Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change [1 ed.] 9781787568952, 9781787568969

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RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE

RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE Series Editor: Patrick G. Coy Recent Volumes: Volume 27: Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change
Edited by Patrick G. Coy Volume 28: Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change
Edited by Patrick G. Coy Volume 29: Pushing the Boundaries: New Frontiers in Conflict Resolution and Collaboration
Edited by Rachel Fleishman, Catherine Gerard and Rosemary O’Leary Volume 30: Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change
Edited by Patrick G. Coy Volume 31: Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change
Edited by Patrick G. Coy Volume 32: Critical Aspects of Gender in Conflict Resolution, Peacebuilding, and Social Movements
Edited by Anna Christine Snyder and Stephanie Phetsamay Stobbe Volume 33: Media, Movements, and Political Change
Edited by Jennifer Earl and Deana A. Rohlinger Volume 34: Nonviolent Conflict and Civil Resistance
Edited by Sharon Erickson Nepstad and Lester R. Kurtz Volume 35: Advances in the Visual Analysis of Social Movments
Edited by Nicole Doerr, Alice Mattoni and Simon Teune Volume 36: Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change
Edited by Patrick G. Coy Volume 37: Intersectionality and Social Change
Edited by Lynne M. Woehrle Volume 38: Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change
Edited by Patrick G. Coy Volume 39: Protest, Social Movements, and Global Democracy since 2011: New Perspectives
Edited by Thomas Davies, Holly Eva Ryan and Alejandro Peña Volume 40: Narratives of Identity in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change
Edited by Landon E. Hancock Volume 41: Non-state Violent Actors and Social Movement Organizations: Influence, Adaptation, and Change
Edited by Julie M. Mazzei

RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE VOLUME 42

RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE EDITED BY

PATRICK G. COY Kent State University, USA

United Kingdom
North America
Japan India
Malaysia
China

Emerald Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2018 Copyright r 2018 Emerald Publishing Limited Reprints and permissions service Contact: [email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. Any opinions expressed in the chapters are those of the authors. Whilst Emerald makes every effort to ensure the quality and accuracy of its content, Emerald makes no representation implied or otherwise, as to the chapters’ suitability and application and disclaims any warranties, express or implied, to their use. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-78756-896-9 (Print) ISBN: 978-1-78756-895-2 (Online) ISBN: 978-1-78756-897-6 (Epub) ISSN: 0163-786X (Series)

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CONTENTS List of Contributors

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About the Contributors

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Introduction Patrick G. Coy

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SECTION I SOCIAL MOVEMENTS AND THEIR INSTITUTIONAL RELATIONS Allies in Action: Institutional Actors and Grassroots Environmental Activism in China Yang Zhang

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A Tale of Two Bike Lanes: Consensus Movements and Infrastructure Delivery Kathryn Gasparro

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When Do Political Parties Move to the Streets? Party Protest in Chile Nicolás M. Somma

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Building Solidarity across Asymmetrical Risks: Israeli and Palestinian Peace Activists Michelle I. Gawerc

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SECTION II FRAMES AND DISCOURSES IN CONFLICTS AND SOCIAL MOVEMENTS Frame Resonance, Tactical Innovation, and Poor People in the Tunisian Uprising Mohammad Yaghi

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Black Lives Matter: (Re)Framing the Next Wave of Black Liberation Amanda D. Clark, Prentiss A. Dantzler and Ashley E. Nickels

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CONTENTS

Challenging Everyday Violence of the State: Developing Sustained Opposition Movements through Anti-corruption Protests Alexandra V. Orlova

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SECTION III ACTIVIST START-UP AND WITHDRAWAL Volunteer Retention, Burnout and Dropout in Online Voluntary Organizations: Stress, Conflict and Retirement of Wikipedians Piotr Konieczny

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Late Bloomers: Differential Participation among First-time, Mid-life Protesters Winston B. Tripp and Danielle N. Gage

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Index

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Amanda D. Clark

Department of Political Science, Kent State University, USA

Patrick G. Coy

School of Peace and Conflict Studies, Kent State University, USA

Prentiss A. Dantzler

Department of Sociology, Colorado College, USA

Danielle N. Gage

College of Social Sciences, University of West Georgia, USA

Kathryn Gasparro

Department of Civil and Environmental Engineering, Stanford University, USA

Michelle I. Gawerc

Department of Sociology, Loyola University Maryland, USA

Piotr Konieczny

Department of Informational Sociology, Hanyang University, South Korea

Ashley E. Nickels

Department of Political Science, Kent State University, USA

Alexandra V. Orlova

Department of Criminology, Ryerson University, Canada

Nicolás M. Somma

Instituto de Sociología, Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile, Chile

Winston B. Tripp

Department of Sociology, University of West Georgia, USA

Mohammad Yaghi

Department of Political Studies, Queens University, Canada

Yang Zhang

School of International Service, American University, USA

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ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS Amanda D. Clark received her PhD in Political Science from Kent State University with a dissertation titled “Framing Strategies and Social Movement Coalitions: Assessing Tactical Diffusion in the Fight against Human Trafficking from 2008
2014.” Dr Clark’s research interests include social movements, community development, and the US policy process. She is also interested in the intersections of organizational theory and social movement strategy and has published co-authored book chapters on the nonviolent dynamics of the Nashville student sit-in campaign of 1960 and on community control in local organizing and development policy. Patrick G. Coy is Professor and Interim Director of the School of Peace and Conflict Studies at Kent State University. His research has been funded by the National Science Foundation, the Hewlett Foundation, the Albert Einstein Institution, and the American Sociological Association. His many publications include a co-authored book, Contesting Patriotism: Culture, Power and Strategy in the Peace Movement (Rowman & Littlefield, 2009), edited books on Social Conflicts and Collective Identities (Rowman & Littlefield, 2000), and A Revolution of the Heart: Essays on the Catholic Worker (originally published by Temple University Press, 1988). He has published more than 35 peer-reviewed journal articles and book chapters on conflict analysis, social movements, nonviolent action, unarmed civilian peacekeeping, community mediation, and peace and conflict studies. He was previously a Fulbright Scholar in Botswana, working with the Research Centre on San (Bushman) Studies. He has served as the Series Editor of Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change since 2000. Prentiss A. Dantzler is Assistant Professor of Sociology and Co-Chair of the Urban Studies minor at Colorado College. Dr Dantzler is also a Faculty Fellow through the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the Associated Colleges of the Midwest. As an interdisciplinary scholar, his research and teaching largely focuses on urban poverty, race and ethnic relations, housing policy, and community development. Dr Dantzler is currently studying voluntary and involuntary residential mobility among housing assistance recipients. His work has been published in academic outlets including The Urban Lawyer (American Bar Association), the Journal of Urban History (Sage Publications), and Urban Affairs Review (Sage Publications). Danielle N. Gage is the Program Coordinator for the College of Social Sciences Center for Research at the University of West Georgia. She holds an MA in Sociology from the University of West Georgia. Her research interests include social movements and community engagement. ix

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Kathryn Gasparro is Doctoral Candidate in the Department of Civil and Environmental Engineering at Stanford University and is also a Research Affiliate of the Stanford Global Project Center. Her research focuses on the governance and management of infrastructure projects and the impact they have in communities. Currently, she is working on a project that identifies innovative ways communities and other partners engage with local government during infrastructure delivery. Michelle I. Gawerc is Associate Professor of Sociology and Global Studies at Loyola University Maryland. Her research interests lie at the intersection of social movement studies and peace and conflict studies. She is the author of Prefiguring Peace: Israeli-Palestinian Peacebuilding Partnerships (Lexington Books, 2012). Her research has also been published in numerous journals including: Mobilization: An International Quarterly; Social Movement Studies (Taylor & Francis); Research in Social Movements, Conflicts, and Change (Emerald Publishing); Peace and Change: A Journal of Peace Research (Wiley); International Journal of Peace Studies; Journal of Peacebuilding and Development (Taylor & Francis); Peace Review (Taylor & Francis); and Conflict Resolution Quarterly (Wiley). Her current research focuses on Palestinian-Israeli peace and anti-occupation movement organizations and coalitions. Piotr Konieczny is Assistant Professor at the Department of Informational Sociology, Hanyang University, South Korea. He has received his PhD degree from the University of Pittsburgh. He is interested in the sociology of the Internet and social movements, in particular in topics such as free culture, wikis and their impact on individuals and organizations, decision-making processes and organizational structure of Wikipedia, patterns of behavior among Wikipedia contributors, and relations between wikis and social movements. Ashley E. Nickels is Assistant Professor of Political Science at Kent State University. Dr Nickels is an interdisciplinary scholar, whose teaching and research centers on issues of power, privilege, and democratic participation in the fields of urban politics, nonprofit and community-based organizations, and public administration. Her work is highly influenced by her years working in feminist community activism. Dr Nickels is Co-editor of two books: Grand Rapids Grassroots: An Anthology (with Dani Vilella; Belt Publishing, 2017) and Community Development and Public Administration Theory: Promoting Democratic Principles to Improve Communities (with Jason D. Rivera; Routledge Press, 2018). She also serves on the board of editors for the Journal of Public Affairs Education (NASPAA), and as Chair-elect of ARNOVA’s section on Community and Grassroots Associations. Alexandra V. Orlova is Associate Dean, Research and Graduate Studies (Faculty of Arts), and Associate Professor in the Department of Criminology at Ryerson University. She received her PhD in Law from Osgoode Hall Law School, York University, in 2004. She also holds a Bachelor of Laws (LLB) from Osgoode Hall Law School. Her main research interests focus on

About the Contributors

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international constitutionalism, human rights, and transnational organized crime and corruption. She has published widely in the areas of international law as well as traditional and non-traditional security threats. Dr Orlova provided expert opinions pertaining to organized crime and human trafficking to the UN Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC), the Norwegian Refugee Council’s Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre as well as for lawyers representing victims of organized crime and human trafficking in Canada and the UK. Nicolás M. Somma is Associate Professor of Sociology at the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile. He earned a PhD in Sociology from the University of Notre Dame. His research focuses on social movements, political sociology, and comparative-historical sociology. His work has appeared in several journals, including Party Politics (Sage Publications), Comparative Politics (Sage Publications), Latin American Politics and Society (Wiley), and The Sociological Quarterly (Wiley), as well as in several book chapters. He also co-authored the book Vínculos, Creencias e Ilusiones. La Cohesión Social de los Latinoamericanos (Links, Beliefs, and Hopes. The Social Cohesion of Latin Americans, Uqbar Editores, Santiago de Chile, Colección CIEPLAN, 2008). Currently, Nicolás is studying the social profiles, motivations, and mobilization trajectories of participants in eight demonstrations in Argentina and Chile through the use of structured survey questionnaires (following the Caught in the Act of Protest methodology). He is also exploring the political and economic determinants of collective protest in Chilean localities with the help of a protest events dataset based on several national and regional media. Winston B. Tripp is Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University of West Georgia. He earned a PhD in Sociology from Penn State University in 2013. His research and teaching interests include social movements, environmental sociology, and community engagement. Mohammad Yaghi holds a PhD in Political Science from the University of Guelph, Canada. His research focuses on social movements, media and cultural, identity and citizenship, and the popular protests in the Middle East. Dr Yaghi taught at the Universities of Guelph and Toronto, and at Queen’s University. He is the author of the article “Media and Sectarianism in the Middle East: Saudi Hegemony over Pan-Arab Media” (International Journal of Media & Cultural Politics (2017), Vol. 13 Issue 1/2, pp. 39
56). He is also the author of the book chapters: “Neoliberal Reforms, Protests, and Enforced Patron-Client Relations in Tunisia and Egypt” (Routledge, 2018) and “Why Did Tunisian and Egyptian Youth Activists Fail to Build Competitive Political Parties?” (Edinburgh University Press, 2018). Currently, Dr Yaghi is Research Fellow at the German Konrad Adenauer Stiftung focusing his work on the Gulf States. Yang Zhang is Assistant Professor in the School of International Service at American University, Washington, DC. His research covers the areas of political sociology, contentious politics, historical sociology, and social networks. Zhang received a PhD in Sociology from the University of Chicago. His

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dissertation “Insurgent Dynamics: The Coming of the Chinese Rebellions, 1850
1873” won the 2017 Distinguished Contribution to Scholarship Dissertation Award from American Sociological Association’s Section on Collective Behavior and Social Movements. Building upon this dissertation, Zhang’s book manuscript examines the emergence and development of large-scale religious and ethnic rebellions in the Qing Empire of China during the mid-nineteenth century. In other projects, Zhang studies the interaction of state officials, ENGOs, and grassroots activists in environmental movements in contemporary China.

INTRODUCTION Patrick G. Coy

Although it is not always the case, social movements frequently sport a somewhat troubled relationship with the state. Some of that troubled relationship may be owed, in part, to the fact that much social movement activism is largely extra-institutional, occurring outside of the normal, routinized, and even codified mechanisms for doing politics. Made up of individual actors and organizations that share some salient dimensions of collective identity who are working in a somewhat organized and sustained way over time toward a common goal of social, political, or cultural change, social movements don’t just exhibit uneasy relationships with the state and its various manifestations on regional and local levels. The same often holds true for the dealings of social movements with other institutions beyond the state itself. Social movements may target these other institutional actors in a secondary way, that is, attempting to enlist them as active and influential allies in a campaign that may be aimed at state-based change. And sometimes social movements and their organizations will also seek out allies within the state apparatus itself, working in cooperative and even collegial ways to change governmental policies, revise state structures, remove particular politicians from office, reform political parties, or even bring down governments. One might be forgiven for thinking that social movements only or even primarily earmark the state for change given the locus of much of the historic scholarship on social movements; being forgiven, however, doesn’t change the erroneous nature of the understanding. The fact is, social movements frequently target other institutions for significant change, including national or transnational corporations, local businesses, ecclesiastical or religious judicatories, universities and schools, and professional associations
such as the Academy of Motion Pictures and Sciences. All of this is to say that the relationships that social movements and their organizations have with the state and other institutional actors are exceedingly complex and not easily reduced to flattened explanations or pithy formulations.

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 42, 1
6 Copyright r 2018 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X20180000042001

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In this volume of Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, we tackle some of these thorny issues with four chapters in the first section, titled, “Social Movements and Their Institutional Relations.” Too much of what we do know about the relationships that social movements have with institutional actors is drawn from studies conducted in the context of various manifestations of democracy in the global north and west. We know much less about the various sorts of roles that institutional actors and even allies may play with social movements operating in settings of authoritarian governance. Thankfully, in our lead chapter, “Allies in Action: Institutional Actors and Grassroots Environmental Activism in China,” Yang Zhang tackles this issue with his thorough analysis of the Anti-PX Movement in the city of Xiamen, China, in 2007. This major case of successful Chinese environmental activism against the location of a chemical plant provides an opportunity to uncover the complex ways that mass mobilization driven by grassroots activism in China may rely, at least in part, on support from state actors and agencies and social elites. This includes uncovering how and why these institutional actors may play supportive roles for oppositional movements in a political system that is largely averse to independent social activism, illustrating both their effects and their limitations. Contributing to social movement theory-building, Zhang’s careful detailing of the internally ambiguous and at times contradictory approaches of institutional actors includes presenting them as distinctive dimensions of the political opportunity structure in China. Zhang shows that in authoritarian settings, there is a rich interactive effect obtaining between non-violent yet transgressive grassroots mobilization and institutional activism, with the former creating opportunities for the latter. Based on 45 interviews conducted in China during two periods of field-based research, one of our reviewers noted that this chapter is likely the most detailed and well-researched account of this landmark Chinese social movement case to date. I think you will find that it is also carefully reasoned and theoretically rich. In the second chapter, “A Tale of Two Bike Lanes: Consensus Movements and Infrastructure Delivery,” Kate Gasparro turns our attention away from conflict movements and oppositional movements toward consensus movements in support of local infrastructure projects. A fairly robust literature has developed examining oppositional NIMBY or “not in my backyard” activism, which is generally focused on stopping projects of various sorts, sometimes including infrastructure developments. These NIMBY movements only infrequently enlist the support of state officials, which is one of the reasons why the Anti-PX Movement in China analyzed in our opening chapter is so significant. Gasparro’s research is based in the United States in the years immediately following the great recession of 2009. This is a matched-pairs case study about two protected bicycle lane projects in Denver, Colorado; it relies on document analysis and on interviews with activists, key stakeholders, and public officials from the two cases. Notably, consensus movement tactics and crowdfunding were used in one case, while the other relied on a more traditional top-down approach. Gasparro effectively interlaces social movement frameworks with an

Introduction

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urban planning case and usefully connects this to the still under-studied emergence of crowdfunded civic projects. Her analysis suggests that in activism focused on infrastructure delivery, relations with state-based allies are more critical than even in typical consensus movements since infrastructure delivery always involves the distribution of state resources. The fluid and contingent nature of the respective roles and relations that exist between social movement organizations, grassroots activists, institutional allies, and the state are made clear in this research in ways that move our understandings of consensus movements forward in important ways. The first two chapters in this section demonstrate that at least in certain contexts and with certain movements and issue arenas, a fuzzy or indistinct line separates institutional politics from the work of many social movement activists and organizations. This raises the question as to whether this also holds true with regard to political parties’ direct involvement in movement protests. After all, some social movements may eventually develop political party-like features. Equally true is the fact that some political parties may cross over into protest politics in the streets and elsewhere. As a result, this is a fecund area of research for political scientists and sociologists alike. These issues are particularly rich and relevant with regard to the Latin American region
where many countries emerged from authoritarian or military rule within the last two or three decades. It is to that region that we turn next with Nicolás Somma’s chapter, “When Do Political Parties Move to the Streets? Party Protest in Chile (2000
2012),” on party protest in Chile from 2000 to 2012. Using a dataset of 2,342 protest events during the 13-year period and relying on statistical regression, Somma finds that in only 6% of the cases in Chile did political parties take part. Equally important, he uncovers a complex and interesting set of political and geographic factors that influence, and seem to limit, the likelihood of political party protest activities. These findings suggest that perhaps the line of demarcation between institutionalized politics and social movement protests may be more pronounced than some scholarship has been suggesting. The risks that social movement activists face and those that their institutional allies encounter are not alike; they often differ dramatically, and for a variety of reasons. Those reasons have to do with the political and economic context, the degree of contention, the tactics used by the movement, and the issue arena. It is also true that the risks individual grassroots activists face are not the same across a movement. This is owed to the nature of the movement activist’s relationship to the state, and this in turn may be tied to the activist’s ethnicity, their nationality, their citizenship, and the differential treatments thereby accorded to them by the state. So for this section’s final chapter, entitled “Building Solidarity across Asymmetrical Risks: Israeli and Palestinian Activists,” we move to the Palestinian West Bank, occupied by Israel, where Michelle Gawerc interrogates this particularized dimension of the broader question of how social movement organizations and their activists relate to the state, and consequently to each other within the movement. Gawerc has been doing sustained field research for many years in the region on various aspects of collective identity, including with Combatants for Peace.

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This is a joint Israeli-Palestinian peace organization that has had to maneuver nimbly amidst radical asymmetries in a protracted ethnic conflict in order to build solidarity. Based on ethnographic fieldwork and 34 in-depth interviews with both the Israeli and the Palestinian activists, the author convincingly demonstrates that solidarity can be built in even deeply asymmetric contexts, provided activists face those risk asymmetries in an open and honest fashion, thereby building trust within the asymmetries. More specifically, Gawerc argues that solidarity in such contexts requires a clear commitment to shared goals, a demonstrated willingness to support and defend one another, and some deference to each other’s respective risk boundaries, broadly conceived. Although significant in its own right, the generalizability of the findings about Combatants for Peace is bolstered further by Gawerc critically applying them to the joint non-violent resistance in the Palestinian village of Bil’in. Future scholarship on the dynamics of differential risks in social movement activism will likely pay close attention to this chapter. The second section of the volume, “Frames and Discourses in Conflicts and Social Movements,” consists of three chapters linked by the use of frame and discourse analysis to interpret the work of various movements in Tunisia, the United States, and Russia. It opens with Mohammad Yaghi’s insightful chapter, “Frame Resonance, Tactical Innovation, and Poor People in the Tunisian Uprising,” on the 2011 non-violent revolution in Tunisia, one of the few uprisings within the so-called Arab Spring that brought lasting change and increased openness and democratization. The research is based on fieldwork conducted in Tunisia, 81 interviews with participants from various movement organizations, analysis of 19 statements from movement organizations, and examination of 181 slogans used by the movement and drawn from videos posted on the internet. Yaghi argues that the movement’s careful attention to frame resonance within collective identities, the use of imaginative and inventive tactics and discourses, and locating protests within poor neighborhoods all contributed to movement outcomes. The frame transformation strategies of the three founding women of the Black Lives Matter movement in the United States is the focus of our next chapter, “Black Lives Matter: (Re)Framing the Next Wave of Black Liberation,” authored by Amanda Clark, Prentiss Dantzler, and Ashley Nickels. The data sources include a qualitative analysis of 37 newspaper and magazine print articles about the three founders and speeches by them, as well as 23 video interviews with them about Black Lives Matter during the two-year time period of October 2014 to October 2016. The authors suggest that the Black Lives Matter movement includes not just a continuation of past struggles for racial justice by the civil rights movement and the black power movement, but ultimately a reframing and a transforming of the struggle for black liberation in the US. Notably, they show convincingly that this transformation includes an intentional fusing of the movement with a commitment to intersectionality so that it is clear that all Black Lives Matter
irrespective of gender, age, sexual orientation, and so-called criminality.

Introduction

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The third article in this section on framing and discourses takes us to Putin’s Russia where both corruption and the everyday violence of the state may seem to many to be so endemic as to close off meaningful avenues of resistance. Not so, says Alexandra Orlova whose chapter, “Challenging Everyday Violence of the State: Developing Sustained Opposition Movements through Anti-corruption Protests, examines how discursive anti-corruption norms and contentious activism can be birthed even in authoritarian or semi-authoritarian settings that repress dissent. Orlova rightly notes the steep hill that Russian oppositional movements encounter. This hill includes significant repression, a sense of futility, robust informal networks coupled with corruption that permeates Russian society, and state manipulation of narratives as a tool to quell the emergence of opposition movements. Nonetheless, using various data sources about Russian politics, Orlava patiently builds an argument that carefully constructed anticorruption discourses, joined with relatively small-scale campaigns, and protest actions that concentrate on political corruption instead of on the Putin regime specifically, has potential to coalesce and eventually develop into a more overt political challenge in Russia. The third and final section of the volume, “Activist Start-up and Withdrawal,” is comprised of two research projects that bookend critical issues associated with the beginning point and the ending point of movement participation by an individual activist. The first chapter, “Volunteer Retention, Burnout and Dropout in Online Voluntary Organizations: Stress, Conflict and Retirement of Wikipedians,” by Piotr Konieczny, focuses on the dynamics of burn-out and drop-out by volunteer Wikipedia editors who were heretofore comparatively active editors. The research is based on the results from a survey of contributor motivations sent to 300 (with a response rate of 41%) of the most highly active Wikipedia English editors (the largest of the Wikipedia projects) who have decreased their activity or stopped contributing altogether as editors. Konieczny’s findings show that the experience of recurring interpersonal conflict during the volunteer editing is a salient factor. Insofar as Wikipedia is the largest voluntary organizations in the world, this study furthers our understandings about the sometimes complicated dynamics of volunteerism and its intersections with conflict. Moreover, as volunteerism is something which greases the wheels of most social movements and even their formal organizations, this study’s findings will serve well future research on the broader question of how a non-profit organization maintains a volunteer workforce, particularly in an increasingly digitized age. We close the volume with a close look into the other end of participation, asking why do some people become active in social movement protest for the first-time in mid-life, so-called late bloomers. Winston Tripp and Danielle Gage’s chapter, “Late Bloomers: Differential Participation among First-time, Mid-life Protesters,” runs counter to the long-held yet faulty presumption that most first-time protestors are young, and by extension, idealistic. Based on survey data, this time from the Youth Parent Socialization Survey, a panel study that surveyed individuals four times over a 33-year period, the chapter’s findings build on and contribute to an emerging body of work that examines those

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factors that contribute to the trajectory of individual participation over time, including why protest participation begins when it does for mid-life late bloomers, and what these activists may hold in common. Now, if you might allow me a more personal note … I took on the series editorship of Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change almost 20 years ago, in 1999. The first volume I personally edited was Volume 22, which appeared in 2000. During my tenure, the RSMCC series and I have been fortunate to have had eight volumes guest-edited; all of those colleagues were a joy to work with and they each produced an important collection that moved datadriven research scholarship in the tripartite foci reflected in the series’ title forward in significant ways. This book, Volume 42, is now the 11th volume of the Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change series that I have personally edited, and it will be my last. The next volume of the series, Volume 43, will be thematic in focus and will be guest-edited by Lisa Leitz and Eitan Alimi. Titled “Bringing Down Divides” it will be dedicated to the principles that animated the scholarship of Gregory Maney, a peace and conflict and social movements scholar whose work has inspired many of us, and who passed on last year, far too early. I could not be more pleased to announce that the new series editor of Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change is Dr. Lisa Leitz, Associate Professor and Chair of the Department of Peace Studies at Chapman University in the U.S. A new chapter in the august history of this 41-year old series, originally founded by Louis Kriesberg, will soon commence under Lisa’s capable direction. Lisa’s deep knowledge of the social movements and peace and conflict studies literatures, and her critical consciousness complimented by a warm and compassionate collegial spirit will ensure that the series will not only continue to prosper but grow in new and exciting directions as well. It has been my honor and indeed privilege to work with so many researchers doing ground-breaking research, and with so many good-hearted reviewers who have selflessly provided constructive commentary, and with so many helpful editors and publishers at JAI Press, Elsevier, and now Emerald Group Publishing. I offer my sincere thanks to all.

SECTION I SOCIAL MOVEMENTS AND THEIR INSTITUTIONAL RELATIONS

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ALLIES IN ACTION: INSTITUTIONAL ACTORS AND GRASSROOTS ENVIRONMENTAL ACTIVISM IN CHINA Yang Zhang

ABSTRACT Institutional actors are critical allies for grassroots movements, but few studies have examined their effects and variations within the non-democratic context. This chapter argues that while institutional allies are heavily constrained and unlikely to give open endorsement to grassroot activists, some institutional activists indirectly facilitate movement mobilization and favorable outcomes in the process of advancing their own political agendas. Drawing upon in-depth interviews conducted in 2008 and 2012, I illustrate this argument by examining the Anti-PX Movement
a landmark grassroots environmental movement against a chemical plant
in Xiamen, China. I find that the environmental institutional actors were constrained and divided, yet some still fostered opportunities for movement mobilization and in turn exploited the opportunity created by the protesters to pursue their policy interests, thus facilitating positive movement outcomes. As long as the claims are not politically subversive to the authoritarian rule, this type of tacit and tactical interaction between institutional activists within the state and grassroot activists on the street is conducive to promoting progressive policy changes. Keywords: Environmental movements; grassroots protests; elite allies; institutional activism; political opportunities; movement outcomes

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 42, 9
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YANG ZHANG

INTRODUCTION Institutional actors are valuable allies for movement activists, because they provide political opportunities and mediate the relationship between the protest and movement outcomes (Amenta, 2006; Meyer & Minkoff, 2004). While their values in democracies have been clearly identified (e.g., Gamson, 1990; McAdam, 1996; Stearns & Almeida, 2004; Tarrow, 1994), their roles within stable authoritarian contexts are less obvious and understudied. Furthermore, little is known about variations among institutional allies within such societies. Given the limits on their political action, do these actors matter for facilitating movement mobilization and desirable outcomes? If they do, why is this so and how do they provide assistance? In this chapter, I take “allies in action” as my central concern and explore whether and how institutional actors support grassroots activism. This chapter uses the case of the Anti-PX1 Movement in the city of Xiamen, China, to illustrate the limits and effects of institutional allies in facilitating grassroots mobilization and favorable outcomes under strong authoritarian regimes. Notably, China’s deteriorating environment has now become a central target of citizen activism and has triggered vibrant social protests. Of these, the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement is regarded as the most influential environmental protest of the past decade. On June 1 and 2, 2007, approximately 20,000 citizens marched along Xiamen’s main streets and demonstrated in the Municipal Hall to convey their grievances with the construction of the PX plant. In contrast to previous environmental movements, which often lacked street confrontations (e.g., Tong, 2005; Xie, 2009), the Anti-PX Movement in Xiamen marked a milestone in China’s environmental activism. This was due to its high-level citizen participation, unusual protest size, and favorable outcomes
including, but not limited to, the relocation of the PX plant.2 The movement had significant modular effects: it was followed by a series of subsequent Anti-PX Movements in several cities between 2008 and 2015, although their achievements were much smaller than the initial movement’s. Based upon two rounds of fieldwork in China, this chapter provides the most detailed account of this movement to date. Rather than presenting a comprehensive survey of factors contributing to the movement, such as internet activism, it focuses on the relationship between grassroots activism and its (potential) institutional allies, including: officials in the national environmental agency, officials in the local environmental agency, environmental NGOs (ENGOs), and sympathetic scientists and journalists. Through in-depth interviews with key actors in this campaign, I find that these institutional actors were politically restricted and divided, providing little open endorsement of grassroots activism. Yet, even the limited presence of elite allies facilitated grassroots mobilization and outcomes as the unintended results of promoting their self-interested agendas. The mediating effects of elite allies are further illustrated by comparison with those subsequent and less successful Anti-PX Movements during 2008
2015, in which the institutional activists were almost inactive. This research contributes to the social movement literature in three ways. Above all, it examines the practice of elite allies in the movement under strong

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authoritarian regimes
something that has not been given enough consideration in previous studies (but see Chen, 2012; O’Brien & Li, 2006; Schock, 2005). Second, my research advances the long debate over the relationship between institutional resources and disruptive tactics (Almeida & Stearns, 1998; Gamson, 1990; McAdam, 1982; Piven & Cloward, 1977) by revealing an interactive effect between grassroots and institutional activism: certain kinds of transgressive, but not necessarily violent, contention can open an opportunity window for elite allies to realize favorable outcomes (O’Brien, 2003). Third, echoing a recent call to employ the intersection and interaction approach (e.g., Banaszak, 2005; Böhm, 2015; Fligstein & McAdam, 2011; Meyer, 2005), my research highlights a reciprocal relationship between institutional and grassroot activists and their iterative interplay in driving progressive policy changes. The chapter proceeds as follows: the section “Institutional Allies in Social Movements” offers a theoretical discussion of elite allies in social movements, underscoring their limitations and effects in authoritarian contexts. Next, I describe the data and method, and provide background for the Xiamen AntiPX Movement. After introducing the major institutional actors involved in China’s environmental governance, I examine how these players were restricted, but also able to play a critical role in the movement. I then compare this case with the subsequent Anti-PX Movements to demonstrate that the absence of institutional activists resulted in different outcomes. The chapter’s conclusion extends my findings to popular protests in China and addresses general issues in social movement literature.

INSTITUTIONAL ALLIES IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS Social movement scholars have long noticed that elite allies are valuable resources for movement actors, because they provide political opportunities for mobilization (McAdam, 1996, p. 27; Meyer & Minkoff, 2004; Tarrow, 1994, p. 76; Tilly, 1978) and mediate the relationship between the protest and movement outcomes (Amenta, 2006; Amenta, Caren, Chiarello, & Su, 2010; Cress & Snow, 2000; Gamson, 1990, pp. 64
66; Stearns & Almeida, 2004). Like other sociological concepts, institutional or elite allies are defined in a variety of ways (e.g., Banaszak, 2005; McAdam, 1996; Pettinicchio, 2012; Santoro & McGuire, 1997; Tarrow, 1994).3 Such “allies” can refer to a narrowly delimited group of institutional actors with stronger ideological sympathies who directly participate in social movements (Santoro & McGuire, 1997, p. 503). “Allies” can also be defined more broadly to include “individuals who affect change (from changing organizational norms to policy reform) from within organizations and institutions” (Pettinicchio, 2012, p. 501). In this chapter, I take the latter approach. Generally speaking, institutional actors have greater access to political, organizational, and media resources and can exert larger influence over policy making than grassroot activists. Elite allies include both state and non-state actors in terms of their institutional status (Amenta, 2006; Banaszak, 2005; Stearns & Almeida, 2004). Composed of fragmentary administrative units and geographically nested governments, the

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modern state is replete with cross-cutting political splits, and thus contains many allies critical for movement activists (Santoro & McGuire, 1997; Stearns & Almeida, 2004; Suh, 2011). For example, state-movement allies have been found to be vital for realizing desirable outcomes in Japan’s environmental movements (Almeida & Stearns, 1998; Stearns & Almeida, 2004). Non-state institutional actors, including labor unions, NGOs, scientists, and media, can also be important allies for grassroot activists. Beyond their institutional variations, this chapter focuses on elite allies’ involvement in practice from the angle of “allies in action.” For taking elite allies as an overall favorable factor obscures their possible variations: they may be tied to the same movement in varying degrees, and support certain kinds of contentions but not others. Furthermore, their support may come from ideological sympathy without the push from outsiders, or from opportunistic reasons or external rewards (Pettinicchio, 2012, p. 502). Furthermore, this motivational difference is further blurred in practice: activists who have a certain ideological sympathy for environmentalism may still behave in strategic ways as a means to protect themselves and/or advance their own policy agenda when an opportunity is present. These often understudied behavioral variations become salient in social movements under authoritarian regimes, where elite allies turn out to be more precious resources while being more politically restricted. Therefore, their support for oppositional movements varies to a greater degree. It is true that elite allies often play critical roles in the democratization process in transitional regimes when elites themselves begin to split (Brockett, 1991; Schock, 2005; Tong, 2005), but this is less evident for strong authoritarian regimes with a robust repressive capacity. In authoritarian regimes, not only are social movement actors controlled and suppressed, but institutional actors’ participation in movements is also restricted (Osa & Corduneanu-Huci, 2003; Tarrow, 1994, pp. 79
80). Unlike cases under transitional regimes, political elites in stable authoritarian states have not yet become overtly rebellious or politically split. Accordingly, few elites openly support oppositional movements or challenge the legitimacy of the ruling order. Furthermore, oppositional parties, the courts, and labor unions, which often serve as important movement alliances in democracies (Amenta, 2006; Böhm, 2015; Burstein & Linton, 2002; Kriesi, Koopmans, Duyvendak, & Giugni, 1995; Stearns & Almeida, 2004), play smaller roles in non-democratic societies, because they are either absent or function poorly due to tight authoritarian control (Schock, 2005). Overall, in a closed system, institutional activists are fewer in number and have less political space to ally themselves with protesters. In addition to restrictions placed by the regime as a monolithic totality, elite allies are further constrained by their institutional opponents, given that the authoritarian states are as fragmentary as, if not more so than, democratic states (Migdal, 2001). Even in democracies, institutional activists are often weaker administrative agencies or less powerful societal forces than their opponents, who own more political and economic resources (Amenta, 2006; Stearns & Almeida, 2004; Tarrow, 1994). In Japan’s environmental campaign,

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13

for example, institutional obstacles to environmental governance included the entrenched party, industrial corporations, and powerful economic agencies, especially the Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI) (Stearns & Almeida, 2004, p. 479). Cases in authoritarian regimes are similar. In China, environmental activists’ primary institutional opponents are: (1) economic agencies, especially the powerful National Development and Reform Commission (NDRC)
the counterpart to Japan’s MITI, (2) business establishments, including both state-owned enterprises and resourceful private enterprises, and (3) provincial and municipal governments, which often put economic development ahead of environmental protection in China’s decentralized, developmental state (Economy, 2010; Xie, 2009). It is well recognized that these groups possess far greater power than environmental protection agencies or other environmental institutions. Given these limitations, I argue that the presence of elite allies in grassroots movements is restricted and internally divided under stable authoritarian regimes. Most institutional allies are conformist and cautious, and thus are more willing to involve themselves in modest rather than transgressive movements. When facing confrontations, many potential elite allies become passive, divided, and even antagonistic to these contentious movements. Even those actual allies who do side with the movement seldom overtly support a confrontational protest so as to protect themselves
unless they see support as an opportunity to further their own agendas. They are opportunistic in choosing whether and when to step in, as the goals of institutional and grassroot activists are merely overlapping, but not congruent. In short, many factors hinder the potential for elite support of grassroots movements. On the other hand, it is precisely because of their weak institutional status that some reformist allies have (even greater) incentives to seek alliances with social movement sectors as a means to advance their policy agenda (Amenta, 2006, p. 24; Schock, 2005; Stearns & Almeida, 2004; Suh, 2011). Institutional activists in weaker administrations need certain forms/levels of collective action in order to increase their bargaining power within the state and strengthen their leverage against political opponents (Kingdon, 1995; Meyer, 2005). They thus may make greater efforts to support the movement, albeit in tacit and tactical ways, in an authoritarian context. Accordingly, although heavily restricted, elite allies’ limited presence still plays a critical role in grassroots movements: they can facilitate the grassroots mobilization by creating unexpected opportunities for protesters, and/or help grassroot activists realize favorable substantive outcomes, especially when they take advantage of the movement to achieve policy goals that differ from those grassroot activists initially sought.4 Finally, institutional and grassroot activists mutually reinforce each other in a reciprocal relationship (Banaszak, 2005; Böhm, 2015; Fligstein & McAdam, 2011; Meyer, 2005). They provide “opportunities” for one another and “mediate” their respective effects in shaping movement/policy mobilization and outcomes. In particular, institutional activists can be empowered or activated by protesters in bottom-up processes and become effective in pushing their policy agendas within the state.

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Environmental campaigns in China offer ideal cases for the theoretical development of the role of institutional allies in grassroots movements. Despite its strong authoritarian regime, the current Chinese state is broadly understood as functionally fragmented and geographically decentralized rather than monolithic (Landry, 2008; Lieberthal & Lampton, 1992; Mertha, 2008). Accordingly, “there is not one unitary, national opportunity structure, but multiple, cross-cutting openings and obstacles to mobilization” (O’Brien, 2008, pp. 13
14; also see O’Brien & Li, 2006, pp. 28
38, 51
54). Previous studies have underscored that this fragmented authoritarian state offered two types of political opportunities to social (and especially environmental) movement participants. First, the cleavage between environmental and economic agencies and the differing policy priorities held by central and local governments offer protesters opportunities to make claims through channels such as collective petitioning with upper-level authorities who are more concerned with the environment (Chen, 2012; Mertha, 2008; Sun & Zhao, 2008). Second, some reformist environmental officials made open alliances with non-state elites such as NGOs to promote their common agenda in non-confrontational campaigns (Sun & Zhao, 2008; Xie, 2009; Yang, 2005). Joining these works’ efforts to disaggregate the Chinese state, I contribute two new points to the study of environmental activists. First, while extant research contends that the internal split within the authoritarian state often unexpectedly facilitated the movement’s development (Chen, 2012, pp. 13
19; Shi & Cai, 2006; Sun & Zhao, 2008), I find that the contradictions within environmental protection institutions can also become obstacles to movement mobilization. Second, whereas extant research on environmentalism focuses on open alliance among institutional actors
environmental agencies, ENGOs, and the media
in worldview environmental movements where street-level confrontations are almost absent5 (Hildebrandt, 2013; Matsuzawa, 2011; Mertha, 2008; Sun & Zhao, 2008; Tong, 2005; Xie, 2009), I find and elaborate upon a tacit interactive dynamic linking central environmental agencies and grassroots protesters. This second point echoes a few recent works that pay close attention to the new dynamics at play in several NIMBY protests in China (e.g., Bondes & Johnson, 2017; Li & Liu, 2016; Steinhardt & Wu, 2016; Sun, Huang, & Yip, 2017; Wong, 2016; Zhu, 2017). These studies have identified two types of interactive dynamics: first, local ENGOs played a brokering role in connecting national ENGOs and making alliances with local activists (Steinhardt & Wu, 2016; Sun et al., 2017; Wong, 2016); second, some local officials colluded with social elites to encourage popular protest as a means of pursuing their common interests or goals (Li & Liu, 2016). While neither of the two dynamics appeared in the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement, this case presented another dynamic
here the tacit collaboration and mutual support among central ministry officials, local social elites, and grassroots protesters. The Xiamen case was characterized neither by a state-ENGO coalition nor by an ENGO-protester alliance but instead featured interactions of central ministry activists and grassroots protesters, despite that the two actors were remote in terms of physical locations and status positions. While this finding is not entirely new in China studies, my

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15

chapter offers the most in-depth analysis of this dynamic. Given the Chinese state is constituted by multifaceted contradictions and ambiguities, it is perhaps unsurprising that its nuanced role in social movements can only be uncovered through an accumulation of scholarly exploration.

DATA AND METHODS My empirical analysis is based on a single case study that serves a heuristic purpose of theoretical elaboration (Vaughan, 1992), featuring an array of in-depth interviews with key actors during the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement. I carried out two rounds of fieldwork in Xiamen and Beijing, in March 2008 and during the Fall of 2012. My 2008 fieldwork consisted of gathering direct information about the Anti-PX Movement in Xiamen. Leading a research team of 5 other members, I interviewed more than 30 actors related to this campaign including: officials in the national environmental agency
State Environmental Protection Agency (SEPA, 1998
2008) and the Ministry of Environment Protection (MEP, 2008
now)
leaders of national ENGOs in Beijing, reporters and freelancers in both Beijing and Xiamen, officials in the municipal Environmental Protection Bureau (EPB), policemen in Xiamen, ENGO leaders in Xiamen, scientists and professors at Xiamen University (who were involved in the campaign), a spontaneous protest leader, protest participants, grassroot activists in neighborhoods close to the PX plant, and ordinary citizens in Xiamen. During the second round of fieldwork in China in 2012, I carried out another 15 interviews in order to collect updated information. Specifically, I became better acquainted with the process of the power reshuffling within the MEP in 2008 and its profound effects on China’s environmental activism. These interviews, together with other materials collected during the fieldwork, comprise the primary sources of this project. Admittedly, given the significance of the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement, it has already been examined in a number of works (Huang & Yip, 2012; Johnson, 2010; Steinhardt & Wu, 2016). While these media-based works provide supplementary information, my empirical analysis draws mainly upon first-hand, indepth interview data and hence offers a compelling sociological perspective. To further strengthen my argument, I compare the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement with subsequent Anti-PX Movements to demonstrate their variations when institutional allies were either present or absent. For these comparative cases, I have collected data by systematically searching news reports in the LexisNexis Database and Chinese media.

THE CASE OF THE XIAMEN ANTI-PX MOVEMENT To sustain my sociological analysis of institutional actors in this event, a brief history of the Anti-PX Movement is needed. For narrative purposes, I divide the campaign into four stages: the petition period, the mobilization period, the protest period, and the outcome period.

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Petition Period (May 2005
March 2007). The Anti-PX Movement originated in the Haicang District of Xiamen, a large industrial, coastal city in the Fujian Province of Southeast China. The largest enterprise in this city was the Taiwanese-owned Xiang Lu Petrochemical Corporation (XL, thereafter), which had operated a number of chemical plants since the late 1990s. In August 2006, with the approval of the State Council, XL began to build a gigantic, 800,000ton PX plant. Even before construction on this new plant began, several local residents had already expressed discontent with the environmental deterioration caused by XL. They became increasingly frustrated by the newly planned PX project. As early as May 2005, some residents began to meet and take action. They issued collective petitions against the petrochemical factory to several levels of administration, but received no satisfactory responses. They also sought help from the media, but no media were willing to report on the case. At that point, these local residents were desperate (interviews with petition leaders, Mr Huang & Mr Bao, 2008). Unbeknownst to them, the PX plant had also angered prominent scholars at Xiamen University. In November 2006, led by chemistry professor Zhao Yufen, six renowned professors (all of whom were members of the Chinese Academy of Sciences) wrote a joint letter to the Xiamen Party Secretary, reporting the potential hazards posed by the PX plant and proposing to relocate it to another city.6 The Xiamen Government invited these professors to a meeting in January 2007, but did not consider their suggestions (interview with Professor Yuan,7 2008). Zhao Yufen then tried to obstruct the PX project at the annual meeting of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC), a cooptation institution for non-Party elites in China. As a member of the CPPCC for 20 years, Professor Zhao was able to unite 105 members to provide a joint proposal, denouncing the environmental problems associated with the PX project at the CPPCC’s annual meeting in March 2007. On March 14, the head of the Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) Bureau of SEPA met with some of the proposers on behalf of Pan Yue, the Deputy Director of SEPA. Despite showing some concern, he said that SEPA was unable to alter the project. At this point, all petitions executed through institutional channels by both citizens and scientists had failed. Mobilization Period (March 2007
May 2007). The CPPCC proposal and the PX project, however, were then leaked to reporters by SEPA officials and subsequently reported on by two of the national media on March 15 and 16. These two reports made the PX controversy visible to all Xiamen citizens. Opposition to the PX project spread through new media (e.g., online forums and text messages) as well as in residential communities in Xiamen. For example, abundant discussions appeared in the Xiaoyu online forum, the most popular internet forum in Xiamen. Realizing that the government was hesitant to change its decision, some citizens began to initiate more radical actions to thwart the project. Starting on May 20, 2007, an anonymous message calling

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for a protest spread among Xiamen citizens via mobile phones and the internet: If the XL Corporation begins work on the PX Plant, it will be like a nuclear bomb. Then our Xiamen citizens will live in a city with abundant diseases, and live with the risk of total environmental pollution if a terrible accident were to happen. We need life! We require health! International organizations have set a standard that this kind of project should be no less than 100 kilometers from a downtown area. Yet the PX is only 16 kilometers away from Xiamen’s downtown! For the good of our children and offspring, fight! Please join us in a march with 10,000 other citizens beginning in the Municipal Hall Square at eight o’clock on June 1st, 2007! Wear Yellow Ribbons! Send this message to all your friends!

All of my interviewees who lived in Xiamen, including governmental officials and policemen, recalled receiving this message. Like a clarion call, it spread across the city and eventually led to the march and demonstration on June 1 and 2, 2007. Protest Period (June 1 and 2, 2007). The Xiamen government tried hard to stop the organizing effort against the plant, including by blocking text messages and shutting down the Xiaoyu online forum. On the eve of the protest, the government even announced a suspension of construction on the PX plant in order to demobilize the protesters. However, their efforts were unable to prevent the demonstration. On June 1 and 2, approximately 20,000 citizens marched along Xiamen’s main thoroughfares and demonstrated at the Municipal Hall, requesting abandonment, not suspension, of the project.8 This largely unorganized protest was overall peaceful. The protest was reported by domestic and international media; pictures and video were broadly spread via the internet. Outcome Period (June 2007
March 2008). This large public outcry encouraged SEPA officials to intervene again. On June 7, Deputy Director Pan Yue of SEPA announced to conduct a comprehensive EIA before construction of the plant began. Not surprisingly, the result of the assessment was negative. This new EIA report was then made available for discussion during a two-day public hearing, in which Xiamen citizens overruled the project. The PX project was finally revoked in December 2007 and was relocated to Zhangzhou, Xiamen’s neighboring city in 2008.

INSTITUTIONAL ACTORS IN CHINA’S ENVIRONMENTAL GOVERNANCE To evaluate the impacts of institutional activists on the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement, this section offers a brief introduction of major environmental institutional actors. These actors include national environmental agencies (SEPA/ MEP), provincial and municipal environmental bureaus (local EPBs), ENGOs, and other social elites such as sympathetic reporters and scientists who value environmentalism (Economy, 2010; Mertha, 2008; Xie, 2009; Yang, 2005). First, the national environmental agency
SEPA (1998
2008) and MEP (2008
now)
is the major administrative body in China’s environmental politics (see Table 1 for an institutional chronology). SEPA has oversight over

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Table 1. A Brief History of National Environmental Protection Administration in China. Time

Name

Political Status

1973

Environmental Protection Office

Coordinating institution

1984

National Environmental Protection Bureau

Bureau under the Ministry of Urban and Rural Construction and Environmental Protection

1988

National Environmental Protection Agency

Vice-ministerial-status agency, directly under the State Council

1998

State Environmental Protection Administration (SEPA)

Ministerial-status agency, directly under the State Council

2008

Ministry of Environmental Protection (MEP)

Formal ministry of the cabinet, under the State Council

Sources: Economy (2010) and Jahiel (1998).

multiple environmental jurisdictions including the enforcement of environmental protection laws, regulation of potentially polluting projects, and investigation of major environmental accidents (Economy, 2010; Jahiel, 1998). Notably, when a young politician, Pan Yue, became its Deputy Director in 2003, SEPA began to expand its jurisdictional power, especially its core power in EIA. Pan Yue and a few SEPA insiders built close relationships with ENGOs and the media and coordinated a loosely connected institutional alliance of environmental protection (Tong, 2005; Zhang & Barr, 2013). This alliance not only played a crucial role in a number of worldview environmental movements in the early 2000s, especially the Anti-Dam Movements (Johnson, 2010; Mertha, 2008; Sun & Zhao, 2008; Xie, 2009), but also enabled SEPA officials “to advance their own interests” in policy making (Tong, 2005, p. 185). Second, provincial and municipal EPBs are important institutional actors in environmental governance (Economy, 2010; Jahiel, 1998). While the SEPA/MEP had only hundreds of employees in its Beijing headquarters, there were 60,000 employees in some 2,500 provincial and local EPBs (Economy, 2010, p. 112). EPBs are not only responsible for the routine implementation of environmental laws and policies in their jurisdictional areas but also collaborate with many ENGOs and other social groups to organize activities such as environmental education and animal protection (Tong, 2005, pp. 182, 185). Overall, they constitute a valuable ally for “provincial activism” regarding environmental protection (Wu, 2013). Third, since the founding in 1994 of China’s first ENGO, Friends of Nature, the growing numbers of ENGOs have played a vibrant role in China’s environmental governance, including animal and forest protection, environmental education, and recycling (Hildebrandt, 2013; Yang, 2005; Zhang & Barr, 2013). They have been active participants in a number of environmental campaigns, the most well-known of which were protecting the Golden snub-nosed monkey (1995
1996), protecting the Tibetan Antelope (1998
2000), the Anti-Dam Campaign to protect the Dujiangyan World Heritage site (2003), and the Nu

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River Anti-Dam Campaign (2003
2006) (Johnson, 2010; Matsuzawa, 2011; Mertha, 2008; Sun & Zhao, 2008; Xie, 2009). By negotiating with the state, ENGOs carved out spaces for themselves in environmental governance and have come to exert increasing influence in terms of environmental legislation and policy making (Mertha, 2008; Saich, 2000). Fourth, other social elites, such as sympathetic reporters and scientists, are valuable allies for environmental activism. In democracies, the media can market social movements, frame certain issues as social grievances, help organizers recruit participants, and increase the visibility and influence of the protests (e.g., Earl & Kimport, 2011; Gamson & Wolfsfeld, 1993; Molotch, 1980). In China, although the media is heavily controlled by the state, some commercialized media has gained, since the market reform of the 1990s, larger space for reporting social problems in a critical (but not politically oppositional) manner (Lei, 2016; Yang, 2005). Although they would not directly call for protests, their reports have increased the visibility of social problems and sometimes triggered popular mobilization (Liu, 2016; Yang, 2009, 2016). Another important but lesser studied elite allies are environment-concerned scientists. Scientists of environmental studies and related fields possess various resources: expertise knowledge, delegate status in China’s cooptation institutions, such as the CPPCC, personal connections with top leaders, and prestigious public reputations. As mentioned earlier, there has been little exploration of the variations among potential institutional allies. To remedy this oversight, I will now turn to that theme by examining the roles of major institutional actors
SEPA, local EPBs, ENGOs, and sympathetic scientists and reporters
in the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement.

INSTITUTIONAL ACTORS IN THE XIAMEN ANTI-PX MOVEMENT During my fieldwork, I found that potential institutional allies of environmental movements met serious limitations: internal contradictions within SEPA, the compliance of local EPBs with local government, ENGO conformism, and constraints of social elites’ influence on policies. As a result, ENGOs only passively supported the grassroots campaign; local EPBs defected to local governments and became opponents of the movement; SEPA activists appeared only when they saw opportunities for realizing their own policy agenda; and scientists and reporters became effective only after the popular mobilization. Nevertheless, SEPA activists’ limited but strategic presence and the involvement of social elites changed the movement dynamics and outcomes. SEPA’s Limited Presence Unlike their proactive role in worldview environmental movements, I found that SEPA activists had only participated in the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement in a limited sense before the protest. However, when they learned that grassroots activism could serve their own political agenda in advancing procedural and

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structural changes, they grasped the opportunity to intervene. Although their presence was limited and opportunistic, it was still conducive to movement development. Above all, SEPA’s institutional status was too weak to challenge their formidable opponents. SEPA officials did not help in the petition stage of the campaign, even though residents wrote a letter with 2,000 signatures addressed to both SEPA and NDRC. Two SEPA officials told me that the appeal did not go unnoticed but that they were unable to do anything at the time, because the project was supported by NDRC and approved by the State Council. The CPPCC Proposal in March 2007 did not immediately change the situation. Deputy Director Pan Yue and his allies were unable to change the decision despite their concerns. In addition, internal contradictions within SEPA contributed to its impotence. Unlike bureaucrats within economic agencies (e.g., NDRC) who exclusively focused on economic development, not all officials within SEPA uphold intrinsic value of environment protection. Nor do they all necessarily ally themselves with societal forces, let alone grassroot activists. Director/Minister Zhou Shengxian of SEPA/MEP was known for being passive in environmental regulation. One SEPA official told me: Most people in this ministry are bureaucrats. They care more about political security, personal interests, and promotions than environmental protection. Only a few put the ideal before their interests. (Mr H, 2012)

The inaction of these officials further limited SEPA’s presence in opposing problematic projects such as the Xiamen PX plant. Finally, EPA activists had more interest in advancing general procedural reforms than in abolishing a single project. In particular, a higher priority was expanding SEPA’s core jurisdictional authority in enforcing the EIA Law that had been effective since 2003, which authorized SEPA to perform a mandatory review for approval of any construction project (Economy, 2010). As Pan Yue supervised the EIA implementation from 2004 until 2008,9 SEPA officials notably entered the scene when they saw an opportunity to advance this agenda during the Xiamen Anti-PX Campaign. This strategic presence of the SEPA nonetheless facilitated protest mobilization and mediated the relationship between the protest and its desired outcomes. First, SEPA activists unintentionally provided opportunities to Xiamen citizens for citywide protest mobilization. Although they showed no initiative to act during the meeting with CPPCC members in March 2007, SEPA activists still used this opportunity to problematize the project and publicize the disagreement between SEPA and NDRC. They also invited their allied reporters in the national media to conduct interviews and publish critical reports in the wake of the CPPCC session, thus triggering the mobilization process of the Anti-PX Movement in Xiamen. The coverage became a turning point of the campaign. Before that, the residents felt helpless after their petitions had failed. One resident told me: We prepared for an administrative lawsuit, but we knew we would fail in the end. So the last solution was to vote by foot: we moved out of Haicang District and even out of Xiamen. (interview with Mr Bao, 2008)

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Most Xiamen citizens knew of this project only after the media coverage of this meeting. Second, SEPA activists’ effects in facilitating favorable outcomes, albeit for the purpose of advancing their own political agendas, were even more evident. The protest on June 1 and 2 gave SEPA activists strong rationales for advancing stricter and more comprehensive EIA policy as well as for revoking this particular project. On June 7, 2007, merely five days after the protest, Deputy Director Pan Yue declared in Beijing that the PX project would be postponed until a new, independent, and comprehensive EIA was implemented. In his announcement, Pan Yue emphasized that the unfolding environmental controversies allowed for no delay for implement comprehensive EIAs nationwide. In addition, a public hearing meant to foster deliberative discussion was held immediately after the new EIA was created. In addition to substantive and procedural outcomes, the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement, together with other influential environmental protests in 2007,10 produced structural outcomes in environmental governance. Partially due to the 2007 environmental controversy, SEPA was upgraded to the Ministry of Environmental Protection with full ministry status in 2008. This upgrade would not have occurred without the agency of the political entrepreneurs such as Pan Yue. During an ENGO meeting in June 2007, Pan Yue opened his keynote speech with the statement that “this year, ‘environment’ has become an undebatable keyword [in China]” (Pan, 2007a). In his broadly circulated op-ed
“Socialism and Ecological Civilization”
in October 2007, Pan (2007b) further legitimized environmentalism from the perspective of socialism and civilization, employing rhetoric that was acceptable and even attractive to Chinese leaders. At least three senior SEPA/MEP officials implied a connection between their efforts in the wake of the 2007 protests and the institutional upgrade of SEPA to MEP (Interviews with Mr P and Mr Q, 2008; Interview with Mr M, 2012). In sum, institutional activists positioning on the weak side have incentives to ally with social movement actors to seek their policy goals, while simultaneously facilitating desirable outcomes for movement activists. Local EPB’s Defection Unlike the SEPA activists, I find that the local EPBs were compliant with the municipal government, thus becoming opponents, rather than allies to the grassroot activists. In the Xiamen Anti-PX Campaign, EPB officials not only aligned with the municipal government to confront the SEPA but also controlled local ENGOs and grassroot activists, playing critical roles in the counter-mobilization of the grassroots movement. First, municipal EPB officials served the interests of the Xiamen government. Above all, they played a mediating role in bargaining with SEPA for EIA approval of the PX project. This is a common local EPB practice for many potentially polluting, but profitable projects planned by local governments. A senior SEPA official told me: In regard to important projects, usually provincial and municipal governments hold a joint meeting, and the governor/mayor gives assignments to each agency. Local EPBs basically

22

YANG ZHANG serve the role of the “lobby group” to deal with the SEPA, and request the approval of environmental assessment for the successful commencement of the projects. (Mr M, 2012)

Whenever SEPA and the local government disagreed, under most circumstances local EPBs aligned with the local government, and thus opposed its named supervisor: SEPA. In the Xiamen case, some SEPA officials did try to obstruct this project by giving orders to the municipal EPB, but they made no real progress. A SEPA official told me: During the whole process of the Anti-PX mobilization, Pan Yue did put pressure on the Director of Xiamen EPB, but the latter only made oral apologies and took no real action. Pan Yue was angry, but understood why the director acted in this way. (Mr Chen, 2008)

Second, Xiamen EPB officials assisted the Xiamen government in controlling local ENGOs, pacifying disgruntled scientists, dismissing petitioners, mitigating citizen grievances, and demobilizing popular uprisings. In the petition period, EPB officials did not respond to residents’ appeals. The petitioners told me they initially lodged a complaint to the EPB at both the district and municipal levels but received no reply. Their joint letter to the Mayor of Xiamen was also transferred to the municipal EPB without any further response. Likewise, in the January 2007 consultation meeting, the chief of the municipal EPB sided with the municipal government and dismissed the scientists’ suggestions (interview with Professor Yuan, 2008). In the movement mobilization period, the municipal EPB published several reports in municipal government-owned media, and printed and distributed thousands of pamphlets on the safety of the PX project. As will be shown, the Xiamen EPB officials prevented Xiamen’s ENGO from joining the campaign. In sum, aligning with the Xiamen government, they made every effort to control and demobilize contentious forces. Xiamen EPB’s compliance with the municipal government and its defection in the campaign revealed fundamental problems with China’s environmental governance. In theory, in China’s decentralized state, lower-level administration falls under the leadership of both the local government and the superior administration; in reality, most administrations are direct subordinates of the local government and are less directed by its superior administration (Landry, 2008). Accordingly, municipal EPBs are institutionally subordinate to local governments, rather than the SEPA (Economy, 2010, p. 113).11 In addition, over 75% of China’s provincial EPB directors are promoted or transferred from outside the environmental agencies (Kostka, 2013). They are thus not technical bureaucrats specializing in environmental protection. Their incentive toward environmental protection is far lower than their interest in political security and career advancement, which are largely determined by local governments. As a result, when it came to profitable yet controversial projects local EPBs were often subject to local governments, which pursued economic growth at the expense of the local environment and carried out policies at odds with the SEPA regulations. In disagreements between the SEPA and local government, local EPBs mostly sided with the latter. Ironically, even if some local EPB officials were concerned about the environmental risks of those projects, they had to report their concerns to SEPA through anonymous letters (Wang, 2009, p. 85).

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For example, several officials in the Xiamen EPB told me that they disagreed with the PX plant, but they still followed instructions from the municipal government.12 A senior SEPA official vividly revealed the rationale behind local EPBs’ behavior regarding controversial projects: There are hardly any chiefs in the local EPBs who are sincerely protecting the environment because “if you fight you will be fired; if you stay you never fight.” Whoever fights against the local government regarding important projects will be dismissed, or simply transferred to another position by the party secretary or the mayor. (Mr M, 2012)

ENGOs’ Inaction Considering ENGOs’ performance in previous environmental campaigns, they were initially considered important allies by grassroot activists during the AntiPX Movement. However, ENGOs soon proved to be conformist and inactive. During the campaign, grassroot activists found little support from ENGOs. According to my informants, during the petition period, local residents sought help from the Green Cross, Xiamen’s largest ENGO, which was wellknown for its initiatives in campaigns on environmental education and bird and redwood protection. Despite being viewed as an ally by citizens, Ms Ma, the founder of the Green Cross, rejected involvement with the petition, except to provide scientific knowledge about the PX. During the mobilization period between March and May 2007, the Green Cross explicitly distanced itself from the protest, which was “illegal” because the protest had not been approved by the Public Security Bureau. Ms Ma and her colleagues took no action despite the requests from Xiamen citizens. Although criticized by citizen activists for her inaction, Ms Ma insisted on her choice a year after the movement: Our attitude on the march is obvious: no support, no opposition, no organizing […] Just a few days before the march, several citizens called us about how to organize the march. My answer was that we would not participate in any organizing activity in the march. This was our attitude during the movement, and this is our attitude now. (Ms Ma, 2008)

National ENGOs in Beijing did not participate in this campaign either, as several ENGO organizers told me. They stated that they were concerned about the PX plant, but were unable to directly support the movement. Ms Ma explained why she distanced herself from the grassroots campaign: The Green Cross was highly dependent upon the Xiamen EPB because all NGOs are illegal in China unless they can find one administrative department as their sponsor institution. Otherwise, they will be closed or forced to work as a company, so they would pay many taxes and suffer from many limitations. I made great efforts over several years to acquire a legal certificate, and I finally got it in August 2007. It might have been a reward to us because we did not participate in the whole petition or the march in June 2007. When the EPB prevented us from joining in the movement, what should we have done? The survival environment for NGOs is bitter, but it is the reality. (Ms Ma, 2008)

In fact, when one of Ma’s colleagues circulated information about the march from the Green Cross website, in less than 24 hours one of Xiamen EPB officials called Ma to have it immediately deleted. She was told that if she did not

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comply, the website, and even her organization, would be closed down. The Green Cross Association’s involvement only came after the government had opened an official channel for discussion in late 2007. It then became a policy consultant for the Xiamen government, but did not work with citizens. The case of the Green Cross exemplifies the institutional limitations ENGOs face in grassroots movements. All Chinese NGOs are required to register with the Ministry of Civil Affairs or its regional branches and find a sponsoring government agency. It is true that ENGOs can operate under an unregistered, illegal status
but only if they refrain from confrontational and politically sensitive activities (Hildebrandt, 2013; Spires, 2011). In addition to controlling registration, the state employs “routine supervision” to regulate ENGOs (Ru & Ortolano, 2008). If an NGO participates in confrontational activities, it jeopardizes its operations and very existence. Even the registration of a legal ENGO might be revoked if it is involved in certain “dangerous” activities. This is probably why ENGOs behave differently depending on whether they participate in worldview-oriented or grassroots movements. In worldview movements, such as animal protection and natural conservation campaigns, metropolitan and international ENGOs play a central role, mainly by adopting non-confrontational repertories, such as media activism and international forums (Litzinger, 2007; Matsuzawa, 2011; Mertha, 2008; Sun & Zhao, 2008; Xie, 2009).13 In contrast, ENGOs stay aloof from confrontational grassroots campaigns such as the Xiamen Anti-PX Movement and the aforementioned Anti-Incinerator Movement in Beijing (Dong, Kriesi, & Kübler, 2015; Xie, 2009). Their contrasting involvement in the two kinds of environmental movements has been noted as a distinction between Environmentalism and NIMBYism: environmentalist NGOs engage in rules-based activism on a long-term basis to improve the institutional environment for public participation… Unlike NGOs, NIMBYs can adopt contentious tactics that exert considerable pressure on local officials to open participatory channels. (Johnson, 2010, p. 430)

Overall, Chinese ENGOs profess “a greening without conflict, an environmentalism with a safe distance from direct political action” (Ho, 2001, p. 916). With few exceptions to be discussed later, these conformist ENGOs are unavailable and unreliable allies for grassroot activists in their confrontational campaigns. Social Elites’ Constrained Influence In China’s already pluralistic but still regulated society, social elites such as scientists and journalists possess various resources to influence policy, but their influence has been heavily constrained. In controversial projects, the influence of those sympathetic elites becomes effective when their efforts are reinforced by grassroots protests. The Xiamen Anti-PX Movement showed both influences and constraints of scientists. On the one hand, scientists had been very active in persuading the local government to relocate the PX plant even before popular mobilization occurred. As mentioned earlier, Professor Yufen Zhao14 and her colleagues

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made a number of efforts, including writing letters to municipal and provincial leaders, meeting municipal leaders to present their research, and submitting a joint proposal during the CPPCC’s annual meeting. These actions demonstrate that these elite scientists can exert influence using various resources: expertise knowledge, institutional status, and personal connections. On the other hand, despite their persistent efforts, those scientists barely altered anything before the popular mobilization. Their suggestions were turned down, Professor Zhao’s presentation was ignored during the consultation meeting, and the CPPCC Proposal immediately received a negative response. For example, though Professor Zhao and her colleagues were invited to meet the leaders of the Xiamen Government, their expertise was not respected. During this so-called “expert consultation” on January 6, 2007, the Party Secretary, the most powerful politician in Xiamen, was late and missed most of Professor Zhao’s presentation. Being impatient, the Secretary replied that there was no chance to change the PX site. The arrogance of these politicians angered the scientists who left without attending the scheduled dinner (Interview with Professor Yuan, 2008). In short, although renowned scientists had many ways to exert influence on policy making, this influence could be ignored or marginalized by powerful politicians who had other agendas. This constrained influence also applied to sympathetic reporters. It has been broadly noted that the media played a vital role in problematizing polluted projects and triggering grassroots mobilization, but we should be aware that the media was still restricted and regulated in China. During the petition period, for example, when Haicang’s residents sought help from media that were not controlled by the municipal government, even national media such as the State News Agency refused to report the controversy about this project (Interview with Mr Huang and Mr Bao, 2008). Furthermore, the two reports on the CPPCC proposal did not directly lead to policy change. During the mobilization period, the Xiamen government used various methods to control the media, including directing the Xiamen Daily to publish several reports and interviews showing the economic value and safety of the PX project. Only when the efforts of elites like scientists and reporters were joined by grassroot activists were sustainable effects produced. The very value of the two reports on the CPPCC proposal was precisely that they made the controversy visible to Xiamen citizens and thus triggered broad discontent and popular mobilization across the city. Nearly all of my informants told me that they were inspired and even empowered by the investigation of the scientists. During the movement they consistently referred to the scientific investigation to delegitimize the PX project and grant credibility to their otherwise “illegal” protest
a strategy that is similar to “rightful resistance” (O’Brien & Li, 2006). Professor Wu
who is himself a Professor of Sociology at Xiamen University and a scholar of social movements and political trust in China
provided some perspective: We professors and students respected Professor Zhao’s expertise and professionalism. She really did a great deal of research, you know, that was careful investigation and comparison. We trusted her job more than the report of the government. (Professor Wu, 2008)

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To sum up, the Chinese society is now pluralistic but still highly constrained by the state (Hildebrandt, 2013; Lee & Zhang, 2013). As such, social elites were able to influence policy making, but only in a limited sense. Their influence becomes significant when their actions are mutually reinforcing with grassroots forces: the more elites were willing to speak up about the issue and advocate the government to intervene, the more media outlets were able to report on the controversy and the more grassroots contentions were mobilized
and vice versa. It was the interaction between institutional and grassroot activists rather than any of their individual forces, that made the Xiamen Anti-PX Protest possible and successful. Summary This section presents a nuanced picture of institutional actors in their support of grassroots environmental movements in a stable authoritarian context. On the one hand, institutional actors were heavily restricted and internally divided in forming a coherent alliance to support grassroots activism: the internal contradiction of the SEPA officials, the compliance of EPBs with local government, and the conformism of ENGOs, and the constraints of the influence by media and scientists. Most institutional actors were inactive or even hostile to the grassroots mobilization, which seldom garnered open endorsements or organizational resources from potential allies, even if some were sympathetic. On the other hand, my findings suggest that institutional activists’ limited presence played critical roles in facilitating mobilization, and realizing desirable outcomes in this campaign. When the SEPA activists saw potential opportunities to make use of the grassroots campaigns, they exerted decisive influence. SEPA activists helped Xiamen citizens and activists realize their goal of revoking the PX plant. In addition, by relying upon the Anti-PX Protest along with other grassroots movements, they realized procedural outcomes (advancing a more comprehensive and stricter EIA), and facilitated structural changes (the status upgrade to a full ministry).15 In addition, the efforts of scientists and sympathetic reporters eventually paid off after they were amplified by grassroots mobilization. It was thus the interaction of top-down influence and bottom-up participation that made the Anti-PX Protest possible and the protest outcomes desirable. Without citizen participation, the efforts of SEPA activists and scientists proved to be futile. Mr Li, the spontaneous protest leader of the Anti-PX Campaign, well summed up the interactions between citizen protesters and the SEPA activists: The case [of the Anti-PX Movement] in Xiamen was the result of interaction between institutional and extra-institutional politics. We above all enlarged the issue by the march, and attracted worldwide media attention, hence facilitating top leaders to reconsider this case. Then institutional actors began to pay attention to the matter. We were modest during the march, but a two-day march was enough to convey the message. (Mr Li, 2008)

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COMPARISON: WHEN INSTITUTIONAL ALLIES WERE ABSENT The effects of institutional activists, especially SEPA policy entrepreneurs can be further articulated through a comparison with the subsequent Anti-PX Movements between 2008 and 2015. As shown earlier, SEPA activists provided opportunities for mobilization and facilitated favorable protest outcomes in the Xiamen case. However, given the many factors at play in this case, it is reasonable to suspect that this relationship was spurious. To further isolate the effects, this section compares the Xiamen case to the subsequent cases. The Xiamen Anti-PX Movement was followed by a series of Anti-PX Protests in several cities, including Zhangzhou (2008), Chengdu (2008), Dalian (2011), Ningbo (2012), Kunming (2013), Maoming (2014), and Shanghai (2015) (for their geographic distribution, see Fig. 1). These seven spin-off campaigns experienced wide participation of residents, ranging from hundreds of people, as in Chengdu, to as many as 70,000 participants in Dalian. As in the Xiamen case, these protesters marched for one day or several days down main streets and/or demonstrated in the municipal halls. The outcome of these protests varied: four of the seven protests succeeded in pushing the government to cancel or relocate the proposed project. Of the remaining three protests, two failed to produce substantive policy change (Zhangzhou and Chengdu). The 2015 Shanghai protest against a suspected PX plant can be called neither a success nor a failure, because, while the government did not build the PX factory in the end, officials denied there was such a plan to build the plant (for more information, see Table 2). While these subsequent movements were themselves heterogeneous, they differed from the initiator movement in Xiamen in significant ways. First, highlevel violence or police crackdown occurred during five protests: in particular, Dalian, Ningbo, and Maoming all saw violent clashes between demonstrators and the police forces. In the Chengdu case, while there was no direct crackdown, the protest was tightly controlled by the government, so merely 500 protesters showed up. Only in Kunming was the protest relatively peaceful and orderly. Second, the subsequent movements achieved less outcomes than the Xiamen case. As mentioned earlier, four protests achieved substantive outcomes by pushing the government to cancel, suspend, or relocate the PX projects, but only in Kunming did the suspension occur after procedural deliberation including expert meetings and public hearing. For the other three “successful” cases (in Dalian, Ningbo, and Maoming), the removal or suspension of the PX plants appeared to be a populist response to violent, disruptive protests. This opens up questions about why subsequent movements, with the exception of the Kunming case, were generally more disruptive and realized fewer outcomes than the Xiamen case. While a systematic examination is beyond the scope of this chapter, a preliminary analysis indicates that the key lies in the absence of SEPA activists in the subsequent cases. This finding might be surprising, given that with SEPA’s upgrade to a full ministry in March 2008, SEPA policy entrepreneurs would have carved out a larger space in supporting environmental campaigns. Then, why did

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Major Cases of Anti-PX Protests in China, 2007
2015.

YANG ZHANG

Fig. 1.

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Table 2. Major Anti-PX Campaigns in China, 2007
2015. City

Movement Period

Protest Repertories

Size of the Protest

ENGO Involvement

SEPA/MEP Partnership

Level of Violence

Protest Policing

Movement Outcomes

Xiamen, Fujian

2007

Demonstration and march

~20,000

Rejecting participation

Yes

None

None

Substantive, procedural, and structural

Zhangzhou, Fujian

2008

Protests and demonstrations

1,000
5,000

None

No

Violent

Crackdown Failure

Chengdu, Sichuan

2008

March

400
500

None

No

None

None

Dalian, Liaoning

2011

Demonstration and march

10,000
70,000 None

No

Violent

Crackdown Substantive

Failure

Ningbo, Zhejiang

2012

March

1,000
5,000

None

No

Violent

Crackdown Substantive

Kunming, Yunnan

2013

March

1,000
5,000

Active involvement

No

None

None

Maoming, Guangdong

2014

March

1,000
5,000

None

No

Violent

Crackdown Substantive

Jinshan District, Shanghai

2015

Demonstration and march

~30,000

None

No

None

Crackdown Indecisive

Substantive and procedural

Sources: Media reports in Financial Times, BBC, South China Morning Post in the LexisNexis Database, and reports in Chinese media such as the Southern Metropolis Daily.

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subsequent Anti-PX Protests perform worse than in the initiator movement in Xiamen? My interviews with SEPA officials and national ENGO leaders all point to the fact that Vice-Minister Pan Yue was weakened in the power reshuffle of 2008: he no longer supervised the EIA, and his rival
Minister Zhou Shengxian
dominated the ministry. Pan Yue’s two most reliable assistants were sent to jail for corruption. The SEPA-Media-ENGO alliance midwifed by him also broke down. A “traditional” political bureaucrat, Zhou took a different attitude toward environmental civil society from Pan Yue. As one ENGO leader said: Pan Yue said that ENGOs were the “natural allies” of the SEPA, but the Minister of MEP took the ENGOs as enemies. Most officials follow [Minister] Zhou Shengxian, not Pan. (Mr Huo, 2012)

Another ENGO leader said: “we were often invited by Pan Yue to attend his family dinner in circumstances such as the new Chinese year. Can you imagine Zhou Shengxian doing the same thing?” (Ms Wang, 2012). Furthermore, the tacit interactions between grassroots and institutional activists seen in the Xiamen case disappeared in subsequent cases: no SEPA officials stepped into those campaigns. As a media practitioner commented: In subsequent popular protests, and most obviously in the unrest of 2012, the ministry said and did nothing, apart from distancing itself from the incidents after the fact. Even more bizarrely, the ministry has relaxed environmental impact assessments, allowing large projects to go ahead easily nationwide. (Liu, 2013)

As a result, in the Anti-PX Protests in Dalian (2011) and Ningbo (2012), violent confrontation appeared and led to a police crackdown. In these two cases, the PX projects were indeed suspended but merely as the result of local authorities’ “populist” response to radicalized protesters by granting a favorable resolution without allowing procedural reforms such as the public hearing occurring in the Xiamen case. Finally, we need to account for the major exceptional case, the 2013 Anti-PX Movement in Kunming, Yunnan. Without MEP activists as institutional allies in the Kunming case, researchers have concluded that national and local ENGOs played the same role as elite allies. During the movement, two local ENGOs (Green Kunming and Green Watershed) gained larger space to investigate the potential risks of the PX plant, conduct a broad survey of other PX projects, offer expertise to citizens, exploit institutional channels for influencing policy making, and seek media attention and exposure (Sun et al., 2017). Furthermore, a few Beijing-based national ENGOs
notably, Friends of Nature, Nature University, and Institute of Public and Environmental Affairs
joined the campaign and made an informal alliance with the two local ENGOs (Steinhardt & Wu, 2016; Sun et al., 2017). Together, these efforts not only resulted in the elimination of this project in 2015 but also urged provincial and municipal authorities to disclose more information and to hold an open forum for citizens. The unusual success of the Kunming movement was mainly related to a vibrant ENGO community in Yunnan, and its robust connection with

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Beijing-based NGOs (Hildebrandt, 2013; Sun et al., 2017; Teets, 2015; Wu, 2013). Nevertheless, the Kunming case is exceptional rather than typical in terms of ENGO involvement.16 Overall, “the absence of collaboration among social organizations and popular protests has been an important reason for the lack of sustained contention in China” (Sun et al., 2017, p. 11). In a nutshell, there are no optimal tactics for achieving favorable outcomes in social movements. In the Xiamen case, where SEPA activists were present and visible, a large-scale but overall peaceful protest was able to send signals to the central government while leaving SEPA activists space for policy bargaining. In Kunming, where ENGOs were well-developed, ENGOs played a vital role in collaborating with grassroot activists to seek favorable outcomes. In contrast, in the absence of SEPA/MEP or ENGO allies in most other cases, more disruptive actions for obtaining the desirable outcomes became alternative options. Substantive goals such as the removal of hazardous projects was realized at the cost of establishing procedures for comprehensive environmental assessment or citizen participation.

CONCLUDING REMARKS When this chapter was drafted in 2015, a series of disastrous chemical explosions occurred in several Chinese cities. This series of industrial disasters began with an explosion in April 2015 at a PX plant in Zhangzhou
the very plant that had been relocated from Xiamen after the Anti-PX Movement. It is only because this new plant was relatively distant from residential communities that it did not cause more deaths than it did. It thus confirmed Xiamen citizens’ concerns about the safety and potential pollution of the PX plant. These chemical explosions signaled a serious ecological crisis with global ramifications, given that China has surpassed the United States as the world’s largest emitter of carbon.17 The prospect of China’s environmental governance thus becomes vital: if the environmental movement is presumably “the most comprehensive and influential movement of our time” (Castells, 1997, p. 67), it is not an exaggeration to say that its success or failure in China would affect all human beings. Environmental protection needs coordinated efforts, formal and informal, among institutional and grassroots actors. However, while China’s fragmented authoritarian state offers opportunities to movement actors, environmental institutions are also fragmentary and thus fail to give coherent support to grassroot activists. Despite these restrictions, institutional allies, if present, are conducive to grassroots environmental movements. In the Xiamen Anti-PX Campaign, for example, although SEPA activists did not make a formal alliance with grassroot activists, they unintentionally provided opportunities for mobilization, and mediated the relationship between the protest and its outcomes to advance their own agenda. By comparison, the complete absence of SEPA activists often leads to the obstruction of citizen activism, or results in disruptive collective actions and violent crackdown, as seen in most subsequent Anti-PX Movements aside from the Kunming where ENGOs played the role of elite allies.18 Meanwhile, it is also important to give credits to the bottom-up process: the influence of institutional

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activists (e.g., SEPA policy entrepreneurs and scientists) was amplified by popular protests and then became effective. We might well wonder how these findings contribute to the extant literature. Different from the broadly studied state-elite coalition in environmental activism (Sun & Zhao, 2008; Xie, 2009; Yang, 2005), my research reflects another dynamic
an informal alliance between institutional and grassroot activists, a mutual support between policy makers within the state and protesters on the street. This dynamic is even not the link-up between local political/social elites and grassroots protesters that have been identified elsewhere (e.g., Li & Liu, 2016; Sun et al., 2017) but the tacit collaboration between activists within the central ministry and grassroot activists, two actors who were remote in terms of both physical and political distances. As in many authoritarian, developmental states at a similar stage, environmental activism is indeed the most salient field of contentious politics in China, but the general lesson are not limited to this field. As long as the claim is not subversive to the authoritarian rule, some reformist officials occasionally exploit grassroots protests to pursue their own policy interests and prevail over their institutional rivals, in fields such as consumer protection, women rights, disabled people’s rights, and AIDS protection in China (Cai, 2010; Chen & Xu, 2011; Hildebrandt, 2013; Spires, 2011) and in other undemocratic settings (Schock, 2005; Suh, 2011). For example, the China Women’s Federation
a statesponsored corporativist institution
played a similar role to SEPA in the women’s movement, by building alliances with NGOs and even tacitly sponsoring feminist movements in order to advance its policy agenda
a strategy that is called “state feminism” (Wang & Zhang, 2010). On the other hand, institutional actors are often activated and empowered by grassroots mobilization in bottom-up processes. For instance, the disabled people’s collective actions have turned ambiguous institutional actors
the Chinese Disabled Persons Federation and its leaders
into their elite allies (Chen & Xu, 2011). Even though my research mostly applies to contentious movements under a stable authoritarian regime, it can also be extended to broader theoretical issues. For instance, my findings enrich the long debate over the relationship between disruptive actions and elite allies. Some scholars contend that radical, disruptive actions are indispensable because elites are often unreliable allies (Almeida & Stearns, 1998; McAdam, 1982; Piven & Cloward, 1977), while others say that modest actions are more effective in the presence of elite allies working in relatively open political systems (Amenta et al., 2010; Gamson, 1990; Schumaker, 1975). The empirical evidence for these claims are mixed (Giugni, 1998; Tarrow, 1994). My findings reveal a middle way: transgressive but not necessarily violent contention can open an opportunity window in policy bargaining for elite allies, thus realizing desired movement outcomes for protesters. My chapter hence echoes a call to study state-movement intersection and interactions (Banaszak, 2005; Böhm, 2015; Fligstein & McAdam, 2011; Oliver & Myers, 2002) by highlighting the reciprocal relationship between institutional and grassroot activists. They offer “opportunities” for each other and “mediate” their respective effects in shaping movement/policy mobilizations and outcomes.

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The chicken-and-egg puzzle that appears between grassroots mobilization and policy response is not necessarily a drawback for social movement studies, but indexes the very nature of the interaction between institutional and contentious politics (Kingdon, 1995; Meyer, 2005). For change to be possible, mutual mediation between institutional and grassroot activists is indispensable.

NOTES 1. PX is the abbreviation for paraxylene, a petrochemical broadly used in polyester and other fabrics. 2. Following other works on grassroots environmental movements (Almeida & Stearns, 1998), I differentiate the Anti-PX Movement, grassroots mobilization, and protest as three different levels of events. “The Anti-PX Movement” was the entire campaign during the period from 2005 to 2008. “Grassroots mobilization” refers to citizen mobilization against the project during the same period. Finally, the “protest” refers only to the march and demonstration on June 1 and 2, 2007. 3. In this chapter, I use the two terms “institutional allies” and “elite allies” (McAdam, 1996; Tarrow, 1994) interchangeably. Other similar concepts include institutional activists (Santoro & McGuire, 1997), sympathetic elites (Tarrow, 1994), political entrepreneurs (Pettinicchio, 2013), and policy entrepreneurs (Mertha, 2008). For an overview of these concepts, see Pettinicchio (2012). 4. This chapter considers movement outcomes in terms of substantive, procedural, and structural policy outcomes rather than organizational or individual outcomes (Amenta et al., 2010; Gamson, 1990; Giugni, 1998; Kitschelt, 1986; Kriesi et al., 1995; Meyer, 2005). 5. A worldview environmental movement is often based upon a general concern for environmental protection and ecological balance, that is, environmentalism rather than “NIMBYism” (“not-in-my-backyard”) (Johnson, 2010; Tong, 2005). In contrast, NIMBY activists target a specific local development project that has negative environmental impacts on their quality of life (Johnson, 2010). However, we should keep in mind that this distinction is not clear-cut, since locally oriented people may also protest in a worldview environmental movement, such as in an Anti-Dam Movement in Chengdu (Mertha, 2008), and since environmentalism (e.g., “NIABY”
“not-in-anyone’s-backyard”) (Boudet, 2011) might grow out of narrow, localized NIMBYism, such as an Anti-Incinerator Movement in Guangzhou (Bondes & Johnson, 2017; Wong, 2015). 6. Later Professor Zhao wrote another letters to provincial authorities. 7. Professor Yuan was then a leading scholar of the College of the Environment and Ecology at Xiamen University. 8. Although the right to march and demonstrate is enshrined in the Constitution of China, in practice, the legally necessary permits are never issued by public security bureaus. To avoid being labeled as “illegal,” Xiamen citizens referred to their action not as a march but as a “collective stroll,” which later became an important protest repertoire in China. 9. In January 2005, just one month after starting his new duties, Pan Yue announced the suspension of 30 large-scale projects across the country. Within three days, 56 ENGOs had published a joint statement supporting SEPA’s new initiative in implementing the stricter EIA. 10. In another case, the Anti-Incinerator Movement in Beijing, thousands of residents demonstrated in front of the SEPA building on June 5, 2007 (World Environmental Protection Day), three days after the Anti-PX Protest in Xiamen. It was in this same meeting (June 7, 2007) that Pan Yue announced the suspension of the two plants and called for comprehensive EIAs (Johnson, 2010; Lang & Xu, 2013).

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11. This is unlike the relationship between the Environmental Protection Agency and its regional offices or satellite locations in the United States. 12. This demonstrates a distinction between political bureaucrats such as party secretaries and mayors, who often relocated around different places and positions, and local, functionary bureaucrats
a distinction that was pioneered by the tension “officials vs clerks” ever since imperial China (Ch’u, 1962). 13. Despite occasional grassroots protests within a worldview environmental movement, the master framing is almost always metropolitan and/or international ENGO-led environmentalism. In most cases, local residents were unsympathetic to the natural conservation framing of these movements and seldom participated in the campaign (Litzinger, 2007, p. 292). However, we should take into account the fact that cases such as local Anti-Dam Protests in rural settings are rarely documented. In addition, local villagers can become active participants in the rural NIMBY movements once they are educated by ENGOs, although most ENGOs have focused their attention on the urban problems (Mertha, 2008). 14. Professor Zhao’s special status should be noted: a Taiwan-born scientist, Zhao chose to teach in mainland China after receiving her PHD degree in the US in 1970s. 15. The aforementioned Anti-Incinerator Movement in Beijing showed similar dynamics of mobilization and outcomes, especially the interaction between grassroots protesters and SEPA activists (Johnson, 2010; Lang & Xu, 2013). 16. Another well-known exceptional case is the Anti-Incinerator Movement in Panyu, Guangdong. In this case, a new ENGO was built by the grassroots protestors so as to institutionalize the movement outcomes and make durable impact on environmental protection. Furthermore, this new ENGO was supported by a few national ENGOs in Beijing (Bondes & Johnson, 2017; Steinhardt & Wu, 2016; Wong, 2015). However, the ENGO involvement in this case was also an outlier in comparison to the dozens of AntiIncinerator Movements since 2007. 17. China produced 25% of global carbon dioxide emissions in 2009, and the number will increase to 50% by 2030 (Gilley, 2012, p. 289). 18. Different from other observers (Bondes & Johnson, 2017; Steinhardt & Wu, 2016; Sun et al., 2017), I contend that we should not be too optimistic about the positive role of ENGOs in environmental movements in China, as the Chinese government has tightened the political space for NGOs since 2013.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My fieldwork was supported by the China Environmental Culture Promotion Association in 2008, and the Paulson Institute and the University of Chicago Center in Beijing in 2012. I thank my team members in the 2008 fieldwork
Lan Yuxin, Chen Lei, Sun Yu, and Chen Qiuhong
and appreciate the help of Chen Shou, Feng Shizheng, Tong Zhifeng, Wang Ming, Xue Lan, and Yuan Ji on my fieldwork. In American University, Molly Bradtke has provided excellent research assistance. Early versions of this chapter were presented at the East Asia Workshop at the University of Chicago and the Paulson Institute. I am grateful to Dingxin Zhao, Elisabeth Clemens, Rachel Robinson, Terry Clark, Omar McRoberts, Yanfei Sun, Yige Dong, Ben Ross, and the workshop participants for their thoughtful comments and suggestion. I also thank the three anonymous reviewers for their invaluable feedback.

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A TALE OF TWO BIKE LANES: CONSENSUS MOVEMENTS AND INFRASTRUCTURE DELIVERY Kathryn Gasparro

ABSTRACT In the years following the 2009 recession, local governments in the US have struggled to adequately maintain and manage infrastructure projects. As a result, community organizations are using new tactics to increase social and financial support for specific projects in the hopes of capturing local government attention and motivating infrastructure project delivery. This chapter explores how one community organization initiated a consensus movement by using civic crowdfunding to mobilize resources for a specific infrastructure project. Based on a matched pairs case study with two protected bike lane (PBL) projects in Denver, CO, USA (one that used consensus movement tactics and one that did not), this analysis focuses on the emergence of a consensus movement and its implications for project stakeholders. As a consensus movement supporting infrastructure, I argue that the project-based nature is important in defining movement success. Additionally, I argue that the relationship between the social movement organization and the state is more important than a typical consensus movement because infrastructure delivery requires a high level of state coordination and resources. The implications of using a consensus movement to support a specific infrastructure project point to shifting roles between social movement organization and the state. Keywords: Consensus movements; infrastructure delivery; project-based social movements; crowdfunding; local government; matched-pairs case study

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 42, 39
62 Copyright r 2018 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X20180000042010

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INTRODUCTION Local infrastructure projects play integral roles in our daily lives. We rely on these projects to provide us with clean water, consistent electricity, and safe transportation. As more people have moved to urban areas, these infrastructure projects have become more stressed and fallen into disrepair without new construction and rehabilitation (American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE), 2017). Lack of local government capacity has prevented necessary infrastructure maintenance, resulting in inefficiencies and public health crises. And, as United States federal funding for infrastructure delivery has declined, local governments have become more responsible for funding and overseeing infrastructure delivery (Congressional Budget Office, 2015). In the wake of the 2009 recession, and in the years since, local government budgets have supported short-term initiatives to relieve unemployment and stimulate economic recovery, deferring infrastructure construction and maintenance (Congressional Budget Office, 2010; Muro & Hoene, 2009). Historically, when local governments did not provide adequate public services, social movements and collective action were essential for motivating delivery of infrastructure projects. Dating back to 1965, Olson argued that collective action was a central part of democracy and the provision of public goods (Olson, 1965). At a time when local governments are struggling to deliver much needed infrastructure projects, we have seen recent developments in social movement tactics that seek to inform community members and build constituent support around delivering new infrastructure projects (Bingham, Nabatchi, & Leary, 2004; Brabham, 2009; Evans-Cowley & Hollander, 2010). These tactics reflect a type of social movement that seeks out fair access to resources by identifying specific infrastructure projects that connect communities with water, sanitation, energy, and transport resources. Often led by third sector organizations, these social movements utilize tactics to mobilize resources and ensure local government can properly and successfully deliver infrastructure projects. Traditionally, infrastructure projects, as public goods that suffer from free rider issues, have been paid for, delivered, and managed by governments (Azfar, Kahkonen, Lanyi, Meagher, & Rutherford, 1999). Lack of local government capacity to deliver necessary infrastructure projects has led to increased privatization of public services, increased taxes and tariffs to pay for maintenance activities, and decreased opportunities for the public to participate in early project decision-making processes (Hefetz, Warner, & Vigoda-Gadot, 2012; Kasperson, Golding, & Tuler, 1992; Nelson, 2012). These issues have been the impetus for recent consensus movements against infrastructure projects (Forrer, Kee, Newcomer, & Boyer, 2010; Ortiz & Buxbaum, 2008; Rucht, 2002), otherwise known as NIMBY (not in my backyard) Movements. During NIMBY Movements, social movement participants use protest tactics to increase disruption costs and delay projects so that the local government will halt construction of a project that has perceived negative impacts and unjust resource allocation, such as displacement of community members and future tariff increases

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(Boudet, Jayasundera, & Davis, 2011; McAdam & Boudet, 2012; McAdam et al., 2010). While NIMBY Movements seek to stop projects and rarely find support from within the state, recent social movements have emerged to start projects by mobilizing resources for the state. These consensus movements are “organized movements for change that find widespread support for their goals and little or no organized opposition from the population of a geographic community” (McCarthy & Wolfson, 1992). Not only do consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects use tactics that mobilize resources for the construction of a specific project or type of project, they also necessitate a different kind of relationship with the state. Because of the necessary role of local government in delivering infrastructure projects, these social movements must involve the state early for the movement to be successful. During the process of delivering an infrastructure project, this early relationship becomes stronger as the social movement organization and the state exchange resources and incorporate feedback in the project design documents. This relationship lends itself well for infrastructure delivery, but yields unintended consequences for the social movement organization and the state. This chapter uses a matched pairs case study to identify how consensus movement theory can explain the emergence of social movements supporting infrastructure projects. I take an in-depth look at how a consensus movement expanded the local government’s capacity to construct a protected bike lane (PBL) network. In the process of analyzing the cases, I find that social movements supporting infrastructure projects share in and challenge our understanding of consensus movements.

INFRASTRUCTURE DELIVERY AND CONSENSUS MOVEMENTS Social movements, as “set[s] of opinions and beliefs in a population which represent preferences for changing some elements of the social structure and/or reward distribution of a society” (McCarthy & Zald, 1977), have a long history of catalyzing change in society. Similar to other social movements, consensus movements (including those that support infrastructure delivery), involve a group of individuals who choose to collectively support a singular goal to pressure those in power (the state1) to act. To understand the characteristics of consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects, it is important to compare these movements with other social movements surrounding infrastructure (including NIMBY Movements) and consensus movements in other sectors. To begin with, consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects are primarily projectbased, similar to NIMBY Movements. While this means these movements are inherently different from other consensus movements, their tactics support a high level of state partnership (a parallel to consensus movement in other sectors). Understanding these comparisons creates a basis for understanding the outcomes of consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects.

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Although scholars often rely on McCarthy and Wolfson’s definition of consensus movements, there is still much debate about the development and success of consensus movements. In general, consensus movements can be identified when the social movement organization receives widespread support and supports goals that are in agreement with the state (Giugni & Passy, 1998). In some cases, “consensus” has been used to identify social movements that use consensus processes to make decisions (Mansbridge, 2002; Snyder, 2002). In other cases, “consensus” has been used to define a movement that ensures cooperation through process, respect of people and ideas, and context based decision-making (Stock, 2012). Regardless, the majority of references to consensus movements seek out adherent approval to build large constituencies. As such, these movements center themselves on issues that are usually unfavorable to oppose and can often be “nonpartisan” and “nonpolitical” in nature (Lofland, 1989). For example, Michaelson (1994) discussed Kenya’s Green Belt Movement which began as a consensus movement against deforestation and desertification, Lofland (1989) wrote about the city twinning campaigns in the 1980s that opposed nuclear proliferation, and McCarthy and Wolfson (1992) explored Mothers Against Drunk Driving and the movement’s success in garnering constituent and institutional support. Similarly, consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects cite positive public health outcomes and fair access to resources, without compromising a segment of the community. In contrast, conflict movements against infrastructure projects cite issues like unfair displacement of community members, unfavorable construction sites, or excessive tariff increases, often dividing community support. Not only are consensus movements identified because of their agreeable nature, consensus movements are also identified through their tactics. Contentious tactics, associated with conflict movements, put a social movement in direct engagement with the opposition, whereas non-contentious tactics deepen political engagement and seek change through reasoned appeals (Downey, 2006). Consensus movement tactics, more so than conflict movement tactics, are used to “mobilize support or political opportunities for subsequent action to promote change” (Downey, 2006). This is mirrored in consensus movement organizations that utilize tactical urbanism strategies, small scale interventions to change the physical landscape. For example, the San Francisco parklet program, where tactical urbanism was used to convert parking spots into small recreational areas, resulted in the city adopting parklet programs (Davidson, 2013). These interventions have been successful consensus movement tactics for supporting infrastructure projects because they “draw attention to perceived shortcomings in policy and physical design, and municipal authorities, organizations, and project developers may use it as a tool to widen the sphere of public engagement” (Lydon & Garcia, 2015). In the process of employing non-contentious tactics, the social movement organization mobilizes resources, expands the constituency base, and forms stronger relationships with the state. But, successful spread of these tactics, does not necessarily mean success for the consensus movement. For example, social movements that may appear to be consensus movements might only be using non-contentious tactics to mobilize

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resources for later contentious tactics, becoming a conflict movement (Downey, 2006). Another factor that must be considered is the structure of the social movement organization. Consensus movement organizations are often more formalized and centralized because of their aim to increase constituent support and form institutional partnerships (Michaelson, 1994). McCarthy and Wolfson (1992), along with Stock (2012) and Michaelson (1994), note that it is because of these elements that consensus movement organizations are best situated to grow and achieve their goals. Because the social movement organization is formalized, it is easier for more individuals to join the social movement organization while at the same time crowding out conflict movements within the same space (Downey, 2006; Stock, 2012). And, consensus movement organizations, like the one associated with the Mothers Against Drunk Driving movement, leverage their formal structure and agreeable stance to obtain financial aid from local public officials and support from industry (McCarthy & Wolfson, 1996). As a result of the resource sharing between the state and the social movement organization, the state moves to adopt the consensus movement’s ideals. This is seen in women’s movements when the state seeks knowledge resources from the social movement organization, invites women’s groups to collaborate, and creates solutions from these conversations that address gender inequality (Giugni & Passy, 1998). Because of strong institutional support for consensus movements, there is less emphasis on the social movement organization’s efforts to mobilize action (Schwartz & Shuva, 1992), limiting the social movement organization’s need and ability to retain constituents (Klandermans, 1988). While consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects are similar in many respects to other consensus movements, these movements are in some ways more like consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects because they are more project-based than issue-based. Because infrastructure projects are geographic in nature, social movement participants that were active in a previous social movement against an infrastructure project may not be sympathetic to another social movement against a different infrastructure project. And, these social movements, regardless of their conflictual or consensus leanings, often dissolve after a project decision has been made (i.e., the local government decides to construct or halt construction of a project). Therefore, the tension between constituent growth and institutional support that has emerged within the consensus movement literature faces different challenges for consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects. Crowdfunding as a Consensus Movement Tactic This study looks at the emergence of a consensus movement by identifying the use of a very specific consensus movement tactic: crowdfunding. Early crowdfunding literature defines crowdfunding as “the financing of a project or a venture by a group of individuals instead of professional parties” (Schwienbacher & Larralde, 2012). If we look at the definition of a social movement tactic, as “the collective use of unconventional methods of political participation to try to persuade or

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coerce authorities to support a challenging group’s aims” (Taylor & Van Dyke, 2004), we begin to see similarities. First, both definitions highlight the community nature of crowdfunding and social movement tactics with terms such as “group of individuals” and “collective.” Second, each definition references non-traditional strategies for achieving its goals (“instead of professional parties” and “unconventional methods”). Third, crowdfunding and social movement tactics are employed to show support for a larger mission. Crowdfunding harnesses the strength of collective action, connecting many individuals in pursuit of a common goal, while at the same time mobilizing financial resources for the state and social support for the project. Civic crowdfunding platforms such as, ioby.org (“in our backyard”), facilitate consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects by allowing sympathetic community members to contribute to or invest financial resources in specific projects (Davies, 2015). To begin this process, a third sector partner (who becomes the social movement organization) markets the project on the crowdfunding platform with the project description, timeline, and donation goal during early stages of project delivery (Correia de Freitas & Amado, 2013). As a result, the social movement organization hopes to “increase socio-political awareness, influence public opinion, mobilize citizens and network with other social movement organizations” (Carty, 2014). As such, crowdfunding can play a strategic role and facilitate a closer relationship with the state by increasing financial resources for the state and social support for the project (Charbit & Desmoulins, 2017). Hence, crowdfunding is unique in the sense that the resources mobilized via this tactic do not go back into sustaining the social movement organization. Instead, the financial resources are transferred to the state in their entirety to facilitate project delivery. This then begs the question of what is a successful consensus movement tactic, if not to ensure the survival of the social movement.

METHOD This chapter tells the story of how a consensus social movement was used to facilitate delivery of a PBL network. This research began as a comparative case study, analyzing the effects and impacts of crowdfunding a public good. Using a comparative case study approach, as informed by Yin’s work (2013), I explore the differences between two PBL infrastructure projects of similar scale and scope. The variable of difference within these cases was the use of a crowdfunding campaign: one project was traditionally funded and one was funded in part by a crowdfunding campaign. As such, the comparative case study reflects a matched pairs research design. Data collection involved project documents including engineering designs, stakeholder marketing materials, notes from public meetings, and correspondence between stakeholders, as well as and city archival review that included a review of the city’s urban development history and zoning decisions. The primary findings were derived from semi-structured, hour-long interviews with 12 key stakeholders. These individuals were selected using purposeful sampling (Patton, 2002) so as to best understand the relationships between project stakeholder groups and how they might have changed

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between the two projects. Individuals from different stakeholder groups that were involved in one or both of the projects (government agencies, media groups, civil society organizations, engineering and planning firms, as well as the crowdfunding platform) were contacted and interviewed. The interview transcripts were coded using emergent coding techniques (Saldaña, 2009) and resulted in a set of initial research findings which were validated with project documents. These findings were then sent to interview participants for feedback and verification. Due to the theory building nature of this research, I looked to extant literature with underlying similarities to preliminary case study findings (Eisenhardt, 1989; Eisenhardt & Graebner, 2007). Because the crowdfunding component reflected elements of collective action, I pursued consensus movement literature. Similar to the comparative case study design employed in McAdams, Tarrow, and Tilly’s Dynamics of Contention (2001), this chapter seeks to identify the reasons why crowdfunding, and hence a consensus movement emerged in one case and did not in the other. Within the consensus movement literature, Giugni and Passy created a set of criteria for understanding the emergence of consensus movements (or what they refer to as conflictual cooption-enacting consensus solutions with the state and a social movement organization) (Giugni & Passy, 1998). Together, these criteria help paint a picture of how the case study city found itself in the middle of a social movement that facilitated delivery of an infrastructure project and catalyzed the construction of a PBL network. The subsequent discussion shows how a consensus movement supporting infrastructure delivery is similar to and different from other consensus movements.

CASE NARRATIVE Denver, Colorado is known for being a young, innovative, and growing metropolitan city. Over the last century, Denver has struggled to differentiate itself from other booming metropolitan centers and create a unique identity. As urbanization has put stress on large cities like San Francisco, New York City, and Chicago, medium sized cities like Denver are growing, necessitating new infrastructure to accommodate more and more businesses, commuters, and residents. As Denver competes to attract new industries, city leaders have had their eyes on novel infrastructure projects that provide multimodal transportation options. As part of the city’s growth strategy, Denver’s local government (similar to other cities) plays an integral part in delivering infrastructure projects. And, in regards to this study, two very important local government entities were involved, the Mayor’s Office (responsible for budget and personnel allocation) and the lead government agency (responsible for project management).2 Building on past bicycle infrastructure (including a bicycle sharing program with bike stations throughout downtown Denver), Denver’s local government constructed the city’s first two protected bike lanes (PBLs) in 2014 and 2015 (see Fig. 1). As two of the first PBLs in the country, these projects presented a unique challenge: there was limited understanding of how to safely design a PBL. Unlike other types of local infrastructure, PBL projects are complex because

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Fig. 1.

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they require a behavior shift from everyone who uses transportation infrastructure: drivers must adhere to new signage and cannot drive or park between the barricade and the sidewalk; bicyclists can no longer ride among vehicles and have to abide by the bike specific signage and lights; and, pedestrians must pay attention to bicyclists and vehicles who are now following different signage, route, and lighting systems. Even though these two PBL projects presented new transportation challenges, they brought to light a shift in Denver’s approach to infrastructure delivery. While the local government structure remained the same between both projects, the funding mechanisms and approach to project delivery changed. The first project was constructed using traditional funding mechanisms (i.e., taxpayer dollars) and a top-down approach. The second project was funded, in part, through a crowdfunding campaign and took on a more entrepreneurial, bottom-up approach. The 1st Street Protected Bike Lane At the beginning of the planning phase for the first project (the 1st Street Protected Bike Lane (PBL)), the local government had only one dedicated person within the lead government agency to oversee the delivery of bicycle infrastructure: the Bike Manager. Despite increasing demands for bicycle projects, the Bike Manager had a very limited budget. Attempting to capitalize on increased demand and attention for bicycle projects, the Bike Manager lobbied the lead government agency to construct the 1st Street PBL: “I’d been needling the [director of the lead government agency] for probably about two years prior to build the first protected bike lane.” Although the Bike Manager was able to champion the delivery of the 1st Street PBL, the lead government agency lacked the resources to manage the project adequately. As the first project of its kind in the city, the Bike Manager, along with other city staff and five contractors were hesitant. To assuage concerns, the Bike Manager (on behalf of the lead government agency) sought support from a reputable and well-resourced organization. In July 2010, the lead government agency wrote to Denver’s Business Improvement District (BID) regarding initial assessment of PBLs within Downtown Denver. Following this correspondence, project planning began with preliminary outreach to stakeholder groups and a design alternatives assessment. After a full year of traffic analysis for the 1st Street corridor, two years of consultant meetings, and a period of intensive design assessment, the final design was completed at the end of spring 2013. Part of the hesitation and the slowness of the process came from the relationship between the lead government agency and the Mayor’s Office. Without resources, the Bike Manager sought to gain support from the Mayor’s Office for increased bicycle infrastructure. But, the Bike Manager and lead government agency were unable to maintain relationships with the Mayor’s Office because of inconsistent leadership: We had a new transportation director appointed when the administration changed. There were some people who retired at the end of the [incumbent’s] administration within [the lead government agency] […] This delayed the project and took [us] 2-3 years to get going (1st Street PBL, project consultant).

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With tepid support from the Mayor’s Office and a lack of agency resources, the Bike Manager relied heavily on the expertise of consultants and the review process to prevent any mistakes with the project delivery. This top-down, traditional delivery approach, resulted in a four-year delivery process for the 1st Street PBL. In the months following the construction of the 1st Street PBL, the local government commissioned a report that found a 30% increase in the number of bicyclists using the 1st Street corridor, a 62% reduction of bicyclists riding on the sidewalk (reducing the potential for bicycle and pedestrian accidents), and nearly a 100% increase of bicyclists during peak afternoon times after the project was constructed. This report presented a case for more protected bicycle facilities in downtown Denver at a time when the new Mayor became interested in constructing “a more compatible and safe [transportation] network downtown” (1st Street PBL, project consultant). As a result, the Bike Manger’s resources increased: There was a significant increase in [lead government agency personnel] working on bicycle facilities between the [1st Street] protected facility and the [2nd Street] protected facility. So there were literally more people working on it. (BID, project champion)

This added capacity allowed the lead government agency to pursue the 2nd Street PBL project differently and engage more meaningfully with downtown businesses and community organizations. The 2nd Street Protected Bike Lane Prior to beginning the 2nd Street PBL project, the Denver’s Business Improvement District (BID) had been interested in expanding the PBL network in the downtown area to attract new industries and employees. This was highlighted in a 2013 interview with the BID President where she stated that the biggest barrier to getting employees to come to Denver was the lack of bicycle lanes. Whereas previously the BID only attended stakeholder meetings for the 1st Street PBL project, the BID took on a much more engaged role during the 2nd Street PBL project. Throughout the delivery of the 2nd Street PBL project, the BID took on more project responsibilities that led the local government to see the BID as an equal partner. In June 2014, the BID began engaging the community by creating a pop-up bicycle lane. The pop-up bicycle lane involved a temporary barricade on the 2nd Street corridor to simulate how a PBL would function. This prototype increased the community’s awareness of PBLs and directed attention to safe bicycle infrastructure in the city. The success of the pop-up lane led the BID to seek funding for more PBLs from local foundations and corporations. As part of raising funds and community support, the BID launched a crowdfunding campaign in late 2014 for the 2nd Street PBL. Between October and January, the BID posted the project details, budget, and marketing material on an online civic crowdfunding platform. The BID, led by a champion within the organization, created a team of 15 individuals who promoted the project via social media and spoke with individuals in hopes of increasing social and financial support for the 2nd

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Street PBL. During this period, over 250 individuals and businesses (of which 75% were located within a 5 mile radius of 2nd Street) donated to the project. In total, the US$36,000 raised during the crowdfunding campaign covered 20% of design fees and met the matching goal that prompted the local government to pay for project construction. The success of the crowdfunding campaign was in part due to the BID’s outreach with community members via events, such as the pop-up bicycle lane, that occurred prior to the campaign. Backed by the community’s support and project funding provided by the BID’s partnership, the local government “[…] purposefully took on a quick build mentality with the [second project] […]” (BID, project champion). In regards to this project, the Bike Manager claimed: If we didn’t know how we were going to do it at the beginning of the process, we just committed to figuring it out. We were going to pull resources from different areas and people are going to try new things.

Lessons learned from the 1st Street PBL project prompted the lead government agency to seek additional community feedback during the planning and design phases for the 2nd Street PBL project. During the design phase of the 2nd Street PBL project, the local government and the BID expanded stakeholder outreach and “spoke with or went to all the businesses along the corridor and said, ‘This is what we’re thinking. Is there anything you want to change?’” (2nd Street PBL, project planner). The crowdfunding campaign facilitated this approach because of the early introduction of community engagement strategies. During this engagement, stakeholders were able to identify potential conflicts with the project design. The fire department was concerned about access to fire hydrants and building egress from the road. Business owners were concerned that taking away on-street parking would deter patrons. Bicyclists were concerned that the designated bike lane would not be well enforced and drivers would drive in the PBL without penalty. If the lead government agency and BID had not engaged community stakeholders, construction plans would have unnecessarily disrupted business operations and could have potentially caused community backlash. Unlike the 1st Street PBL process, the local government spent less dollars on consulting fees and more time engaging businesses and other community stakeholders along the 2nd Street corridor about design elements and the construction process. This additional stakeholder outreach was needed because of unique conditions along the corridor. High traffic volumes required special design treatments to protect cyclists among the existing travel lanes. And, the surrounding land uses meant that the PBL had to be flexible enough to accommodate unique requests. This engagement process, along with support from the Mayor and lessons learned from the 1st Street PBL, resulted in a successful project. This is highlighted by the fact that the 2nd Street PBL project took less than one year from design to ribbon cutting, an anomaly among public works projects of similar size and scope. At the ribbon cutting ceremony for the 2nd Street PBL, the Mayor committed to building three more PBLs in the following year. And, in the months following the ribbon cutting, the 2nd Street PBL was named one of the top 10 best bicycle lanes installed during 2015 in the United States.

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DISCUSSION These two projects, although similar in scope and scale, reflect a larger shift in Denver’s approach to infrastructure delivery. To explain this shift, this chapter looks to social movement theory and how the BID used consensus movement tactics to facilitate project delivery. To best explain why and how Denver was well situated to accommodate this shift, Giugni and Passy’s framework for consensus movements is used. The following table is a summary of how these two projects differed in respect to each criteria. Afterward, I discuss the nature and changing roles of the state (local government), the social movement organization (the BID), and the social movement tactics in the emergence of the consensus movement (Table 1). Table 1.

Case Study Details and Consensus Movement Criteria (Guigni & Passy, 1998).

Criteria

1st Street PBL

2nd Street PBL

1 The presence of a strong state with concentrated decision-making power

Denver is a strong mayor city but planning for the project occurred during the transition between mayors

The new mayor developed an initiative for multimodal transportation because of mounting pressure to attract technology industry professionals

2 Non-exclusive strategies for the state

The planning process involved a top-down approach with a consulting firm without very much community engagement

The local government, with help from the BID, had more capacity to do outreach and used an entrepreneurial quick-build approach with tactical urbanism to engage the community

3 A main ally within the state

The project champion was the Bike Manager within the local government

The Bike Manager, within the local government, was an ally to the BID and the project

4 An unthreatening issue for the state

This was the first PBL and was constructed during the first years of a new mayor’s term, creating uncertainty within the local government

This was the second PBL with the same mayor and therefore there were less project uncertainties

5 Formalized social movement organization with a professionalized structure

The BID provided support to the local government but had not formalized around the project

The BID became more formalized around the project and had the organizational infrastructure to provide resources to the project

6 A moderate social movement

No social movement

There was a trend of increased bicycling in Denver and the social movement tactics were focused on increasing public opinion, preventing the movement from being extreme

7 Specific competencies for the social movement intervention

No social movement

Without a consulting firm, the local government and Bike Manager relied more heavily on community input to develop the design

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The State Giugni and Passy’s criteria for consensus movements reflect the importance of context. Denver, like other urban hubs, has experienced stress as population has boomed, creating a growing need to build infrastructure. Traditionally, the state has played an integral role in infrastructure, requiring local government leadership to have access to resources and decision-making power. But, in lacking these, the state must partner with other entities, potentially social movements, to provide resources. This partnership between the state and the social movement might contradict how we often think of the state as an opponent of social movements. To understand how these partnerships can occur, we look to political process theory. According to political process theory, a state with a closed political opportunity structure (e.g., a unified and repressive state) can prevent protest (or conflict movements) from emerging. In other cases, a vulnerable and divided state (especially with the presence of an ally) can create opportunities for conflict movements to emerge (McAdam, 2010). In considering consensus movements, political opportunity structure also play a key, albeit different, role in predicting the emergence of a consensus movement. Unlike conflict movements that respond negatively to open political structures, consensus movements are more likely to emerge under an open political opportunity structure (e.g., a unified and inclusive state) because of the need for state partnership. This open political opportunity structure is paralleled in Giugni and Passy’s criteria: (1) a concentrated and highly autonomous state and (2) with previous experience with non-exclusive strategies. Since Denver’s early years, the Mayor has played an integral part in directing urban development policies and infrastructure delivery. In this case study, Denver’s strong mayoral system allowed the Mayor to create a new initiative and dedicate resources for new types of infrastructure that gave way for the 2nd Street PBL project. In contrast, lack of support from the Mayor’s Office (even though there was support from the lead government agency) led to widespread uncertainty surrounding the 1st Street PBL. The Bike Manager understood the delicacy of the situation: All of us were naïve about [the 1st Street project] and we were just lucky that nobody pitched a total fit because we would’ve endangered the project because we weren’t experienced enough to know what to do and handle it properly.

Under political process theory, misalignment between the lead government agency and the Mayor’s Office would provide an opportunity for a conflict movement to emerge. But, the success of a consensus movement supporting infrastructure is dependent upon state partnership and resources. Without a unified state, the Bike Manager (even as an ally) couldn’t approach potential project partners, engage with the community, or dedicate funding to PBL projects. Additionally, a unified state was necessary for consensus movement success because the state helped determine if the identified project would negatively impact other infrastructure assets, procure the land (right-of-way) required for the project, and provide necessary funding for project construction and

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maintenance. This goes to show that if a social movement was to emerge and provide resources for the infrastructure project without the coordination of an inclusive and unified state, the project could have failed. In the case of a projectbased consensus movement, the social movement organization must seek out a relationship with the state early in the project delivery process. As the project progresses, the relationship between the social movement organization and state must become stronger to ensure design and construction decisions reflect the social movement’s values. This occurred during the 2nd Street PBL project as the social movement organization and state exchanged resources. The BID provided financial resources and local knowledge for the state’s design process; and, in a reciprocal fashion, the state updated the designs and construction documents based on that local knowledge and provided funding and management for project construction and maintenance. The Social Movement Organization Giugni and Passy’s inclusion of the third criteria relates back to the theory of political mediation and the ability for an elite (in this case, a government department/agency) to support a social movement and the social movement organization (Amenta, Caren, & Olasky, 2005). The importance of having a political ally (one that has power and capacity to act) in infrastructure delivery has also been touted by academics within the architecture-engineering-construction literature (Walker, Bourne, & Shelley, 2007; Widén, Olander, & Atkin, 2014). As is the case with local infrastructure projects, the case study projects relied heavily on local government leadership. The Bike Manager, within the lead government agency, acted as the state ally during the 2nd Street PBL project and was able to form a strong relationship with the social movement organization’s champion to move the project forward. This close relationship with the state is further reflected within the consensus movement literature (Downey, 2006; Michaelson, 1994). Resource mobilization theory can also be used to explain how social movement organizations form relationships with state actors by aggregating, managing, and utilizing different types of resources (such as money, labor, access to elites/powerholders, etc.) (McCarthy & Zald, 1977). Resource mobilization is especially important in this case because infrastructure delivery is such a resource intensive process. Formalized (structured) social movement organizations are able to more easily access resources because they can facilitate relationships with the state and pursue more formal social movement tactics, such as fundraising campaigns (McCarthy & Zald, 1977). In the case of the 2nd Street PBL, the BID became the formalized social movement organization, recruiting constituents with each social movement tactic. Prior to the 2nd Street project, the BID’s different organizational arms worked with businesses (near the project route) in different capacities to develop innovative infrastructure solutions and plan community events. Therefore, when the BID started to plan for more PBL infrastructure, they had already established the necessary relations to offer valuable insights and connections to the lead government agency. Building on this

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constituent base, the BID decided to use a crowdfunding campaign to capitalize on local business support and attract additional community support for PBL projects in downtown Denver. In doing so, they hoped to demonstrate “to the city that all types of people (businesses, students, individuals, residents, etc.) were in favor of this facility so much that they were willing to invest in it” and “build a lot of confirmed supporters for this project and be demonstrative to the city” (BID, project champion). This resource mobilization further attracted and strengthened the relationship between the social movement organization and the state. The Social Movement Taken in isolation, the roles of the state and social movement organization do not paint a clear picture of how a consensus movement emerged. Giugni and Passy’s last two criteria propose that consensus movements are moderate and provide specific competencies for the intervention. The BID’s intent to build another PBL (especially after the success of the 1st Street PBL), supported by community donors, provided a strong foundation for the social movement’s success. It was with the construction of the 1st Street PBL and other innovative infrastructure projects that Denver achieved acclaim as one of the nation’s best cities for its real estate market, startup culture, population growth, economic environment, and intellectual community. And, multimodal transportation initiatives placed Denver in the top 10 on a list of large cities with the highest rate of bike commuters and most innovative transportation options. Therefore, the plan to proceed with the 2nd Street PBL was not unfounded and did not pose a threat to the state, including the Mayor’s Office. Instead, the plan to build the second project was an aligned and logical step in the direction of the state’s goals. The social movement tactics, including the crowdfunding campaign and popup bicycle lane, helped sway public opinion and ease the transition from the 1st Street PBL to the 2nd Street PBL. In increasing public opinion in favor of the social movement, a movement usually becomes more moderate to attract sympathetic adherents (usually community members who are sympathetic to the social movement’s cause) and convince the state in later stages of policy making (Robnett, Glasser, & Trammell, 2015; Soule & King, 2012). In the case of the 2nd Street PBL, social movement tactics engaged as many community members as possible. In consensus movements, this is relatively easier than conflict movements because these initiatives find widespread support and are unfavorable to oppose because of the environmental and social impacts that the entirety of a community can benefit from (Lofland, 1989; McCarthy & Wolfson, 1992). Although there were opponents of PBLs and expanded bicycle infrastructure, primarily out-of-town commuters who were reliant on automobiles, this social movement benefited from the support often seen in other consensus movements. The construction of protected bicycle facilities made Denver a safer transportation environment for all, especially at a time when bicycling was on the rise and there was a need for more protected bicycle infrastructure.

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Further, consensus movements thrive when they are able to provide the state with additional information and knowledge that is specific to their shared goals (Giugni & Passy, 1998). Because of the complexity and geographic nature of infrastructure projects, there are direct benefits from including the social movement organization’s understanding of the local context. Local knowledge, including understanding how a community behaves and interacts with infrastructure projects, is often privately held knowledge that is shared only through experience (Gertler, 2003; Malecki, 2000). Because the two PBL projects were the first to be constructed in Denver, the local government was worried about how the projects could impact the local community and sought out the community’s knowledge of the 2nd Street corridor. The benefits of this engagement process came through in the design changes that were made based on conversations between the lead government agency, the BID, community members, and local businesses.

IMPLICATIONS Giugni and Passy’s criteria highlight how the nature of the state, the social movement organization, and the social movement facilitated delivery of the 2nd Street PBL. While the local government (with more capacity and institutional support for alternative transportation options) enabled the consensus movement to emerge, the social movement organization’s organizational support and financial resources enabled the local government to shift its approach away from traditional processes. The strong and reciprocal relationship between the social movement organization and the state is an interesting feature of this consensus movement and shines through in the following sections P1, P2, P3. As we explore what it means to have consensus movements, this research offers new insights into how we should consider consensus movements, especially those supporting infrastructure projects. P1. The Social Movement Organization Has Increased Legitimacy In the process of talking with project stakeholders, I found that the success of the consensus movement resulted in a legitimacy trade-off between the social movement organization and the local government. While consensus movement literature is eager to point out how social movement organizations gain support from the state and therefore protection from state repression (Archibald & Freeman, 2008; Michaelson, 1994; Schwartz & Shuva, 1992), there is little reference to how states change as a result of that. Briefly, Giugni and Passy (1998) state that the close involvement of the social movement organization in state affairs conveys that the “state no longer is the defender of the public good.” Consensus movements supporting infrastructure projects might see this legitimacy trade-off to a greater extent when the state relies heavily upon another entity, like a social movement organization, to provide infrastructure solutions. Within this case, I find that the BID’s legitimacy exceeds that of similar consensus movement organizations by the time the 2nd Street PBL project is

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completed. Part of the reason this occurs is because of the use of the crowdfunding campaign to mobilize resources for the state. In particular, by leading the crowdfunding campaign and instigating stakeholder conversations both online and offline, the BID became the “face” of the project, enabling them to build stronger rapport with downtown businesses. In regards to this, the project champion from the BID was hopeful that the crowdfunding campaign provided more legitimacy for engaging with the state: I hope [the crowdfunding campaign] has given us that platform. I think it demonstrated how serious we were about improving bicycle infrastructure in Downtown that we took on this task […] We didn’t collect any money to pay for my time or my colleague’s time working on this project. So I would hope that that is demonstrative that we were very committed to improving bicycle infrastructure in downtown and how can you not take someone seriously if they’ve done all this investment?

In response, the local government recognized the support for the project and the BID’s role as a broker in forging relationships between community stakeholders and the lead government agency. The local government, after seeing the success of the BID’s involvement during the delivery of the 2nd Street PBL project, was forthcoming with their relationship with the BID [The BID] is actually a larger group who [is] working towards these goals and having that broader picture and support from an organization that is more business focused because they are here to help make connections between businesses and help the economy thrive in downtown. And, just having their support because they see the value in those facilities […] helps a lot.

This support came through during stakeholder conversations where the BID was exposed to the tension that exists when infrastructure projects change existing infrastructure and daily business operations. But, because of the BID’s relationships with the community and the state, the BID was in a better position to respond to participants’ concerns. The lead government agency was eager to relay that the presence of the BID facilitated conversations with stakeholders because they knew how to “better respond in their other discussions [with downtown businesses]” (lead government agency, project engineer). P2. The Social Movement Loses Authenticity While the relationship between the social movement organization and the state can prove advantageous for achieving project outcomes, these relationships can compromise the principles of the social movement and split the movement’s constituency (McAdam, 2010). As a result, this could lead to the social movement’s demise. Even as a social movement organization gains legitimacy, the movement can lose authenticity as the boundaries between the state and the social movement organization become blurred. And, because consensus movements necessitate a stronger relationship between the social movement organization and the state, this is a definite possibility. Within this case study, this issue is highlighted due to the use of crowdfunding as a social movement tactic.

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In traditional crowdfunding campaigns, participants fund projects that typically have no other funding avenues, either because of project scope or project owner’s credit standing. For example, crowdfunding campaigns launch because artists and musicians lack traditional funding sources (e.g., bank loans), entrepreneurs are looking to build a patronage base and fund a small amount that doesn’t warrant traditional funding sources, or individuals need a seed investment round to signal larger future investments (Agrawal, Catalini, & Goldfarb, 2014). But, for public goods like infrastructure projects, local governments traditionally fund these projects through taxpayer dollars. Therefore, participants and others were confused as to why taxpayer dollars were not being used for the 2nd Street project. One social movement participant (and crowdfunder) expressed this: I felt frustrated. If my contribution helped get the project built, I don’t necessarily regret it, but I have a major grievance. It is NOT the community’s responsibility to pay for infrastructure in any way beyond taxes […] The city needs to step up and pay for something that is good for the community and stop treating bike riding as a niche hobby.

Similar criticisms have been explored by Brabham (2017) who alludes to the demise of public arts funding as more public goods are funded outside government, via crowdfunding campaigns. While the crowdfunding campaign was able to increase financial resources and showcase social support for the project, the BID knew that the crowdfunding campaign could not replace the role of the state in providing infrastructure solutions. Even during the project, the BID relied heavily on the state to fund the construction and maintenance of the 2nd Street PBL. Further, the BID tried to mitigate these issues by expressing that the crowdfunding campaign would be a one-time event and was meant to showcase support for previously underfunded project types: “I think it’s critically important that all parties involved understand that [crowdfunding] is not a regular funding approach, that this is a one-time or limited use only approach. I think its fine to do it a couple of times but for various strategic reasons” (BID, project champion). Because the social movement organization pursued institutional relationships while trying to maintain a grassroots approach (as seen with the use of the popup lane and crowdfunding), there was inherent tension. The BID understood this tension and worked on a more personal level with downtown businesses and community members to build rapport; and, in doing so, prove that the social movement was not instigated by the local government but rather by an organization with the interests of downtown businesses and community members in mind. From these conversations, crowdfunders saw how crowdfunding could be used as a mechanism for supporting a social movement that promoted healthy and active lifestyles, as well as safer transportation options. Still, in conversations afterward, stakeholders questioned the authenticity of the social movement because of close relationships between the social movement organization and the local government.

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P3. The Social Movement Disappears Social movement success can be defined in two ways: continued social movement existence and state adoption of the social movement’s ideals. Instead of focusing on social movement existence, Giugni and Passy focus on the state’s adoption of the social movement organization’s mission. And, we find this is the case within Denver. At the ribbon cutting of the 2nd Street PBL, the Mayor committed to the construction of three more PBL facilities in the following year. This reflects political success for the social movement as the state accepts the social movement organization’s cause as legitimate (Gamson, 2003). Additionally, with the construction of two PBLs in Denver, the lead government agency and other agencies began shifting their norms to ensure that PBLs were maintained appropriately. This was reflected in how community members alerted police officers about parked vehicles in the PBLs, and how the street sweeping crews used special equipment for maintaining the PBLs between the curb and the separation poles. As Denver continues to expand its PBL network, elements that the BID highlighted during the social movement will likely continue to be adopted by the state. While this comparative case study highlights how the social movement goals were adopted by the local government, the social movement (as it existed during the project delivery process) disappeared after the 2nd Street PBL project was constructed. More specifically, the BID continued to exist but the social movement constituency that was built during project planning phases disappeared. In most cases, social movement organizations use tactics that mobilize resources for the future existence of the social movement organization. Because of the project-based nature of this movement, the social movement organization chose to mobilize resources to facilitate the construction of the project instead of maintaining the movement’s constituency. This is similar to the disappearance of project-based conflict movements after a project decision has been made or once the project has been completed (McAdam & Boudet, 2012; Rucht, 2002). The goal of these project-based social movements is heavily dependent upon the local government’s project related decisions, not on the growth of the social movement. Although the disappearance of this consensus movement is due, in part, to the strong ties to the local government. There are also elements of consensus movement tactics that prevented strong ties among social movement participants. Unlike conflict movements that make use of contentious tactics that are riskier and have higher barriers of entry, consensus movements utilize noncontentious tactics that are much safer (Downey, 2006). Therefore, consensus movement constituents have weak links in comparison to conflict movement constituents who participate in higher risk tactics (McAdam, 1986). In this comparative case, the barriers for participating in the crowdfunding campaign and the pop-up event were relatively low, preventing constituents from forming strong ties to the social movement.

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CONCLUSION Consensus movements have the potential to expand positive, well-received state initiatives that are under resourced. In this chapter, I discuss the emergence and implications of a consensus movement that provided resources for the construction of a needed infrastructure project (the 2nd Street PBL), and motivated the subsequent construction of a bicycle infrastructure network. This matched pairs case study provides a new perspective of consensus movements, expanding how we think about the role of the state and the ways in which local government can identify consensus movements, allow their emergence, and work with them to facilitate public service and infrastructure delivery. However, as a single matched pairs case study, I cannot claim broad applicability of the findings. As a growing city, Denver has certain characteristics that prevent findings from being applied to similar projects in different contexts. Additionally, because the chosen methodology (retrospective, longitudinal case study) used stakeholder accounts years removed from the two projects, I had to cross reference interview statements with incomplete historical documents to ensure consistency. Moreover, in the years since the projects’ construction, stakeholders have rationalized their actions, in some places clarifying and in other places obscuring the project events. To mitigate these concerns and limitations, I used a variety of data sources to cross validate findings. Despite these limitations, this research addresses the nascency of consensus movement tactics, like crowdfunding, and provides three propositions to help social movement organizations and the state clarify their relationship and ensure a successful outcome. Further, this study challenges how we think about consensus movements and predict their emergence. This case highlights the need for an open political opportunity structure, where the state is unified and provides nonexclusive strategies for external stakeholder engagement, for a consensus movement to arise. Additionally, the use of a social movement tactic that increases social and financial support for the project can help the social movement organization secure more legitimacy with community members and the state, resulting in both positive and negative implications. In regards to resource mobilization for a project-based consensus movement, crowdfunding can be a successful way to raise project funds, but detracts resources from the social movement organization’s sustainability. In this chapter, we see that without dedicated resources, the social movement ceased to exist after the 2nd Street PBL was constructed. These findings suggest that social movement theory should consider if a movement is project-based. In this case, as well as in NIMBY cases, the existence of the movement was constrained to the project in question. This shifts the ways we think about mobilizing resources (for the project instead of for the social movement) and how we define social movement success. In particular, these findings also challenge our understanding of consensus movements. A strong relationship between the social movement organization and the state is often associated with consensus movements. In this case, we find that the exchange of resources, especially the social movement organization’s role in crowdfunding for the project and conducting stakeholder/community meetings,

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facilitates a stronger relationship with the state and shifts the perceived legitimacy of these two organizations. The research findings and propositions discussed in this chapter provide new considerations for understanding project-based consensus movements. As local governments continue to lack financial and management capacity for adequate infrastructure delivery, it is important that state actors understand consensus movements and the implications of involving consensus movements during infrastructure delivery. And, as more project-based consensus movements arise, as identified by crowdfunding or other consensus movement tactics, it will be important to test these propositions and understand the long-term effects on relationships between the state, the social movement organization, and the communities in which they work.

NOTES 1. Within the social movement literature those in power are often referred to as elites, powerholders, authorities, and opponents (Tarrow, 2011). Because of the local government’s involvement as the authorities in this matched pairs case study, I will use the term “state” to represent the actors that typically oppose (and support, as we find in consensus movements) the social movement. The term “state” also presupposes elements of the modern state, including policy making capabilities (Giugni & Passy, 1998). 2. Organization and project names have been anonymized or changed to protect confidentiality.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to gratefully acknowledge the research participants who played a key role in providing access to case knowledge. Additionally, I would like to thank Doug McAdam, Ray Levitt, Patrick Coy, and the anonymous reviewers of RSMCC who provided valuable feedback in developing the final document. This material is based in part upon work supported by the National Science Foundation Graduate Research Fellowship program under Grant No. DGE-114747. Any opinions, findings, and conclusions or recommendations expressed in this material are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the National Science Foundation.

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WHEN DO POLITICAL PARTIES MOVE TO THE STREETS? PARTY PROTEST IN CHILE Nicolás M. Somma

ABSTRACT Scholars agree that institutional and non-institutional (i.e., protest) politics are increasingly interrelated. One expression of this phenomenon is party protest
when leaders, activists, or sympathizers of political parties participate in protest events and identify themselves as such. Yet we know little about how often parties partake in protests, which ones do so, and under which conditions. Using data on more than 2,300 protest events in Chile between 2000 and 2012, I show that party protest takes place in only 6% of all protest events, and that it is essentially monopolized by leftist parties. Additionally, by combining several strands of the literature on political parties and collective action, I derive hypotheses about the impact of the features of protest events and the broader national context on the chances of party protest. Multivariate regression models show that party protest is more likely in events which take place in highly visible locations and are coordinated by other civil society organizations. Additionally, party protest occurs when the center-left coalition is in power and when collective protest at the nationallevel is less intense and less transgressive. Keywords: Protest; political parties; social movements; mobilization; Chile; protest event analysis This chapter is about political parties partaking in collective protests. Specifically, it develops hypotheses for predicting the conditions under which parties will engage in collective protest in public places, and it tests those using data on protest events in Chile between 2000 and 2012.

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 42, 63
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The topic of party protest has been barely studied (Heaney & Rojas, 2015 and Hutter, 2013 are exceptions). Traditional accounts of political parties
from Duverger (1959) to Sartori (2005) onward
remain silent about whether, when, and why parties may decide to join efforts with social movement organizations and participate in street marches, demonstrations, and other types of contentious tactics. In modern democracies, political parties compete in elections and remain close to the institutional sources of political power. Party leaders seat in Congress, hold ministries, and manage important bureaucratic offices. Some of their top members may even become country presidents. Why would they want to risk police repression in the streets? Not only do the venerable classics in the parties’ literature hold this view. For instance, Tilly’s influential “polity model” (1978) assumes a tactical division of labor, according to which parties, as polity members, carry most if not all of their activities in institutional arenas. Excluded groups (or “challengers”) are the ones that protest (Gamson, 1975). Recent research, however, argues that the boundaries between institutional and non-institutional politics are blurring, suggesting that parties may eventually move to the streets and partake in protest activities. Goldstone claims that in contemporary advanced democracies parties are interpenetrated by social movements, often developing out of movements, in response to movements, or in close association with movements […] the same individuals have often been both social movement activists and political candidates. (Goldstone, 2003, pp. 2
3)

While movements may support candidates in elections to public positions and resort to other institutional channels, political parties may sometimes engage in protest politics. Then, “[t]he notion that there are in-group and out-groups, and that the latter engage in protests while the former engage in politics, is a caricature with little relation to reality” (Goldstone, 2003, p. 9; Kriesi, 2015). The “social movement society” perspective (Meyer & Tarrow, 1998; Soule & Earl, 2005) has contributed to this debate by suggesting that protest tactics can be adopted by organizations which were not used to protest
such as political parties. According to McAdam and Tarrow (2010, p. 535, 2013), “public officials increasingly appear in traditional venues for protest demonstrations, like the steps of the US Capitol.” Recently, Heaney and Rojas (2015) explored the ties between the American post 9/11 anti-war movement and the Democratic Party. They show that the demise of the movement resulted from anti-war activists with partisan attachments redirecting their energies to the Democratic Party after Obama became president. They implicitly speak to the notion of party protest when noting that many Democratic officials participated in mobilizations coordinated by anti-war movement organizations. Beyond the United States, historical-comparative studies on European green parties (Kitschelt, 1988) and Latin American indigenous (Madrid, 2012; Rice, 2012; Van Cott, 2005) and leftist parties (Valenzuela, 1989) have also suggested the existence of party protest. For instance, in his explanation of the recent emergence and success of some indigenous parties in Latin America, Madrid

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(2012, pp. 65, 178
179) shows that political parties such as the MAS in Bolivia and the Pachakutik in Ecuador sometimes joined protests against the government . For indigenous parties, supporting mass mobilizations has been a central way of challenging historically closed and “white” political systems (Rice, 2012). In sum, currently there is a consensus not only that parties and protest movements are more intertwined than assumed half a century ago, but also that parties may sometimes engage in protest activities. Yet beyond recent exceptions such as Hutter (2013) and Heaney and Rojas (2015), there is little empirical research about when, why, and to what extent do parties (as represented by their leaders, activists, and sympathizers) participate in collective protest. As a result, basic questions remain unanswered. For instance, how often do parties protest? Do they show up in all protest events, in half of them, or in one in ten? Which parties do protest
leftist, centrist, green, rightist parties? As there is little research for answering these basic, descriptive questions, other more complex ones are even harder to address. For instance, why do parties participate in some protest events but not in other ones? Does it depend on attributes of the event itself, such as its size (in participants) or the presence of certain organizations? Or does it depend on features of the broader national context, such as the ideology of the incumbent party or the preceding levels of collective protest? Below I develop a framework for understanding why some protests have parties on board and other ones do not. While I present the framework using theoretical categories, it is strongly inspired in the Chilean case
which means it may not apply to other cases. The more a given democracy resembles Chile between the period under study (2000
2012)
characterized by stable and centripetal competition among several parties and coalitions, and by a lack of antisystem parties
the more useful the framework should be. By shedding light on party protest, the chapter contributes to a better understanding of the relationships between political parties and social movements, and between institutional and non-institutional politics more broadly. In the remainder of the chapter, I use the expression “party protest” for referring to the participation of political parties in collective protest events taking place in public settings (Hutter, 2013; Kriesi, 2015). Party protest happens when leaders, activists, or sympathizers of political parties participate in protest events and identify themselves as such. Typically, they show their party affiliation by making statements to the media that attend the event, chanting party songs, or carrying out flags, banners, posters, or other visible signs related to their party. Party protest does not happen when there are no such visible indications in a protest event, even though obviously some of the protesters may identify with or militate in political parties. Party protest is not the same as Heaney and Rojas’ (2015) notion of “party in the street”
which refers to informal networks of movement activists also tied to a political party
yet both perspectives are complementary. Chile is an interesting case for exploring party protest for two reasons. The first one is the empirical novelty of the case. There is considerable research on protest dynamics using protest events datasets
like the one I use here
for

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Europe (e.g., Kriesi, 1995) and the United States (e.g., Soule & Earl, 2005). Such research, however, is uncommon beyond the Northern advanced countries. Moving to other contexts should increase our knowledge about protest dynamics. But of course, this makes Chile as interesting as many other Southern countries. So why Chile? One answer is data availability. For testing the hypotheses presented earlier one needs a dataset with information about the presence or absence of political parties in protest events. This is required for building the dependent variable of the analysis. My dataset has such information. I am not aware of datasets with such specific information for other Latin American countries. The sections “Party Competition in Chile: Centripetal and Stable” and “Describing Party Protest” describe the dynamics of party competition and the extent and characteristics of party protest in Chile. Then I present the theory and derive four empirical hypotheses, describe the data, analytic methods and variables, present the results, and consider the issue of endogeneity. In the conclusions I present the limitations, future steps and broader implications of the results.

PARTY COMPETITION IN CHILE: CENTRIPETAL AND STABLE For understanding party protest in Chile, we must first consider some features of its political context. Chile is a middle-income Latin American country with a historical record of democratic stability and a continental-style party system during the twentieth century (Scully, 1992). In 1973 General Augusto Pinochet staged a coup and imposed a harsh dictatorship until democratic restoration in 1990. Since then, and until 2017 with the eruption of a third leftist force (the Frente Amplio), political competition revolved around two major coalitions which obtained about 90% of the popular vote and almost all congressional seats: the centerright Alliance for Chile (or Alianza), which grouped the rightist Democratic Independent Union (UDI in its Spanish acronym) and the center-right National Renewal (RN); and the center-left Concertation for Democracy (or Concertación), which included the Socialist Party (PS), the Party for Democracy (PPD), the Social Democrat Radical Party (PRSD), and the Christian Democracy (DC). The Concertación governed between 1990 and 2010 and between 2014 to 2018, while the Alianza did so between 2010 and 2014. To the two major coalitions, we should add the so-called “extra-parliamentary left” (EPL onward), a group of small leftist parties not belonging to the Concertación with scarce or null presence in congress (as noted, this changed with the 2017 elections due to the emergence of the Frente Amplio, a leftist coalition of parties and movement organizations that may reconfigure Chile’s future party system). The EPL includes the Communist Party, the Humanist Party, the Christian Left, and the Broad Social Movement (MAS) among others. They have maintained a critical discourse toward both coalitions but undoubtedly have more affinities with the Concertación
to the point that in 2013 the

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Communist Party allied with the Concertación to form the New Majority, which governed Chile until 2018. During the period under study (2000
2012), political competition in Chile has been centripetal and integrative (Roberts, 1998, p. 83), with low electoral volatility (Luna & Altman, 2011), and ideologically convergent (Bargsted & Somma, 2016; Gamboa, López, & Baeza, 2013). All the parties mentioned earlier
as well as newer, small ones like the PRO, Evopoli and Amplitud
consider liberal democracy the only game in town. The Concertación parties and the EPL had obvious reasons to do so since they were repressed during the dictatorship and struggled for democratic restoration since the 1980s. And while many UDI and some RN leaders still praise Pinochet’s market reforms, they condemn his regime’s authoritarian and repressive nature. Accordingly, Chile nowadays does not have anti-system political parties
characterized by engaging in propaganda against the democratic regime, having goals incompatible with democracy, and refusing to enter in coalitions with other parties (Capoccia, 2002). While forces openly rejecting the political status quo do exist, they do not coalesce into political parties. This explains why, as will be shown in the Section Describing Party Protest, party protest is not oriented toward destabilizing the political regime or displaying disruptive tactics or demands. In this respect, Chile differs from other Latin American countries
such as perhaps Venezuela, Ecuador, and Bolivia
which in recent times went through considerable party polarization and the development of anti-system political movements. Against this backdrop of stable competition, since the 1990s the Chilean adult population has been showing declining levels of trust and identification with political parties. According to Bargsted and Somma (2018), the percentage trusting political parties “a lot” or “somewhat” has decreased from about 30% in the mid-1990s to about 15% since 2010 onward. The percentage reporting an identification with a political party has dropped even more starkly during the same period, from over 60% to less than 30%. Not surprisingly, this has been accompanied by decreasing rates of turnout in national and local elections, which in the last municipal elections (2016) reached a record low of less than 40%.

DESCRIBING PARTY PROTEST If this is the case for the “institutional” side of politics, what happened in the other side? Chile developed during the 2000s an increasingly vibrant and complex array of social movements which flooded the streets as the decade advanced. While the 1990s has been characterized as a decade of demobilization and apathy in terms of collective action, by the 2000s diverse movements voicing the demands of students, indigenous communities, environmentalists, housing debtors, NIMBY communities, and public and private workers among others, erupted and staged large collective protests (Donoso, 2013, 2016; Silva, 2009). Indeed, the estimated number of protest events and participants grew sharply across several protest issues from approximately 2004
2005 onward

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(Somma & Medel, 2017). Major campaigns include those staged by high school students in 2006, copper workers in 2007, and university students and regionalist movements in 2011 and 2012. Yet parties did not join indiscriminately such enriched supply of collective protests
they were rather selective. My dataset covering more than 2,300 collective protests of all kinds across Chile between 2000 and 2012 (detailed later) shows that party protest is not very common: parties show up in only 6% of protest events (see Table 2). This is consistent with the traditional characterization of parties as spending more time in offices than streets. It also makes sense given the low rates of party identification, trust, and turnout noted in the Section Party Competition in Chile: Centripetal and Stable. Still, and quite surprisingly, the 6% for Chile is very similar to the figures for Western European countries such as Germany (9%), France (9%), the Netherlands (4%), and Britain (6%) (Hutter, 2013; Rucht, 1998, p. 41 shows higher figures for Germany though). Which parties do protest in Chile (and which ones do not)? My dataset cannot always identify which specific political party was present in the protest. In some cases, however, that was possible, and the coders wrote their names. Table 1 shows such information. Interestingly, the vast majority of party protest is carried out by leftist parties. The Communist Party accounts for half of it
not surprisingly given its linkages with social movements since the 1980s (Roberts, 1998). The Humanist Party, the Socialist Party, and the Party for Democracy also engage in party protest. The centrist Christian Democracy Table 1. Party Organizations Participating in Collective Protests, Chile, 2000
2012. Party Organization Communist Party

Percentage in All Mentions 50.6

Communist Party Youth Wing

9.2

Socialist Party

9.2

Humanist Party

6.9

Party for Democracy

4.6

Socialist Party Youth Wing

3.4

Christian Democracy Party Youth Wing

2.3

Communist Party of Proletarian Action

2.3

Party for Democracy Youth Wing

2.3

Radical Social Democratic Party Youth Wing

2.3

Equality Party

1.1

Concertación

1.1

Christian Democracy Party

1.1

Broad Social Movement (MAS)

1.1

Radical Social Democratic Party

1.1

Together We Can (Juntos Podemos)

1.1

Total

100.0

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protests comparatively very little. And the two rightist parties (UDI and RN) do not protest. This is not surprising too given their weak ties to social movements. How radical or moderate is party protest in terms of demands and tactics? Party protest is more likely in events with moderate demands and tactics. I created a variable indicating whether the protest event voices “radical demands” or not. Demands are radical when they push for structural reforms in the education, the situation of indigenous peoples, health, housing, or the political system, as well as when they blame capitalism, neo-liberalism, globalization, or promote anarchism (see Medel & Somma, 2016). When radical demands are present, party protest is rare (3.6%). But it almost doubles (6.4%) when radical demands are absent. Regarding tactics, I created a dummy variable that indicates whether protestors resorted (1) or not (0) to deliberately disruptive and/or violent tactics such as wildcat strikes, seizures of buildings, roadblocks, and attacks to third parties and private or public property. When transgressive tactics are present, party protest is again rare (3.5%). Yet it grows to 10% when they are absent. Thus, parties tend to restrain from protests with radical tactics or demands
they prefer more moderate ones. In a context shaped by stable and centripetal competition, parties understandably do not use protest as a vehicle for political destabilization. Finally, which claims or demands motivate party protest? My dataset shows that party protest appears across a wide array of demands yet not evenly. For instance, parties appear in only 3% of the events displaying worker demands, yet this rises to 7% in protests without them. Similarly, parties participate in only 2% of the events with educational demands, but in 7% of those without them. The under-representation of leftist (and centrist) parties in student and worker protests seems surprising given the traditional alliances between these groups. Yet it makes sense if we consider that, with the partial exception of the Communist Party, leftist parties weakened their ties to workers and specially students after democratic restoration (Roberts, 1998). In a society with decreasing trust in and identification with parties, even leftist parties may be unwelcomed if showing up in labor and student protests. Conversely, parties are over-represented in protests related to human rights violations during the dictatorship. There is party protest in only 4% of protests without such demands, yet the figure goes up to 51% for protests with them. In other words, about one quarter of all party protest takes place in events with such demands. This affinity is not surprising since many leftist militants suffered themselves Pinochet’s repression. I use the information about tactics and claims descriptively but do not include it below in the regression models due to endogeneity. Some claims may attract parties, but that parties join a protest in the first place may make some claims more (or less) likely. The same happens with tactics.

EXPLAINING PARTY PROTEST What do such 6% of protest events with parties on board have in common beyond the features just noted? What does differentiate them from the remaining

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majority of protests in which parties do not show up? The literature does not provide clear answers. Combining insights from Chile with literature on collective protest and political parties, later I propose a theoretical framework and four hypotheses to be tested in the Section Visibility of the Protest Event. The hypotheses are pitched at the event level
they address the question of why do some protest events have parties while others do not. A complete theory on party protest should also address the question of why some parties protest while others do not, as well as how party features and event features interact. For space reasons and data limitations I cannot do so here. It remains as a pending task. Parties may be motivated to join collective protests for at least three general reasons. First, protesting in some kinds of events may help them increase their votes and popular support (Hutter, 2013). This is a key drive for most parties (Downs, 1957). This is especially the case for the small leftist parties that we saw protest heavily
parties obtaining less than 5% of the congressional vote lose their legal status in Chile. Second, joining certain protests may increase parties’ influence on the political agenda and the policy-making process
as they show their power among the masses. Finally, parties may decide not to protest for contributing to the provision of public goods
such as political stability
that benefit the whole party system. H1 and H2 emphasize votes and popular support. H3 emphasizes political influence. H4 emphasizes public goods. Visibility of the Protest Event I first consider the visibility of the protest event. Some protests are highly visible for the public at large, the authorities, and the mass media
for example, Martin Luther King’s March on Washington in 1963; the 2013 protests in Sao Paulo, Brazil, against increases in transportation fares and political corruption; or the multi-country demonstrations against United States’ invasion on Iraq in 2003. Events of this kind
as well as a myriad of less renowned ones
typically take place in densely populated cities that are country or region capitals. They gather large numbers of activists and are extensively covered by the mass media, allowing bystanders to become aware of them (Amenta, Caren, Olasky, & Stobaugh, 2009). They exert more influence than smaller, less noticeable events taking place in less central locations. I argue that political parties are more motivated to join visible, massive protests, since this could increase their popularity and voting share. Due to their massiveness, these events typically gather people from all walks of life, allowing parties to gain adherents from across the social structure. Also, by showing up in them, parties can present themselves as “tribunes of the people” (Tarrow, 1998) that support truly popular causes, conjuring up any potential trace of elitism
a major problem for Chilean parties nowadays. Finally, visible events usually take place in central locations closer to party headquarters (such as country capitals), diminishing the costs of mobilization. This is particularly the case for a centralized country such as Chile. Joining less visible events might also increase the popularity of parties, but the payoff is lower. Organizing and mobilizing people and setting up communication

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networks require resources which, as always, are scarce (Marwell & Oliver, 1993). To this we should add opportunity costs
the time and energy for protesting could be invested in something else, and party members usually have busy schedules (Scarrow & Gezgor, 2010). Also, protest is risky: even a peaceful demonstration may turn violent and result in physical injuries or arrests (Opp & Roehl, 1990). As any kind of organizations, parties have finite resources and want to use them efficiently. More visible protests promise to yield more popularity gains than less visible ones. Thus, ceteris paribus: H1. Party protest will be more likely in highly visible protest events (e.g., those with more participants and which take place in central and populated locations). Presence of Formal Organizations The second feature of protest events that may shape party protest is the extent to which other formal organizations are involved in the previous mobilization process. In Chile and the world, some protest events
like Labor Day marches or Pride Parades
involve considerable planning and cooperation by many formal civil society organizations at different stages. Conversely, other protests result from spontaneous gatherings in public places with weak organizational presence and little coordination among organizations
in Chile, recent examples are NIMBY-style protests in the localities of Freirina and Caimanes. The presence of other organizations involved in the mobilization process motivates parties to join the enterprise. By entering in contact with members of these organizations, parties have the opportunity to increase their popularity and support (Oberschall, 1973). Despite the undeniable role of the modern mass media in shaping electoral behavior (Norris, 2000), parties of all kinds still rely and have relied on civil society organizations, especially for obtaining their most committed and loyal members (Duverger, 1959). Historically, religious organizations provided supporters to Christian Democrats, the same as business organizations did to conservative parties, labor unions to socialist and/or populist parties, indigenous organizations to ethnic parties, student organizations to leftist parties, and nationalist organizations to rightist parties (Gunther & Diamond, 2003; Wolinetz, 2002). Chilean parties are no exception in this respect, and their weakening ties to organized civil society (Luna & Altman, 2011) makes this need even more pressing. Yet these potential gains are less clear in protests lacking such organizational infrastructure. Thus: H2. Party protest will be more likely in protest events coordinated by other identifiable organizations (compared to events without organizational presence). Governmental Ideology The next two hypothesis suggest that, beyond the characteristics of protest events, some features of the political context may also shape party protest.

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Beyond popularity and votes, parties also want to exert power and influence on present political decisions (Strom, 1990; Wolinetz, 2002). They want the current government to promote certain laws, nominate certain people for public positions, or make certain public declarations. Normally, parties will rely on conventional negotiations and agreements with the government and other political forces. But at times they may also consider showing up in protest events to increase their leverage. Specifically, the ideological closeness between protesting parties and the national government may play a role here. My general argument is that parties will be more likely to take the streets when the party or coalition in the national government is ideologically closer to them. I build upon political opportunity theory, which posits that collective action arises when groups perceive that the political context render protest more influential (McAdam, 1982; Tilly, 1978). Specifically, groups are more likely to protest when they feel ideologically closer to the current government. This will increase the chances that the government considers their demands. This helps explaining, for instance, why in the United States the New Left protest cycle aroused during Democratic administrations, or why the conservative Christian right and pro-life movements emerged during Reagan’s term (McAdam & Tarrow, 2013, p. 332). As seen earlier, in Chile between 2000 and 2012 only centrist and particularly leftist parties protested. This means that, ceteris paribus, party protest should be more likely when the center-left Concertación coalition was in power than when the center-right Alianza coalition did so. Thus: H3. Party protest will be more likely when the center-left is in power. To be fair, one could reasonably expect the opposite. Center and left parties might be more motivated to join protests when the right is in power since this would weaken the adversary. Also, protesting when the Concertación is in power seems self-defeating
why trying to hurt a government sympathetic to oneself? While these arguments cannot be ignored, the specificities of Chilean politics are more akin to H3. First, as seen earlier, party protest is mostly moderate both in claims and tactics, and is carried out by parties which do not have an anti-system orientation
therefore, by itself, it should not be self-defeating. Second, center and left parties in the streets are more likely to have their demands considered when the government is a sympathetic one. For instance, party protest is often linked to human rights violations during the dictatorship. A socialist president like Ricardo Lagos (2000
2006) or Michelle Bachelet (2006
2010) should be more responsive to this issue than center-right president Sebastián Piñera (2010
2014), who was allied with the rightist UDI during his term. Does this hold for the EPL and especially its largest member and heaviest protester, the Communist Party (PC)? During the 1990s, the PC had a rigid ideological outlook and bitterly criticized the Concertación for not reforming neoliberalism and not pushing enough the human rights agenda (Roberts, 1998). Yet the distance narrowed since the 2000s, as the Concertación’s center of

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gravity shifted from Christian Democrats to the Socialists (Varas, Riquelme, & Casals, 2010). Several examples illustrate this rapprochement. For instance, the PC asked their followers to vote for Concertación presidential candidates Lagos and Bachelet in the second round of the 1999
2000 and 2005
2006 elections, respectively (Gamboa et al., 2013), granting essential votes for defeating the Alianza in both opportunities. This may have encouraged PC protest during this period since “those to whom the party in power owe electoral debts can be expected to enjoy more institutional access and responsiveness than opposition groups, encouraging them to mobilize” (McAdam & Tarrow, 2013, p. 332). Likewise, in 2009 the Concertación and “Together We Can” (Juntos Podemos)
a leftist coalition whose main member was the PC, and whose presidential candidate was former Concertación member and decades-long socialist militant Jorge Arrate
presented a common list of candidates to congress. Also, in the 2012 municipal elections, the pact “For a Just Chile” (Por un Chile Justo) reunited the PC with two Concertación parties (PRSD and PPD), and engaged in “omission pacts” with other Concertación lists
as had happened similarly for the 2008 municipal elections (Varas et al., 2010). Moreover, in 2013 the PC joined the Concertación to form the New Majority coalition, which took Michel Bachelet to power in 2014 and gave two ministries to communist leaders. This affinity should not surprise, as the PC has common ideological and historical roots with the leftist parties belonging to the Concertación. Since the 1930s it frequently allied with socialists, radicals, and leftist Catholics, and supported socialist candidates
such as Salvador Allende in several occasions (Roberts, 1998, p. 87; Varas et al., 2010). The current (July 2018) declaration of principles of the PC (see www.pcchile.cl/documentos/principios.pdf) does not oppose to representative democracy or capitalism nor make references to Marx or Lenin. Going back to H3’s expectation, for the PC
and the same applies to other members of the EPL
voicing their demands in the streets when the Concertación was in power made more sense than doing so when the Alianza was in power. Indeed, the EPL and the Alianza have little substantive grounds in common. The largest partner in the Alianza
the UDI
was at odds with the left, as many of its older members supported the Pinochet regime. The EPL would have rarely expected the Alianza government to seriously consider its demands. This depressed their involvement in protests, since having an unsympathetic party in power “tends to demoralize and eventually encourage demobilization” (McAdam & Tarrow, 2013, p. 332). Aggregate Protest and Public Goods The last hypothesis focuses on the impact on party protest of another feature of the national context
namely, the preexisting intensity and transgressiveness of collective protest. Parties in democratic settings not only want to increase their own popularity and political influence. They also value some basic public goods (Olson, 1965)
understood in this context as something valued and enjoyed by

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all parties, with no party being excluded from its consumption if the good is provided to the party system as a whole. I consider two public goods. The first one is political stability. Many aspects of democratic competition
from building a mass of followers or crafting political coalitions to implementing complex public policies
are enduring tasks that require parties to have stable, long-term horizons (Schmitter & Santiso, 1998). Likewise, opposition parties can tolerate governments of different ideologies as long as they believe to have a chance to achieve power through future elections (Przeworski, 1991). Another public good is party system control over political decisions. Liberal democracy is about casting votes in elections and parties are, by default, the main players in that process. Parties place a high premium on controlling the major political decisions
rather than leaving this prize to other actors like social movements, the military, or the capitalist class. This is more the case in contemporary Chile, where parties play a central role in shaping public decisions (Siavelis, 2013). Because parties value these public goods, they feel threatened when protest movements break into the political process, create instability, and dispute party control over political decisions. While parties may be more motivated to participate in protests under the conditions specified in H1
H3, they do not favor high and sustained levels of collective protest in the country. This may confer too much power to movements and other non-party actors (Amenta, Caren, Chiarello, & Su, 2010). Parties do not want to contribute to this outcome, and they do not want to be perceived by other parties as endangering these public goods either. Therefore, party protest should be less likely when general protest levels in the country are higher. Higher protest levels should be especially threatening to parties’ public goods when movements resort more to transgressive tactics
which include from disruptive actions such as erecting barricades or seizing buildings, to violent ones such as damaging public or private property or fighting against the police (Taylor & Van Dyke, 2004). Transgressive tactics provide even more leverage to social movements (Amenta et al., 2010; Gamson, 1975) and, if massive, can destabilize the national government. Parties will be more reluctant to join protest events not only when levels of collective protest are higher, but also when transgressive tactics are on the rise. Therefore: H4. Party protest will be less likely when recent protest activity in the country is intense and transgressive. This general hypothesis is consistent with Chilean politics during the period under study. Chilean parties value democratic stability and party control of political decisions. This results from the kind of political competition that unfolded after the transition. While programmatic differences do exist, the competition among both coalitions has been centripetal and extremism has been eschewed. The Concertación moved to the center between 1989 and 2005
as shown by Gamboa et al.’s (2013) analysis of party manifestos
and the Alianza became more democratic due to generational replacement and the realization

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that they could gain votes by moderating its discourse (Navia & Godoy, 2013). Both coalitions have essentially agreed on the maintenance of the market society inherited from Pinochet, and during electoral campaigns candidates of both coalitions claim to vaguely represent “the middle classes” or “the most vulnerable ones” (Roberts, 1998, p. 157). And as noted earlier, the Communist Party has definitely left aside the insurrectional orientation it developed during Pinochet’s dictatorship (Roberts, 1998). The consensual style of political competition among both coalitions (called política de los acuerdos) also fostered a reluctance to heightened mobilization climates. The most important reforms since 1990 only happened after both coalitions engaged in intensive consultations and negotiations (Navia & Godoy, 2013; Siavelis, 2013). Additionally, when in government, both the Concertación and the Alianza tried to keep an internal equilibrium, allocating ministries and other public positions among party members so that they roughly reflect each party’s electoral strength. While rifts among coalition partners are constant, no coalition could risk alienating any of its members since this could lead to electoral losses
as the Concertación bitterly learned in the 2009
2010 elections. Parties may thus join protests under the conditions specified in H1
H3, but they will be less likely to do so when contention grows and hints at threatening the routine-style of doing politics from which they benefit. It is important to keep in mind that this hypothesis is tailored to Chile between 2000 and 2012 but may not apply to other Latin American countries. In Venezuela since 2002 at least, first anti-Chávez and then anti-Maduro political forces were definitely engaged in collective protests aimed at overthrowing the government. Bolivia, Argentina, and perhaps Brazil experienced comparable situations in recent years
though not as extreme as Venezuela’s. This does not mean that all party protest in these countries always seeks overthrowing the government. Yet it suggests that, under certain periods of high political stress (which did not occur in Chile between 2000 and 2012), heightened general mobilization may rather increase protest by some parties.

DATA AND METHODS Dataset For studying party protest, I resort to protest event analysis. It consists of quantifying the attributes of protest events on the basis of qualitative descriptions, resulting in a dataset of events which can be analyzed statistically. In designing my study, I paid special attention to the Dynamics of Collective Action Project (2015) of McAdam, McCarthy, Olzak and Soule
with the necessary adaptations to the Chilean context. Although protest event analysis is increasingly used for understanding protest dynamics in general, to the best of my knowledge it has not been used for studying party protest in particular (Hutter, 2013 and Rucht, 1998 are the only two exceptions I am aware of). I supervised a team of four coders (all Chilean social sciences students), which built a dataset of 2,342 protest events taking place in Chile between

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January 1, 2000, and August 31, 2012. We used the descriptions available in the Chronologies of Protest produced by the Latin American Center of Social Sciences (CLACSO, 2015). They are based on a wide array of information sources, ranging from national newspapers (such as La Tercera, El Mercurio, and La Nación) to radios (such as Radio Cooperativa and Radio Bío Bío) and activist websites (such as Indymedia Chile). The coding process consisted of filling out, for each event, a questionnaire mostly composed of closed-ended questions. It took approximately six months, requiring periodic group meetings as well as email and face-to-face exchanges for discussing coding issues. Interrater agreement was close to 90%. Selection bias is endemic to protest event analysis
it is unlikely that all protests occurring in a time and space are covered (Ortiz, Myers, Walls, & Diaz, 2005). However, CLACSO’s Chronologies of Protest seem to provide a relatively complete picture of this universe. The comparison between the Dynamics of Collective Action Project (DCAP) and my dataset is illustrative in this respect. The DCAP recorded 23,615 events during 35 years (1960
1995) for a country (the United States) whose population during this period averaged about 220 million people. This yields about 674 events per year, or 3.1 events per million people. My dataset recorded 2,342 events for Chile during less than 12 years (January 2000
August 2012). This yields an average of 195 events per year and, for an average population of 16.5 million people during this period, about 11.8 events per million people. It is unlikely that Chile has a real rate of protest events almost four times higher than that of the United States (11.8 vs 3.1, respectively). Having the DCAP as a yardstick, these figures suggest that the CLACSO team did a good job at covering protest events in Chile. One reaches a similar conclusion when comparing the Chilean dataset with Kriesi’s protest dataset covering four Western European countries across three decades (see Hutter, 2013). Still, an important drawback of the Chronologies of Protest is that the range of sources used
and therefore any existing bias among them
varies across time. Most of the time two or three national newspapers were used, but at times only one was considered. The number of complementary sources also vary (details available upon request). For minimizing this problem, all models in Table 4 include two control variables indicating the number of main sources used by the Chronologies in the corresponding month, and the number of secondary sources. By doing this, it is unlikely that a given event has more or fewer chances of reporting party protest simply because it was based on more (or fewer) sources. This allows a more valid assessment of the relationships between the theoretical variables and party protest. Dependent Variable The dependent variable
party protest
is dichotomous. It has a value of “1” for those events that explicitly report the presence of political parties and a value of “0” for those which do not. Party presence takes many forms in the descriptions of protest events. It may include mentions of notable party leaders

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(e.g., congressmen or party presidents) participating in protests and speaking to the media, anonymous sympathizers with party flags or party symbols in their clothes, or references to specific parties supporting a protest. Diverse as they are, all these situations denote a motivation of party members for being part of a protest and making it noticeable to the public and the mass media. Because my variable is dichotomous, I use binary logistic regression (Long, 1997) when models only include independent variables at the event level (visibility and presence of organizations; Model 1 in Table 4). For adding independent variables about the political context I use multilevel models for binary dependent variables, with events being nested in months (Models 2 and 3). This takes into account that events belonging to the same month may be affected by common circumstances, therefore not being independent from each other. Ignoring this nested structure would lead to an underestimation of the standard errors of regression coefficients (Hox, 2010). The intraclass correlation coefficient is 0.30, suggesting that a sizable variation of party protest occurs due to factors varying monthly. Additionally, all models include a continuous variable indicating the year of the event. This keeps constant any structural trend changing linearly across time
such as economic or demographic trends
that might affect party protest. As noted earlier, all models also include two variables about the number of news sources. Finally, maximum likelihood estimation
used in logistic regression
suffers from small-sample bias (Allison, 2012), and party protest happened in only 138 of all recorded protest events in my dataset. In preliminary analyses I used Firth logistic regression, which employs penalized likelihood for reducing potential biases. The results were substantively identical under both specifications. Independent Variables The independent variables measure attributes of the protest events and the broader national context. For testing H1, which refers to the visibility of protest events, I use two variables. One indicates the estimated number of participants in the event (logged and with imputed values for about 20% of the events, which did not provide information about attendance). The other indicator of visibility refers to whether the event took place (1) or not (0) in the province of Santiago. Santiago corresponds to the country’s capital, concentrates most media attention, and is the most populated province of Chile (it comprises 40% of its population). For testing H2, I use a dummy variable that indicates whether there were civil society organizations other than parties in the protest event (1) or not (0). I consider a wide array of organizations (such as indigenous, workers, students, environmental, human, and civil rights organizations among others). For testing H3, I use a variable with a value of “1” for those events taking place during the center-left Concertación administrations and “0” otherwise (which corresponds to the center-right Alianza administration). For testing H4, which refers to the intensity and transgressiveness of recent collective protest in the country, I use two variables. One indicates the estimated number of

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Table 2.

Descriptive Statistics.

Variable (and Corresponding Hypothesis)

Observations

Mean

Min

Max

Party protest (dependent variable)

2,342

0.06

0.0

1.0

Estimated number of participants (logged) (H1)

2,342

5.28

0.0

13.8

Event in Santiago (H1)

2,304

0.47

0.0

1.0

Civil society organizations present (H2)

2,308

0.11

0.0

1.0

Center-left in government (H3)

2,342

0.65

0.0

1.0

Aggregate protest, last two months (logged) (H4)

2,340

223.30

3.9

548.9

Percentage in transgressive protest, last two months (H4)

2,340

60.00

0.0

100.0

participants (logged) in collective protests of all kinds in the prior two months. The other one indicates the percentage of protest events in the two prior months which exhibited disruptive, violent, and/or self-destructive tactics. Table 2 presents descriptive statistics.

RESULTS Let us move now to the bivariate relationships between party protest and the independent variables. Table 3 presents, for the dichotomous independent variables, the proportion of protest events with party protest, as well as the statistical significance of the difference between means. For the continuous independent variables, it shows the proportion of events with party protest for each quartile, as well as the point biserial correlation between each variable and party protest. All the relationships at the bivariate level are consistent with the hypotheses, and statistically significant at the 0.05 level or less. Regarding H1, party protest is more likely in larger events, especially those belonging to the third and fourth quartiles of attendance. The point biserial correlation, though modest, is positive and significant. Also, party protest is about five times more likely in events taking place in the province of Santiago (vs other provinces of Chile). Party protest is almost nine times more likely in events in which other organizations are present (H2), and more than twice more likely in events taking place when the Concertation is in power (H3). Also, consistent with H4, party protest is less common at times of heightened collective protest, and especially when such protest is transgressive (with both point biserial correlations being negative and significant). Interestingly, party protest decreases more markedly in quartiles 3 and 4 of both variables, suggesting that there might be a threshold after which parties become especially reluctant to join protests. Because party protest may be simultaneously shaped by many variables, it is important to move to multivariate regression models that control for potential confounders. Table 4 presents three regression models in which the dependent variable is party protest (yes ¼ 1, no ¼ 0). None of the models has collinearity problems, as the Variance Inflation Factor for the theoretical variables is always below 2.48 (Allison, 1999). Model 1 (binary logistic model) includes the

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Table 3. Bivariate Relationships between Party Protest and Independent Variables. Independent Variable

Category

Number of participants (log) (Point biserial correlation ¼ 0.09***)

Event in Santiago Civil society organizations present Center-left in government Aggregate protest, last two months (logged) (Point biserial correlation ¼
0.12***)

Percentage in transgressive protest, last two months (Point biserial correlation ¼
0.12***)

Proportion of Events with Party Protest

Quartile 1 Quartile 2 Quartile 3 Quartile 4 No Yes No Yes No Yes Quartile 1 Quartile 2 Quartile 3 Quartile 4 Quartile 1 Quartile 2 Quartile 3 Quartile 4

0.05 0.03 0.07 0.09 0.02 0.10*** 0.03 0.26*** 0.03 0.08*** 0.08 0.09 0.04 0.02 0.09 0.07 0.04 0.03

*p < 0.05; **p < 0.01; and ***p < 0.001.

Table 4. Regression Models Predicting Party Protest. Level 1 (event) Number of particip. (log) Event in Santiago Civil society orgs. present

Model 1

Model 2

Model 3

0.007 (0.045) 1.876*** (0.251) 2.247*** (0.211)

0.010 (0.049) 1.981*** (0.267) 2.361*** (0.234)

0.0001 (0.048) 1.980*** (0.264) 2.351*** (0.230)

Level 2 (months) Center-left in government

1.095* (0.479)

Aggregate protest (last 2 months) Transgressive protest (last 2 months) N Pseudo R2

2,273 0.231

2,273

0.865* (0.428)
0.004** (0.001)
0.029** (0.009) 2,271

Notes: All models control for a continuous variable indicating the year of the event and two variables indicating the number of main and secondary sources used by the Chronologies of Protest for the corresponding month. Model 1 is a binary logistic model. Models 2 and 3 are multilevel binary logistic models with protest events nested in months. Standard errors appear in parentheses. *p < 0.05; **p < 0.01; and ***p < 0.001.

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indicators of visibility and organizational presence. Model 2 adds the dummy variable indicating the coalition in power. Model 3 adds the aggregate measures of protest (intensity and transgressiveness). All results are statistically significant and consistent with the bivariate relationships of Table 3
there is no point in reiterating them. The only exception is the number of participants, which is not significant anymore. The final model (Model 3) illustrates the main empirical conclusion of the chapter. Party protest is significantly more likely in events that: (1) take place in the densely populated and highly visible province of Santiago, (2) involve other organizations, (3) take place when the center-left coalition is in power, and (4) occur when aggregate levels of protest are lower, and when such protest is less transgressive. The final model is fully consistent with H2, H3, and H4, and partially consistent with H1.

IS ENDOGENEITY A PROBLEM? H1 and H2 suggest that some features of protest events such as their size, location, and the presence of other organizations could affect the chances of party protest. But the relationship could go in the opposite direction. Parties could be a major force in moving masses of people to the protest, therefore significantly increasing its size. Parties could influence the decision regarding the location of the protest. And parties, if having a central role in the organization of protests, could persuade other organizations to join them in the streets. Are these mechanisms more likely to explain the observed statistical associations than those mechanisms implied by H1 and H2? Although I cannot provide a definitive answer, there are good reasons to suspect this is not the case. These alternative explanations imply that parties play a central role in launching and organizing protests from the scratch. But an analysis of 36 interviews to leaders of three major movements in Chile
such as the student, environmental, and indigenous movements
suggest this is not the case. In these interviews
which are part of a broader research project within which this chapter is located
movement leaders were asked a series of questions about collective protests
who and how it is decided the date and place of protests, who takes the initiative and calls for mobilization, and how organizations coordinate themselves when it comes to protest. The most relevant finding regarding endogeneity is that political parties rarely appear in the answers to these questions. According to the interviews, students decide these issues on the basis of innumerable assemblies at different levels
from class meetings to national-level confederations. Viewpoints go up and down across this organizational ladder and decisions are made in the process. With the exception of the Communist Party in specific periods
for example, the year 2008
there are no mentions to parties affecting this process directly or indirectly. The environmental movement lacks a clear formal structure of national scope as students do, but parties are absent too. Environmental conflicts are heavily shaped by local features, with variegated citizen groups organizing collective

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protests in quite autonomous ways. Some leaders mention the supportive role of mayors and local councilors, but they do so as community members rather than as party members. Finally, indigenous Mapuche protests are often embedded in ancestral rituals and practices in which religious and community leaders play a major role
but again, there are no indications of parties enjoying any kind of initiative. In sum, political parties do not have the prominent role required by alternative interpretations. Rather, parties seem to jump on the bandwagon of preexisting initiatives. This is consistent with the logic behind H1 and H2. Endogeneity is hardly a problem in H3 and H4, whose independent variables refer to national contextual features. Otherwise one should accept an implausible claim
that party protest in time 1 could affect national-level outcomes in previous periods.

CONCLUSION Scholars have recently begun to note that the separation between institutional and non-institutional politics is too rigid for studying contemporary political life (Goldstone, 2003; Kriesi, 2015; McAdam & Tarrow, 2013; Meyer & Tarrow, 1998). Not only do movements eventually adopt party-like features, but also parties may occasionally participate in collective protests. The latter phenomenon, termed here as “party protest,” is the focus of this chapter. Its motivation is the virtual absence of studies about the extent to which parties protest, the identity of these parties, and the determinants of party protest (but see Hutter, 2013; Heaney & Rojas, 2015). Using a dataset of 2,342 protest events taking place throughout Chile between 2000 and 2012, I emphasized three sets of findings: (1) party protest is relatively rare within the universe of protest events (it only happens in 6% of them); (2) it is confined to leftist and to a lesser extent centrist parties, and it is unlikely in protests with radical demands and tactics; and (3) several attributes of protest events and the political context affect party protest. Regarding events, party protest is more likely in events that take place in densely populated and highly visible settings, and in those coordinated by civil society organizations. Political opportunities also matter. Party protest is more likely when the centerleft coalition is in power, as protesting parties are aware that the Concertación will be more receptive to their claims than the Alianza. Finally, parties are more reluctant to join protests at times of heightened and transgressive collective protest. Doing so may threaten two public goods that Chilean parties value much: political stability, and their monopoly over major political decisions. These results have broader implications for the relations between institutional and non-institutional politics. The first implication is about the extent of the overlap between both arenas. Although we focused on a single indicator of this overlap, the fact that only 6% of protest events in Chile are joined by political parties suggests that the blurring of boundaries may not have advanced as much as one could expect. Moreover, Hutter’s (2013) similar figures for Western Europe suggest that Chile may not be unique in this respect. Is it the case that the intertwining between both arenas is not as considerable as we supposed? It is

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important to find other indicators of this overlap to have a more complete picture and allow cross-country comparisons. Second, the absence of rightist parties in Chilean collective protests between 2000 and 2012 stands in contrast with advanced Western nations, where rightist parties and politicians often vehemently protest against abortion, immigration, and tax increases. There are two possible explanations of this difference. First, these issues did not achieve salience in Chile during the 2000
2012 period
and consistent with this argument, the recent governmental initiative to legalize abortion under some conditions have spurred in Chile street protests in which rightist politicians did participate. Second, the hyper-mobilization of the left under the Allende government (1970
1973) and the final years of Pinochet’s dictatorship (two phenomena with perhaps no functional equivalents in advanced Western democracies) may have created in the political right an instinctive aversion toward collective protest. A more systematic comparison of rightist forces across countries and regions may shed light on this issue. Third, the findings suggesting that party protest in Chile during 2000
2012 eschews radicalism, and that it is less likely when aggregate protest grows, are also noteworthy. They are consistent with the thesis that protest is just one of a wide array of tactics that may be employed in the democratic struggle (Meyer & Tarrow, 1998). However, social movements in Chile often display more radical demands and transgressive tactics
it is just that parties are not joining them in such endeavors. This points to a growing detachment between parties and movements in Chile (Somma & Medel, 2017) that might be taking place in other countries as well. Beyond these broader issues, future research should address many limitations of this chapter. First, while the hypotheses are formulated in general terms, they were developed having Chile in mind. It is important to explore how much they travel to other contexts. Hutter’s (2013) finding that, in Western Europe, party protest is more likely in moderate and large protests with participation of other organizations, suggests that the patterns uncovered for Chile may apply to other countries too. Second, we could gain much from qualitative, in-depth studies of party protest in specific campaigns. These should focus on the motivations and calculations of party leaders, the dynamic interactions and negotiations between parties and movements, and the role played by the public opinion. Such studies will allow a more precise interpretation of the statistical results presented here. Third, because the number of events with party protest is unfortunately very small (only 138 events), and because the dataset does not always record which specific party or parties protested, I cannot explore whether the dynamics of party protest differ across protesting parties. A dataset with more events with party protest, and with complete information about party identity, would allow comparing events in which different parties protest, as well as incorporating party features as an additional component of the theory. Finally, following Hutter’s (2013) lead for Europe, we should study party protest in its absolute numbers. That is, how does the number of protest events with party participation vary across time, and why?

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I thank the excellent comments provided by two anonymous reviewers and the editor. This research was supported by the Centre for Social Conflict and Cohesion Studies, located in Chile (CONICYT/FONDAP/grant #15130009); a CONICYT/Fondecyt Regular/grant #1160308; and a CONICYT/Fondecyt Iniciación en Investigación/grant #11121147. Rodrigo Medel provided superb research assistance in this project.

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542. McAdam, D., & Tarrow, S. (2013). Social movements and elections: Toward a broader understanding of the political context of contention. In J. V. Stekelenburg, C. Roggeband, & B. Klandermans (Eds.), The future of social movement research: Dynamics, mechanisms, and processes (pp. 325
346). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Meyer, D. S., & Tarrow, S. G. (Eds.). (1998). The social movement society: Contentious politics for a new century. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Medel, R. M., & Somma, N. M. (2016). Marchas, ocupaciones o barricadas? Explorando los determinantes de las tácticas de la protesta en Chile. [Demonstrations, occupations or roadblocks? Exploring the determinants of protest tactics in Chile]. Política y Gobierno, 23(1), 163
199. Navia, P., & Godoy, R. (2013). The Alianza’s quest to win power democratically. In K. Sehnbruch & P. M. Siavelis (Eds.), Democratic Chile. The politics and policies of a historic coalition, 1990
2010 (pp. 43
68). Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers. Norris, P. (2000). A virtuous circle: Political communications in postindustrial societies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Oberschall, A. (1973). Social conflict and social movements. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Olson, M. (1965). The logic of collective action: Public goods and the theory of collective action. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Opp, K. D., & Roehl, W. (1990). Repression, micromobilization, and political protest. Social Forces, 69(2), 521
547. Ortiz, D., Myers, D., Walls, E., & Diaz, M. E. (2005). Where do we stand with newspaper data? Mobilization: An International Quarterly, 10(3), 397
419. Przeworski, A. (1991). Democracy and the market: Political and economic reforms in Eastern Europe and Latin America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rice, R. (2012). The new politics of protest: Indigenous mobilization in Latin America’s neoliberal era. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Roberts, K. M. (1998). Deepening democracy? The modern left and social movements in Chile and Peru. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Rucht, D. (1998). The structure and culture of collective protest in Germany since 1950. In D. S. Meyer & S. Tarrow (Eds.), The social movement society: Contentious politics for a new century (pp. 29
58). Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers. Sartori, G. (2005). Parties and party systems: A framework for analysis. Colchester: ECPR press. Scarrow, S. E., & Gezgor, B. (2010). Declining memberships, changing members? European political party members in a new era. Party Politics, 16(6), 823
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Siavelis, P. (2013). From a necessary to a permanent coalition. In P. Siavelis & K. Sehnbruch (Eds.), Democratic Chile: The politics and policies of an historic coalition, 1990
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43). Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Press. Silva, E. (2009). Challenging neoliberalism in Latin America. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Somma, N. M., & Medel, R. M. (2017). Shifting relationships between social movements and institutional politics. In M. vön Bulow & S. Donoso (Eds.), Social movements in Chile: organization, trajectories, and political consequences (pp. 29
61). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Soule, S. A., & Earl, J. (2005). A movement society evaluated: Collective protest in the United States, 1960
1986. Mobilization: An International Quarterly, 10(3), 345
364. Strom, K. (1990). A behavioral theory of competitive political parties. American Journal of Political Science, 34(2), 565
598. Tarrow, S. (1998). Power in movement: Social movements, collective action and politics (2nd Ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, V., & Van Dyke, N. (2004). Get up stand up: Tactical repertoires of social movements. In D. A. Snow, S. A. Soule, & H. Kriesi (Eds.), The Blackwell companion to social movements (pp. 262
293). Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Tilly, C. (1978). From mobilization to revolution. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill. Valenzuela, J. S. (1989). Labor movements in transitions to democracy: A framework for analysis. Comparative Politics, 21(4), 445
472. Van Cott, D. L. (2005). From movements to parties in Latin America: The evolution of ethnic politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Varas, A., Riquelme, A., & Casals, M. (2010). El Partido Comunista. Una historia presente [The Communist party: A present history]. Santiago: Catalonia/FLACSO. Wolinetz, S. B. (2002). Beyond the catch-all party: Approaches to the study of parties and party organization in contemporary democracies. In R. Gunther, J. R. Montero, & J. J. Linz (Eds.), Political parties: Old concepts and new challenges (pp. 136
165). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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BUILDING SOLIDARITY ACROSS ASYMMETRICAL RISKS: ISRAELI AND PALESTINIAN PEACE ACTIVISTS Michelle I. Gawerc

ABSTRACT Social movement scholarship convincingly highlights the importance of sharing the same risks for building solidarity, but it often unintentionally conceals the reality that certain risks cannot be fully shared. Using interviews with activists involved in Combatants for Peace (CFP), a joint Palestinian
Israeli antioccupation organization, this article illustrates how radically risks can differ for activists in relation to their nationality, as well as make clear the tremendous impact asymmetrical risks can have for movement organizations and their efforts to build solidarity. I argue that for movement organizations and joint partnerships working across fields of asymmetrical risk, solidarity is not about sharing the same risks; rather, it is about trust and mutual recognition of the risk asymmetries. Moreover, that solidarity building across risk asymmetries involves three general measures: a clear commitment to shared goals, a willingness to defend and support one another, and a respect of each other’s boundaries. In the discussion, this argument, which was developed through an in-depth analysis of CFP, is applied to the joint struggle in the Palestinian village of Bil’in to indicate generalizability. Keywords: Asymmetry; risks; solidarity; trust; activists; Israel/Palestine

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 42, 87
112 Copyright r 2018 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X20180000042004

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INTRODUCTION Solidarity means running the same risks. — Che Guevara (Boal, 1995). Complexities arise […] when activists work to create solidarity among diverse constituencies. — Einwohner, Reger, and Myers (2008, p. 8)

It is well understood, throughout social movement studies, to mobilize and sustain commitment to the cause among participants in social movement organizations, a sense of solidarity needs to be cultivated (Einwohner et al., 2016; Hunt & Benford, 2004). Likewise, numerous articles stress the importance of risk-sharing for fostering solidarity (Gamson, 1991; Hirsch, 1990; Mollin, 2017; Nepstad, 2001; Smith, 2002). While these articles convincingly highlight the importance of publicly sharing risks, the framing of this argument unintentionally conceals the reality that in many social movements and social movement organizations, the risks cannot readily or fully be shared. This is clear, for example, in the anti-apartheid student movement at Columbia University, when South African students faced significantly more risks than American students (Hirsch, 1990), the global justice movement, where middle-class white activists in Seattle faced fewer risks than poorer activists and people of color in New York and Toronto (Wood, 2007), and in the joint Israeli
Palestinian peace movement, where Palestinian activists face significantly more risks than Israeli activists (Gordon & Grietzer, 2013; Hallward, 2009). Numerous scholars emphasize the need to consider the context which is clearly important in shaping the type of solidarity constructed among movement organizations (Einwohner et al., 2008; Featherstone, 2012). Relatedly, Fireman and Gamson (1979) called for more empirical research to identify useful strategies for increasing solidarity under different conditions. That said, there has been little research since investigating how movement organizations build solidarity in locales where the risks of participation differ substantially in terms of race, class, gender, and/or nationality, and how disproportionate risks within a movement threaten its cohesion (for an exception in the case of the latter, see Wood, 2007). Yet, as can be seen from the Einwohner et al. (2008) quotation that introduced this chapter, we know from the literature that there are significant challenges engendering solidarity for groups working across inequalities and difference (also see Bystydzienski & Schacht, 2001). Indeed, activists in these groups are often linked, in various ways, to the resources and goals being pursued by the movement (Bernstein, 2008). Moreover, their sense of agency and empowerment tends to differ dramatically because of the participant’s contrasting social locations (Gamson, 1991). In addition, they cannot take for granted shared beliefs and lifestyles, which can foster solidarity (Nepstad, 2004), and trust cannot be assumed, as it is often a process to build (Gawerc, 2016). Furthermore, the identity promoted is rarely reinforced in the local setting (Smith, 2002), participants often experience cross-pressures (Einwohner et al., 2016), and the same

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actions taken by one or some members can have radically different consequences than those taken by other members based solely on one’s social location (Wood, 2007). These differences make building solidarity extremely difficult. Therefore, how groups navigate these challenges in building solidarity is beneficial as a focus of the current study. This research addresses these issues by examining how Combatants for Peace (CFP), a joint Palestinian
Israeli peace movement organization, cultivated solidarity despite the asymmetrical risks to focus on ending the Israeli occupation and all forms of violence between the two sides. Asymmetrical risks, as I use it here, refers to the differing dangers anticipated or faced by individuals or groups due to where they are socially situated in terms of race, class, gender, nationality, and/or some other identity. I base this, in part, on McAdam’s (1986, p. 67) definition of risk that states, “Risk refers to the anticipated dangers
whether legal, social, physical, financial, and so forth
of engaging in a particular type of activity.” However, the important point for the present study is that actions are often riskier for some than for others due to social location. Uneven risks include the prospect of being responded to with violence, the likelihood of harassment by the authorities or targeted violence, the amount of legal protection available, the financial consequences and the ability to insulate oneself from them, and the type of reactions from other groups one belongs to, including one’s community. CFP is an outstanding case for this study given the substantial asymmetries in risk faced by Palestinian and Israeli activists, which include all of the above. This case makes clear that risks cannot always be shared and they may have a significant impact on cohesion. At the same time, it shows that solidarity can be developed however uneven the risks may be. I argue that solidarity in CFP was based on trust and mutual recognition of the asymmetrical risks, and required activists to make clear their commitment to their shared goals, be willing to defend and support one another, and respect the boundaries of the other group. To establish generalizability, I use secondary literature to indicate that these measures similarly hold true for another case of joint Palestinian
Israeli struggle: the Palestinian-led struggle in the village of Bil’in in the occupied West Bank. This research details the risks, their impact, and the measures required for solidarity across the asymmetrical risks. It also provides analysis of each measure and their importance individually and together, for solidarity.

THEORY According to Melucci (1996, p. 23), solidarity is “the ability of actors to recognize others and to be recognized, as belonging to the same social unit.” In addition to being identified with a group, solidarity also connotes a commitment to the group (Gamson, 1991). Several researchers, have noted the importance of risk-sharing in fostering solidarity. As can be seen from the quotation that introduced this chapter, Che Guevara, while not a researcher, reportedly defined solidarity as “running the same risks” (Boal, 1995, p. 3). Relatedly, Nepstad (2001, p. 29) pointed out that Salvadorian martyr Archbishop Romero refused to hire

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security guards even after he began receiving death threats and stated “he would accept the same risks that the Salvadoran people faced.” Gamson (1991) similarly highlighted the importance of publicly sharing risks for building solidarity and commitment, providing illustrations in the base communities in El Salvador and in the anti-Vietnam War movement in the United States (see also Hirsch, 1990 and Smith, 2002). While these articles highlight the benefits of risk-sharing for solidarity
in the building of a sense of belonging, identification, and commitment
they unintentionally conceal the reality that there are different risks participants often face which depend on where one is socially situated. Indeed, in the case of El Salvador and the base communities, as one North American activist noted in 1978, “the people [of the Santiago shantytown] are there to stay [while we] have the security of knowing we can return [to the United States] at any time” (Mollin, 2017, p. 237). Also in Gamson’s discussion of the teach-in against the war in Vietnam at the University of Michigan, he reveals that the participants included non-tenured faculty and graduate students, and it is reasonable to assume that these two groups experienced greater risks than the tenured faculty. Thus, this often portrayed image of movement participants facing similar risks distorts the reality and the activist experience (e.g., Gordon & Grietzer, 2013). Consequently, it also misrepresents the challenges movement organizations face when it comes to building solidarity, as well as the practices required for it. As Wood (2007) indicates, asymmetrical risks complicate the process of cultivating solidarity because they underscore differences between activists, hinder the ability of more at-risk individuals to identify with those less at-risk, and provoke fragmentation among differing identities. Yet, there is evidence solidarity is present in movement groups who work across risk asymmetries. Indeed, this is clearly seen in the various partnerships between Palestinians and Israelis focused on ending the occupation, whose risk asymmetries are substantial (e.g., Gawerc, 2017; Gordon, 2010; Hallward, 2009). Given that such groups cannot rely on equal risk-sharing and the complications this creates, the question becomes: How do movement organizations and joint partnerships foster solidarity across asymmetrical risks? What are the measures through which solidarity can be built and maintained? While there is no literature focused specifically on how solidarity is fostered when the risks cannot be fully shared (for a partial exception, see Gawerc, 2017), there are studies that look more broadly at what is involved in fostering solidarity across inequalities. This literature indicates that trust is the basis for such groups (Gawerc, 2016; Smith, 2002; Wood, 2005) and it is of the utmost importance for privilege and power asymmetry to be acknowledged and managed (Einwohner et al., 2016; Gawerc, 2013; Hallward, 2009). As Kraemer (2016) argues, recognizing privilege, along with being willing to fight to end it, initiates the trust-building process, which is so crucial in building solidarity. Gawerc (2017) reveals that solidarity may require dominant group members, at times, to engage in actions on their own, to relieve pressure from those more at-risk. In this chapter, building on such studies, I argue that solidarity is based on trust and mutual recognition of the risk asymmetries rather than purporting to share the

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same risks. Moreover, I propose three general measures to help in explaining how solidarity can be built across asymmetrical risks. The measures comprise of activists: (1) clarifying their commitment to shared goals, (2) defending and supporting one another, and (3) respecting the boundaries of the other group/s. The initial measure, for solidarity building across asymmetrical risks, relates to activists’ commitment to shared goals, as they need to be convinced that the “collective entity [is] worthy of personal sacrifice […] [and should] take priority over the needs and demands of everyday life” (Gamson, 1991, p. 45). Indeed, the literature suggests that this involves knowing others are similarly committed (Gamson, 1991; Hirsch, 1990) and while a need for all movements, this is likely to be particularly important for those that work across difference and inequality since shared beliefs cannot be taken for granted (Nepstad, 2004) and trust cannot be assumed (Gawerc, 2016). This is particularly true for non-dominant group members who often have additional reasons to mistrust dominant group members (Hackl, 2016; Pallister-Wilkins, 2009). In such movements, dominant group activists often must prove themselves to their compatriots who are less privileged and oftentimes have more to gain if the movement should succeed in reaching its goals (Golan, 2011; Myers, 2008). Second, I argue that a willingness to defend and support one another is also a central measure for solidarity building across asymmetrical risks. While this measure too is likely critical for all movements, as it encourages activists to take risks by reassuring them that they are not alone and their compatriots will stand by them (Goodwin & Pfaff, 2001), it is likely more important for movements that work across uneven risks as well as the activists who face greater threats (Hackl, 2016). For example, those whose necks are disproportionately on the line are likely to want to know that they can count on the more privileged participants to stand by them, prevent their arrest, help them get out of jail, and/or publicize their situation to help ensure their security (Wright, 2016). This measure, which takes the form of support and commitment to one’s comrades, is theoretically critical to counter the often-diminishing identification of individuals more at-risk from their peers who face less risks for the same actions (Wood, 2007). Third, I argue that respecting each other’s boundaries
particularly of those who face greater risks
is also crucial for solidarity. Theoretically, it could enable activists to feel safe (as they establish their own limits) as well as respected in the organization, and as Flesher-Fominaya (2010) indicates, satisfying these emotional needs is critical for cohesion. As noted, this is likely to be particularly important for more at-risk activists given both the disproportionate risks they face (Pallister-Wilkins, 2009) as well as the additional challenges they tend to have identifying with their more privileged counterparts (Wood, 2007). Moreover, ideally, this practice of respecting each other’s boundaries could also help to manage the tendency of dominant groups to dominate decision-making (Munkres, 2008), which at least in the case of Israel
Palestine played a role in the break-down of numerous joint peace efforts (Gawerc, 2012; Maoz, 2004). Thus, this measure provides a way for groups to manage the risk asymmetries by enabling activists to determine their own boundaries, while also helping to

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assure equality and a culture of respect, all of which are helpful in developing a sense of solidarity. I argue, ultimately, that through these three measures CFP was able to build solidarity notwithstanding the acknowledged uneven risks. And, in the discussion, I apply this theoretical frame to another example of joint struggle between Palestinians and Israelis to indicate generalizability.

METHODOLOGY AND GROUP STUDIED This research focuses on one of the most prominent joint Israeli
Palestinian peace movement organizations in Israel/Palestine today: CFP. There are a handful of Israeli organizations (e.g., Ta’ayush, Anarchists Against the Wall (AAtW)) that engage regularly in solidarity work with Palestinian villages whether in protests of the wall or in olive picking or helping to build structures, and have managed to build a strong culture of solidarity. However, CFP is unique in that it defines itself as a joint/bi-national movement organization. It is one of the only joint Israeli
Palestinian movement organizations engaged regularly in nonviolent protest activities. The organization was jointly founded in 2006 by former Israeli Defense Force soldiers and Palestinians who were formerly engaged in the armed struggle for Palestinian liberation. The Jewish Israeli founders were from the Israeli organization, Courage to Refuse which formed during the Second Intifada, and consisted of combat officers and soldiers that refused to serve in the Occupied Territories. A foreign journalist brought to the Israelis’ attention that there were Palestinians in the West Bank who were similarly refusing to take part in the armed struggle and after the foreigner brokered a connection (McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly, 2001), members of the two groups decided to meet. After a year of secretive and intense meetings, they decided to form CFP (see Gawerc, 2016). CFP was one of a range of Israeli organizations that began to take action after the eruption of the Second Intifada in September 2000 and Israel’s military response. Fleischmann (2016) divides these groups into two categories: radical and alternative.1 The radical groups such as Ta’ayush and AAtW took the form of Palestinian solidarity groups who worked closely with Palestinian villages and were committed to “going to places where the occupation and expulsion actually take place,” in order to “confront racism and discrimination where they happen” (Dana & Sheizaf, 2011). The alternative groups, in contrast, took varying approaches to reveal the hidden realities of occupation, while balancing universalism and particularistic values in their framing. She characterizes CFP as one of the central alternative groups because, while it engages in resistance and solidarity activities and condemns and brings attention to the oppression and suffering of Palestinians, it has historically been in support of a two-state solution, which allows Israeli activists to continue to identify as Zionists. It should be noted that the framing on the Palestinian side similarly allows the Palestinian activists to identify as Palestinian nationalists and to stay somewhat within the consensus.

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CFP believes that: the conflict cannot be resolved, through military means, by either of the parties […] [and] that only through joint action can […] [Israelis and Palestinians] break the cycle of violence and put an end to the Israeli occupation of the Palestinian territories.

They define their approach as “that of nonviolent struggle” (CFP, n.d.). While they also engage in educational activities, they are clear that they are an action group and not a dialog group. Most of their funding comes from small donations through crowdfunding and their website (predominantly raised from the US and Israel), as well as funds raised through their friend organizations in the US and Europe.2 Their organizational structure is noteworthy because each national group has some autonomy. Their guiding principles explain: [While] CFP is a joint Palestinian
Israeli Movement […] it acknowledges the existence of two separate peoples within it. Thus, the two national groups in CFP have a certain degree of autonomy to manage their affairs in accordance with the Movement’s creed and goals, while taking into consideration political, social and cultural considerations of both of the two groups. (CFP, n.d.)

In terms of the participants in CFP, it should be noted that the organization was originally male-dominated, given that the founders were all combatants and used their former involvement in military activities to gain legitimacy. Beginning in 2008, however, the organization broadened its membership requisite to include non-combatants given the mutual belief that in “militarized societies such as ours [Israeli and Palestinian] everyone was in one way or another involved in the violence” and that to bring change, “they needed everybody” (Fleischmann, 2016, p. 373). Consequently, CFP now includes many more women, however, mostly on the Israeli side. The ages of the participants are diverse, although most are between the ages of 20
60, with the Israelis typically a little younger than the Palestinians. In terms of the Israelis, they are almost all Jewish, and as is the case in the broader Israeli peace movement, it disproportionately consists of middleclass and highly educated European (Ashkenazi) Jews.3 The Palestinians are largely all from the occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem, and predominantly Muslim, with some from the cities and some from the villages. Compared to the Israelis, they are much less well-off. As part of a larger study focused on constructing and sustaining collective identity, I collected data on CFP in the three-month period before the 2014 War in Gaza (April
June 2014), and a three-week period several months after the war ended (December 2014). In the three-month pre-war period, I conducted 22 interviews with Israeli and Palestinian peace activists in the organization (11 Palestinians and 11 Israelis) and, in addition, observed events, actions, and meetings. Given the impact the July
August war in Gaza had on Israeli
Palestinian organizations, I returned for three weeks in December to learn more about how the organization managed during the war. I interviewed 12 participants (6 Israelis and 6 Palestinians), who were key informants which I met with during my previous visit to the region. The 10 men and two women interviewed

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were aged 30
50 and were from different geographical locations in Israel and the occupied West Bank. These semi-structured interviews were conducted in English or Hebrew. I also offered Palestinian activists the choice of conducting the interview in Arabic with the help of a translator. This chapter relies largely on the data collected in December 2014, since I asked the participants directly about how they fostered solidarity across the uneven risks, but the interviews and observations from the earlier trip also provided useful insights. The data were coded and analyzed using Atlas.ti; individual themes were utilized for the unit of analysis. This required coding single sentences, single paragraphs, and groups of paragraphs. Although the coding was largely inductive, I also coded concepts derived from the literature. The inductive generation of codes was important, however, as it allowed me to recognize unforeseen themes and patterns. Indeed, the inductive coding revealed the radically different risks faced by Israeli and Palestinian activists (thus challenging the assumption in much of the social movement studies literature that the risks can be shared) as well as the three general measures required for solidarity building across such uneven risk. The section Asymmetrical Risks in the Context of the Israeli Occupation specifies the asymmetrical risks in the environment wherein the Palestinian and the Israeli activists operated. Names of research participants have been anonymized.

ASYMMETRICAL RISKS IN THE CONTEXT OF THE ISRAELI OCCUPATION Because of the Israeli military occupation of the Palestinian territories, Israeli and Palestinian activists faced starkly different risks when it came to participation in a joint Palestinian
Israeli peace movement organization. These differences included the approach of the different legal systems they faced, the likelihood of their being hurt and harassed by the Israeli military, the impact joint antioccupation activism could have on their ability to make a living and support their families, and the responses received by their respective civil societies. First, it should be noted that the Israeli occupation of the Palestinian West Bank created a situation where national affiliation determined the legal system under which activists were tried. Whereas Israelis arrested in the West Bank were tried in civilian courts, Palestinians would be tried in Israeli military courts (Abu-Zayyad, 2016). The consequence is that activists who stood accused of the same crime (and from the same protest event) would be “arrested, prosecuted, and sentenced in drastically different systems
each featuring staggeringly disparate levels of due process protections” (Omer-Mann, 2016). In the words of Noam, an Israeli activist: Given the structure of the conflict, the Israeli Jews are, by definition, more privileged. The Palestinians […] are under more risks. For example, when I was arrested in the demonstration, I felt that I was covered by the lawyer; I’m covered by the Israeli legal system, and by the [Israeli] Supreme Court. Nobody would put me in jail for a puppet demonstration […] but Haitham or Osama or Walid, they might be […] [It’s not so far-fetched] that Haitham will get half a year of administrative detention [arrest without trial] if he crosses a line […] So that

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makes a difference, because we are not running the same risks. Even if we want to run the same risks, we are not.

Haitham, a Palestinian activist, explained: A Palestinian can go to jail for six months without a trial, and it can be extended for another six months, just because the [Israeli authorities] decide he is dangerous. An Israeli, even if he creates the biggest demonstration ever, he will only be taken for one or two hours, then they will release him.

The reality at protests, according to activists present, was that Palestinians were also more likely to be subjected to violence by the Israeli army; this was especially true if there were no Israelis present or if the Israelis and Palestinians were separated by the separation wall. Samir, a Palestinian activist, relayed that the Israeli soldiers were less likely to “shoot or use a lot of tear gas” when there were Israelis present. Marwan, also Palestinian, similarly noted: The Israelis’ presence makes it a little different, because they [the Israeli army] will think differently […]. At the last demonstration in Bethlehem, the Israelis and us were separated by the wall, so they threw a smoke bomb at us [the Palestinian protesters].

Relatedly, Palestinian involvement in anti-occupation activism could also lead to harassment by the military. As Khalil, another Palestinian activist, stated: “You can be arrested or have your permit taken away or asked for an interview with Intelligence, or wounded or killed. All the options exist.” This, too, was something that the Israeli activists did not have to face. As Yael, an Israeli activist, remarked: The sacrifices [made] are different […] I’m secure. Nobody can take me from my home in the middle of the night. No one can put me in jail for no reason […] They risk more than me in terms of their families and their relationship with the Israeli authorities. I’m not afraid what the Israeli Secret Services will do to me. What can they do to me? […] [But] the military can harass them any minute, anywhere on the West Bank.

In addition, as Khalil indicated, Palestinian anti-occupation activists who worked in Israel risked losing their work permits to enter Israel due to participating in a protest. The consequence could be a loss of one’s income, and possibly, one’s job. For the Israelis, activism in the organization rarely threatened their job and income. As Marwan noted: If you talk about activities on the ground, like in the village, people [Palestinians] are afraid to participate. The Israelis can come and go [but Palestinians cannot] […] Like the other day, I didn’t want to show myself in the demonstration. I came afterwards [for the CFP meeting] because I didn’t want them [the Israeli authorities] to take my [work] permit. I need to work. These differences between both sides are a big deal.

Rimon, an Israeli activist, added: As soon as they are photographed, the Shabak [Israel’s internal security service] has this very sophisticated face identification software and they just run the photographs through it […] Then they call them in—and that’s the end of the guy’s employment. Think of the implications of this—his family goes hungry if he gets caught at a demonstration.

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In addition to the different risks Palestinian activists faced with the Israeli authorities, along with the consequences for their freedom, livelihoods, and families, there were also different risks when it came to the participants’ civil societies. Several of the Palestinians highlighted the challenge of participating in a joint movement, given the taboo against normalization. In the Palestinian context, normalization has been defined as the participation in any [initiative] […] that aims […] to bring together Palestinians […] and Israelis […] without placing as its goal resistance to […] the Israeli occupation and all forms of discrimination and oppression against the Palestinian people. (PACBI, 2011)

Those who engage in normalization are viewed as assisting Israeli propaganda efforts in maintaining the deceptive and harmful illusion of normalcy in a blatantly abnormal situation of military occupation. While this organization was clear in its opposition to the Israeli occupation
and thus not seen by Palestinian CFP activists as normalization
it could be understood as such by the broader society, given the frequent lack of agreement on its parameters. The Palestinian activists all indicated that this taboo posed problems for them. As Ihab explained: On a societal level, meeting with the other side is not necessarily an acceptable Palestinian idea […] [It] is seen as a form of normalization in a lot of ways— […] [not as] part of the Palestinian resistance […] So, they don’t really look fondly upon these kinds of activities. I faced a lot of opposition from my family […] It affects the Palestinian [participants] […] because it’s not necessarily a good thing to be known as ‘Ihab, the normalizer.’ It has negative connotations inside the society.

Khalil similarly added: The Palestinians face more risks from their own street [than the Israelis do from theirs]. They are more at-risk for revenge because not everyone on the Palestinian side agrees with working with Israelis […] Because [of] the occupation […] [and the] oppression that Palestinians face […] it’s harder for the Palestinians to accept the other side.

While some Israelis also found participating in the organization challenging, largely due to friends and family members that did not agree, the amount of pressure and the risks involved differed substantially. As Shai stated: “For the Israelis, the most dramatic risk would be of being secluded, of being severely criticized. Not much more than that.” Keren, in agreement, noted: “I know that I can be called names
a traitor, whatever
and I’m perfectly alright with this. The limits or risk for us as Israelis, are much fewer.” While being a leftwing activist in Israel had become increasingly difficult over the years
and was particularly challenging during the wars in Gaza
the activists were all clear that the risks could not be compared. Not surprisingly, as the section Impact of the Asymmetrical Risks highlights, building on Wood (2007), these uneven risks had a significant impact.

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IMPACT OF THE ASYMMETRICAL RISKS The asymmetrical risks manifested themselves within the organization in a plethora of ways, including the degree of empowerment and despair felt, the different levels of cautiousness when discussing tactics, the varying levels of difficulties identifying with the movement organization, the varied ways one could stand up for fellow activists in one’s community, and the visibility of activists at protests. For starters, many of the interviewees commented that the Israelis in the organization felt more empowered than the Palestinians, who tended to feel disempowered and hopeless. This did not only have to do with the disproportionate risks, but the oppressive larger reality including Palestinians having to pass checkpoints to return to their homes, villages, and communities still under occupation and the struggles this yields, while the Israeli Jews will return to Tel Aviv or West Jerusalem, both of which feel miles away from the occupied territories. And as Gamson (2011) indicates, while hope is a mobilizing emotion and critical for a sense of collective agency, hopelessness is a demobilizing emotion and poses a significant challenge for movements. Consider the following quotes: Noam: There’s a serious problem right now of passion. I think the Palestinians are much more hopeless at the moment, than the Israelis in the movement. They don’t see any way out of this situation. They are tired of struggling nonviolently; they are tired of convincing themselves and their people that what we are doing is useful. Haitham: The most important thing is believing […] [but] our faith is going up and down with all that’s around us—and also our hope. Because you can’t have your whole life just saying to people, ‘nonviolence, hope, tomorrow will be better.’ Palestinians have been hearing this for 50 years […] At some point, they will say to you, ‘go away, you’re telling me lies!’

Due to asymmetrical risks, Palestinians were also, understandably, much more cautious and hesitant when discussing possible tactics, or preparing to implement tactics previously agreed upon. As Shai noted, “They get reluctant.” Thus, the discussions over tactics highlighted the differences between the two groups (Wood, 2007), and it lead, at times, to frustration and conflict. As Nirit, an Israeli activist, indicated: Many times, the Israelis want to do something and the Palestinians [hesitate and sometimes] withdraw. They say, now is not a good time. It’s frustrating […] I can totally understand them of course. It is much easier for us [Israelis] in a way to take this position of saying we have to fight […] because I am not going to pay the price, probably, but they are […] So yeah, it is hard.

The uneven risks, particularly the stigma attached to Palestinians who work with Israelis, also made it harder for Palestinians to identify with the organization. Notwithstanding the solidarity they felt with CFP, the taboo against normalization had led some of the Palestinian activists to feel hesitant participating and, at times, embarrassed by their participation in a joint movement in the context of occupation. As Ihab noted, “Questions arise like, ‘Am I doing the right thing? Am I going in the right direction?’” Naseef similarly relayed: The occupation and the settlements [particularly in the context of the normalization taboo]— they do affect […] I get embarrassed [by my participation at times]. For instance, two days

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Likewise, the taboo also made it harder for Palestinians to publicly stand up for fellow Palestinian activists out of fear of the repercussions from other Palestinians. And this, of course, could make the Palestinian activists feel more alone and at-risk in their own society, in addition to alienating some from the movement. As Niv, an Israeli activist, described: [The normalization taboo] is not new but it has grown much more powerful […] And a journalist attacked us [recently claiming we are normalizers] […]. They attacked Zaid, the leader on the Palestinian side, on Facebook. And I [asked] Haitham the other day, ‘Where were you [all]?’ I mean, the [core] family was there, but many of the others […] they met and they gave him personal support, but they didn’t publicly or at least on Facebook [stand up for him]. So, of course, I was exaggerating a little bit when I said you don’t have Asabiyya [i.e., solidarity], but I think it is not strong enough [on the Palestinian side] to withstand this [for all of them].

Finally, the impact of the unbalanced risks also manifested themselves through the visibility of activists at protests. Recall Marwan revealing how the risk of losing his work permit, often caused him to skip protests altogether. For Palestinian activists who attended the protests, they often sought to minimize the risks in other ways. In the words of Shai, an Israeli activist: In the protests, you can see all the symptoms. The Israelis are much louder than the Palestinians. The Palestinians get much more passive. They get more reluctant. They get more low profile probably because some of them might be harassed later.

These asymmetrical risks, as Wood (2007) suggests, highlight the differences between Israelis and Palestinians. Moreover, they increase frustration, conflict, and misunderstanding between the groups, and they make it harder for Palestinians to identify not only with their Israeli compatriots, but also with the movement organization itself. Notwithstanding the impact and the challenges posed by such risks, as the section Trust and Recognition of Asymmetrical Risks for Solidarity stresses, the activists were able to foster solidarity across the asymmetrical risks, enough for one Palestinian activist to call CFP “my political home” and state that “this is a kind of solidarity, a kind of brotherhood.”

TRUST AND RECOGNITION OF ASYMMETRICAL RISKS FOR SOLIDARITY In this deeply asymmetrical context, where activists from both communities faced risks that differed substantially based on where they were socially situated, trust, as Wood (2005) and Smith (2002) suggest, was key. Indeed, many of the activists attributed their solidarity to how well they knew each other, their shared vision and commitment to ending the occupation and the conflict through non-violence, and their personal relationships, which they developed over the years (see Gawerc, 2016). Consider the following quotes:

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Samir: The sense of solidarity is very strong, because we went step by step and really got to know each other. It took us two years to create trust, and to trust each other […] Solidarity came from knowing each other, [recognizing] our shared goals, and understanding our [different perspectives]. Noam: There’s something deeper and stronger that binds us together. I think it’s the […] process that we went through together, the constant humanization that we are committed to, which lies on the grounds of opposing violence of any kind […] and our very strong intersubjective relationships in the movement, which create a very firm ground for a mutual struggle.

For the activists in this organization, trust itself was based on their commitment to try and manage the acknowledged mutual risks. As Shai noted: It’s important for us to [always] remember the basic paradigm on which CFP acts [which] […] is not a symmetrical conflict paradigm, but an asymmetrical occupation paradigm […] Acknowledging this is important [for true solidarity].

The Palestinian activists, particularly, needed to know that their Israeli colleagues recognized and operated in ways that accounted for the differing realities and risks. Moreover, they needed to know that they would not dominate leadership roles and decision-making in ways that privileged people often do (Munkres, 2008). As Samir emphasized: From the beginning, we were clear that there is no symmetry between the situations. But in CFP, we are very equal. We have two coordinators, we have two steering committees, [and] the mechanism [of] how we take decisions—the Israelis cannot decide for me at all […] [Actually,] the Israelis come to ask us what we [Palestinians] want to do because they understand that their ideas may not work in our situation [or for us given the risks we face].

Indeed, one of the working principles for CFP is equality, which they suggest entails recognizing the lack of symmetry in the political situation, committing to confront the power relations that exist in the region, and striving for equality in the organization.Reflecting on it, Meir, an Israeli activist, noted: From the first minute I was in the organization, the [asymmetries and the] power relations between the two sides was an open issue. So maybe in a strange way, when you make note of the asymmetry and when you make it an open issue, you also create a [stronger sense of] “we.”

For this movement organization, trust and solidarity involved engaging in the measures introduced earlier: a clear commitment to shared goals, defending and supporting one another, and respecting the boundaries of the other group Making Clear Their Commitment to Their Shared Goals First and foremost, solidarity for this bi-national cross-conflict organization required the activists to make clear their commitment to their shared goals. Noam would not have been surprised, as he believed that their commitment to “embodying [their] belief in action” the basis of their solidarity. While it is important for participants in any movement organization to make clear their

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commitment to their shared goals (Gamson, 1991), it is especially important for activists that work across difference and asymmetrical risk, since trust cannot be taken for granted (Gawerc, 2016). Moreover, as Myers (2008) argues, activists from dominant groups often must prove themselves to their colleagues. Indeed, given the reality of the 50 year-long occupation, the presence of dialog groups in the region that do not take a stand on the occupation, and the Palestinian societal taboo against normalization, it was especially important for the Israelis to make clear their commitment through visible actions to ending the occupation (Golan, 2011). In the words of Khalil: I identify more with CFP than [any other joint organization], because it addresses the needs of the Palestinians […] Palestinian [society] sees that we take initiative and we go and do demonstrations against the occupation, against the settlements, as well as conducting activities in solidarity with the Palestinian hunger-strikers and the prisoners. So even those people who accuse CFP of doing normalization […] see that we are actually trying to change the situation.

It was critical for the Palestinian activists to know that the Israeli activists were doing all that they could to further their shared goal. Consequently, the Palestinian activists took heart when their Israeli colleagues were willing to be arrested in the struggle against the occupation. In the words of Ibrahim, a Palestinian activist: “Through it, you feel that they are [truly] invested in the cause.” In fact, many of the Palestinian activists were drawn to the organization
or open to participating in it
because the Israeli activists refused to serve in the occupied territories, as it is a condition of their participation. In addition, some refused to serve in the military at all. This effective withdrawal of support by the Israeli activists from the military occupation was crucial for the Palestinian activists. As Khalil noted: [In CFP] some of them were part of the army, but now they reject it. And even if they do join the army, they don’t serve in the occupied Palestinian territories. It is important.

At times, the uneven risks have meant that the Israeli activists needed to be willing to act alone. In fact, during the 2014 Gaza War, the risks to Palestinians for their participation were so great, particularly given the strengths of the normalization taboo at the time, that few Palestinians were willing to participate in joint protests. The Israeli activists recognized through their conversations with their Palestinian colleagues that they would need to take actions on their own and in their own community. The Israeli side of CFP organized several protests in Israel and became one of the leading organizations in the protests against the 2014 Gaza War (see Gawerc, 2017). For the Palestinian side, the actions taken by the Israelis further strengthened their affinity with the organization. As Ihab shared: [When I saw the protests through the media], I felt proud and identified with the organization more because they actually undertook these activities by themselves, not necessarily with the Palestinians. And it showed what they believe in, their convictions, and their identities, which are against the war, which was very good.

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Marwan also mentioned: CFP get[s] less critique in our society than other organizations, but that’s mainly because of the Israeli partners—the refuseniks. They don’t serve in the occupied territories, and they do […] demonstrations of this kind. So people accept them more than other [joint] organizations […] The Israelis’ actions are to our credit on the Palestinian side. I think we depend a lot on their action […] [And in part because of it, I feel that] CFP is my political home. This is a kind of solidarity, a kind of brotherhood.

While the situation was unbalanced, it was also important for the Israelis to know that the Palestinians were committed to non-violent resistance and their partnership. As Shai noted: The bi-national steering committee meeting on Skype during the 2014 Gaza War was very moving, very important […] It was important for us to know […] that the Palestinians didn’t move an inch in their position or solidarity with us. The fact that now Israelis are hurting their people didn’t inflict on their solidarity with us at all. It was important for us to hear.

As Shai’s quote suggests, during more difficult times, it is important to receive oral confirmation of the other’s commitment, especially if the activities of the other group don’t give clear assurances. To foster trust, then, it was critical that the activists make clear their commitment to shared goals. While this was essential for both groups, it was particularly important for the Israelis to do, since they played the role of the dominant group needing to prove themselves. At times, the asymmetrical risks also meant that they needed to be willing to act alone within their own community. In doing so the Israelis were able to establish their strong commitment to shared goals while also relieving pressure on the Palestinians, whose civil society would see these actions, recognize the organization’s commitment to ending the occupation, and thus viably perceive the organization
and the Palestinian involvement in it
as more legitimate. As the quotes by Marwan and Ihab indicate, these actions by the dominant group served to strengthen the trust, their identification with the organization, and the sense of solidarity. Willingness to Defend and Support One Another A clear commitment to shared goals, however, is far from solely sufficient to ensure solidarity across asymmetrical risks. In this deeply asymmetrical environment, CFP activists prove mutual solidarity and trust through defense and support of one another. Thus, it is critical for participants to know that they are not alone, and if arrested or injured
or experiencing other injustices
their friends would be there to help (Goodwin & Pfaff, 2001). While this need went both ways, given the substantially greater risks faced by Palestinians, it was particularly important for the Israeli activists to do whatever possible to ensure their Palestinian colleagues were safe. One of the ways CFP sought to do this during protests in the occupied West Bank was by having individual Israelis mark themselves as the leaders as soon as the Israeli soldiers would appear. Utilizing their privilege, these Israelis would

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lead the shouts to focus the Israeli military’s attention on them. As Noam recounted: [In the protest], Shai and I were shouting all the time and when you are leading the shouting you are marking yourself as a leader […] Because the Palestinians are at greater risk, we wanted them [the military] to think that […] Israeli-Jews are leading this thing, that we are responsible for it. We used our privilege, because we [Israeli-Jews] didn’t violate any law […] [They couldn’t] arrest us […], we didn’t do anything [whereas Palestinians could be arrested.]’

While this was largely an attempt to look out for the Palestinian participants, given the greater risks they faced, as Hirsch (1986) argued, when leaders are willing to undertake risks, thus highlighting their commitment to the shared goals, it sets an example for the participants on a whole, strengthening the solidarity. Indeed, often, the Israeli and Palestinian activists would follow this by coming together and holding hands to protect the individuals that marked themselves as leaders from being arrested. It provided, in Noam’s words, “an image of protection; an image of [cross-conflict] solidarity”
one that also provided the activists with an “intimacy [since] we are embodying the future and the vision.” It should be noted, as Goodwin and Pfaff (2001) indicate, that when such intimate ties underpin a movement, it can also help with managing and mitigating fear. Returning to the risk asymmetries, however, as Noam noted, “if there has to be a confrontation with soldiers or police, we will be confronting them, not the Palestinians. They will pay a higher price than we do.” Samir elaborated: When the Israelis understand [the risk differentials] they protect the Palestinians. They go in front of the Palestinians, because they know that they’re not in real danger. The Israeli military won’t shoot them or use a lot of tear gas on them. [While] for the Palestinians, we know how the Israelis treat us. They shoot us […] It’s important that the Israeli partners recognize this [for us to be able to trust them].

While it was harder for the Israelis to protect their Palestinian compatriots in protests where the activists were divided by the separation wall, the Israelis still sought to do so. Speaking about the same protest that Marwan referred to earlier, where a smoke bomb was thrown at the Palestinians, Shai detailed: Like a large choir we [the Israelis] shouted in one voice, ‘This is a nonviolent organization. The only one inflicting violence here is you, the Israeli army. These Palestinians are innocent […]’ And it helped move the soldiers back, actually. During the violent few minutes, we were like protecting them with our voices in a way […] They could have been much more violent.

While this need to look out for one’s colleagues was largely the responsibility of the Israelis, as discussed previously, the Palestinian activists would also need to defend their Israeli compatriots, particularly when they were in the occupied West Bank. As Naseef shared: Three years ago when we went to a protest in a village and helped the Palestinian farmers pick olives, a big group of Israeli settlers came down and they started to beat all the protesters—the Palestinians and the Israelis. Yael and Moshe were hit very, very badly and they had to be taken to the hospital. I was so worried about them that [notwithstanding the normalization taboo] I went and carried an Israeli to a Palestinian hospital! This did strengthen the relationship and build the trust.

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Relatedly, it was also critical for the Israelis to trust their Palestinian partners, and to feel safe to go to certain places or drive through certain villages, as suggested by these partners. As Yael reported, When driving through the West Bank, I must trust [my Palestinian colleagues]. There is always a risk, and the amount of risk that you are willing to take depends on your connection with your partner and how strong it is. I’m a bit calmer when I call Naseef and ask him, ‘Is it safe?’ and […] he takes a moment to think about it. For me it’s reassuring that he is taking this seriously. So, the key for solidarity, I think, above all, is the personal connection and the trust and the care.

Critically, solidarity also required the activists to be there for one’s compatriots, standing by them in times of need. This was especially important for the Israelis to understand and, at times, it meant helping their Palestinian colleagues achieve some justice in their life
particularly, when it came to the Israeli authorities. In the words of Mati, an Israeli activist: If the daughter of Bassam Aramin is murdered by an Israeli soldier who will never be brought to justice, I have to be there in the High Court by him, fighting with him. It’s taking sides […] [Solidarity requires] this kind of commitment, and the willingness to pay a price, a personal price […] [We, Israelis, need to be] willing to pay this price.

Because of the asymmetries in this situation, Bassam would likely agree with Mati’s sentiment. Speaking about Mati, he remarked: We are very connected. Imagine a Palestinian ex-fighter and an Israeli ex-occupier going to protect one another. It’s unbelievable! [And yet,] I cannot imagine that someone will harm, Mati, for example. No, I will protect him with my body. We have become the same side.

As these participants specify, the need to defend one another goes both ways. At the same time, solidarity and trust also required a cognizance of the asymmetrical risks, along with a willingness of the Israelis to take the responsibility that comes with their unearned privilege by doing whatever was in their power to ensure their Palestinian compatriots were not harmed or arrested, or standing by their compatriots when they were denied justice by the Israeli authorities. As Bassam’s quote suggests, such actions create, for those more at-risk, a strong sense of identification with their more privileged compatriots, and ultimately, a strong identification with the movement organization. Respecting Boundaries of the Other Finally, solidarity for this bi-national cross-conflict organization required the activists to respect the boundaries set by each group. This was important for cohesion, for each group to feel safe, respected, and at home in the movement. While this ideal was established as a founding principle, respecting the boundaries of the other was a work-in-progress, as some of the following quotes stress. Speaking to the importance of this ground rule though, Shai stipulated: The first principle [of building solidarity across difference and inequality] is to make sure that each people set their own boundaries, and to be really sensitive not to pressure the other people. We respect the Palestinians’ boundaries for their engagement; [and the Palestinians’

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respect] the Israelis’ boundaries for their engagement as well […] It’s important not to expect them to do something that’s impossible for them—on both sides.

Similarly, Ihab noted: There are differences…between the two sides. The Israelis take into consideration the needs of the Palestinian side and the different obstacles that they face […] At the same time, we understand that the Israelis face obstacles as well […] [We] try to work around these and move forward together.

While this need to respect boundaries went both ways, given the risk asymmetries, which often manifested themselves in different levels of cautiousness, this most often took the form of the Israelis needing to respect their Palestinian colleagues’ desire to not undertake a certain action at a certain time or go to certain locations in the occupied West Bank. For instance, early on during the 2014 War on Gaza, some of the Israelis attempted to convince their Palestinian colleagues to engage in a joint protest in the West Bank. Because of the Israeli separation wall, the West Bank was the only territory where they could all be together and thus, it was often the site for their protests. The Palestinian activists made it clear, however, that they did not believe it was appropriate, and that they did not want to be confronted with the taboo against normalization. As Haitham explained: The activities were frozen during the war on the Palestinian side. We didn’t do anything because you can’t go to the Palestinian side and say ‘Stop killing.’ […] [I told the Israelis], the message ‘stop killing’ should be said to your side! We told them, ‘it will kill Combatants, it will destroy it!’ […] [If] you want to make solidarity, go to your president, go near his home, near the Knesset, and make them stop killing, because the message is not for us, it’s for them!’ While it was not fully understood, they understood [and accepted] that we couldn’t make anything.

From an Israeli perspective, and highlighting the frustration it sometimes caused, Yael noted: When we do activities in the West Bank, like the Olive Harvest, the danger most of the time is from [Israeli] settlers, but also from Shabak, and possibly from some Palestinians from the villages. We [Israelis] say, ‘Okay, this is our job to go to these places, otherwise we can do activities in your backyard and that’s it.’ Many times they say, ‘Let’s not go there.’ Sometimes it’s really frustrating because I want to go to these places. I find myself many times, asking them again, trying to check their limits, but I’m learning to accept […] their decisions.

Respecting each other’s boundaries was also a way of managing the tendency of the Israelis to dominate. And as the literature on Israeli
Palestinian joint efforts is clear, efforts to work equally are critical for organizational survival (Gawerc, 2013). It also allowed Palestinians, who have local knowledge and context of their society, to have equal say
and as the quotes above here speak to, the final say
on what actions are doable and/or appropriate in the occupied West Bank. While respecting each other’s boundaries was not always easy, it was vital for participants to be able to feel respected and safe in the movement organization, and in charge, to some degree, of the risks they were taking. Moreover, it helped to manage the dominancy of the Israelis. Both functions were particularly important for the Palestinians, given these power dynamics and the substantially

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greater risks they faced. And ultimately, this measure helped to manage the disagreements, conflict, and tension that inevitably accompanies working across uneven risks, strengthening the solidarity. The section Discussion and Conclusion will discuss the case and apply the three measures to another example of joint struggle in the Israeli
Palestinian case, that of the Palestinian-led joint struggle in Bil’in involving Anarchists Against the Wall, in order to ascertain generalizability. AAtW is a Palestinian solidarity group that works with and supports Palestinian villages, at their request, in their struggle against segregation and land confiscation in the occupied West Bank (Gordon & Grietzer, 2013). As noted earlier, Fleischmann (2016) characterized the organization as reflecting the radical component in the Israeli peace movement, compared to CFP, which she classified as alternative. .

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION While the literature is clear that risk-sharing is beneficial for solidarity (Gamson, 1991; Hirsch, 1990; Nepstad, 2001), this chapter illustrates that it is not always possible for activists to fully share the risks associated with participation in a protest organization, and that the risks can vary substantially because of participants’ different social locations. More importantly, building on Wood (2007), this case reveals that asymmetrical risks have a significant impact on the ability of movement organizations to build solidarity. Indeed, asymmetrical risks manifest themselves within organizations in countless ways, highlighting differences between the participants, increasing conflict, frustration, and misunderstanding, and making it harder for more at-risk individuals to identify with their less atrisk compatriots and the movement organization itself, thus disrupting solidarity. This case, however, uniquely demonstrates solidarity can be built however unequal the risks faced by participants. Solidarity for CFP, I argue, was not based on sharing the same risks, but rather, on trust and mutual recognition of the uneven risks. Moreover, it required three commitments (measures) by the activists: to clearly demonstrate their commitment to shared goals; to show loyalty by defending and supporting one another; and by respecting the other group’s distinctly defined boundaries. While this was important for all involved, it was particularly important for the Israelis, since they were members of the dominant group whose participation in the organization garnered less risk. This chapter supports the argument that trust is an important foundation for diverse groups that work across inequality (Gawerc, 2016; Smith, 2002; Wood, 2005), but it goes further by indicating that solidarity
and trust itself
requires activists to be cognizant of the asymmetrical risks (also see Einwohner et al., 2016; Hallward, 2009). For CFP, the first measure was particularly critical, especially for the more at-risk activists, to be able to see that their compatriots who face less risks are strongly committed to their shared goals and actively undertaking meaningful actions to help realize these goals. For instance, it was very important for the Palestinian activists that their Israeli partners refused to serve in the Occupied Palestinian Territories, were willing to be arrested in the struggle against the occupation, and open to engaging in protest activities on their own during the

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2014 Gaza War. These Israeli actions made clear to the Palestinians the degree of their commitment to their shared goals, and it also took some pressure off the Palestinians. Not only did they not need to participate, but their civil society witnessed these anti-war actions through the media and it provided the Palestinian participants with more legitimacy, and consequently, less crosspressure. This in turn, increased the Palestinians’ sense of solidarity with the Israelis and their identification with the organization (see also Gawerc, 2017). As Marwan expressed: “The Israelis’ actions are to our credit on the Palestinian side. I think we depend a lot on their actions […] [And in part because of it] CFP is my political home.” While activists from the dominant group also need to know that their partners are committed to their shared goals, this case suggests that because of the asymmetries, those who are more at-risk do not need to do as much to indicate their commitment, particularly, as Myers (2008) points out, if they simultaneously have more to gain should the movement’s goals be realized. This need to indicate commitment was also critical in the joint struggle in Bil’in led by the Popular Committee Against the Wall (PCAW) and involving AAtW. Here too, according to secondary literature, it was most important for the Israelis to make clear their commitment both verbally and through confirmatory actions (Hallward, 2009; Pallister-Wilkins, 2009). Indeed, Yonatan, a leading activist in AAtW suggested that solidarity was initially formed through the participants’ shared opposition to the Wall and the occupation, which needed to be verbally articulated
and then acted on
by the Israelis (Pallister-Wilkins, 2009). Putting more emphasis on the latter, Muhammad, one of the key activists in the PCAW stated: We have built trust and strong relationships by participating together in the clashes. Israelis are with Palestinians in the front row […] It’s not like Jonathan is at the beach saying how much he wants peace while Muhammad is being beaten […] Palestinian and Israeli, their relationship is grounded in a shared struggle. (Blecher, 2006)

In this case, as Muhammad is indicating, the active participation of the Israelis
their willingness to put their bodies on the line thus making clear their commitment to their shared goals
was critical for building solidarity. Indeed, as Snitz (2013, p. 56) points out, Israelis have a choice when they go to the West Bank whether they want to spend their time drinking tea and chatting with some of the villagers or inhaling tear gas at the demonstration, and the preferences of the leading PCAW activists are clear. As one remarked, “After we end the occupation together, there will be plenty of time for tea” (Snitz, 2013, p. 56). This quote indicates that solidarity building and the need of dominant group members to make clear their commitment to the shared goals is an on-going process and necessity. Second, as the case of CFP indicates, a commitment to defending and supporting one another goes a long way toward building trust and solidarity. After all, this practice assures activists that they are not taking stands and risks alone, and they can rely on their colleagues to be there for them, as they are indeed, a “we.” While this is critical for all activists (Goodwin & Pfaff, 2001), it is particularly important for those who face greater risks because of where they are socially situated. Indeed, it allows these activists to see that even though they are

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at much greater risk, their more privileged counterparts are seeking to manage the risk differentials and will do whatever they can to prevent their arrest, keep them safe, and help in securing some semblance of justice for themselves and their families. Samir highlights the importance of this for Palestinians to be able to maintain trust in their Israeli partners, while Bassam and Mati indicate just how strong identification and solidarity can be, in part as a result of this measure. The secondary literature with its focus on AAtW and the PCAW, also highlights the importance of this measure and indicates that it was particularly important for the Israelis to have the Palestinians’ backs. Indeed, according to Kobi, another key activist in AAtW, one of the primary roles of the organization was facilitating the safety of the Palestinian demonstrators (PallisterWilkins, 2009). Similarly, Ben-Eliezer and Feinstein (2009, p. 19) indicate that often when a Palestinian would be arrested, an Israeli activist would seek to get arrested to “in order to make it hard for the Israeli security forces to mete out severe punishment methods reserved to non-Israelis.” Wright (2016) also relays that in situations of crisis such as when Palestinian families were threatened with demolition or eviction from their home, Israeli activists often dropped all work and family commitments and traveled to the West Bank to be with their compatriots. Moreover, they would arrange protests, liaison with and pay for the lawyers, and mobilize public campaigns (Gordon & Grietzer, 2013; Wright, 2016). Seemingly, this measure is part of the reason Muhammad argued that they built a “true partnership” (Blecher, 2006). Finally, respecting each other’s boundaries
particularly the boundaries of those who faced greater risks
enabled the activists in CFP to feel safe and respected in the organization, and ultimately, at home. While to foster a sense of cohesion it was critical to satisfy the emotional needs of all activists for security and respect (Flesher-Fominaya, 2010), this commitment to respect each other’s boundaries was particularly important for the Palestinian activists, given that the risks were greater as a result of their occupied status, their relationship to the authorities, and the appearance in their community that they were normalizing colonial oppression by working jointly with Israelis. In truth, the latter, at times led the Palestinian activists to feel embarrassed as indicated by Naseef (on pp. 97
98) or to question as Ihab did, “Am I doing the right thing? Am I going in the right direction?” Moreover, this practice of respecting each other’s boundaries also helped to manage the tendency of privileged groups to control the movement and compatriots (Munkres, 2008), which again was particularly important for the Palestinian activists (see Samir’s quote on p. 99 and Haitham’s quote on p. 104). All in all, this measure helped manage the felt asymmetrical risks by allowing each side the ability to decide their comfort level and how far they felt they can go. As several interviewees indicated, given the greater risks Palestinians faced as well as their local knowledge and context of their society, they often necessarily had the last word. Interestingly, CFP chose to institutionalize the respect of boundaries early on by providing each of the two national groups with some autonomy in the joint organization and by clarifying that neither group was permitted to interfere with the decision-making process of the other group (CFP, n.d.). Honoring boundaries was also important

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for AAtW and PCAW, and like CFP, the literature suggests it was particularly important for the Israelis to respect the boundaries of the Palestinians. Indeed, it was the approach of AAtW in its solidarity work with Palestinian villages, including Bil’in, that they will only join Palestinian-led struggles when asked to join by the villagers themselves (Pallister-Wilkins, 2009). And while in Bil’in, decisions were joint, the power to begin or stop a protest lied solely with the Palestinian villagers (Gordon, 2017). In the words of Snitz (2013, p. 57), The first principle is that although the struggle is joint, Palestinians are affected more by the decisions taken within it, and therefore are the ones who should make the important decisions.

Moreover, he indicates that “Israelis have a special responsibility to respect Palestinian self-determination, including respecting social customs and keeping out of internal Palestinian politics.” These principles, as Snitz (2013) explains, were the result of their awareness that due to their privileged position, Israelis could inadvertently dominate decisions even though the Palestinians have a greater stake in the issue and face substantially greater risks. Also playing a role was their recognition that Palestinians don’t immediately accept and trust Israelis, that there are sensitivities given the normalization taboo, and the unwanted cultural influences that the Israelis bring (also see Gordon, 2017). Thus, once again, we can see how this measure was deemed necessary for ensuring that those who will be most impacted have the ability to draw the lines where they feel necessary, as well as creating a culture of respect that meets the emotional needs of activists. It is fair to ask how generalizable these findings are since this study focused primarily on one movement organization with substantial disproportionate risks, in a context of occupation and asymmetrical conflict. A review of the secondary literature on Bil’in indicates it is likely generalizable to other joint struggles in Israel
Palestine. This is true, even though AAtW has a very different solidarity model than that of CFP, as the organization is clear that they are a Palestinian solidarity group and follow the lead of Palestinians, whereas CFP identifies as a joint Israeli
Palestinian peace group and embodies more of a joint partnership model. Recall also that Fleischmann (2016) characterizes AAtW as being characteristic of the radical component of the Israeli peace movement, with CFP illustrative of the alternative component. In any case, working across the asymmetrical risks required attention to the same measures as discussed in this chapter. The question remains, however, is it generalizable to other contexts? Perhaps movement organizations can ignore the unequal risks and hold on to the romantic idea that the risks are largely evenly shared, if the risks are not as asymmetrical. Too, the need to respect boundaries and make clear one’s commitment to their shared goals may not be as strong if all the activists are biographically similar, with none more at-risk because of their social location. The need to defend and support one another may also not be as critical if all the activists appear to share risks evenly. In other words, the discussed solidarity practices may be much more important for movement organizations that work across

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substantial risk asymmetries, as they simply cannot ignore the reality that the risks cannot be fully shared. The degree of mistrust between the two communities, from which the activists belong, may have also played a role in the dynamics experienced in CFP (and similarly between PCAW and AAtW), by making it even more important for the Palestinian activists that the imbalance in risk be noted, their boundaries respected, and their Israeli colleagues clear and steadfast in their commitment to ending the occupation, as well as standing by and alongside them. In addition, the strong sense of victimhood amongs the Palestinians
a consequence of spending their lives under Israeli military occupation and in the case of Bil’in, having their private land appropriated by the Israeli authorities (Ibhais & ‘Ayed, 2013)
may have also played a role in the dynamics seen in these cases. Nonetheless, there are reasons to believe these findings would be generalizable to other groups however uneven the risks may be. As shown earlier, solidarity in most movement organizations relies on activists making clear to each other their commitment to shared goals as well as seemingly having each other’s back, even if more important for activists who face greater risks. These measures are important because they build trust which is foundational (Gawerc, 2016; Smith, 2002; Wood, 2007) and could also help to sustain the identification of those more at-risk with their compatriots, which Wood (2007) also found tends to diminish as a result of risk asymmetries. Similarly, an argument could also be made that respecting each other’s boundaries, could also be beneficial
if not critical
for cohesion across disproportionate risks, as it enables activists to feel safe and respected within the group, and meeting these emotional needs is crucial for solidarity (Flesher-Fominaya, 2010). In fact, it should be noted that it is even more impressive that CFP (as well as PCAW and AAtW) could foster solidarity given the extent to which the risks of participation were asymmetrical, not to mention the degree to which mistrust prevails between the two communities from which the activists hail. While the practices may not be sufficient to build solidarity for all groups working across asymmetrical risks, they are likely to be necessary in the effort to do so.

NOTES 1. As Fleischmann (2016) argues, most of the moderate peace groups were paralyzed after the Second Intifada (see also Hermann, 2009). 2. They also receive donations from foundations, mostly European, to finance specific projects, as well as receive some funds from larger private donors. And they raise money through their some of their operations, such as lectures and screenings of their film while on tour. 3. Palestinian citizens of Israel are welcome to join and a few have, but they are the exception to the norm. Meanwhile, it should be noted, that Ashkenazi Jews compose the elite in Israel, dominating not only Palestinians in the Occupied Palestinian Territories and Israel proper, but also Middle Eastern (Mizrahi/Sepharadic) Jews (see Shohat, 1988). In recent years, scholars have started to examine the largely Ashkenazi-led peace movement within the context of the Israeli state and have provided critical perspectives on it (e.g., Svirsky, 2014; Wright, 2016).

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank Patrick G. Coy and the anonymous reviewers for their careful reading of an earlier draft of this manuscript and their very helpful and insightful comments. I would also like to thank Chen Alon who first brought to my awareness the challenges posed to CFP by the risk asymmetries, and inspired me to investigate this topic. This research was supported by a Hanway Global Studies Faculty Development Grant from Loyola University Maryland.

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143.

SECTION II FRAMES AND DISCOURSES IN CONFLICTS AND SOCIAL MOVEMENTS

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FRAME RESONANCE, TACTICAL INNOVATION, AND POOR PEOPLE IN THE TUNISIAN UPRISING Mohammad Yaghi

ABSTRACT Frame resonance and innovative tactics can substitute for a movement’s lack of important resources to sustain protests. This chapter shows how the insurgent groups in the 2011 Tunisian uprising that lacked mass-based organizations and national leaders maintained and spread the protests using frame resonance and innovative tactics. It argues that the activists’ strategy of frame resonance drew on the collective identity of the poor people in the interior regions, mainly their collective feeling of social marginalization. Activist organizers also relied on a motivational campaign aimed at converting the feelings of injustice held by those in the interior regions into anger against the regime. The innovative tactics of the activists included locating protests inside poor people’s neighborhoods, especially in coastal regions. The engagement of poor people in the protests sustained them in two ways: by spreading and intensifying protests through individual initiatives, and by weakening the Tunisian police in sustained disruptive actions and spontaneous riots. These findings are based on the narratives of 81 activists, insurgent groups’ documents, chanted slogans, and official state documents. The fieldwork research was conducted in Tunisia during the months of April and May 2012, and June 2013. Keywords: Frame resonance; innovative tactics; resources; poor people movements; Tunisian uprising; Arab Spring

INTRODUCTION The uprising in Tunisia was generated by small insurgent groups that, until the beginning of the protests in December 2010, did not draw the attention of

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Middle East scholars (Aarts & Cavatorta, 2013; Chomiak, 2011; Korany & ElMahdi, 2012). These groups had no mass-based organizations, national leaders, access to national media, allies, or money
all deemed necessary to sustain a movement. Furthermore, these groups did not develop any central organizational structure to coordinate their activities or demands. Yet they managed, in 29 days, to topple one of the powerful regimes in the Middle East. How were these resourceless activists able to sustain the protests until the departure of Ben Ali, the Tunisian president? Studies on the Tunisian uprising show that the Tunisian activists solved the resource problem by relying on social media (Chomiak, 2014; Breuer, Landman, & Farquhar, 2015; Halverson, Ruston, & Trethewey, 2013; Hess, 2013; Schraeder & Redissi, 2011) and on civil society organizations (CSOs), in particular, the General Union of the Tunisian Workers (UGTT) and Tunisian Bar Association (TBA) (Allinson, 2015; Angrist, 2013; Durac, 2013; Gobe & Salaymeh, 2016; Guessoumi, 2012; Hanafi, 2012; Temimi, 2012). This chapter focuses on the role played by poor Tunisians in overcoming the resource problem. It argues that Tunisia’s activists sustained the protests in part by engaging the poor who, after being mobilized, acted autonomously. The activists used two strategies to mobilize the poor: they framed their demands to resonate with the poor, and they located the protests in poor people’s neighborhoods, especially, in coastal regions. The strategy of frame resonance drew on the collective identity of the people in the interior regions, mainly their collective feeling of social marginalization. It was also combined with a motivational campaign aimed at converting the feelings of injustice in the interior regions into anger against the regime. The strategy of locating the protests inside poor people’s neighborhoods was used in the coastal regions in the last few days of the protests. The chapter proceeds as follows: section one addresses the relationship between resources and mobilization. It shows that resources can be obtained through frame resonance and tactical innovation. Section two outlines the Tunisian uprising, illustrates the demographic and geographic distribution of poverty in Tunisia, and explains how the literature on the uprising addresses the problem of resources. Section three outlines the chapter’s methodology. Section four focuses on activists’ strategies of frame resonance. It argues that activists prioritized socio-economic demands in the early protests, and engaged in a sustained motivational campaign that resonated with poor Tunisians. Section five concentrates on the activists’ choice to stage protests inside poor neighborhoods in coastal regions. Section six explains how the engagement of poor Tunisians sustained the protests and demonstrates that they bore the greatest protest burden. The conclusion summarizes the findings.

RESOURCES AND MOBILIZATION In the social movements literature, the relationship between mobilization and resources is addressed in resource mobilization theory (RMT), in the cultural approach, and through the study of movement tactics. Conceptualizing

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mobilization as a resource problem, RMT emphasizes the importance of social movement organizations (SMOs) in initiating and sustaining collective action (Edwards & McCarthy, 2004; Jenkins, 1983; McCarthy & Zald, 1977). McAdam (1982, pp. 43
48), for example, links the emergence of a movement with its “indigenous organizations,” formal or informal. He argues that these indigenous structures supply the movement with participants, solidarities, communication networks, and leaders. McAdam argues that movements need an “enduring organizational structure to sustain insurgency” in order to “assume the centralized direction of the movement previously exercised by informal groups.” If it fails to organize as such, a movement is “likely to die” (p. 54). Deviating from the discussion about the importance of organization, Piven and Cloward (1979, pp. xxi
xxii) argue that organizations have demobilization effects because they endure “by abandoning their oppositional politics.” More importantly, they argue that poor people’s disruptions can lead to success, which can be achieved without organizations. For them, there is a link between the social location of the protestors and the forms of defiance they use to articulate their demands. Explaining this correlation, they write “it is the daily experience of people that shapes their grievances, establishes the measure of their demands, and points out the targets of their anger.” As such, it is the “institutional roles [that] determine the strategic opportunity for defiance.” Factory workers, for example, “protest by striking” while the unemployed “riot in the streets”; the former possess an institutional power of disruption that the latter do not have (pp. 21
23). The cultural perspective in the social movements literature focuses on the power of ideas to persuade and motivate people to join collective action through the use of “symbols, language, discourse, identity, and other dimensions of culture to recruit, retain, mobilize, and motivate members” (Williams, 2004, p. 93). The most widespread cultural approach applied to protests is frame theory. Frames are defined as interpretive packages “intended to mobilize potential adherents and constituents, to garner bystanders’ support, and to demobilize antagonists” (Snow & Benford, 1988, p. 198). Social movement framing processes are referred to as collective action frames; they seek to provide an elaborated understanding of why and how collective action should occur. The core tasks of collective action frames are diagnostic, prognostic, and motivational (Snow & Benford, 1988, pp. 198
200). Diagnostic frames identify a problem of injustice, its causes, and those responsible. Prognostic frames propose solutions to the perceived injustice. Motivational frames give rationales for collective action to amend injustice. The degree to which movements attend to these core framing tasks explains the “variation in the success of participant mobilization, both within and across movements” (Snow & Benford, 1988, p. 199). Frame resonance plays a decisive role in increasing the resource base of a movement. According to Snow and Benford (1992, p. 140), the power of a given frame to attract and mobilize constituents depends in part on its resonance with the life experience of the target of mobilization. That is, it depends on the movement’s ability to link its interpretive framework with that of the target. Snow

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and Benford identify three conditions for frame resonance: (1) empirical credibility
the claims of the frame must have true basis, (2) experiential commensurability
the social problem the frame addresses must have been experienced by the target individuals, and (3) narrative fidelity
the frame must be drawn from the target’s traditions, values, myths, folktales and the like. Empirically, several studies show that resonant frames can boost movements’ resources. For example, in her study of American women’s suffrage mobilization between 1886 and 1914, McCammon (2001) found that where activists argued that women brought “womanly skills” and ideas to solve family problems, they gained suffrage support, but in places where they argued that women deserved equal rights as citizens, they failed to gain support, even when they had local organizations. In his study of democratic transitions in Eastern Europe, Glenn (2001) found the civil society’s frame in Poland and Czechoslovakia resonated with diverse groups, leading them to form coalitions even though both countries barely had any civil society. Meyer (1990) found that the US peace movement gained momentum in the early 1980s because its “nuclear freeze” frame resonated with people. Two central components of collective action frames are related to frame resonance: collective identity and injustice (Gamson, 1992, pp. 7
8). Defined as “a perception of a shared status or relation” (Polletta & Jasper, 2001, p. 284), the collective identity of the target of mobilization often times exists prior to the emergence of a movement; targets may share, for example, demographic and economic traits (p. 291). By making the identity of the target salient in their frames, activists can generate more recruits, commitment, and solidarity from the targeted group (Klandermans, 2004). The injustice component produces different kinds of emotion such as “cynicism, bemused irony, resignation” and “righteous anger that puts fire in the belly and iron in the soul” or “what psychologists call a ‘hot cognition” (Gamson, 2011, p. 256). Studies on emotion work in social movements show that activists channel emotions such as guilt, shame, grief, and fear into anger in order to mobilize targeted group (for a review, see Ruiz-Junco, 2013). Finally, social movement scholars associate a movement’s success with its ability to adopt innovative tactics (for a review, see Wang and Soule, 2016). Much of this research has focused on the efficacy of disruption
tactics that intentionally break laws and disturb the normal functioning of society
in bringing about social movements’ goals (Gamson, 1975; McAdam, 1982), while others have argued for the importance of context in which disruption is deployed (Cress & Snow, 2000). Finally, disruptive tactics may lead to state repression, especially against groups with low social status (Earl & Soule, 2006), which in turn may backfire if the repressed group is able to communicate the injustice to large receptive audiences (Hess & Martin, 2006, pp. 250
251). In brief, the availability of mass-based organizations are only one way for a movement to accumulate resources. Other mechanisms include frame resonance and tactical innovations.

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THE TUNISIAN UPRISING Background The protests in Tunisia began on December 17, 2010 when Mohamed Bouazizi, a vegetable vendor, self-immolated in front of the governorate of Sidi Bouzid to protest the confiscation of his street cart’s scale by police. Immediately after this event, oppositional activists, together with members of Bouazizi’s family and colleagues, gathered in front of the governorate building to protest the way regime officials treated Bouazizi (E. Bouazizi, personal communication, Sidi Bouzid, May 8, 2012). In the first phase of the uprising, which lasted from December 17, 2010 until January 11, 2011, the protests remained in Tunisia’s interior regions, gradually spreading from Sidi Bouzid to Kasserine, Gafsa, and other interior governorates. The interior region protests were massive and intense. For example, the protesters burned many police stations, governorate buildings, and offices of the Constitutional Democratic Rally (RCD). The failure of the Public Order Brigades (BOP), the Tunisian riot police, to contain the protests forced the regime to deploy the army, beginning on January 7, 2011. Between January 8 and 10, 2011 the BOP killed 29 protestors in Kasserine, Thala, and Regueb (henceforth, events of Kasserine). In the coastal regions, activists within the UGTT, TBA, Tunisian General Students Union (UGET), and Union for Unemployed Graduates (UDC) initiated solidarity activities with the interior regions, but the number of participants was small and the regime managed to keep them away from the street; they were gatherings rather than marches or demonstrations. The most important activity was the lawyers’ general strike on January 6, 2011 following the attack on two lawyers
affiliated with the political opposition
by the regime in Tunis. The lawyer’s strike, however, was not framed in solidarity with the protesters in the interior regions, but rather as “a matter of professional autonomy” (Gobe & Salaymeh, 2016, p. 327). Phase two of the protests began on January 12, 2011 when the coastal regions joined the protests. As a result of the events of Kasserine, and under pressure from UGTT activists, the National Administrative Commission of the UGTT allowed its regional branches to initiate “solidarity activities with the affected regions and people” (UGTT statement, January 11, 2011, p. 111). Accordingly, the UGTT branch in Sfax declared a local strike on January 12, 2012. On the night of January 11, 2011, however, mass protests erupted in Tadhamoun, the largest poor neighborhood in Tunis, the capital, and spread the next day to all poor neighborhoods in Greater Tunis. The rally that organized by the UGTT branch in Sfax also turned into a mass confrontation with the BOP killing two protesters. Between January 11 and 14, rioters in Greater Tunis attacked police stations, government buildings, and financial institutions. On January 14, 2011 the BOP failed, for the first time, to prevent protesters from reaching Habib Bourguiba Boulevard. The same day, Ben Ali fled the country (for a review about the protests day by day, see Bishara, 2012, pp. 199
299; Ayeb, 2011).

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The opposition that initially gathered in front of the Sidi Bouzid governorate was composed of activists from the Progressive Democratic Party (PDP), Workers Communist Party (POCT), Pan-Arabist groups (Ba’athists and Nasserites), and independents (K. Oueiniah, personal communication, Sidi Bouzid, May 8, 2012). Activists from the Islamic Ennahda protested individually because they did not have a working organization inside Tunisia (R. Kahlani, Ennahda’s activist, personal communication, June 8, 2013). The most active protesters were independents
youth activists who, following the success of the uprising, formed movements such as the Dignity Youth Movement (Karama), New Generation Movement (NGM), and Free Tunisia Forces’ Movement (FTM) (Als’edani, 2012). Three observations about the opposition groups are important. First, none of the political opposition groups that initiated the protests and sought to sustain them had a mass-based organization; they were all small in size, and some had no organizational structure at all (Als’edani, 2012). Second, the opposition groups did not develop any central collective leadership, formal or informal, to coordinate activities or demands (Ayeb, 2011; Bishara, 2012). Third, political organization and CSO membership overlapped. The UGTT for example has always been an arena of struggle for domination between the opposition and the regime (Disney, 1978). In other words, many of the UGTT’s activists are members of the political opposition organizations who compete with each other and with RCD members of the UGTT. The Subsection Poverty and Poor People in Tunisia explains the poverty map in Tunisia. Poverty and Poor People in Tunisia Identifying who counts as poor is debated in the poverty and development literatures. The most commonly used approach identifies poverty with reference to a shortfall in consumption (or income) based on a monetary assessment of basic needs (Fisher, 1992; Ravallion, 1998). This approach, however, is widely criticized as reductionist, discounting the fact that the poor “are not simply individual organisms requiring replacement of sources of physical energy” but “social beings expected to perform socially demanding roles” (Townsend, 2006, p. 4). A more comprehensive approach to poverty identifies it as “a complex set of deprivations.” Here poverty is defined as a “human condition that reflects failures in many dimensions of human life” such as work, health, housing, and education (Fukuda-Parr, 2006, p. 7). Poverty is also related to the relationship between the factors of asset, access, and transferability (Johnson, 2002). A university graduate, for example, might fall into poverty when her asset
the university degree
is not transferable into wellbeing due to limitations on access to work. Conceptualized as a set of deprivations, poverty in Tunisia is geographically concentrated in the rural interior region
the central west, northwest, southeast, and southwest governorates
and populous neighborhoods in coastal cities. Demographically, peasants and unemployed university graduates experience more poverty than others. According to the Tunisian National Institute of Statistics, interior region residents, mostly farmers, are the most deprived

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demographic in terms of per capita income, poverty rate, unemployment, and healthcare provision (Boughzala, 2013; Mahjoub, 2004; Trabelsi, 2013). This is due to in part to “the concentration of public services, investment, and economic activities in the coastal region” (Kolster, 2012, p. 28). Poverty also varies within the same region, governorate, and city. For example, while the central west
Sidi Bouzid, Kasserine, and Kairouan
is the most deprived interior region area, Sidi Bouzid is the most deprived governorate in terms of poverty (28%) and unemployed graduates (39%) (Trabelsi, 2013). Maknassy has a high poverty rate than other Sidi Bouzid towns (Bishara, 2012, p. 128). Capturing variation in poverty, per capita income, unemployment, and healthcare provision within the same city is difficult because figures are not available. However, the people in Sidi Bouzid, for example, consider Al Noor Algharbi and Rfala neighborhoods the most deprived in their city based on overcrowding and crime rate (personal communication with four activists, Sidi Bouzid, May 8
10, 2012). Populous coastal urban neighborhoods also have high concentrations of poverty. In the absence of government policies encouraging investment in the interior regions’ agricultural sector, hundreds of thousands of young men and women left for the coast to find jobs (Mdeini, 2012). They created what is called in Tunisia “black belts” around the main coastal cities (large, poor, and overcrowded residential quarters that lack proper municipal services such as clean water, sewage treatment, and electricity). In Greater Tunis alone, more than 700,000 immigrants settled in poor neighborhoods such as Tadhamoun, Sijoumi, Malaseen, and Kabareih (Alerfawi, August 14, 2013). These neighborhoods are also the residence of tens of thousands of university students who left the interior regions in order to study at the universities in coastal regions (Bishara, 2012). Unemployed university graduates are also among the most deprived social strata. Until the mid-1980s, graduate employment in the public sector expanded the middle class because wages were higher there than in the private sector (Bishara, 2012, p. 118). When the government adopted neoliberal economic policies, the private sector was expected to absorb graduates. This did not happen, however, because most investment occurred in unskilled labor sectors such as textiles and electromechanical. Annual graduation rates doubled from 40,000 in 2005 to 80,000 in 2010, furthering the problem (Mdeini, 2012, pp. 259
260). According to Boughzala (2013), 200,000 graduates were actively seeking employment in 2009. This led to what can be called an impoverished middle class. Culturally, this social stratum belongs to the middle class, but in reality it is part of the poor as it lacks basic necessities. Despite this widespread poverty in Tunisia, a brief review of the literature of the uprising shows that the role of poor people in the protests is not addressed. Resource Problem in the Literature on the Uprising The absence of mass-based organizations and a unifying center for the protesters in the Tunisian uprising did not go unnoticed. In order to account for this

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organizational deficit, many scholars argue that the activists solved this resource problem by relying on social media and CSOs, in particularly, the UGTT and TBA. Studies on the Tunisian uprising show a relationship between the use of social media as a source of information and the increase in protest activities (Beissinger, Jamal, & Mazur, 2015; Breuer et al., 2015). Social media also provided the activists with a means of escaping repression because it allowed “anonymity” (Chomiak, 2014). It facilitated the creation of “shared understandings” about the protests (Halverson et al., 2013, p. 313), and encouraged “intergroup collaboration” (Breuer et al., 2015, pp. 778
779). Additionally, social media broke the Ben Ali regime’s control of the narrative about the protests (Hess, 2013; Schraeder & Redissi, 2011). None of these studies, however, claims an organizational role for the social media. Studies on the role of CSOs in the uprising argue that the TBA and the UGTT played a crucial role in the protests (Allinson, 2015; Durac, 2013; Guessoumi, 2012; Temimi, 2012). These studies differentiate between the role of the members of regional branches of TBA and UGTT who were engaged in the protests and their co-opted national leaderships. For example, Gobe and Salaymeh (2016, pp. 325
329) provide an empirical account of the participation of lawyers in the protests. They argue: by taking responsibility for and placing themselves at the head of demonstrations, long-time cause lawyers and activists, younger members of the bar (the lower rung) helped encourage and sustain the wave of popular protest.

However, they show that the TBA national leadership was more of a “hindrance to the political engagement of lawyers” in the protests than a facilitator. Similarly, Hanafi (2012, p. 207) argues that the uprising began as a “spontaneous event” but “was soon taken over by labor unions.” However, he distinguishes between the UGTT national leaders who “were negotiating with the regime,” and their colleagues in the south who “were opposing it.” Angrist (2013, pp. 559
561) argues that regional members of UGTT were active from the beginning of the protests especially in portraying “Bouazizi as a victim of a regime that neglected his own people.” Concerning the UGTT national leadership, she argues “[after] initial hesitation, the UGTT responded to pressure from its militant member unions and played a leadership role in the mobilization.” Angrist’s claim about the UGTT leadership is not convincing for three reasons. First, the UGTT statement of January 11, 2011 in which the union allowed its regional branches to organize activities in support of the interior regions, was too late; the protests were already sustained. Second, the protests that swept the poor neighborhoods of Tunis on January 11, 2011 were not initiated by UGTT members but by university student activists, as this chapter will show. Finally, and more importantly, treating the UGTT as a unified actor is very simplistic; it does not explain why some cities and towns joined the protests earlier than others, why the protests remained in the interior regions most of the time, and why the protests erupted without engagement from UGTT and TBA

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members in some governorates, such as Siliana and Jendouba (Bishara, 2012, p. 260). S. Cheifi, a member of UGTT’s Executive Committee, explained why the organization refrained from assuming a leadership role: “we wanted to keep an arm’s length from the protests in order not to give the regime an excuse to repress the union as it had done in 1978,” but “the excessive use of live bullets in the events of Kasserine forced us to take a clear position against the regime and to declare regional strikes” (personal communication, Tunis, May 13, 2012). As mentioned, this position was late, and in fact, the word “strikes” does not exist in the UGTT statement of January 11, 2011. While I agree with the findings in the literature about the importance of social media and CSOs in spreading and maintaining the protests, I see in them three major gaps. First, the UGTT and TBA are professional unions where the activists of political organizations are in sustained interaction with each other and with the RCD’s members and leaders. Using them as the main actors in the protests simplifies the problem of how the protests were sustained and does not inform us about the effort the activists of political opposition organizations had to bring about in order to maintain them. Second, treating the UGTT and TBA as the main initiating and maintaining actors of the protests fails to explain the geographical spread of the uprising. In other words, if the UGTT and TBA were the main actors, we should not see stark time differences in the protests within the interior regions and between the interior and coastal regions. By contrast, if the political organizations were the main actors, it follows where they were able to secure the UGTT and TBA’s support they were able to further spread the protests as in the case of Sfax. Finally, the literature on the Tunisia uprising generally does not attend to the role of poor people in the maintenance and success of the protests (for exceptions, see Ayeb, 2011; Bishara, 2012) despite the fact that the mass protests occurred in poor neighborhoods and that more than two-thirds of those killed were poor (Bouderbala report, May 2012, pp. 655
693). Furthermore, it overlooks the importance of poor people’s disruptive actions, which exhausted the police thereby lowering the cost of participation of the middle class in the well-covered demonstration of Habib Bourguiba Boulevard in the last day of the uprising. By conceptualizing the problem that faced the political opposition as mainly a resource problem, this chapter attempts to highlight the significant role poor Tunisians played in the maintenance and success of the protests.

METHODS OF INQUIRY The analysis and findings presented in this chapter are based on four primary sources, the first of which is a group of semi-structured interviews with 81 activists. This sample includes activists from most groups that participated in the protests, CSOs, and accounts for interior and coastal regions. The variation in the number of activists interviewed in each group is related to its size. Some groups had barely any presence outside Tunis, the capital. Interviewees were recruited through snowballing. The snowballing effect in the data is negligible,

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however, because: recruiting took place through five contacts that did not know each other; I had their names from different sources; the interviewees belong to different political and CSOs; and the research is based on other primary sources, which further reduces this effect. Each interview lasted between 1 and 2 hours and was documented by the author in booklets. Activists were offered no incentives to be interviewed; they spoke about the first successful Arab uprising out of self-motivation.1 The second primary source is the combined statements issued by insurgent groups (19 total) during the uprising (17 December 2010 and 14 January 2011). I gathered these statements from insurgent groups’ websites and other Tunisian news agencies from April to May 2012. These include six statements issued by the Worker Communist Party (POCT), three by the Ennahda Islamic Movement, five by the Progressive Democratic Party (PDP), and five by the Ettajdid Movement. Seventeen of these press-release statements carry the name of the party leader and vary between one-half and two pages in length; one statement issued by POCT in the form of a video tube message read by the party’s leader; and one was read by the PDP’s leader in a press conference. All the statements were analyzed and the choice to include only few examples of them in the article is based on their similarities and differences. For example, all the statements prioritized socio-economic demands prior to 11 January 2011. The only difference during this period is that while the legal opposition such as the PDP and Ettajdid advocated for political reforms as a mechanism to solve the socio-economic problems, the illegal opposition such as POCT and Ennahda refrained from doing the same. After this date, they differ in other ways. Illegal opposition groups called for regime change while the legal opposition groups maintained their call for institutional reforms (for a complete review of the statements, see Yaghi, 2014). Third, I used the Bouderbala Fact Finding Commission Report (henceforth, Bouderbala report). The interim Tunisian government established the commission in February 2011 to investigate the uprising and its aftermath; the Bouderbala report was made public in French and Arabic in May 2012. T. Bouderbala, a lawyer at the Tunisian court of appeals, headed the commission, which included ten other members (lawyers, doctors, journalists, and educators). The Arabic version of the report is 1040 pages long; 26 of these are an executive summary. The report documents: the reasons for the protests; how the protests began and developed; the names and professions of persons injured or killed by the police; the causes of the riots at prisons on 15 January 2016 in which 86 convicted prisoners perished; and the reasons that led to Ben Ali’s departure. The report was issued while the opposition—which had an interest in being transparent—was in power. The final primary source is made up of slogans chanted in the uprising. I collected these slogans from videos of protests posted on two websites: “Tunisian people are burning themselves Mr. President” (Sha’eb Tunis Yihriq fi rouho ya siadat alra’es, henceforth, Sha’eb Tunis) and the “News agency of the Tunisian street” (Wkalat Anba’ Alshare’ Altunisi). These websites were chosen on the recommendation of activists, who said they followed them to stay informed about the protests. The posted videos cover protests in almost all

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governorates from the beginning of the uprising until January 13, 2011, and include the upload dates and protest locations. Furthermore, I used YouTube’s search engine to locate videos related to the protests in Tunisia to substitute for the lack of videos posted on July 14, 2011. After videos related to songs, interviews, reports, and pictures of confrontations were eliminated as they do not include slogans directly produced by the protesters, 50 remained. They contain 181 slogans, many of which have identical words but show up on different dates and in different locations.2 I coded these slogans to reflect three categories: socio-economic, institutional, and incitement slogans. I considered as socio-economic any slogan that calls for social change such as employment, reduction of commodities prices, and even development between the interior and coastal regions. Institutional slogans seek changes in the state’s political institutions including changing media and election laws, freeing political prisoners, the formation of a national salvation government, and the departure of the president. Incitement slogans are those that condemn corruption, call upon people to join protests, and praise national unity. In cases where the slogan refers to all three topics, such as “work, freedom, national dignity,” I coded it according to its main focus as appeared to be prioritized by the protesters. In the previous example, the main focus is on work, and thus I included it in the socio-economic category. Having explained my methods, I show in the remaining sections how the activists used frame resonance and tactical innovation to mobilize poor Tunisians, and the consequence of their involvement for the success of the protests.

FRAME RESONANCE According to Maney, Woehrle, and Coy (2005, p. 377), “[framing] is a complex, interactive process, not easily subject to empirical proofs.” As such, the analysis presented below is simply saying the activists have tried in their frames to draw on the collective identity of the people in the interior regions, mainly their collective feeling of social marginalization. This is especially the case in the first phase of the protests since the activists seemed to have prioritized socio-economic demands over institutional ones. During this period the activists also engaged in a motivational campaign aimed at converting the interior regions’ feelings of injustice into anger against the regime. Prioritizing Socio-economic Demands Statements made by insurgent groups during the first stage of the uprising show a continuous effort to expand and radicalize protests by focusing on their socioeconomic nature. For example, in its first statement, the POCT (December 18, 2010) expressed “solidarity with the legitimate demands of protestors for employment” and for their endeavors to end the policies of “marginalization.” The party continued:

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the use of force by November’s dictatorship [Ben Ali’s regime, which assumed power in November 1987] is aimed to preserve the status quo of the regime’s exploitation and accumulation of fortune at the expense of citizens’ dignity.

When the government promised to create new jobs by allocating new resources to Sidi Bouzid (Aljazeera, December 24, 2010), the POCT (December 26, 2010) dismissed this solution, considering it “déjà vu propaganda.” Instead, it challenged the regime, inter alia, to create new jobs by offering monthly financial grants and social subsidies to the unemployed, and reducing the Interior Ministry’s budget. In turn, Ennahda (December 18, 2010) claimed that the uprising was a result of a “high rate of unemployment,” “uneven development between governorates,” and the “corruption of influential families and their partners in the ruling party.” Similarly, M. Jribi, the PDP secretary general, told a press conference that “focusing on developing coastal regions divided the country into two parts, where the interior regions suffer the highest rate of internal immigration, unemployment […] and the worst health services” (PDP, December 24, 2010). Insurgent groups’ statements remained focused on socio-economic demands during the entire first phase of the uprising, prioritizing institutional demands only after the events of Kasserine when the idea of regime change became acceptable to people following the killing of 29 protesters. For example, the POCT (January 10, 2011) stated after these events “the Workers Party is with our people […] in their desire for change which we cannot see without Ben Ali’s departure.” Similarly, Ennahda (January 9, 2011) called upon Tunisians to “engage more in the popular uprising activities until the regime’s departure.” For its part, the PDP requested the appointment of a “national salvation government” that would “prepare the country for the democratic transition by 2014” (PDP, January 10, 2011). This shift from prioritizing socio-economic demands to institutional ones is also clear in activist slogans. As can be inferred from Table 1, socio-economic slogans were dominant during the first phase of protests; they constituted 37% of the total slogans in that phase while institutional slogans in the same period Table 1.

Distribution of Slogans According to Protest Periods.

Period December 17, 2011
January 11, 2011

Slogan Type Incitement

51.0

65

37.0

47

Institutional

12.0

15

100.0

127

70.3

38

Incitement Socio-economic Institutional

Subtotal for second phase Total slogans

No. of Slogans

Socio-economic Subtotal for first phase January 12
14, 2011

Percentage per Phase

7.4

4

22.2

12

100.0

54 181

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compromised just 12%. During the protests’ second phase, there was a major shift: institutional slogans made up 22% of the subtotal during this period while socioeconomic slogans made up only 7%. This should not be surprising. After the events of Kasserine, the mass protests swept the coastal regions and people became willing to support the radical political opposition’s demands for regime change. Motivational Campaign M. Bouazizi was not the only Tunisian who self-immolated. In March 2010, A. Treimish, a street vendor from Monastir, set himself on fire when his municipality denied him a vendor’s license (Sha’eb Tunis, January 19, 2011). Bouazizi’s case was unique, however, because a group of activists in Sidi Bouzid were ready to turn the incident into a public issue. The protests’ expansion and strength relied in part on the activists’ relentless and daring motivational campaign, intended to turn the Tunisians’ emotions into anger against the regime. As I show below, this framing strategy included: activating the collective memory of the people in interior regions; white lies; focusing on unemployed university graduates; and incitement slogans against the regime. Evoking Collective Memory I will illustrate first the meaning of collective memory for the people in the interior regions and then explain how the activists activated it in their slogans and speeches. People in the interior regions share three beliefs. First, they believe their regions carried the burden of the armed resistance against French colonization as most of those killed during this period were from the interior regions (Moore, 1965, pp. 61
71). Therefore, remembering the “martyrs” and praising their sacrifices constitute part of the collective memory of the people in these regions. Second, they believe that their regions are marginalized deliberately because they supported Saleh Ben Youssef, Habib Bourguiba’s main rival in late 1950s and early 1960s (Teimomi, 2008, p. 83). Confirming this narrative, S. Hammami, a UGTT activist, said: Bourguiba has never visited Sidi Bouzid and Kassreine during his life. He called them Fellaghas3 who can fight but cannot build a state, and who believed that their rusty rifles liberated Tunisia. (personal communication, Sfax, May 10, 2012)

Finally, following the 2008 uprisings by phosphate miners in Gafsa, better known in Tunisia as the Redeyef uprising, Ben Ali’s regime promised to increase investments in the interior regions, a promise that he never met (Bishara, 2012). These beliefs led to a bitter mixture of pride and betrayal in the collective memory of interior region peoples. Bouazizi captured this feeling using the concept of “wounded memory” to describe mass participation in the protests in these regions. “This unhealed wound in the collective memory of the people in the interior regions,” he claimed, “is what motivated them to rebel against the regime” (personal communication, Sfax, May 10, 2012). Activists used slogans and speeches to activate this collective memory during the protests. This is

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especially true when the BOP on December 24, 2010 killed M. Mari in Manzel Bouzaiene who happened to be the son of “a martyr during the French colonization” (Ayman, personal communication, Manzel Bouzaiene, May 8, 2012). Slogans such as “hey martyr, hey martyr, on your path will not be deviated,” “no God except God, and the martyr is God’s beloved,” “with blood and soul we redeem Tunisia,” “with blood and soul we redeem you martyr,” and “hey martyr, have rest, have rest, we will continue the struggle” became dominant in the protests in the interior regions after the events of Kasserine. As M. Sgheri put it, “the killing of the protesters evoked nationalist feelings of the people during the period of resisting the French colonization.” In this sense, “the regime was perceived to be a foreign enemy that must be evicted” (personal communication, Tunis, April 29, 2012). At this point, mothers started to participate with their children in fighting the BOP’s conscripts, and calls for revenge became prevalent (H. Boulaabi, personal communication, Thala, May 9, 2012). Related to collective memory is the activists’ focus in their speeches on Ben Ali’s unfulfilled past promises. For example, an activist addressed a crowd of people in Foussana, Kasserine saying: The gang of the ruling party does not care for you; it cares only for its interests. Look to our town’s infrastructure: when it rains we become isolated from the world. Did this authority listen to us when we wrote to it? It did not. This authority humiliates you […]. Demand your rights because you are born free and do not believe the promises of this authority. We saw its lies in Redeyef. (Sha’eb Tunis, December 28, 2010)

This was accompanied by slogans such as “uprising, uprising until we put an end to this gang.” In fact, several speeches can be located on uprising websites reminding the people in interior regions of Ben Ali’s unfulfilled promises. White Lies I refer here to three events activists claimed to have occurred in their efforts to incite Tunisians against the ruling regime: a photograph allegedly depicting Bouazizi as he is consumed by flames; a letter he supposedly wrote to his mother before his death; and accusations that the regime’s security forces raped a woman in Kasserine. The photograph first appeared on the website of Sha’eb Tunis (December 19, 2010). It was later republished on activists’ Facebook pages and broadcast by regional media. The letter reads: I am traveling, mother; forgive me. There is no use for complaining. I am lost in a road that I did not choose to walk through. Forgive me if I did not listen to you. Blame the time, and do not blame me. I am going and I will not come back. (Alasmar, January 16, 2011)

There was also a claim that BOP conscripts raped a woman in Kasserine. In an interview broadcasted by Radio Kalima (January 11, 2011), a witness in Kasserine said that he received a phone call from a friend informing him that members of BOP had sexually assaulted his sisters, adding while crying that “the French army during its occupation to Tunisia did not do that to us.” These events were untrue, but the activists seem to have propagated them to convince Tunisians to join the protests. The photograph depicted a Korean man

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(Bishara, 2012), the letter was written by an unknown activist, and the activists in Kasserine denied that any incident of rape had occurred, although they mentioned that policemen had entered a “Turkish bath for women,” which had infuriated the public (S. Rahmouni and M. Ghadban, personal communication, Kasserine, May 10, 2012). A. Amami, a Tunisian blogger, confirmed that the picture was fake but denied his knowledge of who posted it; however, he explained its importance saying, “we did not want the people’s empathy with Bouazizi; rather we wanted their anger, and the picture did this job” (personal communication, Tunis, April 18, 2012). Similarly, Sghiri, the founder of NGM, said: in the interior regions we have tribalism values such as honor, respect for family, and revenge. Diffusing the letter and the claim of rape would stimulate these values leading the people to join the protests. (personal communication, Tunis, April 18, 2012)

Bouazizi as University Graduate At midnight on the day Bouazizi self-immolated, Bouazizi (December 17, 2010), the founder of Karama Movement, made the following post on his Facebook wall: Labor is a right oh gang of muggers: This is what thousands of protestors chanted this evening in Sidi Bouzid who were shocked when an unemployed graduate [emphasis added] set himself on fire in a protest act against the insult he received from the municipality police who denied his right of selling few kilograms of vegetables on the road side.

In the Facebook post, Bouazizi replaced the victim’s name with “unemployed graduate”
even though the victim had not finished high school. According to Bouazizi (personal communication, Tunis, April 18, 2012), by informing the public that the victim was a graduate, he hoped that tens of thousands of other unemployed graduates across the country “would personalize his tragedy, leading them to take protests into the street”
especially because “they were one of the most disaffected groups produced by Ben Ali’s social policies and most of Tunisian activists were from their number.” That depicting Bouazizi as a graduate was an effective strategy is demonstrated by the fact that all insurgent groups including POCT, PDP, Ettajdid, Ennahda, and Congress for Republic capitalized on it in statements they made to media (Tunisia-Sat Forums, December 19, 2010). Furthermore, it was the unemployed graduates that diffused the protests to Manzel Bouzaiene, the second town in Sidi Bouzid governorate that joined the protests. According to Ayman and Jasser, two unemployed graduates, on December 20, 2010 there was a spontaneous gathering in the town’s market related to a problem with the municipality. They used it to call for a march to the local governorate office raising similar socio-economic demands as that of Sidi Bouzid, mainly the right for work. When the BOP interfered, “it was so violent; it beat the men, the women, and the kids,” leading the people to escalate the protests. What happened in Manzel Bouzaiene, according to Ayman and Jasser, diffused the protests the same day to Maknassy, another town in Sidi Bouzid governorate

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(personal communication, Manzel Bouzaiene, May 8, 2012). S. Yari, the head of the UDC, also confirmed that unemployed graduates “were among the first groups to join the protests.” Furthermore, he said “the unemployed graduates along with the university students’ activists were the main groups that initiated the protests in the poor neighborhoods of Tunis on 11 January 2011” (personal communication, Tunis, April 16, 2012). Incitement Slogans A sample of the activists’ slogans reveals that 57% of all slogans were aimed at inciting the people against the regime, and were dominant in both of the protests phases. Table 2 illustrates how the slogans are distributed across the categories of incitement, socio-economic, and institutional slogans. An analysis of the incitement slogans shows that activists focused on channeling people’s emotions into anger, solidarity, and commitment to the goals of the movement. We can identify different categories within the incitement slogans including emotion, patriotism, regional loyalty, condemnation of corruption, and even slogans that condemned the passivity of the UGTT national leaders. Emotional slogans appeared to be aimed to attract bystanders to join the protests in the name of solidarity and common interests. They focused on turning the poor’s feeling of withdrawal and fear into anger. Two slogans in this category aimed to demobilize riot police in the name of brotherhood. Besides Table 2. Type of Slogan Incitement

Incitement, Social, and Political Slogans during the Entire CoP. No. of Slogans 103

Percentage Examples of the Slogans 57

With blood and soul we redeem you martyr [Bil rouh wa ildam nifdeek ya shaheed] Hey citizen, hey victim […] feel our cause [Ya muwaten ya dhiah his his bilqadiah] Hey martyr […] on your path we will not deviate [ya shaheed […] ya shaheed […] ‘n drbak lun nheed]

Socioeconomical

51

28

Work, freedom, national dignity [Shoghl, huriya, karamah watiniah] Work is entitlement oh gang of muggers [Alshoghel istihkak ya ‘sabat alsuraq] Hey government, shame on you, the prices are so high [Ya hukuma […] ’ar ‘ar […] ilas’ar sarat nar]

Institutional

27

15

Down, down, to the constitutional party…down, down to the torturer of people [Yasqut hizb alddustour […] yasqut jalad alsha’b] Freedom, freedom […] no life presidency [Huriyat huriyat la ri’sa mda alhayat] Bread and water […] But no to Ben Ali [Khubz wa ma’ […] Bin Ali la]

Total

181

100

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slogans referring to martyrs mentioned earlier, the following sample slogans exemplify this category: “hey poor citizen, hey victim […] come and join us in defending your cause”; “hey citizen, walk with us…your silence is treason”; “hey citizen […] hey coward […] come and join us in the struggle”; “hey policeman […] hey victim […] feel with your brother.” Patriotic slogans were likely intended to energize individual participants with enthusiasm and confidence of their cause. They constituted a claim on the side of the activists that they love their country and suggested bystanders should take a moral high ground by joining the protests. Here we find activists singing the national anthem, calling for unity between workers and students such as “one line in struggle […] students […] undergraduates […] and workers,” and promising to protect Tunisia with their blood and soul. Regional loyalty slogans aimed to generate solidarity, such as “hey Bouzid (Sidi Bouzid) […] today we stand with you […] tomorrow you will stand with us.” They also intended to instill enthusiasm in the name of defending the collective dignity. Some of these slogans are “hey Zine (Ben Ali), have patience, have patience […] in Talha we will dig your grave”; “hey Ben Ali, hey coward […] the people of Kef will not be humiliated”; “hey Ben Ali […] hey coward […] Foussana people will not be humiliated.” Anti-corruption slogans aimed to engender anger against the regime. These slogans accused the regime
mainly the president’s family
of abusing state institutions for personal gain. Slogans such as “no, no to Trabelsi (the family of Ben Ali’s wife) […] who looted the state’s budget”; “hey Trabelsi […] hey vile […] what did you leave for the poor?”; and “no, no, to slavery oh corrupt government” reflect this category. Finally, we see slogans intended to exert pressure on the UGTT’s national leadership to side with the protesters’ demands by depicting its position as shameful and in contradiction with UGTT history. Two slogans were identified: “hey Jarad (then, secretary general of UGTT) […] where is the position (from the protests) […] shame, shame on the union” and “hey Hashad (founding father of UGTT) […] come and see […] the treason is so revealing.” As stated earlier, it is hard to prove empirically that the success of the protests in Tunisia is related to the activists’ frame resonance strategy. However, there is consensus in the literature on framing that frame resonance can spur and spread protests (McCammon, 2001; Glenn, 2001; Snow & Benford, 1992). Furthermore, the literature on social movements reminds us that the activists do not use a single strategy to achieve their goals (Wang & Soule, 2016). In Tunisia, the evidence shows that the activists’ innovative tactics, especially, locating protests in the poor vicinities in coastal regions played a role in the persistence and success of the protests.

LOCATING PROTESTS IN POOR NEIGHBORHOODS IN COASTAL REGIONS In the first phase of the uprising, the protests’ location in poor Tunisian neighborhoods seems to have resulted from activists’ indigenous mobilization network

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rather than deliberate planning. However, during this phase, activists learned the importance of involving poor Tunisians in the protests. In the second phase, that is, when the protests reached the coastal regions, activists intentionally organized protests in poor urban neighborhoods. From the first day of the protests in Sidi Bouzid, activists sought to exploit their social networks in order to mobilize potential protestors. For example, Bilal was a high school student in Sidi Bouzid who happened to know the core activists since the protests of Regueb’s farmers in June 2010. He decided with seven of his friends to take the protests to their neighborhood, Al Noor Algharbi, one of the two poorest areas in Sidi Bouzid (the second being Rfala). In order to avoid being videotaped or photographed by police, they protested at night. The activists threw stones and Molotov cocktails at BOP formations and stations, the offices of the ruling party, and governorate buildings. Unable to identify the activists, the BOP conducted a campaign of collective repression against the poor that included tear gassing heavily populated areas, invading the homes of citizens at night, and conducting random arrests, all of which infuriated the poor and intensified the protests (Bilal, personal communication, Sidi Bouzid, May 10, 2012). Furthermore, activists organized protests in the poor neighborhoods of coastal cities. These vicinities are inhabited by migrants from the interior regions who are easily mobilized because of their feelings of solidarity with their families back home. The Al-Muhamadiah quarter in Ben Arous, for example, is inhabited by migrants from northwest of Tunisia. The coastal regions’ poor also share an historical animosity toward the police, who constantly humiliated them as an expression of their domination in urban areas (personal communication with 21 activists, April-May, 2012). On January 11, 2011 a group of POCT student activists from the College of April 9th who happened to live in Al-Muhamadiah blocked its main street. When the BOP started to disperse them using the tear gas, nearby people joined the activists (G. Shili and N. Zanouni, personal communication, Tunis, April 23, 2012). The same day, Sghiri and his students’ colleagues from the College of April 9th, went to Al-Intilaka Square in the Tadhamoun neighborhood, the biggest quarter of the poor in Greater Tunis, to convince the people to join the protests. The small skirmishes with the BOP that they initiated developed into huge protests when the BOP responded by firing tear gas on to the roofs of the buildings and between them (Sghiri, personal communication, Tunis, April 23, 2012). Other activists such as I. Sabri, a student at the National Institute of Applied Science and Technology, and R. Kahlani, a student at Tunis El-Manar University, did not have to go to Tadhamoun to mobilize poor people because they were already living there. C. Sayari and H. Hizi (personal communication, Sousse, May 16, 2012), two students at the Commerce Institute in Sousse, together with M. Benjadou and I. Mlayah from the College of Art and other students, decided to demonstrate on January 9, 2011 in solidarity with Sidi Bouzid and Kasserine. Their demonstration was planned to coincide with a football match between the two famous teams of Sousse: Ataraji and Alnajam. According to those activists, the demonstrators only numbered around 50 when the BOP confronted them near the

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Hidaya mosque. But when the football match ended, the fans of the two teams, who were mainly from Alriyad quarter, the poorest area in Sousse, joined the protests. All persons mentioned earlier share three characteristics: they hail from the interior regions, they are members of political organizations, and most of them were members of UGET. This explains why it was easier for them to mobilize the immigrant poor of those neighborhoods and reveals how they were connected to each other. Furthermore, activists in the interior regions contacted their friends and relatives in these poor coastal neighborhoods, demanding that they organize protests in order to ease BOP repression in the interior regions (personal communications with 12 activists, April
May 2012). To summarize, the evidence, though it is not conclusive, suggests that the activists’ strategies of frame resonance and locating protests inside marginalized neighborhoods in coastal regions brought poor Tunisians to the center of the uprising. How the engagement of poor people sustained the protests is the subject of the Section The Role of Poor Tunisians in the Protests.

THE ROLE OF POOR TUNISIANS IN THE PROTESTS The participation of poor people in the uprising had two main results: it sustained the protests through their individual initiatives and resulted in spontaneous riot movements (SRMs) that exhausted the BOP paving the road for Ben Ali’s departure. I begin by explaining those two points before demonstrating that the poor carried the largest burden in the protests. The Poor as Sustainer of Protests Self-initiatives undertaken by Tunisia’s poor sustained the protests. According to Oueiniah (personal communication with 12 activists, April
May 2012), the protests were almost over in Sidi Bouzid on December 22, 2010. The BOP, he said, “surrounded us before the UGTT regional office and we felt that we had done all that we could.” Suddenly, however, H. Naji, an unemployed young man from Rfala neighborhood, climbed an electrical pole and came into contact with a high voltage electrical line. He died immediately. This event, according to Oueiniah, seems to have revived the protests as the poor of Rfala joined them. Similarly, S. Rahmouni (personal communication Kasserine, May 10, 2012) recounted that until January 6, 2011 the BOP did not repress peaceful protests in Kasserine, but when a young man from the Alzohour quarter set himself on fire, a “night confrontation” began in the Alzohour and Al Noor neighborhoods. He recalls, “I found myself behind those young men who knew how to confront the police and deal with its repression techniques.” They, the poor, “managed to burn the police stations, and to drive BOP’s conscripts out of the city.” In fact, he says “many of the police cars left behind” were used to organize a “convoy that went to support the people in Thala.” Similarly, A. Fattah and M. Jawahri, two unemployed workers from Gafsa governorate, A. Alhamidi, a school student, and M. Alayadi, an unemployed worker from Ariana governorate lit themselves on fire between January 2 and 5, 2011 (Bouderbala Report,

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May 2012, pp. 655
656, 687
689). Not only did these acts sustain, intensify and expand the protests, they also created solidarity among the poor in their ongoing defiance of the state. SRMs and the Debilitation of POB The formation of SRMs
the violent collective action of un-institutionalized poor people
accompanied the engagement of poor Tunisians. Though these movements appeared for a short time only, they proved decisive for the protests’ success because their disruptive actions exhausted the police forces, weakening their effectiveness in protecting Ben Ali’s regime. In almost all the interior regions, but especially in Sidi Bouzid, Kasserine, and Gafsa, SRMs attacked symbols of state sovereignty such as police stations, RCD offices, and governorate buildings with Molotov cocktails. Many of these buildings were burned completely. The same happened in Sfax when its regional UGTT declared a strike on January 12, 2011. According to S. Chahine (personal communication, Sfax, May 10, 2012), the UGTT wanted only to organize a solidarity march that would express its support for the interior regions. But the participation of the poor from the Hafarah and Wadi Al Ramal neighborhoods turned the strike into a confrontation in which protestors burned police stations, commercial stores owned by the Trabelsi family, and the main RCD building, which was burned completely. Similar events occurred in Tunis between January 12 and 14, 2011 in Tadhamoun, Sijoumi, Kabareih, Halq Alwad, and Karm. In Al-Muhamadiah, for example, activists tried to lead protestors to Bourguiba Boulevard, but the BOP confronted them with live bullets, killing four. Provoked by the killings, the poor burned the police station and RCD offices (G. Shili, personal communication, Tunis, June 7, 2013). These SRMs were not controlled or organized by the political opposition. According to A. Mouelhi (personal communication, Tunis, June 9, 2013), a POCT political bureau member, the only time the leadership of his party asked its youth activists to attack what might be considered a symbol of state sovereignty was on January 14, 2011 when it asked some of the party’s activists “to dismantle the banner of the RCD main office in Tunis to confirm the demand of ousting the regime.” That the SRMs weakened the POB’s efficacy in protecting Ben Ali’s regime is supported by Bouderbala Report, which gives three indications that support this claim. First, the defense minister informed the president on January 14, 2011 that the security forces were surrendering their arms to military units and returning to their homes (Bouderbala Report, May 2012, p. 245). Second, the protestors burned several homes belonging to the Trabelsi family, which forced many family members to flee the country on the same day while those who could not do sought temporary asylum in the presidential palace (Bouderbala Report, May 2012, pp. 229
233). Third, the disappearance of the police, who were “under attack and [whose] stations were looted and burned,” created a state of anarchy in Tunisia. The report states that police “felt threatened of their lives and families” to the extent that it “prevented them from even showing up at their working locations” (Bouderbala Report, May 2012, pp. 372
373). The report also affirms

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that in many towns and cities police could not be convinced to return to work, even after Ben Ali’s departure. For example, on January 15, 2011 the central operation of the Monastir called 220 police in Al-Wardanin city to return to work, “threatening that if they did not show up at the police center, they would be considered traitors to the homeland.” Despite the gravity of the threat, only thirty conscripts showed up (Bouderbala Report, May 2012, pp. 345
346). The Poor as Main Carrier of Protests An investigation into the social class of the victims of the BOP’s violence during the uprising shows that poor people carried the greatest burden. According to the Bouderbala report (May 2012, pp. 655
693), there were 125 victims of state violence from the beginning of the protests up to and including the January 14, 2011. Day laborers, the unemployed, and blue-collar workers comprise 95 victims, or 76% of the total. Indeed, except for the 6 victims who can be considered middle class (two teachers, one university professor, one journalist, one state employee, and a shop owner), everyone else killed by BOP out of the remaining 30 also might fall into the category of the poor; they include 15 school students, 1 university student, 2 technicians, 4 taxi drivers, and 2 hairdressers. Additionally, examining the places where victims were killed shows that a significant number of them died while protesting in the poorer vicinities of Tunisia. For example, in the governorate of Greater Tunis (Ariana, Ben Arous, Tunis, and Manouba governorates), the police killed 43 protesters between January 12 and 14, 2011; 19 died in the poor neighborhoods of Tadhamoun, Al-Muhamadiah, Sijoumi, Alkaram, Halq Alwad, Malaseen, and Duwar Hechir (Bouderbala report, May 2012, pp. 656
657, 666
667, 673
678, 691). This representative sample should be combined with the fact that most of the victims killed in the interior regions lived in the poorest neighborhoods of those areas; for example, 14 out of 20 activists killed in the governorate of Kasserine lived in the poor Alzohour and Al Noor neighborhoods (Bouderbala Report, May 2012, pp. 657
659). In short, poor Tunisians carried the burden of the protests, as evidenced by their high percentage of the total casualties. Their self-initiative activities sustained the protests, and their engagement in violent confrontations with the BOP exhausted it.

CONCLUSION I argued at the beginning of this chapter that the literature on the Tunisian uprising pays little attention to the role of political organizations in sustaining the protests mainly because these political entities lacked mass-based organizations, national leaders, and unified leadership. Furthermore, I argued the literature does not inform us about the role of poor people in the maintenance and the spread of the protests. The findings presented in this chapter suggest that the activists of political opposition organizations attempted to use two strategies to maintain the protests: frame resonance and locating protests inside the poor neighborhoods in coastal regions. The strategy of frame resonance drew on the

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collective identity of the people in the interior regions, mainly their collective feeling of social marginalization. It also included a motivational campaign that focused on transforming the feelings of injustice of the people in interior regions into anger against the regime. The strategy of locating protests inside the poor neighborhoods in coastal regions seemed to have been used at the second stage of the protests, mainly after the events of Kasserine. The findings also indicate that the involvement of the poor ensured the continuation and the spread of the protests through their individual initiatives. Additionally, they suggest that the riot activities of the poor weakened the efficacy of the police forces in protecting Ben Ali’s regime, paving the way for its departure. While this study does not offer a conclusive answer to the question of the relationship between frame resonance and protest locations, on the one hand, and the involvement of poor people in the protests, on the other hand, it does inform us about the role the political opposition activists have played in maintaining and spreading the protests. It also gives insights about the centrality of social justice in the activists’ frame resonance strategy, as well as of the significance of the participation of poor people in the protests’ success.

NOTES 1. Appendix 1 shows the distribution of activists on movement organizations and CSOs. It also explains the demographic distribution of the sample in terms of age, education, employment, gender, and region. 2. See Appendix 2 for complete list of videos, cities and towns, and dates. 3. Fellaghas means bandits, a name the French used to depict the Algerian and the Tunisian fighters.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The author thanks Asef Bayat, Julie Mazzei, Janine Clark, the editor of this journal, and two anonymous reviewers for their detailed comments.

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APPENDIX 1: DISTRIBUTION OF INTERVIEWEES Uni. Student

Emp. Grad.

Unemp. Grad.

Age < 40

Age > 40

M

F

Coas.

Int.

T

7

3

3

12

1

10

3

5

8

13

7

2

3

11

3

11

3

14

14

8

2

2

10

2

10

2

10

2

12

Ennahda

7

4

8

3

10

1

7

4

11

5

Ettajdid

5

3

5

3

8

8

6

WATAD

3

3

3

7

NGYM

8

FTF

9

CSOs*

No

Political Affiliation

1

POCT

2

Karama

3

PDP

4

Total

High School

2

3 1

1 1

1

16 2

35

34

2

10

2

8 3 2

2

1

1

2

14

13

3

16

2

50

31

68

13

49

2 2 16

32

81

Notes: Uni. (University), Emp. Grad. (Employed Graduate), Unemp. Grad. (Unemployed Graduate), M (Male), F (Female), Coas. (Coastal Region), and Int. (Interior Region). *This category includes activists from UGTT, UDC, Bar Association, Human Rights activists, Journalists, and bloggers.

MOHAMMAD YAGHI

No

Website

Place

Date

M:S

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼157295397649745&set¼vb.137969316260836&type¼2&theater

Sidi Bouzid

12/17/2010

02:08

2

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼157482784297673

Sidi Bouzid

12/18/2010

02:57

3

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1249654937780

Sidi Bouzid

12/19/2010

08:57

4

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1789898270236

Unknown

12/21/2010

11:17

5

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼186420368041061

Jilma

12/21/2010

02:21

6

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1790624168383

Meknes

12/21/2010

01:11

7

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1790628488491

Meknes

12/21/2010

00:35

8

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1791374707146

Manzel Bouzaiane

12/22/2010

01:56

9

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1791670434539

Regueb

12/22/2010

01:15

10

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1793483479864

Sidi Bouzid

12/23/2010

11:18

11

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1795107200456

Banzart

12/24/2010

08:41

12

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1795488169980

Manzel Bouzaiane

12/24/2010

15:13

13

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼490328600784

Tunis

12/25/2010

12:59

14

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼159476610764957

Kairouan

12/26/2010

00:32

15

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼159500964095855

Siliana

12/26/2010

03:33

16

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼159795627399722

Meknes

12/27/2010

04:28

17

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼159810044064947

Almazounah, Sidi Bouzid

12/27/2010

03:00

18

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼114320965305818

Foussana, Kasserine

12/28/2010

07:32

19

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼160039297375355

Nafta, Tozeur

12/28/2010

03:37

20

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼160052690707349

Sousse

12/28/2010

03:00

21

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼160056580706960

Sousse

12/28/2010

02:15

22

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼160058987373386

Kef

12/28/2010

02:04

141

1

Frame Resonance in the Tunisian Uprising

APPENDIX 2: VIDEO TUBES OF THE TUNISIAN PROTESTS

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(Continued ) No

Website

Place

Date

M:S

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼168127003230944

Tunis

12/29/2010

09:09

24

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1806643408854

Tunis

12/28/2010

02:18

25

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1806648688986

Gabes

12/29/2010

01:59

26

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1649034598030

Banzart

12/31/2010

04:48

27

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1809818928240

Kef

12/31/2010

02:36

28

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1809794967641

Sfax

12/31/2010

01:15

29

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1809917130695

Rouhia-Siliana

12/31/2010

05:36

30

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1809833808612

Tunis

12/31/2010

01:58

31

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1623692425120

Sidi Bouzid

01/05/2011

11:06

32

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼j9OX-YJkutM

Siliana

01/08/2011

09:00

33

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼s3S8WjsHXtQ

Kasserine

01/09/2011

02:05

34

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼-Mmw7lbvo-c

Kasserine

01/10/2011

01:03

35

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼UDOArhnxcZA

Kasserine

01/12/2011

00:37

36

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼171266566249999

Sousse

01/12/2011

07:54

37

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼192940570723222

Sfax

01/12/2011

02:25

38

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼193357084012377

Gabes

01/12/2011

11:19

39

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1266837447332

Jbeniana, Sfax

01/12/2011

00:31

40

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼101974913210149

Elkabareh, Tunis

01/12/2011

02:42

41

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼495108714613

Sousse

01/12/2014

07:54

42

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼171217086254947

Almahdiah, Tunis

01/12/2011

01:29

43

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼184524431571999

Banzart

01/12/2011

02:49

44

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼NskcsJOEnF4

Meknes

01/13/2011

13:56

45

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼132376056827226

Hammamat

01/13/2011

01:08

MOHAMMAD YAGHI

23

No

Website

Place

Date

M:S

46

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼133260210072108

Sousse

01/13/2013

09:13

47

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼118227974917468

Almahdiah, Tunis

01/13/2011

01:00

48

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v¼1662136686288

Banzart

01/13/2011

03:26

49

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼KSYPKtHj78o

Sidi Bouzid

01/14/2011

03:33

50

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼f6FQZkZbY-w

TUNIS

01/14/2014

13:14

Frame Resonance in the Tunisian Uprising

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BLACK LIVES MATTER: (RE)FRAMING THE NEXT WAVE OF BLACK LIBERATION Amanda D. Clark, Prentiss A. Dantzler and Ashley E. Nickels

ABSTRACT The rise of Black Lives Matter (BLM), as an intentionally intersectional movement, challenges us to consider the ways in which BLM is reimagining the lines of Black activism and the Black Liberation Movement. BLM may be considered the “next wave” of the Civil Rights Movement (CRM), guiding how and with whom the movement will progress. We use a content analysis of public statements and interviews of the founding members from October 2014 to October 2016 to discuss the ways in which the founders of BLM frame the group’s actions. We bring together the critical feminist concept of intersectionality with framing theory to show how the founders of BLM have strategically framed the movement as one that honors past Black Liberation struggles, but transforms traditional framing of those struggles to include all Black lives inclusive of differences based on gender, sexual orientation, age, nationality, or criminal status. Keywords: Black Lives Matter; social movement framing; intersectionality; Black Liberation; content analysis; frame transformation

INTRODUCTION On July 13, 2017, Black Lives Matter (BLM) marked their four-year anniversary; both a momentous and deeply troubling event. BLM’s activism has “mobilized an unprecedented mass movement” against racism and police brutality

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 42, 145
172 Copyright r 2018 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X20180000042006

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(Chatelain & Asoka, 2015) and systemic oppression, more broadly (Parker, 2016). The organization and movement started as a hashtag in response to the acquittal of Trayvon Martin’s murderer in 2013. Initially viewed as just a “blip on the radar of protest movements,” BLM has surpassed many scholars’ expectations with organized chapters, protests, and events across the United States (Altman, 2015; Sidner & Simon, 2015), receiving widespread awareness across the country according to a recent Pew survey (Horowitz & Livingston, 2016). The deaths of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and others have drawn significant attention to the impact of structural [systemic] racism and police brutality, as experienced by Black men. BLM has been a significant factor in drawing attention to Black identity in the United States and mobilizing action against police brutality through social media platforms (Freelon, McIlwain, & Clark, 2016). In their own words, BLM serves as “an ideological and political intervention in a world where Black lives are systematically and intentionally targeted for demise” (Garza, 2014). Yet, as Marcia Chatelain and Kaavya Asoka (2015) point out, “black women—like Rekia Boyd, Michelle Cusseaux, Tanisha Anderson, Shelly Frey, Yvette Smith, Eleanor Bumpurs, and others—have also been killed, assaulted, and victimized by the police. Often, women are targeted in exactly the same ways as men—shootings, police stops, racial profiling. They also experience police violence in distinctly gendered ways, such as sexual harassment and sexual assault.” (para. 2)

Jee-Lyn García and Sharif (2015) add: “[…] despite the media’s disproportionate focus on cases involving men, intersectional analyses demonstrate that racialized police violence and misconduct are inflicted upon women and transgendered persons of color as well” (para. 1; see also Crenshaw, 2015). How does BLM approach these inconsistencies and address the full struggle for Black Liberation? More specifically, how do they frame their arguments to attract a wider audience, and how do they link resistance to police violence against Blacks to larger structural inequalities impacting Blacks? To answer these questions, this chapter focuses on how the founding members of BLM talk about the movement and their goals of reshaping the Black Liberation Movement. BLM was founded by three Black women: Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi. The organization, according to its website, asserts that it is “unapologetically Black,” “transgender affirming,” “queer affirming,” and “intergenerational.” The movement is intentionally intersectional and focused on human rights. bell hooks stated that, “to build community requires vigilant awareness of the work we must continually do to undermine all the socialization that leads us to behave in ways that perpetuate domination (2003, p. 36).” In addition to police violence, BLM has been spotlighting other issues that impact the quality of life in the Black community such as high incarceration rates, undocumented immigrants, and Black poverty. BLM has also voiced its support for other groups struggling in the current system. The organization has issued statements of support for the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement to protest the treatment of Palestinians by the state of Israel and has

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announced its solidarity with the protestors at Standing Rock in North Dakota against construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline (Blacklivesmatter.com, 2016). In sum, the founders of BLM refute the one-dimensional focus on just police brutality against Black, straight males (Jackson, 2016). For one long-time organizer, Mark-Anthony Johnson, the new perspective and their role in movement was welcomed: “I think they’re central,” he said. “The character of the folks that we were bringing out I think was really important in terms of having a group that was significantly women, significantly queer, having Black transgender people in the space. And that’s possible because of them and the national team that they built up around them.” (as cited in Dalton, 2015)

This study aims to uncover the way in which the founders of BLM have framed their messages, not only in introducing the organization itself and its goals, but also challenging the idea that we are in a post-racial time by transforming the way in which police brutality, poverty, and racism are understood by the public. We employ a content analysis of the public statements and interviews of the founding members over a two-year period to discuss the ways in which BLM frames its actions through a critical feminist perspective to reinvent progressive tactics for social change. The importance of and strategy behind message framing in social movements is evident in our research. Despite media linkages of BLM solely to issues of police brutality, BLM has crafted its image and message to embrace all Black lives and all topics relevant to the Black experience, transforming the dominant frames from past movements.

THE NEXT WAVE OF THE BLACK LIBERATION STRUGGLE BLM may be considered the “next wave” of the CRM, representing a reframing of how and with whom the movement will progress, much like the women’s movement has evolved in cycles (Reger, 2014; see also Tarrow, 1994). Like the women’s movement witnessed a small, but persistent cadre of feminist activists in the 1940s and 1950s that held the women’s movement in abeyance (Taylor, 1989), the CRM never ended, but waned (McAdam, 1999). The political salience and momentum of the CRM declined as the 1960s came to a close. The decline in the CRM, McAdam (1999) argues, was the internal conflict between movement organizations; “there existed considerable competition among [movement organizations] for the money and publicity needed to sustain their operations and position within the movement” (p. 331). Research on cycles of protest should therefore address the ways in which events “become turning points in structural change, concentrated moments of political and cultural creativity when the logic of historical development is reconfigured by human action but by no means abolished” (McAdam & Sewell 2001, p. 102). While BLM acknowledges and appreciates prior contributions to the Black Liberation struggle, they are also creating new space for others to join that fight by differentiating their tactics and mission from those prior waves.

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BLM has insisted on creating a model of group leadership rooted in ideas of participatory democracy, thereby avoiding the reliance of hierarchical leadership and gender that plagued many civil rights organizations in the 1960s and 1970s (Harris, 2015; Joseph, n.d.). As Frederick Harris (2015) argues, “they are rejecting the charismatic leadership model that has dominated Black politics for the past half century, and for good reason” (para. 8). Sexism was present in both the organizational structure and political agenda of the Civil Rights Movement (CRM) in the 1960s. Activists in the earlier CRM served in gendered roles, in which “men led, but women organized” (Payne, 1990, p. 158). As Barnett (1993) highlights, despite being excluded from formal leadership positions, women often fulfilled vital roles in the CRM. Robnett (1996) argues that, “the exclusion of women from formal leadership created exceptionally qualified leadership in the area of micro-mobilization” (p. 1688). Despite the invaluable, and often unrecognized support of Black women in the movement, the gendered structure of leadership demonstrates that sexism and patriarchy were still present in 1960s CRM organizations. As West (2008) argues, “the gender biases about leadership reflect authority structures and traditions found in the church cultures that produced many of those male leaders” (p. 54). The influence of church culture in the CRM created a leadership structure in which “women’s positions were controlled by the belief that male ministers should be the primary source for formal leadership” (Robnett, 1996, p. 1671). Given the organizational power of the church in the CRM of the 1960s (Morris, 1984), this new focus on feminist and transgender activism may have necessitated the break with tradition. BLM’s deliberate intersectional framing allows the movement to focus on more radical approaches to achieving Black Liberation. Traditionally, the CRM was one of inclusion; inclusion into mainstream White society. Leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. and others stressed the need to conform to current social norms so that Blacks could be seen as worthy of acceptance into broader society by racist Whites. This focus on conformity led to an embrace of patriarchal and hetero-normative ideologies (Russell, 2008). However, in many ways, these traditional views on the place of women in the movement, for example, as mothers, and the complete repudiation of homosexuality by leaders in the CRM led to further oppression in sections of the Black community (Russell, 2008, p. 116). In contrast, the BLM Movement is focused on breaking down these harmful intersections of oppression by elevating members of the community that were previously seen as deviant. While BLM has veered away from the traditional framing of the CRM, it has embraced pieces of the Black Liberation Movement in its direct calls for community control, not just integration into existing power structures. The BLM platform calls for “communities (to) control the laws, institutions, and policies that are meant to serve us—from our schools to our local budgets, economies, police departments, and our land (blacklivesmatter.com).” Community control embraces the experiences and viewpoints of all the members of any particular community, which supports the intersectional framing of BLM’s mission. Moreover, their intentionally intersectional framing of Black Liberation and human rights, more broadly, challenges us to move beyond a siloed gendered or

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racial analysis or praxis; it necessitates that we fully embrace the organization’s call for “intersectionality,” which in its original context, “denote[s] the ways in which race and gender interact” to shape experience (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1244). This explicit call for an intersectional approach highlights the movements’ intentional departure from the framing strategies used by earlier Black Liberation Movement organizers. Critical Feminist Thought and Intersectionality Traditional, or liberal, feminism has provided a space for women to fight for gender equity and justice by emphasizing access and rights upheld by the State. Critical feminism, including Black and transnational feminisms, offers a critique or departure from this framework, which is now often referred to as a “White Feminism.”1 It has pushed traditional or liberal feminist theories to grapple more deeply with power structures. As Audre Lorde stated: some problems we share as women, some we do not. You fear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you; we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shot down in the street, and you will turn your backs on the reasons they are dying. (1984, p. 119)

Rather than struggle to be included in State affairs (e.g., representation of women in elected office or rights to abortion under the law), these scholars have heavily critiqued the existence or role of the State, whose values are embedded in and perpetuate White supremacist, anti-Black, classist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, and ableist ideas. Transnational women have also contributed a global perspective, focusing on the impact of imperialism and colonialism on the lives of women and girls (Mohanty, Russo, & Torres, 1991). Earlier Black feminist works by hooks (1981), Collins ([1990] 2000), Lorde (1984), and others have provided foundational research that interrogates the formation of Black women’s representations and identity, intervening as a response to “White Feminism” by addressing the social, political, and cultural politics centering Black women and girls. Black women have been at the forefront of prominent movements throughout the history of the United States, from the women’s rights movement to the CRM, both of which undermined the contributions of their labor and leadership. BLM and the other organizations that fall under the umbrella in this present moment have modeled for us Black queer feminist organizing as a praxis. This initiation has proven to be a difficult task; however, one that activists have deemed as non-negotiable. The inclusion of Black women, girls, and queer folks in movement discourse facilitates a broader understanding of state sanctioned violence and the proximity of Black bodies to literal and social death upheld constitutionally. The concept of intersectionality, initially put forth by Crenshaw (1991), emphasizes how economic, political, and social institutions intersect to shape one’s perceptions of society (see also Carbado, Crenshaw, Mays, & Tomlinson, 2013; Cho, Crenshaw, & McCall, 2013; Collins & Bilge, 2016; Naples, 2009; Whittier, 2016). Moreover, Crenshaw (1991) argued that multiple oppressions

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(e.g., racism and sexism) are mutually constitutive and thus, that these oppressions cannot be understood separately. Collins and Bilge (2016), reflecting on the importance intersectionality studies have gained over the last 25 or more years, note that: Intersectionality is a way of understanding and analyzing the complexity in the world, in people, and in human experience […] When it comes to social inequality, people’s lives and the organization of power in a given society are better understood as being shaped not by a single axis of social division, be it race or gender or class, but by many axes that work together to influence each other. Intersectionality as an analytic tool gives people better access to the complexity of the world and of themselves. (p. 2)

An intersectional lens centers the lives of those who have been traditionally marginalized and fosters relational approaches to acknowledging the way our lives interconnect, as well as, the complexities of our lived experiences (Cotera, 2008; Crenshaw, 1991; Moraga & Anzaldúa, 2015). It is an analytic tool well suited for both empirical analysis and praxis (Cho et al., 2013; Collins & Bilge, 2016). As Collins and Bilge (2016) point out, the need for intersectional perspectives was understood long before the term was adopted. For example, African American women in the 1960s and 1970s regularly felt unwelcome in movements focused on just gender or race or economics; these women wanted to confront the ways in which their multiple identities impacted the social injustice they experienced. As a result, they “confronted the puzzle of how their needs simply fell through the cracks of anti-racist social movements, feminism, and union organizing for workers’ rights” (p. 3). BLM, on the other hand, has explicitly centered women, LGBTQIAþ, and other marginalized Black people. The reasons behind BLM’s intersectional strategy to rebuild the Black Liberation Movement are discussed later. Redrawing the Boundaries of a Broader Movement Although feminism faces the critique for being exclusive and in some instances oppressive, the work of Black feminists, womanists, queer scholars, and transnational feminists of color have challenged and reshaped feminist discourse by changing the way feminist scholarship and activism is practiced. This is particularly true in the context of community building and social movements. Social movements don’t just appear; they are mobilized over time (Tilly, 1978). Similarly, communities do not just happen; they are organized (Stall & Stoecker, 1998). Well-organized communities apply both positive and negative pressures to social movements. Communities can provide a common identity for participants of social movements (Tilly & Wood, [2013] 2016); however, merging different communities into one coherent movement can be problematic. Tensions between value commitments may shape the development of the movement: the seedbed for collective action is to be found in preexisting social arrangements that provide social capital critical to the success of early mobilizing processes when warmed by sunlight of environmental opportunities that allow members to exploit their capital. (McAdam & Scott, 2005, p. 7)

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Beginning with a Twitter hashtag, BLM gained prominence in the media and in policy circles as further violence and other oppressive events continued to occur (Rickford, 2016). Many within the Black community did not feel these events were being addressed adequately by their own leaders. The use of Twitter and the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter was a new mobilization campaign in a technologically driven era of social media; however, the founders knew that they would need more than a trendy hashtag to impact real change on the ground. As Garza noted in an interview: Twitter can be a vehicle that connects us and helps bring us together to strategize around how we’re going to build the kind of power that we need to transform the world that we live in. (Dalton, 2015)

As Harris (2015) asserts, for many young Black Americans, leaders, such as Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, as well as organizations, such as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) and the National Urban League, were no longer the protectors of Black interests and Black issues. Legacy organizations, associated with the CRM of the 1960s, are not only seen as not radical enough to address the issues facing the Black community today; these organizations are not seen as inclusive. Many have argued that the membership in the NAACP is “safe (and) inconsequential” (HarrisPerry, 2017). These organizations have been supplanted by groups like BLM, founded by three Black women, two of whom identify as LGBTQIAþ and one who identifies as an immigrant. The commitment by BLM to Black queer feminist human rights movement organizing is an ode to Black women of the past and present, moving Black, Latinx, queer, trans, and (dis)abled women the “from the margins to the center” (hooks, 1984). It pays homage to Fannie Lou Hamer for her efforts to mobilizing voting and to Ida B. Wells for exposing lynching laws in the south. In particular, BLM has adopted the Ella Baker community organizing model, which seeks to cultivate an inclusive space for all members to engage in leadership and decision-making processes. Baker’s methods of organizing and mobilizing groups reflected intentional, long-term support for social justice versus instantaneous forms of social action. They have embodied her affirmation that “strong people don’t need strong leaders” (Baker, as cited in Ransby, 2003, p. 51). Moreover, as Payne (1989) argues, Baker’s organizing model emphasized collective consciousness and political agency: From her perspective, the very idea of leading people to freedom is a contradiction in terms. Freedom requires the people be able to analyze their own social position and understand their collective ability to do something about it without relying on leaders. (p. 893)

BLM’s decentralized leadership model is non-hierarchical, creating an innovative approach to community-based, grassroots activism that is national (and global) in scope. It is not leaderless, yet it rejects the notion of establishing a speaker of and for the organization itself (Ransby, 2015). In this way, it serves as a “tactic to (re)build the Black Liberation movement” (Garza, 2014, p. 25). The Black Liberation Movement differed from the CRM in its focus on the

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global context of struggle. Black Liberation operated in response to an antiimperialist and anti-capitalist struggle being waged around the world during the 1950s and 1960s (Carmichael, 1967; see also Taylor, 2016). Because of this struggle, the Black Liberation Movement departed from classical theories of organizational structure and social action. BLM follows a similar path. According to Altman (2015), “the loose structure, as a confederation of local groups, empowers each one to set its own agenda” (para. 12). This has allowed the organization to engage in campaigns as varied as stopping school closures in Detroit (Joseph, n.d.) to the Fight for 15 minimum wage laws (Dean, 2015) to political protests aimed at disrupting presidential candidate speeches (Helsel, 2015; Tynes, 2016) to the physical occupation of public spaces, including highways (Badger, 2016). Moreover, the use of traditional protest tactics by local BLM groups continues the radical Black tradition of reclaiming public space. Simply being Black and occupying public spaces is a political and radical act in the anti-Black terrains of the US. The occupation of Black people in public space that often gets criminalized as loitering, represents the reclamation of space or of “homeplace” (Haymes, 1995). Black protest that takes to-the-street reiterates the political strategy of reasserting their right to public space and to exist as Black, queer, women, and men. The response of the state to the protest depicts the power of resistance and exposes the role of police in silencing dissenting voices. Although BLM is a continuation of the Black radical tradition of protest, we must also acknowledge the nuance of their present day organizing and their allegiance to centering Black women and queers in dominant narratives of police brutality, other acts of state violence, and the Black Liberation Movement. BLM’s extensive use of social media both as an educational tool and as an organizing platform allows it to amplify its message. BLM has been successful in increasing the visibility of the intersectional concerns of the movement through the “networked counterpublics which nourish them and the physical shedding of respectability” (Jackson, 2016, p. 377). This success is in part due to the framing strategies employed by the BLM Movement. Intersectional Framing: A Conceptual Framework for Analysis BLM’s founders have deliberately crafted the organization’s intersectional message and strategy to draw attention to the plight of Black America. This process can also be called framing. Framing is the practice by which organizations present information to attract (or detract) an audience to an issue; “frames help to render events or occurrences meaningful and thereby function to organize experience and guide action” (Benford & Snow, 2000, p. 614). When applied by groups, framing encompasses four critical points as defined by Entman (1993): frames define a problem, identify causes, pass judgment, and identify solutions. Social movements challenge the status quo and “strategically employ a repertoire of collective action, creating new opportunities, which are used by others in widening cycles of contention” (Tarrow, [1994] 2011, p. 29). For example, both the CRM and the women’s rights movements produced rhetoric that

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challenged hegemonic constructions of gender and race (Brush, 1999, p. 123). Cullors stated: Even though the hashtag was created by two black queer women, myself and Alicia, and one Nigerian-American, Opal Tometi, it was very important from the beginning to say all black lives matter. Opening up the frame around Black Lives Matter being more than just the killings of young black boys, but rather a call for all black lives. (MSNBC, February 20, 2015)

BLM is very direct in its assignment of blame for the status of Blacks in the United States today: the state has perpetrated violence against the Black community by implementing laws and structures that systematically control and destroy the Black community. BLM advocates for freedom for all who are oppressed, but it begins with recognizing that Black lives have been specifically targeted. The framing strategy of BLM is consistent and unapologetic. The creation of the hashtag, #BlackLivesMatter, is a poignant message meant to draw attention to the “virulent anti-Black racism that permeates our society” (BlackLivesMatter.com, 2016). This theme and others are prevalent throughout the public speeches and interviews by the founding members of BLM as will be analyzed later in this chapter. Social movements must create a “linkage of individual and social movement organization interpretative orientations” in order to increase the appeal and salience of the group’s mission to the ideas of the individual being appealed to (Snow, Rochford, Worden, & Benford, 1986, p. 464). This process is known as frame alignment. Frame alignment is crucial in the case of the BLM Movement for at least three reasons. First, this movement is perceived by many, particularly among Whites, as a threat to their own place, or privilege, in society. Starnes (2016) of Fox News, for example, referred to BLM protests as acts of “domestic terrorism,” calling for protesters to “stop terrorizing our cities (emphasis added).” This narrative, coupled with lack of understanding among Whites about BLM and the goals of the movement (Horowitz & Livingston, 2016), has fueled the strong counter narrative that only those that are committing crimes are being arrested and thus it is a myth that Blacks are unfairly targeted by police. Second, many of the groups that BLM includes have traditionally been excluded, or at least, marginalized, from the Black Liberation struggle even from within the Black community. Third, many of the issues that BLM is addressing, that is, economic inequality, extrajudicial killings, and incarceration, have not previously been connected in the mainstream media in a consistent way to the larger frame of racism against Black America and oppression of others worldwide. Frame alignment takes place in four different ways: frame bridging, frame amplification, frame extension, and frame transformation (Snow et al., 1986). Of these, frame transformation is most relevant to the study at hand. Frame transformation involves completely changing the rhetoric on the current state of affairs and creating new values that had not been considered. Frame transformation has been studied in a variety of social issue areas. Often, frame transformation occurs in counter-movements. Berbrier (1998) examined how White separatist movements in the late 1970s and 1980s changed their message from

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one of hate of minorities and racial superiority of Whites to one where Whites were the victims of racial prejudice, merely for expressing pride in their heritage. Guns rights and English only groups have followed the same pattern of appropriating core “American values” into their rhetoric to legitimize and broaden their appeal (Lio, Melzer, & Reese, 2008). Moving from the constructed view of your group as deviant to oppressed exemplifies frame transformation. Deaf, gay, and White supremacist movements have all taken part in attempts to be recognized as a stigmatized minority whose civil rights are being trampled (Berbrier, 2002; Edwards, 2006). Scholars have also studied intra-movement frame transformation within the pro-life movement (Trumpy, 2014) and environmental movement (Pellow & Brehm, 2015). The attempt by BLM to change the narrative and point out the state’s role in oppression of the Black community, not just everyday racism, is an example of this frame transformation. In addition, BLM is actively lifting up previously marginalized populations within the movement and giving them space and voice; these populations have been regarded as “deviant” in the past. Challenging preconceived notions of the value of Black life, while reiterating the connection of Black life to human rights is a key transformative message for BLM. This study will examine the language and framing strategies of the BLM Movement. BLM’s deliberate intersectional identity is prominent in the discourses used by the founding members in the early years of the movement. An intersectional approach emphasizes how economic, political, and social institutions intersect to shape one’s perceptions of society (Naples, 2009; Whittier, 2016). As hooks (2003) points out, developing and building community must acknowledge and intentionally undermine mechanisms of privilege and oppression in order to force understanding and change. BLM undermines these mechanisms of privilege by delivering a message to confront the many issues (i.e., poverty, police violence, immigration status, criminalization of Black life, and gentrification) and different communities (women, men, children, transgender, and immigrants) that are impacted by the current power structure.

DATA AND METHODS Our research aim is to uncover and elaborate on the framing messages of the BLM organization through its founders’ own words. Although the movement is one without a centralized leadership structure, an official BLM website does exist to provide information and guidance as to the purpose of the organization. The founders of BLM have set a high level mission statement that may then be used as guide for local actions by local groups. The movement began in 2013 with a simple hashtag on Twitter. In 2014, the killing of Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO, prompted the creation of the website. The website developers state that “We’ve partnered with the #BlackLivesMatter Network to bring its vision to the digital world, by transforming the hashtag into a website.”2 The use of the word “network” is also illuminating and speaks to the decentralized nature of the organization. We began this study with an analysis of the BLM website, reviewing its stated goals and platform. In addition, we also reviewed

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the personal websites of both Patrisse Cullors and Opal Tometi. Initial codes were developed from these websites. These codes include decentralization and rejection of hierarchical leadership structure present in the 1960s CRM, a deliberate inclusion of all Black lives regardless of gender or sexual orientation, and an appreciation of all issues that intersect with the Black experience in the United States, including incarceration, violence, police brutality, and economic suppression. Once we created our thematic framework, we set out to gather more data on the thoughts and words of the founders themselves. Using both Lexis Nexis and Google Scholar, we used the search term “Black Lives Matter” and the founders’ names to gather hits on their interviews and speeches. From 2014 to 2016, Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi were actively present across the media and policy spectrum. They spoke at colleges and universities. They were interviewed by mass print publications such as Glamour Magazine, Cosmopolitan, and The Advocate, as well as major city newspapers, and smaller activist outlets. Our dataset for this chapter includes print and audio/video interviews of the founders, in their own words from October 2014 to October 2016. Newspaper articles, opinion pieces, and other references to BLM outside of the founders’ own presentation are not included. While these additional pieces would be beneficial to a broader understanding of the impact of the BLM Movement, this chapter’s focus is on the framing strategies of the founders. This chapter analyzed 37 print articles and 23 video interviews from a variety of sources (Appendix 1). These documents were uploaded to NVivo, a qualitative software package, which enabled the authors to code the documents electronically and share the same data file. The different sources of data required a coding scheme that could illuminate themes from short interview answers to longer, prepared speeches. Longer speeches were coded at the paragraph level, while shorter answers were coded at the sentence level. Codes were initially assigned by one author, with a second author reviewing the codes. Short meetings were used to discuss the codes and their applicability, including the creation of new codes if both authors felt it was warranted. Given our interest in the framing strategies of the founders, our initial coding scheme was based on BLM’s stated goals and platform. We searched for themes related to the group’s mission as published on their website. For example, references to transgender rights and the killing (and the lack of attention to those murders) of transgender people were coded under LGBTQIAþ inclusion; references to the impact of gentrification or the plight of Black domestic workers were coded under economic disparity. As the founders were explicit in their description of how state violence against people of color has been perpetrated for centuries, references to state violence and systemic discrimination were coded under structural racism. Other deductive themes included, feminism, intergenerational, intersectionality, justice, oppression of others, and persons with disabilities. We coded for both intersectionality as a concept, as this was a term used by all three founders, and the different ways intersectionality was perceived by the founders. Accordingly, we looked for themes related to

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immigrants, the incarcerated, and other intersecting identities and coded them as well. However, analysis of the documents also uncovered themes that were not explicit to the group’s mission. Inductively we found themes of action, Black pride, faith, strategy, and mental health. In addition, the founders were very cognizant of the need to remind the public that #BlackLivesMatter was created by three women. Given the three founders’ experience and prior work in organizing, the themes of strategy and action were very present as the founders spoke about tactics and goals of the movement. This analysis speaks to the fact that successful social movements are often carefully planned and executed, despite the sometimes happenstance nature of their birth, like reacting to a poignant post on Facebook with a hashtag. In the Section “Black Lives Matter: Race, Gender and Activism in Their Own Words” we will examine some of these prevalent themes.

BLACK LIVES MATTER: RACE, GENDER AND ACTIVISM IN THEIR OWN WORDS BLM, which started as a political project, is now a political force. Throughout our analysis, the most prevalent frame was that of the struggle against structural racism. Use of the terms “state violence,” “anti-black racism,” and “criminalization” are used liberally in the interviews and quotes. BLM’s founders believe that racism is embedded in the culture of the United States and institutionalized through laws and administrative practice. To fully end racism, we must address the role of the state: This is a much broader conversation and the conversation around state violence isn’t just about the act of murdering a black person, but rather how this country, at every level of government, at every moment, has devalued black lives, whether that’s by putting black folks in ghettos, defunding our school systems, over-policing our communities. (Patrisse Cullors, Neon Tommy Interview, January 7, 2015)

Opal echoed this perspective: #BlackLivesMatter is a pushback against the status quo. We are naming that we are not living in a post-racial society. And we decidedly wanted the nation to confront anti-black racism, especially since there’s been moves towards more politically correct terms ‘people of color’, which, to be honest, is an overgeneralization that doesn’t get to the heart of the ways in which black people are typically most acutely impacted by injustice. Because our laws don’t take into account structural racism. (Opal Tometi, Keynote Speech, Marching in the Arc of Justice Conference, March 7, 2015)

This rhetorical departure from the CRM in the 1960s is one that the founders acknowledge as their contribution to the conversation. While the 1960s movement needed to focus on outright discriminatory laws against people of color, the BLM Movement is actively trying to change cultural and systemic attitudes that may lurk behind laws written to increase security and reduce crime. However, the founders are also very respectful of the contributions of the older

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generation to the movement itself, including in its platform a commitment to intergenerational work. So yes, it is our job to advance what our ancestors and our elders so graciously and so courageously and so boldly fought for in our name. And our next step, right, and this is our challenge to you, is to continue to defect from a system that does not value our lives. (Alicia Garza, Panel Discussion, Catalyst Project, December 14, 2014)

BLM is much more than a movement about the police brutality against straight, Black men; however, justice and the role of the police and the criminal justice system are heavily represented in the data. The BLM founders were very careful in defining justice as a broad category to include all victims and all types of abuse in the criminal justice system. One of the major campaigns supported by the founders of BLM was #SayHerName, which included the lifting up of all cisgender and transgender women and girls killed or harassed at the hands of police. I think it’s important to talk about [the fact that] we’ve always uplifted black women in our segments, from Renisha McBride to Rekia Boyd to the seven-year-old Aiyana Stanley-Jones, who was killed by Detroit police in a botched raid. The Black Lives Matter movement has always lifted up these stories, and it’s just starting now that the media’s catching up with that. (Patrisse Cullors, Public Radio International Interview, July 17, 2015)

#SayHerName was a project that evolved out of the African American Policy Forum (AAPF), an organization founded by Kimberle Crenshaw in 1996 as a think tank to focus on intersectional activism and research. The organization was founded in response to the Million Man March, which according to cofounder Luke Harris, seemingly left Black women out and “symbolized a vision of racial justice that marginalized and trivialized the concerns of Black women and girls” (AAPF Turns 20, 2017). As Alexander-Floyd (2003) argues, the Black cultural pathology paradigm lay at the center of the Million Man March of 1995, whereby Black nationalists re-asserted the importance of patriarchy in the Black community. While feminists, especially Black feminists, criticized the sexist underpinnings of the March, the March enjoyed broad public support. As Alexander-Floyd (2003) highlights: the problematic gender politics of the March go beyond questions about whether women were allowed to attend or participate, and are rooted instead in the problematic Black macho imperative that provided the impetus for the March in the first place. (p. 194)

Not only have BLM and the AAPF collaborated on projects such as #SayHerName, the rhetoric of BLM is visible in more recent AAPF materials, such as “Black Girls Matter: Pushed Out, Overpoliced and Underprotected,” a report published in 2015. Two other areas in which this broader issue of justice intersects are poverty and mental illness. Patrisse Cullors, in particular, has long organized against the abuses in the prison system and the way in which the mentally ill are treated. Her organization, Dignity and Power Now, works with law enforcement in the Los Angeles area. Recently, the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department implemented

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a permanent civilian review board to combat police abuses against those in custody and to properly assess those with mental illness. Yes, U.S. jails and prisons are de facto mental health institutions. Los Angeles, Cook County—which is in Chicago—New York City, all three of those jails have the highest rates of folks with mental illness. L.A. County jail is the largest mental health institution inside this country. That is a crisis. And who ends up in those jails with mental illness are mostly black people, are mostly brown people. (Patrisse Cullors, Democracy Now Interview, July 24, 2015)

Concern for the mentally ill is a repeated theme throughout the documents, perhaps because of Cullors’ work in that area. However, outside of a few interviews that mention health as an overall concern, there is little mention of specific concerns like HIV/AIDS or women’s reproductive health, including the high risk of death in childbirth for women of color, and access to abortion and birth control. #BlackLivesMatter did partner with SisterSong, a reproductive rights group for women of color, in February of 2016. However, our data do not show an increase in specific comments related to the partnership or the issue of reproductive rights. The criminalization of poverty and the impact of gentrification are important frames in the data surrounding justice. While many may not immediately see the connection between policing and economic revitalization projects, the BLM founders are able to frame and link these issues very effectively. Alicia Garza organizes in Oakland, CA, and has worked to protect Black and brown communities from the negative effects of gentrification. You can’t separate police violence from gentrification and displacement because police violence and policing are often used to help bolster those processes. You know, I’ve been an organizer here in the Bay Area for more than a decade, working on issues of gentrification and displacement, economic justice, gender justice, racial justice and always when a community is undergoing a transformation to try to bring in a new class of people to bolster the economy locally, it comes with an increase in policing. Policing is used then to clear that area, right, of the existing element that is undesirable for the potential new occupants. So, that’s one example of how these issues are linked. (Alicia Garza, Rising Up with Sonali Interview, June 30, 2016)

The criminalization of poverty, particularly through policies like “broken windows,” is another connection between racism and policies intended to stop crime. So we saw the emergence of what’s known as broken windows policing and this is a theory that in essence says if you see a broken window in the neighborhood you have to police that neighborhood and make sure that crime doesn’t happen. And so this is in essence just a way to criminalize poverty, into have police presence in poor communities instead of saying hey what can we do to repair the neighborhood? (Opal Tometi, Rosa Luxemburg Foundation Interview, June 4, 2015)

The ways in which the founders of BLM weave together seemingly disparate issues into a broader narrative about justice for the Black community, and thus Black Liberation, is one example of the movement’s strategy. State policies, such as cleaning up graffiti and repairing broken windows immediately or using the mere presence of rundown property as a harbinger of criminal activity, paint

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a pretty picture of the police responding to petty vandalism with community support. However, BLM calls out this practice as not just about catching real criminals, but making poverty a crime. This attention to the effects of poverty but not the causes does nothing to help the Black community, but further terrorizes it. The deliberate structuring of this narrative is also present in the way BLM focuses on the inclusion of women and LGBTQIAþ members of the community. The recognition that young, queer women also suffer violence at the hands of police is a vital piece of the larger puzzle for BLM (Chatelain & Asoka, 2015). Prior movements had pushed aside or, at least, minimized the contributions of queer or female people. The BLM platform was deliberately inclusive of these groups, particularly given the fact that two of its founders identify as both queer and female. Protecting and recognizing the origin of the movement itself was a prominent topic in the interviews. All three founders were very deliberate to credit the others when speaking of the movement. In addition, the founders often remarked on the media’s lack of attention to the fact that BLM was in fact founded by three Black women. When you design an event / campaign / et cetera based on the work of queer Black women, don’t invite them to participate in shaping it, but ask them to provide materials and ideas for next steps for said event, that is racism in practice. It’s also hetero-patriarchal. Straight men, unintentionally or intentionally, have taken the work of queer Black women and erased our contributions. Perhaps if we were the charismatic Black men many are rallying around these days, it would have been a different story, but being Black queer women in this society (and apparently within these movements) tends to equal invisibility and non-relevancy. (Alicia Garza, Feminist Wire Opinion Piece by Garza, October 7, 2014)

Patrisse summarized the same sentiment this way: I believe if Black Lives Matter was created by three Black men, Opal, Alicia and myself wouldn’t have to fight so hard to remind people we are the co-founders. (Patrisse Cullors, Madame Noire article (quoted), May, 4, 2015)

The connection between Black lives and other human rights concerns is evident in the data as well. Tometi’s work with the Black Alliance for Just Immigration and Garza’s work with the Domestic Workers’ Alliance are indicative of the intersection of economic issues with human rights and with BLM. The work that these two women do for their respective organizations spills into other racial groups; however, being Black and an undocumented immigrant or Black and a domestic worker opens these victims up to further abuse. As Tometi states: And oftentimes black immigrants get invisibilized in the larger discourse. But the reality is, if you’re black, you’re in America, you are being profiled and targeted anyway. And so, we see disproportionate rates of immigration detention and deportation of black immigrants. Similar to the way that sentencing works in this country, we’re seeing black immigrants from the Caribbean and Africa cop to plea deals and not know what the consequences really will be. And ultimately, the consequences likely look like them having to leave the country and being forcibly deported. (Opal Tometi, Democracy Now Interview, July 24, 2015)

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The intersectionality deepens in the line of domestic workers, with many victims of labor abuse within the domestic workers’ industry being undocumented, Black, and female. Combined with all the other issues these people face, the challenges to living a safe, productive life are evident. Garza summed it up this way, Domestic workers, in particular the work I do with Black domestic workers, are mothers who are trying to protect their families from state violence. The way that we talk about state violence with #BlackLivesMatter is that state violence equals structural racism. Not only have domestic workers, who are largely Black, been excluded from federal labor protections and now are largely immigrant, but they are mothers who are living in communities that are being terrorized by unaccountable police departments. They are mothers who are living in communities where the schools are failing, where there’s a lack of investment, where wages are falling, where there’s high unemployment. (Alicia Garza, The Laura Flanders Show, Interview, March 24, 2015)

The issues that the Black community faces cannot neatly be summed up by addressing only police violence or only overt racism in housing and hiring practices. All these issues, and how the connect, must be addressed to completely change the environment in which the Black community lives. These issues, however, are not limited to the Black community. Whites, Latinx, Native Americans, and other racial groups suffer from many of these same problems. The ability of BLM to transform the frame in which they are viewed can ultimately help other groups as well. Even as BLM has called for a broader understanding of these complex issues that impact all communities, but particularly Black ones, they have been criticized and heard the rejoinder “All Lives Matter.” The counter narrative that BLM is somehow stating that only BLM is one that the founders have had to repeatedly defend. They have done this by linking the struggle for Black Liberation to liberation for all. For example: Given the disproportionate impact state violence has on Black lives, we understand that when Black people in this country get free, the benefits will be wide reaching and transformative for society as a whole […] We’re not saying Black lives are more important than other lives, or that other lives are not criminalized and oppressed in various ways. We remain in active solidarity with all oppressed people who are fighting for their liberation and we know that our destinies are intertwined […] And if we are committed to a world where all lives matter, we are called to support the very movement that inspired and activated so many more. That means supporting and acknowledging Black lives. (Alicia Garza, Feminist Wire Opinion Piece by Garza, October 7, 2014)

The transformation of the frames regarding Black Liberation from maledominated freedom fighters agitating for the revocation of Jim Crow laws to an intersectional struggle against all forms of discrimination (state violence) against the Black community is evident through the words of its three female founders. Cullors, Garza, and Tometi skillfully weave a strong narrative to include injustice against the Black community in education policy, the economy, in the criminal justice system, and in immigration policy. Their inclusion of and, uplifting of, queer and female leaders is a break from the past. While BLM does focus on the Black community, their solidarity and commitment to other oppressed groups is also a unique strategy as evident in the framing of their messages.

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CONCLUSION The founders of BLM, Patrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi, have deliberately framed a narrative about the injustices suffered by the Black community that far surpasses the narrow view of just combating police brutality against straight, Black men. As Marcia Chatelain posits, BLM is feminist in its interrogation of state power and its critique of structural inequality. It is also forcing a conversation about gender and racial politics that we need to have
women at the forefront of this movement are articulating that “black lives” does not only mean men’s lives or cisgender lives or respectable lives or the lives that are legitimated by state power or privilege. (Chatelain & Asoka, 2015, para. 16)

The CRM of the mid-twentieth century was focused on inclusion of Blacks into the current system. A focus on conformity and acceptance led to the embrace of hetero-normative ideologies that placed women and homosexuals in oppressed positions even within their own movement. BLM seeks to change that history by including all Black lives in the conversation. In addition, the movement’s focus on intersectionality and community control has allowed for a different organizational structure than past movements. Their organization has rejected the patriarchal and hierarchical structures of many past movements by allowing a decentralized network of organizations to collect under the BLM umbrella. This research has shed light on the frame transformation process occurring within the BLM Movement that illustrates both its harnessing of past Black Liberation efforts and its refuting of certain tactics in favor of a feminist and intersectional approach to community building. BLM may be considered the “next wave” of CRM, and represents a reframing of how and with whom the movement will progress. Social movements often ebb and flow, moving in cycles or waves (della Porta, 2013). The concept of a cycle or a wave, “has the merit of helping locating single protest events as well as social movements within the broader historical context to which they belong” (della Porta, 2013, p. 3). As the founders suggested in their interviews and speeches, they saw themselves as both responding to and growing out of the earlier CRM. As Garza noted, “This isn’t the beginning of a movement, this is the continuation of a struggle that’s been happening for at least 400 years” (May 4, 2015, as quoted in Madame Noire). Mobilized to action by the Trayvon Martin’s murderer’s acquittal, BLM was more than a short-term campaign. The founders were intentional. The intersectional framing was an organizing strategy that was scaffolded by earlier struggles for Black Liberation, especially the CRM. Moreover, the founders acknowledge and respond to the legacies of both the integrationist and Black Power wings of the movement. Speaking at Miami University in October, 2015, all three women discuss how their own training and familial background informs their BLM organization. For example, Cullors, whose father was a supporter of the Black Power movement, states: I’m [a] black woman, I’m queer and it was very important as we develop out the network and this project that those the ways in which our identities intersect. We’re not erased but rather we came forth with it all. Because what we’ve seen in the past and large part when it’s come

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to the civil rights movement is a movement that marginalized women, a movement that marginalized queer folks and we did not want to continue with that part of that legacy. So it’s important that we were able to develop a new platform, a new way of understanding blackness that included all of our folks. Black folks that are incarcerated, black folks who have convictions, black folks who are immigrants, black LGBT folks and we understood that to develop that framework we have to show up as our full selves as well. (Patrisse Cullors, October 27, 2015)

As Choo and Ferree (2010) argue, intersectionality allows us to give prominence to the particularity of the perspectives and needs of those being studied. While it is not our goal to provide new tools of social action or to critique the effectiveness of BLM’s approach, this chapter highlights how BLM has advanced and enhanced the strategies used in the civil rights and Black Liberation struggles of previous decades by pushing the movement toward an intersectional movement; the next wave of the Black Liberation struggle that draws inspiration from the critical feminist literatures of Black and transnational feminisms. Although the racial climate of the 1960s was dramatically different than today, the issues that BLM addresses do not radically differ. The decades of the persistence of Black poverty, relative deprivation, and racial injustices before, during, and after the [civil rights movement’s] decline stages that precipitated the new generation of Black activists to birth the BLM social movement. (Jones-Eversley, Adedoyin, Robinson, & Moore, 2017, p. 5)

BLM, however, has rejected respectability politics of earlier movements in order to address the underlying discourses and systems that demand Blacks adhere to certain standards in order to be recognized. This is fundamentally reframing the struggle for justice as a question of humanity. As Rasaki (2016) argues: Where Civil Rights Era groups that practiced respectability politics dressed and behaved in certain ways in order to debunk the Darwinist stereotypes inflicted upon them, BLM challenges the White supremacist underpinnings of those acceptable characterizations of Blackness. (p. 34)

In addition, our findings support the proposition by Cohen and Jackson (2016) that women, and particularly Black women, have not been absent from earlier Black Liberation or social movement struggles, but erased; and that what’s new is the ways in which, at this moment in the Black Lives Matter movement, young, black, often queer women are not just doing the work but are part of a collective leadership.

She continued: The fact that they are visible and vocal, not just in one organization but across a number of organizations, shaping the direction of this movement—this is something that’s new. (Jackson, 2016) This is a moment I have dreamed of my whole life. Growing up, I learned about the black freedom struggle and the Black Liberation Movement and was told that this was a “lull period” or that it wasn’t possible to have black liberation in our lifetime. So I’m just grateful to be alive in this moment where more and more people are saying: we believe it can happen and we’re gonna to fight for it. (Alicia Garza, as cited in Smith, 2015)

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The limitations of our approach center around the data itself and, perhaps, the research question. First, we are focusing exclusively on the words of the three founders of BLM, Patrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi. We recognize the irony in analyzing the words of leaders of a non-hierarchical movement. However, the founders and their missions are integral to the organization and wider network. Although our data cover a two-year time period, October 2014 to October 2016, a longer time frame would inevitably provide more rich detail into the messaging strategy as the organization grows. Finally, this study is a review of the frame transformation strategy of BLM in the words of the founders. This is not a study of media response or receipt of that frame or a study of the various BLM groups across the country. BLM is using feminist and intersectional framing to construct a new social movement organizing strategy. BLM intentionally includes members of the Black community that were pushed aside or excluded from earlier generations of the Black Liberation struggle and seeks to eliminate structural injustice and oppression of Black bodies in all their forms. The founders have also encouraged and supported local manifestations (chapters) under the BLM umbrella in order to facilitate the inclusion of different forms of (localized) injustice. Given BLM’s decentralized format, future studies could examine whether or not that message has been effectively disseminated across chapters. This could be done by comparing the messaging of chapters, perhaps via comparison of Twitter or Facebook posts of different BLM groups from across the country. Such a study could further tease out how unique local context mediate the adoption or rejection of specific aspects of BLM’s organizing frame. For example, some BLM groups reside in cities, while others may be closer to rural areas. Although BLM was founded by three black women, how does the gender or sexual orientation of the local chapter leaders impact the message? How do these differences change or challenge the feminist, intersectional framing of BLM goals and strategy? In addition, studies could be designed to study the impact of the messaging across time in the presentation of BLM in the mainstream media. Has the frame transformation strategy been successful? We feel this is a rich body of material and many future studies could illuminate the BLM strategy and its impact on social movement theory.

NOTES 1. White Feminism is a term often associated with second wave feminists and feminist scholarship that marginalizes non-White voices and experiences. As Mariana Ortega notes, White Feminism is about “being lovingly, knowingly ignorant” to the experiences of women of color. White feminism perpetuates the hegemony of whiteness. 2. See http://hakicreatives.com/blacklivesmatter/. Date last accessed October 11, 2016.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS All authors contributed equally to this chapter. We acknowledge and thank Aja Reynolds for her contributions to this project. We would also like to thank the participants of the 2017 ARNOVA conference for their helpful suggestions on earlier drafts.

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APPENDIX 1: LIST OF SOURCES Participants

Type

March 30, 2014

Eqbal Ahmad Lecture, Hampshire College

All

Panel Discussion

October 7, 2014

The Feminist Wire

Alicia Garza

Editorial

November 27, 2014

Al Akhbar English

Patrisse Cullors

Quote in Story

Catalyst Project: Black Liberation and White Anti-Racism in the Time of Ferguson

Alicia Garza

Panel Discussion

December 16, 2014

The Guardian

Patrisse Cullors

Quote in Story

January 7, 2015

Neon Tommy-Annenberg Digital News

Patrisse Cullors

Print Interview

February 19, 2015

MSNBC-Nerding Out

Alicia Garza and Opal Tometti

Audio/Video Interview

February 20, 2015

MSNBC: Queemess on the Front Lines-#BlackLivesMatter

Patrice Cullors

Audio/Video Interview

February 27, 2015

KPBS

Alicia Garza

Audio/Video

March 1, 2015

The California Sunday Magazine

All

Quote in Story

March 4, 2015

USA Today

Alicia Garza

Print Interview

March 7, 2015

Marching in the Arc of Justice Conference

Opal Tometi

Speech

March 24, 2015

Laura Flanders Show

Alicia Garza

Audio/Video

March 24, 2015

The Nation

Alicia Garza

Print Interview

March 30, 2015

Mass Live.com

All

Quote in Story

May 4, 2015

Madame Noire

All

Quote in Story

May 19, 2015

Truthout/Laura Flanders Show

Patrisse Cullors

Audio/Video

May 28, 2015

ACLU of California, Keynote Address

Patrisse Cullors

Speech

June 2, 2015

The Nation

Opal Tometi

Print Interview

June 4, 2015

Rosa Luxemburg Foundation

Opal Tometi

Audio/Video

July 13, 2015

Those People

Alicia Garza

Editorial

July 17, 2015

Public Radio International

All

Print Interview

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December 14, 2014

Date

Source

Participants

Type

WNYC

Patrisse Cullors

Print Interview

July 19, 2015

The Guardian

Alicia Garza

Quote in Story

July 24, 2015

Democracy Now

All

Audio/Video

August 4, 2015

Truthout/Laura Flanders Show

Opal Tometi

Audio/Video

August 10, 2015

MSNBC

Alicia Garza

Audio/Video

September 1, 2015

The Chicago Tribune

Alicia Garza

Quote in Story

October 1, 2015

The Atlantic

Opal Tometi

Audio/Video

October 17, 2015

Cosmopolitan

All

Print Interview

October 27, 2015

The Miami Student

All

Quote in Story

October 27, 2015

Miami Television News (Miami University o f Ohio)

All

Audio/Video Interview

November 27, 2015

Daily Kos

Patrisse Cullors

Print Interview

November 29, 2015

Rob Bell Podcast

Opal Tometi

Audio/Video

December 4, 2015

Al Jazeera

Patrisse Cullors

Quote in Story

December 8, 2015

The Advocate

Patrisse Cullors

Quote in Story

December 9, 2015

The Advocate

Alicia Garza, Opal

Quote in Story

February 5, 2016

Ithaca Journal

Alicia Garza, Opal Tometi

Quote in Story

February 5, 2016

Ithaca Journal

Alicia Garza, Opal Tometi

Audio/Video

February 18, 2016

On Being

Patrice Cullors

Audio/Video

March 22, 2016

The Blognonian

Opal Tometi

Print Interview

March 24, 2016

Marie Claire

All

Print Interview

April 5, 2016

BET

All

Audio/Video

May 5, 2016

KCAL Channel 9

Patrisse Cullors

Quote in Story

June 27, 2016

Elle Magazine

Alicia Garza

Print Interview

169

July 17, 2015

Black Lives Matter

(Continued )

170

(Continued ) Date

Source

Participants

Type

June 30, 2016

Rising up with Sonali

Alicia Garza

Audio/Video

July 12, 2016

Occupy.com

Alicia Garza

Quote in story

July 12, 2016

United Nations

Opal Tometi

Speech

July 13, 2016

National Public Radio

All

Print Interview

August 1, 2016

Telesur

Patrisse Cullors

Quote in Story

August 4, 2016

Bloomberg

Alicia Garza

Print Interview

September 6, 2016

Al Jazeera

None

Quote in Story

September 21, 2016

Ella Baker Center, 20th Anniversary Panel Discussion

Patrisse Cullors

Audio/Video Interview

September 26, 2016

#EmergingUS

All

Print Interview

October 19, 2016

The Establishment

Patrisse Cullors

Print Interview

October 20, 2016

Mic

Patrisse Cullors

Quote to Story

October 20, 2016

Democracy Now

Alicia Garza

Audio/Video

October 21, 2016

The Root

Patrisse Cullors

Editorial

AMANDA D. CLARK ET AL.

Black Lives Matter

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APPENDIX 2: PREVALENCE OF DEDUCTIVE AND INDUCTIVE CODES

Key (in order of most to least references) Code

Description

Structural racism

Reference to systemic or structural racism not recognized by others (especially whites)

Justice

Reference to unlawful incarceration, school to prison pipeline, unfair sentencing and police brutality on the black community

Strategy

Reference to direct strategy of the movement, whether using social media or using protest tactics

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(Continued ) Code

Description

Intersectionality

Reference to the idea that people do not just have one identity. Race, age, sexual identity, and gender expression all offer insights into a person’s unique experience

Feminism

References to the direct impact of black women on the Black Liberation Movement

Economic disparity

Reference to the economic injustices suffered by the black community, income inequality, etc.

LGBTQ inclusion

References to the LGBTQ community and their inclusion in the struggle for Black Liberation

Action

Reference to a need for direct action, not just solidarity

Black pride

Reference to being proud and not apologetic of being black

Movement origin

Reference to remembering the contributions of the three founders and not pushing the origin story aside, including the fact that they are women, LGBTQ, and immigrant

Immigrant

Reference to those not born in the US

Intergenerational

Reference to the inclusion of all in the struggle, regardless of age

Oppression

Recognition of others who are suppressed and expression of support for other groups suffering

Persons with disabilities

Reference to the inclusion of persons with disabilities in the Black Liberation struggle

Faith

Reference to faith or religion in connection with the movement

Incarcerated

Reference to people in jail currently or with criminal records

Mental health

Reference to mental health and lack of services to address mental health problems

CHALLENGING EVERYDAY VIOLENCE OF THE STATE: DEVELOPING SUSTAINED OPPOSITION MOVEMENTS THROUGH ANTI-CORRUPTION PROTESTS Alexandra V. Orlova

ABSTRACT This chapter deals with the question of how anti-corruption norms can emerge in authoritarian or semi-authoritarian regimes that actively suppress social dissent and protest. The chapter examines the capacity of Russian opposition movements to create a sustained anti-corruption discourse and to shape political governance. When it comes to addressing corruption through social action in the context of Russia, the situation does not often seem conducive to concerted opposition activity. Nevertheless, even though opposition movements repeatedly fail to impact political decision-making or elite practices, they are not exercises in futility. The chapter concludes that the anti-corruption discourse can be effectively utilized by the Russian opposition movements to unite its efforts and vocalize their demands in terms of democratic governance norms. Continually repressive governmental measures are creating dangerous public spaces, where massive and violent confrontations are increasingly likely to occur. As the opposition continues to find its voice, challenge elite corruption and vocalize its desires for democratic governance norms, the continuing demands for policies to be reflective of public interest (rather than interests of the powerful elites) will not abate. The anti-corruption discourse

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 42, 173
196 Copyright r 2018 by Emerald Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X20180000042007

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can play a powerful unifying role for the opposition given the endemic nature of corruption in today’s Russia. Keywords: Corruption; social movements; democratic governance; Russia; anti-corruption norms; social dissent

INTRODUCTION The phenomenon of corruption is often discussed and debated in a variety of contexts. When it comes to authoritarian or semi-authoritarian regimes, the frequently asked question is how can anti-corruption norms emerge within a state that suppresses social dissent and protest? Moreover, when a state views civil society institutions as threatening and wants to control their direction and development, how can anti-corruption discourse be transformed from being merely another political slogan to instead constituting a blueprint for social action and a resulting shift in social norms around corruption? In other words, how can a “tipping point” be created where a large enough share of the population believes that corrupt practices do not have to be an endemic part of daily life and that civil society can play a role in not only exposing the cases of corruption, but also in creating an anti-corruption ethos among the population? This chapter is divided into three parts. Part I, “Challenging Corruption as an Entrenched Phenomenon,” discusses the entrenched nature of corruption in today’s Russia and the role of the Internet as both a tool of education as well as an instrument for grass-roots movements to challenge current corrupt social practices. Part II, “Public Interest, Potential for Social Protests and Control of Dissent,” discusses various measures utilized by the Russian state to control dissent as well as citizens’ perceptions of their political role when it comes to governance issues. It also looks at the deliberate efforts on the part of the state to create a new “collective Russian identity,” by utilizing historical myths to justify its conception of a public interest that is firmly rooted in maintaining stability. Part III, “Actualizing Dissent: The Role of the Opposition and Civil Society Institutions,” examines the types of protests that are taking place in Russia as well as the role of both insider parties and more marginalized non-insider opposition in creating a sustained anti-corruption social movement. The chapter concludes that the anti-corruption discourse can be effectively utilized by the Russian opposition movements to unite its efforts and vocalize demands in terms of democratic governance norms.

PART I: CHALLENGING CORRUPTION AS AN ENTRENCHED PHENOMENON Corruption, including bribery, is a deeply entrenched phenomenon and manifests itself in most spheres of Russian life (Ledeneva, 2013, p. 1135). Bribery and other forms of corrupt behavior are firmly rooted in the widely shared expectations among the general population and state officials. Refusal to follow

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patterns of corruption carries a real risk of incurring significant costs and sanctions (Helmke & Levitsky, 2004, p. 727). As a matter of fact, corrupt behavior is perceived as a necessary everyday occurrence, while non-corrupt behavior is regarded as a deviation from the norm (Ledeneva, 2013, p. 1136). Some of the reasons for the widespread nature of corruption include the often deliberate failure of state institutions to establish the “rules of the game” that would make engaging in corruption disadvantageous; high levels of interpersonal trust as a measure to compensate for the low levels of trust in public institutions and formal laws; the personalization of bureaucracy and so forth (Ledeneva, 2009, p. 267). The use of corrupt practices and behavior to solve daily problems has a long history within the Russian context. However, the purpose for which they have been utilized has shifted at various points in Russian history. For instance, during the Soviet era, corrupt practices, including bribery and influence trading, were mostly used to obtain food, goods, and services that people were entitled to have and the regime was failing to provide (Ledeneva, 2009, p. 261). Once the transition to the market economy took place and shortages of consumer goods were replaced by markets of goods and capital, the utilization of corrupt practices for everyday consumption lost relevance and was replaced by “utilizing corruption to gain access to opportunities, such as admission to prestigious educational institutions, or to simply be allowed to carry on with one’s business without being shut down by state officials for violations of complex regulatory regimes” (Partlett, 2013, p. 36; see also Altukhov, 2011). Thus, while remaining a powerful mechanism for solving everyday problems, corrupt practices have transformed to reflect the new economic realities and have reoriented themselves to serve the new types of shortages. Put simply, “household corruption has given way to [government- and] business-related corruption” (Ledeneva, 2009, p. 264). Corruption, in addition to becoming a new form of currency when it comes to interactions between citizens and various state institutions, also became firmly rooted in terms of most governance-related issues. Subsequent to the fall of Communism, massive commercialization of government activities took place and in some respect continues to this day (Levin & Satarov, 2000, p. 117). While bribe-giving and decisions based on personal connections were also present during the Soviet period, the difference was that while the Soviet system allowed “the legal conversion of authority into personal comfort and the illegal conversion of authority into personal wealth,” what was forbidden was the conversion from economic to political authority. Stated simply, it was difficult to buy political authority for money in the Soviet Union (Heinzen, 2013, p. 934). In contrast, during Russia’s transitional years, public officials considered their posts “to be a continuation of the market,” with conversion from economic to political authority becoming normalized (Levin & Satarov, 2000, p. 125). State services and commercial activities were combined. This merging of governmental and business interests persists today and corruption plays a key role in protecting key governmental interests in strategic areas of the economy (Werning Rivera & Rivera, 2006, pp. 130
131). Corruption, including corruption of power elites, works “as an informal institution that generates incentives and constraints for political actors and thus also shapes institutional outcomes” (Fjelde & Hegre, 2014,

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p. 288). Political elites rely on corruption networks to strengthen their positions of power (Shrabani, Gounder, Campbell, & Su, 2014, p. 304). When Putin came into power in 2000, he promised to take a tough line on organized crime and corruption. He promised to institute a so-called “dictatorship of the law,” which included attacks on specific criminal activity as well as the “more arduous task of eliminating the demand for extra legal protection and enforcement activities by reasserting state control” (Sokolov, 2004, p. 71). Putin’s aim was to create a strong, integrated and effective government authority, aimed at curtailing arbitrary bureaucratic power and centralizing it in the hands of the presidency, thus reducing numerous possibilities for corruption among ruling elites (Orlova, in press). Due to Putin’s initiatives, several investigations into the financial dealings of some of Russia’s largest companies and influential persons were launched (Lipman, 2003). Medvedev (2008) followed suit and also declared his commitment to fighting corruption. For example, in February 2008, then president-elect Medvedev stated that corruption was “the most serious disease affecting our society” (n.p.). Medvedev’s anti-corruption efforts included Russia ratifying various international anti-corruption instruments as well as the requirement (introduced in 2010) for all officials to disclose their incomes and assets (Holmes, 2012, p. 236). However, both Putin’s and Medvedev’s anti-corruption initiatives, whether in the legal, political or economic realm, relied on authoritarian methods (Plekhanov, 2003, p. 10), and were primarily aimed not so much at combatting corruption, but rather at entrenching their political position and purging any sort of dissent, all at the expense of civil liberties and in the name of stronger laws as well as political and economic stability (see Plekhanov, 2003, for critiques of Putin’s reforms). Hence, none of Putin’s or Medvedev’s anti-corruption reforms have been carried out in any sort of meaningful way, leading to corruption becoming even further entrenched, at least when it comes to Russian political and economic elites (Rimskii, 2013, p. 33). Putin himself has acknowledged on numerous occasions that one of the principal failures of his time in office has been his inability to bring down corruption levels (Holmes, 2012, p. 236). Given the entrenched nature of corruption, it is not surprising that various legal and judicial reforms proposed at different times to supposedly stamp out corruption or replace informal, personalized decision-making are not regarded as sincere. Such reforms are mostly aimed at maintaining the status quo, where legal institutions could be utilized to punish inconvenient dissenters from the widely accepted norms where corrupt behaviors prevail (Partlett, 2013, p. 36). Thus, reliance on corruption to “get things done” becomes a pattern of governance, while formal rules and regulations remain a useful façade to reinforce pre-existing patterns of corruption and to punish dissenters (Rozov, 2013, p. 54). Anti-corruption campaigns most often reflect struggles for power between various economic and political elites rather than a serious and sustained effort to fight corruption (Orttung & Zhemukhov, 2014, p. 185). Russian political elites are implicated in corruption and hence are not truly interested in addressing its causes, which leads to further undermining of their legitimacy and the consistency of the corruption cycle (Samsonov, 2009, pp. 287
288). Nevertheless,

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anti-corruption reforms are certainly not doomed to fail. However, in order to reduce corruption levels, these reforms require the commitment and cooperation of a multitude of actors and on redefining relations between the state and civil society. This type of cooperation is difficult to achieve due to a current dominance of the state over all spheres of Russian life and the way that the current regime views what is in the public interest. Overall, studies of post-authoritarian democracies in Eastern and Central Europe have found that high levels of corruption and lack of good governance had a strong impact on political participation levels (Hooghe & Quintelier, 2014, p. 226), which is not surprising as ever-present corruption and governmental inability, or even refusal to tackle this issue, create an atmosphere of hopelessness. Thus, it is important to look at the issue of political participation as one of the key elements of addressing corruption. After all, “from a theoretical standpoint, corruption can be viewed as a source of grievance from which social movements might develop and by which they might win resources” (Simpson, 2014, p. 92), as well as serve as a mechanism for addressing the atmosphere of hopelessness and general political malaise. While democratization and greater political participation will not result in an automatic reduction of corrupt practices, greater involvement in governance, combined with demands for increased accountability and transparency, is a desirable way forward once political dissent has been actualized (Moran, 2001, pp. 389
390). However, before political dissent can be actualized and concretized in the form of social protest, grass-roots-generated challenges to current corrupt social practices must start taking hold. Anti-corruption education can certainly aid in creating a culture of intolerance to corruption. However, the problem with the formalized system of education in Russia is that it is itself very corrupt (Abramov, 2004, p. 181). For example, in the case of institutions of higher learning, bribes were routinely paid by parents and students to gain admission to the institution and to receive good marks on examinations. The staff employed at those institutions also paid bribes to secure governmental research funds or funds earmarked for construction and repair (Shirin, 2015, p. 162). Furthermore, due to tight governmental control over school curricula (Avery & Pereira, 2012, p. 42), and the government’s desire to “hold special talks with local schoolchildren in a bid to ‘better educate’ them on the government’s fight against corruption” (Kremlin Urged to Teach Children, 2017) the role of formal education in challenging corrupt practices (particularly when it comes to elites) will remain minimal for the foreseeable future. However, despite the current inability of formalized education to challenge corrupt practices, the Internet has been effectively used by various opposition leaders and social movements to not only educate citizens about corruption, but also to actually take a stand against these practices. Russia has a relatively high share of Internet users. According to the Russian Public Opinion Foundation, the share of active users in 2014 (those who used the Internet at least once a day) stood at 50.1% (Sokolov, 2016, p. 117). Over the past 10 years the number of active users in Russia grew from 5.3 million to 58.4 million people (Sokolov, 2016, p. 117). Russian Internet users have become Europe’s largest Internet audience (Ioffe, 2011). Although most Internet users

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are young, educated and urban, Internet usage has increased outside of large metropolitan cities. Currently, nearly one-third of Russia’s Internet users reside in towns or villages of fewer than 100,000 people (Sindelar, 2011). The Russian government has invested heavily in increasing broadband Internet access, which is available for approximately US$10
US$30 a month (Sindelar, 2011). In a way, Internet communications replaced the Soviet kitchen where the population frequently engaged in dissident discussions that criticized the Soviet regime and the planned economy (The Kitchen Sisters, 2014). These kitchen discussions had the advantage of being private and offstage, where the subordinated could engage in opposition to the state, but were not directly observable by the politically powerful. They were shielded from state’s repression while at the same time nurturing political opposition (Pfaff, 1996, p. 100). The advantage of the Internet chatroom over the confines of the kitchen is that the potential audience for such discussions is much broader (Bronnikov, 2011, p. 266). However, this advantage comes with a loss of privacy and the increased ability of the state to monitor dissident communications. Nonetheless, Internet communications regarding a particular topic of interest “enable the creation of various sociopolitical Internet communities” (Bronnikov, 2011, p. 266). The Internet has been utilized to support local issues, as well as to organize broader nationwide protests. In particular, social network sites, such as VKontakte or Facebook, have been actively utilized for both local and national protest organizers.1 Furthermore, social network sites represent an alternative public space, when legal regulations concerning physical public space make it difficult for people to hold any sort of meetings.2 For example, the website RosPil, created by the opposition leader Alexei Navalny to examine bureaucratic corruption schemes during official tendering processes, has resonated well with the public. Navalny was able to find expert volunteers, such as accountants and lawyers, to look at the documents associated with each particular bid in a tendering process and to screen these documents for irregularities. The website and its work managed to attract public donations. Whenever financial irregularities were found, they were posted on the website. The experts and volunteers were also studying the outcomes of the tendering process to see if the projects were actually completed as advertised (Bronnikov, 2011, p. 266). In the first three months of its operation, Navalny’s website was responsible for identifying seven contracts that were annulled due to corrupt machinations, resulting in savings of 337 million rubles (Brown, 2013). Navalny’s RosPil experiment demonstrated potential effectiveness of “tech-empowered protest” and the potential of the Internet to serve as an educational tool to bring together like-minded individuals: Once corrupt contracts are brought to light, it takes only a critical mass of public anger to make the necessary changes. While this approach may be limited to small, incremental change, it seems a necessary step on the road to deeper, more meaningful anti-corruption reform. [Furthermore], the work of the inept and unwilling government agencies responsible for anti-corruption could be replicated in-part by a dedicated group of citizen volunteers. Tech-empowered crowdsourcing is at the heart of the RosPil model: it keeps costs down, makes it harder for the government to censor their work, and effectively tracks thousands of government documents using the knowledge of thousands of participants. (Brown, 2013, n.p.)

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Navalny’s recent video detailing alleged corruption by Russia’s prime minister and Putin’s close ally, Dmitri Medvedev, attracted 13 million views (Higgins & Kramer, 2017) and resulted in a massive wave of anti-corruption protests in March and June 2017. These protests occurred in over 90 cities across Russia and attracted tens of thousands of people (mostly youth), who typically do not get their news from the state-controlled television or newspapers that overwhelmingly ignored Navalny’s allegations of corruption (MacFarquhar & Nechepurenko, 2017a). Both the March and June anti-corruption protests resulted in widespread detentions (more than 1,000 detained, 2017) and Navalny himself was arrested and quickly sentenced to 30 days in jail for organizing an unauthorized protest (MacFarquhar & Nechepurenko, 2017b). Navalny’s 50-minute Internet video talked about various questionable charitable organizations that served as fronts to funnel bribes from prominent oligarchs to Prime Minister Medvedev, allowing him to accumulate a number of luxurious estates, vineyards and yachts in Russia and abroad (MacFarquhar & Nechepurenko, 2017b; see also Nechepurenko, 2017). Despite the refusal of the state media or the State Duma to investigate allegations of corruptions against Medvedev (Russia’s State Duma Not Interested, 2017), it is clear that the current regime perceived the political significance of these protests. President Putin compared these protests to Tunisia’s 2011 Arab Spring and Ukraine’s 2014 Euromaidan revolution and criticized them as an attempt by “political forces” to use the issue of corruption for self-promotion (Putin Compares Anti-Corruption Protests, 2017). The Kremlin also accused Navalny of “paying children” to attend anticorruption rallies (Children Paid, 2017), and instructed the Federal Service for Supervision in the Sphere of Telecom, Information Technologies and Mass Communications (Roskomnadzor) to start blocking various Russian social media pages used by the protesters, such as Vkontakte and LiveJournal, as well as YouTube (Ahead of New Protests, 2017).3 The anti-corruption protests of March and June 2017 demonstrated that the Internet can play a powerful role in altering the political landscape, despite various repressive measures used by the state to suppress social protests. Even without a formal investigation into the allegations of corruption leveled against the prime minister, it is clear that these protests effectively weakened Medvedev’s strategic stance and cost him a shot at a future presidency (Medved Is Out, 2017). However, while the Internet can undoubtedly play a significant role in exposing corruption, and can certainly contribute to altering the current process of socializing citizens into existing informal rules and norms that center on corrupt practices and behaviors, its role in creating coherent opposition movements should not be overestimated (Sokhey, 2017).4 The issue that needs to be considered when it comes to Internet communications is whether: [i]n addition to a rhetoric that converts private concerns into public, [what is the] extent to which crowdsourcing direct democracy generates not only temporary, amorphous, festive, and/or mutinous crowds but also the sort of corporate, collective, and public bodies that sustain membership and therefore define a citizenship
that create a digital demos (as in demokratia)? (Holston, 2014, p. 899)

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Voicing concerns or producing highly effective videos on the Internet is not necessarily going to automatically unite and politicize the opposition. In other words, “the internet is not a source of the revolution, but rather a method of its realization” (Hasuev, 2015, p. 3). It can be very effective once there is already a protest culture in place (Zheltov, 2014, p. 190). It also contributes to the creation of this culture by giving a voice to the people and providing an alternative to state media (Hasuev, 2015, p. 46). In the Russian context, the Internet can certainly serve as an instrument of political struggle, as was demonstrated by Navalny and the 2017 anti-corruption protests. However, the Internet can also be used by authoritarian and semi-authoritarian regimes to “monitor the behavior and to assess the intent of citizens” (Bryant, 2012, p. 3) as well as be a propaganda mouthpiece to build support from citizens (Bryant, 2012, p. 6). Furthermore, despite the growth of the Internet, newspapers and television remain primary sources for the Russian public to receive information and form opinions (Masters & Graycar, 2015, p. 171). Thus, the relationship between technology, political power and dissent should be more accurately conceived as a “contested space,” where all sides vie for attention (Bryant, 2012, p. 20), the privacy of discussions is lost and the dynamics of dominance can shift rapidly.

PART II: PUBLIC INTEREST, POTENTIAL FOR SOCIAL PROTESTS AND CONTROL OF DISSENT The potential for dissent (often expressed via the Internet) to transform itself into sustained opposition that participates in policy creation, including policies centered on corruption reduction, is hampered on a number of fronts in today’s Russia. Historical legacy certainly plays a role. Under the Soviet regime, all public space belonged to “the people”; however, citizens were not free to use public space to express their opposition to state institutions. Demonstrations and rallies by the Communist party and other state organizations were staged public events dependent on detailed scripts. Public space was [a] means for collective action, but solely under the control of the state. The Soviet regime effectively separated the public and the private by occupying the former and marginalizing the latter. (Aidukaite & Frohlich, 2015, p. 567)

Political participation in Soviet Russia, where citizens had no real influence on political decision-making, was orchestrated by the state for the purpose of selflegitimation (Fink, 2012, p. 563). Subsequent to the collapse of the Soviet Union, the turbulent economic times that followed created a “post-Soviet withdrawal into private life” (Green, 2011) where collective action mostly revolved around immediate social and economic concerns, such as back wages and housing (Aidukaite & Frohlich, 2015, p. 569). Under the current regime, the very idea of political participation via protest activity became dangerous in itself, especially after the state implemented a number of measures in response to massive protests in 2011
2012 (Marxist Memes, 2017). These protests centered on several factors: highly fraudulent elections to the State Duma in 2011; sharp economic decline, in part brought about by the global economic crisis of 2008; and

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Putin’s intention to run for his third presidential term in March 2012, using the same discourse of economic and social stability that was no longer satisfactory to many individuals (Ross, 2015, pp. 1
2). These protests were massive and “the first reaction from the Kremlin leadership was panic” (Ross, 2015, pp. 1
2), as the protests demonstrated a deepening of the lack of trust in the regime (Tarusin, 2012, p. 190). Governmental actions in dealing with peaceful protesters from 2012 onwards came under criticism in the decision of the European Court of Human Rights in Navalnyy v. Russia (2017) that was rendered on February 2, 2017. The decision noted the existence of a consistent police practice to interrupt any unauthorized public protest “without any assessment of the disturbance the gathering had caused, merely because [protesters] lacked authorization and had persisted despite the police’s orders to stop” (Navalnyy v. Russia, 2017, para. 51). The Strasbourg Court concluded that in each of seven instances of arrest and detention of peaceful political protesters that were in front of the Court, the “[g]overnment failed to demonstrate that there existed a ‘pressing social need’ to interrupt the gatherings, arrest the [protester] and, in particular, to sentence him […] to a term of imprisonment” (Navalnyy v. Russia, 2017, para. 51). The Court noted the chilling effect of these police tactics when it comes to public participation in open political debate, which clearly constitutes a violation of international law (Navalnyy v. Russia, 2017, para. 52).5 Once divisions within the 2012 protest movement started to emerge,6 the regime undertook a concerted effort to suppress all unsanctioned political dissent. Some of the more notable examples of suppression include the July 2012 Federal Law that forces non-governmental organizations that accept any sort of foreign funding to register as “foreign agents” and to provide reports of their activities every six months (On Amendments to Legislative Acts of the Russian Federation, 2012). In the same month, defamation was reintroduced as an offense into the Russian Criminal Code, which makes it easier to muzzle the media for making defamatory public statements (On Amendments to the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation, 2012). In June 2012, harsher administrative penalties were introduced for violations during public rallies (Orlova, 2012, p. 71). Moreover, Russian law requires permission from authorities for public gatherings involving more than one person expressing an opinion (On Amendments to the Federal Law On Gatherings, Meetings, Demonstrations, Rallies and Pickets, 2012). The government also engaged in a campaign of promoting “traditional values,” which included federal legislation aimed at suppressing so-called “gay propaganda” directed at children (On Amendments to Article 5 of the Federal Law, 2013). Since 2011
2012, the regime has engaged in a concerted “cultural campaign that paints the West as a negative influence on Russian society” (Ross, 2015, p. 6; see also Borisenkov & Gukalenko, 2014, p. 5). Furthermore, the state uses the 2014 civil war in Ukraine and Russia’s annexation of Crimea to discredit any sort of opposition to the regime; criticisms are painted as unpatriotic and foreign, and as threatening Russia’s very existence (Ross, 2015, p. 5).

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In addition to the Kremlin’s strategy designed to “coopt, intimidate, and disable the opposition” (Ross, 2015, p. 4), the potential for social protest to emerge as a force for change is limited, in part due to political issues (such as elite corruption) being perceived as “outside the zone of realistic influence for most people” (Marxist Memes, 2017, n.p.). For instance: [M]any workers are aware that management steals, but they don’t get angry
they know that the managers can not only refute all accusations, but they get their cruel revenge later. It’s the same with elections: everyone knows about the falsification of results, but at the same time they also know that there’s practically no way of proving it. This is why these problems are deemed unsolvable, and thus there’s no need to gain a deeper understanding of them, develop your own position or search for alternative ways to solve them. (Marxist Memes, 2017, n.p.)

The majority of citizens feel that they have no voice and are unable to exercise any sort of meaningful influence regarding political elites.7 As a matter of fact, most Russians feel increasingly isolated and marginalized in terms of their influence when it comes to any sort of governance issues (Orlova, 2012, pp. 68, 72). There is virtually no discussion about non-governmental governance (Stel, 2014, p. 62). The ruling elites have “robbed [their citizens] of any kind of political hope” and deliberately repress any “imagined collective future” that would be attainable and better than the present situation (Hirst, 1997, p. 2). Continuing harassment of opposition candidates and the constant threat of legal sanctions contribute to this sense of hopelessness and isolation (Petrushina, 2011, p. 318; see also Mihailichenko et al., 2013, p. 49). After all, “[t]he sheer firepower and destructive reach of the modern state are overwhelming compared to what citizens have at their disposal” (Johnston, 2012, p. 66). The hollowing out of various civil society institutions is further re-enforced by what the regime perceives to be in the public interest when it comes to governance issues. For example, Putin condemned street protests in March 2017, stating that if such protests were allowed to continue, they could result in a “violent aftermath,” such as what occurred in the Arab world and Ukraine in recent years (MacFarquhar, 2017a). Putin also attempted to discredit the ongoing nature of the protests by stating that they were used “for the purposes of selfpromotion and self-advancement [by Navalny]” (Putin Otreagiroval na Protestnye Aktzii v Rossii, 2017). The regime has invested significant resources over the past decade in order to construct the new “Russian collective identity,” which is inextricably tied to the concept of public interest. Various institutions, such as the state educational system, the army, mass media, and even the church have all participated in not only legitimizing Russia’s ruling elites, but have attempted to give their policies a sense of historical continuity and appropriateness for the unique Russian situation, rather than being imposed by the West (Vilkov & Zevako, 2012, p. 64). The regime has deliberately engaged in “collective memory construction,” reminiscent of the Soviet project of creating a “model Soviet citizen” (Vilkov & Zevako, 2012, pp. 64
65). Historical memories and a sense of continuity are “the essence of the community as without them the community has no real meaning and is essentially an illusionary community” (Schwartz, 2013, p. 163). However, the regime has in many instances

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become reliant on the deliberate denial of memory and “the simultaneous creation of myths” (Schwartz, 2013, p. 163) in order to legitimize its policies of suppressing rights and limiting citizens’ political participation in the name of ensuring stability. For example, Russian school history books do not present any type of plurality of opinions or opportunities for debate when it comes to comparing Russia’s post-Communist transition under Yeltsin with Putin’s reign. While Yeltsin’s decade is described in overwhelmingly negative light, when it comes to Putin, all history books are exceptionally complimentary, describing the President as an energetic, popular and capable leader, who managed to recreate Russia’s historical greatness (Vilkov & Zevako, 2012, p. 65). All state-sanctioned history educational materials emphasize the historical continuity between the great Orthodox Russian nation of the past and the current rise of the Russian nation under Putin. The pro-Western period of the 1990s is discounted as an aberration, a loss and a failure. Versions of history or history books presenting different accounts of events have disappeared (Vilkov & Zevako, 2012, p. 66). This example of curricular change is illustrative of the fact that the current regime does not perceive any sort of pluralism, including political pluralism, as having a place in today’s Russia. Citizens who do not agree with the version of history presented by the state or state policies, based on the created mythology of historical events, are marginalized and presented as undesirable, unpatriotic, foreign agitators that are undermining Russian “traditional values” (Kirichek, 2013, p. 18; see also Letunovsky & Lukyanov, 2014, p. 137). Thus, any sort of political protest is perceived by the regime as “challeng[ing] the Kremlin’s hegemonic discourse about political goals, the role of citizen participation, and the most useful mechanisms to guarantee Russia’s future,” as the regime presents itself as sitting “atop a societal powder keg” (Smyth, Soboleva, Shimek, & Sobolev, 2015, pp. 47, 48). The constantly reiterated message of stability rooted in “traditional values” is reflected in the regime’s conception of politics as “something meant only for the politicians” (Smyth et al., 2015, p. 52). Any sort of political activism is viewed by the regime as constituting a profound challenge not only to the Kremlin’s understanding of the role of the citizen, but also to the whole dynamic of state-society relations and the established networks of corruption that accompany it (Smyth et al., 2015, p. 57). Any sort of grass-roots oppositional political demands are presented as going against the broader public interest, and thus suppressing these demands becomes key to maintaining stability and Russia’s sovereignty.8 However, despite the regime’s active suppression of dissent (couched in discourses of maintaining stability, historical continuity, and “traditional values”), dissenting voices continue to be present in Russian society, challenging the entrenched corrupt practices of political and economic elites.

PART III: ACTUALIZING DISSENT: THE ROLE OF THE OPPOSITION AND CIVIL SOCIETY INSTITUTIONS While it has certainly become harder to protest after the “targeted work of the state apparatus, police and organs of state security” (Marxist Memes, 2017, n.p.),

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social protests centered on concrete socio-economic issues, rather than those asserting broader political goals and demands, have had some success (Balmforth, 2015). A major problem, however, is that these concrete issue protests happen outside the formal legislative and legal frameworks. Thus, each protest “emerges and ends as an individual case, without any connection to the legal and social context” (Marxist Memes, 2017, n.p.). Such a situation is reinforced by the current regime, which effectively redirects public dissatisfaction “into patriotic-military slogans and activity” and reframes politicized protests as incited by “foreign agents” (Marxist Memes, 2017, n.p.). Despite the fact that in the past five years it has become harder and more dangerous to mount public protests, they do continue, especially at the neighborhood level and around concrete social issues (Lankina, 2014). These protests are redefining the way that people view their localities as “micro-level civil societies” (Marxist Memes, 2017, n.p.), where active citizens can accomplish tangible results. These concrete issue protests also serve to create a “latent constituency for protest” (Lankina, 2014, n.p.), where safe forms of activism are engaged in during periods of political repression. They can be transformed into more robust forms of political protest activity, given the right set of circumstances (Johnston, 2012, p. 62). Thus, the re-articulation of issues and grievances away from the broader political spectrum and toward more parochial concerns is not surprising following the sustained and deliberate state efforts to suppress dissent, accompanied by a cultural war that paints Western democratic norms as something inconsistent with Russian “traditional values” (Smyth et al., 2015, p. 57). However, despite the seemingly scattered nature of concrete issue protests and their failure to concretize their demands in terms of broader political and legislative changes, these types of protests are useful in “enabling and nurturing continuity in between phases of contention that could be separated by months or even years” (Lankina, 2014, n.p.). In a sense, it is almost natural that most citizen complaints, such as complaints about corrupt practices, would relate to local officials, as “[m]ost citizens, for most of the time, experience the state at this level” (Johnston, 2012, p. 62). However, the accumulation of these small injustices at the local level can have a mobilizing effect “where the opposition can take shape and grow” (Johnston, 2012, p. 62). After all, mass mobilizations are more likely to emerge from the pre-existing networks among the dissatisfied citizens, who regularly discuss (often via Internet chat rooms) their dissatisfaction with the “small injustices of everyday life” (Johnston, 2012, p. 63). In essence, the very fact of belonging to social groups constitutes a key factor in the “construction of collective identities, solidarities, and grievance frames” that make future political protests possible (Pfaff, 1996, p. 93). The recent large-scale anti-corruption protests of March and June 2017 that took place across many Russian cities were an attempt by one member of the opposition, Aleksei Navalny, to transition single-issue protests centered on concrete everyday problems to a broader political agenda (Duvanova, 2017). Navalny’s anti-corruption (rather than anti-Putin) message was an attempt to appeal to as broad an audience as possible (Higgins, 2017a). Endemic corruption is something that certainly resonates with many Russians’ everyday

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experiences, as “violence of the state at the micro-level […] is where the majority of citizens encounter an unjust and arbitrary state” (Johnston, 2012, p. 72). Pervasive corruption is not easily dismissed “as the work of a hostile West” (Editorial Board, 2017). The scale of these 2017 protests (which had not been seen since 2012) and the huge number of young people that they attracted, demonstrate that citizens are no longer satisfied with the regime’s stability discourse. The wave of patriotism associated with the annexation of Crimea is also disappearing,9 as economic problems continue to mount and corruption continues to be pervasive (Nalvany Has Alleged, 2017). In other words, the recent anticorruption protesters were not discontented because they get nothing; they were discontented because they want something else (Higgins, 2017b). The issue was no longer “getting the government to fix roads” or “paying back wages,” but rather “wanting the government to listen, to be more transparent.” The desire for greater political participation was clearly apparent. Moreover, the demands of the protesters were not restricted to major metropolitan cities, such as Moscow and St. Petersburg, but also involved protests in many smaller cities across Russia (MacFarquhar, 2017b). Russian opposition leaders, following the example of Navalny’s anti-corruption protests, should start capitalizing on these changes in attitudes and engaging in “transformational leadership” (Hope, 2016, p. 150). They could work with various grass-roots organizations, helping them to politicize local activism and tie their demands to concrete legal and legislative changes. Capitalizing on the existing culture of localized social protests should be perceived by various Russian opposition leaders as an opportunity to contribute to the formation of anti-corruption norms that may ultimately challenge the status quo, instead of the opposition movement remaining isolated and irrelevant (Marxist Memes, 2017). One of the key issues with the Russian opposition movement is that both the insider parties and the more marginalized and in some cases the more peripheral opposition movements remain fragmented (Turovsky, 2015, p. 135). The insider parties, such as the Communist Party, Just Russia or the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR), are firmly incorporated into the current political system “in exchange for their loyalty” (Turovsky, 2015, p. 123). These parties constitute an integral part of the political regime and their role is to provide legitimacy for that regime by ensuring a visibile competition, especially during election times (Turovsky, 2015, p. 126). These parties are functioning in a perpetual climate of uncertainty, where candidates who are too critical of the regime could be removed and prosecuted either criminally or on corruption charges (Ross, 2015, p. 7). Thus, such insider parties cannot be viewed as a genuine opposition, but should rather be conceptualized as “non-dominant actors with a limited access to power” that function to provide the current system with extra stability (Turovsky, 2015, p. 136). In other words, these parties serve a function of supporting the current regime by being part of it. Due to the fact that insider parties are viewed as part of the regime, the non-insider opposition parties and movements do not engage with them, and so remain totally outside of any type of decision-making processes undertaken by the Kremlin (Sokolov, 2012, p. 304).

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When it comes to non-insider opposition, such as Solidarity, Parnas, Navalny’s Progress Party, Yabloko, Left Front, ROT-Front and the Pussy Riot collective, it is also very fragmented, both in terms of its ideology and organizational capacity (Turovsky, 2015, p. 135). The “die-hard” protesters have a rather narrow base of support among Russian citizens, as the broad pro-democracy demands of core protestors do not resonate with the everyday concerns of regular citizens (Alekseenok & Baranochnikov, 2012, p. 9). Thus: a major question facing the [non-insider] protest movement is how to broaden its appeal to embrace those disgruntled citizens who have yet to be convinced that participating in such actions will achieve meaningful results (Ross, 2015, p. 9).

The Russian middle class, although supportive of democratic principles in theory, comprises to a large degree civil servants unlikely to mobilize against the regime that is “feeding it.” Hence, in the context of “sharp social compartmentalization,” where its interests are under threat, the middle class may abandon its democratic ideals and “support, or acquiesce in,” a repressive regime that reproduces inequalities.10 The majority of middle class members support the view that “Russia needs a strong hand,” and demonstrate a high level of support for Putin (Teichman, 2015, p. 10).11 Meanwhile, the working class is concerned with concrete daily economic issues and often embraces the counter-productive anti-immigration and nationalistic agenda. The working class issue specific opposition is not integrated with the global left, so is not capitalizing on its significant social potential and thus far has been unable to overcome its counterproductive stances (Teichman, 2015, p. 11).12 Furthermore, the Kremlin has engaged in the creation of “sanctioned civil society” that is totally controlled by the regime and is completely disconnected from both the non-insider opposition and grass-roots civil society movements.13 Non-insider opposition remains outside of institutional networks of public governance, and any type of cooperation with insider parties that have firmly established themselves as part of the regime is viewed negatively (Aidukaite & Frohlich, 2015, p. 574). While the Kremlin has certainly undermined its opponents in various ways, the opposition remains disunited despite some recent attempts at cooperation between Navalny and other non-insider opposition movements, such as Parnas and Solidarity.14 Thus, a clearly, a unified opposition is more wishful thinking in the current Russian context. The creation of a viable opposition movement that could become a significant player in the current Russian political landscape would require mobilization of multiple constituencies and “engaging individuals on multiple levels” (Johnston, 2012, p. 63). It would also require cooperation between various opposition groups. While this type of cooperation is difficult to achieve, as it relies on sharing influence with local activists, listening to diverse agendas and is discouraged by the current regime, it constitutes an effective way of reaching a so-called “tipping point,” where a sufficiently large percentage of the population starts to believe in a new and better alternative, leading to changes in a formal institutional context and anti-corruption practices that become the new norm (Helmke & Levitsky, 2004, pp. 732
733). This so-called “tipping point” will not be reached overnight, barring forceful political or

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economic transition, which seems implausible. In other words, in the specific context of Russia, it is unlikely that any specific set of events will result in a fundamental political shift overnight, akin to Ukraine’s Euromaidan. Rather, changes will be gradual and will materialize only if the opposition is able to continually sustain and capitalize upon the sense of dissatisfaction with the current political and economic situation, including levels of corruption. Deeply held social norms and perceptions, especially those related to futility of participation in the political process, do not change rapidly. However, social movements have the potential to mobilize the public using the Internet as a tool to concretize their demands as well as to demonstrate that the political agenda does not always have to be set by the government and distributed via state-controlled media (Maynes, 2016). An anti-corruption social movement has the potential, however briefly, to return politics to the people. A social movement dedicated to anti-corruption presents a possibility of unification and cutting across class, gender and ethnicity lines. An anti-corruption movement can serve as a catalyst in beginning to address deeper problems in Russian society, such as a breakdown of trust between the state and its citizens and low levels of political expectations. Put differently: [c]itizens who are beginning to trust each other, to see alternatives to official exploitation, and to regard better government and fair treatment as real possibilities, have better prospects not just for challenging corruption, but also for overcoming social and systemic fragility. (M. Johnston, 2012, p. 72).

The nascent anti-corruption movement under the leadership of Alexei Navalny is deliberately aiming to be as inclusive as possible and keep the focus on anticorruption (Herszenhorn, 2011). While creating such a movement is a difficult task, sustaining it will be even harder, as infighting will inevitably occur and the regime will capitalize on it to suppress the opposition. Currently, Russia lacks the necessary conditions to translate widespread anti-corruption protests into tangible political changes, as election outcomes seem predetermined. However, an intangible feeling that people will be able to make a difference at some point in the future or at least make a difference in regards to certain concrete issues is arguably no less important. At this point, even a failed movement is never a complete failure, especially if lessons have been learned along the way (Beckwith, 2015, p. 3). The opportunity is that “[i]f the movement can articulate its understanding of defeat in a way that resonates with citizens, it will be in a strong position to take advantage of future openings” (Smyth et al., 2015, p. 58). Thus, what becomes crucial at this point is not a particular political outcome, but rather the process by which an anti-corruption social movement is consolidating the opposition-minded members of society (Podrabinek, 2015).

CONCLUSION When it comes to addressing corruption through social action in the context of Russia, the situation often does not seem conducive to concerted opposition activity, due in part to the state’s active suppression of dissent, the lack of unity

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between various opposition movements, citizens’ belief in the futility of protest and the disconnect from global social movements. Nevertheless, even repeated failures of various movements to impact political decision-making or elite practices are not an exercise in futility. Each failure can be re-conceptualized as adding to the political action toolkit, which, in the long run, helps in creating a sustained sense of social justice, where regular acts of state violence are slowly being transformed into well-articulated political demands that resonate across divergent constituencies. Social movements should not be easily dismissed just because their policy impact is inconsistent or seemingly minimalistic: Influence at one stage [such as agenda setting, policy initiation, policy formulation, implementation or feedback] does not guarantee influence at another and setbacks at one stage do not necessarily mean that a movement has not had positive policy effects at another. It should be emphasized that movements do not necessarily engage these stages in sequence or even all of them in any given campaign. An effect at any stage may be counted as a positive policy impact, therefore a positive step for change no matter how incremental it may be. (Silva, 2015, p. 30)

While the initial purpose behind a particular mobilization can relate to a specific injustice or local corrupt practices, the purposes behind these single-issue protests can develop “beyond district boundaries and across issues,”15 and even result in a movement spillover, where different activists cooperate and unite (Basok, 2014, p. 4). Simple encounters between neighburs have the potential to become politicized and communication networks are developed along the way. These “politics of encounters” (Merrifield, 2011) trigger a “process of collective meaning-making” and shape a shared identity among the participants (Aidukaite & Frohlich, 2015, p. 569). After all, both human welfare and liberty are best served when a plurality of participants are able to meaningfully take part in the process of political decision-making (see Hirst, 1997, chapter 2, for discussion of associative democracy). Hence, the power of the protest movements should not only be conceptualized in terms of their mobilization capacity, but should also be examined as presenting a “potential for [future] governance” (Stel, 2014, p. 61). After all, both the quality and the effectiveness of political participation in a society “is one of the key drivers of the wellbeing of its citizens” (Salvaris & Woolcock, 2010, p. 26). Continually repressive governmental measures are creating dangerous public spaces, where massive and violent confrontations are increasingly likely to occur (Kondakov, 2012, p. 96). Silencing dissent and electoral consolidation through exploiting the image of the opposition as the enemy can be classified as “mechanisms of dehumanization” (Soboleva & Bakhmetjev, 2015, p. 292) where current relations of domination are being clung to in hopes of preserving the status quo. However, as the opposition increasingly finds its voice, challenges elite corruption and vocalizes its demands in terms of democratic governance norms, (Marks, 2010, p. 3) the continuing demands for policies to be reflective of public interest, rather than interests of the powerful elites, will not abate (Purtova, 2012). The anti-corruption discourse can play a powerful unifying role for the opposition given the endemic nature of corruption in today’s Russia.

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NOTES 1. In terms of local impact, the Internet has been used for such diverse campaigns as organizing search groups for missing persons (see Sindelar, 2011) to the battle to save Khimki forest (see Johnson, 2015, p. 202). In terms of national impact, when the opposition leader Alexei Navalny was arrested at the December 5, 2011 protest, thousands of his followers watched a live feed of the protest that was taking place outside of the police station where he was detained. The live feed was generating an audience of 4,000 viewers even at 4 a.m. on a weeknight. When the police began transferring Navalny from precinct to precinct and his whereabouts became unknown, such treatment became a known fact and Navalny’s subsequent appearance in the courtroom for sentencing was made immediately known over Twitter. These events, no doubt, contributed to the massive showing of about 50,000 young protesters in Moscow on December 10, 2011 (see Ioffe, 2011). 2. Russian law requires permission from authorities for any public gatherings involving more than one person expressing an opinion (see Aidukaite & Frohlich, 2015, p. 573). 3. However, it is difficult to exercise total control over social media as “[w]hen one arena is too controlled, political forces invent new ones” (see Larzilliere, 2012, p. 23). 4. Kawa Hassan points out that even when it came to the Arab Spring, which was commonly portrayed by the Western media as the “Twitter revolution,” the role of social media in these uprisings is not as significant as it was made out to be by the media. While social media can amplify events and can speed up certain processes, revolutions involve people actually “pouring into streets, facilitated by Twitter and Facebook” (Hassan, 2012, p. 235). 5. The Court concluded that the Russian government violated Article 11 (Freedom of Peaceful Assembly) of the European Convention on Human Rights. 6. Various divisions emerged within the 2012 protest movement. For example, there was no common consensus as to how to proceed further. Democrats were unable to unite and work together. The divisions within the ranks of the nationalists also became magnified, as some were suspected of cooperating with the FSB or presidential administration. In terms of protesters themselves, different groups of protesters held a wide range of political beliefs and each of these groups had a different understanding of what the protests meant. Eventually, most ordinary Moscovites got tired of hearing the same slogans. They no longer desired criticism, but concrete action, which never came (see Levkovich, 2014). 7. See Rodimushkina Chernikova, and Yakovlev (2015, p. 304), citing a 2015 survey conducted by the Russian Public Opinion Research Center (VTsIOM), which stated that 74% of surveyed respondents commented that protests do not change anything. Also see Sokolov (2011, p. 91). 8. In essence, the idea of “traditional values” is being used by the Russian state as a way of reasserting its sovereignty, including “moral sovereignty,” in its standoff with the West. The Russian state has used the idea of “moral sovereignty” to protect itself from Western ideas and so-called “foreign influences” that it views as inconsistent with Russian “traditional values.” As with the traditional concept of state sovereignty, which grants the state the ultimate right and power to regulate its internal affairs without foreign interference, the concept of “moral sovereignty” is used to describe the supposed right claimed by the Russian state to make decisions without foreign interference in matters that concern morality within Russia. For example, Russia’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sergei Lavrov, stated that “today our country’s independent foreign policy course has essentially no alternative. In other words, we cannot even hypothetically consider the option of Russia’s “attachment” in a subordinate role to some other key player on the international arena. The independence of Russia’s foreign policy is predetermined by its geographical size, unique geopolitical position, age-old historical tradition, and culture and mentality of our people” See Lavrov (2013, p. 1). 9. While at first glance the support for the takeover of Crimea continues to be very strong, the actual situation is more nuanced and complicated. Russians, particularly those

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living in Moscow and St. Petersburg, are not unanimous in their support of the annexation of Crimea. For example, when the authorities organized a large-scale rally and concert dedicated to the third anniversary of Crimea’s annexation on March 18, 2017, volunteers were paid for participating in the meeting. Thus, many came not because of a sense of patriotism, but because of a financial incentive. Furthermore, both the leadership as well as many of the students at Lomonosov Moscow State University were against organizing the rally on the territory of the university and signed a petition, which gathered 3,500 signatures. The complaints were ignored by the authorities with rally going ahead despite protests (see Koshkon, 2017). 10. Russia is not unique when it comes to the middle class abandoning democratic principles in favor of protecting their property interests. For a discussion of the Chilean context, see Teichman (2015, p. 18). 11. What has to be noted is that the very term “middle class” could be viewed as “an element of political discourse that generates powerful fantasies and fears” (see Gilbert, 2016, p. 259). Middle class is not a uniform phenomenon and thus it can be challenging to interpret its political stance. 12. Sharon Barnart suggests that various protests movements can learn from one another. She discusses how the language of “rights” began to diffuse from the 2010
2011 pro-democracy protests in Egypt to protests related to disability that were occurring in Egypt around the same time (see Barnart, 2014, p. 75). 13. The Kremlin’s creation of a Public Chamber is an example of top-down manufacturing of civil society institutions that the regime “consults” on its initiatives (see Petrushina, 2011, p. 318). 14. Mikhail Kasyanov’s Parnas Party and Alexei Navalny’s Party of Progress announced the creation of an oppositional coalition, which was also joined by other opposition forces to create an opposition coalition for Russia’s 2015 regional elections and 2016 federal State Duma elections (see Podrabinek, 2015). 15. This type of expansion of initial purposes was apparent in Moscow’s housing protests in 2012, when residents of the Fili-Davydkovo district discovered governmental plans for a six-lane highway construction that would eliminate green zones and would pass right under their windows. Residents began publishing a local newspaper, created a neighborhood YouTube channel and eventually “the initiative group and its network of supporters put forward the original initiator of the protest as a candidate in the city’s mayoral elections in September 2014” (see Aidukaite & Frohlich, 2015, p. 575).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Dr Orlova wants to thank Giuliana Deluca for her very helpful research assistance as well as two anonymous peer reviewers for providing excellent comments.

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21. The Kitchen Sisters. (2014, May 27). How Soviet kitchens became hotbeds of dissent and culture [Podcast]. NPR. Retrieved from http://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2014/05/27/314961287/ how-soviet-kitchens-became-hotbeds-of-dissent-and-culture. Accessed on June 2018.

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Turovsky, R. (2015). The systemic opposition in authoritarian regimes: A case study of Russian regions. In C. Ross (Ed.), Systemic and non-systemic opposition in the Russian Federation: Civil society awakens? (pp. 121
138). Farnham, Surrey, England: Ashgate Publishing. Vilkov, A., & Zevako, U. (2012). Tehnologii Formirovaniya Politicheskoi Identichnosti v Sovremennoi Rossii [Technologies of political identity formation in contemporary Russia]. Izvestiya Saratovskogo Universiteta, 4, 62
71 [In Russian]. Werning Rivera, S., & Rivera, D. W. (2006). The Russian elite under Putin: Militocratic or bourgeois? Post-Soviet Affairs, 22(2), 125
144. Zheltov, M. (2014). Internet, Protestnye Dvizheniya I Arabskaya Vesna [Internet, protest movements and the Arab Spring]. Vestnik Vladivostokskogo Gosudarstvennogo Universiteta Ekonomiki I Servisa, 1(24), 189
203 [In Russian].

SECTION III ACTIVIST START-UP AND WITHDRAWAL

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VOLUNTEER RETENTION, BURNOUT AND DROPOUT IN ONLINE VOLUNTARY ORGANIZATIONS: STRESS, CONFLICT AND RETIREMENT OF WIKIPEDIANS Piotr Konieczny

ABSTRACT This study investigates why contributors to online volunteer organizations reduce activity or discontinue volunteering. First, this analysis, based on a survey of over a 100 English Wikipedia’s volunteers with the highest edit count, identifies a gap in the research on volunteers burnout/dropout, namely the importance of interpersonal conflict as an understudied yet highly significant factor. Second, this analysis has practical implications for the sustainability of the Wikipedia project. Third, this analysis should outline an underrepresented issue that if generalizable, may help other volunteer organizations identify a key area related to their volunteer burnout/dropout. Keywords: Volunteers; social movements; volunteer burnout and dropout; interpersonal conflict; Wikipedia; stressors

INTRODUCTION The topic of declining engagement in volunteer organizations is vital to their existence. This study focuses on the issue of dropout and motivation among volunteers as a dynamic factor related to internal causes (personal matters; e.g.,

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family relations and employment) and external causes (e.g., relationship with the organization). It outlines the complexity of and the fluctuations in volunteers’ motivation, and identifies interpersonal disputes as a major factor that if addressed, could foster effective planning of volunteer management practices, but so far has not been given a sufficiently prominent place in the literature on volunteer burnout/dropout. This argument is developed through the case study of Wikipedia, the only non-profit organization in the group of top 50 most popular websites, and one of the largest voluntary organizations in the world. The following chapter presents the analysis of the editing patterns of the 300 contributors to English Wikipedia with the highest edit count. This group was chosen as the vast majority of Wikipedia content is created by only a small fraction of the site’s most active volunteers, who are therefore an extremely valuable resource for the project. As nearly all of volunteering in Wikipedia context takes place online, the findings of this study are of particular relevance to online volunteering, but likely have implications for more traditional forms of volunteering that need to be explored in further studies. The enclosed literature review also suggests that the existing literature on volunteer retention, primarily focused on traditional (not-online) volunteering is likely underestimating the impact of interpersonal conflict. Finally, the following analysis should have practical implications for the debate on long-term sustainability of the Wikipedia project.

WHAT IS WIKIPEDIA? To most casual visitors, Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, is likely “just another website,” or a large online encyclopedia. But to social scientists, underneath that facade is something much more interesting. Wikipedia is the fifth most popular website in the world, and the only non-profit among the world’s 100 most popular websites. One of its most distinguishing features is that it is has been created and is maintained by hundreds of thousands of volunteers from all around the world, out of which at least several tens of thousands can be seen as highly involved in the project at any time (Reagle, 2010, p. 9). The sheer number of those volunteers makes Wikipedia one of the largest
if not the largest
voluntary organization in the world. The 200 or so salaried employees of the Wikimeda Foundation which maintains Wikipedia do not create content, policies, nor engage in dispute resolution, but are primarily responsible for issues such as technical maintenance of servers and legal interaction with governments and other organizations. The website’s volunteer-driven structure and its mission to deliver free, encyclopedic information to every human being in the world means that within the social movement typology it can be classified as a promise-driven social movement (Konieczny, 2009). Anyone can become a volunteer (known as Wikipedia editor, or a Wikipedian) simply by making an edit; dedicated editors can register an account and following an application process and a vote can gain special ranks, privileges, and responsibilities such as becoming an administrator (with the power to delete pages and block other editors). Wikipedia editors not only create the

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encyclopedic content that the site is best known for, but also have designed majority of the site’s policies, including those related to dispute resolution and created dedicated positions for volunteers specializing in resolving disputes, such as mediators or arbitrators (Hoffman & Salil, 2010; McKeon, Viégas, & Wattenberg, 2007; Reagle, 2010, pp. 126
127). Readers interested in finding more about Wikipedia’s culture and organization can consult one of several academic books dedicated to Wikipedia (Jemielniak, 2014; Reagle, 2010), and those interested in observing issues discussed in this chapter in real time can visit Wikipedia pages such as “Wikipedia: Dispute resolution,” “Wikipedia: Requests for adminship” or “Wikipedia: Administrator forum.”

LITERATURE REVIEW, THEORY AND RESEARCH QUESTIONS There exists a substantial literature on volunteering, dealing with its uniqueness and attributes, types of volunteer work and major motivations for volunteering. Within that large field, the following research engages with and contributes to the literature on (online and offline) volunteer burnout and dropout, which is reviewed in this chapter. Burnout and Dropout in Voluntary Organizations The topic of volunteer retention is one of the most basic concerns of all voluntary organizations, tied to their very survival. The process of individuals leaving an organization is painful for both sides: individuals who leave “angry and hurt” and the organization, which suffers from reduced cohesion, feelings of failure, bad press, and insufficient manpower; in extreme situations leading to general lack of trust, difficulties in recruiting, and collapse. Despite that, the body of work on volunteer burnout and dropout is rather small (one can conclude that scholars of social movements vastly prefer to deal with reasons why people do something, rather than why they stop), and within it no dedicated study has been carried out to identify how such factors may differ between traditional (offline) and online volunteering settings. Of particular relevance for this small field are the works of Blake and Jefferson (1992), Locke, Ellis, and Smith (2003), Hager and Brudney (2004), Ducheneaut (2005), Haski-Leventhal and Bargal (2008), Yanay and Yanay (2008), Smith and Cordery (2010), Willems et al. (2012), and Brookfield, Parry, and Bolton (2014), which rather than being case studies of individual organizations have tried to review and systematize reasons for volunteer burnout and dropout across the field. Those studies form the basis for the theoretically informed discussion that follows. The existing literature is in agreement that we are lacking a conclusive answer to question of why do volunteers burn and drop out. Yanay and Yanay (2008) note that the reasons people volunteer and stop doing so vary according to context, time, or circumstance. They thus echo Locke et al. (2003, pp. 81, 95), who in their earlier comprehensive literature review of the volunteer retention

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literature noted that there are “many areas of disagreement among researchers about the factors that cause people to remain as volunteers,” and conclude that “there is no ‘X’ factor that explains why some people continue volunteering and why others withdraw.” That said, there are some general trends and several groups of major factors commonly identified in the literature. Yanay and Yanay (2008) proposed a model of volunteer lifecycle, in which they suggested that volunteers drop out in two phases. First phase occurs shortly after starting to volunteer and usually concerns volunteers finding out that their idealized vision of what they thought they would be doing does not match the encountered reality. Such volunteers do not linger; they simply drop out quickly after realizing volunteering does not have the appeal they expected. The second phase occurs much later and affects experienced, long-time volunteers, who usually get demotivated after years of running into continued, unchangeable problems, such as concluding that their efforts have failed to produce visible change. This is what is commonly described in literature on volunteer retention as “burnout.” Yanay and Yanay (2008) note that the volunteers who burnout and leave expected security, support, sharing, and positive self-feeling, but instead what they found was anxiety, ambiguity, loneliness, pain, and low self-esteem. Haski-Leventhal and Bargal (2008) note that most volunteers eventually experience burnout, often preceded by developing cynical attitudes towards their work, difficulty caring for the original mission, tiredness, and seeing the process of volunteering as increasingly stressful. Some may overcome it; others simply leave. The loss of such volunteers is particularly painful as they are likely much more experienced, and thus valuable to the organization, then newcomers. However, Haski-Leventhal and Bargal (2008) also noted that majority of studies of volunteer retention are focused on initial period of volunteers joining the organization, even though most volunteers leave not at the first, but rather later, in what Yanay and Yanay (2008) would describe as the second phase, or wave, of volunteer dropout. With regards to factors influencing volunteer retention, Schaufeli and Enzmann (1998, pp. 19, 186) in their comprehensive review of the topic of burnout and dropout, having surveyed over 5,000 publications, note that “myriad possible burnout symptoms and definitions exist,” identifying numerous definitions and over 130 symptoms; they synthesize their commons elements into a definition that includes symptoms such as exhaustion, decreased motivation, reduced effectiveness and development of dysfunctional attitudes, and behaviors. Locke et al. (2003) identified, outside of the major life changes, three major areas, all related to negative experiences within organization: being overworked, undervalued, or inefficiently managed (Locke et al., 2003). Finally, Blake and Jefferson (1992, p. 72) noted the importance of a major life change, such as moving, getting a job or getting married, on whether one continues to volunteer; this was confirmed more recently by Corrigall-Brown (2011, p. 80) and Brookfield et al. (2014, p. 32). One more factor seems relatively absent from the literature presented earlier
experiencing interpersonal conflict. It is not mentioned by Schaufeli and Enzmann (1998), while Locke et al. (2003, p. 85) who wrote that “negative

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experiences within organizations are repeatedly cited as reasons why people quit volunteering” did not explicitly discuss it, neither. It is only briefly mentioned as one of numerous factors affecting volunteer retention by Musick and Wilson (2007, p. 432) and Smith and Cordery (2010). Willems et al. (2012) who do identify related topics, labeled as “struggles with other volunteers in the group,” as one of the major four factors leading volunteers to quit, though they do not devote any space to discussing said factors significance. This is surprising, as Wuthnow (1997, 1998, p. 170) reports findings from the Civic Involvement Survey that interpersonal conflict affects about 40% of volunteers; and it has also been identified as a common problem in non-volunteer workplaces by Maslach, Schaufeli, and Leiter (2001) and Narayanan, Menon, and Spector (1999, p. 71) who find that “interpersonal conflict appears to be prevalent and a major stressor” across numerous occupations, and call for more research on this topic. Maslach et al. (2001, p. 1; 2003) in particular find that organizational burnout in general is “a prolonged response to chronic emotional and interpersonal stressors,” expressing itself in “exhaustion and cynicism” that emerge from the presence of two primary factors: work overload and social conflict (Table 1). Prior Research on Wikipedia’s Editor Burnout and Dropout Research on Wikipedia volunteers has focused on why people contribute to Wikipedia (Schroer & Hertel, 2009). Some recent research sheds light on the problems of retention of new contributors, that is, on the first phase dropout (Choi, Alexander, Kraut, & Levine, 2010; Halfaker, Geiger, Morgan, & Riedl, 2013; Schneider, Gelley, & Halfaker, 2014), but as of the spring of 2016, with the exception of Zhu, Kraut, and Kittur (2012), no academic research has been done trying to answer why Wikipedians stop contributing (burnout and secondphase droput), nor to address the issues of changing responsibilities or sense of Table 1. Major Factors Related to Volunteer Burnout and Dropout in Literature. Factor

Mentioned In

Difference between idealization and reality

Yanay and Yanay (2008)

Unsatisfying/unfulfilling work

Yanay and Yanay (2008), Haski-Leventhal and Bargal (2008), Schaufeli and Enzmann (1998)

Exhaustion/overwork

Schaufeli and Enzmann (1998)

Development of dysfunctional attitudes and behaviors

Schaufeli and Enzmann (1998)

Inefficient management

Locke et al. (2003)

Feeling undervalued

Locke et al. (2003)

Major life changes (work, family, etc.)

Locke et al. (2003), Blake and Jefferson (1992), Corrigall-Brown (2011), Brookfield et al. (2014)

Interpersonal conflict

Musick and Wilson (2007), Smith and Cordery (2010). Willems et al. (2012), Wuthnow (1997, 1998)

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fulfillment as the projects moves through its lifecycle. This creates a significant gap in our knowledge, one particularly glaring as there is plenty of evidence to suggest that Wikipedia project is having major problems with volunteer retention. Around 2007 the numbers of Wikipedia editors, previously showing a growth pattern, stabilized and may even be declining. The number of new editors joining the project also decreased (Halfaker et al., 2013; Schneider et al., 2014) and did the retention ratio of established editors (Wikimedia Foundation, 2010). The rate of growth of Wikipedia pages has also declined since in that period (Ortega, 2009; see also Fig. 1), through the relation between Wikipedia growth and the number of editors is not likely to be a simple linear one, Suh, Convertino, Chi, and Pirolli (2009) for example identified a number of other factors likely affecting this relationship, such as fewer easy-to-write-about topics, and increased difficulty in contributing due to more bureaucratized environment. Through this relationship is doubtlessly complex, fewer contributors to a project that relies on volunteers for nearly all activities is certainly a major concern for questions of sustainability and growth of Wikipedia in particular and related volunteer-based projects in general. This makes even more surprising the lack of research into the second-phase dropout, that is, one affecting the more experienced and active Wikipedians. The power law, also known as the “1% rule” or the “long tail,” suggests that in most online communities a small proportion of activists creates the majority of content. This inequality has been commonly ascribed to many trends on the Internet, and confirmed to affect many aspects of participation online, including

Fig. 1. English Wikipedia: Retention Rate versus Active Editors 2004
2015. Source: Image by Dragons flight; licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Editor_Retention_Update.png).

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those of Wikipedia contributors. Javanmardi (2009) and Ortega (2009) concluded that a small number of most prolific editors create most value on Wikipedia; regardless of the definition of value (which as been variously defined as the number of words contributed, edits made, or bytes added). 1% of Wikipedia editors are credited with about 70% of the value created; Top 200 active contributors are responsible for approximately 12.5% of the site’s content, and Top 1,200 for nearly 30% (Wikimedia Foundation, 2017). Despite the importance of those most active volunteers, almost all existing research on burnout and dropout among Wikipedians has primarily focused on the problems with retention of new editors on English Wikipedia. A 2011 survey (Wikimedia Foundation, 2011b), focusing on the general editor community, offered some specific numbers on why Wikipedia volunteers become less active: they have less time (37%), spend more time in other offline activities (21%), spend more time in other online activities (7%), enter into conflict with other editors (7%), see rules and guidelines as becoming too complicated (6%), and do not have enough expertise to contribute (4%). That survey, however, was open only to editors who were logged in for editing, and thus likely missed many of the ones which have completely cut their ties with Wikipedia. An earlier 2010 survey (Wikimedia Foundation, 2010) focused on former contributors, and found that 35% left because of something that happened in their life, unrelated to Wikipedia, whereas 13% left because they “found the atmosphere unpleasant” and 25% noted that “some editors made editing difficult,” while the reminder cited difficulties with understanding technical aspects of editing Wikipedia. When controlling for the number of edits, the numbers went up to 37%, 20%, and 40%, respectively, for editors with 10 or more edits, as responses related to difficulties with understanding technical aspects of Wikipedia dropped. The survey also found that the editors who answered positively to those questions were also the ones who felt that they had the most left to contribute. About half of this group found other contributors stubborn or biased, and about half saw their contributions removed. All other factors cited by respondents were much less significant. The survey authors noted a need for a follow-up survey focusing on more experienced contributors, but it has never been carried out. Forms of interpersonal conflict on Wikipedia come in all variants of verbal abuse we could imagine, including personal attacks ranging from vulgar namecalling to veiled insinuations of academic dishonesty, taking the form of undoing one another edits, or reporting another party for violations of policies to site’s administration, often resulting in long and stressful examinations of one’s behavior, with the accused (and often, the accuser) having to explain and defend their behavior. Variously defined conflict between editors (failed socialization system) has been identified as one of the major reasons for declining contributions by a number of scholars looking into the topic of new volunteer retention on Wikipedia. As the Wikipedia community grew, implicit norms were formalized into a growing corpus of official rules and procedures and rule creation and enforcement became increasingly decentralized. McKeon et al. (2007) noted that Wikipedia has “myriad guidelines, policies and rules,” “complex and

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bureaucratic processes [that run] counter to naïve depictions of Wikipedia as an anarchic space” and that policy pages governing the project are growing in number almost as quickly as the pages on encyclopedic content. Interactions have grown increasingly depersonalized (Choi et al., 2010; Halfaker et al., 2013). It is difficult for newcomers to find work to do, as some of the most popular topics are developed to the point where contribution to them becomes difficult for a non-specialist. Jian and MacKie-Mason (2008) looked at the reasons why people leave Wikipedia. They found that as Wikipedia grew older, the likelihood of new editors staying diminished. Those are the factors that led Halfaker et al. (2013) and Schneider et al. (2014) to conclude that newcomers’ contributions are being rejected at an increasing rate, and the community’s formal mechanisms for norm articulation are increasingly resistant to change proposed by new editors, both factors which result in decreased retention rate for new editors. Zhu et al. (2012) presented the most developed analysis of Wikipedia editor retention problem going beyond the new editors, analyzing different types of leadership found on Wikipedia. They found that aversive leadership (such as administrators warning and blocking other editors) decreased members’ contribution by 14%. Their findings together with data from Wikimedia Foundation surveys support findings on the importance of friendly environment in voluntary organizations as noted by Locke et al. (2003) and Boezeman and Ellemers (2007), and tie in with similar comments on interpersonal conflict by Maslach et al. (2001), Wuthnow (1998), and Narayanan et al. (1999). Whereas the majority of cited research was quantitative, Reagle (2012) looked in more detail at a smaller number of cases where online volunteers in several virtual projects completely abandoned them (commit “infocide” as Reagle terms it), listing three primary reasons: exhaustion, online discontent, and privacy concerns. Out of those, with regards to several Wikipedians he studied, it was the discontent
individuals in his sample reported becoming disillusioned after encountering conflict and lack of respect within the community. Finally, the importance of conflict for Wikipedia in general has been stressed by Jemielniak (2014, p. 59) in his book on organization of Wikipedia. He considered the topic to be significant enough to dedicate an entire chapter to the analysis of its importance within Wikipedia’s structure, noting that “in spite of the vast majority of literature saying otherwise, Wikipedia cannot be described as solely collaboration driven; it is also dissent driven” and “conflict is possibly the most common form of interaction that people take part in otherwise observe on Wikipedia.” In that chapter, Jemielniak also provides an analysis of the common paths of escalation and resolution of conflicts on Wikipedia (Jemielniak, 2014, pp. 76
81). In summary, the literature on editor retention on Wikipedia discussed insights on the first phase of volunteer dropout (why new editors may become quickly dissatisfied and will not transform into long-term contributors), but next to no research has been done in understanding the second-phase of volunteer dropout, that is, why experienced contributors reduce volunteering (burnout) or completely abandon it (dropout). The results presented above were the foundation of the research question that will be pursued in the study presented here, which is to test how the significance

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of interpersonal conflict in the second-phase volunteer dropout. This factor is mostly ignored in or glossed over in existing literature on volunteer retention, but the exploratory studies of Wikipedia volunteers presented earlier suggest that in that particular setting, at least, it is much more significant.

METHODS To improve our understanding of volunteer retention, particularly with regards to the second-phase burnout and dropout (using the two-phase model described by Yanay & Yanay, 2008) affecting the most active contributors, in this study I focus on the group of 300 most active Wikipedians in English Wikipedia (the largest of the Wikipedia projects). Activity was operationalized as an edit count, following Wikipedia’s most common metric (as shown by the definition used in the “Wikipedia:List of most active Wikipedians by the number of edits” entry). The targeted sample size of 300 was chosen after a pretest survey as one that should deliver acceptable confidence intervals with the predicted response ratio. Data were gathered from July 2013 to February 2014, based on the July 2013 version of the abovementioned list. Wikipedia Dashboard analysis tool (http:// wikidashboard.appspot.com/) was used to identify a subset of editors with the highest edit count whose activity (operationalized as number of edits per month) showed a steady decline over time, operationalized as “at least a 20% reduction in total number of edits from one year to another.” The existing literature on volunteer retention has not usually operationalized burnout in such a quantitative way, however as Wikipedian activity can be much more easily measured in terms of an edit count, I opted for a quantifiable operationalized definition of burnout, which further studies may now easily adjust if desired. Out of top 300 of Wikipedia’s editors with the highest edit count for the queried period, two major groups could be identified: the 168 (56%) who were still fully active, and the 132 (44%) who have steadily reduced their activity. The former group was divided into two subgroups: editors showing no reduction in their activity, and those showing a slight (