people’s homes. In situations of dire economic need, not least among unemployed former combatants, such arms may be used for criminal purposes. Less directly, wars legitimize the use of violence, making it an accepted mode of behavior in society, a legacy that continues to prevail long after the formal end of armed conflict (Archer and Gartner 1976). Criminal activities also tend to be institutionalized during the war, as a way for governments to repress individuals and a way for insurgent groups to control populations and fund their activities (Nordstrom 2006). Finally, state structures are often weak in postwar societies, creating a space for criminal activity by gangs, paramilitaries, and other armed groups (Hagedorn 2005). Attitudes: Polarized, Unjust, and Fearful Peace The final element of the Peace Triangle focuses on residual or renewed conflict attitudes in a postwar society. In some societies, the reduction of violence results in improved relationships not only between former belligerents but also between groups and individuals in society at large. Reconciliation efforts in the form of symbolic acts of forgiveness and acknowledgment, truth and reconciliation commissions, or intergroup dialogue projects may strengthen such processes. However, in some postwar societies, not least where identity issues play a critical part, conflict attitudes persist and even become more polarized and extreme after large-scale violence has ended. In cases where impunity and insecurity are frequent and widespread, fear may be an obstacle to sustainable peace. With regard to conflict attitudes, a first type of situation can be called polarized peace. A polarized peace is characterized by a postwar situation where polarization between main conflicting groups remains and political

16

Höglund, Kovacs, and Thiyagaraja

views and attitudes may have hardened. Such polarization can be manifested in more extreme political parties gaining ground in elections or more extreme views being expressed in public opinion polls. For instance, in Northern Ireland, community relations improved only marginally in the first years after the 1998 peace accord, despite a large decrease in paramilitary activities. In some postwar societies, issues relating to justice and reconciliation may constitute obstacles to sustainable peace and the situation may be characterized by an unjust peace. Lack of justice and reconciliation is usually accompanied by widespread impunity, which in turn makes continued fear an obstacle in the struggle for peace.12 Issues related to transitional justice and reconciliation pose severe challenges for postwar societies, and war crimes trials and truth and reconciliation commissions may take place at the international, regional, or local level. In some cases, amnesty is granted for perpetrators of war crimes as a practical solution to get violence-makers on board with the peace deal. In other situations, the pursuit for justice can be very lopsided—the more powerful side is granted impunity, and the loser is held accountable. Regardless of the approach to justice, it is important to seek an understanding of how the absence or presence of initiatives for justice and reconciliation may change and shape conflict attitudes. Finally, there are situations where a postwar society can be characterized by what we label a fearful peace. In such cases, violence is often held at bay by a strongman, whose rule is dominated by the use of fear and repression, and where peace only prevails because of the lack of opportunities for free expression and movement. In these contexts, large-scale violence is absent or suppressed, but the ability of society to reconcile and move toward sustainable peace is severely hampered. The Case of Sri Lanka

The three-decades-long Sri Lankan violent conflict between the LTTE and the Sinhalese-dominated state was a military manifestation by two competing postcolonial ethnonationalist state-building projects (Uyangoda 2005). The LTTE was driven by Tamil ethnonationalism based on the homeland concept of Tamil Eelam in the northern and eastern parts of Sri Lanka, while the Government of Sri Lanka (GoSL) came to represent Sinhalese ethnonationalism.13 Minority rights were restricted through major agricultural resettlement programs in the northeastern parts of the country, the Sinhala Only Act, and discriminatory education standardization policies of the government (Fearon and Laitin 2011). Attempts by Tamil political parties and the GoSL to negotiate a settlement over the discrimination against the Tamil-speaking population failed. This failure was the basis for the emergence of young radical Tamil nation-

The Peace Triangle

17

alist groups, which eventually led to the rise of Tamil militancy in the early 1970s and outbreak of armed conflict in 1983.14 This conflict did not end until May 2009, when the dominant group, the LTTE, was defeated by the military forces of the GoSL. Since the escalation into violent conflict in the 1970s, the war evolved through four major phases: the first Eelam war, 1983–1987; the second Eelam war, 1990–1995; the third Eelam war, 1995– 2002; and the fourth Eelam war, 2006–2009. In the twenty-six-year war, an estimated 60,000 people were killed in battle-related deaths (Uppsala Conflict Data Program 2014). It also generated thousands of refugees and internally displaced persons (IDPs). The armed conflict also gradually undermined the democratic nature of the state, which was one of the earliest democracies in South Asia. Especially during the fourth Eelam war, the country moved toward an unprecedented level of centralization of power, with severe violations of human rights and humanitarian laws. Both the LTTE and the GoSL have been accused of war crimes and human rights violations by the United Nations Human Rights Council (UNHRC) and the international community. As of July 2014, the UNHRC has set up an international panel of experts to report on war crimes and human rights violations committed by the GoSL (UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights 2014a). Against this background, the challenges to establish sustainable peace in contemporary Sri Lanka are considerable. In the first five years after the war, there was little progress in terms of reconciliation or postwar justice, ethnic divisions were further reinforced, and there were few attempts to address the root causes of the conflict. The conflict in Sri Lanka has experienced failed peace attempts on several occasions in the past. Four major peace initiatives can be identified and are summarized in Table 2.1. None of these attempts were able to produce an environment where a process of reconciliation and conflict transformation could be materialized. This is primarily due to the relatively short periods of cessation of hostilities and a lack of political will of the parties to genuinely pursue a negotiation track to end the conflict. Postwar Sri Lanka and Prospects for Sustainable Peace

The military defeat of the LTTE in 2009 ended the armed conflict between the parties. Since then peace, defined as negative peace or the absence of direct violence between the warring parties, has prevailed. Although the government defeated the LTTE entirely in 2009, the victory was a two-step process. In the Eastern Province, the GoSL cleared the rebel-held territories already in 2007, limiting the LTTE to the Northern Province, until the movement was fully defeated in May 2009. Postwar reconstruction programs for the east were initiated two years before the final victory. Thus,

18

Höglund, Kovacs, and Thiyagaraja

Table 2.1 Peace Initiatives in Sri Lanka, 1987–2006 Peace Initiatives

&HDVH¿UHVDQG Talks

7KH1DWXUHRI WKH&HVVDWLRQRI +RVWLOLWLHV

5HVXPSWLRQRI +RVWLOLWLHV

Indo-Lanka Accord VLJQHGRQ-XO\ 1987, between India and Sri Lanka. 7DPLOUHEHOV/77( 7(/2(526 7(/$(35/) 78/)DQG3/27(  and GoSL were to FHDVHKRVWLOLWLHV on the effect of the agreement.

Despite agreement WKDWWKHUHEHOV VKRXOGEHGLVDUPHG WKH,QGLDQ3HDFH NHHSLQJ)RUFHV ,3.) ¶VYLROHQFH DQG¿JKWLQJDPRQJ UHEHOVFRQWLQXHG

7KH/77(DWWDFNHG ,3.)RQ2FWREHU DQGKRVWLOLWLHV ZHUHUHVXPHG

$WHPSRUDU\ FHDVH¿UHEHWZHHQ /77(DQG6UL /DQNDQ$UP\ was transformed into a cessation of KRVWLOLWLHV)RUPDO WDONVEHJDQLQ0D\ 1989 between the /77(DQG3UHVLGHQW 3UHPDGDVD

Despite the FHDVH¿UH¿JKWLQJ FRQWLQXHGEHWZHHQ /77(DQGWKH ,3.)$IWHU,3.) ZLWKGUDZDO/77( UHVXPHGYLROHQW DFWLYLWLHVDJDLQVW WKHSROLFHPLOLWDU\ DQGFLYLOLDQV

2Q-XQH WKH/77(XQLODWHUDOO\EURNHWKH FHDVH¿UHE\LQVLVWLQJ RQFORVLQJDOOWKH SROLFHVWDWLRQVLQWKH north and east of the FRXQWU\

Cessation of KRVWLOLWLHVEHWZHHQ both parties from mid-October 1994. )RXUURXQGVRIWDONV KHOGIURP2FWREHU WR$SULO

Despite no direct KRVWLOLWLHVEHWZHHQ the GoSL and the /77(/77(FRQWLQXHGWRFRPPLW YLROHQFHDJDLQVW FLYLOLDQV

/77(UHVXPHG PLOLWDQWDFWLYLWLHVE\ ERPELQJWZRQDY\ ERDWVLQ7ULQFRPDOHH KDUERURQ$SULO 1995.

7KHXQLODWHUDO FHDVH¿UHE\/77( LQVWLWXWLRQDOL]HG WKURXJKFHDVH¿UH agreement signed \HDUVRI E\/77(DQG*R6/ FHDVH¿UH and two negotiaDecember 24, WLRQVKHOGXQGHU ±-XO\ both Wickremasing²IRUPDOO\ HQGHGE\WKHJRYW he (2002–2003) and 5DMDSDNVD  LQ-DQXDU\ JRYHUQPHQWV (Norwegian IDFLOLWDWLRQ

'HVSLWHWKHORQJHVW FHDVH¿UHVLQFHWKH war began, the YLROHQFHEHWZHHQ WKH/77(DQGWKH *R6/FRQWLQXHGWR WKUHDWHQDUHWXUQWR IXOOÀHGJHGZDU

*UDGXDOHVFDODWLRQ DQG¿JKWLQJEURNH RXWRQ-XO\ 2006, when GoSL UHVSRQGHGPLOLWDULO\ WRWKH/77(¶VFORVXUH RIWKHVOXLFHJDWHV RI0D9LO$UXLQWKH (DVWHUQ3URYLQFH

Indo-Lanka Accord Less than three months of FHDVH¿UH-XO\ 29–October 10, 1987 (Indian mediation)

LTTE-Premadasa Talks )RXUWHHQPRQWKV RIFHDVH¿UH $SULO±-XQH ELODWHUDOQHJRWLDWLRQ

LTTE–Kumaratunga talks Six months of FHDVH¿UH2FWREHU±$SULO ELODWHUDO negotiation) NorwegianMediated Peace Process

Source: Based on data from South Asia Terrorism Portal and Uppsala Conflict Data Program 2013. For timeline data, see South Asia Terrorism Portal (2014); for fatalities and phases of the conflict, see Uppsala Conflict Data Program (2014).

The Peace Triangle

19

when relevant, developments between 2007 and 2009 in the eastern parts of the country are considered to have taken place in a postwar context even if the war was not entirely over. The postwar period in Sri Lanka has generated some important research focusing on understanding and analyzing the nature of the postwar state, reconciliation in war-torn areas, and reconstruction and development (e.g., De Votta 2010, 2011; Thaheer, Peiris, and Pathiraja 2013). This chapter complements this literature and provides a comprehensive analysis of the nature of the peace that exists in Sri Lanka after the war. We approach the issue of sustainable peace by applying the Peace Triangle to the Sri Lankan case, which represents a fresh attempt to understand the limits and possibilities in postwar Sri Lanka. We focus first on the incompatibilities, then on behavior, and third, on attitudes. Incompatibilities The first corner of the Peace Triangle—issues—is related to the relative presence and absence of residual or renewed conflict issues in the postwar context. Depending on different war endings, the ways of addressing the key conflict incompatibilities vary. In some cases, key conflict issues may not be addressed in the peace agreement but are postponed to a later stage when the environment is considered more conducive for compromises. In other cases, a peace process may have failed to address the underlying grievances although the violent behavior has been regulated or stopped. As noted already, such situations can be identified as postwar societies with unresolved peace. Both scenarios are relevant to describe the situation in Sri Lanka. The main problem is the lack of serious attempts by the GoSL to address the underlying grievances of the ethnic conflict five years after the war. With the elimination of the LTTE, the prime responsibility for solving the conflict issues lies with the government. However, the view of the government is that the main cause of the conflict was the LTTE and its activities. With the extinction of the LTTE, the conflict has been solved. The view of a main share of the Tamil minority concerning the cause of the conflict is different. They place self-determination and the cultural rights of Tamilspeaking population at the core of the conflict. Admittedly, there have been some efforts by the GoSL to address the conflict incompatibilities. However, these have failed to produce a political solution that addresses the concerns of the minorities, due to lack of political will from both the government and the opposition, which is too weak to formulate viable alternatives. There has also been a failure to neutralize extremist antipeace forces in the south. Such political divisions within the state camp were visible even before the war ended. For example, in 2006 the GoSL appointed an All Party Representative Conference (APRC) to

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Höglund, Kovacs, and Thiyagaraja

reach a consensus among the political parties for a political solution to the conflict. However, the proposal eventually presented to President Rajapaksa in 2010 only stated that he would put forward his own solution later. The official report of the APRC remains unpublished.15 Another attempt began in 2010, one and a half years after the military defeat of the LTTE, when the GoSL initiated talks with the Tamil National Alliance (TNA), currently the main Tamil party, to explore a political solution based on power sharing.16 The initiative was a result of increased international pressure on the government to explore a political solution with the Tamil minority (International Crisis Group 2012, 9). The talks began in January 2010 and continued until the TNA withdrew from the talks on August 4. The walkout was due to the frustration caused by the GoSL’s inability to bring their own proposals to the negotiation table in response to the proposals made by the TNA. In August 2011, GoSL instead introduced the idea of a parliamentary select committee (PSC) with the purpose of exploring constitutional reforms to enhance the unity of Sri Lanka. The move was widely seen as a delaying tactic, and the International Crisis Group reported that the PSC was perceived by the TNA and many diplomats as a government tactic to avoid issuing its own proposals (ibid.). For this reason, major opposition parties, including the United National Party (UNP), Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna, Sri Lanka Muslim Congress, and the TNA did not participate in the PSC. As of August 2014, there is no indication that the parties will revive the talks. Parallel to the PSC process, the TNA-GoSL talks resumed in September 2011, after an agreement between President Rajapaksa and TNA leader Sampanthan that talks would recommence on the basis of reaching joint consensus based on a constitutional proposal from earlier governments.17 However, the talks broke down when the GoSL demanded the TNA nominate its members to PSC and canceled the January 2012 meeting. Another attempt to initiate talks was made by the UNP leader and former prime minister Ranil Wickremasinghe with Indian support, but this attempt was also rejected by the GoSL when he presented the proposed agenda to the parliament. However, none of them succeeded, and the GoSL’s adamant position on the PSC has caused the TNA to take on a more nationalist stance. For instance, in a speech at a party in Batticaloa in May 2012, TNA leader Sampanthan reaffirmed the core position of Tamil nationalistic agenda and Tamil self-governance.18 Much of the debate concerning a political solution to the conflict in Sri Lanka has related to the devolution of power, and specifically the thirteenth amendment of the constitution. This amendment was a result of the IndoLanka Accord in 1987 between India and Sri Lanka. With the intention of devolving powers to the minority areas in the north and the east, nine provincial councils (PCs) with limited powers were established in all

The Peace Triangle

21

provinces. The north and eastern provinces were temporarily merged but were functional only during 1988–1990. With the war coming to an end, a PC was created in Eastern Province in 2008 and in Northern Province in 2013. The GoSL showcased its advances toward the implementation of the thirteenth amendment as a success story of postwar reconstruction and a return to democracy, and administered elections for both the Eastern Provincial Council (EPC) in May 2008 and September 2012 and for the Northern Provincial Council (NPC) in September 2013. President Rajapaksa’s party, the United People’s Freedom Alliance, successfully won both EPC elections with the support of the political parties called Tamil Makkal Viduthalai Pulikal (TMVP) and the Sri Lanka Muslim Congress in both elections.19 Minority parties, even Tamil ones, have a tradition of siding with the party in power. Thus, the EPC came under the political control of GoSL.20 The NPC election was won by the TNA, which secured 78 percent of the vote and thirty of thirty-eight council seats, thus forming the government of the NPC. Despite criticisms and mixed feelings about the ability of the thirteenth amendment to address the issues of the conflict (Tiruchelvam 2000), the PCs were, in theory, expected to serve as a mechanism to address the issue related to the Tamil-speaking minority in the country and offer them extensive autonomy by equipping the PCs with political powers, including control over land and the police forces. Considering the demography in the north and the east, these provinces were merged to form one PC to give a sense of recognition of territorial unity for the Tamil-speaking majority in these areas. However, the GoSL was simultaneously successful in weakening the ability of the thirteenth amendment to serve as a basis for a solution. The two provinces were unmerged in a Supreme Court ruling in October 2006, thereby denying the recognition of the provinces as one territorial unit. The east was strategically reconnected with the south through the government’s program of military, political, and economic pacification (Goodhand 2010, 350). Moreover, the PCs set up in 2008 and 2013 have very limited powers to cater to the needs of the population. The GoSL was also able to limit the full functioning of the PCs by consolidating police, taxation, and land powers with the central government and extending its rule to the PCs. While agreeing to establish the PCs, a constitutional amendment to limit their powers was passed only three months before the election of the NPC. The amendment as initially proposed would have completely removed the land and policing powers of the PCs. However, due to unexpected opposition within the cabinet and a lack of a two-thirds majority in the parliament (which is needed for constitutional amendments), a more limited amendment was finally passed that only removed the right of provinces to merge (International Crisis Group

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Höglund, Kovacs, and Thiyagaraja

2013, 4). This move was clearly targeted against the PCs in the Tamilspeaking regions that were merged under the Indo-Lanka agreement. Moreover, despite strong discontent from the ruling parties of PCs in the north and the east, the GoSL continued to control the functions of the PCs by appointing ex-military personnel as governors.21 Despite requests from the TNA to appoint a civilian as governor in the Northern Province, retired Major General G. A. Chandrasiri (also former Security Forces Commander of Jaffna—capital district of Northern Province in 2006–2009) was reappointed in July 2014 for a second term. The EPC governor was also a retired military officer, Rear Admiral Mohan Wijewickrema. 22 In these ways, the GoSL effectively restricted the full functioning of the PCs, which could have served as a key mechanism for addressing the grievances of the conflict. When it comes to the stalled TNA government, the government took a U-turn from its previous positions regarding bilateral talks by accepting South Africa’s offer to act as a facilitator for the talks in late 2013.23 The process saw the visit of South Africa’s special envoy to Sri Lanka and the deputy president, Cyril Ramaphosa. However, there was little indication that GoSL changed its position and that they would enter into serious talks with the TNA. For instance, the Ministry of External Affairs explained that the involvement of South Africa is a means to persuade the TNA to join the PSC process (Perera 2014). Apart from the talks regarding a political solution, GoSL policies continued to reproduce the grievances that caused the conflict in the first place, instead of resolving them in a sustainable manner. For instance, despite the recognition of Tamil as a national language, there remained a gap in practice, especially when it came to the delivery of government services in the Tamil majority areas.24 After the war, the government-appointed Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation Commission (LLRC) recognized the important role of language in reconciliation. The commission recommended the government implement a trilingual policy, in which the key element is to learn Sinhala, Tamil, and English in schools. The LLRC also recommended that the government ensure the availability of bilingual officers at all government institutions, including the police.25 In responding to the recommendations of the LLRC, the GoSL initiated a Ten Year National Plan of Trilingual Policy aimed at making Sri Lanka trilingual by 2021. The focus of the plan is to establish an institutional mechanism to promote learning, teaching, and communicating in second and third languages (Tamil/Sinhala and English) primarily in the education sector. It is too early to assess the outcome of the trilingual policy. However, the recruitment of Tamil-speaking persons to state institutions like government offices, police, and military is very slow. One and a half years after the war, the majority of the routine communications from the central government continued to be in Sinhala in

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23

the north and east. Jaffna, capital city of the Northern Province, is the main Tamil-speaking city, and the police station had only 7 Tamil-speaking officers out of 600 officers and constables (Perera 2011). Moreover, major development projects and security measures in the north and the east were executed by or through the military, which is predominantly Sinhala-speaking. Apart from the day-to-day language barriers experienced by the Tamil-speaking minority, there are broader issues related to language in the postwar context. The extreme asymmetrical power relations, caused by the victory of the government, make the issue even more precarious. The implementation of a trilingual policy by the GoSL may possibly contribute to de-ethnicization of the minorities (Pujolar and Gonzalez 2013). De-ethnicization would eventually weaken the political claims for selfdetermination based on ethnolinguistic identity. This fear was very evident in a debate concerning an attempt to ban the Tamil version of the national anthem. Even though the attempted ban was not implemented, the debate created a widespread frustration and fears among minorities and moderate Sinhalese because the ban was supported by top-level political leaders of the government (Perera 2011). Conflicting signals from the government over the language issue cause suspicion about the underlying political motivation of the GoSL. There were also slow developments with regard to the immediate needs and humanitarian concerns that emerged with the conclusion of the war, which in theoretical terms can be understood as new conflict issues. Resettlements of IDPs and refugees (a majority of them Tamils and Muslims from the north and east) of protracted and multiple displacements have been a major concern throughout the conflict.26 At the end of the war, there were more than 480,000 IDPs in Sri Lanka.27 Through an expedited “resettlement” policy, the GoSL was able to announce in September 2012 that the IDP resettlement was concluded. Although GoSL recognized the complexity and protracted nature of the IDP issue in the country, the focus was mainly on numerical accomplishment and new IDPs. However, both the number of resettled and the quality of the resettlement process were questioned by many organizations, including UNHCR. As of December 2012, UNHCR claimed there were still 75,898 old IDPs (Herath et al. 2010). In addition to this large number of IDPs, Sri Lankan refugees still live in India, Australia, Canada, and many other countries and are subject to a slow voluntary returning process (Raheem 2013). The resettlement process was criticized on several accounts. The increased role of the military and a politicization of the resettlement process have caused frustration among the resettling population. The government has made land acquisitions for both development and security purposes, which kept many IDPs away from their original places of residence and

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caused both involuntary relocations and intracommunity conflicts over scarce resources in the new place of relocation.28 Moreover, relocated IDPs originating from known LTTE strongholds have been subjected to systematic discrimination from the military and government officials. For instance, people relocated from Sampur in the Eastern Province, formerly an LTTEcontrolled area, feel they were alienated from the civil administrative structures. They found it difficult to get access to top government officials in the province, many of whom are former military personnel (Thaheer, Peiris, and Pathiraja 2013, 105–106). The manner in which development projects were executed has also stirred new conflicts. Development and reconstruction in postwar areas were characterized by a top-down and noninclusive process. Many of the development programs, specifically targeted toward the north and the east, seemed to produce increased tensions rather than integration.29 Moreover, significant investment in infrastructure development for major cities connecting roads, railways, bridges, harbors, electricity, and water supply were carried out without the participation and consultation of the war-affected communities. For instance, Sinhalese workers from the south were brought to the infrastructure projects in the north although the local resettled population suffers from unemployment (Stone 2014, 150). As stated by Rev. Dambara Amila, a well-known monk and politician, “minorities are subspecies of their [GoSL] exclusionary policies. The development projects are not people centric. People in affected areas are not involved in the ongoing development projects” (quoted in Thaheer, Peiris, and Pathiraja 2013, 79). The two accelerated reconstruction programs, Northern Spring and Eastern Reawakening, have been particularly criticized in this respect. It has been suggested that rather than alleviating the hardship of the war-affected populations, the development programs risk further entrenching existing inequalities, reinforcing and reproducing the existing social hierarchies and power relations, and paving the way for new forms of suppression and inequality (Chaaminda 2012). Postwar development aimed at addressing the grievances of the Tamils by distributing the benefits of economic growth thus not only failed but also produced new forms of conflicts. The north and east were also subjected to war tourism and rapid Sinhalization in the postwar period. These developments took place with the support of the GoSL and caused frustration for the Tamils who live there. As part of the Sinhalization process, places in the north and east have been renamed from Tamil to Sinhala, with many new Sinhala names being imposed on villages and roads. Numerous statues of Buddha now stand throughout the north, some on the sites of razed Hindu temples (Stone 2014, 150). In addition, the arrival and conduct of visitors from the south (mainly Sinhala) while visiting war memorials and religious sites also caused frustration among the Tamils (Dewasiri 2013). In this context,

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25

the view of many Tamils in the north and east is that their culture and heritage have been disrespected and occupied by Sinhala Buddhist nationalist forces from the South. The central issue in assessing peace in Sri Lanka in light of the conflict issues during 2009–2014, is the extent to which the incompatibilities or the underlying causes of the conflict were addressed during the postwar period. It is clear from the foregoing analysis that the strategies and measures of the GoSL, which were presented as reconciliatory moves, did not address the key issues over which the conflict was fought and which caused the conflict in the first place. Moreover, new issues came to the fore as a result of the war (e.g. IDPs) and as a result of postwar developments (e.g., Sinhalization of the north and east). Thus, Sri Lanka clearly displayed a situation dominated by unresolved peace. Behavior Conflict behavior in a postwar society concerns the relative presence or absence of violence and insecurity, which serves as an important indicator of peace. In Sri Lanka, the violent behavior between the main belligerents that can result in an immediate return to war has been successfully stopped. This is primarily due to the military dominance of the Sri Lankan government caused by the defeat of the LTTE, which has ceased to exist as a military entity. Yet Sri Lanka has been fraught with insecurities for its citizens with direct links to the previous war and may be labeled an insecure peace. The insecurity stemmed primarily from the heavy militarization of society and the dominance of the government, which used extralegal means to retain its power. The strong presence of the Sri Lankan armed forces both in the political and social sphere was legitimized as part of the war effort. However, the military expenditure continues to constitute the highest share of the national budget despite the fact that the war is over, enabling further strengthening of the military. According to the World Bank, the military expenditure in 2009 was 3.6 percent of the total gross domestic product (GDP). Despite the slight decrease in the expenditure, the total expenses remained at 2.7 percent of the GDP in 2012, which in relative terms is one of the highest in the world.30 Even though emergency regulations have been lifted, the powers of the military were strengthened with new regulations that were incorporated into the Prevention of Terrorism Act (Goodhand 2011, 135). Security for the population is a day-to-day problem; people in the north and east were surrounded by a heavy military presence. The military was involved in all parts of the society there. The military infiltrated major economic and social spaces, creating an uneven and unjust competition for civilians in the north who did not possess the same level of access to resources and power as the military does. It not only was engaged in securi-

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ty functions but also does agriculture, business, infrastructure building, tourism, and social and cultural engagement, including restaurants and hotels (Stone 2014, 150). The military was, for instance, engaged in several hotel projects. Two of these are located in Nilaaweli and Arugam Bay, popular tourist beaches that could not be accessed during the war, and one hotel is in Yala, a national park bordering the Southern and Eastern Provinces (Gamini 2013). The South was not void of military influence. As an example, for the first time in the history of Sri Lanka, urban development and the Urban Development Authority now came under the control of the Ministry of Defence. The official reason is to facilitate “rapid development.” This meant that the “beautification” of Colombo, which included the forceful resettlement of people residing in slum areas, was being jointly carried out by the military and the Urban Development Authority (Colombo Telegraph 2013). In this way, Sri Lanka mixed military and civilian structures and decreased the civilian space, which is essential for a peaceful transformation of the society (Goodhand 2011, 130–137). The war also resulted in a large share of female-headed households in the war-torn areas and has made women and children more vulnerable to both physical and other societal insecurities (International Crisis Group 2011b; Silva 2012; Thaheer, Peiris, and Pathiraja 2013). Women relied on the military for everyday needs, which put them in greater risk of genderbased violence and prevented them from building their own capacity within communities. Rehabilitated ex-combatants, including female combatants, were frequently subject to military surveillance and arbitrary arrest, torture, and disappearance. Some were used as informants, creating a sense of surveillance in the north (International Crisis Group 2011). There were also some activities by paramilitary groups. For instance, a split within the TMVP, led by former LTTE military commander Karuna, resulted in increased tensions in the east, and militant activities by the two factions continued until 2012.31 Human rights activists, journalists, and others who have raised dissenting voices against the government were subject to “white van” abductions, sometimes tortured and released, at other times disappearing (Weliamuna 2012). The government continued to arbitrarily arrest human rights activists and journalists. Newspapers, such as Uthayan, were attacked on several occasions.32 Overall, media freedom was heavily restricted by official measures and suppression. The well-known cases of disappearances of the two human rights and civil society activists Lalith Weeraraj and Kugan Muruganandan on December 9, 2011, remain unresolved. No progress was made in the investigation of the disappearance of the Lanka-e-News journalist Prageeth Eknaligoda, who went missing on January 24, 2010.

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The southern parts of the country also experienced continuous impunity and insecurity caused by the militarization. The killing of three unarmed Sinhala protesters by the army in August 2013 displayed the brutality deployed against domestic resistance. Public resistance against the GoSL economic policies were met with forceful suppression from the government. In 2011, a young factory worker in a free-trade zone was killed and hundreds were injured during a protest against government privatization of worker pensions. The military also opened fire and killed one protester when fishermen protested the kerosene price hike in February 2012. Political impunity also caused an increasing level of mistrust in the effectiveness of the judiciary and law enforcement bodies. There are longstanding concerns about the political sanctioning of crimes committed by individuals connected to the politicians and the highest circle of power. In June 2013, a deputy inspector general of police was arrested because he was implicated in the killing of a Colombo businessman. It took nearly two years and strong international pressures to convict a local politician from the ruling party who had murdered a British aid worker and sexually assaulted the worker’s girlfriend in December 2011 (International Crisis Group 2013, 24–25). Political impunity was compounded with the repression of the freedom of expression and systematic subordination of the national media by the ruling regime. Journalists were under pressure not to raise strong criticism against the government. Journalists perceived to be crossing the line have been threatened with death or subjected to harassment and torture. Critical news and websites were blocked. For instance, online news sites such as Lanka-e-News remain blocked, and Colombo Telegraph was subject to random blocks. Numerous restrictions were placed on civil society. Nongovernmental organizations were banned from organizing media workshops and media briefings. Human rights activists were subject to arrests and threats. The GoSL began the process of imposing new laws regarding the regulation of nongovernmental groups.33 In spite of the cessation of hostilities, during 2009–2014, the GoSL failed to create a secure society. This was primarily due to the rapid centralization and militarization policies made possible by the asymmetric power relations in a society created by the war ending. With the classification of the Peace Triangle, postwar Sri Lanka showed vivid examples of an insecure peace. Attitudes The third corner of the Peace Triangle—attitudes—refers to the relative presence or absence of conflict attitudes. If conflict attitudes, such as hate and fear, prevail after the war has ended, and even more extreme views

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and opinions about “the other” emerge and become entrenched in society, it can be characterized as a situation of polarized peace. The absence of or failure to achieve transitional justice and reconciliation, where past abuses and relationships remain unaddressed, can be identified as societies experiencing an unjust peace. Finally, some postwar societies are unable to overcome the conflict attitudes due to the presence of a strongman and his rule through fear and suppression. These societies suffer from fearful peace. All these conditions were present in postwar Sri Lanka to varying extents. Since the war ended, Sri Lankan politics and society remained highly polarized along ethnic lines. Competing ideologies of Tamil and Sinhala nationalism continued to be active in the sociopolitical spheres. Tamil nationalism were strengthened further in national electoral and diaspora politics (International Crisis Group 2013). The TNA was using nationalist slogans to win votes in the Tamil areas and is torn between a more nationalist versus a more compromising approach, whereas radical groups in the Tamil diaspora formed the Transnational Government of Tamil Eelam, which continued to use the symbols and rhetoric of the LTTE. Sinhala nationalism enjoyed its highest peak at the center of the power of the Rajapaksa regime. Extreme nationalist parties such as Jathika Hela Urumaya (the National Heritage Party) and the National Freedom Front were crucial parties in President Rajapaksa’s ruling United People’s Freedom Alliance coalition and gained seats in the parliament. These parties publicly voiced their opposition to devolution. The regime was also strengthened by bribing opposition MPs. Even more radical extremist Buddhist groups such as the Bodu Bala Sena (BBS; Buddhist Power Force) also emerged. The organization was formed in 2012 and propagates antiminority and antidevolution views. These activities have fueled interethnic tensions, in which the Muslims are pointed out as a threat to Sri Lanka. For the first time after the war, antiMuslim riots occurred in the town of Altuhgama, only 65 kilometers away from the capital Colombo, in June 2014. BBS has also carried out attacks against Muslim mosques and shops as well as churches, without any obstruction from the GoSL. Most strikingly, after the Altuhgama riots the secretary to the Ministry of Defence, Gotabhaya Rajapaksa, who is a brother of President Rajapaksa, publicly stated that Muslim terrorism was a threat to Sri Lanka. This stance by a high-level government official served to legitimize the ideas propagated by the extremist groups such as BBS and National Freedom Front (Indian Express 2014). In terms of more deliberate efforts directed at justice and reconciliation, the Sri Lankan government rejected suggestions to initiate war crimes investigations. However, the international community, headed by the United

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Nations, demanded action by the government. These demands widened the divisions between the government-supported Sinhalese population and the Tamil community (Höglund and Orjuela 2013). This increasing international pressure was used by President Rajapaksa to rally support and centralize power even further. As an example, the report by the UN Panel of Experts on war crimes was released in March 2011, and it showed that both the LTTE and the GoSL had violated international humanitarian law and human rights during the last stage of the war. The report was denounced by the Sri Lankan government and was used to mobilize against the United Nations and Western powers advocating accountability. Efforts to promote postwar justice in this sense widened the gap between the norms promoted internationally and locally by minorities and what is accepted by the Sri Lankan government and its supporters. In May 2010, in response to increasing pressure for an independent commission of inquiry into war crimes, the government appointed the LLRC. The LLRC held hearings in Colombo and the war-torn areas and received written statements. The final report was issued in December 2011 and includes recommendations on wide-range institutional reforms and efforts to promote interethnic reconciliation, but is silent on the issue of accountability. The LLRC report was partially denounced by the GoSL, and only after international pressure did the government introduce an action plan for implementing some of its recommendations. The LLRC failed to influence the relationship between the communities in Sri Lanka in any significant manner. The commission was also criticized on accounts of being government-biased, for having a very limited mandate, for lack of protection for witnesses, and for failing to deal with the accountability issue. However, civil society organizations viewed the report as a document that can be used to mobilize support and discussions, and the international community used it to put pressure on the government, for instance in the Human Rights Council (ibid.). A local commission on disappearances and possible war crimes and a panel of experts were appointed by President Rajapaksa in August 2013. The GoSL emphasized that the expert panel was only an advisory body to the government (Rutnam 2014). In many societies, memorialization and commemoration of the war can contribute to reconciliation. However, in Sri Lanka the government’s memorialization policies were dominated by images of the victor and the heroic soldier and patriotic triumphalism and failed to recognize the suffering experienced by the Tamil population. Images of the victorious solider were present in war monuments and during Victory Day, which is held yearly to celebrate the end of the war. At the same time, the Tamil population was denied the opportunity to officially mourn the loss of loved ones (Aneez and Srilal 2014). This kind of memory-making, which silences the

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Tamil grievances and the suffering of the losing side, is unlikely to be productive in achieving reconciliation between the communities (Hyndman and Amarasingham 2014).35 These triumphalist and patriotic images of the war found their way into popular culture. Sinhala movies produced after the war, such as Selvam, Gamani, and Matha, have reproduced the narrative of Sinhala Buddhist nationalism and romanticized the military victory. Many movies were sponsored or produced by individuals from the military or close to the ruling regime. Karunanayake and Thiyagaraja capture the memory produced in the postwar Sinhala cinema by arguing, “Sri Lankan cinema under the auspices of the state politics hegemonises dominant versions of memory and truth about war. Effacing historical, cultural, linguistic, and religious ties between the Sinhalese and Tamils, the communities are depicted as a binary—one as a complete foil to the other” (Karunanayake and Thiyagaraja 2013, 17). The militarization of society and the presence of the military in development and reconstruction efforts in the war-torn areas were discussed in relation to conflict behavior. These developments also have a significant impact on conflict attitudes, since the noninclusive, heavily militarized topto-bottom approach to economic development has caused further mistrust between communities. Despite the investments in infrastructure development, there is still an alarming proportion of people in the north and the east who do not trust that these developments will improve life conditions (Thaheer, Peiris, and Pathiraja 2013, 61). The lack of employment opportunities for minorities led Tamils and Muslims to perceive the government’s strategy as a deliberate attempt to exclude them from the development process. The frustration was further increased by language barriers. In essence, continued military presence in the north and the east increased the mistrust among communities by reproducing the divisions of society initially used to fuel the conflict (ibid., 79). The culture of impunity, which has been a long-standing issue in Sri Lanka, was not addressed by the Rajapaksa regime. This has enabled those with connections to the political elite or the military to commit crimes without the fear of prosecution. This has led the general public to feel powerless and fearful (Goodhand 2011). Increased polarization in Sri Lankan society became very evident. According to an opinion survey carried out in the north and the east, nearly half of the Tamils and one-third of the Muslims from the former war zones did not trust the government’s willingness to find a political solution to the conflict, whereas the majority of the Sinhalese trusts the government in this regard (Thaheer, Peiris, and Pathiraja 2013). The survey also found that the society is polarized in terms of how they view the conflict. A majority of the Sinhalese (53.7 percent) believes that the conflict is a terrorist problem, whereas a majority of the

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Muslims (61.8 percent) and Tamils (66.4 percent) view the conflict as an ethnic issue (ibid., 133). To summarize, during 2009–2014, Sri Lanka became further polarized and there was no active interest to establish what transpired during the conflict, hold accountable those who were responsible for war crimes, recognize the suffering of the minorities, and build a common future through a shared memory. The progress toward sustainable peace in Sri Lanka was hampered by a society that was polarized, unjust, and fearful. Challenges for Peacebuilding in Sri Lanka

The analysis of postwar Sri Lanka with the use of the Peace Triangle suggests several implications for the sustainability of peace and future research. First, the specific context of a total war victory for one of the sides, in this case the government, poses particular challenges for peacebuilding. Most theories relating to conflict resolution, peacebuilding, and conflict prevention assume some form of power asymmetry between the main parties. In particular, recognition of the other side is usually a prerequisite for peace agreements to be signed. In the case of a clear winning and losing side, and in a context where one of the main belligerents has been defeated and eliminated, the incentives for the victor to award concessions to the loser disappear. In the Sri Lankan case, the government used its position as victor to consolidate and strengthen power at the center, and failed to address the main grievances of the losing side. Instead, consolidation of power was done by invoking a triumphalist and patriotic discourse, excessive use of the military (which has granted it unprecedented power in society), and suppressing dissent with extraconstitutional means. Peacebuilding has in the Sri Lankan postwar context been replaced by a power building strategy of the government (Goodhand 2010, 351). The military defeat of the LTTE paved the way for state-building premised on Sinhala Buddhist nationalism against rival Tamil nationalism (Uyangoda 2005). Second, whereas previous research on the durability of peace suggests that victories may create conditions for more stable and enduring peace than do peace agreements, these studies largely fail to evaluate the quality and nature of peace. The Peace Triangle is a useful tool for understanding how the different components of peace are related and add up to an understanding of the specific characteristics of a postwar society. Moreover, it not only pinpoints short-term trends, which may cause worry for the sustainability of peace, but also suggests indicators to analyze for the long-term implications. It thus presents an opportunity to challenge the prevailing notion that military victory is better for enduring peace (e.g., Luttwak 1999). For instance, the situation of fear and impunity that dominates Sri Lanka, along

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with a patriotic discourse, fueled the anti-Muslim sentiments that become more entrenched in the Sri Lankan postwar period, and that may cause concern for further ethnic rioting and violence. As another example, the failure of state institutions, including the military, to provide services in Tamil, which is one of the main grievances of the Tamil population, continued to constrain the minorities’ trust in state institutions (Thaheer, Peiris, and Pathiraja 2013, 102). These examples illustrate the interconnectedness between conflict issues, attitudes, and behavior and how they jointly shape postwar societies and the conditions for sustainable peace. Notes

1. See, for instance, Hampson (1996), Licklider (1998), Hartzell (1999), Hartzell, Hoddie, and Rothchild (2001), and Walter (2002). 2. Examples include Richards (2005), Richmond (2005), Mac Ginty (2006), and Suhrke and Berdal (2012). 3. This chapter builds on the conceptualization developed in an article by two of the coauthors of this chapter and extends its analysis to the context beyond peace agreement to analyze the specific conditions in a case where the war has ended with victory. For the original conceptualization, see Höglund and Söderberg Kovacs (2010). 4. See, for instance, Licklider (1998), Kreutz (2010), and Toft (2010). 5. “No war, no peace” has been used to label situations in countries such as Cyprus and Kosovo, but has been the subject of academic inquiry. See Richards (2005), Mac Ginty (2006), and Aggestam and Björkdahl (2011). 6. The terminology was first coined by Kenneth Boulding. See Boulding (1964, 1978). 7. See, for example, Chesterman (2004), Chandler (2000), Paris (2004), Pugh, Cooper, and Turner (2008), and Richmond and Mitchell (2012). 8. The Peace Triangle as conceptualized here is very different from the concept of triangulating peace, as projected by Bruce Russett and John Oneal (2001). Their peace triangle was designed to capture the elements that promote international peace and puts focus on democracy, interdependence, and international organizations. 9. For extensions and developments of the conflict triangle, see, for instance, Mitchell (1981), Wiberg (1990), and Wallensteen (2007, 54–56). 10. See also Mitchell (1981, 25–29). 11. See Buhag and Gates (2002), Fearon and Laitin (2003), and Hegre and Raleigh (2007). 12. See, for instance, Abu-Nimer (2001), Hayner (2010), Kritz (1995), Rotberg and Thompson (2000), and Teitel (2000). 13. According to the 2012 census, the Tamil minorities of Sri Lanka (including both the Sri Lankan Tamils, 11.2 percent, and the Indian Tamils, 4.2 percent) constitute 15 percent of the total population, while Sinhalese form 74.9 percent and Muslims or Moors constitute 9.2 percent. Sri Lankan Tamils are mainly concentrated in the north and eastern parts of the country, whereas Sinhalese reside in the rest of the country. For an account of politics of ethnonationalism and violence in South Asia and particularly in Sri Lanka, see Tambiah (1996). For an overview of Tamil nationalism, see Wilson (2000). 14. For an account of early negotiations and the emergence of Tamil militant movements, see Manogaran (1987).

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15. An unofficial report of the APRC proposals was published in July 2010 by two members of the parliament, without the approval of the GoSL. See Yogarajan and Kariappaer (2010). For a brief account of the APRC proposals, see, for instance, Arudpragasam (2013). 16. The TNA was formed in 2001 of several Tamil parties of Tamil United Liberation Front (TULF), All Ceylon Tamil Congress (ACTC), Tamil Eelam Liberation Organization (TELO), Eelam People Revolutionary Liberation Front (EPRLF), and Ilankai Tamil Arasu Katchi (ITAK). TNA used to align with the LTTE in the Tamil question; however, after the LTTE defeat, TNA became more moderate and adopted an independent stance. 17. For a brief note on this agreement, see International Crisis Group (2012, 8– 13). 18. For the English translation of the speech, see Sampanthan (2012). 19. TMVP consists of ex-LTTE cadres who left the LTTE in 2004 under the command of Karuna Amman and have transformed into a political party. Karuna is currently a minister in the Rajapaksa government and has not raised the issue of selfdetermination for the Tamils. The Sri Lanka Muslim Congress has never publicly opposed or supported the self-determination rights of the Tamils, but has cooperated with successive governments to gain concessions. 20. For an overview of the EPC elections and devolution, see Centre for Policy Alternatives (2010). 21. The governor is the formal executive branch of the council appointed by the president and accountable to the president. The governor has powers to delay the implementation and enactment of the legislation of PCs. 22. For an account of the strife between the ministerial council and the governor of the Eastern Province, see Centre for Policy Alternatives (2010, 59–64). 23. For a brief description of the events that led to the South African engagement, see Bastians (2014). 24. A majority of the population in the north and east are Tamil-speaking, whereas the majority of population in the rest of the country speaks Sinhala. For an account of the evolution of language and nationalism in Sri Lanka, see De Votta (2004). 25. The LLRC was appointed in May 2010 by President Rajapaksa to inquire into the causes of the conflict, the conduct of the parties during the conflict, and the effects of the conflict on the civilian population. See LLRC (2011, 240–245) for language recommendations. 26. The conflict has produced different waves of displacements, including protracted and multiple displacements of IDPs in addition to the large number of refugees living abroad. The fourth Eelam war produced a new wave of displaced people, who are referred to as “new IDPs,” compared with the “old IDPs” before the escalation of the last war. See Raheem (2013). 27. This figure includes both the nearly 300,000 IDPs during the fourth Eelam war and the 180,000 IDPs before who are temporarily living in the northwest part of the country. See Internal Displacement Monitoring Center (2013) and United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (2014b). 28. For an overview of issues related to resettlement and land, see South Asian Rights (2012). 29. For an account of postwar economic development and reconstruction of the GoSL, see Bastian (2013) and Chaaminda (2012). 30. In 2010, 3.1 percent; 2011, 3 percent; 2012, 2.6 percent. The data are available at the World Bank (2014b). 31. For an account of militant activities of the Karuna faction, see Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada (2012).

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32. For an extensive review of the postwar human rights situation of Sri Lanka, see the U.S. Department of State (2013). 33. For a comprehensive overview of the suppression of dissent in the postwar era, see Amnesty International (2013). 34. The attempts to push the president to act on these kinds of violent acts against minorities have not had any success. See Colombo Telegraph (2014). 35. There is an attempt by the government to portray the situation as one of interethnic harmony as well, but since it does not resonate with the day-to-day experience of many people, it has not been very successful in creating intercommunity reconciliation.

3 Development and Peacebuilding: Dam Construction and Violence in the Amazon Anderson Freitas and Francis Lethem Conflict sensitivity is an organization’s ability to understand the conflict context in which it operates, to recognize how its interventions affect that context, and to act upon that understanding so as to avoid negative impacts and maximize positive impacts on the conflict. This sensitivity can be applied to a variety of human activities, such as humanitarian assistance, peacebuilding, and international development (Conflict Sensitivity Consortium 2004, 1–2). In the domain of development interventions, conflict sensitivity seeks to understand the relationships among the various policies, programs, and projects that are intended to advance economic and social progress and the potential effects that these interventions may have on conflict, especially violent conflict, in a specific regional or country context. It is difficult to imagine any area of development intervention that would not benefit in some way from conflict-sensitive analysis of potential unintended consequences on the prospects of a country’s peaceful development: macroeconomic policies, specific sector policies, and institutions may all favor (or be perceived to favor) or exclude (or be perceived to exclude) some groups. Although the risks associated with some policies or programs may be fairly obvious—such as the choice of language(s) of instruction in a multiethnic country, the impact of infrastructure investments that displace populations or affect their livelihood, or the clear advantages of the location of a project for one group over the advantages of a different location for another group—these risks are nevertheless occasionally overlooked. Not surprisingly, other risks associated with conflict are less recognized and more difficult to anticipate in other areas of development policy, such as foreign exchange policies, where a currency’s overvaluation may cut off growers of a crop such as cocoa or coffee from their export markets and lead to disenfranchising whole population groups. As mentioned in this book’s introduction, this need for more in-depth understanding on multiple levels is why Duke University’s Sanford School 35

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of Public Policy faculty Natalia Mirovitskaya and former faculty William Ascher have launched a series of publications investigating such linkages. Their work is based on a review of worldwide experiences and draws a number of policy and operational lessons. Future policy- and decisionmakers, in addition to benefiting from such awareness and knowledge, also need to acquire diagnostic methods that allow them to anticipate the risks and root causes of conflict that development policies and interventions might generate—and strategies that would minimize such risks. This chapter illustrates this philosophy of preventive diagnosis and conflict risk mitigation by examining the various factors leading to the current conflicts in the Amazon region of Brazil between dam builders and their sponsors versus indigenous populations. It looks into the history of that country’s relations with indigenous peoples, the emergence of national development priorities that affect areas traditionally occupied by them, environmental issues, and international concerns about human rights. To demonstrate the kind of steps that help make sense of the complex issues and interests involved in any conflict, this chapter includes several policy analysis and conflict analysis tools.1 This chapter concludes by proposing a strategy for the government of Brazil to address both substance and process matters to mitigate the risks of future conflict. Most of the information is based on a review of official documents, in English and Portuguese, as well as other public information from the daily press and reports of various organizations, including national and international nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). Our hope is to demonstrate how and why conflict sensitivity as a practical discipline must become a more central concern in the development agenda. Brazil’s Energy Challenge

The central focus of this chapter is the energy sector in Brazil. The Brazilian federal government is currently undertaking the construction of several high-capacity hydroelectric power plants in the Amazon region. The ongoing construction of the Jirau and Santo Antônio dams on the Madeira River, with a combined capacity of almost 7 gigawatts (GW), and the Belo Monte dam on the Xingu River, with a planned capacity in excess of 11 GW, are part of a long-term government strategy, as set out in the National Energy Plan 2030, to ensure that the country meets its energy needs over the next two decades (Energia Sustentável do Brasil n.d.; Santo Antônio Energia n.d.; Norte Energia n.d.; Ministry of Mining and Energy [MME] 2007). The projects, particularly the Belo Monte dam, have become the object of intense controversy over their environmental and social impacts and are

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the source of continued social tensions and conflict. Environmentalists and representatives of indigenous peoples argue that the projects will come with enormous environmental and social costs.2 It is claimed by environmental groups such as Amazon Watch (2013) that the dams will displace indigenous populations from their lands and severely threaten their way of life. Moreover, the arrival of migrants can potentially upset the social dynamics of the existing nonindigenous population centers, leading to a rise in other forms of violence, such as crime levels. After construction work on Belo Monte started, indigenous groups have disrupted building efforts by use of force on several occasions. Violent labor-related conflicts at the construction sites of both the Jirau and Belo Monte dams have taken place in the past few years. Although no deaths directly related to these conflicts have been reported so far, personal injuries and extensive damage to property and equipment have occurred in several cases. In Jirau, in more than one instance, the federal government had to send in troops to control the conflicts, given the inability and lack of means of local authorities to maintain peace and public order. In the following sections, we apply a typical conflict analysis framework to the Amazon scenario. Conflict analysis is at the heart of conflict sensitivity. The goal of this analysis is to gain a deeper understanding of the social conflicts surrounding the dams’ construction through a systematic study of its actors, roots, triggers, and dynamics. The first step in conflict analysis is to appraise the socioeconomic and institutional context in which the conflict takes place. Once this context has been outlined, we examine more closely the conflict actors and their roles, interests, and positions by exploring a range of stakeholder analysis tools. We then proceed to analyze the causes of the conflict, relating the available data on the Amazon situation with current research on conflict causality. We close the chapter by offering policy recommendations for the Brazilian government to adopt to more adequately manage the current conflict situation and conduct future hydropower exploration in a conflict-sensitive manner. Energy Needs Versus People and the Environment Rapid Economic Development and the Insatiable Demand for Energy Hydropower dams in the Amazon, of which Belo Monte is the most well known, are central to the Brazilian federal government’s current economic development strategy. With a population of roughly 200 million, Brazil is currently the world’s seventh largest economy (World Bank 2014a, 1). Its increased economic growth in the past few years, combined with poverty

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reduction and an expansion in the domestic electricity distribution network that has broadened the consumer base in rural areas, puts growing pressure on the country’s energy supply (The Economist 2011a, para. 3; Economy Watch 2012). Attaining energy security, therefore, is a top development priority. The country still bitterly remembers the 2001 blackout crisis, when a decade of scanty investments in the energy sector and a particularly bad rainy season depleted the reservoirs and forced the government to put in place an emergency rationing plan that curbed economic growth prospects for that year (The Economist 2011a, para. 2). Hydropower energy continues to dominate Brazil’s electricity matrix. The preference for hydropower has several explanations. Due to its geography, the country enjoys a large comparative advantage and has considerable experience in this source of energy, and it has expansive technical expertise in building structures, manufacturing equipment, and operating hydroelectric energy facilities (MME 2007, 30–31). Hydropower is more economical in Brazil than other alternatives, and the country still has vast, unexploited hydroelectric potential that it could tap (MME 2007, 30–31). Hydropower is considered a renewable energy source, notwithstanding its potentially significant environmental impacts. A few numbers illustrate Brazil’s dependency on hydropower. As of February 2013, Brazil had a total installed electricity generation capacity of 121.1 GW, of which 84.2 GW, or approximately 69.5 percent of the total, was generated by hydroelectric sources (National Agency of Electric Energy 2013, para. 1–2). The National Energy Plan, issued in 2007 by the MME, calls for an expansion in the country’s hydropower generation capacity to a total of 168 GW by 2030 (MME 2007, 34). The plan asserts that the country has a total hydropower potential of 260 GW, of which it estimates that roughly 170 GW would be viable and could be realistically harnessed during the plan period, given existing technology and environmental constraints (30–31). In addition, considering a projected scenario in which the economy grows at an average of 4.1 percent a year between 2005 and 2030, the country would still need an additional 61 GW from nonhydropower energy sources to fully supply its energy needs until 2030 (30–31). The government’s existing strategy anticipates that the dependency on hydropower will continue into the foreseeable future. Its plan states that 60 percent of the hydropower potential that needs to be harnessed after 2015 is located in the Amazon region (MME 2007, 34). Not using that potential, the plan concludes, would require dramatically expanding the use of thermal electricity sources, such as coal and natural gas, over the same time horizon with much higher financial and environmental

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costs than the hydropower alternative. Not developing its hydropower potential would also affect the country’s energy security by increasing its dependence on foreign energy sources (31). When operating at its maximum capacity, Belo Monte alone could provide as much as 10 percent of Brazil’s existing energy generation capacity (The Economist 2010, para. 10). The government is fully pursuing developing Belo Monte’s potential, and investments on that project are currently estimated to reach over $14 billion, of which approximately 80 percent will be financed through lending provided by Brazil’s own national development bank, BNDES (Reuters 2012, para. 1–2). The Brazilian Amazon: A Sparsely Populated Territory with a Significant Indigenous Presence The Brazilian Amazon is at the center of the government’s energy plans. This area stretches over 5 million km2, comprising approximately 60 percent of the country’s territory, and yet it has a population of a little over 21 million inhabitants, accounting for only 12 percent of the country’s total, making it the country’s least populated region, with a population density of 4.14 pop/km2 (Superintendency for Amazon Development [SUDAM] n.d., para. 1). In 2002, the entire region contributed only 6.1 percent of the country’s gross domestic product (Peixoto 2009, para. 3), although more recent estimates put that number at roughly 8 percent of the total (Salomon 2008, para. 1). In terms of demographics, the region’s population is very young, with people under the age of twenty making up 51 percent of the total (SUDAM n.d., para. 11). The region has been undergoing a process of urbanization: between 1970 and 2000, the urban population in the Amazon increased from 35.7 percent to 68.2 percent of the total (para. 12). Another relevant aspect of the urbanization process is that this population growth is concentrated in cities with fewer than 100,000 inhabitants, particularly in cities with between 20,000 and 50,000 inhabitants, which is a departure from the patterns of urban growth that are experienced elsewhere in Brazil (para. 15). The Amazon is home to a significant portion of Brazil’s indigenous population. The indigenous population in the region was estimated to be roughly 450,000 in 2010 (Veríssimo et al. 2011, 43), which corresponds to roughly half the total population of Brazilian Indians. The Amazon also contains extensive tracts that are recognized as indigenous lands. By the end of 2010, 414 indigenous territories were legally recognized in the Amazon, encompassing 1,086,950 km2, or 21.7 percent of the Amazonian territory and 98.6 percent of the total area of indigenous lands in Brazil (Veríssimo et al. 2011, 43).

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Hydropower Development Versus Protecting Environmentally Sensitive Lands The Brazilian Amazon is home to numerous and extensive environmentally protected areas. In 2010, protected areas, categorized by types, totaled 1,174,258 km2, or 23.5 percent of the Amazon’s territory (Veríssimo et al. 2011, 19). The need to construct hydropower dams has prompted the federal government to review and in certain cases reduce the acreage included in the protected areas in a few conservation categories, which has raised concerns about the decision’s impact on environmental sustainability and questions about its legal aspects (Araújo et al. 2012). On the upside, since 2004, the pace of deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon has consistently decreased. According to the National Institute for Space Research, in 2012, deforestation in the Amazon reached 4,656 km2 per 12-month period, or 83 percent less than the rate of deforestation observed in 2004 (PRODES Project n.d., para. 6). This success is largely the result of a coordinated government plan that includes the use of satellite monitoring technology in support of environmental law enforcement (Government of Brazil 2014a, para. 4). Even before today’s era of heightened sensitivity to environmental concerns, the project to build the Belo Monte dam has been the subject of controversy. Federal government plans to explore the hydroelectric potential of the Xingu River basin can be traced back to the late 1970s and early 1980s. At that time, Brazil was still under the authoritarian military government that ruled the country from 1964 to 1985, and the Belo Monte dam, then still known as the Kararaô dam, was meant to be only one out of forty hydropower dams to be built in the Amazon region (Reuters 2010, para. 5). Opposition was present from the earliest days, and reports of resistance to the project from environmentalists and indigenous groups can be found from as early as 1989 (Reuters 2010, para. 6). Over the years, the project has been remodeled to reduce its impact on the environment and address other social concerns; among other things, the original reservoir area was reduced from 1,225 km2 to 400 km2 (Reuters 2010, para. 8). These changes, however, have neither eliminated nor reduced opposition to the dam. Opposition to the construction of Belo Monte and other hydropower dams in the Amazon is composed mostly of environmental NGOs and indigenous groups, which both generally claim that the negative environmental and social impacts associated with such enterprises are being underestimated by the federal government. The most common allegations can be summarized as follows: the dams will force the displacement of indigenous and riverine populations and adversely affect their livelihoods; they will cause internal migration to cities, putting a strain on the infrastructure and local public services; they will cause unemployment and social disintegration; they will affect the region’s water table, disrupting agricultural produc-

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tion; and they will prevent navigation in the river flow, destroy fisheries, and cause loss of biodiversity and deforestation. These arguments are well documented on the websites of these groups (e.g., Survival International n.d.; Minority Rights Group International 2012, 95–97; Amazon Watch 2013; International Rivers 2013). In the eyes of many critics, the government’s response to these concerns has been far from adequate, and violent conflict has been the outcome. Conflict Dynamics Manifested as Violent Confrontation The ultimate goal of conflict-sensitive development is to avoid or eliminate violence and ensure the peaceful growth of society. Unfortunately, nonpeaceful protests against the construction of Belo Monte and other Amazon dams are becoming common. A review of Brazil’s major media outlets’ websites reveals multiple reports of violence and confrontation. These reports are a good example of how conflict can escalate around development projects, particularly after it became clear they will proceed despite grievances from opposing stakeholders. In June 2012, the Brazilian online media group Globo/G1 reported that a group of “300 Indians and environmentalists” had occupied facilities of the Belo Monte dam’s construction site (Globo/G1 2012a, para. 1–3). In another incident, protesters invaded an office and destroyed computers and furnishings and burned documents (Globo/G1 2012b, para. 1). A few days later, a group of about 100 Indians of the Juruna, Xirkin, and Arara ethnicities “confiscated” vehicles and machinery keys, as well as radio equipment (Globo/G1 2012c, para. 1–2). In October 2012, Globo/G1 reported that Indians of the Xipaia, Kuruaia, Parakanã, Arara, Juruna, and Assurini ethnicities (making up a hundred or so protesters) occupied a Belo Monte construction site for over a week, bringing construction work to a partial halt (Globo/G1 2013). They claimed that the building consortium Norte Energia was not complying with several requirements of the project’s licensing. Protesters took possession of vehicles and kept workers hostage, releasing them several hours later. A driver was reportedly injured. In January 2013, Valor Econômico reported that a group of Juruna Indians blocked the access road to one of Belo Monte’s three construction sites for three days, and, as a consequence, halted work at that site (Valor Econômico 2013). The protesters alleged that construction work was causing Xingu River waters to become murky, which was preventing them from fishing, which they claimed is the main source of their income (Globo/G1 2013, para. 2). They demanded the equivalent of US$150,000 from Norte Energia in compensation plus the construction of artesian water wells in their villages (Valor Econômico 2013, para. 4).

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On the labor front, at least three major episodes of violent labor-related conflicts in the construction sites have also been reported, which in two cases brought the dam-building effort to a temporary halt. The largest episode so far occurred in Jirau in March 2011 when workers at the dam’s construction site took part in a massive riot that caused widespread destruction of facilities: forty-five buses and fifteen other vehicles were set ablaze, and dozens of offices and worker housing buildings were destroyed (Globo/G1 2011, para. 1). A federal road was blocked by protesters, and businesses and a bank branch in a nearby town were reportedly looted. The episode prompted the federal government to deploy the National Guard to control the riots (Mariz 2011, para. 4). Even so, construction was interrupted for almost a month. The protests were allegedly caused by the wrongful detention of a construction worker and poor working conditions. A similar, smaller incident took place a year later (Mariz 2012). In November 2012, construction workers were involved in violent protests at the Belo Monte main construction site (EFE 2012). They demanded an increase in benefits and extension of family visit work leaves, set a bus and construction machines on fire, and extensively damaged workers’ housing and other site facilities. Seven people were injured in the protests. Last year, it was reported that police seizures of crack cocaine in Altamira municipality—the focal point of Belo Monte’s construction effort—had risen 900 percent in 2012 compared with 2011 (Peduzzi 2013, para. 1). Figures for powder cocaine were even higher, having grown almost twelvefold. According to this report, police sting operations also dismantled a local prostitution and human trafficking ring, which reportedly involved the sexual enslavement of women. In explanation of the increase in crime, local authorities estimate that Altamira’s population has reached roughly 145,000, up from 105,000 as reported in the 2010 census (as reported by Peduzzi 2013, para. 13). The Failure of Institutions Above and beyond their specific complaints, critics argue that the institutions, organizations, and processes that approve necessary environmental licenses to allow construction of hydropower dams in the Amazon have been slow, turbulent, and in many ways unpredictable. In the early 2000s, after the federal government made the decision to proceed with the construction of Belo Monte (already in its revised form), a federal court ordered the suspension of the initial environmental impact assessment studies because they were being conducted by the state of Pará’s environmental agency. Indeed, the court held that the project could only be licensed by the federal environmental agency, the Institute for the Environment and Renewable Natural Resources (IBAMA), given the project’s scope and potential impacts on indigenous lands. The decision was

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appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, but the original ruling was eventually upheld (Reuters 2010; Sakamoto 2011). Despite the court’s apparent intention to ensure that the project receive broader oversight, opponents have questioned the soundness of the environmental assessment studies conducted by IBAMA, the federal agency that took over the project’s environmental licensing process. These concerns eventually gave birth to several lawsuits (mostly class actions filed by the federal Public Ministry on behalf of affected groups) that challenge several technical aspects of the project’s environmental assessment and licensing. Litigation ensued for several years, and, in many cases, restraining orders from the courts prevented the project from going forward. The government later appealed those rulings and was able to overturn the restraining orders (Reuters 2010; Sakamoto 2011), and although many of the lawsuits are still awaiting a final decision by Brazil’s federal courts, the removal of the restraining injunctions has meant that the government could proceed with bidding for the project and award it to private contractors and that construction work could be initiated. In April 2010, Norte Energia, a consortium composed of Brazil’s largest state-owned energy enterprise and some of the country’s largest private construction companies, won the bid to build the Belo Monte hydroelectric power plant, and on June 1, 2011, IBAMA issued the installation license for the Belo Monte dam (Norte Energia n.d., para. 43, 47). Construction work started on June 23, 2011. International Repercussions and Security Implications In addition to the local and national repercussions of these projects, the outcomes of the ongoing dam projects in the Brazilian Amazon could potentially influence a prospective energy partnership between Brazil and Peru, as the Peruvian government is seeking to expand its own energy generation capacity. In 2010, Brazil signed an agreement with Peru under which Brazil could import significant amounts of energy—up to 6 GW. One very important part of the agreement is that Brazilian companies would make large financial investments in the process of building Peru’s hydropower facilities (up to $20 billion) (The Economist 2011b, para. 2). Peru, however, has had its own share of conflicts with indigenous populations. Further escalation of dam issues in the Brazilian Amazon has the potential to put additional pressure on the Peruvian Amazon projects and to harm the progress made in the energy partnership between the countries. Beyond the ties to Peru, the federal government’s energy generation projects in the Amazon also play a role in promoting the country’s strategic interests in the region by occupying and developing a territory that remains largely isolated from the rest of the country both physically and to some extent economically.

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The existing National Defense Strategy, approved in 2008, places a top priority on protecting national security interests in the Amazon region (Ministry of Defense 2008). The region’s sustainable economic development is regarded as a key in advancing the country’s defense against foreign threats (Ministry of Defense 2008, 26). The strategy also reaffirms Brazil’s unconditional sovereignty over the Amazon and its resources and unequivocally rejects any foreign interference in national development, conservation, and defense choices regarding the region and any other actions that could weaken sovereignty over the territory. The strategy calls for improved “control over non-governmental actors especially in the Amazon region . . . through a wide coordination of the Armed Forces with the Brazilian government organs responsible for authorizing the operation of these actors within the country, particularly those with foreign links” (45). Public Perceptions and Human Rights Issues Environmental groups supporting the indigenous populations’ upheavals against the dams generally see the construction of dams in the Amazon as part of a failed development model that traces its origins to the plans made during the military government era (see, for example, Amazon Watch 2013, para. 3). Although their arguments disregard policy and design improvements that have been made since then, they represent one of the several ways these groups publicly portray the dams as an authoritarian development intervention by the federal government in the region, and this logic has popular support in some circles: not long ago, several of these groups were able to garner the support of a group of famous Brazilian artists in their opposition to Belo Monte in a well-known media campaign that aired on television nationwide. Environmental groups insist that the country has other alternatives to supply its energy needs without having to resort to Belo Monte and other proposed hydropower plants, and they propose increased investments in energy efficiency as well as the use of alternative sources such as wind power and solar energy (e.g., Amazon Watch 2014, para. 5). The government has maintained its position that the dams are environmentally sound and that all applicable environmental and social safeguards are and will continue to be duly observed during construction. The government has repeatedly stated its commitment to the environmental sustainability of the projects and has reaffirmed that no indigenous lands are to be affected in the case of the Belo Monte dam (e.g., Government of Brazil 2014b). After judicial restrictions on the construction of Belo Monte were removed and construction was allowed to start, a group of NGOs and representatives of indigenous communities filed a complaint with the InterAmerican Commission on Human Rights (IACHR), claiming that Brazil was violating indigenous peoples’ rights. In April 2011, the IACHR issued a

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precautionary measure, calling on the Brazilian government to stop the construction work in Belo Monte until certain conditions aimed at ensuring the rights of the indigenous peoples were met (IACHR 2011). The Ministry of Foreign Affairs promptly issued a statement calling the IACHR’s actions hasty and unjustified; indeed, the government maintains that international human rights protection systems should only be resorted to in cases of domestic jurisdiction failure (Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2011). The government further demonstrated its protest against the IACHR’s decision by withdrawing a Brazilian candidacy for the commission and suspended the country’s funding for the institution. (For details on the evolution of Brazil’s argument with the IACHR, see Appendix 3.1.) Who Are the Conflict Actors?

One of the foundations of conflict sensitivity is the high priority this approach puts on understanding the unique needs and interests of all parties involved. As can be gathered from our survey of the conflict context, there is a multiplicity of parties concerned with the Belo Monte dam project. To make sense of their diverse attitudes, behaviors, interests, positions, resources, and relationships, it is useful to take advantage of a variety of stakeholder analysis tools, some of which are also routinely applied in the realm of policy analysis. Conflict analysis tools are based on the interpretations of the people who apply these tools to a particular conflict situation and therefore do not represent the only possible explanation for a specific context. For that reason, they are usually applied in combination to maximize their usefulness and objectivity (Fisher et al. 2000, 18). Nevertheless, they help organize the data gathered from a multiplicity of information sources into a coherent and useful synthesis, generally by using a graphical representation of the various factors in a conflict. Figure 3.1 applies the tool known as the ABC triangle (attitudes, behavior, and context) to the primary stakeholders in the Belo Monte dam conflict, and Figure 3.2 demonstrates the use of the “onion” conflict analysis tool. The purpose of the ABC triangle is to identify the attitudes, behavior, and context of a conflict from the perspective of each of the various conflict players and examine how they relate to each other (Fisher et al. 2000, 25–27). Examining those factors helps identify the conflicting parties’ key needs, which in turn helps devise entry points for interventions. The onion tool analyzes needs, interests, and positions of various stakeholders. Its purpose is to identify the often hidden needs and interests of conflict parties that lie beneath the public positions they assume. Those who are familiar with conflict negotiation will acknowledge that identifying these deeper needs can be very helpful for finding common ground among conflict participants.3

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Figure 3.1 The ABC Triangle: Attitudes, Behavior, and Context

Government

NGOs UÊœÀ}ˆ˜}Ê>ˆ>˜ViÊ ÜˆÌ…Êˆ˜`ˆ}i˜œÕÃÊ }ÀœÕ«Ã UÊ1Ș}ʈ˜ÌiÀ‡ ˜>̈œ˜>Ê…Õ“>˜Ê Àˆ}…ÌÃÊÃÞÃÌi“Ã

Attitudes UÊ ˆÃLiˆivʈ˜ÊVÕÀÀi˜ÌÊ `iÛiœ«“i˜Ìʓœ`iÊEÊ }œÛiÀ˜“i˜ÌÊ«ÀœiVÌà UÊœÛiÀ˜“i˜ÌÊÕÃiÃÊ >Õ̅œÀˆÌ>Àˆ>˜Ê`iVˆÃˆœ˜Ê “iV…>˜ˆÃ“Ã

Behavior

UÊ
}}ÀiÃÈÛiÊ«ÕLˆV Ài>̈œ˜ÃÊV>“«>ˆ}˜ ­`œ“iÃ̈VÊ>˜`ʈ˜ÌiÀ˜>Ì°®

UÊ*ÀœVii`ˆ˜}ÊÜˆÌ…Ê LՈ`ˆ˜}ÊivvœÀÌ

Behavior

UÊ-Ì>˜`ÃÊvœÀÊÜVˆ>Ê>˜` i˜ÛˆÀœ˜“i˜Ì>Ê>`iµÕ>VÞ œvÊ`>“Ã

Economic development

Political participation

Context Uʘ`ˆ}i˜œÕÃÊ«iœ«ià …ˆÃ̜ÀˆV>Þʜ««ÀiÃÃi` UÊ,iVœÀ`ʜvÊÜVˆ> ÊEÊi˜ÛˆÀœ˜“i˜Ì>Ê `>“>}iÃÊëi>ŽÃÊ >}>ˆ˜ÃÌÊ`>“Ã

Attitudes UÊ
“>✘ʘii`ÃÊ ÃÌ>ÌiÊ«ÀiÃi˜ViÊ>˜`Ê ÌœÊLiÊ`iÛiœ«i` UÊ,iiVÌÃÊvœÀiˆ}˜Ê ˆ˜ÌiÀÛi˜Ìˆœ˜Êˆ˜Ê
“>✘Ê>vv>ˆÀÃ

Context UÊ œÕ˜ÌÀÞʘii`ÃÊ i˜iÀ}ÞÊÀiÜÕÀViÃÊÌœÊ ÃÕ««œÀÌÊ`iÛiœ«“i˜Ì

Figure 3.2 Needs, Interests, and Positions: The “Onion” Tool

Indigenous Populations UÊ
}>ˆ˜ÃÌÊVœ˜ÃÌÀÕV̈œ˜ÊœvÊ`>“Ã

Brazilian Government *"-/" -

UʘVÀi>Ș}ÞÊVœ˜vÀœ˜Ì>̈œ˜>  / , -/UÊ*ÀiÃiÀۈ˜}Ê̅iˆÀʏ>˜`ÃÊ>˜` ÊÊÊÌÀ>`ˆÌˆœ˜>ÊˆÛiˆ…œœ`Ã

UÊ Vœ˜œ“ˆVÊÃÕÀۈÛ>Ê>˜`ʈ˜VÕȜ˜ UÊ*œˆÌˆV>Ê«>À̈Vˆ«>̈œ˜

UÊ >“ÃÊ>ÀiÊi˜ÛˆÀœ˜“i˜Ì>ÞÊÜ՘`]Ê`œÊ ÊÊʘœÌÊ>vviVÌʈ˜`ˆ}i˜œÕÃÊ«œ«Õ>̈œ˜Ã UÊ*Àœ`ÕV̈œ˜Ê܈Ê«ÀœVii`Ê>ÃÊ«>˜˜i` UÊ+ՈVŽÊVœ˜VÕȜ˜ÊœvÊVœ˜ÃÌÀÕV̈œ˜ÊܜÀŽ

-

UÊ*ÀiÃiÀۈ˜}ÊÜVˆ>Ê«i>ViÊ>˜`ʜÀ`iÀ UÊ iÛiœ«“i˜ÌÊ>˜`ÊVœ˜ÌÀœÊœvÊ ÊÊÊ̅iÊ
“>✘ÊÌiÀÀˆÌœÀÞ UÊ œÕ˜ÌÀÞ½ÃÊi˜iÀ}ÞÊÃiVÕÀˆÌÞ

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Conflict mitigation requires recognizing many stakeholders on many levels. In this particular case, we can consider as primary stakeholders the federal government, the affected indigenous populations, the NGOs concerned, and the dam’s construction workers. They are considered primary not because of some evaluation of their relative importance but because of their capability to directly affect the conflict situation. The dam’s contractors, Brazil’s federal justice system, the federal Public Ministry, local governments, the IACHR, and the media can be considered secondary stakeholders. They can influence the conflict, though they cannot directly affect it. Both primary and secondary stakeholders are examined in detail in the following. The executive branch of the federal government is fully committing its extensive institutional and financial resources to the construction of the dams. Its primary needs are to ensure the country’s energy security, advance the development of the Amazon territory, and secure its effective control. It is within its best interests for social peace to be preserved in the process and for the construction of dams to proceed in the most expeditious and uneventful manner possible. Although a great number of federal government agencies are involved in building the dams, we should take special notice of those agencies with an environmental mandate, particularly those directly involved in issuing the projects’ environmental licenses. Their role and legitimacy in the process have been called into question, as environmental groups have speculated that IBAMA was put under political pressure to fast-track the licensing process (e.g., Amazon Watch 2010, para. 5). Several different indigenous groups and ethnicities are related to the conflict. However, they do not have uniform views about the impact of the dams. Their needs are influenced by factors such as their geographical location, the extent to which their traditional lands would be affected, and other factors such as their level of cultural assimilation. In other words, Amazon Indians cannot be assumed to be monolithically opposed to the dams, even if the exact configuration of their divide over the issue remains unclear. Among those who oppose the dams, there seems to be a shared need to ensure their own economic survival, protect their social inclusion within the larger Brazilian society, and expand their participation in the political decisions that affect their interests and way of life. In more immediate terms, these interests mean preserving the integrity of their lands and traditional livelihoods. In furthering these goals, they have developed what appears to be a close coalition with environmental NGOs. Among the secondary stakeholders, a number of environmental and indigenous rights NGOs are at the forefront of opposition to the dams. In terms of conflict sensitivity, while such groups cannot directly influence

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either construction or the outbreak of violence, they play a key role in promoting an alternative vision for the development of the Amazon and thus a role in establishing an explicitly adversarial attitude toward the development model that the government seeks to advance. At a fundamental level, they need to promote their viewpoints on economically sustainable development and ensure the primacy of environmental considerations in the political decisionmaking process. More immediately, they seek to raise public awareness on environmental issues as they relate to the potential consequences of building dams in the Amazon, and in so doing, they heighten tensions. Publicly, they maintain their position of absolute rejection of large hydropower dams in the Amazon basin. In the conflict dynamics, therefore, they have a prominent role in framing the policy debate around the potential benefits and negative effects of the dams. Construction workers represent the second major stream in the conflict dynamics. Once mobilized by the opposition, they have been able to inflict significant material damage and halt construction efforts for extended periods of time. According to media reports, violent riots in construction sites are motivated by dissatisfaction with existing working conditions (Mariz 2011, para. 3; EFE 2012, para. 8–11). The leadership behind these protests, as well as any other unstated motivations, has yet to be fully identified. This lack of clarity presents a significant challenge to conflict-sensitive mediation opportunities. The building consortium’s interests are basically economic in nature, but indirectly they promote the federal government’s position, as they are closely aligned with it and fundamentally dependent on its financial resources and political support to undertake the construction enterprise. The federal justice system has been involved in the conflict dynamics from the early conceptual stages of the Belo Monte project. Several times, at the request of other stakeholders, it has ordered a halt in the licensing process and construction efforts. Appeals courts have usually shown themselves to be more sensitive to government arguments, but reversing a decision from the lower courts can be costly and time-consuming. Most of the judicial demands have been brought to court by virtue of the federal Public Ministry, an independent agency responsible for public prosecution. Although environmental NGOs also have standing to file lawsuits, they usually prefer to rely on the Public Ministry to do so. Another additional complication lies in the Public Ministry’s unique institutional arrangement, which in practice gives unlimited individual autonomy to its attorneys. In environmental cases, these attorneys frequently go beyond strictly legal considerations and delve into technical and administrative issues, an approach that adds to the unpredictability of the environmental licensing processes (World Bank 2008, 21–22).

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State and municipal governments are generally not opposed to dam projects in the Amazon, but their already limited resources and administrative capacities will be further stretched by the implementation of large-scale infrastructure projects. Their most pressing needs lie in building up health, education, security, and other public services to meet the increased demand caused by population migration to the construction areas. In the dynamics of the conflict, they are heavily affected by the conflict developments but possess limited power to significantly affect the situation. This combination of high interest and low influence is one of the most challenging aspects of this kind of policy design. The IACHR is part of the Inter-American Commission’s human rights protection system. The commission does not possess direct means of enforcing the precautionary measures it may issue, as in the case of Belo Monte, yet it may file litigation against the Brazilian state before the InterAmerican Court (Organization of American States 2002, article 25), which could bring further difficulties to the country in relation to its international obligations. The media also play an important role in shaping the public debate around the Amazon dams. Although most of the mainstream media have not taken a clear position in favor of or against the dams, television news broadcasts, along with resources on the Internet, have become the most important channels of conveying opposition to the projects, in many cases with the support of public figures. The government has put forward its own information campaign to promote its viewpoints on the issue. In a conflict with so many opposing parties, a simple visual tool known as conflict mapping can be of great help in quickly identifying the positions of the stakeholders in relation to each other as well as the conflict issues and relative power among them. Conflict mapping for the Amazon dams conflict is shown in Figure 3.3. Identifying the Causes of Conflict

As noted in the introduction of this chapter, the main goal of conflict sensitivity is to understand how an intervention interplays with context to avoid fueling violence and conflict as a result of the intervention. Violent conflict is seldom the result of a single factor, as will be evident from the discussion that follows, and development interventions can affect a variety of factors that are known to generate violence. Current research indicates that the combination of risk factors provides a stronger explanation for violence than any individual cause, despite the importance of that cause (World Bank 2013, 28).

Figure 3.3 Conflict Mapping Human rights of indigenous populations

7

IACHR

Federal government

Building consortium Local governments

Justice system

Press

7 7 Federal Public Ministry

Labor relation greivances (working conditions)

Access and distribution of resources

Indigenous population

?

Workers

NGOs

Amazon Dams Feb. 2013 51

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Examining a conflict’s context and its players provides much of the information we need to analytically identify the factors that are affecting the conflict. To assess the causes of the conflict, it is necessary to look not only for structural causes such as issues of identity and inequality but also for “proximate” causes, that is, those immediately responsible for a phenomenon, such as, in this case, environmental scarcity and workers’ living and working conditions, as well as such factors as the lack of appropriate institutions that could have mitigated and mediated the conflict. To complete that assessment, we rely on a review of the most well-known causes of conflict and violence, as recognized by a range of related social sciences disciplines that have examined the genesis of violence. Indigenous Identity There is substantial debate in the field of peace and conflict studies as to whether and how differences in ethnic identities can be a major factor leading to violence. Among those who claim a relevant role for ethnic identities in conflicts are the theorists of constructivism (Varshney 2009, 285–288). Their main claim is that ethnic and national identities are “constructs” created in the modern era. According to constructivists, conflicts are the product of a constructed, national “master cleavage” among competing ethnic groups. Political entrepreneurs can fuel conflict by making local events fit that “master narrative.” The prominent roles played by environmental and indigenous rights organizations in the opposition to the Brazilian dam projects indicate that such a phenomenon is likely taking place. As indigenous peoples in the Amazon observe an increasing threat to their traditional way of life brought about by the construction of the hydropower dams, they are more prone to become entrenched behind their ethnic identities as a means of resistance against the perceived and actual injustice and exclusion they suffer. Moreover, the perception of the threat of present injustice, in the case of Brazilian indigenous peoples, is justifiably amplified by the record of past injustices. Throughout the country’s history, Brazilian Indians have largely remained at the margins of mainstream society, even more so than other also historically disadvantaged groups in the country, such as Brazilians of African ancestry. Census data from 2010, for instance, show that Brazilian Indians’ mean income was lower than that of any other racial group, equaling only 44.7 percent of the mean income of Brazilian whites and 86.4 percent of the mean for Brazilian blacks (Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics [IBGE] 2010, 216). By some estimates, the Brazilian indigenous population before Portuguese colonization could have been as large as 5–10 million, speaking over a thousand different languages (National Indian Foundation [FUNAI]

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n.d.). Today, Brazilian Indians have a population of roughly 890,000 individuals (less than 0.5 percent of the country’s total) (IBGE 2010, 54). From their enslavement and extermination by war and disease in colonial times to their continued exclusion from the benefits of economic development, Brazilian Indians have good reason to be wary of outsiders’ interventions and the potential negative impacts on their lands and their way of life. The current threat of displacement of their populations as a result of the construction of the dams only compounds such deeply held fears. Important questions about the real extent of the displacement effects on the riverside populations appear to remain unresolved. While the federal government claims that no indigenous tribes will be directly affected by the project, environmentalists and indigenous rights groups have argued that the impact studies have failed to take into account indigenous peoples who live on lands that are not officially recognized as indigenous territory. Supporting these claims is IACHR’s request on July 29, 2011, that “the State guarantee that the processes still pending to regularize the ancestral lands of the Xingu Basin indigenous peoples . . . be finalized soon and adopt effective measures to protect those ancestral lands against intrusion and occupation by non-indigenous people” (see Appendix 3.1). An alternate explanation for the ethnic element in the conflicts would claim that indigenous opposition to the dams is not the result of ethnic grievances per se but is simply acting as a proxy for other economic and political interests pursued by aspiring political leaders. That is the central claim of instrumentalism, another tradition that seeks to explain the causal links between ethnicity and conflict (Varshney 2009, 282). However, some researchers have called for a more comprehensive explanation of the role of ethnicity in conflict—one that does not rely primarily on either the cultural or the economic drivers of violence (e.g., Sen 2008, 12–15). The need for such an inclusive explanation will be addressed as we examine the role that inequality plays in the conflict. Economic Vulnerability in the Amazon An important question in assessing conflict causality in the Amazon lies in the role that economic deprivation plays in fueling violence. Despite the country’s significant gains in poverty reduction over the past decade, poverty is still more prevalent in the Amazon, with 2010 census data showing that 42 percent of the region’s population could be considered poor in 2009, compared with 29 percent in Brazil as a whole the same year (Chiaretti 2010, para. 2). However, available empirical research has shown that the causal linkages between poverty and violence are not straightforward or readily recognizable but are elusive and dependent on country context (Kanbur 2007, 3).

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A more promising approach is to examine the role of income inequality in driving conflict. Theorists explain two kinds of inequality. Vertical inequality measures “inequality among individuals or households, not groups” (Stewart 2010, 6). As in the case of poverty, empirical research has not established a strong and direct relationship between vertical inequality and conflict (Kanbur 2007, 3). There is, however, a growing consensus that horizontal inequality—defined as economic disparities among groups that share a common identity (Stewart 2010, 6) such as ethnicity, race, and religion—can be a major factor in creating conflict (Kanbur, 2007, 3). Indigenous groups’ socioeconomic exclusion throughout Brazil’s history is usually not a disputed fact. Combined with the factors of ethnic identity and environmental scarcity, it offers yet another structural explanation for the indigenous uprising against the dams (Stewart 2010). As seen previously, income disparity among indigenous peoples and Brazilians from other racial groups is very significant in Brazil. Much less has been said about the role that inequality is possibly playing in exacerbating labor conflicts in the Amazon, but it is not difficult to theorize that it is also an important structural cause leading to conflict vulnerability in labor-capital relations as far as the construction of the dams is concerned. Although empirical evidence of a strong link between civil conflict and vertical inequality has not been identified so far, researchers have found a strong correlation between inequality and ordinary criminal violence, in particular, homicide rates (World Bank 2011, 79–80). It has been reported by the news media that the violent workers’ strikes were provoked by grievances over poor working conditions. Inequality and social-economic marginalization are a likely driving force behind the rise of drug crimes and prostitution that have been observed in the regions affected by the dams’ construction. Brazil remains one of the world’s most unequal countries in the world, with a Gini index of 0.519 (as of 2012), making it the seventeenth most unequal country among a list of 136 (CIA n.d.). Moreover, even though the Gini index for Brazil improved between 2009 and 2011, this improvement was not true for the country’s northern region. In fact, the north was the only region in the country in which the index worsened, increasing from 0.488 to 0.496 (Prates 2012, para. 5). Construction and Environmental Scarcity Since the early 1990s, researchers have sought to understand the causal link between conflict and environmental change (Deliaginnis 2012, 78). One of the leading studies in the field was carried out by the Toronto Group, and it examined the interplay between scarcity and violence (Deliaginnis 2012, 80). Environmental scarcity “describes a situation where renewable resources . . . are degraded or decreasing”; it “can also refer to the inequitable distribution of resources within a country or region” (United

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Nations Interagency Framework Team for Preventive Action [UN IFTPA] 2010, 11). Therefore, environmental scarcity can be supply-induced (e.g., when environmental degradation diminishes the level of resources available), demand-induced (increased consumption reduces resources available), or structural (caused by unequal access by the various user groups, which can shift over time). Scarcity often leads to resource capture and ecological marginalization. Environmental scarcity causes conflict to arise indirectly when its sources interact and results in a range of negative social phenomena such as migration, aggravation of identity-based tensions, and diminished returns to economic activity (Deliaginnis 2012, 80–81). Large infrastructure projects can put additional pressures on scarce natural resources (UN IFTPA 2010, 12–13). Protests such as those led by the Juruna Indians in January 2013 (when they complained that construction efforts in Belo Monte were jeopardizing their fishing activities) suggest that the perception of many Amazon Indians involved in the conflict is that construction of the dams is diminishing the availability of natural resources, particularly land and the use of waterways, for the populations that have traditionally used them as the source of their livelihood. Moreover, as natural resources availability and use shift away from traditional populations in favor of new social actors (e.g., construction workers and new business owners), there is a serious risk of social and economic marginalization of the population still pursuing more traditional livelihoods. For indigenous populations who have failed to adapt to new economic dynamics and have not developed alternative sources of revenue, the potential new loss of livelihood caused by infrastructure projects (losses that they are not compensated for) can push them into overt conflict (UN IFTPA 2010, 13). The extent to which the perceived threat to their livelihood is grounded on fact remains uncertain, but perceptions alone can drive conflict when problems of governance (addressed below) are also present. Initially, indigenous populations may direct their anger toward the organizations and leadership they perceive as being responsible for causing their predicament (this approach may be an explanation for the absence of direct deaths so far). Over time, compounding dissatisfaction and frustration can cause violence to spread to a more interpersonal level, where it can be directed toward ordinary people that Indians may perceive as being better off as a result of benefiting from the redistribution of natural resource availability—for instance, against the migrant workers who carry out the building of the dams. Weak Governance as a “Trigger” of Conflict The lack of sound governance is the final test that the Amazon dams have failed to pass, effectively removing the last barrier to the outbreak of violent conflict.

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Even though the conflict surrounding the Amazon dams clearly lies on deeper structural issues, the outbreaks of violence are made possible because the involved parties cannot count on effective institutions to manage the underlying tensions. Although tensions can hinder the development of strong institutions, conflict is not inevitable in the presence of structural and proximate causes. Institutions function as a filter through which those factors must pass and can thus work to prevent these tensions from escalating into open confrontation (UN IFTPA 2010, 5). Recent research has stressed the role of governance in mediating differences and preventing violence (World Bank 2011, 76, 84), and institutions seem to be a crucial explanation for why not all countries suffering from known drivers of conflict, such as inequality or economic shocks, end up experiencing actual violence (World Bank 2011, 85–86). Unfortunately, institutions can also play the role of “last straw” and be the trigger that catalyzes underlying tensions into the outbreak of violent conflict. From that perspective, governance failure may be the focal point for violence, even when there is a structural aspect to it as well. Additionally, the lack of adequate governance can be a cause of conflict in its own regard, notably when affected communities are excluded from decision mechanisms (World Bank 2011, 21–22). As noted previously, Brazilian institutions have been ineffective in dealing with several aspects of the ongoing conflict. Environmental agencies have been incapable of conducting the environmental assessments and licensing in a fully transparent and participatory manner. They apparently lack the technical capacity to respond in a timely and professional way to concerns raised by various stakeholders. Moreover, the environmental licensing processes, as they are being currently undertaken, do not provide effective mechanisms for dispute resolution (World Bank 2008, 20). As a result, unresolved disputes are “outsourced” to the judiciary, which also lacks the capacity to issue final decisions in a reasonable timeframe, further adding to the fragility of the institutions (31). Finally, local law enforcement authorities lack the means and the workforce to uphold the laws, including the protection of indigenous lands once they are demarcated, and to keep public order. Overcoming the Causes of Conflict

The final step of conflict-sensitive analysis is to apply the understanding that we have gathered, in particular, the patterns of interaction between the development intervention and the emerging violence, so that conflict transformation and prevention can be achieved, both by minimizing the negative effects of the intervention and by maximizing the positive ones. In this case, the conflicts over the Amazon dams have been shown to be the result of the interaction of different sets of causal factors: structural fac-

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tors, such as economic, institutional inequality; and group identity grievances that are amplified by a government intervention perceived to be arbitrary and that have the potential of increasing the level of natural resource scarcity and adversely affecting livelihoods. The conflicts are also exacerbated by the involvement of the international NGO community and its access to international media. Finally, a weak system of governance is failing to manage tensions adequately and prevent the outbreak of conflict. Conflict mitigation interventions thus need to achieve a wide range of consistent and mutually reinforcing goals. First, interventions need to deescalate the immediate level of confrontation and open effective communication channels with relevant stakeholders. Second, they need to improve institutions and processes that deal with environmental management governance so they can effectively function as venues for conflict resolution. Third, they should seek to address the structural causes of conflict, to the extent possible, in the medium and long run. Finally, interventions should be carefully tailored so that they do not inadvertently and adversely affect conflict dynamics. Strategies to achieve these goals are outlined next. Develop a Sound Strategy for Transparency and Communication with All Conflict Actors International experience with large-scale dam projects points to the importance of fully engaging stakeholders with diverse attitudes toward the project, including those who directly oppose it (Duke Center for International Development [DCID] 2011, 140–142). The current government communication strategy appears to be limited to publicly responding to criticism and objections to the dams. There is a clear need to go beyond this reactive posture, even though the formal license issuance process has been completed. The government should adopt a more proactive communication approach to deal with the issues raised fairly or unfairly by various interest groups opposed to the dams. This approach is well illustrated by the World Bank’s efforts in Laos’s Nam Theun 2 dam project. After examining previous experience with a number of controversial and unsuccessful hydropower projects, such as their failed involvement with the Arun III dam in Nepal, the bank adopted a more proactive communication strategy—and was rewarded for its efforts (Stephens 2011, 121–122). At the policy level, a public embrace by the Brazilian government of the substance of the policies found in the World Commission on Dams publication Dams and Development: A New Framework for Decision-Making (2000) or something like the World Bank’s (or other responsible agency’s) policies on indigenous peoples would also help (World Bank 2005). These measures, among other things, would improve transparency and commit the government to timely and easily accessible information-sharing

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with all concerned parties and would demonstrate the government’s commitment to upholding the environmental and social safeguards that it already claims to observe (DCID 2011, 141). Conflict mapping (refer to Figure 3.3) reveals that a promising entry point that should be explored by the government lies in the justice system, most specifically with the federal Public Ministry. Given its political and administrative autonomy and the general respect it enjoys by other opposing stakeholders, the Public Ministry, if adequately approached, could help initiate the process of de-escalating tensions, provided that its procedures do not generate excessive delays. Develop Capacity for Improved Governance To effectively address actual and perceived environmental scarcity concerns, the federal government needs to undertake intensive and coordinated efforts to develop the capacity of environmental agencies to carry out highquality, reliable, fully transparent, and legitimate environmental impact assessments and conduct environmental licensing processes in such a way that meaningful and effective mechanisms for dispute resolution are implemented in the administrative sphere. Developing such capacity will require a significant shift in the organizational culture of Brazilian environmental agencies, emphasizing active problem solving in lieu of formal compliance with licensing procedures.4 The undesirable alternative is to risk exporting most conflicts from the administrative to the justice system, with negative consequences for the legitimacy, timeliness, predictability, and social acceptance of dam projects (World Bank 2008, 9, 22, 35). Capacity-building efforts will also need to encompass other areas beyond strict environmental management. To contain criminal activities and maintain social peace once the projects are under way, local law enforcement agencies must be strengthened in advance of the migration waves normally associated with such large projects. Additional expertise will be needed to ensure that contractors and their workers are sensitive to the local situation. Bidding documents for work in conflict-prone areas should therefore require bidders to state how they intend to address potential conflicts. This requirement could include getting the support of international consulting NGOs that have specialized in advising extractive industries on how to avoid creating or worsening conflicts in the countries where they operate and whose experience could be adapted to construction activities (e.g., Collaborative for Development Action) (Appendix 3.2). Other important areas of any conflict prevention plans include the provision of basic public services, such as health and education, and basic urban infrastructure. Building government capacity at the federal and local levels, though not sufficient by itself, is the single most important policy intervention the

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government will need to undertake if it wants to succeed in expanding the generation of hydroelectric power in the Amazon basin without perpetuating or exacerbating the socially and environmentally driven conflicts that have become common in the region. Capacity-building is one field in which the government would be particularly well advised to reach out for support from international development organizations that have accumulated considerable experience and knowledge in the matter (DCID 2011, 129–132).5 Devise Inclusionary Policies and Improve the Provision of Public Services The government needs to pursue sensible, long-term policies to address the issue of social exclusion and vertical inequalities that indigenous groups have historically been subject to. This area is one in which an important policy trade-off has to be considered: direct interventions, such as affirmative action–type policies, can be effective but carry the risk of exacerbating identity issues, which are also an important driver in this conflict. Conversely, indirect policies can be less effective but also less likely to amplify identity divides (Stewart 2010, 20). A balanced middle ground can possibly be achieved through measures such as creating opportunities for employment of indigenous persons through fiscal incentives (e.g., tax expenditures) instead of quota systems. A focus on improving the quality of the public schools serving indigenous populations, especially if this provides for appropriate use of local languages as the initial medium of instruction, can also help reduce social exclusion. In theory, such language provision is the law (Constitution of Brazil, article 210, § 2º; National Educational Guidelines Law, article 78, I). However, in practice, this provision falls short (Ministry of Education 2007, 28–32; Salla 2014).6 With any such measures, it is important that indigenous populations are adequately consulted and given the opportunity to select their own social development priorities. Incentives to increase indigenous participation in representative political structures, particularly at the local government level (where they should be able to preserve their traditional models of social organization and decisionmaking, possibly with some adaptation), may also be implemented without aggravating identity issues. Vertical inequalities afflicting construction workers should also be adequately addressed. An entry point lies in the dominant position the federal government holds in its relationship with the building consortium (refer to Figure 3.3). The government should contractually require that building firms establish consultative processes with workers to ensure adequate and dignified working conditions and other worker benefits. In the case of disputes, the government should use federal labor agencies to act as active mediators, while at the same time strictly enforcing existing labor protection legislation. Finally, adequate provision of public services such as edu-

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cation for workers’ children living in cities in the vicinity of construction sites, as well as good-quality public health services, cannot be underestimated as mechanisms for reducing the inequality gap. Conclusion

This chapter illustrates many of the challenges of designing and practicing conflict-sensitive development through the example of how a nation’s need to expand its energy sources may conflict with its obligation to protect affected populations, particularly in the case of indigenous peoples. In the case of the dam projects in the Amazon, the designers and implementers need a better understanding of the enabling policy and institutional environment and its local, regional, national, and international ramifications. They also need to acquire a richer historical perspective on the experience and perceptions of the affected populations, especially in terms of the fears and needs associated with being dispossessed or marginalized that this population is facing. At the same time, the government needs to appreciate that the country’s majority is found in sedentary populations who may have little understanding (or interest or respect) of indigenous populations and their fundamentally different Weltanschauung and economic practices and related spatial demands. To acquire such a holistic understanding requires the collaboration of many professions, including engineers, economists, political scientists, public administrators, lawyers, environmentalists, anthropologists, and specialists in various sectors of activity (education, health, transportation, and others). Second, there is a need to more fully anticipate the impact on the people of the proposed development projects—namely, how these impacts may affect various stakeholders and whether there are risks that their interaction will trigger violence. Among the stakeholders the government needs to consider are not only indigenous peoples but also the construction workers and their families, host populations, construction company managers, local authorities and law enforcement agencies, decisionmakers at the national level, and international actors such as NGO representatives. Assessing the risks of conflict will require specialists in policy and conflict analysis. Third, and perhaps most difficult, there is a need to identify a strategy and activities for overcoming the short-term risks of conflict while paving the way for, long-term structural changes as necessary. The conflict in Belo Monte is active today. Its present conflicts, as well as potential future conflicts, must be dealt with. Finally, there is a need for a champion who will lead the implementation of the strategy. It could be a single influential agency, a coalition of

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agencies, or a multipartite cooperation mechanism that pulls together government, private sector, NGOs, and possibly international actors as well. As we hope this chapter illustrates, conflict sensitivity is a complex art. It must systematically apply knowledge that has been accumulated on the causes of violence to make sense of the often complex effects of development interventions—interventions that unfold over time and are therefore very dynamic. This art needs to appreciate and, to the extent possible, address the concerns of multiple stakeholders whose interests and objectives frequently may not be evident. Just as important, conflict-sensitive development should strive to build strategies to overcome conflict that are both realistic and effective. In the case of dam construction in Brazil, these principles have been largely ignored. A better understanding of conflict sensitivity could have led—and we believe, still can lead—to a more peaceful future. Appendix 3.1: The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights Precautionary Measure

The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR) Precautionary Measure of April 1, 2011, requested Brazil to implement the following: • Perform consultations that are “free, prior, informed, in good faith, and culturally appropriate, with the aim of reaching an agreement.” The claim was that consultations had only taken place in urban areas inhabited by people unaffected by the project. • Provide affected indigenous groups with the social and environmental impact assessment in an appropriate, accessible language. • Adopt “vigorous and comprehensive measures” to protect the lives and personal integrity of the members of the indigenous groups recently observed in voluntary isolation in the Xingu River basin. (These groups were observed for the first time in 2010.) • Adopt “vigorous and comprehensive” measures to prevent the spread of diseases and epidemics that would likely be caused by the massive influx of new population into the area. On July 29, 2011, the IACHR modified the measure as follows:

That the State: 1) Adopt measures to protect the lives, health, and physical integrity of the members of the Xingu Basin indigenous communities in voluntary isolation and to protect the cultural integrity of

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Anderson Freitas and Francis Lethem those communities, including effective actions to implement and execute the legal/formal measures that already exist, as well as to design and implement specific measures to mitigate the effects that the construction of the Belo Monte dam will have on the territory and life of these communities in isolation; 2) Adopt measures to protect the health of the members of the Xingu Basin indigenous communities affected by the Belo Monte project, including (a) accelerating the finalization and implementation of the Integrated Program on Indigenous Health for the UHE Belo Monte region, and (b) designing and effectively implementing the recently stated plans and programs that had been specifically ordered by the FUNAI in Technical Opinion 21/09; and 3) Guarantee that the processes still pending to regularize the ancestral lands of the Xingu Basin indigenous peoples will be finalized soon, and adopt effective measures to protect those ancestral lands against intrusion and occupation by non-indigenous people and against the exploitation or deterioration of their natural resources. Moreover, the IACHR decided that the debate between the parties on prior consultation and informed consent with regard to the Belo Monte project has turned into a discussion on the merits of the matter, which goes beyond the scope of precautionary measures.

To read the full text of the measure, see http://www.oas.org/en/iachr /decisions/precautionary.asp. Appendix 3.2: Collaborative for Development Action’s (CDA) Collaborative Learning Projects

CDA’s methodology consists of a collaborative approach to learning and requires that they and the corporation being advised should 1. 2. 3. 4.

Understand the project’s context. Analyze the project’s likely impact on people. Advise on redesign if necessary to minimize risks. Propose implementation options to ensure mutual benefits between the corporation and the people affected.

To understand the context, the consultants need to

• Consult key stakeholders, using a 360-degree perspective on the corporation to find out how it is perceived. • Understand the company’s viewpoint. Businesses are usually experienced with mitigation of some risks (engineering, safety, delays in land acquisition, reputation) but tend to overlook social risks and make erroneous assumptions about local motivation. • Help the corporation realize that conflict is often the result of an accumulation of small grievances. Therefore, it is essential for the

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corporation to establish formal or informal channels of communications with potentially affected communities.

CDA’s experience has identified several categories of negative impacts by extractive corporations. These corporations may

• Undermine community cohesiveness, for example, by excluding some groups from benefits. • Affect local quality of life (e.g., boomtown problems). • Promote violence by rewarding those who commit it (with jobs, money). • Show disrespect as perceived by the local population. • Be unaware of government policies that are resented by the local population. • Antagonize governments by providing services that are the government’s responsibility.

In sum, to minimize the risks of conflict, corporations should focus on three main issues: 1. 2. 3.

Distribution of benefits. Behavior of the company’s personnel. The side effects of their activities.

The CDA’s “Preventing Conflict in Exploration Tool” is available at http://www.cdacollaborative.org/media/59252/preventing-conflict-in -exploration-tool-.pdf. The authors acknowledge the exceptional contribution of Dean Storelli in editing this chapter. 1. Many of these tools are part of the “Conflict Assessment Guidelines” and the “Toolkit for Conflict Analysis” compiled by Natalia Mirovitskaya as part of the curriculum for her graduate course at the Sanford School. 2. Of the estimated 25,000 indigenous peoples inhabiting the Xingu River basin, those mainly affected would be the Arara, whose numbers were estimated to be 363 in 2012, and the Juruna, whose numbers were estimated at 348 in 2010 (Instituto Socioambiental 1998, 2001). 3. For a more detailed explanation of these and other conflict analysis tools, see Fisher et al. (2000, chap. 2). 4. Larry Susskind, founder of the Consensus Building Institute and director for the MIT-Harvard Public Disputes Program, claims that organizations that are successful in working with dispute resolution have a few features in common. They empower street-level employees (in other words, the professionals that are directly responsible for service delivery) to actively engage in problemsolving. They create a

Notes

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safe environment for their people to explore creative thinking solutions before committing to a formal negotiated settlement of disputes. They also welcome the help of external mediators who act as facilitators and reward their people on the basis of their successes in achieving good dispute resolution outcomes (notes from “Innovations for Resolving Disputes in Development” panel at the World Bank, Washington, DC, on June 5, 2013). 5. For a historical precedent of an international organization supporting capacitybuilding in Brazil, see the World Bank’s “Project Completion Report # 8469” (March 19, 1990) detailing the World Bank–financed Health Project (Loan 2061BR). The health project, financed in December 1981, was intended to overcome the health risks caused by the massive influx of immigrants to the state of Rondonia. See http://documents.worldbank.org/curated/en/1990/03/738141/brazil-northwestregion-integrated-development-program-first-phase-health-project. 6. Brazil’s constitution and national legislation establish that indigenous communities have the right to use their own languages and learning processes in elementary education alongside the national language, Portuguese (Constitution of Brazil, article 210, § 2º). The federal government is responsible for developing educational programs that affirm their ethnic identities and recognize their traditional languages and knowledge (National Educational Guidelines Law, article 78, I). However, although the number of students attending indigenous schools rose significantly in the 2002–2006 period, a 2007 report issued by the Ministry of Education also acknowledged that indigenous schools suffered from such problems as poor facilities, inadequate/insufficient teacher training, lack of performance evaluation, and insufficient supply beyond initial elementary school years, as evidenced by low enrollment rates in advanced elementary and secondary classes (see Ministry of Education 2007, 28–32). Other observers have claimed that such problems still persist and that indigenous students also face additional obstacles in trying to access schools, such as a lack of identity documents to formally register for classes and the absence of transportation (see Salla 2014). Addressing current shortcomings in indigenous education will require an additional and sustained effort by the Ministry of Education, accompanied by the necessary funding.

4 Religion and Peacebuilding: Human Insecurity and the Colonial Legacy in Myanmar Giorgio Shani and Sana Saeed Since opening its borders in 2012, Myanmar has been the focal point of Southeast Asian politics and diplomacy. The lifting of sanctions by the United States along with the release of well-known human rights activist and opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi are seen as indicators of democratic reform in Myanmar. However, even with all the reforms and current changes occurring, systematic human rights abuses have attracted the attention of the international media. Of particular note has been the plight of the Rohingya Muslim community in the Rakhine State. The Rohingya were made stateless after the 1982 Citizenship Act, which legally recognized 135 ethnicities as being Myanmar citizens, but left the Rohingya without any citizenship rights. As a result, they have been subject to systemized discrimination and routine violence that has left them insecure. The Myanmar government has passed laws that have restricted the Rohingya community’s access to health care, education, employment, and shelter. Making use of decades of resentment, with roots in British colonialism, the Myanmar government has effectively been able to dehumanize the Rohingya as illegal immigrants or as Bengali or Indian laborers. Resentment resulting from the subjugation of Buddhism under British colonialism and from the imposition of secularism led to a resurgence in Buddhist nationalism, which plays a key role in scapegoating the Rohingya today. This has led to the Rohingya eventually becoming internally displaced people and refugees on the borders of Thailand and Bangladesh, resulting in a cross-border humanitarian crisis. The question, therefore, remains whose responsibility it is to protect the Rohingya, a people rendered stateless and thus who do not belong to any state. Of particular relevance to the conflict has been the status of the Rohingya as a religious and ethnic minority. Although the Myanmar government regards them as ethnic outsiders, the fact that the violence carried out against them has been led by nationalist Buddhist monks has drawn attention to the religious affiliation of Rohingya as Muslims and complicat65

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ed Orientalist stereotypes of Buddhism as a religion of peace. It has fueled allegations of Islamophobia—a global backlash against Islam—which is a view prevalent in the Islamic world helping explain the emergence of salafi jihadist groups such as the so-called Islamic states in Syria and the Levant. It is often argued that the Western media practice of reporting on the conflict in the Rakhine State using overarching generalizations of Buddhism— in the same way that terrorism has been reported as being associated with Islam—is part of the problem. The one obvious part of the puzzle ignored in this conversation is the deeply rooted resentment that developed among the Burmese during the British colonial rule that helped create fertile ground for the breeding of Buddhist nationalism and fundamentalism, a result of fears of being occupied again. This chapter focuses on the nexus among human security, secularism, and religion, which all are meeting in contemporary Myanmar in volatile ways. We argue that the origins of this insecurity lie in British colonial policies that denigrated Buddhism in a “thick sense” as an intricate part of Burmese culture while creating space for the articulation of “thin” exclusivist Buddhist identities. We begin by defining human security (HS), conventionally understood as “freedom from fear and want,” before critiquing its articulation in exclusively secular terms at the expense of religious and cultural diversity (Pasha 2013). A postsecular approach to HS (Shani 2014) is briefly outlined before we turn to Myanmar. It is argued that the introduction of Western secularism coincided with colonial support for Christian missionaries, spurring the growth of Buddhist nationalism, leading to independence movements. Colonialism acted as a “chosen trauma” of the new Myanmar nation. Ethnic and religious minorities were excluded from a nation imagined primarily along Buddhist and Burmese lines. This, it is argued, helps explain the rise of Buddhist fundamentalist groups, such as the 969 Movement, after the period of direct military rule ended and the insecurity that ethnoreligious minorities such as the Rohingya experience in modern-day Myanmar. Finally, based on fieldwork carried out in Myanmar, we argue that religion and interfaith movements have an important role in peacebuilding and reconciliation today. Reconceptualizing Human Security

The world will never be secure from war if men and women have no security in their homes and in their jobs. (UNDP 1994, 24)

The notion of human security is premised on the assumption that the individual human is the only irreducible focus for discourse on security. Consequently, the claims of all other referents, including the nation-state,

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derive from the sovereignty of the individual (MacFarlane and Khong 2006, 2). The concept of HS was first defined in the 1994 United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) Human Development Report as having four characteristics. First, HS is seen as “universal,” so it could be applied to many different types of security threats. Second, it is “interdependent” in that security threats could not be contained within the nation-state but were transnational in nature. Third, emphasis was placed on “early prevention” as a mechanism through which HS could be achieved, an example being the case of HIV/AIDS and its spread since the 1980s, which is argued could have been contained with the right resources. The final characteristic is that unlike the “national security paradigm,” which has hitherto dominated the theory and practice of international relations (IR), HS is “people-centered.” As Newman (2010, 79) states, Traditionally, state sovereignty and sovereign legitimacy rest upon a government’s control of territory, state independence and recognition by other states. The role of citizens is to support the system. The human security approach reverses this equation: the state—and state sovereignty—must serve and support the people from which it (in theory) draws its legitimacy.

The UNDP in essence inverts traditional notions of state sovereignty that take the nation-state to be the main referent object of security discourse by making sovereignty conditional on the state’s responsibility to ensure the human security of its citizens, hence, making it people-centered. Paris (2001, 90) lists the seven components of human security derived from the UNDP report as follows: (1) economic security (e.g., freedom from poverty); (2) food security (e.g., access to food); (3) health security (e.g., access to health care and protection from diseases); (4) environmental security (e.g., protection from such dangers as environmental pollution and depletion); (5) personal security (e.g., physical safety from such things as torture, war, criminal attacks, domestic violence, drug use, suicide, and even traffic accidents); (6) community security (e.g., survival of traditional cultures and ethnic groups as well as the physical security of these groups); and (7) political security (e.g., enjoyment of civil and political rights, and freedom from political oppression).

Narrow and Broad Approaches Conventionally, two different approaches are taken to HS. The first conceives of HS negatively, in terms of the absence of threats to the physical

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security or safety of individuals. This narrow definition is exemplified in the Human Security Report, which defines HS as the protection of individuals from “violent threats” (Human Security Centre 2005, 2009). Furthermore, the narrow approach also informs the concept of the responsibility to protect, which was adopted by the UN General Assembly after the World Summit in 2005 and formed the pretext for the UN Security Council resolutions 1970 and 1971, which authorized the creation of a no-fly zone over Libya in 2011. According to paragraph 138 of the World Summit Outcome resolution, each “individual State has the responsibility to protect its populations from genocide, war crimes, ethnic cleansing and crimes against humanity” through “the prevention of such crimes” (emphasis added). Where states, such as Libya in 2011 or presumably contemporary Syria, fail in their responsibility to protect the population under its legal authority, then, under paragraph 139, the international community must assume that responsibility and must be prepared to “take collective action in a timely and decisive manner, through the Security Council, in accordance with the Charter” (United Nations General Assembly 2005). The second approach goes beyond a narrow focus on the responsibility of states to protect their citizens and posits a broader conception of human security that takes into account “freedom from want, freedom from fear and freedom to take action on one’s own behalf” (Commission on Human Security [CHS] 2003). A broader approach to HS, more in keeping with the spirit of the UNDP report, emerged from the Commission on Human Security, which was headed by Nobel Prize–winning economist Amartya Sen and former UNHCR head Sadako Ogata. The Final Report stated that the objective of HS was to protect “the vital core of all human lives in ways that enhance human freedoms and human fulfillment” (CHS 2003, 4). However, protection is seen as an insufficient condition to achieve HS: it should seek also “to empower [people] to act on their own behalf” (CHS 2003, 2; emphasis added). This approach to HS appears to have influenced the recent resolution adopted by the UN General Assembly (A/66/290) in September 2012, which sought to arrive at a “common understanding of human security.” The resolution defined HS as the “right of people to live in freedom and dignity, free from poverty and despair.” “All individuals,” it continued, “are entitled to freedom from fear and freedom from want, with an equal opportunity to enjoy all their rights and fully develop their human potential” (UN General Assembly 2012). Critical Perspectives The most persistent criticism of the concept of HS is that it tends “to be extraordinarily expansive and vague, encompassing everything from physical security to psychological well-being, which provides policymakers with

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little guidance in the prioritization of competing policy goals and academics little sense of what, exactly, is to be studied” (Paris 2001, 88). For political realists in particular, this broadening and deepening of the concept of security is pernicious in that it distracts states from their primary role in protecting the “national interest” from external threats. However, from a critical perspective it could be argued that the ambiguity of the concept of HS makes it susceptible to incorporation into the very paradigm it seeks to replace: that of national security. Critical perspectives challenge the positivist assumptions of conventional approaches to security, which they consider to be problem-solving theories, designed to promote the smooth functioning of the international state system (Cox 1981). The national security paradigm is premised on the assumption that the state is simultaneously the main instrument of protection for the national community and the sole referent object of security discourse. As a sovereign entity, the state gets to decide what constitutes the national interest and the means to pursue it. HS was initially proposed as an alternative to the national security paradigm, yet it has failed to contest its hegemony within the theory and practice of international relations. Most of the issues it has raised have been incorporated as nontraditional security threats and the power of nation-states has remained undiminished. This can be seen in the UN General Assembly resolution A/66/290, which categorically states that “Human Security does not replace State security” and that it is based instead on the principle of “national ownership.” On one hand, HS is seen as a “people-centered approach,” marking a significant departure in security studies because it makes the individual and not the sovereign nation-state the primary referent object of security. On the other hand, the concept of HS reinforces the doctrine of national security by reempowering the state through capacity-building so it can protect its populations from a plethora of existential threats, from militant transnational Islamic-based terrorism to contagious diseases such as Ebola. As MacFarlane and Khong point out (2006, 265), HS is “not about transcending or marginalizing the state” but “about ensuring that states protect their people.” This gives rise to the concern that HS may be sufficiently malleable to allow itself to be used to legitimize greater state control over society in the name of protection (Shani 2007a). HS, in short, has been “co-opted and incorporated into statist discourses” (Booth 2005, 266). Another related critique of HS is that it has been used by powerful Western states and international institutions to extend neocolonial control in the former third world. As a key component of liberal peacebuilding, HS has facilitated the intervention of the international community in the internal affairs of postconflict societies and governance of many areas of the developing world, most notably Cambodia, Bosnia, the Central African Republic, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and Timor-Leste.

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Intervention was legitimized on the grounds that state structures had collapsed entirely, leaving vulnerable populations at the mercy of external assistance. However, the proclivity of state elites to use violence against their own populations with impunity when faced with challenges to their authority, such as in Libya and Syria, has more controversially led to demands for intervention. In the case of Libya, the call for intervention was heeded by NATO, which sought to enforce the no-fly zone designed to protect civilians by destroying the military capacity of the Libyan regime to defend itself from rebel attacks, leading to the eventual death of Muammar Qaddafi. The case of Libya seems more in keeping with a template of what has been called democratic imperialism: the coercive installation of liberaldemocratic institutions and a market economy in many parts of the Islamic world after September 11, 2011 (9/11) as a central plan of the War on Terror (Shani 2007b). The pretext for U.S. intervention in Iraq was the alleged existence of weapons of mass destruction, which were deemed to constitute a threat to the national interest of the United States and thus legitimized the intervention on the grounds of national security. The role the United States– led coalition has played in state-building in Iraq and Afghanistan suggests a commitment to coercively democratizing the entire region while opening up their economy to investment and control from overseas. Viewed from the perspective of many of those in the global South, therefore, HS appears merely to be the latest installment of the “civilizing missions” of the nineteenth century, which served as a pretext for colonization. More generally, HS may be seen as a form of biopower. Biopower refers to “the set of mechanisms through which the basic biological features of the human species become the object of a political strategy . . . or, in other words, how . . . modern Western societies took on board the fundamental biological fact that human beings are a species.” It is a form of power that “has as its target ‘population’” and may be contrasted with “sovereign power.” Whereas sovereign power seeks to “make die and let live,” biopower seeks to “make live and let die” (Foucault 2007, 1). It aims to ameliorate the living conditions of the population it subjugates by extending the power of the state over its subjects. HS participates in the securitization of everyday life in modern Western societies (Berman 2007). Following Buzan, Waever, and de Wilde (1997, 23), securitization can be seen as an extreme form of politicization where “security” denotes the move that takes politics beyond “the established rules of the game and frames the issue either as a special kind of politics or as above politics.” In a systematic application of a biopolitical framework to North-South relations, Mark Duffield (2007) argues that HS effectively securitizes development and reproduces colonial racial hierarchies. Whereas the insecure populations of the North are subjected to biopolitical controls that seek to make live, the uninsured “surplus populations” of the South are

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subject to a developmental discourse of sustainability designed to increase their resilience. A Postsecular Approach?

The approach taken in this chapter does not seek to reject HS as a biopolitical tool of neocolonial governmentality but seeks to reconceptualize it by taking into account cultural difference (Pasha 2013; Shani 2014). Culture here is not assumed as a primordial attachment, an unchanging ethnic property of territorially defined groups, but is understood in a thin sense as a framework through which individuals attain meaning and identity as part of a community. Culture is, in short, what gives us a bios: a life with dignity, endowed with meaning, which can consequently be considered worthy of sacrifice (Agamben 1998). Cultural difference does not stem from mutually irreconcilable core values that inevitably give rise to conflict as some prominent scholars have claimed (see Huntington 1993, 1996), but must be accepted and understood in its own terms. Attempts to negate difference by assimilating otherness to a universal self are not only counterproductive but, it is argued, a fundamental source of insecurity. Universalistic conceptions of HS can themselves be seen as a type of human insecurity. However, this does not mean that we need to reject HS outright. In keeping with a broadly defined critical approach that seeks to question assumptions and seeks possibilities for liberation that are immanent within existing political and social relations (Cox 1981, 128), it is argued that HS, if critically reworked, can pose a powerful imminent challenge to the hegemony of the national security paradigm by using the language of security to further the goals of emancipation from fear and want. To do so, however, HS will need to become postsecular (Shani 2014). A “postsecular” conception of HS should, it is argued, permit the articulation of plural claims from a multiplicity of different religiocultural traditions without prioritizing any one tradition as having a monopoly over the definition of what it is to be human and what it is to be secure. Consequently, it contests the ontological underpinnings of both conventional understandings of HS and poses a sterner challenge to the hegemony of the national security paradigm (Shani 2014). In modern industrialized societies, a postsecular approach would aim at bringing in the voices of those who have remained marginalized by secular political discourse, particularly those of religious minorities. The aim of such an approach, however, would not be to forcibly translate political claims emanating from a faith-based perspective into secular claims, as Jürgen Habermas (2008) has suggested, but to try to understand faith-based claims on their own terms. To understand, however, is not to accept. Claims that seek to exclude others on the grounds of ethnicity, religion, gender, and sexual orientation are themselves sources of human insecurity in that they

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violate the vital core of being (see Shani 2014). The advantage of a postsecular approach is that it acknowledges that secularism itself can be exclusionary and thus a source of insecurity for faith-based communities. In the postcolonial world, however, the influence of colonial categories of religion has cast a shadow on what constitutes the sacred and profane. Whereas secularism has ensured human security for many people in explicitly faith-based societies, religious rituals have historically been key in creating the social bonds necessary to maintain a sense of community through which individuals may gain security. “Ritual facilitates the social desire to create a trust that ensures a modicum of human security” (Wellman 2010). In short, the modern notions of religion and the human are products of the colonial encounter and the colonial legacy in general complicates attempts to articulate a postsecular approach to human security (Shani 2014). Religion, State, and Colonialism in Myanmar

The British rule of Myanmar (or, as it was known then, Burma) was short compared with the other colonies it ruled, lasting from 1885 to 1948. However, the impact was felt deeply and can be seen through different laws and actions that the civilian and military governments have taken since the nation’s independence. The British began with limiting the role that Buddhism played in the country. “To be a Burman is to be Buddhist,” was a slogan coined by the Young Men’s Buddhist Association, a politically active group formed toward the end of British colonialism in Myanmar (Schober 2005; Steinberg 2010, 32). Before colonialism, the king received legitimacy through the sangha or Buddhist clergy, maintaining a presence of senior monks as his personal advisers. Kings were seen as being in their position because they had good karma, and as a Buddhist duty, the ruler was obligated to improve the karma of the people. If a king was overthrown by another, that meant the usurper had better karma (Schober 2011; Steinberg 2010). In addition to being tightly interwoven into the monarchy, Buddhism played a large role in the Burmese society. Monasteries were a source of education for children, who received special recognition in their villages once they graduated. As Steinberg states, Buddhism was the primordial value of Burman society. The rites of social passage, the functioning of education, the prestige and glory (hpoun, in Burmese; a monk is known as a hpoungyi, “great glory”) was related to the sangha, the Buddhist clergy, which was controlled by an administrative hierarchy with the thathanabaing (supreme patriarch) at the apex. Education was monastically fostered at the village level, and the monks had the most prestige. (2010, 32)

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When the British gained control of Burma, besides limiting the role of the monarchy and eventually getting rid of it altogether, they erased the thathanbaing to reduce their power (Schober 2011; Steinberg 2010). They removed the monastery schools and introduced “modern secular education” in both Burmese and English to further reduce Buddhist influence, and left isolated the Burmese who only had a traditional education and could no longer compete for jobs (Steinberg 2010, 33). As a result, the British unknowingly created fertile ground for the rise of Buddhist nationalism. As Steinberg puts it, “Instead of being destroyed by these actions, however, Buddhism became the surrogate indicator of Burmese nationalism when political activity was banned by the British, and monks were martyrs to the nationalism movement and often led it” (2010, 24). Another impact of the British rule was that it “helped reify ethnicity, resulting in minorities becoming more cohesive entities that had not before existed,” because the British didn’t trust the Burmese (Steinberg 2010, 29). As a result, the Burmese were demoted in their ranks in the military and other state offices, and ethnic groups were elevated. The British decided to implement the same model of rule they had been using successfully in India; this led to an increase in immigration of laborers from India. The British felt the Indians knew the “British way,” so they elevated their ranks in the administrative ranks of the state (Schober 2011; Steinberg 2010). These actions could be a factor in the indicators of today’s conflicts, as Myanmar has some of the longest civil wars in Southeast Asia, with armed ethnic military groups fighting for individual autonomy and the resentment leading to discrimination of the Burmese perceived to have an Indian heritage. Building on this “unlimited immigration of Indians” was the economic effect. Creditors from India called Chettyars became involved in moneylending in Burma. However, because the Burmese were not used to credit lending and rules of repayment, this resulted in the Burmese overextending themselves and using their land as collateral. During the Great Depression many Burmese ended up losing their land to the Chettyars when the price of rice and agriculture dropped (Steinberg 2010, 30). This led to a further resentment toward Indians, as Steinberg states, “This and the Indians’ preferential position in Burma caused great resentment against all Indians that to a large degree persists today” (2010, 31). Essentially, the British colonialism and rule created a long-standing resentment of the demotion of Buddhism and the increase in Indian migrants that has manifested itself into a chosen trauma. Today, this trauma is influencing modern policies and laws introduced by the military government to securitize the ethnoreligious groups, such as the Rohingya, but extending toward other Muslim ethnic groups as well. During and after

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British rule the ground was fertile for Buddhist nationalism and Buddhist fundamentalism, to some degree. This is manifesting today in the form of the 969 Movement, led by Ashin Wirathu, a Buddhist monk. In a group interview conducted with twelve youth ages sixteen to twenty from the University Muslim Students Network in Yangon, one student said, “969 is saying to Buddhists that Muslims colonized Buddhists.” They mentioned that the anti-Muslim campaign has been targeting Muslims since colonialism and now has gotten worse. Buddhist nationalism should not be looked at through the lens of Western secular separation of church and state, but by understanding that the government and Buddhism have always been linked in Myanmar. In fact, reports reflect that the Western media doesn’t understand the xenophobia of some of the Myanmar monks, which is connected to notions of feeling like Buddhism is under threat, and the ideas of a socially engaged Buddhism as it exists in Myanmar. Xenophobic monks can be considered an affront to the notion of the “Oriental monk” existing in the West (Winston 2013). Francis Wade attempts to explain the reason for the lack of desire to focus media attention on the conflict as it contradicts Western orientalist ideas of Buddhism. “Images of hundreds of monks joining civilians as they marched in favor of Thein Sein’s policy—ironically the largest protests in Burma since 2007—have shocked those who revere the men in saffron robes as bearers of a democratic ideal untainted by politics and self-interest and as immune to government trickery” (quoted in Winston 2013, 164). Furthermore, the establishment of the radicalized group of Buddhist monks calling themselves the 969 Movement shows itself as “promoting and protecting religion” and connects with maintaining peace in Myanmar (Thompson 2013, 1). Thompson (2013) states, “The underlying theme of their rhetoric today is the view that Islam is threatening to ‘overrun’ Burma, and that Buddhists must stand up and ‘save’ their way of life.” Their propaganda in the local media has reflected dehumanization of Rohingya and Muslims overall, and it also features fear-mongering by connecting Aung San Suu Kyi’s party, the National League for Democracy, as being “taken over by Muslims and can’t be trusted” (Thompson 2013, 1). As a result of the distrust existing within Myanmar, HS as a concept needs to incorporate a lens that is multifaith and multicultural, rather than pushing HS ideals in ensuring the rights of the Rohingya or any other group. Fox (1999) introduces the idea of secular nationalism, which has lost authenticity and legitimacy in the non-Western world, as being perceived as connected to colonialism in that “the imposition of secular nationalism by governments in former colonies has led to the accusation that the leaders of these former colonies are perpetuating colonialism

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through their espousal of secular nationalism.” He goes on to argue that secular nationalism is seen as “cultural colonialism” and is threatening traditional cultural traditions for modernism (Fox 1999, 436). Not a farfetched notion, given that the last largest protest by monks in Myanmar wasn’t the Saffron Revolution but the protest against the United Nations and international bodies calling for securing the human rights of the Rohingya. The main argument the monks and the military government used to mobilize public opinion is that Myanmar’s sovereignty is under threat from international organizations and that alien concepts such as human rights or the responsibility to protect can be used as neocolonial tools to undermine state sovereignty. Securitization and Discrimination of Muslims in Myanmar

The 1982 Citizenship Act disqualifying the Rohingya as Myanmar citizens means the Rohingya do not have Myanmar citizenship or any rights of a person with citizenship, including access to education, health care, employment, and in some cases food. Hence, they are officially rendered stateless. The Rohingya community comprises an “800,000-person religious minority that represents 4 percent of Myanmar’s Muslim population” and 91 percent of the population of Northern Rakhine State (Lewa 2012, 2; Winston 2013, 162). The systemic discrimination resulted in legitimizing already existing xenophobia of the Rohingya, which in turn resulted in additional dehumanization by being referred to as illegal immigrants, Bengals, or outsiders. As Ye Myint Aung, Myanmar consul in Hong Kong, put it, “they’re as ugly as ogres” (Lewa 2012, 4). This labeling portrays how the Rohingya have been transformed into an outside threat existing internally in Myanmar, thus validating the human rights abuses and restrictions imposed on them to secure the nation from outsiders. Zawacki (2013, 19) describes the effects of the 1982 Citizenship Act: These include restrictions on movement; forced labor; land confiscation, forced eviction, and destruction of houses; extortion and arbitrary taxation; and restrictions on marriage, employment, health care, and education. Although not limited to Rohingyas, these restrictions are not imposed in the same manner and to the same degree on Buddhists or other Muslims in Rakhine State, or on other ethnic minorities across the country.

In addition to these restrictions, Zawacki (2013), Lewa (2012), Fortify Rights, and Human Rights Watch reports show the extreme violence followed by displacement that the Rohingya community has been facing not just before 1982 but more recently since 2012. Zawacki (2013, 18) argues that violent events began in 1978, during the Dragon King operation where the “Myanmar army committed widespread killings and rapes of

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Rohingya civilians, and they carried out the destruction of mosques and other religious persecution.” This violent event led to the first exodus of 200,000 Rohingya out of the country to neighboring countries, leading Zawacki (2013) to link violent events to the large numbers of Rohingya fleeing the death and destruction of their communities. In relation to the statelessness of the Rohingya, structural violence is also playing a role. Among the larger population of Muslims in Myanmar, structural violence is occurring through laws put into place to securitize the Rohingya, leading to effects on other ethnic Muslim groups around the country who are legally recognized ethnicities. In a New York Times article, “Muslims from Yangon Share Stories of Discrimination” (Ingber 2013), Muslim youth explain how they weren’t given the same access to scholarships and other educational opportunities in school because of their religious identity. In the same article, a Burmese Muslim teacher in Yangon explained how she lost her job after years of teaching, and the reason was because she’s Muslim (Ingber 2013). Recent laws such as the one that aims to ban interfaith marriage will begin to affect other ethnoreligious groups besides just the Muslim groups. The discrimination stemming from the securitization of the Rohingya is now becoming a larger problem of nationwide religious discrimination that is being legalized. Mandalay has been known to be a religiously diverse and inclusive city in Myanmar. Its history reflects this through actions of Buddhist monks in 1988 warning and guarding a mosque after rumors of a possible attack spread in the city (Kyaw Phyo Tha 2014). Mandalay is a generally peaceful city and hadn’t seen any riots in 150 years, so when riots erupted in July 2014, based on a rumor that Muslim men had raped a Buddhist woman, religious and community leaders were suspicious. Years of interfaith cooperation and organizing created trust among the religious communities there, which led to community organizing for a deeper investigation of the rioting and rumors. News reports in Myanmar now suggest that a Buddhist woman was bribed to report the rape around the time that the National League for Democracy was conducting a campaign in the city to collect signatures to amend the constitution and reduce the power of the military junta. This is another example pointing to the nuances of this conflict, portraying how the line between religion and politics has become blurred in the nexus between Buddhist nationalism and violence. Human Security and Myanmar’s Interfaith Legacy

Mandalay’s legacy of interfaith cooperation was credited as the reason the tensions from the riots were quickly managed. According to Nyan Lynn (2014),

Religion and Peacebuilding Than Nyunt of the Interfaith Religious Group of Mandalay, told IRIN it was the intervention of both Muslim and Buddhist leaders that stopped violence in Mandalay from spreading—a significant achievement, experts and community leaders say, given the current polarized political atmosphere in the country.

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The leaders of various faith communities in Myanmar kept constant pressure on the police to complete an investigation into what incited the riots. It’s been the only case in terms of the anti-Muslim violence that has resulted in arrests of perpetrators. One incident occurred in June 2014 at the Myanmar Film Festival, where a twenty-minute documentary called The Open Sky (produced by youth) was banned. The movie portrayed a friendship between a Buddhist and a Muslim woman in Meikhthila, where communal violence had erupted the previous year. The film festival was based on peace education principles, and the organizers have been participants in peace education programs. The film festival aimed to promote dialogue in a society by “using the power of film to create a space for encouraging human rights” (Palatino 2014, 1). However, the film was banned because of backlash and threats from religious extremists who argued that it was supporting “Muslim conspiracy to dominate Buddhist-majority Myanmar” (Palatino 2014, 2). On one hand this backlash portrays the sensitivity of a dialogue in Myanmar around religious tensions. It also shows the fears that extremists have of positive narratives of interfaith cooperation and relationships. One thing that is missing in the larger dialogue and research around this conflict is the Buddhist narrative calling for peace and interfaith coexistence in Myanmar and internationally. Consider the statement by Tint Swe, a Burmese exile in India: “The Burmese are asking themselves whether the monk at the center of the Time story is a hero or villain. [It is] regrettable that Muslim Burmese, who have lived for centuries in a peaceful manner, are forced into silence” (Thompson 2013, 2). Thompson (2013, 2) portrays another statement by a tea shop owner, Khin Su, who suggests he would be open to a dialogue with Muslims: “We don’t really have Muslim friends. That doesn’t mean they can’t come sit down here.” There are advocates on the ground, such as Min Ko Naing, who is a “respected former political prisoner,” who states, “In the past, people of different races and religions peacefully coexisted. I worry that we cannot maintain this tradition and I worry that our country will no longer be peaceful,” reflecting the concerns of some Buddhists in Myanmar (Thompson 2013, 1). These statements of concern, dialogue, and peace indicate potential for other forms of advocacy, such as interfaith activism. In fact, calls for interfaith peacebuilding are missing overall, even though it is in its beginning stages. There is a need to move away from a secularist development approach to a postsecular approach.

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Field Interviews of Burmese Muslims in Yangon

Interviews conducted by Sana Saeed between July and August 2014 with twenty-seven members of the Burmese Muslim community in Yangon produced several themes of discrimination Muslims face in the larger cities of Myanmar. Experiences of young Muslim women include harassment in public institutions, at universities, and in the workplace. Three of the ten women interviewed indicated that they were asked to take off their hijabs to have pictures taken for identification papers, including being required to remove the hijab to attend classes. Workplace harassment included experiences with hate speech using words such as kala, which is a derogatory word for Burmese Muslims. Shine Win, a well-known affluent Muslim leader and founder of the Interfaith Youth Coalition on Aid in Myanmar, recounted an experience of being brutally attacked in Sittwe, where he was establishing a program to provide aid for the Rohingya community. During his interview, Shine explained that a small mob of Buddhists formed around him and began calling him “Indian” or “kala,” assuming he was Muslim based on his looks. They began attacking him, leaving him with stab wounds and a concussion from being hit in the head with a hammer. These narratives confirm that discrimination is taking place and that securitization of the community occurs from dehumanization. In a twelve-person group interview with the University Muslim Students Network (comprising youth ages eighteen to twenty-four), three of the youth revealed that they were given not the National Resident Card but the Foreigner Resident Card (FRC), even though they were born and raised in Myanmar and went in for a renewal of their NRCs. According to the interviewees, an FRC means that they are unable to enroll in higher education and are unable to receive official degrees at the end of their studies. FRC holders also are banned from traveling outside of the area they live in unless they receive prior government permission, and they cannot own land. However, for Burmese Muslims living in Yangon, restrictions are easier to maneuver around than for the Rohingya, who are enclosed in a certain area with check points. Phyo Tin, political officer at the Pandita Development Institute, confirmed in a separate interview that people holding FRCs cannot vote and are not allowed to hold political positions. All Burmese Muslims are assumed foreigners based on looks alone, and they are constantly at risk of being asked to provide documents of family heritage prior to 1823. Most Burmese Muslims (and other religious minorities such as Christians in Kachin) aren’t able to meet this requirement. The bureaucratic nature of the Myanmar government and the inability to keep track of documents (there is no central database of civil society records) provides flexibility for Burmese Muslims living in Yangon who can get documents through connections and bribes. Muslims living in smaller villages and in

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the Rakhine State are more easily targeted and monitored. The interviews reflect the impact of the securitization of the Burmese Muslim community regardless of class and social standing. At the same time, the interviews show that the more privileged Burmese Muslims have the ability to pay bribes and maneuver around restrictions more easily than do less privileged Muslims. However, the attack on Shine and violent clashes in Mandalay in July 2014 show there are instances where privilege of the Muslims is disregarded as well. Although the Burmese Muslims don’t experience the severity of the discrimination that the Rohingya Muslims are experiencing in Rakhine, there are ripple effects resulting from laws restricting the Rohingya that are beginning to affect Muslims nationally in Myanmar, including the recent law banning interfaith marriages. Conclusion

It was argued that the origins of the conflict in Myanmar go back to the period of British colonial rule and the rise of a specifically Buddhist Burmese anticolonial nationalism as a reaction to colonial policies of secularization and support for Christian missionaries. After independence, ethnoreligious minorities like the Rohingya were marginalized by successive military governments and forcibly excluded from the nation by discriminatory legislation. The opening of Myanmar and the introduction of limited democracy has so far intensified the insecurity felt by the Rohingya, who are now subject to threats of physical violence and organized programs by mobs led by Buddhist monks espousing a virulent xenophobic nationalist ideology such as the 969 Movement. Meanwhile they continue to be subject to restrictions on marriage, health care, employment, education, and movement, making them insecure in a broad sense. The reluctance of secular opposition leaders such as Aung San Suu Kyi to speak out at the physical and structural violence faced by the Rohingya in Rakhine State, which the United Nations Special Rapporteur for Myanmar recently argued amounted to “crimes against humanity” (UNHCR 2014c), casts doubt on the impact the democratic process can have in providing human security for Myanmar’s ethnoreligious minorities without the active involvement of interfaith movements and acknowledgment of the centrality of faith as a way of life. Only the recognition of the Rohingya as equal citizens in a multicultural and multireligious nation can bring peace and HS to the people of Myanmar. More broadly, the case study of the Rohingya in Myanmar highlights the importance of culture and identity to HS. Given the extensive human rights abuses committed by the military in Myanmar—as highlighted by the rape and murder of two Christian schoolteachers in Kachin Province—combined with pervasive poverty (Myanmar was ranked 149 out of 187 states in

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the 2012 UNDP Human Development Report), a case could be made for arguing that human insecurity is a condition experienced by all residents of Myanmar. Why should we focus on just one marginalized minority? HS, as has been argued by many of its proponents, can best be advanced by an international, national, and local commitment to liberal peacebuilding, democratization, and structural economic reforms. If Myanmar fails in its responsibility to protect its citizens, advocates of HS argue, intervention by the international community may be required. However, the fate of the Rohingya suggests that democratization, intervention, and free-market reforms may not be enough to guarantee HS unless they are accompanied by an acceptance of cultural difference. In short, freedom from want and fear may not be sufficient for the Rohingya to feel secure in a state that has come to regard them as an unwelcome presence in the land of their birth.

5 Gender and Peacebuilding: Hybridity and Friction in the Pacific Islands Nicole George and Chantelle Doerksen The field of peace and conflict studies has recently become critically focused on the concept of hybridity in conflict transformation (Mac Ginty 2008, 2010; Richmond 2009; Brown et al. 2010; Björkdahl and Höglund 2013; Heathershaw 2013; Jabri 2013). This interest is born from a growing discontent with liberal peacebuilding, which provides the orthodox blueprint for contemporary international interventions assisting societies transitioning from conflict. Concern is mounting that these programs fail to deliver on their many promises (Richmond 2009, 51; Newman, Paris, and Richmond 2009; Chandler 2010; Mac Ginty 2010). Hybridity in peacebuilding refers to the idea that conflict stabilization efforts combine elements that originate from outside the conflict-affected community, as is often the case with liberal peace interventions, and elements that are homegrown, shaping how that intervention is received on the ground. Sustainable peace will only ever be possible, it is claimed, when peacebuilding interventions are less rigidly shaped by externally imposed ideas about models of postconflict statehood, and more attuned to local values, belief structures, and customary practices. Hence, the concept of hybridity is invoked to both critique top-down, state-centric efforts to impose a liberal peace in settings marked by conflict (Mac Ginty 2008, 2012; Brown et al. 2010) and to affirm the value of an alternative—that is, a sustainable peace built through close collaboration between formalized (internationally supported) and informal (localized) sites of regulatory authority. When examining these questions from a feminist perspective, however, we find answers that affirm the value of hybridized approaches to liberal peacebuilding, but potentially we may also encounter more questions. Certainly the focus on hybridity allows appreciation of where and how localized cultural and faith-based values inform women’s peace advocacy and provide it with legitimacy and political weight. As we show in our preliminary elaboration on the themes that guide this study, these same resources may also be drawn on to challenge the gendered exclusions that 81

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are endemic to liberalism generally and liberal peacebuilding more specifically. But in accordance with the findings of many other feminist scholars of conflict, we contend that cultural and religious discourses are also often drawn on in the conflict transition phase by would-be leaders to legitimize restrictions placed on women. Although this tendency may be generally observable in contexts that have not experienced conflict, it can be particularly pronounced in postconflict societies, occurring as a kind of backlash or reprisal against women who have taken on new economic or political roles during periods of instability. Those who seek to (re)create a sense of postconflict normality may base their efforts to restrict women’s public economic or political participation on localized cultural or religious claims that stipulate women’s “rightful” place. This suggests the importance of a carefully nuanced argument when considering how hybrid approaches and gender politics intersect in conflict settings. In this chapter we delve deeply into these questions as we examine the complex politics that surround women’s peacebuilding work in the Pacific Islands (with a particular focus on Fiji). Even when they have undertaken important and often dangerous work that has helped reconcile aggrieved parties, women across the region have been regularly excluded from formal conflict transition processes or treated as token participants. When reflecting on this situation, some women peacebuilders in Fiji have remarked on the risk of being “boxed in” by culture. On the one hand, this phrase reflects the important value that culture and faith hold for women peace activists as resources that undergird their efforts to hybridize liberal peace norms, yet it also expresses a frustration of how culture has been used to justify the exclusion of women from decisionmaking processes as well. This work aims to both encourage acceptance of a liberal peace from local populations and demonstrate how the liberal peace should be extended and expanded on to ensure that women are not simply treated as passive victims of conflict (Puechguirbal 2010). Women peace activists have shown ingenuity and creativity in linking cultural and religious claims to their demands that women are visible and active in the broader processes of peacebuilding and postconflict reconstruction. But we need to recognize that these efforts occur within a postconflict political landscape where discourses of faith and custom are simultaneously harnessed by parochial male elites to restrict women’s political ambitions. These actors have often cast women’s peace activism as forms of dissidence that challenge social order. This scenario prompts women peace activists to voice concern that their peace localization efforts may concede too much ground to groups who politicize religious and cultural difference to serve narrowly partisan and gender-restrictive ambitions. To demonstrate this double-edged potential of hybrid discourses of peace for women, we draw on Björkdahl’s (2012, 287) work on “friction” in

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peacebuilding to frame our discussion of women’s peace activism in Fiji. Björkdahl has described the contradictory frictional outcomes that are produced for women when feminist peace localizers aim to translate and broaden the norms of the liberal peace to make them more gender inclusive, but do so in ways that reference institutions that have also been used to marginalize and disempower women. The concept of friction is developed to capture this dynamic relationship between the local and global in liberal peacebuilding, which are in “constant confrontation and transformation with each other” (Björkdahl, 292). Here, the emphasis is placed not on the authenticity or legitimacy of peace processes because there is an accommodation of the local, but on an appreciation of “local agency both as oppositional and as accommodating” of the global and how this might be simultaneously “a site for empowerment and domination” (Björkdahl 2012). Our examination of women’s peacebuilding activity demonstrates the frictional processes that occur when activists embrace global discourses but express these claims in ways that also reflect local customs, traditions, and norms. This theoretical framework is particularly helpful to our examinations of women’s agency as peacebuilders in Fiji, particularly their efforts to translate the women, peace, and security (WPS) agenda as established with the formalization of UN Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) 1325 (UNSC 2000), so that it achieves resonance with local populations. The empirical focus of this chapter draws from fieldwork observations and interviews conducted with FemLINK, a Fiji-based women’s organization committed to promoting gender security in a country that has experienced four coups in the past thirty years. Our analysis of this material is situated in dialogue with secondary source literature on peacebuilding and gender in global politics and on gender, peace, and security in the Pacific Islands region with a particular focus on Fiji. Our discussion shows that efforts to translate and localize WPS principles are complexly cited within a political climate shaped by militarism, authoritarianism, and communalism. Women who challenge these structures and claim they disrupt peace are often subject to criticism and in some cases repression from the state. This hard-line response is often justified through appeals to culture and faith and a discourse that views women’s peace advocacy as a defiance of the conjugal order and the customary and religious norms that are deemed to be foundational to the achievement of national security. Thus, we contend that the work of peace localizers in Fiji can be empowering for women, but can simultaneously emphasize the same cultural and religious institutions that contribute to women’s political and social marginalization. Although it might be tempting to conclude that the peace localization efforts we describe foreclose the possibility of women building a more gender equitable peace, we are more hopeful. We contend that viewing

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women’s agency as “encompassed” by the institutions of faith and culture rather than fully submerged by them facilitates a nuanced appreciation of the tensions that accompany women peace activists’ efforts to promote a hybridized peace (Jolly 1994). Ultimately our aim is to show the contradictory frictional outcomes that are produced by acts of peace localization and the importance of acknowledging, but not over-romanticizing, the possibilities the “local” offers women peace advocates in Fiji and elsewhere. Feminism, Gender, and the Liberal Peace

In 2000, the UN Security Council passed Resolution 1325, which for the first time focused international policymakers’ attention on the gendered impacts of conflict and the particular difficulties experienced by women in contexts riven by war and violence. This resolution also acknowledged the work undertaken by women as conflict mediators and peacebuilders. The resolution affirms “the important role of women in the prevention and resolution of conflicts and in peace-building” and asserts women’s right to “equal participation and full involvement in all efforts for the maintenance and promotion of peace and security” (UNSC 2000). This policy “breakthrough” was achieved, it was argued, because of the tireless efforts of women’s organizations such as the globally networked Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, and in later periods, the nongovernmental organization Working Group on Women in Armed Conflict (Pratt and Richter-Devroe 2011, 492). As Torunn Tryggestad put it, the “years of knocking on doors at the offices of member states’ delegations in New York, [by] a strong lobby of women advocates from nongovernmental organizations” was rewarded when they were able to win UN Security Council support for a resolution that for the first time broadened the terms of the security debate to reflect gender concerns (Tryggestad 2009, 539). The experiences of women in conflict in the years since have shown that resolutions of this type require more than a rhetorical commitment by states if they are to introduce any tangible change. Despite many follow-up resolutions by the UN Security Council, which aim to protect women from specific forms of insecurity experienced during conflict (sexualized violence being a key focus of four further resolutions: 1820, 1888, 1960, and 2106) and increase their participation in formal processes of conflict resolution (1889 and 2122, and 2242), implementation of Resolution 1325 has been patchy at best. 1 Many feminist observers have lamented the slow progress in advancing the WPS framework (born out of these resolutions) and the fact that questions about the standing of women in both war and peace continue to receive scant formal consideration (Chinkin and Charlesworth 2006; Aroussi 2011; Pratt and Richter-Devroe 2011). Such

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complaints have again been audible, most recently, as armed civil war between pro- and antigovernment rebels has raged in places like Libya and Syria. But still today, negligible efforts are made to formally involve women in any concrete peace or conflict transformation initiatives, despite the immense difficulties experienced by women caught up in these contemporary theaters of conflict.2 Concern about the slow implementation of the WPS policy framework is not the only source of feminist discontent. A deeper vein of concern is also expressed with regard to the substance of the UN’s WPS policy framework. The claim here is that the provisions of the various Security Council WPS resolutions reinforce the restrictive gendered frameworks that sustain the broader liberal peacebuilding projects that have become orthodox in the early twenty-first century. Liberal peacebuilding programs involve a wideranging and highly interventionist, some contend “post-Westphalian approach to conflict management and international security,” which precedes from the conviction that peace requires not just the moderation of differences between hostile groups and the end of violence but the development of democratic and market-based institutions (Newman, Paris, and Richmond 2009, 7). In this vein, peacebuilding programs established in contexts as varied as Afghanistan, Iraq, Solomon Islands, Rwanda, Bosnia, Kosovo, Timor-Leste, or Cambodia have aimed to build stability and longterm conflict recovery through the development of democratic institutions of government, accountable and transparent public service bureaucracies, reliable and effective law and justice structures, and market-based economic systems, all of which are said to contribute to conflict stabilization (Newman, Paris, and Richmond 2009, 7–13). Yet the mixed practical results of these programs have prompted many to question the global orthodoxy of liberal peacebuilding. The liberal peace may be “with us, and . . . not going away” (Heathershaw 2013, 275) but it does not deliver “all that it promises in conflict zones” (Richmond 2009, 61). One key strand of this critique relates to the nature of these ventures when they are deposited on communities “from the top down” rather than built from the “bottom up” through popular engagement (Newman et al. 2009, 13). The contention is that populations may be required to accept governance systems, values, expectations, and practices which, from a local perspective, appear “fundamentally inappropriate” (Newman et al. 2009, 12). Feminist appraisals of the liberal peacebuilding project have joined the chorus of criticism. In part, this reflects feminists’ critical appraisal of liberal institutions generally. They contend these institutions normalize women’s relegation to a private realm of devalued, domestic invisibility while they also facilitate a masculine dominance of economic and political

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life (Steans 2007, 21). Feminist scholars of peace and conflict studies show how this same institutional bias shapes liberal peacebuilding interventions. Although these may include rhetorical commitments to promote the participation of women, practical implementation strategies tend to be shaped by liberal expectations of where and how women can contribute. Hence the tendency is to engage with women in an essentializing fashion as gendered and vulnerable actors requiring protection (Puechguirbal 2010, 173). In contrast, men are portrayed as rightful public actors and women’s natural guardians. These binary perspectives of gender roles fly in the face of a long history of feminist peace and conflict analysis that has identified women’s agency as combatants, or alternatively as civilian leaders and peace negotiators in conflict (Elshtain 1987; Enloe 1988, 2004; Cooke and Woollacott 1993; Mazurana and Mckay 1999; Anderlini 2000, 2007; Tickner 2001; El Bushra 2003; Shepherd 2006; Cockburn 2007; Porter 2007; Sjoberg and Gentry 2007; Charlesworth 2008; George 2011; Mackenzie 2012; Parashar 2014).3 They also overlook the extent to which women’s efforts to keep themselves and their families alive during periods of conflict-related insecurity often requires creative abilities that challenge gender norms and see women occupy new political and economic spaces (Mazurana and Mckay 1999; Anderlini 2000, 2007; Charlesworth 2008). When liberal peacebuilding initiatives are introduced, women often find themselves excluded from the conflict transformation program, or included but expected to act in ways that conform to the broader gendered liberal trope, which expects them to be “passive, civilian and protected” (Björkdahl 2012, 288, 291).4 Hybridity: Liberal Peace, Gender, and Tradition in the Pacific

Women caught up in conflict in the Pacific Islands have direct experience of the marginalizing impact of formalized peacebuilding efforts that have followed the liberal peace blueprint. The Melanesian conflicts of the 1990s and 2000s, which occurred in Bougainville, the Solomon Islands, and Fiji, exposed women to new forms of insecurity and amplified existing forms of gender discrimination. These experiences were not endured in silence, and activist women in these countries became engaged in a wide range of activities aiming to rebuild communal relations and forge peace. But the cessation of hostilities and inter- or intracommunal violence in these settings has not necessarily translated into a gender-just peace for women there. For example, women in Bougainville are widely recognized as providing the critical impetus for the cessation of hostilities in the early 1990s, which in a ten-year period cost between 10,000 and 20,000 lives (Firth 2001, 278; Charlesworth 2008; Braithwaite 2010; Hermkens 2011). Yet they struggled to gain representation in formal peace negotiations and decision-

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making in later years. Efforts to build democratic institutions in this context appear successful at one level, and two election cycles have passed without violence since the foundation of Bougainville’s territorial constitution. Yet women’s representation in the territorial assembly has been confined to the three reserved seats they secured as part of the constitutional autonomy agreement (Hermkens 2011). The fact that they have been unable to win representation in open-seat ballots means that they are vastly outnumbered in the thirty-nine-seat parliament and face challenges in being able to make their political ambitions heard and understood by the electorate more broadly.5 They also face challenges in trying to draw attention to some of the key gendered challenges of postconflict society that contribute to women’s insecurity. These include high levels of gendered violence in household and domestic contexts (Fulu et al. 2013; Radio New Zealand International 2013)6 and significant maternal health challenges, which are explained in part by the depleted public infrastructure that remains in the wake of the conflict.7 A more extensive program of liberal peacebuilding was undertaken in the Solomon Islands in the wake of armed conflict between civilian groups that emerged in the late 1990s that culminated in hundreds of deaths around the country and a coup perpetrated against that country’s elected government in 2000 (Firth 2001). Like their sisters in Bougainville, Solomon Islands women’s security was compromised by lawlessness, racialized violence, and a breakdown in economic and social networks. These experiences also propelled women into the realm of conflict mediation or peacebuilding, where they encouraged combatants to recognize the costs of their violence, give up their weapons, and work to rebuild community relations, fractured by conflict-related divisions (Charlesworth 2008; Monson 2013). Women’s fortunes did not necessarily improve with the beginning of the peacebuilding intervention developed as a result of a request by the Solomon Islands government to the Pacific Islands Forum (PIF) (the region’s preeminent intergovernmental organization) in 2003. In addition to the peacekeeping responsibilities that lay at the heart of the PIF’s Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands (RAMSI),8 the mission aimed to develop a stronger foundation for democratic stability through programs of institutional strengthening, law and order provision, weapons management, and conflict resolution. Later assessments have found that this wide-ranging attempt to construct a liberal peace through a regional organization, which drew on resources from various countries including Australia and New Zealand, failed Solomon Islands women in a range of areas. For example, the gendered impacts of RAMSI operations were not factored into any mission planning or risk assessment. There was also a general failure to engage with the women who had led the grassroots intercommunal peacebuilding

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initiatives (Monson 2013). Even more seriously perhaps, the mission was found to have failed in its mandate to protect local women from insecurity and their exposure to violence (Charlesworth 2008; Westerndorf 2013). Experiences of liberal peacebuilding in Bougainville and Solomon Islands make clear how women can build considerable grassroots momentum for peacebuilding but also be excluded from participating in formal liberal peacebuilding programs. This raises important questions about the quality and sustainability of the liberal peace that has been built in each setting. Such exclusions and the concerns they raise have their analogue in broader critiques of liberal peacebuilding, which demonstrate a gulf between the “international” realm of peacebuilding and the local sphere. It has been argued that if the liberal peace is to generate a sense of popular “ownership” through participatory processes, rather than resistance because of its “echoes of colonialism,” then closer integration between the global and the local is needed (Björkdahl and Höglund 2013, 291). To bring greater conceptual clarity to this claim, attention has been focused on the hybrid dimensions of liberal peacebuilding and the interplay that occurs (or is absent) “between the global and local, the formal and the informal, the liberal and the illiberal,” as these programs are delivered (Björkdahl and Höglund 2013, 292). The focus on hybrid forms of liberal peace has uncovered the “powerful local critiques [and] resistance” that may undo international interventions, through processes of “backsliding” (Richmond 2009, 54).9 On the other hand, the focus on hybrid forms of liberal peace is also said to generate greater “conceptual and practical openness to governance mechanisms that may be in operation on the ground” (Brown et al. 2010, 101). The idea here is that beyond the simple export of liberal institutions of governance or the complete adoption of Western state models, the consolidation of social order might rely on “more flexible and richer models of governance and the state . . . that are capable of recognizing the strengths . . . and resilience embedded in the communal life of societies within the Global South” (Brown et al. 2010, 101). To avoid the problems with internationally brokered or mediated settlements, which tend to be viewed popularly as “technocratic” and “alien,” Roger Mac Ginty argues for greater attentiveness to the discourses of dispute reconciliation that are characteristic to “traditional and indigenous” societies, such as “consensus decision-making, a restoration of the human/resource balance, and compensation or gift exchange designed to ensure reciprocal and ongoing harmonious relations between groups” (Mac Ginty 2008, 155, 149). These, he suggests, are “culturally intuitive and in keeping with local traditions and customary expectations of mediation” and, as a result, build greater “public adherence” (Mac Ginty 2008, 155).

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The idea that there may be a “significant disconnect between the state and its institutions (particularly as imagined by the international community and interveners), and socio-political practices animating most of the country” (Chadwick, Debiel, and Gadinger 2013, 8) is certainly relevant to analysis of peace and conflict in the Pacific Islands region. Despite the diversity of the region, it can be safely argued that in many Pacific Island contexts, the regulatory authority of state institutions is at least matched, and in some cases outweighed, by that of customary or faith-based institutions that are better understood and more strongly valued by local actors. Douglas’s survey of authority structures in Melanesia (Douglas 2007) has also shown that these institutions often play a more critical and locally valued role in conflict mediation than do state authorities, who may lack the capacity and perhaps even the active will to be visibly present in state jurisdictions (Douglas 2007, 165–166). Some observers of conflict and peacebuilding in the region have therefore strongly advocated the importance of hybrid approaches to conflict reconstruction to ensure that liberal peacebuilding initiatives capitalize more effectively on the “local strengths” (in this case customary or religious values or practices) within communities that might provide a more culturally appropriate and meaningful anchor for conflict recovery programs (Clements et al. 2007; Boege 2010; Dinnen and Peake 2013). Hybridity, Gender, and Frictional Process

This focus on hybridity seems to open doors for women peacebuilders to challenge the gender-exclusive nature of liberal peacebuilding and posit alternative modes of social order that might value women’s participation. But the hybrid approach does not necessarily provide a definitive recipe for achieving these goals. Hybridity can itself be subject to critique for the romanticized fashion in which local dispute resolution practices are invoked in this literature. At the same time, there are questions about the extent to which the “global” and “local” are indeed as distinct as the hybridity literature suggests. The gulf between local and global has often been represented as a static and fixed dichotomy where two distinct realms come into play (if not competition) with each other (Björkdahl and Höglund 2013; Heathershaw 2013). But this underestimates the exchange that occurs between the global and the local and the extent to which the liberal peacebuilding process creates and sustains its own localized political entities and processes. Heathershaw contends that it is more useful to consider the co-constitutive nature of the relationship between the local and the international to appreciate the extent to which “indigenous peacebuilding is partially produced by what internationals find, initiate or are willing to fund” (Heathershaw 2013, 280).

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Björkdahl and Höglund’s (2013) use of “friction” is useful in understanding the co-constitutive relationship between local and global peacebuilding processes and is invoked here as a means by which to critically question what constitutes “the local” and, indeed, the “global” in peacebuilding. The concept of friction draws attention to the production of “new power dynamics” created as a result of “the fragmentary intersection of ideas and norms in the global/local conversation” (Björkdahl 2012, 292). Borrowing from Anna Tsing’s (2005) foundational work on friction as a metaphor to capture the complex interplay and reconfiguration that occurs in global and local interactions, Björkdahl and Höglund (2013, 292) defend the analytical value of the friction concept as efficient shorthand for examining how “global ideas pertaining to liberal peace are charged and changed by their encounters with post-conflict realities.” “Two sticks rubbed together create light and heat,” they contend; “alone they are just sticks.” In her elaboration on this theme, Björkdahl draws attention to the frictional processes and agency of peace localizers (nongovernmental organizations, peace activists, religious leaders, individuals) who take “ideas and norms in the liberal peace” and attempt to “reframe them . . . in terms that are acceptable in the local context” (Björkdahl 2012, 293). The outcomes that accrue from peace localizers’ efforts reflect a range of variables, including the “persuasiveness and resonance of the global norms” that are invoked; the standing of peace localizers in the broader social, cultural, and political hierarchy; and the “attractiveness of the notions of peace derived from the local context” (Björkdahl 2012, 293). As we show in our case study of women’s peace advocacy in Fiji, the concept of friction is particularly productive for examining how the work of political actors who aim to promote and legitimize women’s efforts to discuss peace and security is situated in a broader national and global political context. Understanding this interplay as friction draws attention to the ambiguity that envelops peace localizers’ efforts in this context and the variety of frictional outcomes we have observed. These include creative cultural and religious resonances established between the local and the global by women peace activists but also local vernacularizations of the global, which reinscribe restrictive cultural and religious frameworks that potentially box women in by normalizing their marginalization and disempowerment. Conflict, Coups, and Constructions of Culture in Fiji

To understand the geography of conflict in Fiji, and the standing of women peace activists in this context, it is important to appreciate the colonial legacies that shape Fiji’s politics, its structures of regulatory authority, and its internal tensions. “Fijian’s are an insecure people” observed Ratu (chief)

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Joni Madraiwiwi, a visionary high chief and former vice president of Fiji, reflecting on Fijians’ fear, long-held since colonial times, that their land, their way of life, perhaps their very survival as a people, is threatened by “forces of change” (Madraiwiwi 2001, 22–23). These forces have included the arrival of British imperialists who convinced Fiji’s chiefs to cede territorial control of the islands and subdued any resulting dissent with force (Nicole 2011). In return, colonialists developed a paternalistic system of indirect control that “protected” indigenous systems of governance and land tenure but also ensured that their own economic interests flourished (Firth 1997; Nicole 2011). During this time, the British imported indentured Indian migrants to work in new sugar plantations (the majority of whom became permanent settlers, and at one time outnumbered the indigenous population), and also brought Wesleyan Methodist missionaries to Fiji’s shores. This latter group successfully converted large sections of the indigenous population to their church or lotu. In this context, faith and custom function as Janus-faced signifiers of order and disorder for Fiji’s indigenous and predominantly Methodist population (George 2015a). On one hand, Fijians proclaim a close relationship between the vanua (land and ways of the land) and the lotu (church) (Ryle 2005; Tomlinson 2009), believing that the land and the customary ways that come from the land are of “divine inheritance” (Tuwere 1997; Tomlinson 2009, 165). On the other hand, faith and custom are invoked in ways that give rise to fears about Fijians’ ultimate survival and the need for vigorous state protection of indigenous custom and the centrality of their church (Robertson and Sutherland 2001, 50– 74; Tomlinson 2009, 168). This generalized anxiety has been powerfully exploited by nationalist political figures associated with the indigenous iTaukei movement, which, since the late 1980s, has rallied behind the banner of “Fiji for Fijians” (Tomlinson 2009, 164). This group has emphasized the faith-based and cultural divisions that divide Fiji’s Indian and indigenous population and their own capacities to hold off threats to indigenous privilege, locally described as Fijian paramountcy (Robertson and Sutherland 2001, 85).10 Directly and indirectly, anxiety about the future security of Fiji and the Fijians, and the “illegitimate” political and economic influence of Fiji’s Indian population has fueled a number of the coups that have destabilized Fiji since 1987 (Robertson and Sutherland 2001). These same influences have also legitimized the evolution of a highly politicized indigenous military in Fiji and a more generalized tendency toward state authoritarianism in the wake of the coups. “Fiji is the military and the military is Fiji” observed a foreign journalist in 2005, remarking on the cultural and religious foundations that legitimize the nation’s particular variety of militarism.11 Both Winston Halapua (2003) and Teresia Teaiwa (2005) have shown how the Royal Fiji Military’s prominence in politics has emerged as a continuation of indigenous power

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structures, which enabled the turanga (chiefly elite) to build on their traditional power and maintain authority through military enrollment (Halapua 2003, 106–108). Within the system of Fijian chiefly authority, the bati (lit. “teeth”) (Halapua 2003, 25) are “the warrior class bound to protect the chief and advance his or her interests” (Teaiwa 2005, 212). The bati concept has been drawn on to legitimize rapid expansion of the Royal Fiji Military while at times also encouraging the institution to articulate a strongly nationalist/pro-indigenous political position. When military coup leader Colonel Sitiveni Rabuka justified the two coups he led in 1987 (the first to dismiss the democratically elected government, the second to consolidate his power) he drew heavily on the bati discourse, claiming a cultural responsibility to uphold chiefly interests against a government alleged to be promoting Indian priorities at the expense of Fijians. At the same time, Fiji’s dominant and strongly conservative brand of Christian Methodism also has a powerful influence over the military, which is predominantly made up of indigenous personnel. The Methodist faith influences the everyday conduct of military personnel and is evident in directives for new recruits to bring prayer and hymn books with them when they enter the barracks (Fiji Sun, November 21, 2013). The influence of Methodism has also resulted in more controversial military activity and encouraged Rabuka, an ordained Methodist minister, to seek further popular legitimation for his 1987 coups by describing them as a “Mission that God has given me” (Dean and Ritova 1988, 11, cited in Teaiwa 2005, 211). From 1987 until the late 1990s, Fiji engaged in a slow period of democratic reform, and indigenous nationalist leaders gradually conceded to a process of liberal constitutional reform. This process was dramatically interrupted by a third coup, which occurred in 2000—an event triggered by a disgruntled group of civilian rebel nationalists intent on ousting Fiji’s first Indian-led Labour government. Again the coup perpetrators sought to justify their actions through appeals to race and privilege, claiming they were acting, as Rabuka had in 1987, “to save indigenous Fijians and their land from subjugation to other ethnic groups” (One Source News 2006). But this was a chaotic affair that resulted in sporadic outbreaks of extreme violence, looting, and some civilian casualties. Within sixty days, the military leader Commodore Frank Bainimarama sought to resolve a tense situation by removing from power both the constitutionally appointed president as well as the elected government, imprisoning the rebel forces, and installing his own handpicked civilian regime (Lal 2013). Fiji’s military leader consolidated his control of the country in 2006 when he became dissatisfied with the political agenda of the leaders who now had an electoral mandate and were voicing a pronationalist agenda that was proving divisive (Yabaki

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2007; Lal 2013). He led a fourth coup in December of that year, branded a “good governance coup,” promising it would “forever eradicate the politics of race” and division between the country’s ethnic groups (Fraenkel and Firth 2009, 3). Bainimarama has described his military government’s efforts to halt an indigenous capture of the state in Fiji as a “revolution” (Marks 2014). However, this rhetoric belies the many connections between his government’s conduct and that of other indigenous nationalist leaders. The intertwined influence of faith and custom has not disappeared, and the appointment of senior indigenous military officers to almost all executive offices in the bureaucracy of the national government since 2006 suggests that an indigenous capture of the state continues (Firth 2014). Although Fiji’s coups are widely recognized to have unleashed ethnic and political tensions in the country, their gendered impacts have been less well broadcasted. Women’s organizations have recorded spikes in violence against women after each of the coups. Women peace activists in Fiji described this as a “continuum of violence” that extends from the military barracks to the lives of families around the country (Bhagwan Rolls 2009). They explain that this may reflect male family members’ struggles to come to terms with political authoritarianism. In an environment where it has become legitimate for would-be political leaders to assume power by force, men can often feel inclined to similarly use force to express their will and perhaps their frustrations against vulnerable members of their family, most commonly, women and children (Ali 2009). Women who engage in public political activity have also been the targets of punitive state violence; this is a trend that has become more serious in Fiji over time (George 2015b). In 1987, women were at the forefront of prodemocracy protests, holding prayer vigils and singing hymns. These meetings were usually broken up by police. On some occasions women activists were charged with offenses against the state and in others subject to clandestine threats of violence (Emberson-Bain 1997; Ricketts 1997). The civilian-led coup of 2000 hardened racial politics across the country and sparked a wave of ethnicized violence that saw women from some communities subjected to racially motivated sexual abuse and humiliation (George 2012). In 2006, women led a range of protest activities against the new episode of military government led by Bainimarama. The government responded harshly to those who questioned its legitimacy and classed political dissidence as a threat to security. In this context, a number of outspoken activist women found themselves detained by military authorities without charge; some among this number were allegedly subjected to physical and verbal abuse while being held in military barracks (George 2012). This restriction on political protest has become regu-

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larized in ensuing years and seen women NGO representatives, women union leaders, and even some high-ranking, chiefly women subject to informal forms of intimidation and formal arrest when they voice public criticism of the military government (George 2015b). Gender and Liberal Peacebuilding in Fiji

After each coup, international pressure was put on Fiji’s new regimes to encourage a quick return to democratic government. In 2000, Australian and New Zealand trade unions encouraged an embargo against Fiji’s garment industry, but this action had deeply detrimental gendered impacts. As international markets for Fiji’s garments contracted and foreign investment in the industry dried up, women workers were laid off in the thousands. Many were low-paid process workers, residing in the squatter settlements surrounding Fiji’s principal cities and earning little more than subsistence-level wages (Harrington 2000). Daily news features of factory closures during this period demonstrated the irony of their predicament. Foreign union organizers in neighboring countries were encouraging an international embargo of Fiji’s exports as part of their campaign aiming to build a liberal peace in Fiji, but these campaigns directly harmed local and already vulnerable women industrial workers (Dubecki 2006; George 2012). In the wake of the 2006 coup, and on the back of lessons learned in 2000, liberal peacebuilding efforts have taken a different track. They have been spearheaded for the last eight years by the PIF (the region’s foremost intergovernmental organization) as well as neighboring powers, most notably Australia and New Zealand. Although these efforts have been more cautious, they have remained startlingly gender blind and poorly reflective of the long history of women’s peace advocacy in this context (George 2011, 2012). For example, in 2007, the PIF chose to send an allmale expert monitoring group to Fiji to examine the effects of the coup, and it failed to consult with any women leaders. The final report of the monitoring group mentioned neither the roles women activists had played in trying to avert the political crisis that preceded the coup nor the violent intimidation women activists had experienced from military representatives in the months after the coup (George 2010, 2012). In 2009, Fiji was suspended from the PIF after the military government initiated a new round of repressive and controlling measures, including a national media embargo, and refused to indicate when it would return the country to democratic rule. In September 2014 (as this chapter was being written), Fiji’s citizens went to the polls and elected a new government in the country’s first democratic process since 2006. Forty-four women candidates stood for election, and eight of them were elected. It is recognized that this elec-

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tion occurred within a repressive constitutional structure, a tightly controlled media and political environment that enabled the same military personnel who authored the 2006 coup (now decommissioned) to return as civilian political leaders in the new government (Firth 2014). In other words, many believe that little will change for ordinary Fijians in the short run, and there is little likelihood that the current government will relax some of the authoritarian controls it has in place to restrict public criticism and dissent (George 2014). Despite these challenges, women’s organizations continue to work in ways that privilege the local importance of democratic values and challenge the military’s insistence that critical commentary equates to dissent and puts domestic security at risk. We examine the local peacebuilding efforts of one particular women’s organization as an example that demonstrates the frictional processes and outcomes evident in peace activism as their approach draws from both local and global influences. Although this organization has played an important role in seeking to localize UNSCR 1325 in combination with a broader set of liberal peace principles, its peace vocabulary is shaped in profound ways by local cultural and religious influences. As we show, this approach can be empowering for women and allow them to draw on culture and religion as part of efforts to legitimize their claims for greater involvement in formal peacebuilding efforts. At the same time, these cultural and religious references are frequently also invoked by Fiji’s selfappointed leaders to legitimize the exercise of repressive military authority in the country. These same influences continue to be felt in the post-2006 era of the Bainimarama “revolution” and have operated to quietly embed and naturalize an indigenous capture of the state while also encouraging suspicion and mistrust of any form of critical advocacy such as that formerly voiced by women activists. Localizing a Gendered Liberal Peace? FemLINK

FemLINK began life in response to the civilian-led coup and related insecurity that spread across the country in May 2000. While news media headlines were dominated by the political struggles waged among Fiji’s men, women’s voices were almost inaudible. In response, Sharon Bhagwan Rolls, a women’s rights activist and former journalist, began to consider how women might challenge the discourses of insecurity, widespread antagonism, and intercommunal division that this event seemed to encourage. As news of the coup broke, Bhagwan Rolls worked to bring women together to pray for peace at Suva’s Holy Trinity Anglican Cathedral. These meetings occurred daily for the two-month crisis period and assembled women from all of Fiji’s faith groups (George 2012). From this experience,

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Bhagwan Rolls began to consider why it might be important to develop alternative national narratives that challenged the normalization of ethnic division in her society. With the idea that Fijians needed to hear “women speaking to women for peace,” she developed a women’s media communications organization called FemLINK (Bhagwan Rolls 2011, 570). In its first years of operations, FemLINK made a series of short films to document women’s experiences of the 2000 coup and the divisions and economic difficulties that were generated by it. In 2003, the group identified radio as a more cost-effective and accessible medium to communicate their message and acquired a community radio license. In the same year, and with the aid of UNESCO funding, FemLINK established its “suitcase radio” or mobile radio program, which enabled them to engage with women beyond the limited scope of metropolitan Suva and “take radio broadcasts out to women in rural communities” and capture women’s stories (Bhagwan Rolls 2011, 570; 2012). In early 2004, FemLINK Pacific launched a Suvabased FM radio station, FemTALK 89.2, in partnership with the national Catholic Women’s League in Suva (Bhagwan Rolls 2011, 570–571). FemLINK has used its Suva radio station to train rural and young women (through a dedicated program called GenNEXT) to become proficient in radio broadcast techniques (Section J Spot 2011, 11). Since its humble beginnings in 2001 as a two-person organization, FemLINK has expanded its community media network in significant ways. Today it boasts a large, permanent office in Suva, with a dedicated radio broadcast studio and four paid staff members. It also has an independent team operating out of a permanent office in Labasa (the capital of Fiji’s “second” island, Vanua Levu). As of 2011, more than fifty young women had graduated from the GenNEXT program, and sixteen of them continue to work with FemLINK in rural areas (Bhagwan Rolls 2011). As well as broadening its base of operations inside Fiji, FemLINK has expanded its operations to include young women and women’s organizations from Bougainville, Tonga, and the Solomon Islands (FemLINK Pacific 2011, 4). They are also active in AMARC (the French acronym for the World Association of Community Radio Broadcasters) and have partnered with the organization to host a regional Pacific roundtable in Fiji and provide training for young broadcasters. These developments are indicative of the growing strength of the organization and the high levels of international and donor support it has received for its work to localize the norms of liberal peace and make women’s contributions to the achievement of local peace and stability more visible. Indeed, the very name FemLINK alludes to the twin ambitions of this organization: (1) to build stronger relationships between women by building links that cross barriers of culture, faith, and age; and (2) to amplify understanding of how challenges experienced by women caught up in conflict in

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Fiji and other parts of the Pacific are linked to, that is, reflected in, international women, peace, and security (WPS) policy. In this regard, UNSCR 1325 holds a central place in FemLINK advocacy and is repeatedly invoked to demonstrate international endorsement of the organization’s local work (George 2014). At the same time, the organization’s representatives (particularly Bhagwan Rolls) have become well-known figures in international feminist advocacy circles and regularly participate in high-level WPS deliberations sponsored by the United Nations and the international donor community. According to Bhagwan Rolls, FemLINK’s community media programs promote women’s peacebuilding and gendered security by building a creative space that is safe for women to exploit. FemLINK defines “women’s security” as “all-encompassing” and uses the UNSCR 1325 language to link local security concerns experienced by women, such as food, economic, or political security, to the international WPS framework (Bhagwan Rolls 2011, 572). The role of women’s participation in decisionmaking structures is included in this definition of security and is also seen to be enhanced by FemLINK media training. For women who have repeatedly been deprived of participation in formal decisionmaking in Fiji’s postcoup contexts, community radio is said to provide women with a forum to voice their concerns on topics that range from everyday security challenges such as domestic violence, to the prospects of Fiji returning to electoral democracy and entrepreneurial business opportunities (Bhagwan Rolls 2011). FemLINK describes its approach to localizing UNSCR 1325 through media training as a tangible implementation “that enables women to learn about different approaches to media; communicate and conduct interviews with other women” but also to build confidence in themselves as leaders and decisionmakers who have valuable knowledge about the issues pertinent to their communities (FemLINK Pacific 2012a, 3). FemLINK and Friction Tara Wati, a rural leader working with FemLINK, believes that the deliberative spaces the organization facilitates are important as women traditionally have not talked “about issues that affected them because they [are] restricted by their husbands and partners,” with “some even fearing violence” (FemLINK Pacific 2011, 19). In this context, friction becomes evident as opposition that may occur in the home as women try to broach subjects about family safety and security from family violence, but also outside the home when cultural and religious leaders seek to frustrate public deliberation on these questions by arguing that they violate protocols stipulating the religious sanctity of marriage or customary and religious norms of patriarchal authority. These attitudes are also echoed in the attitudes of political elites across the region, who have often voiced strong

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resistance to those who draw on universal frameworks of rights or democracy to challenge gender disadvantage or other forms of social, political, or economic inequality (Jolly 1997; Leckie 2002). Hence this frictional exchange between the local and global is evident when regional political elites dismiss the UN-mandated language of rights as indicative of a “heartless globalization and irreligion” that is directly at odds with the sociocultural values inherent to Pacific Island cultures (Jolly 1994, 1997). In Fiji, this “friction as opposition” is evident in the claim, long-rehearsed among indigenous nationalists since 1987, that “democracy is a foreign flower unsuited to Fiji’s soil” (Douglas 2002, 21; George 2012, 112). As we have shown, in periods of extreme political volatility, this friction as opposition has also seen Fiji’s postcoup elites deploy harshly punitive responses to quell the energies of “dissident” liberal peace localizers and women peace activists. In response, women activists in Fiji have adopted translation or vernacularization strategies that aim to provide the language of liberal peace with a local inflection and, in doing so break down local levels of resistance (Acharya 2004; Merry 2006a, 2006b). For example, this alternative frictional strategy has been used by women’s groups such as the Fiji Women’s Crisis Centre, which seeks to harness the energies of Fijian and Indian cultural and religious leaders to assist in work that challenges the normalization of gender violence and promotes women’s human rights. The Fiji Women Rights Movement, another high-profile organization committed to the political empowerment of women, has attached the image of a frangipani flower to its campaigns to promote democracy in Fiji and challenge the “foreign flower” rhetoric. This is a particularly evocative campaign strategy because although the frangipani (plumeria) is an imported botanical species to Fiji, it has become so “nativized” that it is employed in local advertising as a signifier of Pacific Islands authenticity and the mark of exclusive local brands such as high-end Pure Fiji cosmetics (George 2012, 2014b). FemLINK’s peace localization work has involved similar translation strategies and has been used as part of efforts to build political and popular awareness of UNSCR 1325. In its promotional documents, the group encourages women in Fiji and other parts of the Pacific Islands region to develop linguistic translations of WSP provisions into local languages. Beyond this, FemLINK advocates for a more conceptual approach to the task of translation. As part of this broader effort, the network encourages its members to hold peace vigils in local churches (FemLINK Pacific 2010) and in this way articulate a set of gendered peace norms that have some resonance with the deeply held religious convictions that are interwoven with contemporary articulations of Pacific Islands culture, identity, and personhood (Mosko 2010; Robbins 2010; Tomlinson 2011).

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FemLINK itself was in some ways a product of this process and grew out of Bhagwan Rolls’s experiences of organizing peace vigils as a way to signal women’s resistance to the 2000 coup. At one level, these vigils enabled women to yoke religious norms of nonviolence with the secularized WPS agenda (George 2013). But the vigils also had a strong interfaith focus, which challenged the ways particular religious leaders had drawn on faith to promote an ethnicized politics of division (Tomlinson 2009, 168). The key point here is that the church vigils of 2000 were meaningful not only to Fiji’s Christian women but to women from other faith communities as well. The coordinator of the Fiji Muslim Women’s League, Nisha Buksh, also described to George the personal importance of these events for her in a period when her Muslim community felt particularly fearful. She stated, At this time everybody was in chaos . . . there was the military everywhere and so many guns on the street. People had the feeling that their homes could be raided at any time. The prayer allowed women to meet in one place, to come together and pray for peace. It was about prayer and networking and creating a movement. (Nisha Buksh interview, Suva, April 2002)

From this perspective, the prayer vigils can be understood as a creative frictional outcome that enabled women to develop links across the boundaries of faith and challenge partisan actors’ use of religion in ways that otherwise normalized racial tension and communal difference. Relational Discourse: Liberal Peace and Motherhood Relational discourse has been another important frictional strategy employed by FemLINK and other women’s organizations to challenge the idea that liberal peace norms are antithetical to the protocols of Pacific Island culture. Foundational to this strategy are customary ideas, which uphold women’s place in the community as mothers with a stake in the future well-being of their societies (Daurewa 2009; George 2010). In Fiji, the importance of motherhood as an institution is emphasized in customary discourse, which stipulates mothers as deserving of masculine “protection” because they are the “links” in a long chain of ancestry that connects the past with the present and the future (Daurewa 2009). FemLINK has developed a creative frictional discourse of motherhood to legitimize its calls for peace and call attention to the pressures born mutually by women caught up in conflict. One of FemLINK’s earliest initiatives was a program titled Mothers in Dialogue, which in 2000 and 2001 comprised a series of meetings where women as mothers from all of Fiji’s ethnic communities described the impacts of the coup-related

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violence on their home life and children. Fijian and Indian women described their experiences of economic difficulties resulting from job loss, their reduced mobility due to threatened and actual instances of violence, and sorrow for how these phenomena threatened their future wellbeing and that of their families. Some of these personal testimonies were filmed and later used in a video, also titled Mothers in Dialogue, shown at community meetings organized by FemLINK around the country (FemLINK Pacific 2002). In this context, maternal imagery provided a productive lens for exploring women’s experiences of the 2000 coup. Despite differences in ethnicity, age, or social standing, the women participating in these dialogues expressed similar sentiments and fears. The act of bringing mothers from differing backgrounds into dialogue was therefore an important way to cross the hardened ethnic divide and demonstrate to the participants and the later viewers of the FemLINK video that those who promoted harsh racial stereotyping overstated the difference between Fiji’s peoples. The lens of maternal experience in this context provided a strong foundation for the development of empathy and understanding between Fiji’s ethnic communities (Doxey 2007).12 In the lead-up to the 2006 coup, Bhagwan Rolls again invoked a maternal lens when she challenged the government to abandon the strong ethnonationalist policy direction that had initially triggered a hostile response from Fiji’s military. On this occasion, she called on “maternal authority” by claiming to speak for “mothers and women” when she stated that the national crisis was diverting national attention away from areas of far more urgent concern for Fiji’s families, such as “poverty alleviation, and unemployment.” 13 In the wake of the coup, this theme continued. Bhagwan Rolls drew attention to the difficulties women and mothers were facing trying to provide for their families in a depressed economic climate where foreign investors had fled and local currency had been subject to repeated official devaluations (Bhagwan Rolls 2009). FemLINK has continued to develop this theme in the organization’s current advocacy by focusing on women’s financial security, documenting women’s income and expenditures and the social and familial impacts of feminine poverty in Fiji in the years since the coup (FemLINK Pacific 2012b, 1; 2012c). Although the gendered aspects of poverty are often not well understood in Pacific societies and are certainly not given the political attention they deserve, the effort to examine these challenges through a maternal lens is significant. Rather than discussing women’s economic rights in an abstract sense, relational discourse of this sort can achieve a broader political resonance because of the high cultural importance placed on motherhood in Pacific Island sociocultural contexts.

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Friction and the Gendered Peace: Challenging or Compounding Women’s Marginalization Frictional processes of the type described here have greatly assisted the work of women’s organizations such as FemLINK and meant that the group has not attracted the same harsh retributive response that has been directed at other organizations by the postcoup government. By drawing on religious or relational customary discourses, this organization as a “peace localizer” has been able to translate the WPS principles established in UNSCR 1325 so that there is a broad understanding and recognition of women’s experiences of conflict, as well as their contributions to peacebuilding. As a result of this work, FemLINK was able to spearhead a regional campaign that in 2012 culminated in PIF developing a Regional Action Plan on UNSCR 1325 assisting the further localization of WPS principles (PIFS 2012). Although these efforts have provided an important avenue for challenging communal division and discrimination, it is also important to appreciate some of the risks associated with these strategies. Religious and customary references can be invoked to promote progressive outcomes for women, but as we have shown previously, this work is also conducted in a setting where parochial masculine actors draw on these same sites of regulatory authority in ways that aim to regulate, disempower, and marginalize Fiji’s women. For example, while there is an important history of feminist theology in the Pacific Islands and examples of women in Fiji who actively challenge readings of biblical texts that legitimize women’s lesser standing in the home or public realm (Johnson and Filemoni-Tofaeono 2003; George 2015a), many women have lamented the secondary status of women within church structures and the fact that Pacific women “sweep the church but never speak from the pulpit” (Douglas 2007; Griffen 2010). Eta VaraniNorton has stated that women may be recognized as the “backbone of the church” in many Pacific contexts (Varani-Norton 2005, 223), but their church duties are more likely to involve participation in fund-raising activities and practical support for church meetings and social occasions; that is, “demands made upon women’s time, energy and material wealth” and little else (Varani-Norton 2005, 240). As we have shown, religious observance and the powerful position of the Methodist Church in Fiji have a strong influence on the conduct of state security agencies, despite the postcoup military government’s ambition to break the strong link between church and state (Lal 2013). This rupture is far from evident when the everyday policing of gender is scrutinized. For example, recent studies have demonstrated the extremely high incidence of violence against women in Fiji, with some estimations showing up to 63 percent of women subjected to serious forms of physical abuse in their lifetimes (FWCC 2013). Although the military government has sought to

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respond to these crimes by declaring a “zero tolerance” policing strategy on violence against women, there is a large gap between this rhetoric and practice (FWCC 2014). Recent reports have indicated that police personnel continue to be influenced by their faith when women bring cases of conjugal violence to their attention and are more likely to advise women victims of violence that they need to preserve the religious sanctity of marriage and reconcile with their husbands instead of investigating their case (McGeough 2009; Trnka 2011). Women whose sexual behavior does not adhere to a conventional heterosexual conjugal norm may find themselves in difficulties with state security agencies. Reports compiled in the years since Fiji’s 2006 coup indicate that police and military personnel have engaged in harassment and physical intimidation, ritual humiliation, and extrajudicial violence against female sex workers and homosexual women (McGeough 2009; McMillan and Worth 2011; George 2015a). These cases have included sex workers being made to strip naked and put to work as forced laborers and an auxillary police officer’s rape of a homosexual woman. Together these acts are indicative of the harshly punitive attitudes Fiji’s security forces have of women who do not adhere to the norms of conjugal order as established in faith discourse. It might therefore be asked if feminist peace localization strategies that invoke faith-based values are also conceding some symbolic ground to the authors of these kinds of acts. Peace localizers’ references to relational discourses of motherhood can be viewed with the same circumspection. For example, the tendency to celebrate women’s maternalism as a basis for intercommunal solidarity may too easily gloss over the challenges of the “maternal burden” borne by women in many Pacific contexts. Certainly the “considerable physical and mental cost” of motherhood has been counted by the likes of Bronwen Douglas (2003) and Christine Dureau (1993), the latter finding that while women’s maternal role was deemed central to women’s identity in the western Solomon Islands and thus highly valued, personal narratives revealed that women were inclined to equate motherhood with “exhaustion, illness and decrepitude” (22). Women peace localizers’ efforts to build intercommunal peace by privileging the customary institution of motherhood might also make it more difficult to engage in open and progressive debate on women’s reproductive choices. Certainly the issue of legal abortion has, in the contemporary context, become a taboo subject within many Pacific Island societies, a scenario that in large part reflects the prevailing cultural and religious sensitivities that surround such questions. In Fiji, abortion is procurable privately, but is officially illegal and penalized heavily by the country’s judiciary (Sheetal 2009). This is a situation that continues despite a strong public

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concern and media focus on the subject of teenage pregnancies and the many documented cases of babies being abandoned soon after birth (Elbourne 2002; Rajneshi 2002; Schramm 2002).14 It might be argued that women’s peace localizers’ identification of motherhood as a site around which to challenge intercommunal violence and demand women’s rights to participate in conflict negotiation (George 2010) plays into a broader restrictive discourse that essentializes, or naturalizes the maternal experience underestimating how these claims can be marginalizing for women who are not mothers. Indeed, recent research in the region suggests that younger middle-class and professional women are rejecting marriage and motherhood precisely because they perceive them to challenge the personal autonomy and material independence they enjoy as single wage earners (Spark 2011). In an interview conducted by George with a young professional Kanak woman in Nouméa, New Caledonia in November 2014, this idea was expressed as frustration with an “old fashioned Pacific Islands feminism” that is ill-matched to the expectations of younger women who view education and employment as keys to their future “emancipation.” At the same time, this maternal discourse of peace may help sustain rather than challenge the restrictive heterosexual conjugal norms, which, as we have shown previously, shape expectations about feminine virtue and encourage the violent abuse of particular groups of women who are understood to transgress these norms. Against this backdrop, it becomes possible to appreciate the doubleedged nature of the frictional processes employed by women peace activists to build political traction and acceptance of their activity. Peace localization strategies that reference faith and relational discourses established in custom may be important acts of translation that emphasize that there is a resonance among local values systems, the global discourse of liberal peace, and the WPS agenda. But these strategies may also reference institutions that are of a conservative hue and contribute to a restrictive policing of women’s sexuality, reproductive choice, and perhaps even women’s economic and political ambitions. In this respect, we can appreciate the friction of women’s peace localization strategies as at once empowering and disempowering. Conclusion

What should we conclude from this analysis? Is it fair or right to suggest that the frictional processes we describe prevent any local transformation of gender and social relations so that peace in Fiji can be made more genderjust? This was a question of practical importance to the many women peace

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activists we have spoken to in Fiji. Although they were quick to recognize the strategic value of political activity that is respectful of faith and custom, they also voiced concern that their own translation strategies helped sustain the ongoing influence of culture and faith in the political life of the state and, by extension, the gender-restrictive practices that are sometimes the result of this influence. In short, some peace localizers expressed a fear that they had become boxed in by culture.15 In response to the idea of being boxed in, we contend that it may be more productive to think about women’s frictional strategies of peace localization as encompassed by faith and custom rather than either wholly enabled or wholly restricted by it (Jolly 1994). Although it is important to understand the potential for frictional processes to invoke aspects of culture or faith that restrict women’s agency, we should not overstate this risk by imagining that this equates to the complete effacement of women’s peace localization efforts. As we have shown, within faith and custom, women in Fiji find things that motivate them to challenge their marginalization, in addition to the discourses that normalize insecurity, difference, and women’s marginalization. Efforts to develop a frictional peace discourse where the principles of liberal peace are encompassed by values in faith and custom provide women activists with both a language and a motivation for challenging the types of gendered insecurity that are produced by militarism and intercommunal conflict in Fiji. The very act of speaking publicly on these questions requires women peacebuilders to challenge long-standing gendered restrictions on the “rightful” place of women. As the experiences of coups in Fiji have demonstrated, violent retribution from authoritarian state security agencies is often anticipated when these activities are interpreted as inciting dissidence. The act of not speaking may go against women’s understanding of faith and custom, too. In Fiji and elsewhere in the Pacific, women activists have stipulated the important customary roles that women must take on as mothers fighting for a better future for their children (George 2010). Women activists have also drawn strong links between faith and peace work, arguing that “peacemaking is not an ‘optional’ role for Christians. It is a central, integral part of Christian discipleship” (Siwatibau and Williams 1982, 72). That this peace localization work continues in the careful form it does, when it might have been snuffed out altogether by authorities who sense dissidence at the slightest provocation, indicates that these frictional processes are not antithetical to a transformative gender politics. But these processes neither negate the possibility of resistance efforts nor diminish women peacebuilders’ exposure to cultural or religious forms of discrimination.

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Spending more time trying to understand the local sociocultural contours of a particular conflict environment and the interplay between formal and informal (that is, customary and faith-based) sources of regulatory authority is profoundly important if peacebuilding initiatives are to be developed in ways that achieve sustainability and durability through local acceptance. These efforts to build hybrid discourses of peace should not be romanticized as a universal “good” in and of themselves. Rather, they represent a “good’ that should be understood in contextual terms and appraised in nuanced and careful ways. The frictional processes developed by women’s peace localizers discussed here are important because they motivate women to become part of the process of peacebuilding and have their voices heard. They also help legitimize the rightfulness of women’s political ambitions in challenging conflict-related division and insecurity. But they are nonetheless also situated within localized systems of values and practices that are not emancipatory for all. As the latter part of our discussion has indicated, these same values and practices may pose significant challenges for women. It is therefore important to assess the frictional outcomes that accrue when local and global discourses meet, with an eye to better appreciating the ambiguous nature of the outcomes that follow and the extent to which results can be at once empowering and disempowering. Notes

1. This occurs despite the fact that UNSCR 1889 (in 2009) includes a call for the UN and its member states to develop indicators measuring implementation and progress on Resolution 1325. 2. See Jenny Enarsson, “‘Have Faith in Syrian Women. We Can Do Anything,’” Oxfam International, June 26, 2014, http://blogs.oxfam.org/en/blogs/14-06-26-have -faith-syrian-women-we-can-do-anything; Shaheen Chughtai, “Geneva II Peace Talks: Syrian Women and Civil Society Must Be Heard,” Oxfam International, January 23, 2014, http://blogs.oxfam.org/en/blogs/14-01-23-geneva-ii-peace-talks -women-and-civil-society-must-be-heard. Or Kristen Smith, “Libya Peace Talks: UN Resolution 1325?,” openDemocracy, March 31, 2001, https://www .opendemocracy.net/kirsten-smith/libya-peace-talks-un-resolution-1325; Madeleine Rees, “Syrian Women Demand to Take Part in the Peace Talks in Geneva,” openDemocracy 50.50, January 12, 2014, https://opendemocracy.net /5050/madeleine-rees/syrian-women-demand-to-take-part-in-peace-talks-in-geneva; Leymah Gbowee, “Leymah Gbowee: Five Words for the Men of Libya,” openDemocracy 50.50, June 10, 2013, https://www.opendemocracy.net /5050/leymah-gbowee/leymah-gbowee-five-words-for-men-of-libya. 3. R. W. Connell (2005) has demonstrated how this liberal binary is also restrictive for men and places heavy burdens on them to subscribe to masculine norms as economic providers while depriving them of the ability to engage in the emotionally rewarding work of familial care. 4. However, even when liberal peacebuilding projects are assessed from the perspective of how well they achieve the much-critiqued ambition of “protecting”

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women, they appear to produce outcomes that are far from optimum. For example, the consolidation of authority in Afghanistan in the post-2001 intervention context has seen aspirants to power actively align themselves with strongly conservative, fundamentalist forces whose discriminatory treatment of women is no less severe than that of the notorious Taliban forces that had controlled much of the country in the years prior. (See Boone 2009, as well as Enloe 2004; Ahmed-Ghosh 2006; Shepherd 2006.) 5. In-depth interviews with current and former women MPs in Bougainville and women candidates for the 2015 elections (conducted by Nicole George in June 2014) revealed a general dissatisfaction with the three reserved seats for women. This number was deemed insufficient, and it was argued that even though women might be able to make their mark as individuals in the Parliament, it was extremely difficult to draw attention to gender challenges in the region in consistent fashion. Some women activists revealed that they had originally pressed for ten reserved seats and wished, in hindsight, they had stuck to this number so that women might have a greater parliamentary voice. For this reason some informants also discussed the importance of standing for open seats and indeed voiced an intention to do so in 2015. 6. The UN report cited here generated a high level of controversy in Bougainville when released because it found 43.8 percent of men in Bougainville had committed a rape (RNZI September 2013). Yet the survey questions used to generate this finding were worded in a way that aimed to understand the prevalence of “coerced sex” but avoided mentioning rape or forced sex and asked softer questions such as “have you ever had sex with a partner when you knew she did not want to have sex?” (Brown 2013). Research conducted by Nicole George with women in Bougainville in 2014 on this same issue demonstrated that although women tend to comply with demands for sex from their husbands for many complex reasons that do suggest some level of coercion, compliance also reflects their own religious and cultural beliefs. Strongly socialized ideas about the appropriate conduct of women in marriage and the stigmatization of women who might attempt to challenge those norms by publicizing their experiences of marital rape, or “bedroom rape” as it is locally described, were mentioned as factors that make coerced or forced sex in marriage a hidden challenge. In addition, informants also explained complex reasons for their acquiescence to intimate partner sexual demands that reflected their concern about partner infidelity as a possible response and their consequent exposure to sexual health risk. Some of these ideas appear in the longer version of the UN report but escaped the attention of the media and regional political leaders, who voiced strong objections to some of the broad-ranging conclusions. 7. These challenges were explained to Nicole George by representatives of the Hako Women’s Collective, who operate in the north of Buka Island, Bougainville, during an interview conducted on June 22, 2014. 8. Although Australian military, policing, and later bureaucratic personnel accounted for the majority of the deployment, all sixteen Pacific Island states contributed some form of assistance to this intervention. 9. Richmond describes backsliding as emerging in contexts where the “aspired-to liberal social contract between government and citizen is not achieved and . . . citizens . . . choose to move into grey or black markets, militias or transnational crime” (2009, 61). 10. This is a complex concept that has been applied to “protect” the status of indigenous Fijians in various ways since the formal establishment of colonial rule in Fiji with the 1874 Deed of Cession. In contemporary debate it is generally interpret-

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ed as a protection of Fijian rights, but it has been promoted in a particularly aggressive fashion by Fiji’s iTaukei supporters since they first rose to prominence in 1987 (Robertson and Sutherland 2001, 84). 11. Foreign correspondent, “Fiji Army,” ABC, November 1, 2005. A transcript of this documentary can be found here: http://www.abc.net.au/foreign /content/2005/s1501452.htm. 12. Doxey’s account of the ways Indonesian women activists used maternal imagery to pose a collective challenge to the violence directed against Chinese Indonesian women and women from Aceh and West Papua in the final years of the Suharto rule in Indonesia indicates how these types of strategies have been similarly used in other contexts to develop a sympathy between women that bridges longstanding and frequently politicized ethnic division (Doxey 2007). See note 10. 13. “Women Say It’s Gender Blind,” Fiji Times, July 21, 2006. 14. Although as my work on the history of women’s organizing in Fiji has shown, activists were more willing to take up the issue of women’s right to legal abortion in the 1960s and 1970s and attempted to defend this position in theological terms. Activists associated with the YWCA promoted the idea that women’s right to choose was given by God, thus countering the arguments of the pro-life religious lobby while also recognizing the religious convictions of the community more generally (George 2012). 15. Houng Lee Gina interview, Suva, April 2002; Ali, Shamima interview, Suva, April 2002; Buadromo interview, Suva, April 2002.

6 Refugees and Peacebuilding: “Poor Country Problems” in Cambodia and Bosnia-Herzegovina Sharon Edington and Caroline Hughes Current scholarly interest in peacebuilding draws on two distinct political and intellectual histories. One of these is the distinctly liberal post–Cold War drive to institutionalize international action to promote broader conceptions of peace and stability. Key landmarks in this history include Boutros Boutros-Ghali’s Agenda for Peace (1992), the passage of UN Security Council Declaration 1325 in 2000, the emergence of the responsibility to protect doctrine in the early 2000s, and the establishment of the UN Peacebuilding Commission in 2005. The past twenty-five years have seen the emergence of a more muscular and a much broader approach to international peacebuilding than could have been envisioned during the Cold War. However, these developments have attracted a growing critical literature focused on the repressive potential of an imposed “liberal peace,” regarded as at best culturally inappropriate and at worst neocolonial in its practices. The second political and intellectual history on which peacebuilding can draw is that of critical international relations. During the Cold War era, some variants of liberal peace theory themselves represented a critical agenda, challenging the dominant realist frameworks of international relations theory. However, since the end of the Cold War, liberalism has become the dominant framework, and liberal peacebuilding projects are now critiqued as dedicated to the forcible incorporation of subaltern and postcolonial peoples into integrating global markets. Critical international relations theorists increasingly focus on the role of “the local” in negotiating peacebuilding projects to produce hybrid, locally relevant, and potentially emancipatory forms of peace “from below.” This chapter begins by exploring the ways liberal approaches to intervention, which were critical during the Cold War, have been co-opted by international regimes in a way that renders them potentially oppressive. We employ critical theory to explore cases of international treatment of stateless people and refugees to uncover relations of domination implicit 109

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in the post–Cold War liberal peace, which dispenses with the diverse cross-culturalism and cosmopolitanism of Cold War liberal pioneers in favor of a Western-centric operational model. Two case studies are examined to highlight the weaknesses of the liberal model of peacebuilding. The first is the case of refugees in postwar Cambodia, who returned to their country under the auspices of a UN “voluntary repatriation” scheme in the context of a peacekeeping mission in 1992. The second is the case of contemporary UN policies toward stateless Roma people in Bosnia-Herzegovina. In each case we examine the rhetoric and assumptions of international agencies, and we demonstrate the weaknesses of analysis based on ideologically informed assumptions about individual choice and depoliticized citizen-state relations. We argue that refugees and stateless persons do not comply with the liberal idea of citizenship and that their personal choices are inextricably linked with social, political, and economic power structures. These cases are thus presented as exemplifying the critique of the liberal peace advanced by critical theorists in the 2000s (Richmond 2010; Cooper 2012; Pugh 2012). The chapter concludes, along with these critics, that “liberal forms of peacebuilding have become subservient to statebuilding,” and that these experiences have created the “need to look beyond liberalism” for peacebuilding strategies (Richmond 2010, 666). Liberalism and the Critique of Realism

Liberal peacebuilding theory is a broad school, but three characteristics are foundational. The first is generally described as a normative preference for democratic processes as a core component of “legitimate” government. The second is a belief that individuals hold rights, and among the rights they hold, universal human rights are preeminent. Third, liberals support marketled economic models based on private property and free enterprise, with a commitment to international cooperation through trade, information sharing, and international institutions (Morgan 2012, 30). In addition, although liberal theory recognizes states as significant if not preeminent actors in the international system, the theory also holds that nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), international government organizations like the United Nations, and private economic entities can exert pressure on the international system to change. For liberal theorists, cooperation (instead of anarchy) more accurately depicts international relations (Snow 2008, 67–68). The contributions of liberal theories to the field of peacebuilding have been manifold. Liberal theory revolutionized the field of conflict resolution in the 1970s, offering an alternative approach to interstate conflict from the realist positions that dominated international relations scholarship during the Cold War era (Smith 2005, 24). The realist contention that states were

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the key actors in the international system and that they operated exclusively in pursuit of power and self-interest (Glaser 2012, 17) held out little hope for peacebuilding interventions. Liberalism offered a more optimistic alternative by emphasizing the possibility of improving state behavior and the international system as a whole (Morgan 2012, 30). The work of Adam Curle, the first chair of Peace Studies at the University of Bradford, is illustrative of this trend. Curle’s extensive professional experience in education for development, anthropology, and peace mediation led to an academic interest in and deep personal commitment to promoting the rights of individuals in accordance with the values of liberalism, including human rights, universality, and representative governance (Curle 1972, 3). Curle’s contribution to peacebuilding incorporated both structure and agency-based approaches. Three key innovations included the nurturing of systems for social and economic cooperation, the promotion of nonviolent opposition to violent or oppressive regimes, and reconciliation based on mediation for which he recommended an approach that would now be called citizen’s diplomacy or Track II mediation (Woodhouse 2010, 2). Curle had mediated during the India/Pakistan conflict in 1964, in Nigeria/Biafra in 1967, and in Northern Ireland, and has served in roles for education for development in Ghana and development planning in Pakistan. These experiences combined with a normative preference for peace, justice, and freedom and a belief in the reformability of the international system, produced a liberal internationalist approach in which peace emerged from economic modernization as well as from social and cultural change (Woodhouse 2010, 2). Curle’s work, and the liberal internationalist school, introduced a new current of thinking into the mainstream debates of the time, between realist researchers “for whom power and coercion is the only international currency” and “the neo-Marxist and radical thinkers for whom it is misconceived to attempt to reconcile interests that should not be reconciled” (Rogers and Ramsbotham 1999, 752). Based on a relational view of peace incorporating Johan Galtung’s conceptualizations of both positive peace and negative peace (Galtung 1969b), Curle did not consider peace to be the absence of war but an “active association, planned co-operation, an intelligent effort to forestall or remove potential conflicts” (Curle 1971, 15). After the end of the Cold War, the rhetoric of liberal internationalism moved decisively into the mainstream, as the United Nations adopted positive peace as an operational concept in Secretary General Boutros BoutrosGhali’s Agenda for Peace (1992). The Agenda paved the way for a decade of refinement of what subsequently became known as the liberal peace—the belief that active intervention into the local affairs of societies at war, or emerging from war, can recalibrate relationships, promote positive political settlements, and create a stable and sustainable basis for peace. Although ostensibly a radical position, in comparison to the Cold War realpolitik that

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had preceded it, the liberal peace in international policy dispensed with some of the key ingredients of Curle’s approach. Curle, for example, embraced the idea of peace from below, focused on enhancing or releasing human potential (Ramsbotham, Woodhouse, and Miall 2011, 96). Contemporary scholars such as Tom Woodhouse, Oliver Ramsbotham, Richard Falk, and John-Paul Lederach have extended this agenda, arguing for new forms of “transformative cosmopolitanism,” being “a genuine and inclusive local-global effort to determine what contributes to human welfare in general and to human emancipation worldwide” (Ramsbotham, Woodhouse, and Miall 2011, 265). However, in the hands of the UN Department of Peacekeeping Operations, the liberal peace became a much less nuanced concept. It emerged as a set of institutions and processes to be externally mandated in postconflict societies, and as such, it became embroiled in a different set of institutional dynamics and context-dependent power relations. Critical Perspectives on the Liberal Peace

Critiques of the UN’s co-optation of ideas about building positive peace have been the basis of an emerging critical school within peace studies, which focuses on the extent to which peacebuilding continues to serve the interests of dominant states. Oliver Richmond (2005) put forward the claim that the liberal peace has become a violent and oppressive nexus of interventionary practices used by dominant states to force weaker ones to conform to neoliberal policies. Similarly, Michael Pugh, Neil Cooper, and Mandy Turner consider peacekeeping and peacemaking to entail a “traditionally limited” range of activities, whereas they hold that “peacebuilding involves a raft of intrusive practices intended to ensure long-term stability after, even during, conflict” (Pugh, Cooper, and Turner 2008, 2) including through militarized peace operations, merging the security-development agendas, and neoliberal economic projects (Pugh 2012, 410). Cooper argues that “the central concern of a critical and emancipatory project for peacebuilding should be to expose the changing forms of violence inherent in relations of power and subject them to perpetual critique” (Cooper 2007, 615). For critical theorists, a key question in this debate relates to what power structures exist to further some agendas and silence others, because they view liberal peacebuilding as diverting attention away from local contexts, communities, and agencies, while simultaneously blaming local actors for this diversion through a focus on individual choices rather than acknowledging how these choices are affected by external and internal power dynamics (Richmond 2010, 666). To some critical theorists, the key change brought about by the end of the Cold War was not an objective shift in the security environment but a

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transformation of the ways powerful states in the global North perceived security issues. In the early 1990s, Western officials found themselves in a “threat vacuum,” a gap that policymakers sought to fill by defining “previously neglected or under-emphasised potential sources of concern as ‘threats’” (Krause and Latham 1998, 36). This led to a shift in focus from an East-West divide to a North-South divide (Cooper 2012, 147), with a consequent emphasis—particularly after the 9/11 terrorist attacks—on “weak actors” including “rogue states” and “terrorists” (Levi and O’Hanlon 2005, 128). The widening and deepening of security issues provided discursive space for the human security agenda (Cooper 2012, 143) and the opportunity to push forward the neoliberal economic model throughout the developing world as appropriate to the needs of developing societies emerging from conflict (Cramer 2006). According to critics of the liberal peace, various state-building projects since the Cold War have—under the guise of peacebuilding—assumed that liberalization is the only or best system (Pugh 2012, 411) and that the world is “available for liberating by liberalism” via an “aggressive neoliberal order of de-regulation, privatization, marketization and international competition” (Pugh 2012, 411) that serves the interests and preferences of the interveners or donors more than the host community or government. For peacebuilding to achieve genuinely emancipatory outcomes, new approaches must look beyond liberalism, since liberalism has been co-opted in the service of a neoliberal economic order promoted aggressively by Western states in their own interests. Even so, liberal and critical theorists have sometimes reached similar conclusions after critiquing twenty years of peacebuilding. Pugh, for example, asserts that greater engagement with and ownership of local actors is needed in peacebuilding while recognizing that local political dynamics are not necessarily “conducive to building civil society or a wholesale transformation of political relationships” (2012, 413). Ramsbotham and colleagues, in consequence, deny that the critical position offers much that was not already inherent in liberal accounts. They state that Duffield’s idea of the solidarity of the governed is “very close to the transformative cosmopolitan vision of global citizenship” (Duffield 2007, 131, 232–233). However, the key point of contention between liberal and critical approaches emerges from the issue of power. For liberals, the global citizen is a rights-bearing and interest-pursuing individual who ideally engages in a cosmopolitan community from a position of juridical equality. For critical theorists, such a vision is unrealizable because the liberal individual cannot be disentangled from the power relations that constitute him or her. Local civil society does not consist of proto-global citizens but of a variety of groups discursively constructed via a network of power relations produced by local social, cultural, and economic practices as well as transnational and global relations of militarism, trade, and peacekeeping,

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among others. Critical security theorists reject the proposition that the individual can be freed from such power relationships. Thus for critical theorists, peacebuilding can only proceed through “understanding the various norms of social interaction, hegemonic political relationships and regulatory dynamics that societies possess (whether localized, imported or coincident with international customs). External actors will then be better equipped to work in spaces for non-violent local relationships” (Pugh, Cooper, and Turner 2008, 6–7). In the rest of this chapter, we consider the implications of the post– Cold War liberal peace project and the challenge of critical theory with regard to the issue of peacebuilding work among refugee communities and stateless persons. We discuss the difference between liberal policies and critical approaches to the politics of refugees and examine the practical implications of return and assimilation policies with respect to two cases. The first case study is the return of more than 350,000 Cambodian refugees from the border refugee camp network on the Thailand-Cambodia border between 1991 and 1993. The second case study deals with contemporary policies toward potentially stateless Roma communities in Balkan countries such as Bosnia-Herzegovina. In each case, we analyze the rhetoric of international agencies, with a particular focus on the implicit assumptions about the agency by refugees and stateless people that underpin this rhetoric and are necessary for justifying international policies. We argue that once these assumptions are challenged, international policy toward these populations appears much more oppressive. Indeed, the contrasting perspectives of liberal peacebuilding and critical peace studies regarding the relationship between individuals, the state, and nonstate supranational institutions highlight the relevance of the experience of refugees and stateless persons in illustrating the weaknesses of the liberal model. Cambodia and Bosnia-Herzegovina are used as case studies to illustrate the way rhetoric of the liberal peace has developed in almost a quarter of a century since the end of the Cold War. The peacekeeping operation in Cambodia, which included a mandate to return 350,000 refugees from a twelve-year-old system of refugee camps in Thailand to participate in elections to found a new political order, was one of the first operations to include a complex peacebuilding mandate. It illustrates particularly well the shift in the rhetoric of international agencies from the Cold War to the post–Cold War world and represents a case in which the program of refugee return was represented widely as a resounding success. This representation was accepted, largely uncritically, by scholars investigating the UN’s record in Cambodia. Bosnia-Herzegovina offers an instructive contemporary comparison, from a post–Cold War conflict in a very different part of the world. Here, the issues facing stateless persons remain the subject of ongoing international concern and intervention long after the

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war is over, due to a widely perceived failure of the political settlement brokered at the end of the war to defuse ethnic tensions in the postconflict setting. The two cases reflect not only different time periods but also different regions and are different in terms of how they have been evaluated. In each case, we argue that respective liberal assertions about the rights, freedoms, and interests of refugees and stateless peoples reflect attempts to paper over fundamental inequalities of access to power and resources, which ensure the continued marginalization of the people supposedly helped. We argue that this is symptomatic of the liberal peace and reflects the harnessing of liberal rhetoric to the interests of elites. We conclude that a new conceptualization of peacebuilding that incorporates confrontation of inequalities of power is required if concern for the freedoms of the poor is to be realized in postconflict situations. Cambodian Refugees and the Right to Return Home

According to the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, the number of refugees in the world spiked in the early 1990s, before declining toward the end of the decade and then increasing again over the course of the 2000s. The spike in refugee numbers in the early 1990s was attendant on the outbreak of new wars in various regions, including West Africa, the African Great Lakes region, and the Balkans. Although these abated in the late 1990s, a new wave of refugees emerged in the early 2000s fleeing fighting in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Sudan, and more recently Syria, Mali, and renewed conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo. In June 2015, the UNCHR announced that the number of displaced people worldwide was almost 60 million, the highest number ever recorded (UNHCR 2015). More than 6 million were estimated to be living in protracted refugee situations— where a population of more than 25,000 refugees had lived in exile for more than five years. According to the UNHCR, in 2014 86 percent of refugees were living in developing countries, and 41 percent in countries with a per capita gross domestic product of less than $5,000 (UNHCR 2015, 2, 8). Refugees have become a poor country problem. The UNHCR puts forward three main solutions for refugee populations: voluntary repatriation, resettlement in a third country, or assimilation in the place of asylum. In the 1970s and 1980s, resettlement in a third country—most commonly the United States, Canada, or Australia—formed a significant aspect of the options for refugees, and mass resettlement schemes took place. However, many of these schemes were linked to Cold War ideology—the resettlement of 339,000 Vietnamese boat people in an eighteen-month period from 1979 to 1980, following the communist victory in Vietnam, was a key example (Unger 2003). Other refugees found themselves stranded by realpolitik: Cambodian refugees on the Thailand-

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Cambodia border were held in camps for more than a decade. The border camp system represented a symbol of resistance to Vietnam’s takeover of Cambodia in 1979, as well as a recruiting ground for resistance fighters. Presented as a nation in exile, the refugees legitimized international refusal to accept the rule of the Vietnamese-backed regime that controlled most of Cambodian territory throughout the 1980s. As the Cold War wound down, interest among Western countries in accepting refugees for settlement ebbed away. According to the UNHCR, about 80,000 refugees are resettled each year from a worldwide population of 800,000 refugees awaiting resettlement, and the number of resettlement places has been decreasing rapidly. Even the figure of 800,000 represents only a small fraction of the people in the world seeking asylum. In contrast to the 1970s and early 1980s, resettlement has become a rare outcome for individuals fleeing warfare. More likely is one of the two alternative solutions: assimilation in the country of asylum or return to the homeland once fighting has subsided. In the 1990s, debates over refugees were intensively focused on “rights of return” and on repatriation and reintegration schemes associated with peacekeeping and postconflict reconstruction. The liberal peace defined the causes of displacement as essentially local and agential, rather than structural and global, and thus defined them as eminently fixable with local good will and the kind of external advice that was newly available in the post– Cold War world (Chimni 1998, 351). The liberal peace made return of refugees an elegant solution: the refugees would fit better and assume the rights and duties of citizenship more easily if they returned to their own community, and the promotion of liberal processes of governance and development in those places would ensure that the rights and duties of citizenship were protected. In 1995, the UNHCR characterized the change thus: “Whereas the older paradigm can be described as reactive, exile-oriented, and refugeespecific, the one which has started to emerge over the past few years can be characterized as proactive, homeland-oriented, and holistic” (UNHCR 1995, 16). This implies a requirement for governments and humanitarian organizations “to take active steps to prevent, limit, and reverse the movement of refugees from their country of origin” (UNHCR 1995, 16). Given declining interest on the part of rich countries in accepting refugees for resettlement, return has become “the most viable solution for the majority of people” (UNHCR 2008, 9). Return in the context of peacekeeping fits well with the logic and rhetoric of liberal global governance. It can be justified in humanitarian terms since the liberal peace intervention is intended to transform the homeland, providing new protections in the form of citizenship rights and new opportunities in the form of livelihoods for returnees. Indeed, from a liberal perspective, returning to take part in build-

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ing peace in a country emerging from war can be seen as the right of every refugee: “It is vital that refugees and internally displaced people, especially women, are empowered to play an active role in peace processes, ensuring that their rights, needs and interests are taken into account in the course of negotiations and implementation of peace agreements” (UNHCR 2008, 10). As the epigram at the start of the UNHCR’s Voluntary Repatriation Handbook states, voluntary repatriation programs “give refugees a chance to break away from being victims of persecution and to become a genuine part of the solution” (UNHCR 1996, 1). From a critical perspective, the assertion that going home is the “most appropriate solution,” not only to a refugee problem but to refugees’ problems, has been criticized for transforming an entirely accidental relationship between the individual and territory where he or she was born into a historical destiny (Stepputat 1994; Warner 1994; Habib 1996). The assertion of a “historic fit between the group and the land” (Warner 1994, 163) prompted neglect of the actual experiences of returnees themselves throughout the 1990s, which the UN had called the “decade of repatriation” (UNHCR 2012). As B. S. Chimni suggests, the “repatriation turn” emerged not as a “product of extensive studies of the complex issues involved, but [as] the outcome of a marriage between convenient theory, untested assumptions, and the interests of states” (Chimni 1998, 364). A critical approach focuses on the constructed and emotive nature of ideas about home. People and territories are changed by the experience of war. Consequently, policy solutions that rely on nostalgia are questionable. When individuals have been forced to live for many years in refugee camps, they reorient their lives to these conditions, adapting their coping strategies to survive. This legacy of war was recognized in a report produced by the UN Border Relief Operation, with respect to the situation of Cambodians who had been living in refugee camps for up to a decade on the Thailand-Cambodia border. The report noted that conditions in the border camps and Khmer strategies for coping with them “have failed to provide them [residents of the camps] with the skills necessary for adapting to the pressures of ‘normal’ existence” (Curtis 1998, 113). Even so, the 1973 Paris Peace Agreements that brought a UN peacekeeping operation to Cambodia in the early 1990s included an agreement that these refugees should be repatriated to Cambodia. The UN Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC) was mandated to undertake this task, in time for the refugees to vote in a UN-organized election, in the context of a peacekeeping mission. The political status the refugees had acquired during the Cold War made their incorporation a necessity. Having been consistently presented by one side in the civil war as a nation in exile, a democratic election on the future of the country could hardly be legitimate without their inclusion, as Boutros-Ghali noted in his implementation plan

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for UNTAC: “Since the implementation and integrity of the electoral process is dependent upon the prior repatriation of Cambodian refugees and displaced persons, UNTAC’s schedule of operations would be seriously jeopardized if sufficient funds were not made available” (BoutrosGhali 1992, para. 149). The Paris agreements insisted that repatriation should be voluntary, but the inclusion of the statement that “It must also be ensured that there would be no residual problems for the countries of temporary refuge”—clearly a response to the interests of Thailand—suggests that there was no expectation that the camp system might need to continue (Paris Agreements 1973, Annex 4, Part I, para. 1).1 The UN Secretary General commented that “Of the total population [in the camps] 90 per cent are expected to elect to return to Cambodia under United Nations auspices, with the rest returning spontaneously” (Paris Agreements 1973, Annex 4, Part I, para. 135). There was no apparent expectation that anyone would be left behind; indeed, given the closing off of the resettlement option and the shifting of UN focus and attention into the territory of Cambodia itself, refugees in the camps must have calculated that there were few advantages to staying behind. In line with the demands of liberal peace, the accords insisted that for the principle of voluntariness to be fully respected, the decision to return should be taken “in full possession of the facts” and that “choice of destination within Cambodia should be that of the individual” (Paris Agreements 1973, Annex 4, Part II, para. 7). Whether the refugees were actually eager to return home or simply defeated and running out of options requires further scrutiny. Although conditions in the camps were certainly appalling, life expectancy and medical care there were better than in Cambodia (Power 2008, 85). Furthermore, it appears that at least part of the rush to return to Cambodia had to do with the fact that refugees “quite correctly assumed that on return there would be fierce competition to secure access to the limited livelihood resources available for returning families” (McDowell and Eastmond 2002). What the returnees actually knew about Cambodia by this stage and the kinds of survival strategies they thought would work once they got home are unclear. The poverty of information available to returning Cambodians—as well as to the international agencies involved with UNTAC—is illustrated by the problems that emerged when the UNHCR, in charge of the repatriation program, offered returnees a deal that would provide them with two hectares of farmland on their return and asked where they would like their farms to be. The most popular choice was Rattanak Mondul district in Battambang Province. This district was not, in fact, the home of most of the refugees who chose it, but it was considered to be an area of fertile land, situated on a prosperous gem-trading route, and close to the Thai border in case there was a need to escape again.

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When the United Nations made investigations, it discovered that Rattanak Mondul had been destroyed by war, most of its residents were living in a displaced persons’ camp, the ground was heavily mined, and it had become the poorest district in the province. The prosperous farming and gem-mining region of the prewar era had been destroyed (UNHCR 1998). Similar issues arose across Cambodia, where much unused land was infested with landmines and/or malaria. Finally, the UNHCR adopted the policy of giving people cash grants instead of land. This policy was criticized on the grounds that it was unlikely to result in refugees settling down somewhere in rural Cambodia; critics raised fears that refugees would end up as a shifting, homeless, and unruly population on the streets of the capital, Phnom Penh. The chief of the repatriation mission, Sérgio Vieira de Mello, reportedly took the strongly liberal position that individual refugees were able to make better choices on their own behalf than paternalist organizations could make for them. He regarded criticism of the cash option as insulting to the poor who “have a far better sense of what they need money for than we ever will” (Power 2008, 89). This may have been true, since no proper survey of the camp population had been carried out. But equally, immediate postwar Cambodia offered few jobs, training, or business opportunities, and a private market for buying land and housing barely existed. Given these circumstances, it is difficult to see how the cash could be used for long-term investment rather than simply immediate consumption, unlike land, which could potentially serve both purposes. In these circumstances, stating that “the poor know best” willfully ignores the extraordinarily unpromising socioeconomic environment of postwar Cambodia into which the United Nations was sending poor people. Initially, the UNHCR claimed that recipients of the cash grant option did not end up homeless but chose to live with relatives (Crisp and Mayne 1993). This claim is tenuous because the UNHCR did not effectively monitor the refugees after they returned and therefore had no empirical basis for such assertions. In fact, it was later concluded that up to 40 percent of repatriated refugees in the region later moved on as a result of instability, poor economic opportunities, or land expropriation, a problem to which returnees were particularly vulnerable (UNHCR 1998, para. 77). A later study of returnees in the northwest suggests that many avoided going back to their actual homes or families out of “shame of being destitute” or fear of “losing face in their village or being rejected by relatives” (Rodicio 2000, cited in McDowell and Eastmond 2002, note 13). Later UNHCR reports admitted that early claims of refugees going home to their families had been overly optimistic; in fact, the returnees carved out new homes for themselves, using skills barely remembered after perhaps a decade in a refugee camp, and on land that was previously heavily forested or often infested with landmines (Ballard 2002, 47).

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The point at issue is not whether the returned refugees were better off in camps in Thailand or at home in Cambodia. The border camps were characterized by violence and squalor, and the fact that there was no unrest associated with the refugee return program suggests that the residents were glad to get away. But it is unknown how many would have opted not to return to Cambodia and instead to opt for resettlement in a third country or assimilation outside the refugee camp in northeast Thailand had either option been available. The key point is that the rhetoric surrounding the refugee return program obscured the reality of what the returnees might face, rather than revealing it to enable a debate over the appropriateness of the policy and subsequent forms of assistance. Liberal rhetoric of a dignified, voluntary, and fully informed return to former homes, families, and livelihoods, with an opportunity to participate in elections as rights-bearing citizens of a new Cambodia, legitimized the dismantling of the camp system in the eyes of the world, just as the previous construction of Cambodia as overrun by marauding Vietnamese bent on cultural genocide had kept the camps in business for the previous decade. A critical perspective makes clear that both representations of the situation operate in the interests of external powers who wished to prosecute the war in Cambodia in the 1980s, but wished to end it in the 1990s. Repatriation was ultimately conducted not with primary reference to the rights and interests of the refugees but to the interests of powerful external actors including the United States, China, and Thailand, which had supported the camps and the insurgency for a decade but found them an embarrassment in the post–Cold War era. It also served the interests of UN agencies charged with creating the facade of liberal peace in Cambodia. New rounds of displacement in the late 1990s—as well as large-scale internal migration, informal settlement in urban areas at constant threat of dispossession, and more recently a large outflow of legal and illegal workers, to Thailand, sometimes in conditions of slavery—continue to be significant characteristics of life for landless Cambodians, suggesting that the rhetoric of returning home to family and rebuilding the country was indeed a mirage. Critical Responses to Liberal Approaches to the Problem of Statelessness of Roma Minorities in Bosnia-Herzegovina

This second case study highlights the pitfalls of the liberal peacebuilding model that focus on individual agency and ignore complex social, political, and economic power dynamics and structures that marginalize stateless Roma people. By depoliticizing the administration of birth registrations and social services and focusing on the role of individual stateless Roma rather than the agencies and government institutions responsible for provision of

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care, the liberal peacebuilding model embodied by the Dayton Peace Accords at best ignores the framework of exclusion it established and at worst propagates discriminatory practices. For Roma minorities in Bosnia-Herzegovina, neither resettlement nor return to an attributed homeland are possible options. These communities are faced with the problem of assimilation in place, in a context where claims about ethnicity have been institutionalized as significant determinants of power. In such a context, liberal emphasis on the rights-bearing and interest-pursuing individual is anomalous, as critical theorists have pointed out. The power relations that bind an individual into a wider social, cultural, and economic network are regarded by critical theorists as decisive, undermining liberal bureaucratic models of empowerment. The situation of Roma in Bosnia-Herzegovina offers an instructive example of this in practice. The 1995 Dayton Peace Accords, which put an end to the three-and-ahalf-year Bosnia war, were the basis for a peacebuilding process that is considered by some as the first “full-blown nation building intervention” (Talentino 2005, 176–177) as new political institutions were created and installed, new school curricula developed, and liberal financial and budget frameworks imposed (Mac Ginty 2008, 144). This process was largely externally driven (Chandler 2000, 3), with international actors taking on a protectorate role that shaped the postwar transition (Chandler 2005, 336) while largely ignoring and misidentifying the role of identity within the local society and political spectrum (Fleet 2013, 25). The Dayton Peace Accords have been widely criticized over the past twenty years. Although the accords were successful in ending the war, ethnic divisions are ongoing and unaddressed (Björkdahl 2013, 90). To pursue the liberal ideal of representative government, elections were held soon after the peace agreement, but the timing so soon after the war “merely locked in the dominance of illiberal elites who won votes by playing the nationalist card” (Mansfield and Snyder 2005, 17). Following elections in 1996, citizenship legislation was put in place in 1999 by the UN High Representative for Implementation of the Bosnian Peace Agreement to the Secretary General, who was administering the newly sovereign state of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Bosnia-Herzegovina’s 1999 Citizenship Law and the country’s entity-level legislation provided safeguards against statelessness through provision of renewed citizenship to all individuals who were citizens up to the beginning of the war in April 1992 and/or citizens of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina prior to December 1995, when the current constitution was implemented. In addition, any individual who began living in Bosnia-Herzegovina after commencement of the war and before the enactment of the Citizenship Law in January 1998, or who lived there uninterruptedly for a minimum of two

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years after January 1998, is able to apply for naturalization. Despite these protections against statelessness, UNHCR estimates that there are approximately 4,500 Roma at risk of statelessness in Bosnia-Herzegovina. In a country of fewer than 4 million people (2014 census), with an estimated population of 40,000–50,000 Roma in 2004 (Peric 2002, 1), this is not a small figure. It was also significant because statelessness affects the ability of persons to enjoy basic rights, including exclusion from health insurance and social welfare; difficulties in enrolling in school due to a lack of birth certificate, leading to illiteracy that makes employment difficult to obtain; obstacles to participating in democratic processes; and increased susceptibility to human trafficking (Balaton-Chrimes 2010, 1; Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation 2014). To understand how statelessness among Roma has arisen despite legal protections, it is important to look beyond the procedural and legislative conceptualization of citizenship employed by the liberal international regime in Bosnia-Herzegovina, and focus instead on the broader social and political context in which notions of citizenship were formed following the vicious ethnic divisions of the 1992–1995 war. Annex IV of the Dayton Peace Accords aimed to institutionalize a balance among the three main ethnicities in Bosnia-Herzegovina—Bosniak Muslims, Serbian Orthodox, and Croat Catholics—through an “ethnically balanced approach to citizenship” (UNHCR 2011, 19). Bosnia’s constitution, which was drafted by US and European advisors as part of the wider Dayton Accords, specifies that only ethnic Bosniaks, Serbs, and Croats may be elected members of the presidency and the House of Peoples (the upper chamber of parliament). This excludes minority groups within Bosnia-Herzegovina, including Roma and Jewish individuals, from running for public office. In the case of Sejdić and Finci v. Bosnia and Herzegovina, heard by the European Court of Human Rights in 2010, the court ruled that Protocol No. 12 and Article 14 of the European Convention on Human Rights, taken in conjunction with Article 3 of Protocol 1, had been violated due to the exclusion of citizens of BosniaHerzegovina from being elected to the presidency or the House of Peoples. The government has not yet implemented the ruling despite high-level meetings on this issue, as this would necessitate removal of discriminatory provisions from the constitution and electoral law (Claridge 2010, 5). Although this structure has been described as “carefully calibrated” by the United Nations (UNHCR 2011, 16), it has also been argued that as time went on, political elites “maintained their nationalist agendas and priorities, as well as their hold on their ethno-nationalist constituency, making electoral democracy more of an ethnic census than a matter of political ideas and the future of Bosnia-Herzegovina” (Björkdahl 2013, 19). In essence, while the peacebuilding process tried to accommodate ethnic claims in

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administration, it ignored the role of power in constructing ethnic identities. It further failed to recognize the implications for minority groups within Bosnia-Herzegovina. Electoral politics has given rise to a political landscape that features ethnic boundaries closely policed by majority elites in the interests of preserving the discourses of difference that award them power. This makes it difficult for majority ethnic groups to form new identity affiliations in the postconflict context, freezing society along the lines of the war in the interest of elites that emerged during the fighting. It also creates a situation in which the rights of individuals are inherently unequal, with minority groups who lack the right to stand for political office being unrepresented and disempowered. The situation contrasts sharply with the aspirations of the liberal peace, reflecting the gap between the principles of the UN regime and the local priorities, actors, and discourses confronting interveners on the ground. The implications for minorities are far-reaching, and liberal bureaucratic procedures have proved incapable of addressing them. It continues to be the case that many Roma, among other minorities such as Ashkali, are “trapped in a cycle where the lack of documentation among one generation, creates obstacles in the registration of the next,” including obtaining birth certificates for their children. Indeed, research has found that “Roma have been facing difficulties in access to citizenship due to their social marginalization, acute impoverishment, living in informal settlements and widespread racist prejudice among the majority population” (Dedić 2007, 3). However, the national and international agencies tasked to address this problem continue to focus on a liberal legalistic or procedural perspective that neglects to link the status of individual Roma to the institutionalization of their disempowerment. UNHCR works to enhance the status of Roma in Bosnia-Herzegovina and assists in the realization of their full rights as citizens, but seeks to achieve this through improving administrative procedures (UNHCR 1997, 3), rather than addressing the wider structural discrimination against minorities within the current constitution.2 The dissonance between political and bureaucratic realities has produced a discourse that frames the individual Roma for their institutionalized plight. Thus the assistant minister for Human Rights and Refugees in Bosnia-Herzegovina, whose office took responsibility for the registration of births on the conclusion of the UN administration of the country in December 2002, asserted in an interview with the European Roma Rights Center (ERRC) that it was Roma individuals’ “very unfortunate attitude towards procedures” that was the primary cause of their marginalization through lack of registration and suggested that this perceived attitude could be due to their “traditionally unsettled lifestyle” (ERRC 2004, 62). Such

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negative stereotypes result from and perpetuate a lack of political interest on the part of elites from majority ethnic groups to seriously tackle the problem. Therefore, although there remains strong evidence that Roma are “still systematically maltreated” (Jugo and Kloos 2012), the agencies and ministries responsible for addressing the problem were established in a system based on at best a problemsolving administrative approach with a focus on individual agency, and at worst a framework based on the very ethnic divisions that need to be addressed. The peace settlement and the wartime constructions of identity and citizenship that were fossilized within it have constructed a set of contemporary power dynamics that trap the Roma within self-serving stereotypes. Efforts to respond to Roma statelessness have adopted a liberal focus on individual rights and protection that entirely neglects the issue of political exclusion and marginalization and are therefore unlikely to succeed in promoting better exercise of rights by Roma people in Bosnia-Herzegovina society. Conclusion

One of the common critiques of critical theory scholarship is that while it is able to aptly deconstruct the motivations and pitfalls of other approaches, it does not provide useful guidance regarding how things could be done better (Ramsbotham, Woodhouse, and Miall 2011, 404). However, some proponents argue that changing discourse is the first step to changing policy and practice, and that “critical theory is a theory of praxis, a step in a process of political engagement designed to transform the world” (Mutimer 2012, 94) even while stating that “it does not provide a destination we can finally reach” (Mutimer 2012, 103). Others view the “destination” as global emancipation, to be achieved by “not simply accepting the abuse of the marginalized but siding with them and engaging in a historically informed critique of the operations of power” (Cooper 2007, 615). The case studies presented here suggest the ways critical theory can usefully uncover fundamental inequalities of power that undermine the liberal assumption that individuals have equal rights and equal capacities to exercise them. To a great extent, the plight of refugees is determined not by liberal principles but by the interests of external and/or local powerholders. The language of liberal rights and freedoms, ostensibly about freedom, equality, and opportunity, is in fact a cover for agencies seeking to ameliorate the circumstances of individuals without having the power to tackle the structural causes of their exclusion. The UNHCR has frequently found itself in this position. Unable to deal adequately with the likelihood of economic hardship for returnees in Cambodia or ethnic marginalization of Roma communities in Bosnia-Herzegovina, it resorts to a focus on individual choices

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(cash grants) and individual procedures (birth certificates) to attempt to paper over more fundamental problems of inequality. Furthermore, these case studies highlight the fact that a postconflict society is a site of contestation, inequality, and conflict. Even where peace settlements are successful in introducing the beginnings of stability and reconstruction, significant inequities and lack of cohesion remain. Hierarchies of power and privilege frequently trump the thin veneer of liberal equality introduced by newly written constitutions and election laws. In searching for policy-relevant solutions in such contexts, a critical approach is arguably useful in uncovering hidden structures of domination, revealing the ways elite coalitions, either locally or internationally, can act effectively to close off alternatives. It also reveals the way that supposedly liberal solutions, presented as affirming of individual rights and freedoms, can in fact contribute to the marginalization of people in situations of unequal power and resources. Tackling these structures and resolving the problem of inequality or powerlessness is not easy or even possible. Yet the imperative for international agencies to present pictures of success entails that complexities are routinely suppressed in favor of good news stories. Transformative models of conflict resolution regard peace as a complex and holistic system, rather than a linear process, requiring intervention, stabilization, and ongoing peace education. This is intended to promote critical debate within societies emerging from warfare on the terms of their own political settlement and the inequalities embedded within them. Arguably, neither liberal prescriptions for the rights of individuals nor critical accounts of the structural constraints on them are adequate for this model without the contribution of critical scholarship. The willingness and ability of groups of actors, internally and externally, to repeatedly challenge dominant scripts about peace are an essential ingredient of postconflict transformation. Without them, wellmeaning prescriptions of liberal administrators regarding rights and freedoms will remain hollow. Notes

1. The term “Paris Agreements” refers to The Agreement on Ending the War and Restoring Peace in Vietnam determined on 27 January 1973, which ended the direct military involvement of the United States in the Vietnam War, and resulted in a temporary ceasefire prior to the ultimate conclusion of the war in 1975. The full text of the Agreement can be found here: http://www.cvce.eu/content/publication /2001/10/12/656ccc0d-31ef-42a6-a3e9-ce5ee7d4fc80/publishable_en.pdf. 2. For example, UNHCR (1997) states in chapter 6 that causes of statelessness were largely related to “faulty administrative practices” such as the failure of a state to ensure registration of births, flawed legislation, or the result of conflict such as displacement or destruction of records. The UNHCR (2011) Report on Statelessness in South Eastern Europe shows a similar neglect of issues of power, focusing instead

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on individual agency of Roma populations and a continued focus on administrative procedures as a means of addressing the marginalization of minorities. Furthermore, while recognizing that ethnic minorities were marginalized by more dominant ethnic groups, the report’s recommendations were entirely procedural and its conclusions seemed to emphasize the individual agency of Roma by noting that they “were less able to cope with the changes, and some did not manage to regulate their legal status in the intervening years” (UNHCR 2011, 34).

7 Engaging the Liberal Peace Paradigm: The Case of Rotary International Pamina Firchow

Under the watchful eyes of his prison guards, Antonio Gramsci spent almost ten years writing 3,000 pages and a total of thirty-three prison notebooks before his death in 1937. These were later seen to hold considerable cachet among political theory in the twentieth century and gave Gramsci a prominent position among modern Marxist and critical thinkers. He wrote about issues of power and hegemony, about the triumph of fascism and the failure of socialism, of Americanism, Fordism, and of Rotary. This concluding chapter develops Gramsci’s observations about Rotary’s potential as an altruistic example of how capitalism can diverge from a liberal model, perhaps even extending beyond culturally hegemonic goals (Gramsci 1971). I use Rotary as a case study to continue the discussion already developed in this book on liberal peace and hybridity and demonstrate the possible practical application of theoretical debates on critical peace studies. The chapter contends that Rotary presents itself as an example of a civil society organization that ties together actors from the global North and South to implement service projects that emulate liberal models but integrate indigenous knowledge and prowess. In notebook 5 (Gramsci 1996; written 1930–1932), Gramsci discusses the role of Rotary vis-à-vis the Catholic Church: Why is it precisely the Rotary Club that has spread beyond America? Why not some other one of the many types of associations that are thriving in America and that constitute America’s move beyond the old positivist forms of religion? . . . Surely, the Catholic Church cannot “officially” look on the Rotary with pleasure, but it seems unlikely that the church would adopt the same attitude toward the Rotary as it does against Freemasonry, for that would entail taking up a position against capitalism, etc. The growth of the Rotary is interesting from many points of view: ideological, practical, organizational, etc. (Gramsci 1996, 269–271)

It is notable that Gramsci wrote about Rotary in juxtaposition to the Catholic Church because, in contrast to the Church, Rotary espoused essentially liberal 127

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values, in particular those of individual freedom, free trade, private property, and civil rights, and was founded on the basis of capitalist ideals. In effect, John Locke’s founding principles of life, liberty, and property provide a basis for Rotary’s motto of “one profits most who serves best.” Liberalism is inherent in Rotary’s core values of service, fellowship, diversity, integrity, and leadership, as outlined in the Seven Paths to Peace discussed in the Appendix of this volume. Yet Gramsci notes that Rotary’s primary goal of service created a modern and altruistic form of capitalism in contrast to the European “antiquated economic and social basis” (Gramsci 1971, 317). Gramsci discusses Rotary’s goal of disseminating “a new capitalist spirit” replacing the “capitalism of plunder” with the “idea that industry and trade are a social service even prior to being a business and that, indeed, they are or could be a business insofar as they are a ‘service’” (1996, 269–271). Thus, although Rotary was founded on essentially liberal democratic and capitalist values, it was clear even to Gramsci that there was a certain peculiarity to Rotary’s approach. This particularity has extended itself since Gramsci’s time to the international sphere and leaves us to question Rotary’s role in debates on neoliberalism and the liberal peace. This chapter offers a brief background of the debates on the liberal peace and hybridity, reviews how Rotary fits into this discussion, and finally concludes by demonstrating how Rotary can exacerbate some of the problems of the liberal peace while at the same time offering an additional alternative of hybridity for peacebuilders. The Liberal Peace: A Primer

Chapters 5 and 6 in this book have done a comprehensive job of introducing the concepts and debates surrounding the liberal peace and critical peacebuilding. I therefore offer only a brief introduction to these debates to situate Rotary’s role as an organization in this spectrum. The premise of the liberal peace rests on liberalism and the ideals of free markets, human rights, opportunity, freedom, and the individual as the primary actor in society. This is reflected in the following quote in To Perpetual Peace by Immanuel Kant, which is considered by most to be the axiomatic foundational thesis of the liberal peace doctrine: Just as nature wisely separates peoples that the will of every nation, based on principles of international right, would gladly unite through cunning or force, so also by virtue of their mutual interest does nature unite peoples against violence and war, for the concept of cosmopolitan right does not protect them from it. The spirit of trade cannot coexist with war, and sooner or later this spirit dominates every people. For among all those powers (or means) that belong to a nation, financial power may be the most reliable in forcing nations to pursue the noble cause of peace (though not from moral motives); and wherever in the world war threatens to break out, they will try to head it off through mediation, just as if they were permanently leagued for this purpose. (Kant 2003, 25)

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The idea that the stability of peace is fundamental to the spirit of trade and thus leads everyone to desire it is considered the basis of democratic peace theory. Sometimes also called the “constitutional peace,” democratic peace theory argues that modern democracies will not go to war with one another because they are motivated to maintain stability to ensure free markets and economic development and to encourage the spread of liberal ideas and promote individual rights internationally (Chandler 2004, 77). Yet these arguments and the policies that have emerged from the liberal peace doctrine have increasingly experienced criticism from critical peacebuilding scholars. These critiques have focused on the incompatibility of Western conceptions of democratization and economic (i.e., neoliberal) reforms within the global South, the region of the world experiencing the majority of contemporary conflicts (Uppsala Conflict Data Program 2013). They have also focused on ownership issues of imposed interventions of peacebuilding and development projects, the possible contradictions inherent in the implementation of policies centered on peace and justice, as well as the problems of crime and corruption in economic and political reform (Richmond 2006b, 292). Essentially, the crux of the criticism is that liberal peace interventions are top-down (versus bottom-up) and originate in the global North (versus the global South, where most of the conflicts and thus interventions happen) and are problematic in that they are ethnocentric, lofty, and do not consider problems of power and agency. Liberal peace actors feel a sense of entitlement to “write the script” of what communities need, when they will receive it, and how it will be implemented (Mac Ginty and Firchow forthcoming). A response to this has been an argument for a hybrid peace. Hybridity (Mac Ginty 2011; Richmond and Mitchell 2011) argues for a composite approach of indigenous and exogenous aspects and is made up of four factors: (1) the compliance powers of the liberal peace, (2) incentives offered by the liberal peace, (3) resistance by local actors, and (4) alternatives offered by local actors (Mac Ginty 2010, 398). These interact to create hybridized versions of peace. International actors typically employ the threat of force or apply sanctions to coerce governments and actors to comply with their demands. On the flip side, international actors can control large amounts of money in the form of international assistance and can shape agendas and direct resources to places in dire need of investment. Of course, these incentives come at a cost, and often local actors must bend to international demands. A series of carrots and sticks leads to the eventual compliance and relinquishment by local actors to the liberal peace and thus creates a hybridized approach. Yet local actors have agency as well, and their ability to resist or adapt liberal peace interventions constitutes the third factor in the hybridization of peace. Relatedly, the ability of local actors to construct and promote their own forms of peace interacts with more formal models of the liberal peace to help create a hybridized approach to peacemaking and peacebuilding.

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A Fifth Factor in the Construction of a Hybrid Peace?

In Prison Notebook 1, Gramsci equates Rotary with Freemasonry (without the petite bourgeoisie, he says), but by Notebook 5, Gramsci admits that Rotary is not Masonic and that everyone can join it. In fact, this has been true since 1989, when women were universally permitted to join Rotary clubs. What is interesting about Rotary’s model, which is relevant to scholarly debates on the liberal peace and hybridity, is its structure and place as a Northern nongovernmental organization (NGO) founded on liberal values doing peacebuilding and development work in collaboration with local actors that form part of its own organization in the global South. This means that Rotary’s members, actors in the global North and South, form equal parts of the organization and have the potential to work together to blend local knowledge with international expertise. The negotiation described above is something that is innate to Rotary’s structure and makes it unique in comparison to other international civil society actors. Of course, arguably, these chapters of Rotary in the global South emulate and share the values of the organization’s founding fathers, and most of its members are local business and political elites, leading to the possiblity of elite capture (Labonte 2012). Yet these local actors work together with partners in the global North to identify needs, implement projects, and advise local peacebuilding and development work. Thus, Southern Rotarians, despite being elites, are arguably more attuned to sociocultural cues and political dynamics than outsiders can be and are more able to foment incremental, sustainable change in coordination with the funding and expertise of their international partners. This exemplifies an effort at hybridized forms of peacemaking. In what follows, I demonstrate these efforts at hybridization by explaining Rotary’s service model and some of the ways the organization partners actors from the global North together with those in the global South. I give some context for how this is carried out by telling the story of a Rotarian actively involved in humanitarian and peacebuilding work around the world. This does not simply exemplify “discrete Western and non-Western actors and practices coming together to create a fusion polity” (Mac Ginty 2010, 406), but demonstrates the interplay and complexities of Western and nonWestern actors working to integrate liberal values with local needs. As other studies have found, it is only by incorporating consistent and foundational conceptions of locally acceptable experiences that hybridization can generate sustainable peace (Millar 2014, 510). The hybridity literature has a tendency to unnecessarily other non-Western actors and create an artificial divide between individuals in the global North and South. This perpetuates the same “us versus them” distinctions that hybridity purports to overcome and is something a Rotary-type model can play a significant role in overcoming. Rotary presents an example of an organization that functions globally from within and allows for a more cosmopolitan idea of a hybrid peace.

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Although it may be true that hybridity is mostly produced through active resistance by communities to the liberal peace, there may be other, less foreign and more integrative possibilities. Rotary Clubs are often composed of small business owners and small-town professionals whose own well-being is tied to local stability and growth. Therefore, Rotarians, especially in the global South, are motivated to support programs that may help build peace and stability. They are motivated by the liberal goals of expansion and possibility, but function with the cultural and local aptitude to adapt liberal goals with indigenous ones. The danger of this path lies in the orchestration of it—the arbitrary nature of fellowship and partnership implementing, funding, and encouraging programs of reconciliation and development without any deep investigation into the structural and chronic roots of conflicts and inequalities. This assistentialism—a term borrowed from Latin America to describe policies of financial or social assistance that attack the symptoms, but not the causes, of social ills—was used by Paulo Freire to demonstrate the violence inherent in the act of assistance as it results in antidialogue, imposing a silence and passivity among recipients (Bhattacharya 2011, 199). Thus, simply working together with locals to assist and remedy locally determined needs (such as building schools and wells, providing clean drinking water and medical care) does not address the roots of these social ills and distracts both parties from focusing on the causes of these problems. Systemic causes and structural violence are not solved by assistentialism; instead, it can perpetuate an already broken system by permitting those responsible to disregard the need for structural reform. This means that the very nature of Rotary’s hybrid approach also contributes to the model’s shortcomings. Global Grants and Rotarian Action Groups

There are several ways Rotary creates partnerships between clubs across continents and among individuals from the global North and South. Rotary has six areas of focus for clubs to address when planning global grants and service projects. These are peace and conflict prevention/resolution, disease prevention and treatment, water and sanitation, maternal and child health, basic education and literacy, and economic and community development. Rotary has more than 34,000 clubs with 1.2 million members in more than 200 countries; there are Rotary clubs in Kabul, Juba, Beirut, Islamabad, Port-au-Prince, Bogotá, Abuja, Bangui, and many secondary cities and towns in some of the most violent and conflict-affected areas of the world. This means that when a Rotary club in one of these countries wants funding to implement a peacebuilding or development project, it can partner with another club and apply for what is called a global grant from the Rotary Foundation (Rotary International and the Rotary Foundation are two separate but interconnected entities). Global grants fund humanitarian projects, scholarships, and vocational training teams for projects requiring a minimum of $50,000 and up to

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$400,000 (see Table 7.1 for examples of Rotary Global Grants in the peacebuilding sector from 2011 to 2015). In the area of peace and conflict prevention/resolution, Rotary sponsors campaigns addressing the psychological effects of conflict; preventive measures to avoid conflict; campaigns addressing negative social dynamics in a community, including but not limited to antigang efforts; and overcoming Table 7.1 Examples of Rotary Global Grants in Peace and Conflict Prevention/Resolution Grant Title

Peace and Conflict Training–Gulu, Uganda Bénin Education Mothers of Peace

Conflict Early Warning and Early Response for Peaceful Co-existence Multicultural Youth Choir/Interkultureller Jugendchor

International Sponsor Club

Lambert Airport Marche-en-Famenne Del Mar-Solana Beach Sunrise

Program Year

Annapolis

Koblenz Deutsches Eck

A sustainable, multi-level project for the prevention of violence at Elementary Schools in Mönchengladbach Nijmegen Independent Living Program for Disadvantaged Youths São José do Rio Prêto 2nd International Peace Seminar Pasadena Youth Development, Judo Program-“Ajudou” (Help) for Bright Futures, Fit Bodies, and Focused Minds at Timóteo, MG-Brazil Brookline Revitilization of a Peace Education Center /Dinamización de un Laboratorio Lúdico Bellflower El Nodo El Paso, Camino Real Education for Peace Leaders/ Formación de Líderes para la Paz Los Angeles Conflict Resolution & Life Skills Training: A community-based program for developing the potential of young leaders Kajjansi Global Grant Scholarship Program Cape Henry Knysna Sport School (KSS) Nieuwkoop Expand Oasis Center Community Youth Programs Johnson City Rotary Hands Across Waters (RHAW) Coral Springs-Parkland Documentation Center Oswiecim Ratzeburg-Alte Salzstrasse Kekava - Miera Balodis (Friedenstaube / dove of peace) Bordesholm Community Youth Leadership: Creating Agents of Change Manhattan Beach Peace Learning Center Ferris School Savanna-La-Mar Jamaica Tuscola Victim Empathy Programme Belur Training and Certification of 30 Mediators Kingston Source: Rotary International 2015.

Location

2011 2011

Uganda Benin

2012

Uganda

2012

2014 2014

2014 2014

Uganda

Bosnia and Herzegovina Germany

Taiwan Israel

2014

Brazil

2014

Colombia

2014 2014

2015 2014 2015

2015 2015 2015

2015

2015

2015 2015

2015

Colombia Mexico

United States Costa Rica South Africa

Colombia Israel Poland

Latvia

Guatemala

Jamaica Singapore Mexico

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radical differences and communication and arbitration among parties previously engaged in direct conflict. Rotary members participating in these projects have trained community leaders to prevent and mediate conflict, facilitated conflict-resolution workshops related to topics addressing community needs such as policy development, launched business activities across conflict lines, and promoted educational reform and peace journalism. They have organized community activities for non-Rotarian participants, including conferences, trainings, and camps, in support of nonviolence, peacebuilding, and human rights, and they have trained vocational teams for reconciliation related activities. Members also pursued projects to address the underlying structural causes of conflict, including poverty, inequality, ethnic tension, lack of access to education, and unequal distribution of resources. One of the four requirements for global grants is that they be communitydriven and designed by the host community based on the needs that they themselves have identified; another is that they be sustainable and that communities are able to address their peace and conflict needs after the Rotary clubs have completed their work. This is very much in line with what is considered best practice by international NGOs, donors, and academics in the peacebuilding and development fields and has emerged from the criticisms made of the liberal peace being top-down and therefore not sustainable because of a lack of local buy-in. For example, a recently funded peacebuilding project in Izmir, Turkey, is promoting peer mediation in a secondary school. A special room was created for peer mediation purposes and selected students were given thirty hours of intensive special education on conflictresolution methods to mitigate bullying. The idea was to empower students and give them responsibilities to prevent conflict and bullying. Another, larger project in Chandihanjyang, Nepal, is a collaboration of Rotary clubs in the United Kingdom, Australia, and Nepal working with rural women farmers to address issues of economic development and human security where Rotarians have partnered with the village development committee, local NGOs, and Heifer International Nepal (an international NGO from the United States) to donate livestock and provide technical assistance to families, who then “pass on the gift” of the animal’s first female offspring and share their gained knowledge with other community members. The Rotary investment funds 500 goats, 25 bucks, 275 animal sheds, fodder, vegetable and fruit seeds, animal medicine and vaccines, and training visits. The premise of this grant is to break the cycle of poverty by teaching communities to empower themselves through gifts of animals, organic vegetable farming training, microfunds, and economic activities that link production with markets. The goal is to organize 831 families into 41 “self-help groups.” The global grant structure requires club participation, and no project is funded unless both the host club and the international club contribute money to the proposed project (which is then matched by Rotary International). Other clubs typically contribute financially as well or sometimes offer their expertise, and this creates a wide network of

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interest and skills with an interest in the execution and success of the project. The global grant structure also has the benefit of allowing a “poor club” to propose, initiate, and execute a project, which means that clubs in the global South can have the same financial pull as wealthy clubs in the global North when carrying out projects. In addition to the global grants initiative, the Rotary Action Groups bring together Rotarians who are experts in a particular field and want to spearhead a particular issue or cause within Rotary. These group members can be located anywhere in the world and share their expertise with clubs and districts doing service projects in those areas. In the area of peace and conflict prevention/resolution, the Rotarian Action Group for Peace works together to advance peace and prevent war. It empowers and supports the peace work of Rotarians by offering structure, guidance, and resources to further their peace efforts. In effect, the Rotarian Action Group for Peace has developed an innovative and important peace hub map connecting Rotary Clubs around the world with Rotary Peace Fellows and peacebuilding organizations. In these ways, Rotary connects individuals and communities in areas of need with individuals and communities that have something to give. Working together, they are able to create projects that address local needs and foster fellowship among members around the world. The Human Touch

The story of Dorothy (Dot) Cada illustrates clearly how Rotary works to connect Rotarians from the global North and South, and how an organization is able to use its members to link indigenous efforts at peace with liberal forms of peacemaking. Dot Cada jumped at the opportunity to join Rotary in 1989 when women were officially allowed to join clubs. She had been a member of Zonta International (the women’s equivalent of Rotary), but felt that she would have more impact working with Rotary. As she says it, “Rotary has the capacity to get things done and really affect change.” Growing up in a politically active family in Minnesota, she was surrounded by stories of other countries, but she didn’t go abroad until she finished her nursing degree. Her first trips to Mexico and Europe began to open her eyes to the ubiquitous needs outside of the United States and to cultivate her passion for international fellowship and service. She believes these personal experiences are what affect Rotarians the most—going abroad to do a service project, hosting an exchange student—these are the things that contribute to the strength of Rotary and the capacity to see problems from a different angle. This goes for Rotarians all over the world, not just in North America. For example, in 2013, the Thompson River in Colorado experienced a devastating flood creating much damage, and Rotary clubs from all over the world (including India and Brazil) sent money to match a global grant to help them. Eventually, a change in Dot’s career and the establishment of her own

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company in Colorado allowed her the financial flexibility to support and participate in projects with Rotary. Since then, she has participated in service trips to many different places around the world, but her main focus has been on working to establish clubs and carry out service projects in Russia and Myanmar. She travels to both places at least twice a year and maintains an apartment in Saratov, Russia. Rotary clubs in Eastern Europe and other formerly communist states were disbanded by 1945–1946. After the relaxation of government control of community groups in Russia and the former Soviet satellite nations, Rotarians were welcomed as club organizers, and clubs were formed there, beginning with the Moscow club in 1990. Dot was instrumental in getting the Rotary club in Saratov off the ground, which has been fully functioning since 2000. Since then Dot and her Rotary district in Colorado have been working on a variety of service projects in collaboration with the Saratov club. The largest of these is a microcredit program, which was funded in part by her district, in part by the Saratov local district, and in part by Rotary International through a global grant. In addition to funding local projects to start restaurants, a minibus company, and a casket maker, among others, the microcredit program paid for two volunteers to be trained in a Grameen Dialogue program in Bangladesh. When the local hospital needed supplies, the Saratov club got in touch with Dot and her district, and together they raised money to purchase a fire truck, an incubator, and equipment necessary for patients with cerebral palsy. The same happened when the local university needed computers and agricultural equipment. In most cases local Rotarians at these organizations in Saratov identified needs and rallied their clubs to find partnerships to address them. Through her experiences in Saratov, as well as with her work in Myanmar helping reestablish a club in Yangon, fund an orphanage, and do educational work, Dot is convinced that what is necessary to get service work done effectively is the “human touch.” In other words, she believes that the contact she and her fellow Rotarians around the world have with each other is what is needed to create impactful, long-lasting change. As she says, “You need to find a trusted partner that you connect with emotionally and with whom you can work together. The constant contact is so important, which is why I travel so often to check up on the projects and keep in touch with everyone over Skype and Viber.” This is evident in the way she sees the world. Recently, she had a pregnant Ukrainian refugee living in her apartment in Saratov and when people would ask her which side of the recent conflict the woman was on, her response was, “Who cares?! She’s not a soldier, she’s a pregnant woman in need of a home.” Conclusion

Rotary is an example of a civil society organization that brings together actors from the global North and the global South to implement service projects that

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emulate liberal models but integrate indigenous knowledge and prowess. Of course, this is only a small piece of a very large industry of peace institutions that implement liberal peace frameworks in postconflict contexts. Yet it adds to the complexity of the hybridization of peace and the possibilities for actors to come together to create an interconnected approach of new and traditional ways of maintaining peace or achieving reconciliation. This kind of hybridized peace is less standardized, less of a templated and technocratic approach, and more closely linked with local contexts and needs. Merging the local with international approaches to peacebuilding mitigates the criticism that the liberal peace is a mere “rubber stamp” applied blindly across all cases and societies. It allows for that elixir of all peacebuilding projects: local ownership. This is possible in different ways, as elaborated already, and the Rotary model contributes to this idea as a more integrated and less foreign, less Orientalist approach (in Edward Said’s understanding of the term), than those proposed by the hybridity literature. This is evident in Dot Cada’s story and in the global grant projects and joint initiatives among Rotary clubs around the world. However, Rotary only works in countries where there are Rotary clubs and although Rotary is very well represented worldwide (as evidenced by the presence of the Rotary wheel in so many communities around the world), it is not everywhere or at all social strata. In addition, the emphasis on service projects within Rotary is in danger of creating an assistentialist culture that does not recognize the root causes of poverty, inequality, and war. In most cases, there is no overarching plan, and projects are conducted in an ad hoc manner without fitting into a greater peacebuilding vision (although this is beginning to turn around with Rotary’s new models of global grantmaking). Often Rotarians may not be aware of or engage with the more informal sources of regulatory authorities that influence decisionmaking surrounding what local projects are implemented even if those Rotarians are located locally, and projects risk the possibility of elite capture or the manipulation of peacebuilding projects to serve elite interests. It remains questionable if an organization based on capitalist liberal values is able to safeguard indigenous needs and demands, which may sometimes be contrary to its beliefs. However, as Gramsci acknowledges, Rotary represents a humanitarian approach to capitalism; indeed, it has made great strides in that department, notably being a prominent part of the worldwide campaign to eradicate polio and reducing polio-endemic countries to only three (Afghanistan, Nigeria, and Pakistan), in addition to its work in the peacebuilding sector. To repeat the words of Rotary’s founder, Paul Harris, “The road to war is well paved, the road to peace is a wilderness.” Rotary is an example of a peacebuilding organization working to tame that wilderness bit by bit through partnerships between its members, locally and internationally, working toward peace.

Appendix Rotary International and Its Contribution to Peace: Historical Milestones Harry Anastasiou To date, Rotary International is composed of more than 34,000 Rotary clubs with more than 1.2 million members. Through its membership and clubs, Rotary has an institutional presence in more than 200 countries around the world. As a civil society organization, it is one of the largest in the world, cutting across national borders, cultures, religions, and continents. In this regard, Rotary has built a human and organizational infrastructure that is unique, inclusive, diverse, and global. Using this infrastructure, with its human and material resources, Rotary has been engaged in several areas of service for over a century at the local, national, and international levels. Overall, the initiatives of Rotary center on the following six areas of focus: • • • • • •

Peace and conflict prevention/resolution Disease prevention and treatment Water and sanitation Maternal and child health Basic education and literacy Economic and community development

Although Rotary International is well known for its general philanthropic initiatives, less is known about the group’s contribution to international peace. As World War I was coming to an end, Paul Harris, the founder of Rotary with the first Rotary Club in Chicago in 1905, uttered the following words: “The road to war is well paved. The road to peace is a wilderness.” These insightful words mark one of the first testimonies of Rotarians’ concern and interest in the issue of peace. It came at a time of global turmoil, when nations, although becoming increasingly interconnected through commerce, trade, and technology, rushed headlong into destructive warfare driven by the rising bellicose culture of nationalist and militaristic zealotry. 137

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Harris’s words also came at a time when international democratic institutions and peace and security institutions did not exist, or were too weak to curb the historical trends toward world wars. Despite the havoc that surrounded them, from very early on Rotarians pursued and acted out of a vision that was ahead of the historical curve. As World War I was winding down, Rotarians became busy with strategies on how to contribute toward the betterment of the world. In 1917, Arch C. Klumph, the president of Rotary International at the time, proposed the establishment of an endowment “for the purpose of doing good in the world.” The next vital step came in 1921 at the Rotarian Convention in Scotland. Here, the membership unanimously agreed to incorporate peacebuilding into Rotary’s constitution and by-laws. In this way, a central goal of Rotary International was “the advancement of international understanding, goodwill, and peace through a world of fellowship of business and professional persons united in the ideal of service.” By 1928, the Rotary endowment had grown to over US$5,000 and was named the Rotary Foundation, an entity at the core of Rotary International. More important, however, was that the purpose of the foundation was to empower Rotarians to promote and pursue practical initiatives for the purpose of advancing world understanding, goodwill, and peace through improving health, supporting education, and alleviating poverty. While the clouds of World War II were gathering, and while societies and nations around the world were poised for all-out war that would immerse the world into the most calamitous event in human history, Rotarians were mobilizing and erecting the signposts for peace. They strove for a new world with peacebuilding foundations and initiatives for the benefit of all peoples and nations. During their 1940 convention in Havana, Cuba, Rotarians adopted a resolution calling for “freedom, justice, truth, sanctity of the pledged word, and respect for human rights.” What is historically noteworthy is that this resolution provided the framework for what later evolved into the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights. By 1942, in transcending defiance of World War II, Rotary clubs from twenty-one nations met at a conference in London, with the intention of envisioning and establishing some of the first building blocks for a postwar world. Thereupon, Rotarians developed a programmatic strategy for internationally advancing education, science, and culture after World War II. This initiative led the international dialogues on the restructuring of education once the war ended. This effort constituted the foundation that eventually led to the establishment of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). As the war came to an end, Rotary’s work in promoting world peace and understanding reached a new milestone with a significant new international initiative. In April 1945, in San Francisco, Rotary International was at

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the forefront in one of the most important developments in the interest of international peace: finalizing the charter that founded the United Nations. In light of its previous track record of peace initiatives, Rotary International was invited to attend the historic event by providing eleven official observers to the U.S. delegation. (Today Rotary International holds observer status at the United Nations.) By 1948 the Universal Declaration for Human Rights had been formally established following the framework and directives as articulated by the Rotary International Convention in Havana of 1940. During the decades since the end of World War II and the founding of the United Nations, Rotary International, through its worldwide districts and clubs, has engaged in innumerable peacebuilding initiatives at the local, national, and international levels. One of its most ambitious undertakings, having a bearing on health in relationship to peacebuilding, was the launching of PolioPlus in 1985, an initiative to eradicate polio. To date, Rotarians have contributed more than $1 billion toward the eradication of polio. Polio once infected more than 350,000 children annually. In 2011, only 650 cases were reported, and in 2012 only 223 were reported. The effort has resulted in the near eradication of the disease. Along with the innumerable practical peacebuilding projects that it initiated, supported, and financed, Rotary has also promoted a culture of peace internationally through symbolic events, monuments, and declarations underscoring public commitment to peace. One of the many ways Rotary has been promoting a culture of peace was to work with city authorities and citizens around the world, officially declaring their respective city’s commitment to peace by identifying their cities with Rotary’s peace-enhancing vision and practices. In 1992, the City of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, Australia, was declared the first Rotary Peace City in the world. Now there are more than sixty Rotary Peace Cities around the world. The next step in Rotary International’s contribution to peace came in 1996, when a decision was made to explore the idea of an educational entity dedicated to Paul Harris, as a way of commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of his death in 1947. The idea was to establish some form of center, institute, or university program that would reflect his ideas. This effort coincided with the eighty-seventh Annual Convention of Rotary International, during which President Herbert G. Brown reiterated the heart of Rotary’s ways of serving the interest of peace with the maxim “Act with integrity, serve with love, work for peace.” The year 1999 became a historic milestone in Rotary’s ongoing efforts to contribute to world peace and understanding. By decision of the Rotary International Trustees, Rotary Centers for International Studies in Peace and Conflict Resolution were to be established in partnership with universities around the world. Moreover, once the Peace Centers were established,

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Rotary International would offer full scholarships to promising students from around the world, who would be invited to apply as prospective Rotary Peace Fellows. The Rotary Peace Centers Committee, in charge of this ambitious project, vetted more than 100 universities, from which it made its selection based on criteria such as geographic diversity, superior faculty, and an established two-year master’s degree program in international relations, peace, and conflict resolution. In 2006, it added another component to this effort: a three-month professional development certificate program, designed to cater to professionals interested in peace studies and conflict resolution. To date the Rotary Peace Centers serving hundreds of Rotary Peace Fellows are located at Duke University and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (United States), International Christian University (Tokyo, Japan), University of Bradford (West Yorkshire, England), University of Queensland (Brisbane, Australia), Uppsala University (Uppsala, Sweden), and Chulalongkorn University (a professional development center in Bangkok, Thailand). The first class of Rotary Peace Fellows graduated in 2004. Since then more than 1,000 Rotary Peace Fellows graduated and assumed professional leadership positions in the field in different countries around the world. To date, of these Rotary Peace Fellows, • 268 (38 percent) work for nongovernmental organizations or other peace-related organizations • 110 (16 percent) work for a government agency or the military • 66 (9 percent) are teachers/professors • 61 (9 percent) are pursuing additional advanced degrees in peacerelated fields • 44 (6 percent) work in research or academic support positions • 35 (5 percent) work for United Nations agencies • 19 (3 percent) work for police or are involved in law enforcement • 15 (2 percent) are lawyers • 12 (2 percent) are journalists • 10 (1 percent) work for the World Bank • 40 (6 percent) defy easy categorization, including bankers, human resources professionals, and business owners • 26 (4 percent) reported they are actively looking for work in the field.

Rotary Peace Fellows become meaningfully employed in various countries around the world. To date, • 204 (29 percent) reside in North America

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• • • • • • •

165 (23 percent) reside in Asia 106 (15 percent) reside in Europe 80 (11 percent) reside in Africa 64 (9 percent) reside in Australia and Oceania 53 (8 percent) reside in South America 25 (4 percent) reside in the Middle East 9 (1 percent) reside in Central America and the Caribbean.

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The work of Rotary Peace Fellows is exemplary and inspiring. For example, two of them designed a project providing curriculum, peacebuilding training, and education to 200 teachers and 1,300 students in ten different high schools in Uganda. This initiative was made financially possible through a Rotary Foundation Global Grant, cosponsored by Rotarians in the United States and Uganda. Individual Rotarians also launch peace initiatives. For example, over several years, two Rotarians, one of Greek background and one of Turkish background, designed and facilitated a series of problemsolving and peacebuilding workshops focusing on ethnically divided Cyprus and Greek Turkish relations in the eastern Mediterranean. These workshops brought together participants from the Greek and Turkish Cypriot communities from Turkey, Greece, and the United States to discuss pressing issues in the ongoing Cyprus conflict, as well as avenues toward reconciliation and resolution. In attendance were leaders of civil society organizations, academics, former government representatives, and influential people close to current policy leaders. Reports, in the form of white papers, on the recommendations that resulted from the dialogue process were distributed to the leadership on the two sides of the conflict, as well as civil society organizations, party leaders, foreign embassies involved in the Cyprus issue, and the UN office in Cyprus. There are innumerable other peace-worthy initiatives launched by Rotary Peace Fellows, Rotarians, or both in collaboration. They all underscore the ongoing contribution of Rotary International to peace. The next significant milestone in Rotary’s contribution to international peace came in 2012, when a group of Rotarians founded and launched the Rotarian Action Group for Peace, a semi-autonomous, international organization endorsed and authorized by Rotary International. As its name suggests, its vision and actions are explicitly and specifically centered on the area of focus of peace conflict prevention and resolution. In this regard, Action Group for Peace provides an official entity that empowers and supports the peace work of Rotarians by offering structure, guidance and resources to further their peace efforts. Rotary already has a strong commitment to peace, and our organization will forge a path for existing

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The Rotarian Action Group for Peace also engages Rotarians and Rotary Peace Fellows in collaborative initiatives with peace organizations worldwide. Moreover, the Rotarian Action Group for Peace created the Rotary PeaceHub to promote and facilitate its work. Found at http://www.rotarianactiongroupforpeace.org/, the PeaceHub is an interactive website that integrates a map with key locations in the field of peace, a visual database of constituents and content, social media for Rotarians to interact, peace resources, and a newsfeed of current peace events. These elements of the PeaceHub have specific objectives. The objective of the map is to help users locate, connect with, and retrieve information about the Rotary Peace Centers, the Rotary Peace Fellows, educational institutions with peace programs, peace organizations, Rotary Peace Projects, and members of the Rotarian Action Group for Peace from around the world. The visual database is designed to help make searching through the PeaceHub more intuitive, and the social media component allows users to engage in dialogue on key current events and projects in the field. Under the peace resources component, Rotarians and partners can access videos, books, and articles relevant to a range of peace issues. Finally, a sophisticated newsfeed disseminates peace-related current events information in real time. All of these initiatives constitute significant landmarks of Rotary International’s efforts to promote a vision and a strategy for peace in accordance with its foundational principles. In looking at the historical overview of these endeavors, one of the most succinct and highlighted explications of Rotary International’s vision, commitment, and agenda for peace is reflected in a 1959 publication titled Seven Paths to Peace. This was a landmark articulation of Rotary’s approach to peace, as it was formulated against the historical backdrop of World War II. As the title suggests, it outlines seven directives that the Rotarian follows to be an effective agent of international peace and understanding. Originally taken from the Outline of Policy in International Service, the seven paths to peace read as follows. 1. The Path of Patriotism

[The Rotarian] will look beyond national patriotism and consider himself as sharing responsibility for the advancement of international understanding, good will, and peace.

He will resist any tendency to act in terms of national or racial superiority. 2. The Path of Conciliation

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[The Rotarian] will seek and develop common grounds for agreement with peoples of other lands. 3. The Path of Freedom

[The Rotarian] will defend the rule of law and order to preserve the liberty of the individual so that he may enjoy freedom of thought, speech and assembly, freedom from persecution and aggression, and freedom from want and fear. 4. The Path of Progress

[The Rotarian] will support action directed towards improving standards of living for all peoples, realizing that poverty anywhere endangers prosperity everywhere. 5. The Path of Justice

[The Rotarian] will uphold the principle of justice for mankind, recognizing that these are fundamental and must be world-wide. 6. The Path of Sacrifice

[The Rotarian] will strive always to promote peace between nations and will be prepared to make personal sacrifices for that ideal. 7. The Path to Loyalty

[The Rotarian] will urge and practice a spirit of understanding of every other man’s beliefs as a step towards international good will, recognizing that there are certain basic moral and spiritual standards which, if practiced, will insure a richer, fuller life.

What is extraordinary about these seven directives is how seminal they were at the time they were written in 1959 and how relevant they are today, especially in an era of globalization and heightened structural interdependencies and interconnectivity between nations, societies, economies, identity groups, cultures, religions, and so on. When scrutinized carefully and in historical context, the seven paths to peace have a clear dual objective: first, to transcend the ethnocentric nationalism that drove the world into two world wars, and second, to open up and identify pathways, in vision and action, that promote and contribute to building peace and understanding in the world. While denouncing any nationalist notion of national superiority, the directives call for a transethnic and transnational sense of patriotism that includes other people of other nations and cultures, with whom to develop conciliatory agendas for the common good. They call for liberty for all and its grounding in the rule of law, and advocate the pursuit of well-being for all peoples, not just one’s own. They call for justice for all people, not just

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for one’s own nation or identity group. They call for reframing the idea of sacrifice, which, contrary to the nationalist notion of sacrifice as “heroic” killing and dying, speaks of a readiness to sacrifice in the interest of peace and in building peace between nations. They also call for a redefinition of loyalty, which, contrary to the idolatrous, prejudicial, and exclusivist notion of national loyalty as propagated by nationalism, enhances loyalty to tolerance, acceptance, and respect toward other people’s beliefs and cultures, as a universal spiritual condition for international goodwill, peace, and understanding. The directives are more relevant today than they were when written in 1959. As the complex and irreversible process of globalization shrinks the world, increasingly bringing all nations, societies, cultures, religions, and peoples in direct and indirect contact with each other, the world inevitably requires incessant cooperative and conciliatory approaches to addressing common challenges, common needs, and common hopes.

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The Contributors

Pamina Firchow is assistant professor of conflict analysis and resolution at George Mason University. Her research focuses primarily on local experiences of peacebuilding and human rights interventions in postconflict and postauthoritarian societies. Her most recent publications include empirical studies of reparations in Colombia, theoretical analyses of the nexus between reparations and peacebuilding, and examinations of the use of technology in peace research. These latter develop inclusive surveys and bottom-up indicators of peace based on the Everyday Peace Indicators project, which is funded by the Carnegie Corporation of New York. She was appointed as the academic adviser to the Rotary Peace Centers Committee in 2012 and is a former Rotary Peace Scholar (Argentina, Class I).

Harry Anastasiou is professor of international peace and conflict studies at Portland State University. He has taught, published, and lectured widely on nationalism, ethnic conflict in the eastern Mediterranean, multidimensional peacebuilding, and international peace and conflict issues. For two and a half decades, he has played a leading role in peacebuilding initiatives and facilitation engaging Greek and Turkish citizens and policy leaders from Greece, Turkey, and ethnically divided Cyprus. In 2010 he was appointed by Rotary International as an academic adviser and member to the Rotary Peace Centers Committee. Chantelle Doerksen was a Rotary Peace Fellow at the University of Queensland, where her master’s thesis was supervised by Nicole George. She has a background in project development with the U.S. Peace Corps, Plan International, UNDP, and Mediators Beyond Borders.

Sharon Edington has worked in international development and humanitarian aid in the Middle East, Caucasus and Balkan regions, Asia Pacific, and Africa since 2006. Following her 2013–2014 Rotary Peace Fellowship at

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the University of Bradford, she joined Act for Peace in Sydney, Australia, where her work focuses on development in Africa.

Anderson Freitas served as a district attorney for the Public Ministry of

the state of Bahia, Brazil, for over twelve years. He was a Rotary Peace Fellow and received his master’s of international development policy from Duke University in 2014. Previously, he attended Fulbright’s Hubert H. Humphrey Fellowship Program at American University, Washington College of Law. His professional interests include justice reform, citizen security, and environmental conflict resolution.

Nicole George is senior lecturer in peace and conflict studies in the School of Political Science and International Studies at the University of Queensland, Australia. Her research interests are focused on the politics of gender, conflict, violence, and peacebuilding with an empirical focus on the Pacific Islands region. She is the author of Situating Women: Gender Politics and Circumstance in Fiji (ANU Press) and has recently published a range of journal articles and book chapters examining engagement with the Women, Peace, and Security agenda across the Pacific Islands region. Kristine Höglund is associate professor at the Department of Peace and

Conflict Research, Uppsala University, Sweden. Her research has covered issues such as the dilemmas of democratization in countries emerging from violent conflict, the causes and consequences of electoral violence, the importance of trust in peace negotiation processes, and the role of international actors in dealing with crises in war-torn societies.

Caroline Hughes is professor of conflict resolution and peace and academic director of the Rotary Centre for International Studies at Bradford University. Her primary research interests are peacebuilding, Southeast Asia, and the politics of aid and development. She is the author of Dependent Communities: Aid and Politics in Cambodia and Timor-Leste and The Politics of Accountability in South East Asia: The Dominance of Moral Ideologies.

Mimmi Söderberg Kovacs is assistant professor at the Department of

Peace and Conflict Research, Uppsala University, Sweden. She is also a Researcher at the Nordic Africa Institute. She has conducted research on nonstate actors in civil wars, rebel-to-party transformations, conflict resolution processes, and postconflict democratization.

Francis Lethem is associate dean for executive education programs, Sanford School of Public Policy, director and professor of the practice at the

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The Contributors

Duke Center for International Development, and co-director of the DukeUNC Rotary Program in Peace and Conflict Resolution. His professional interests include institutional design for sustainable development, the design and management of development projects, project design for conflict prevention, and human resources development. Before joining Duke in 1994, Lethem worked for about thirty years at the World Bank, including as a policy and projects adviser. In 2006, he was named a Paul Harris Fellow by Rotary International.

Sana Saeed is a Rotary Peace Fellow at the International Christian

University in Tokyo, Japan, pursuing a master’s in peace studies. In 2008, she received a master’s degree in conflict analysis and resolution from the School for Conflict Analysis and Resolution at George Mason University, with a focus on mobilizing youth and interfaith activism. Saeed has six years of experience working with youth development and interfaith dialogue in the United States and Myanmar.

Giorgio Shani is president of the Asia-Pacific Region of the International Studies Association and associate director of the Rotary Peace Center at International Christian University, Japan. Recent publications include the single-authored books Religion, Identity and Human Security (2014) and Sikh Nationalism and Identity in a Global Age (2008). Waradas Thiyagaraja is a Rotary Peace Center alumnus (2012–2014) of Uppsala University. His research explores peace, reconciliation, and civil war negotiations. He currently works at GIZ-FLICT in Sri Lanka on social integration.

Index

ABC triangle, 45, 46(fig.) abductions: Sri Lanka’s postconflict activity, 26 abortion debate, 107(n14) accountability: war crimes investigation in Sri Lanka, 28–29 Afghanistan war, 70, 105–106(n4) Agenda for Peace, 109, 111–112 All Party Representative Conference (APRC; Sri Lanka), 19–20 Amazon region. See Brazil Amila, Dambara, 24 Arara people, 63(n2) armed conflict: liberal peacebuilding in the Solomon Islands, 87; negative versus positive peace, 10–11. See also Peace Triangle Ascher, William, 36 assistentialist culture, 131, 136, 143 Aung San Suu Kyi, 65, 74, 79 authoritarian regimes: Brazil’s failed development stemming from, 44; Fiji’s politicized indigenous military, 91–92; WPS principles in Fiji, 83 autonomous government: Sri Lanka’s Tamil-speaking minority, 21

backsliding, 88, 106(n9) Bainimarama, Frank, 92–94 bati (teeth) concept in Fiji, 92 Belo Monte dam, Brazil, 36–38, 40, 42– 43, 45 Bhagwan Rolls, Sharon, 95–96, 98–100 biopower, 70–71 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 110; human security issues, 69; liberal

peacebuilding within a peacekeeping operation, 114–115, 120–124 Bougainville, 87–88, 106(n5)–106(n6) Boutros-Ghali, Boutros, 109, 111–112, 117–118 Brazil: ABC triangle of conflict analysis, 46(fig.); alternatives to hydroelectric energy development, 44–45; applying the “onion” tool to conflict actors, 47(fig.); causes of conflict, 50–60; CDA conflict minimization method, 62–63; conflict actors, 45– 50; conflict mapping, 51(fig.); conflict sensitivity addressing violence over Brazil’s dam construction, 41–42; demographics of the Amazon, 39; economic vulnerability, 53–54; energy challenges, 6, 36–37; environmental scarcity driving conflict, 54–55; IACHR Precautionary Measure, 61– 62; improving governance through capacity building, 58–59, 64(n5); inclusionary policies reducing conflict, 59–60; increasing energy demand coupled with development, 37–39; indigenous identity, 52–53; institutional failure in reconciling energy and environmental concerns, 42–43; language and education, 64(n6); overcoming the causes of conflict, 56–60; security implications of dam projects, 43; social and environmental impacts of dam projects, 40–41; weak governance triggering conflict, 55–56

169

170

Index

Britain: colonialism in Myanmar, 72–73 Buddhism: anti-Muslim discrimination in Myanmar, 76; British suppression in Myanmar, 72; interfaith cooperation in Myanmar, 76–77; Sri Lanka’s postconflict attitudes, 28; violence against Myanmar’s Rohingya Muslims, 65–66 bullying initiative, 132–133

Cada, Dorothy (Dot), 134–135 Cambodia, 6–7; human security issues, 69; liberal peacebuilding within a peacekeeping operation, 114; repatriation of refugees, 115–120; “voluntary repatriation” of refugees, 110 capacity building, improving governance through, 58–59, 64(n5) capitalism: divergence from a liberal model, 127–128 casualties of Sri Lanka’s conflict, 17 Catholic Church, 127 ceasefires: Sri Lanka’s peace initiatives, 18(table) Central African Republic (CAR), 69 centralization of power in Sri Lanka, 29 Chandrasiri, G.A., 22 citizen’s diplomacy, 111 citizenship: anti-Muslim discrimination in Myanmar, 78 Citizenship Act (1982, Myanmar), 65, 75 Citizenship Law (Bosnia), 121–122 civil society: war crimes investigation in Sri Lanka, 29. See also Rotary International Cold War: liberal peace, 109–110 Collaborative for Development Action (CDA), 62–63 colonialism: constructions of culture in Fiji, 90–94; human security as tool for neocolonial control, 69–70; Myanmar’s cultural colonialism, 74– 75; ownership of liberal peace in Bougainville and Solomon Islands, 87–88; religion, state, and colonialism in Myanmar, 72–75; shaping Fiji’s politics and internal tensions, 90–94 communalism: WPS principles in Fiji, 83 community action, Rotary’s focus on, 132–133

community security, 67 components of peace, 1–2 conflict, Rotary emerging from, 137–138 conflict analysis, 2–3; ABC triangle, 45; Galtung’s components, 12–13; “onion” tool, 45; Peace Triangle, 5– 6; Sri Lanka’s failed peace negotiations, 16–17; Sri Lanka’s incompatibilities, 19–25; Sri Lanka’s negative peace, 17, 19; Sri Lanka’s peace initiatives, 18(table); understanding the conflict actors’ needs, 45. See also conflict sensitivity; Peace Triangle conflict attitudes: analyzing Brazil’s conflict, 46(fig.); Brazil’s energy policy, 45; Peace Triangle components, 12(fig.)–13(fig.); Sri Lanka’s postconflict attitudes, 27–31 conflict behavior: analyzing Brazil’s conflict, 46(fig.); Brazil’s energy policy, 45; Peace Triangle components, 12–13, 12(fig.)– 13(fig.); Sri Lanka, 25–27 conflict issues, 13(fig.); Sri Lanka’s incompatibilities, 19–25 conflict mapping, Brazil, 51(fig.) conflict prevention, 132 conflict resolution: co-opting peacebuilding processes for, 1; general and localized features of, 1– 2; liberal theory approach, 110–111; Rotary’s focus on, 132–134; Sri Lankan process, 22; success factors, 63–64(n4); in traditional and indigenous societies, 88–89 conflict sensitivity: addressing violence over Brazil’s dam construction, 41– 42; benefits of analysis to development intervention, 35; defining, 35; designing and implementing strategies for Brazil’s dam projects, 60–61; developing capacity for improving governance, 58–59; engaging all conflict actors, 57–58; factors in Brazil’s conflict, 50–56; inclusionary policies reducing Brazil’s conflict, 59–60; overcoming the causes of Brazil’s conflict, 56–60 Conflict Triangle, 5, 9, 12–14

Index constitutional peace, 129 constitutional reforms: Fiji’s liberal constitutional reform, 92; Sri Lanka, 20–22 contested peace, 14 context, conflict: analyzing Brazil’s conflict, 46(fig.); Brazil’s energy policy, 45 co-optation of peacebuilding, 6–7 coups d’état: FemLINK emerging in Fiji, 95–96; FemLINK films, 96; Fiji’s history of, 83, 91–93; Fiji’s Mothers in Dialogue as response to, 99–100; gendered impacts of Fiji’s, 94–95 crime: increase in Brazil’s damconstruction area, 42 crimes against humanity: Myanmar, 79 critical perspectives on human security, 68–71 critical theory: democratic peace theory, 129; liberal peacebuilding and, 112– 115; repatriation of Cambodian refugees, 117–120; treatment of stateless people and refugees, 109–110 critical thinking, 4 cultural colonialism, 74–75 culture: conflict resolution in traditional and indigenous societies, 88–89; constructions of culture in Fiji, 90– 94; human security in terms of cultural difference, 71–72; importance of motherhood in Pacific Island cultures, 99–100; liberal peace, gender and tradition in the Pacific Islands, 86–89; needs of Brazil’s conflict actors, 48; religion and culture legitimizing gendered exclusions from peacebuilding, 82; theory versus practice in peace and conflict studies, 2; WPS principles in Fiji, 83–84 culture of peace, Rotary’s, 130 Curle, Adam, 3, 111–112

Dams and Development: Framework for Decision-Making, 57 Dayton Peace Accords (1995), 121 deforestation in the Amazon, 40 democracy: building democratic institutions in Bougainville, 87; coercive democratization, 70;

171

conflict undermining Sri Lanka’s, 17; democratic peace theory, 129; Fiji’s democratic reform, 92; friction in Fijian peacebuilding, 98; incompatibility of democratization and development in the South, 129– 130; indicators of democratic reform in Myanmar, 65; liberal peacebuilding programs requiring development of, 85–86; postconflict Fiji, 94; Sri Lanka’s centralization of power, 29; Sri Lanka’s postwar negotiations, 21; women’s peacebuilding efforts in Fiji, 94–95 democratic peace theory, 129 Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), 69 Department of Peace and Conflict Research, Uppsala University, 3 development, economic: advancing Brazil’s national security issues, 44; Brazil’s energy demand as factor in, 37–39; conflict sensitivity analysis, 35; environmental scarcity driving Brazil’s conflict, 54–55; human security securitizing development, 70–71; incompatibility of democratization and development in the South, 129–130; parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.); postconflict beautification in Sri Lanka, 26; reforming the international system toward peace, 111; Rotary’s focus areas for global grants and service projects, 131–133; Sri Lanka’s postconflict issues, 24. See also sustainable development devolution of power, 20–21 disappeared populations: Sri Lanka’s postconflict activism, 26–27 discrimination: field interviews of Burmese Muslims in Yangon, 78–79; as source of human insecurity, 71–72 disease: human security and, 69; resettling Cambodia’s refugees, 119; Rotary’s focus on prevention and treatment, 132 displaced populations. See internally displaced persons; refugees dissidence, women’s peace activism as, 82–83

172

Index

domestic violence: Bougainville, 87; against women in Fiji, 93–94 drug use: increase in Brazil’s damconstruction area, 42

Eastern Reawakening program (Sri Lanka), 24 economic incentives and disincentives, 129–130 economic policy: military enforcement of Sri Lanka’s, 27. See also development, economic economic security, 67 economic status: Brazil’s economic vulnerability, 53–54; Sri Lanka’s military spending, 25 education and education policy: antiMuslim discrimination in Myanmar, 76; Brazil’s indigenous population, 64(n6); Buddhism in colonial Myanmar, 72–73; inclusionary policies reducing Brazil’s conflict, 59–60; Rotary Centers for International Studies in Peace and Conflict Resolution, 139–140; Rotary’s integrative approach to peace and stability, 131; Rotary’s peer mediation project, 132–133; secular education in Myanmar, 73; Sri Lanka’s trilingual policy, 22–23 Eknaligoda, Prageeth, 26 electoral politics. See political participation emergency relief: parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.) employment, exclusion of Sri Lanka’s minorities from, 30 endowment, Rotary International’s, 138 energy policy, Brazil’s: Amazon region, 6; conflict sensitivity addressing violence over dam construction, 41– 42; demographics of the Amazon, 39; as factor in economic development, 37–39; hydroelectric dam construction, 36–37; institutional failure in reconciling energy and environmental concerns, 42–43; needs of conflict actors, 48– 50; social and environmental impacts of dam projects, 40–41 energy security, Brazil’s need for, 37–39 environmental security: alternatives to Brazil’s hydroelectric energy

development, 44–45; Brazil’s hydroelectric dam construction, 36– 37; Brazil’s indigenous identity, 52–53; Brazil’s weak governance triggering conflict, 55–56; controlling deforestation, 40–41; designing and implementing strategies for Brazil’s dam projects, 60–61; environmental scarcity driving Brazil’s conflict, 54–55; human security and, 67; institutional failure in reconciling Brazil’s energy and environmental concerns, 42–43; social and environmental impacts of Brazil’s dam projects, 40–41 ethnic conflict: Brazil’s hydroelectric dam projects, 53; challenging Fiji’s ethnic and gendered divisions, 95– 96; Fiji’s coups unleashing, 93; postwar Sinhalization of Sri Lanka, 24–25; rise of Buddhist nationalism in Myanmar, 73–75; Rohingya Muslims as ethnic outsiders, 65–66; statelessness of Roma minorities in Bosnia-Herzegovina, 121–123, 125– 126(n2); structural violence in Myanmar, 76 ethnonationalism, Sri Lanka’s, 16–17, 19–25 external elements in peacebuilding, 81 extremism, polarized peace and, 16

fearful peace, 16 FemLINK, 6, 83; challenging Fijian women’s marginalization, 101–103; goals and ambitions of, 96–97; origins of, 95–96; relational discourse, 99–100 Fiji: conflict, coups, and constructions of culture, 91–94; gender and liberal peacebuilding, 94–95; gendered approach to peacebuilding, 82–83; women’s rights to legal abortion, 107(n14). See also FemLINK fishing industry, 41 food security, 67 freedom of expression, 27 Freemasonry, 130 friction in liberal peacebuilding: challenging Fijian women’s marginalization, 101–103; FemLINK facilitating facilitative spaces for discussion, 97–98; gendered

Index approach to peacebuilding, 82–83; local and global peacebuilding, 90; motherhood and Fijian peacebuilding, 99–100

Galtung, Johan, 3, 5, 9, 12–13, 12(fig.), 111 gender: gender and liberal peacebuilding in Fiji, 94–95; gendered participation in liberal peacebuilding, 84–86; liberal peace, gender and tradition in the Pacific Islands, 86–89; the value of hybridity in peacebuilding, 81–82 gender security, 6; discrimination as source of human insecurity, 71–72; FemLINK and friction in Fijian peacebuilding, 97–99; FemLINK defining, 97; Fiji’s colonial history, 90–91; Fiji’s FemLINK, 83; impacts of Fiji’s coups on, 93; Melanesian conflicts restricting, 86–87; Solomon Islands, 87 global grants, Rotary’s requirements for, 131–133; examples of, 131 global peacebuilding: friction concept, 89–90 globalization: theory versus practice in peace and conflict studies, 2 governance: Brazil’s weak governance triggering conflict, 55–56; Fiji’s “good governance coup,” 92–93; governmental power building in Sri Lanka, 31–32; paternalistic control in Fiji, 91 government institutions: analyzing Brazil’s conflict, 46(fig.); applying the “onion” tool to Brazil’s conflict actors, 47(fig.); engaging all Brazil’s conflict actors, 57–58; improving governance through capacity building, 58–59; mapping Brazil’s conflict, 51(fig.); needs of Brazil’s conflict actors, 48–50; political participation in Bougainville, 106(n5); pressing for international change, 110; religion, state, and colonialism in Myanmar, 72–75 Grameen Dialogue program, 134–135 Gramsci, Antonio, 127–128, 130, 136

Harris, Paul, 130, 136–138 health security: human security and, 67; rape and domestic violence in

173

Bougainville, 106(n6); Rotary programs supporting communities, 134–135; Rotary’s focus on maternal and child health, 132 Heifer International Nepal, 133 HIV/AIDS, 67 human rights: incorporating the values of liberalism, 111; Sri Lanka’s postconflict activism, 26–27; war crimes investigations in Sri Lanka, 28–29 human security: conflict behavior and insecure peace, 14–15; critical perspectives on, 68–71; Fiji’s colonial history shaping conflict and politics, 90–94; Fiji’s coups, 91–92; as form of biopower, 70–71; interfaith cooperation in Myanmar, 76–77; multifaith and multicultural approach in Myanmar, 74–75; narrow and broad approaches to, 67– 68; parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.); people-centered conceptualization of, 66–67; postconflict behavior in Sri Lanka, 25–27; securitization and discrimination against Muslims in Myanmar, 75–76; seven components of, 67; in terms of cultural difference, 71–72 Human Security Report, 68 humanitarian intervention, 6–7; parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.); Sri Lanka’s postconflict issues, 23 hybrid approaches to conflict transformation, 6; distinguishing between global and local realms, 89– 90; emergence of, 81; exclusion of women from liberal peacebuilding, 81–83; liberal peace, gender, and tradition in the Pacific Islands, 86– 89; peacebuilding from below, 109–110; response to incompatibilities of liberal peacebuilding, 130–131; Rotary International’s North-South dynamics, 130–131 hydroelectric power: Brazil’s dependence on, 38–39; Brazil’s energy demands, 36–37; environmental scarcity driving Brazil’s conflict, 54–55; Laos’s Nam Theun 2 dam project, 57–58. See also Brazil

174

Index

identity: Brazil’s indigenous identity, 52– 53; cultural differences in human security, 71–72; polarized peace, 15–16 immigration: exodus of Myanmar’s Rohingya Muslims, 76; indentured Indian migrants in Fiji, 91; Indians in Myanmar, 73–74 income inequality: Brazil, 54 indigenous societies: applying the “onion” tool to Brazil’s conflict actors, 47(fig.); Brazil’s energy strategy, 6; Brazil’s population statistics, 52–53, 63(n2); conflict resolution in traditional and indigenous societies, 88–89; conflict sensitivity addressing violence over Brazil’s dam construction, 41–42; constructions of culture in Fiji, 90– 94, 106–107(n10); demographics of the Amazon, 39; designing and implementing strategies for Brazil’s dam projects, 60–61; human rights issues associated with hydroelectric power, 44–45; IACHR Precautionary Measure, 61–62; indigenous identity, 52–53; language rights in Brazil, 64(n6); Laos’s hydroelectric project, 57–58; mapping Brazil’s conflict, 51(fig.); needs of Brazil’s conflict actors, 48–50; Rotary linking indigenous efforts with liberal peacebuilding, 134–135; security implications of Brazil’s dam projects, 43–44; social impact of Brazil’s hydroelectric dam construction, 36–37, 40–41 individual rights, 111 Indo-Lanka Accord (1987), 20–22 Indonesia: maternal imagery challenging gender discrimination, 107(n12) infrastructure, Rotary International’s, 137 infrastructure development, Sri Lanka, 24, 30. See also development, economic insecure peace, 14–15 Institute for the Environment and Renewable Natural Resources (IBAMA; Brazil), 48 institutional failure: Roma statelessness in Bosnia-Herzegovina, 123–124; Sri Lanka, 32 Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR), 44–45, 50, 51(fig.), 53, 61–62

internally displaced persons (IDPs) in Sri Lanka, 17, 23–24, 33(n26), 33(n26)* international peacebuilding: repressive nature of liberal peace, 109–110 Internet: reducing the practice and theory divide, 4–5; Sri Lanka’s postconflict suppression of, 27 Iraq war, 1, 70 Israeli-Palestinian peace process, 14

Jews: exclusion within BosniaHerzegovina, 122 Jirau dam, Brazil, 36–37 Journal of Conflict Resolution, 3 Journal of Peace Research, 3 judicial system, Brazil’s dam projects and, 43, 56 Juruna population, 63(n2) justice and reconciliation: Sri Lanka, 28– 30 justice system, Brazil’s dam projects and, 49–50, 51(fig.)

Kant, Immanuel, 128–129 Klumph, Arch C., 138

labor: environmental scarcity driving conflict, 54–55; exclusion of Sri Lanka’s minorities from employment, 30; gender impacts of Fiji trade embargo, 94; inclusionary policies reducing Brazil’s conflict, 59–60; labor-related conflict over Brazil’s dam construction, 42; mapping Brazil’s conflict, 51(fig.); needs of Brazil’s conflict actors, 48–50 language as conflict issue: Brazil’s indigenous population, 64(n6); employment discrimination against Sri Lanka’s minorities, 30; ethnic nationalism in Sri Lanka, 33(n24); Sri Lanka’s trilingual plan, 22–23; women’s role in Fijian peacebuilding, 98 Laos, dam project in, 57 legitimacy, political, 2, 110 Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation Commission (LLRC; Sri Lanka), 22, 29, 33(n25) liberal internationalism, 110–112, 114– 115 liberal peace perspective, 6–7, 11; critical perspectives, 112–115; FemLINK

Index and friction in Fijian peacebuilding, 97–99; FemLINK’s use of relational discourse, 99–100; foundational characteristics, 110–112; gender and liberal peacebuilding in Fiji, 94–95; gender and tradition in the Pacific Islands, 86–89; gendered exclusions, 81–82, 105–106(n4), 105(n3); hybridity as alternative to, 81; potentially repressive nature of, 109– 110; premise and ideals, 128–129; repatriation of Cambodian refugees, 115–120; Roma statelessness in Bosnia-Herzegovina, 120–124; Rotary linking indigenous efforts with liberal peacebuilding, 134–135; theory versus practice in peace and conflict studies, 2; UNSC resolutions reinforcing gendered exclusion from, 85–86; women and gendered participation in, 84–86 liberal values, Rotary espousing, 129– 131 Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), 5–6, 9, 16–17, 18(table), 19, 33(n19) Libya, 68, 70 local peacebuilding, 87–90, 109–110 Locke, John, 129

market-led economic models, 110 marriage: anti-Muslim discrimination in Myanmar, 76; FemLINK and friction in Fijian peacebuilding, 97–98 media: FemLINK documentation of Fijian women’s experiences, 96; mapping Brazil’s conflict, 51(fig.); Sinhalese images of Sri Lanka’s war, 30; Sri Lanka’s postconflict violence, 26–27 mediation: Rotary’s peer mediation project, 132–133; Track II, 111 Melanesian conflicts, 86, 89 memorialization policies in Sri Lanka, 29–30 Methodism in Fiji, 91–92 microcredit programs: Rotary programs, 134–135 militarization of society in Sri Lanka, 28–30 military forces: Brazil’s defense strategy, 44; Fiji’s coups, 91–92; liberal peacebuilding in Fiji, 94–95;

175

postconflict behavior in Sri Lanka, 25–27; romanticization of Sri Lanka’s conflict, 30; Sri Lanka’s resettlement process, 23–24 military regimes: Brazil’s failed development stemming from, 44; Sri Lanka’s postconflict control, 22 military victory: negative versus positive peace, 10–12 Min Ko Naing, 77 minority rights: Sri Lanka’s incompatibilities, 19–25; Sri Lanka’s postwar infrastructure development, 24 Mirovitskaya, Natalia, 36 missionaries, British importing to Fiji, 91 motherhood: Indonesian women’s use of maternal imagery, 107(n12); relational discourse and Fijian peacebuilding, 99–100 Mothers in Dialogue (Fiji), 99–100 murder of Christian teachers in Myanmar, 79–80 Muruganandan, Kugan, 26 Muslims: ethnoreligious influences in Myanmar, 73–75; field interviews of Burmese Muslims in Yangon, 78–79; interfaith cooperation in Myanmar, 76–77; securitization and discrimination against Muslims in Myanmar, 75–76; statelessness, 65 Myanmar: field interviews of Muslims in Yangon, 78–79; interfaith cooperation, 76–77; religion and state control, 72–75; Rotary projects in, 134–135; securitization and discrimination against Muslims, 75–76

national interests: human security as a pretext for intervention, 70 national security: critical perspectives on human security, 69; human security challenging, 71–72 nationalism: construction of culture in Fiji, 91–92; postconflict negotiations in Sri Lanka, 20–21; rise of Buddhist nationalism in Myanmar, 73; Rotary International’s view of patriotism, 142–144; secular nationalism in Myanmar, 74–75; Sri Lanka’s postconflict attitudes, 28 nationalist groups, rise of Sri Lanka’s, 16–17

176

Index

negative peace, 10–12, 17, 19 negotiated peace, 9–12, 16–17 neocolonialism: human security as tool for neocolonial control, 69–70 Nepal: dam project, 57; Rotary development and security projects, 133 969 Movement (Myanmar), 74 no-fly zone (Libya), 70 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs): analyzing Brazil’s conflict, 46(fig.); capacity building for improved governance, 58–59; mapping Brazil’s conflict, 51(fig.); needs of Brazil’s conflict actors, 48–50; pressing for international change, 110. See also Rotary International Norte Energia building consortium, 41, 43 Northern Ireland, 16 Northern Provincial Council (NPC; Sri Lanka), 21 Northern Spring program (Sri Lanka), 24 North-South relations: critique of liberal peacebuilding, 113–115; exporting liberal institutions and peacebuilding to Bougainville and Solomon Islands, 87–88; human security securitizing development, 70–71; incompatibility of democratization and development in the South, 129– 130; Rotary’s focus areas for global grants and service projects, 131–133; Rotary’s integrative approach to peace and stability, 130–131. See also Rotary International

Ogata, Sadako, 68 Oneal, John, 32(n8) “onion” conflict analysis tool, 45, 47(fig.) The Open Sky (documentary film), 77 Oslo Peace Accord, 14

Pacific Islands: liberal peace, gender, and tradition, 86–89. See also Bougainville; Fiji; Solomon Islands Pacific Islands Forum (PIF), 87, 94–95 parameters of peacebuilding, 7–8 paramilitary groups: Sri Lanka’s postconflict activity, 26 paramountcy, Fijian, 91, 106–107(n10) Paris Agreements, 118, 125(n1)

parliamentary select committee (PSC; Sri Lanka), 20, 22 partial peace, 14–15 paternalism in Fiji, 91 patriotism, 142–144 peace agreements: world wars, 14 peace and conflict studies, 3–4; multidisciplinary elements of, 5–7; negative versus positive peace, 10– 12; practice and theory divide, 4–5 peace culture: parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.) peace from below, 109, 111–112 peace research, 3 peace talks, Sri Lanka’s, 17–25 Peace Triangle: Brazil’s conflict over energy policy, 45–50; conflict attitudes, 15–16; conflict behavior, 14–15; constituent elements of conflict, 13, 13(fig.); evaluating the quality and nature of peace, 31–32; foundations of, 5; incompatibilities, 19–25; issues at stake, 14; nuanced conceptualization of peace, 11–12; origins and function of, 9–10; triangulating peace, 32(n8) peace vigils, Fijian women’s, 98–99 peacekeeping: building negative versus positive peace, 11; parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.); repatriation of Cambodian refugees, 115–120; Solomon Islands, 87, 106(n8) peer mediation, 132–133 personal security, 67 Peru: energy partnership with Brazil, 43 Phyo Tin, 78 polarized peace, 15–16, 27–28 policy process: critical perspectives on human security, 68–71; ethnoreligious influences in Myanmar, 73–75; gendered impacts of conflict, 84; the practice and theory divide, 4–5; strategies of risk mitigation, 36 political impunity, 27, 29–31 political participation: Buddhist activism in Myanmar, 72–75; ethnic conflict and statelessness in BosniaHerzegovina, 121; Fiji’s politicized indigenous military, 91–92; limits on women’s representation in Bougainville, 87; violence against women in Fiji, 93–94; women in

Index Bougainville, 106(n5); women in Fiji, 94–95 political parties: polarized peace, 16; Sinhal nationalism in Sri Lanka, 28; Sri Lanka’s TMVP, 33(n19) political security, 67 politicization, securitization as, 70–71 pop culture: Sinhalese images of Sri Lanka’s war, 30 positive peace, 3, 10–12 postcolonialism: Sri Lanka’s conflict, 16–17 postconflict societies: feminism and gender in liberal peacebuilding, 84– 86; human security as tool for neocolonial control, 69–70; women’s role in Pacific Island peace, 86–87. See also hybrid approaches to conflict transformation postsecularism, 6, 71–72 postwar societies: obstacles to sustainable peace, 9–10; resolving conflict incompatibilities in Sri Lanka, 19–25. See also Peace Triangle poverty: Brazil’s economic vulnerability fueling violence, 53–54 power relations, 3–4; asymmetry as basis for peacebuilding in Sri Lanka, 31; critiquing liberal peacebuilding, 113–115; hybridity as response to problems of liberal peace, 129–130; liberal approach to Roma statelessness in Bosnia-Herzegovina, 120–124; Sri Lanka’s trilingual policy, 22–23 practice, peace and conflict, 2–5 protests: interfaith cooperation in Myanmar lessening tensions, 76–77; labor-related conflict over Brazil’s dam construction, 42 provincial councils (PCs; Sri Lanka), 20– 22 public services: inclusionary policies reducing Brazil’s conflict, 59–60; Roma exclusion in BosniaHerzegovina, 122. See also Rotary International

Qaddafi, Muammar, 70

Rabuka, Sitiveni, 92 radio: FemLINK media, 96–97

177

Rajapaksa, Gotobhaya, 28 Rajapaksa, Mahinda, 10, 21, 28–29, 33(n25) Ramaphosa, Cyril, 22 rape: of Christian teachers in Myanmar, 79–80; rape and domestic violence in Bougainville, 106(n6); violence against women in Fiji, 93–94 realism, liberal theory and, 110–111 reconciliation: importance of language in Sri Lanka’s, 22–23; mediation-based, 111; parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.); Sri Lanka’s peace initiatives, 17, 19, 28–30, 33(n25); Sri Lanka’s truth and reconciliation commissions, 16, 22 reconstruction in Sri Lanka, 17, 19, 21, 24 refugees: Cambodian refugees and the right to repatriation, 115–120; Rotarian’s support of, 135; Sri Lanka’s conflict, 17; Sri Lanka’s postconflict issues, 23–24; “voluntary repatriation” of Cambodia’s, 110 regime change. See Sri Lanka Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands (RAMSI), 87 regional organizations, liberal peace through: Solomon Islands, 87–88 regional peace, 15 relational discourse, 99–100 religion: British missionaries in Fiji, 91; discrimination as source of human insecurity, 71–72; field interviews of Burmese Muslims in Yangon, 78–79; Fijian women’s peace vigils, 98–99; Fijian women’s rights to legal abortion, 107(n14); Fiji’s FemLINK, 95–96; friction in Fijian peacebuilding, 98; interfaith cooperation in Myanmar, 76–77; postsecularism, 6; postwar Sinhalization of Sri Lanka, 24–25, 28; religion and culture legitimizing gendered exclusions from peacebuilding, 82; religious discrimination in Myanmar, 65; state and colonial rule in Myanmar, 72– 75; theory versus practice in peace and conflict studies, 2; WPS principles in Fiji, 83–84 repatriation of Cambodian refugees, 115– 120

178

Index

resettlement policy: Cambodian refugees, 115–116; Roma minorities in Bosnia-Herzegovina, 121; Sri Lanka, 23 restored peace, 14 rights of return, 115–120 riots: Sri Lanka, 28 Rohingya Muslim community (Myanmar), 65, 73–75 Roma people, 6–7, 110, 120–124 Rotarian Action Group for Peace, 141– 142 Rotary Foundation, 138–139 Rotary International, 5, 7; Catholic Church view of, 127; global grants and service projects, 131–134, 132(table); Freemasonry and, 130; historical milestones toward peacebuilding, 137–144; liberal peace approach, 128–129; linking indigenous efforts with liberal peacebuilding, 134–135; NorthSouth dynamic, 130–131; 134–135 Rotary Peace Fellows, 139–142 Rotary PeaceHub, 142 rule of law: parameters of peacebuilding, 8(fig.) Russett, Bruce, 32(n8) Russia, Rotary projects in, 134

Santo Antônio dam, Brazil, 36 secularism: postsecular approach to human security, 71–72; secular nationalism in Myanmar, 74–75 security: affect of liberal peacebuilding on less powerful states, 113–114; Brazil’s need for energy security, 37– 39; implications of Brazil’s dam projects, 43–44. See also gender security; human security self-help groups, Rotary organizing, 133 Sen, Amartya, 68 September 11, 2011, 70 Seven Paths to Peace (Rotary International), 128, 142–144 Shine Win, 78–79 Sinhalization of Sri Lanka, 24–25 social impacts of hydroelectric power, 36–37 Solomon Islands, 87–88 South Africa: facilitating Sri Lankan peace talks, 22

sovereign power, biopower and, 70–71 sovereignty: critical perspectives on human security, 69; defining human security in terms of, 67 Sri Lanka: demographics of minorities, 32(n13); failed peace negotiations, 16–17; governmental power building, 31–32; peace initiatives, 18(table); Peace Triangle, 5–6; postconflict attitudes, 27–31; postconflict behavior, 25–27; resolving conflict incompatibilities, 19–25 state weakness, insecure peace and, 15 stateless persons, 110, 120–124 strongman, 16 structural violence against Muslims in Myanmar, 76 sustainable development, 6 sustainable peace: negative and positive peace, 10–12; Sri Lanka’s potential for, 17 Tamil Makkal Viduthalai Pulikal (TMVP), 21, 26, 33(n19) Tamil National Alliance (TNA), 20, 22, 28, 33(n16) Tamil Tigers. See Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam terrorism: Sri Lanka’s postconflict extremism, 28; Sri Lanka’s view of the conflicts, 30–31; theory versus practice in peace and conflict studies, 2 Thailand: Cambodian refugees, 117–120 Than Nyunt, 77 theory, peace and conflict, 2–5 Thompson River (Colorado) flood, 134 threat vacuum, 113 Timor-Leste: human security issues, 69 To Perpetual Peace (Kant), 128–129 torture: Sri Lanka’s postconflict activity, 26 tourism: Sri Lanka’s war tourism, 24–26 Track II mediation, 111 trade embargoes, Fiji’s, 94 transparency: Brazil’s conflict, 56 triangulating peace, 32(n8) trilingual education in Sri Lanka, 22–23 truth and reconciliation commissions, 16, 22 Turkey, 132–133 United Nations: critique of liberal

Index peacebuilding, 112–115; war crimes report on Sri Lanka, 29 United Nations Charter, 138–139 United Nations Development Program (UNDP): defining human security, 67; narrow and broad approaches to human security, 68 United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), 138–139 United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), 23, 68; repatriation of Cambodian refugees, 115–120; report on statelessness, 125–126(n2); Roma statelessness in Bosnia-Herzegovina, 122–123 United Nations Peacebuilding Commission, 109 United Nations Security Council: declaration 1325, 109; gendered impacts of conflict, 84; human security, 68; women, peace, and security (WPS) agenda, 83 United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC), 117–120 United People’s Freedom Alliance, 21 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 139 university programs, 3 unjust peace, 16, 28 unresolved peace, 14

values: cultural differences in human security, 71–72; hybridity in peacebuilding, 81; Rotary espousing liberal values, 129–131 Versailles peace agreement, 14 violence: Brazil’s economic vulnerability fueling, 53–54; Brazil’s weak governance triggering conflict, 55– 56; Fiji’s Mothers in Dialogue as response to coups, 99–100; gendered and domestic violence in Bougainville, 87; interfaith cooperation in Myanmar, 76–77; against Myanmar’s Rohingya Muslims, 65–66, 75–76; needs of Brazil’s conflict actors, 48–50; over Brazil’s dam projects, 41; social impact of Brazil’s hydroelectric dam construction, 37; using human security to control societies, 69–70

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“voluntary repatriation” of Cambodia’s refugees, 110

war crimes investigations and trials, 16, 28–29 war tourism, 24–26 water quality, Brazil’s, 41–42 Weeraraj, Lalith, 26 Wickremasinghe, Ranil, 20 Wirathu, Ashin, 74 women: Fijian women’s rights to legal abortion, 107(n14); gender impacts of Fiji trade embargo, 94; political participation in Bougainville, 106(n5); rape and domestic violence in Bougainville, 106(n6); Rotary club membership, 130, 134; Sri Lanka’s postconflict gender-based violence, 26. See also FemLINK; gender security women, peace, and security (WPS) agenda: FemLINK advocacy, 96–97; peace localizers in Fiji, 83–84; UNSC Resolutions slowing progress towards, 84–86 Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, 84 Women’s Rights Movement (Fiji), 98 Working Group on Women in Armed Conflict, 84 World Bank, 25, 57 World Commission on Dams, 57 World Summit, 68 World War I, 137–138 World War II, 138 xenophobia: Myanmar’s Buddhist monks, 74

Ye Myint Aung, 75

Zonta International, 134

About the Book

between empirical realities and theoretical approaches to the subject? The authors of Practical Approaches to Peacebuilding present a series of case studies from around the world to explore how various peacebuilding theories engage and interact with lived experiences, and also to elaborate useful new theoretical perspectives.

What is sustainable peacebuilding? And what is the relationship

Pamina Firchow is assistant professor of conflict analysis and resolution at George Mason University’s School for Conflict Analysis and Resolution.

Harry Anastasiou is professor of international peace and conflict studies and director of the Conflict Resolution Program at Portland State University.

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