Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change 9781781907337, 9781781907320

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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 23:

Political Opportunities, Social Movements and Democratization – Edited by Patrick G. Coy

Volume 24:

Consensus Decision Making, Northern Ireland and Indigenous Movements – Edited by Patrick G. Coy

Volume 25:

Authority in Contention – Edited by Daniel J. Myers and Daniel M. Cress

Volume 26:

Edited by Patrick G. Coy

Volume 27:

Edited by Patrick G. Coy

Volume 28:

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:

Edited by Patrick G. Coy

Volume 31:

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

RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE VOLUME 36

RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE EDITED BY

PATRICK G. COY Center for Applied Conflict Management, Kent State University, OH, USA

United Kingdom – North America – Japan India – Malaysia – China

Emerald Group Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2013 Copyright r 2013 Emerald Group Publishing Limited Reprints and permission 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: 978-1-78190-732-0 ISSN: 0163-786X (Series)

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CONTENTS LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

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INTRODUCTION

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PART I: OLD AND NEW MEDIA AND MOBILIZATION SPREADING THE WORD OR SHAPING THE CONVERSATION: ‘‘PROSUMPTION’’ IN PROTEST WEBSITES Jennifer Earl

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MEDIA, MOVEMENTS, AND MOBILIZATION: TEA PARTY PROTESTS IN THE UNITED STATES, 2009–2010 Tarun Banerjee

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PART II: ELITES AND ADVANCEMENTS IN RIGHTS STRATEGIC ACTION FIELDS AND THE CONTEXT OF POLITICAL ENTREPRENEURSHIP: HOW DISABILITY RIGHTS BECAME PART OF THE POLICY AGENDA David Pettinicchio

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INCONSISTENCY IN POLICY ELITES’ SUPPORT FOR MOVEMENT CLAIMS: FEMINIST ADVOCACY IN TWO REGIONS OF PERU Anna-Britt Coe

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CONTENTS

PART III: PEACEBUILDING PATHOLOGIES AND BEST PRACTICES PATHOLOGIES IN PEACEBUILDING: DONORS, NGOs, AND COMMUNITY PEACEBUILDING IN CROATIA Laura J. Heideman

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ORGANIZATIONAL ADAPTATION AND SURVIVAL IN A HOSTILE AND UNFAVORABLE ENVIRONMENT: PEACEBUILDING ORGANIZATIONS IN ISRAEL AND PALESTINE Michelle I. Gawerc

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PART IV: CONSENSUS IN OCCUPY AND IN SOCIAL FORUMS LEARNING CONSENSUS DECISION-MAKING IN OCCUPY: UNCERTAINTY, RESPONSIBILITY, COMMITMENT Anna Szolucha

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PRACTICES OF LOCAL SOCIAL FORUMS: THE BUILDING OF TACTICAL AND CULTURAL COLLECTIVE ACTION REPERTOIRES Pascale Dufour

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PART V: 50 YEARS LATER: SMELSER REAPPLIED YOU HAVE TO FIGHT! FOR YOUR RIGHT! TO PARTY! STRUCTURE, CULTURE, AND MOBILIZATION IN A UNIVERSITY PARTY RIOT Stephen C. Poulson, Thomas N. Ratliff and Emily Dollieslager ABOUT THE AUTHORS

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Tarun Banerjee

Department of Sociology, State University of New York, Stony Brook, New York, NY, USA

Anna-Britt Coe

Umea˚ Center for Gender Studies, Umea˚ University, Umea˚, Sweden

Patrick G. Coy

Center for Applied Conflict Management, Kent State University, Kent, OH, USA

Emily Dollieslager

James Madison University, Harrisonburg, VA, USA

Pascale Dufour

School of Political Science, University of Montreal, Montre´al, Canada

Jennifer Earl

School of Sociology, University of Arizona, Tucson, AZ, USA

Michelle I. Gawerc

Department of Sociology, Loyola University Maryland, Baltimore, MD, USA

Laura J. Heideman

Department of Sociology, Northern Illinois University, DeKalb, IL, USA

David Pettinicchio

Department of Sociology/Nuffield College, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK

Stephen C. Poulson

Department of Sociology and Anthropology, James Madison University, Harrisonburg, VA, USA

Thomas N. Ratliff

Department of Criminology, Sociology and Geography, Arkansas State University, Jonesboro, AR, USA

Anna Szolucha

Department of Sociology, National University of Ireland, Maynooth, Kildare, Ireland vii

INTRODUCTION A somewhat common view of social movements is that they are somehow associated with the vanguard, or that they are at least leading the way to new possibilities on what are frequently considered to be cutting edge issues, that is, topics that few others are currently concerned with or informed about in meaningful ways. This has often been the case historically, and when it is, it is also one of the reasons why social movements are so exciting to study and have attracted such sustained social scientific attention. Sometimes this added scholarly attention to the movement and its issues is another salient variable in pushing forward the social and political change that the movement is aiming for. But social movements are not always on the cutting edge; indeed, sometimes they aren’t close to it. Social movements frequently only mirror concerns, processes, or patterns that are swirling about or even dominating the society of which the movement is a part. In this sense social movements are reflectors and followers just as much as they may be leaders. Yet even this view is too simplistic since it is also true that social movements may lag behind – only adopting practices and processes long after they are already well established in other sectors of the society. As long ago as the 1970s and 1980s, Marshall McLuhan and Alvin Toffler were predicting in their various ways that the traditional boundaries between producers and consumers and between professionals and amateurs were already breaking down and would continue to do so at increased speeds and in more and more social and economic sectors. This is due in large part, of course, to a proliferating myriad of advances in electronic technologies making it increasingly easy for consumers to become producers, cocreating or even creating ‘‘products’’ of value for other consumers. Thus, the ‘‘prosumer’’ term was coined (Toffler, 1980). This brings us to the lead chapter in this volume: Jennifer Earl’s impressive article growing out of her Career Grant from the US National Science Foundation. She set out to analyze the degree to which the boundaries between professional movement organizers and everyday social movement participants reflect the larger breakdown processes that are occurring elsewhere between professionals and amateurs and between ix

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producers and consumers. To return to the themes with which I opened this introduction, should we understand social movements to be leaders or followers when it comes to the prosumption phenomenon? More specifically, Earl investigates the extent to which protest-related web sites use technologies that subvert or reinforce distinctions between professionals and amateurs, and between organizers and participants. To do this, she compiled an imposing and rich five year panel dataset on web sites across no fewer than 20 different social movement areas. While her findings are tempered, nuanced, and contextual, they suggest that, overall, the breaking down of organizer/participant boundaries is not occurring as swiftly in the social movements arena as it has in many other areas of social and economic life. Jennifer Earl’s data set and her sustained empirical rigor help her to break new ground and allow for fairly generalizable results. No one researching and writing in this area in the foreseeable future will be able to ignore this pioneering and important longitudinal and comparative study. We follow with a second chapter also focused on the relationship between media platforms and social movements. And also like the first chapter, this one is quite methodologically sophisticated. It is based in part on a large original dataset of coverage of the US Tea Party in nearly 200 state and local newspapers and on Fox News Network over an 18-month period. The author uses time series cross-sectional data to test eight important hypotheses and to make complex causal claims about the relationships between media coverage of the Tea Party in US politics and Tea Party activity. In general, scholars have long pondered the degrees to which media coverage of a movement spurs mobilization or whether it more often works the other way around – with media coverage following sustained mobilization. Now comes the Tea Party movement, which is a particularly important case given the close association between the Tea Party movement and conservative media in the United States. While there have been many presumptions made about the effects of the media in the rise and growth of the Tea Party movement, the unfortunate reality is that we have precious little hard data on this question. This lacuna has now been ably filled thanks to the innovative study engineered by Tarun Banerjee. His research shows that previous media coverage on the movement was a stronger predictor of subsequent protest than past protest was, and notably, it also supports the notion that movement agendas can be shaped in the conservative press and then be subsequently embraced by the media at large. Movements appeal to the media, to their membership, to bystander publics, and also of course to policymakers. Despite the obvious importance that policymakers may have for movements angling to bring about policy

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shifts, we don’t know as much about these relationships as we would expect, or like. Part II of the volume aims to change that by including two chapters linked by their focus on movements promoting rights (women’s rights and disability rights), and which are also linked by their attention to this relationship between policy elites and their support for social movement goals. David Pettinicchio investigates the role of policy elites through the lens of disability policy in the United States from 1961 to 2006. His analysis centers around three key variables that eventually contributed to creating a rightsbased policy community on disability in the United States: the number and type of disability-related Congressional committee hearings, the number and type of Congressional committees involved in disability, and the amount of policy output and change in the type of laws enacted by Congress. Using original longitudinal data based on content analysis of the Congressional Record/Lexis-Nexis Congressional as well as data from the Policy Agendas Project, the author analyzes nearly 400 disability-related public laws and no fewer than 1,275 Congressional hearings. His careful analysis shows how entrepreneurs pursued a new policy image of rights within a context of increasing committee involvement, issue complexity and space on the policy agenda, and the consequences this had on policy. Contextualizing these findings within the notion of strategic action fields (Fligstein & McAdam, 2012), Pettinicchio demonstrates that disability rights was actually a political innovation for which entrepreneurship and institutional activism was more responsible than were outside mobilization or public opinion changes. As important as Pettinicchio’s research is for the literature on policy elites and social movements, it reproduces a historic and ongoing problem: far too much of the literature on elite support of movements has been US-focused. Thankfully, Anna-Britt Coe turns her qualitative research focus southward to two regions in Peru to help remedy this oversight. Based on extensive interviews with regional policy elites in Peru, Coe shows that cultural approaches that examine social processes and discursive and emotional opportunities can create insights which have not emerged within US-centric approaches, including with regard to why policy elite support may be inconsistent across the policy process. Her in depth interviews show that while Peruvian policymakers supported gender equity and hoped and intended to do even more, they were severely constrained by civil society’s insufficient and ineffectual feminist advocacy in the face of the State’s economic instrumentalism and the Catholic Church’s conservatism. Coe’s research demonstrates that the bridging of political and cultural approaches to the studying of movement policy impacts is both desirable and feasible.

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The next section on peacebuilding includes two articles that resonate somewhat more with the conflict resolution side of the Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change series focus than with its social movements side. However, unfortunate it is, the fact is that in the world of non-profit organizations, form and focus too often follow funding (Coy & Hedeen, 2005). It matters little which sector of the nonprofit world is being focused upon, the relationship between funding streams and programmatic foci is a too tight one such that the availability of program funding drives and even determines that same programming, irrespective of other more worthy concerns like effectiveness, long-term strategic planning, etc. The deleterious effects of this are compounded further still when the need is so great, as in peacebuilding ventures in postconflict scenarios like Croatia. This is what Laura J. Heideman investigates so ably with a sophisticated multi-method approach: an ethnography that spans levels and processes. Over 16 months between January 2008 and May 2010, she conducted over 150 interviews in Croatia, observed the implementation of five projects, and the daily activities at four NGOs in three different cities. Heideman found that donors actively shape NGO agendas in ways that lead to that lead to mistaking programs for peacebuilding and that continually spur local NGOs to come up with new projects with new foci in new locations, irrespective of need or good effect. Heideman effectively argues these approaches short-circuit long-term peacebuilding work where it is most needed, and sacrifice the relationships that are at the heart of successful peacebuilding on the ground. Notably, she also provides a constructive counter-example of a foundation donor that breaks out of this mold, charting an alternative and much more positive approach to funding. We continue with the peacebuilding theme in general and with issues associated with organizational health and best practices in particular with Michelle I. Gawerc’s fascinating study of encounter-based peacebuilding initiatives in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories from 1993 to 2008. Studying 12 major Israeli-Palestinian people-to-people initiatives that lasted for at least four years, Gawerc’s project also spanned times of relative peace, periods of acute violence, and more ambiguous periods that were still marked by sustained hostility. This allows Gawerc to draw firm conclusions about what it takes for peacebuilding organzations to carry on effectively over time, particularly given the deeply asymmetric power relations between these peacemaking partners on the two major sides of the conflict. Based on extensive interviews, document analysis and social observation, Gawer argues that organizations that are keen to survive and to work cooperatively

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across differences and inequalities in shifting yet protracted conflict situations must be particularly attuned to the quality of their cross-conflict relationships and to the many ways that inequalities manifest themselves. The next section of the volume includes two chapters connected by three dimensions: their focus on related forms of resistance to the excesses of a globalized economy, that is, Local Social Forums (LSFs) and a local expression of the Occupy movement; their use of ethnography and participant observation methods; and their respective emphases on interrogating the use of consensus decision-making by the movements under study. Notably, this section stands within a RSMCC tradition of publishing research on the uses of consensus in social movement organizing. For example, the bulk of Volume 24 was devoted to consensus decision-making by a variety of movement organizations, and was capped by an extended commentary by Jane Mansbridge on the costs and benefits of consensus decision-making for movements in a range of contexts (Coy, 2003). We turn first to Anna Szolucha’s analysis of the use of consensus decisionmaking in Occupy Dame Street in Dublin, Ireland. Within dominant communities in the north and west, most decision-making gets done most of the time with some variation on the theme of majoritarian voting. Even many oppositional groups frequently rely on some version of Roberts Rules of Order, albeit modified and informal versions of it. Although it is not unusual for people to have a vague sense of consensus processes, since it is not the default decision-making process people tend not to have much experience with it, much less be trained in and proficient with its intricacies, particularly in large groups. Drawing on five months of ethnographic and participatory action research within the Occupy movement in Dublin, Szolucha focuses her study on the need for the activists of Occupy Dame Street to learn consensus and to develop commitments to it over time. And since membership in Occupy was fluid and fleeting, the need for learning consensus was even greater than usual, and essentially ever-present. The author further concentrates on how these learning experiences were structured within Occupy Dame Street and argues that negotiating uncertainty was at the heart of the individual and collective experience. While the well-known World Social Forum process has been the subject of a series of books, anthologies, and articles (Smith, Reese, Byrd, & Smythe, 2012), the same has not been as true for its localized manifestations, LSFs. Pascale Dufour’s article helps to change that insofar as her comparative analysis is based on eight ethnographies of LSFs, four in in Quebec and four in France. The author describes the phenomenon as a tool in the global justice movement’s collective action repertoire, producing

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solidarities between individuals, organizations, and movements. Utilizing a soft definition of repertoire, Dufour’s comparative analysis reveals a conundrum at the heart of the LSF experience. Despite national differences, a highly decentralized process, and the significant autonomy of local actors, LSFs nonetheless subscribe to a shared Social Forum political culture that has evolved and even hardened over time, and they tend to enact similar structural characteristics and utilize set social practices that circumscribe what is possible within the LSF experience, for example, the use of consensus decision-making and the inability of anyone or any group to act on behalf of the Forum, etc. Last but far from least, we close this 36th volume of the Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change series with a careful yet creative reappropriation of Neil Smelser’s value added approach to the study of collective behavior (1962). Published 50 years ago and long out of favor as an interpretive approach, Stephen C. Poulson, Thomas N. Ratliff, and Emily Dollieslager nonetheless usefully resurrect Smelser’s theory in their analysis of the spingfest party riot tradition at James Madison University in the Virginia, USA. They integrate both structural and symbolic interactionist perspectives to describe and analyze the campus culture and student–police interactions at James Madison University (JMU). Combining structural functionalist and elaborated social identity models of crowd conflict, the authors focused on student–police interactions and also on how student cultural values are maintained and reinforced by rituals and tropes associated with an ingrained party culture. It is somewhat ironic that Smelser’s 50-year old theory is applied so usefully to this case given the very contemporary data upon which it is based: 39 YouTube videos documenting various aspects of the springfest riots. A close reading of this collection will reveal a remarkable array of articles based on the painstaking creation of unique longitudinal and comparative datasets including newspaper articles, web site content, congressional hearings, interviews, document analysis, ethnographic field work, focus groups, participatory action research, and YouTube videos. The researchers published here have followed the old maxim that useful theory is best built based on good, solid data and on its sound management and careful interpretive analysis. They have been modestly assisted in this endeavor by the selfless service of our many anonymous reviewers. Finally, we have all been aided throughout the process by Amanda Clark who so ably served as the editorial assistant for this volume, and who did so with her characteristic aplomb.

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The next volume of the RSMCC series will be guest edited by Lynne Woehrle. Her call for papers will announce a split volume: a thematic section on intersectionality and marginalized identities, and an open submission section. Submissions will be due in December, 2013. Patrick G. Coy Editor

REFERENCES Coy, P. G. (Ed.). (2003). Consensus decision making, Northern Ireland, and indigenous movements. In Research in social movements, conflicts and change (Vol. 24), Kidlington, UK: Elsevier. Coy, P. G., & Hedeen, T. (2005). A stage model of social movement co-optation: Community mediation in the United States. The Sociological Quarterly, 46, 405–435. Fligstein, N., & McAdam, D. (2012). A theory of fields. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Smith, J., Reese, E., Byrd, S., & Smythe, E. (2012). Handbook of world social forum activism. Boulder, CO: Paradigm Publishers. Smelser, N. J. ([1962] 1971). Theory of collective behavior. New York, NY: Free Press. Toffler, A. (1980). The third wave. New York, NY: William Morrow.

PART I OLD AND NEW MEDIA AND MOBILIZATION

SPREADING THE WORD OR SHAPING THE CONVERSATION: ‘‘PROSUMPTION’’ IN PROTEST WEBSITES Jennifer Earl ABSTRACT Over the last several decades, the social movement sector in the United States has been professionalizing, creating a large number of highly professionalized, formal social movement organizations. And yet, over the last decade, digital technologies have been used to undermine long-settled distinctions between producers and consumers in a number of areas of social and economic life as relative amateurs engage in production (e.g., citizen journalism). Drawing an analogy between protest organizers and producers on the one hand, and protest participants and consumers on the other hand, it would seem possible that digital technologies could be used to up-end brightline distinctions between organizers and participants in the protest sector as well. I outline two different ways these prosumptive forces could shape protest and then use a five year panel dataset on websites across 20 different social movement areas to understand the net effect of prosumptive versus professionalizing trends. Findings suggest that while there has been some adoption of disruptive digital technologies by protest-related websites, the majority of sites still limit and

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 3–38 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036004

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circumscribe participant participation to pre-choreographed actions. Findings shed important light on the continuing social organization of protest in the dawning of the digital age. Keywords: Social movements; Internet; prosumption; social movement organizations

INTRODUCTION A hallmark of new digital technologies is the ease with which they enable and facilitate interaction, amateur production, and the sharing of amateurproduced media.1 For instance, recent research suggests that amateur news and media production has risen dramatically, particularly among younger age groups (Lenhart & Madden, 2005). The effects of amateur production are being felt across a range of industries, including software production (Benkler, 2006), news via impacts of blogging and citizen journalism (Shirky, 2008), and a number of entertainment-related industries (Jenkins, 1992, 2006), among many others. In each of these areas, historical hierarchical divisions between broadcaster and audience and/or producers and consumers are being powerfully undermined by digital technologies. Audiences and consumers are becoming much more active, creating their own content, interacting and producing with each other, and pushing back against producers to demand changes to products and policies. Indeed, the blurring of the boundaries between production and consumption has been summarized with the portmanteau ‘‘prosumption’’; likewise, consumers who take on production roles have been called ‘‘prosumers.’’ In the seemingly distant world of protest, quite the opposite has been occurring: social movements have become increasingly hierarchical and professionally managed over the past several decades (Jenkins, 1983; McCarthy & Zald, 1973, 1977). In fact, the importance of social movement organizations (SMOs) and their rising professionalization has been extensively documented (e.g., Clemens & Minkoff, 2004; Staggenborg, 1988) and the effects of these trends have been hotly debated. For example, many scholars worry that increasing professionalization limits the disruptive capacity of social movements (e.g., Piven & Cloward, 1977) and/or that professionalization and formalization encourages organizers to be more focused on organizational survival than on their founding ambitions (Clemens & Minkoff, 2004; Michels, 1949). Bureaucratization has even been

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blamed for the decline of some major movements (e.g., see discussion of this hypothesis in Voss & Sherman, 2000 regarding the labor movement). Although not often discussed, another result of these shifts toward formal SMOs and professionalization has been a consolidation of a distinction between organizers and participants. In today’s protest sector, professional SMOs chart strategy while donors fund their initiatives. Members are called upon to participate, but in highly structured and choreographed events. While notable exceptions such as cell-based networks, consensus-based organizations, or local direct action groups exist, the majority of people who participate in mass protest activities each year do so at the request of formal SMOs and/or at events organized by formal SMOs. As protest has moved online, though, at least two prosumption-related pressures have been working against the increasing reliance on SMOs and professionalization, and hence against the brightline distinction between organizer and participant. First, as a number of researchers have shown, it is increasingly possible to organize for social change outside of organizations, in large part because of the dramatically lower costs involved in organizing online (e.g., Postigo, 2012, but see Karpf, 2012 and Bimber, Flanagin, & Stohl, 2012 for another perspective on organizations). In the strategic voting movement that Earl and Schussman (2003) and Schussman and Earl (2004) studied, for example, it was common for solo or pairs of organizers to create and maintain entire websites; larger teams were virtually absent and formal organizations were completely absent. Moreover, these solo or small team organizers weren’t as likely to have activist backgrounds as offline organizers, suggesting that new classes of organizers were being drawn into organizing. Likewise, Earl and Kimport (2011), who interviewed organizers who created online petitions, boycotts, and e-mail or letter-writing campaigns, found that ‘‘lone-wolf’’ organizers and radically small teams of 2–3 organizers were quite common. Indeed, they found very few advantages flowed to SMOs as organizers when compared to individuals and small teams. And, many of the organizers they interviewed were so new to activism that they did not even consider themselves activists, despite their clearly activist activities. Shirky (2008) argues that the trend toward organizing outside of organizations isn’t limited to protest but is happening in a range of economic and political sectors as the costs to organizing reach rock bottom levels. One could think of this as resulting from changes when consumers ‘‘route around’’ traditional providers. Second, increasing reliance on SMOs and the professionalization of protest could also be undermined directly by the adoption of Internet-based

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technologies. Just as digital tools have allowed avid music consumers to become music prosumers, digital technologies might allow digital activists to become more active participants, expanding their role and impact. Effects of this type could become evident in a number of ways, such as changes within organizations that lead them to be more open to member involvement (e.g., Bimber et al., 2012) or increasing adoption by websites of prosumptionrelated tools as sites compete to cater to visitors’ new expectations and demands. That is, as pressure from participants builds for these kinds of engagements, more and more sites may seek to deliver technologies that facilitate those experiences, even though this reduces their overall control over members. One could think of this as change that results from changing current producers’ behavior.2 Yet, the net effect of prosumption pressures on already highly professionalized social movements has not been empirically analyzed across a wide scale before. To address this issue, this article uses novel data to empirically measure the extent to which web-based technologies can enable the erosion of the hierarchical organizer-participant model. That is, to the extent to which web-based technologies hypothetically could allow users/participants to engage interactively with material and other people online, have these potentials been used frequently in the protest sector? Or, are Internet technologies primarily harnessed to distribute information alone and/or to engage people in highly choreographed actions that reinforce broadcast– audience or organizer–participant hierarchies? The present article relies on a unique dataset that examines random samples of protest-related websites in 20 different social movement areas (i.e., one sample per social movement area). Ranging from abortion politics, to the fight against homelessness, to civil rights, to conservative political activism and beyond, this article uses quantitative content coding of websites to identify the ways in which protest websites facilitate user engagement and document the variation of forms of engagement across different protest arenas.

THE RISE OF DIGITAL MEDIA AND AMATEUR PRODUCTION From the creation of ARPAnet to the rise of major public computer access projects such as the French Minitel project, computer users have layered social interaction on top of task-based network technologies at every turn

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(Rheingold, 1993). Many newer digital technologies, such as social media, differ from prior technologies in that they invert the traditional task-beforesocial ordering by making social interaction and social collaboration the primary function of digital technology. These new digital technologies allow for commenting, social tagging, and other forms of content posting, as well as the sophisticated real-time remote coproduction of music, video, text, software, friendships, and civil engagement. As Jenkins (2006) has pointed out, amateur and collaborative peer production has threatened long-standing distinctions in media between broadcasters and audiences and between producers and consumers more generally. For example, bloggers and citizen journalists have gone from news consumers to news producers, utilizing low cost digital media to make their publications possible. More generally, audiences and consumers have become much more active through commenting, attempts to intervene on producer decision-making, and the appropriation of the production process (literally becoming producers themselves). As mentioned above, it is this blending of consumer and producer that spawned the ‘‘prosumer’’ label. Organizations have reacted to the incursions of consumers into the world of producers quite differently. Many producers have fought tooth and nail to keep control over their products, the intellectual property their products represent, and exclusive access to profit streams associated with these products (Lessig, 2004). But, some producers, after initial resistance, have invited consumers into the production process. For instance, after facing consumer opposition to earlier launches, Lego invited several prominent ‘‘prosumers’’ into their design process for key products. Still other producers have developed middle road compromises. For instance, some companies have courted ‘‘active consumers,’’ seeking to bring them into the marketing cycle to actively promote their brand (Jenkins, 2006), but keeping them out of design and production. Chadwick (2011) reports on similar dynamics with respect to news. Others have tried partnering relationships. For instance, software companies have donated labor to open source software projects that they cannot control but from which they might benefit (O’Mahoney & Bechky, 2008). Whatever resistance or accommodations producers make to more active consumers and prosumers, it is clear that traditional boundaries between producers and consumers are being challenged. This article draws an analogy between producers and protest organizers and consumers and protest participants to ask how far these new negotiations over the role of producers and consumers have extended into protest – are protest

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organizers as producers of social movements and protest being challenged by the consumers/participants of protest? How often are protest participants acting as prosumers? These potential shifts are also relevant to understanding the growth of ‘‘participatory politics,’’ which are ‘‘interactive, peer-based acts through which individuals and groups seek to exert both voice and influence on issues of public concern’’ (Cohen, Kahne, Bowyer, Middaugh, & Rogowski, 2012, p. vi). The concept of participatory politics draws on Jenkin’s (2006) concept of participatory culture, but brings that concept into the political arena to examine the ways in which amateurs can engage politically, often through noninstitutional channels. Cohen and collaborators note that participatory politics ‘‘allow individuals to operate with greater independence in the political realm, circumventing traditional gatekeepers of information and influence’’ (Cohen et al., 2012, p. vi), much as I am arguing prosumption does. Further Cohen and collaborators compare transitions that participatory politics might create to changes in news and entertainment that many see as related prosumption. Participatory politics would certainly include creating one’s own petition on a warehouse site, creating a website related to a social movement issue, or blogging about a social movement issue. Cohen et al. (2012) demonstrate substantial demand by youth for participatory politics, which may create pressure over time for SMOs to accommodate to these desires.

FORMALIZATION, PROFESSIONALIZATION, AND DIGITIZATION IN PROTEST In the early 1970s, McCarthy and Zald (1973) argued that the rise and fall of social movements did not seem dependent on the existence of grievances but rather on the availability of resources to support a fledgling social movement. Over the following few years, their arguments developed into the resource mobilization approach (McCarthy & Zald, 1977), which argued that SMOs are critical social movement actors because they help to gather and strategically deploy resources. They also argued that SMOs were becoming increasingly professionalized. As these trends continued, large organizations that had been direct action organizations professionalized and many began to shift toward large membership organizations in which supporters donated money to support the organization but were less involved in the day-to-day actions of the organizations. Instead, professional organizers took over day-to-day decision-making and operations.

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Across this transition, an already present distinction between organizers/ leaders and supporters/followers became even more apparent. Local and direct action groups avoided many of these transitions. But, the professionalization of national SMOs, who were responsible for orchestrating the largest marches and rallies each year, moved forward. For major events, larger organizing committees helped to bring more voices into the organization, but these were still professionally organized events. To put it quite bluntly, the culmination of these trends is a social movement sector in which people may support a social movement they believe in by donating money or participating in events that are planned and run by SMOs, but very few people actually participate in decision-making about strategy, specific protests, or major organizational decisions.

Protest Moves Online Although a fairly new phenomena only a decade ago, web-based protest participation has become very common (Garrett, 2006). Forms of online engagement vary widely, ranging from disruptive actions such as distributed denial of service actions to much more conventional protest tactics such as online petitions and online letter-writing campaigns (Vegh, 2003). As protest has increasingly moved online, so too have SMOs: most major SMOs now have web presences and many offer opportunities to support and participate in social movement actions while online (Stein, 2009). However, SMOs are not the only organizers of online protest opportunities. Indeed, the costs of creating some kinds of web presences (e.g., simple websites, blogs, etc.) and some kinds of actions (e.g., online petitions) are so low that relative amateurs are now able to create and run successful movements. This creates opportunities for routing around professional organizers. Moreover, even when SMOs are involved, the rise of commenting software and other types of social software offers the potential, whether realized or not, for supporters to participate in online conversations with formal organizers. As Karpf (2012) puts it, there is an opportunity for protesters to organize through ‘‘different organizations,’’ instead of outside of organizations. Thus, there is also the possibility that organizers themselves change their behavior. What has not yet been studied is the net effect of these two forces – routing around professional organizers and professional organizers changing their ways – on an otherwise professionalizing social movement sector.

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Thus, the pointed question for this article is the extent to which digital technologies have been used to blur otherwise crystallized boundaries between organizers and participants in online protest just as they have been used to blur boundaries between producers and consumers elsewhere. For instance, to what extent is protest organizing happening entirely outside of SMOs? And, to what extent are specific technologies being deployed on websites, whether those sites are produced by SMOs or others, that can be used to erode organizer–participant distinctions? The rest of this section focuses on technologies whose use often results in the reinforcement of organizer–participant distinctions and technologies that could be used to reduce organizer–participant distinctions.

Reinforcing or Undermining Organizer–Participant Distinctions? Fig. 1 introduces a continuum of technology uses that run from entirely reinforcing brightline distinctions between organizers and participants to subverting those distinctions. The technology uses that most clearly reinforce brightline distinctions between organizers and participants are those that are designed around a broadcast model of information distribution in which an organizer has privileged information that is to be broadcast out to participants. These sites host information that they hope users will access and the low costs of hosting websites provides a potential to reach a much larger audience at a very low cost. However, the information is flowing one Reinforcing distinctions - Information broadcast - Action centers and choreographed participation - User submitted information and atrocity tales - Moderated commenting or discussion areas (blogs, listservs) - Unmoderated commenting or discussion areas (blogs, listservs) - Non-professional/amateur produced websites and actions Subverting distinctions

Fig. 1.

A Continuum of Uses of Technology that Reinforce and Subvert Organizer–Participant Distinctions.

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way – from the organizer to the website visitor. There is little way for a visitor or supporter to directly provide feedback to the organization. Even if a site doesn’t entirely orient itself around broadcast, it might still contain broadcast components (e.g., it broadcasts information and offers forms of engagement discussed below). Some websites have sought to involve visitors in interaction, which is a move away from a broadcast model, but that interaction has still been scripted or limited. For instance, professional SMOs often hire firms that specialize in building ‘‘Action Centers’’ to create action areas on their website in which visitors can sign petitions, send e-mails, letters, and/or faxes, make coordinated phone calls, or take other actions in support of a current campaign. These tools allow supporters to be more active, but without challenging the organizer–participant distinction (see Fig. 1). The organizations still fully decide upon and design the actions in which participants would engage. Although participants have some collective voice through their level of participation, their voice is limited to veto-like decisions in which the decision to not participate indicates either apathy or disapproval. Still other websites encourage visitor engagement in order to find and vet information that would be difficult to collect otherwise, pulling visitors into the day-to-day activities of the organizations but still in highly circumscribed ways. For instance, Rohlinger, Brown, and Bunnage (2010) discuss a conservative student website that solicits complaints against professors, departments, and schools. Visitors who feel that their conservative views were challenged, misrepresented, or inappropriately ignored can send in narratives of the events. The organization then culls through these reports to find situations that can be leveraged in the media effectively. Thus, while this represents a more opened-ended invitation for interaction between participants and organizers, the kinds of information being sought are often still quite structured by the site and what happens with that information is out of the site visitor/participants’ hands. It is important to stress that by opening the site up to participants’ reports, the organizers gain key advantages. Social problem scholars have long recognized the importance of collecting ‘‘atrocity tales’’ (Best, 1987) to publicize causes. Atrocity tales are real life stories that illustrate the grievances of a movement and can be used to effectively mobilize news coverage and support for the movement. However, collecting these tales can be a difficult and time consuming. But, when websites allow visitors to submit their own atrocity tales, the difficulty for SMOs shifts from the time and expense involved in collecting these tales to the more valuable task of

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vetting a large number of tales to find the most appropriate ones for the organization’s purposes. Thus, while inviting the submission of atrocity tales from site visitors brings participants closer to organizers, it does so only by feeding the raw material of visitor experience into the organization more efficiently. Visitors still have little control over what happens with the narrative once it is submitted (see Fig. 1). Other technologies allow for a more direct, two-way public dialogue, but these too can be limited and/or moderated by the organization. For instance, some sites are organized entirely as blogs, or include blogs as parts of larger websites. A very important feature of blogging is reader commenting. Virtually all basic blogging software creates avenues through which readers can comment on specific posts. This allows users to at least provide feedback on the subjects of specific posts. Of course, websites can also choose to moderate comments and delete or hide comments. Alternatively, websites may host discussion forums or listservs for members where conversation about organizational plans takes place. However, these forums can also be moderated (see Fig. 1). Of course, SMOs may choose to moderate comment areas or listservs to control spam and attacks from opponents, instead of moderating these areas to control friendly site visitors. Other Internet-based technologies can be used to create very strong challenges to the organizer–participant distinction (see Fig. 1). For instance, when individuals or small groups create websites on subjects they care about, they are engaging in a kind of amateur-produced protest. Leveraging opportunities afforded by Internet technologies, individuals and small groups can create, develop, and maintain web-based protest campaigns of their own making. Similarly, some websites such as petitiononline.com (now owned by change.org) allow visitors to create and host their own online petitions for free. In essence, these sites are allowing for people to become their own organizers. In doing so, the distinction between organizer and participant is significantly eroded because these new prosumers are making protest through channels unstructured by typical protest organizers. There are certainly other ways in which Internet-based technologies can be used to reinforce or erode organizer–participant distinctions, but the foregoing discussion provides a basis for further investigation. It is also important to realize that the existence of technologies that can either reinforce or undermine organizer–participant distinctions on its own is of little consequence. If these technologies are not actually deployed, then they will be of little social import.3 In other words, if a technology exists to allow members to create actions but very few websites deploy the technology, the capacity matters very little. But, if that capacity is being

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leveraged regularly, then it may have a much greater social impact. Given that, the next section turns to methods for studying the how commonly technologies are deployed that reinforce or erode organizer–participant distinctions.

DATA AND METHODS The methods used to collect data for this project are innovative and diverge from a number of commonly pursued techniques, although they have been deployed by other projects in published research before. Before describing the methods used in this project in detail, though, I first lay out alternative methodological approaches and argue for their inappropriateness for this study.

Existing Methods for Studying Online Movements Most existing research on web-based protest has: (1) used a case study approach to examine the web presence of notable SMOs or to examine notable websites; (2) examined sets of websites connected to key SMOs or key websites via hyperlinks; (3) examined a larger set of high profile sites using popularity as a selection criteria; or (4) used a sample of SMOs to then study SMOs’ websites. I argue that all of these approaches raise problems that the method outlined below can address. First, although case studies offer a great deal of insight into processes associated with online activism, such studies cannot offer a population level view of protest sectors (see Earl, Kimport, Prieto, Rush, & Reynoso, 2010 for more on this point). That is, the aggregation of case studies does not produce a population view of a larger social space. In this project, to measure the net effect of the countervailing forces that this article focuses on, a population view is needed. Studying whether one or two cases adopted these technologies would not help address the larger question of how social movements more generally are being impacted by technology usage and prosumption. Second, I do not use hyperlinks or a hyperlink crawler to identify networks of websites to study for a variety of reasons. In this style of research, researchers identify a single starting site, or a small set of starting sites (often called seed sites), and construct a larger network of sites by following links from the initial site(s). This is analogous to a very comprehensive snowball

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sample in which an informant’s connections are used to identify other potential informants. However, as Ackland (2009), who has created and promoted hyperlink crawlers for some time, notes, this method has been popular in other areas such as physics and computer science, but it has not been popular among sociologists due to significant concerns about the meaningfulness of network ties as community indicators. Network crawls must assume that links are meaningful and that links mean the same things across sites, but research does not clearly evidence this is the case. Network crawls also have to assume that topically similar sites will all connect at some point (and often in only one or two links), but this is not true to the extent to which actors are unaware of one another, have animosity toward one another, have competing cliques, etc. It is also an assumption that is hard to defend in such an obviously expansive and diverse online world. Network crawls are also sensitive to the number of starting sites that the crawler is seeded with and the composition of those sites. Finally, network crawls have very high rates of by-catch (i.e., linking to entirely unrelated sites that actually diminish the quality of the overall set of sites). As Garrido and Halavais (2003), who use a network crawl in a social movement setting, show, using only a single seed site and then moving only two links away yielded 100,000 connected pages. This amount of material cannot be easily processed or coded and includes a significant amount of irrelevant material.4 Third, I do not use popularity as a selection criterion although a number of studies have examined very popular websites or blogs. Earl and Kimport (2011) argue that focusing on popular and well-known sites produces serious methodological and theoretical biases when scholars attempt to understand a larger universe of content available online. Most simply, sites become popular because they are special in some way, and precisely what makes them special also makes them quite unrepresentative of other online content. Thus, while individual case studies about MoveOn or other large organizations or sites are important, a literature that only focuses on popular cases is short-changing itself of the empirical diversity that exists in the real world. Instead, Earl and Kimport argue for an approach, which this project follows, where investigators look for diversity in cases through random sampling. Earl and Kimport also note that studies that focus only on popular sites also tend to be unable to describe or explain the diversity of ways in which technology is used by less skilled, less resourced, less popular, and/or less sophisticated users. It is not the case that other people are failing to use web-based tools and that only popular sites exist. I argue that we need methods that allow researchers to understand how these less popular users operate and what kinds of sites they produce.

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Finally, I use a method that does not exclusively focus on SMOs. Researchers have drawn random samples of SMOs and then examined their online presences as a way of studying movements (e.g., Stein, 2009), but this method has two significant limitations. First, the research questions for this article explicitly question the extent to which social movement activity is happening outside of SMOs, implying that a method that only studied SMOs could not adequately address that question. Second, head to head comparisons of projects using other sampling techniques, such as the one used here, show that SMO-based studies miss a substantial amount of online activity (Earl, 2013). This means that the population map they create is only partial: it is a map of organizational social movement activity online, not social movement activity more generally online.

‘‘Reachable Websites’’ – A New Approach to Studying Online Activism Given that none of the four most popular techniques for studying online activity would be adequate for this study, I adopted a method first used by Earl (2006) and Earl and Kimport (2011) which uses random samples of websites drawn from ‘‘reachable populations’’ of websites on specific topics. The idea behind this method is that researchers should try to identify the set of sites that users could locate if they were not given a URL in advance (which Earl, 2006 defines as ‘‘reachable sites’’). Because research on user search behavior shows that users often find new sites through search engines such as Google or by following links from websites they are already aware of (which GoogleBot does to identify sites for Google to index), researchers can mimic user behavior through search engines to create the entire population of sites that a person is at risk of finding. That comprehensive, or population list, can then be randomly sampled. I argue that using a sample of search results has a benefit not discussed by Earl or her collaborators before: it also moves away from reifications of social movements, which Melucci (1989) has so ardently decried. All social movement scholars face a major theoretical question – what is a social movement? – and also a methodological one – how does one operationalize what is really an analytical abstraction? I argue that much as scholars studying protest events have resolved this by arguing that movements are composed of the actions that forward them, online, social movements are comprised of the websites and other online activities that forward them. Thus, for instance, instead of assuming a synecdoche between social movements and SMOs, this project only assumes that movements are

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comprised of the actions and projects that forward movement issues. This means that someone can host a website associated with a social movement by forwarding a position related to the movement on their site and/or allowing people to engage in action related to the movement on their website.5 In more specific terms, this study uses a panel design in which an initial set of websites is identified for study and then tracked for five years. Sites were identified for inclusion in the panel by drawing samples from 20 different social movement areas. A social movement area refers to an issue and includes both proponents and opponents of change (e.g., abortion politics would include both pro-choice and pro-life websites). One hypothetically could reduce this dataset into pro-choice and pro-life subsets, which would produce estimates for pro-life websites and pro-choice websites. Although this would be more familiar to many social movement scholars, I do not do that here for two reasons. First, I group conservative and liberal sites on the same topic in analyses to reduce complexity: figures below are already reporting on 20 different issue areas, but would have to report on 40 social movements if I did not combine these. Second, I do not expect that movements and countermovements use technology in tremendously different ways and so do not expect to influence results by combining both sides of an issue into a single area. Work arguing the countermovements and movements are often structurally and tactically similar supports this assumption (Meyer & Staggenborg, 1996; Rohlinger, 2006). To maximize the diversity of social movement areas considered, and to reduce the likelihood that results are heavily influenced by the dynamics of a single or small set of social movement areas, 20 different social movement areas were identified and studied (i.e., 20 reachable populations of websites were produced and then randomly sampled yielding one sample per social movement area; for a complete list of social movement areas, see Fig. 3). The 20 social movement areas were purposively selected to include very long-standing social movement areas (e.g., civil rights, women’s rights), issues that tend to dramatically rise and fall in terms of mobilization (e.g., immigration, environment, peace), and issues that might have unique resonance online (e.g., the open source software movement and debates over intellectual property). Although both liberal and conservative positions were included in each of the 19 focused social movement areas, a general ‘‘rightwing’’ movement area was also included to capture pan-right (and pan-left opposition), particularly religiously conservative activism. Using Earl’s (2006) work as a model, populations were constructed by concatenating returns from multiple Google searches (each search capturing

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up to 1,000 search results) conducted in September, 2006. Search terms were vetted and pretested in a variety of ways and always paired key cause-related terms with verbs to increase the quality of search returns (e.g., ‘‘fight abortion’’ vs. ‘‘abortion’’ as a search term). To pretest search terms, research assistants generated dozens of search terms for each movement area and then ran the same style of Google searches used in the article. A random sample of results for each term was coded for whether the sites returned by the search actually addressed the movement area; where search terms did not return movement-relevant results the vast majority of the time, they were discarded. Research assistants also downloaded key SMO sites for every movement and computed word frequencies for sites from each movement area. Using these results, new search terms were generated and pretested using the method just discussed. A few movement areas still did not have many strong search terms (e.g., privacy) because words associated with them were so often found on a wide variety of websites (e.g., privacy policy). For those movements, research assistants expanded search terms to include phrases with verbs such as ‘‘stop invasion of privacy’’ and then pretested those search terms using the same process. Where these phrases returned movement-relevant results the vast majority of the time, they were kept. At that point, there were sufficient search terms for all movement areas and the project began. I argue that this level of careful pretesting of search terms ensures that the sets of sites I sampled are likely to be involved in movement issues, and my selection criteria for allowing cases to remain in the analyses (discussed in more detail below) ensures that this is the case.6 Using these search terms, multiple searches with varying search phrases were used to generate the most comprehensive population list possible. A mix of search terms was included in the building of each population to capture both sides of an issue wherever possible (e.g., pro-life and prochoice search terms were used; pro-immigration and anti-immigration search terms were used). For instance, pro-life websites might be located in the abortion social movement area through a search like ‘‘stop abortion,’’ while pan-right groups (that may or may not be concerned with abortion too) are more likely to be found in the right-wing area using search terms like ‘‘conservative protest’’ and ‘‘Christian conservative take action.’’ There are two dangers of using Google if one focuses on only the first few results. First, returns from the first page, or ‘‘top 10,’’ are likely extremely popular websites. Studying only sites that appear on the first few pages of Google search results ensures that only highly popular sites will be studied

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for each movement, which this method sought to avoid.7 Second, the ranking algorithm that Google uses, PageRank, is a proprietary algorithm, and relying on it without knowledge of its operations risks biasing case selection in unknown ways. This study was able to avoid much of the effect of the ordering of Google results, however. This was accomplished in two ways. First, because each search returns 1,000 URLs, and multiple search terms were used for each social movement area, only very weakly relevant webpages were missed altogether. Thus, Google’s ‘‘page rank’’ algorithm is only relevant in terms of whether sites appeared in the top 1000 results. While the top 10 or 20 results may have heavy ranking artifacts, results deeper into the top 1000 should not. Second, all search returns from all queries were concatenated and then had duplicate URLs removed. By randomly sampling from that resulting concatenation (at a 1% rate), versus taking the top N number of results, further effects of Google’s PageRank algorithm are avoided. After sampling was completed, websites were archived. In the first year of the study, websites were archived in September, 2006, and then archived again in each subsequent September through 2010. Archiving methods followed Earl’s (2006) suggestions.

Content Coding of Websites All sampled websites were coded using the local archived files. In all, five different waves, one from each September from 2006 to 2010, were coded. Regular inter-coder reliability tests yielded reliability rates in excess of 95% in three years and between 93% and 94% in the other two years. The initial wave of the dataset contains 1,234 sites, although analyses in this article use only a subset of this data (N=449 in 2006) because of selection criteria discussed below. The present article uses the following variables: (1) Whether there was protest content on the website: Google searches returned webpages that discussed the 20 social movement areas in a variety of ways, including commercial websites selling relevant products, government websites, educational websites, etc. Thus, coders determined whether or not a site contained protest content and sites that did not include activist content were excluded from analyses in this article (661 cases were excluded for this reason in 2006).

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(2) Issues discussed on the website: Coders assessed whether the site discussed any of 382 different issues and determined whether that discussion was pro, anti, or indeterminate in valence. Issues were coded whether or not they were related to the sample’s topic (e.g., discussion of abortion on a website in the immigration sample would still be coded). However, in analyses below, if a website did not discuss the topic under which it was sampled, it is excluded from the analyses (i.e., if a site sampled through the abortion searches only discussed immigration, the whole site would be excluded from these analyses; 124 cases were excluded for this reason in 2006); this is discussed in detail below. (3) Organizationally sponsored sites: Coders assessed whether the site was owned or operated by a SMO that had an offline existence. Websites could be produced by individuals, small groups, and formal SMOs, among other producers. (4) Warehouse sites: Coders assessed whether sites served as a clearinghouse for user-generated protests, similar to ‘‘warehouse sites’’ discussed in Earl (2006). These sites are hubs for prosumer activity in that they allow anyone – amateur or professional – to create and organize online protest activities. (5) Blogs: Coders identified blogs internal to a website and/or determined if the overall website was designed as a blog. (6) User provided information: Coders determined whether a website allowed users to submit information relevant to the topic area of the social movement area (e.g., an anti-immigration site allowed visitors to report businesses that allegedly hired undocumented workers). (7) User expression: Coders assessed whether the site allowed site visitors to express their opinions on the site relevant to the topic area of the social movement area via commenting, posting areas, etc. (e.g., posting comments about your opinion on immigration on a website in the immigration sample). (8) Current or prior advocacy: Coders determined whether there were current ways to participate in protest or the website showcased prior participation relevant to the topic area of the social movement area. (9) Accessing information: Coders assessed whether sites provided reasonably verifiable information designed to educate or inform, including news, reports, briefs, among other items, relevant to the topic area of the social movement area.

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As a traditional panel study, in each year of the panel all websites were recoded that still existed. Limited attrition existed and any attrition was meaningful in the sense that websites were closed or no longer operating. However, Ns between waves of the panel may differ in analyses below by more than simply the amount of panel attrition. As discussed above, sites were excluded from analyses in any year in which the website did not discuss the topic under which it was sampled. For instance, if a site was sampled as part of the immigration social movement area and it discussed immigration in 2006, it would appear in analyses using 2006 data below. However, if it did not discuss immigration in 2007, it would be excluded from analyses of 2007 data below. It might reappear in the N for 2008 if the site resumed discussions of immigration in that year. Applying these selection criteria gives the most conservative test possible. There is no way to identify which websites are ‘‘true’’ movement websites – given the diversity of sites, one can only look to indicators such as the topics discussed on the sites, the goals of protest actions discussed on websites, and the sponsoring organization (if any). Thus, in hopes of excluding websites that are not really part of a social movement area, this exclusion criterion allows the N to adjust based on what a site focuses on in a given year. After selection criteria are applied, 2006 has an N of 449, 2007 has an N of 416, 2008 has an N of 414, 2009 has an N of 412, and 2010 has an N of 370 in analyses below.

Data Analysis Data was analyzed using Stata 12MP. Because all social movement areas were sampled at the same rate, data can be used to estimate the frequency of various characteristics in each of the 20 social movement areas separately, or social movement areas can be combined to establish frequencies across all observed protest websites.

FINDINGS Overall, data analysis below shows that while there are limited ways in which the more open ethos of amateur production manifests itself on online protest websites largely through ‘‘routing around’’ SMOs, existing organizers are not widely deploying technologies that subvert traditional distinctions between participants and organizers. It is important to remember that

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these findings summarize entire movement areas. Thus, these findings do not imply that a small number of highly innovative and popular sites, such as MoveOn, aren’t making these kinds of tools available to a mass audience. But, findings do suggest that sites that do thoroughly integrate tools that subvert historical distinctions are not common.

Limited Evidence of Subversion of the Participant–Organizer Boundary There are two pieces of evidence that suggest some subversion of these boundaries online. First, as outlined in Fig. 1, nonprofessionally produced websites and online protest actions offer the greatest capacity to subvert traditional organizer–participant distinctions. One way to measure the proliferation of nonprofessional production capacities is to measure the number of social movement areas in which create-your-own protest websites, such as petitiononline, were found. These sites are what Earl and Kimport (2011) refer to as warehouse sites because they serve as clearinghouses for actions created by others. Data show that such sites were used in 6 of the 20 social movement areas in 2006 and 2007, including abortion politics, civil rights, education, human rights, labor, and poverty. In 2008, this set expanded by two to also include one warehouse site in women’s movement and another in the civil liberties social movement area (i.e., two sites began operating as warehouse sites that hadn’t previously). However, after 2008, the number of sites operating as warehouse sites declined, with only four social movement areas having a warehouse site in 2009 and only three in 2010 (abortion, human rights, and poverty). Since any given movement area could have more than one warehouse site operating at a time, Fig. 2 shows the cumulative count of warehouse sites across all social movement areas over time. Fig. 2 reveals that 2008 was a high water mark for this kind of website, but that the prevalence of warehouse sites substantially declined thereafter. It is important to note, however, that these findings may still underestimate the role of warehouse sites because warehouse sites tend to be quite large and generate large numbers of actions. As Earl and Kimport (2011) noted, while warehouse sites often make up only a fraction of the sites related to an issue, they may nonetheless host a larger number of actions related to that issue, which amplifies their importance.8 In fact, warehouse sites may be so flexible and useful that there may be little need for more than a few major warehouse sites to service a large number of

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Count of Warehouse Sites across All 20 Social Movement Areas, 2006–2010.

movement areas. This would be consistent with Earl and Kimport’s (2009) finding that warehouse sites have actions addressing a very wide array of topics and don’t often have prominent issue specializations. Although not necessarily produced by amateurs (although certainly this is true in many cases), one can also look at the production of online protest sites run by non-SMOs, which if prevalent, would undercut the trend toward professionalization and dominance of SMOs that has been so clear offline. Like warehouse sites, these are examples of prosumption routing around existing producers. Earl and Kimport (2011) found that non-SMO sites were often run by single individuals or small teams. Schussman and Earl (2004) and Earl and Schussman (2003) found that individuals running these kinds of sites often did not have significant political backgrounds and were unlikely to follow many of the scripts that guide social movement leadership in offline movements. Fig. 3 reports on the proportion of sites in each social movement area that were not sponsored and/or run by SMOs in 2006 as a baseline and demonstrates the wide differences in this variable by social movement area. As Fig. 3 shows, 8 social movement areas had less than 50% of sites run by actors other than SMOs, 3 social movement areas had 50% of sites run by SMOs and the other 50% run by other actors, and 9 social movement areas

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Proportion of Sites Not Run by Organizations by Social Movement Area, 2006.

had the majority of sites run by non-SMOs. For instance, only about 19% of global justice websites were run by actors other than SMOs, but 75% of right-wing sites were run by actors other than SMOs. If one ignores distinctions between topics, 48% of sites were run by SMOs, while 52% were run by actors other than SMOs in 2006. Fig. 4 provides data on this issue across time – it plots the proportion of websites across all social movement areas in each year that were sponsored by actors other than SMOs as well as confidence intervals around the observed proportion. The shaded area in the figure represents the confidence interval around the actual sample estimate (in this case, a proportion), which is represented by the line. The overall trend seems to be toward a smaller percentage of websites being operated by non-SMOs. This could happen in panel data in one of several ways: (1) sites sponsored by nonSMOs might die off more quickly, and thus be disproportionately lost through panel attrition; (2) sites sponsored by non-SMOs might showcase

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Fig. 4. Proportion of Sites Not Run by Organizations, 2006–2011.

content on varying issues such that the exclusion criteria applied to each year’s observed sites removes some sites from the panel over time (i.e., they are still alive, but not reporting on immigration, for instance, anymore); or (3) SMOs may take over more popular sites. Of course, given the small magnitude of the change, it is also possible that there is no real meaningful change over this time period (i.e., the confidence intervals calls into question whether this apparent change is real). For instance, while the 2006 mean is above the upper bound of the 2010 confidence interval, the 2006 lower bound of the confidence interval is not outside of the 2010 confidence interval. Thus, while there appears to be a downward trend in sponsorship by non-SMOs, there is not enough evidence to be sure that there is real change over time. That said, whether or not there is any over time trend, it is clear that a substantial amount of organizing is done outside of SMOs online. Recall, I am arguing that prosumptive forces can work in at least two ways: (1) amateurs can route around existing producers to create their own actions (on warehouse sites) or their own entire websites; (2) consumers/ participants can demand a larger role in organizing activities, causing changes by current producers. These two results taken together suggest moderate to significant support for changes resulting from routing around: there are spaces in which amateurs can route around existing producers to create their own actions (on warehouse sites) and large numbers of websites are created

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that are not under the auspices of an organization. In other words, these findings together suggest that there is a surprisingly large amount of online social movement activity that is subverting traditional organizer–participant distinctions, particularly early in the observation period.

Evidence of the Preservation of Participant–Organizer Boundaries A second path for prosumptive effects is through changing how current producers operate. A number of recent works have stressed how much organizations, including SMOs, are changing to adapt to new user expectations and to new technological capacities. For instance, Bimber et al. (2012) argue that organizations are being forced to find other ways to entice involvement beyond classic selective incentive models. Karpf (2012) argues that new kinds of organizations, with new norms of action, are possible as a result of digital technologies. In documenting the rise of ‘‘netroots’’ organizations, he argues that disruptive innovation is occurring in which SMOs are remaking their member relations and fundraising models, among others. Kreiss (2012) shows how these forces move in institutional politics as well. Most of these new works, including all three of the works just discussed, trace these changes by surveying members or observing the internal workings of the groups they study. I do not have access in this study to data on the internal workings of the producers that create the sites I study. But, I can measure the extent to which sites in general – no matter the kind of producer – are adopting tools associated with prosumptive impulses (see Fig. 1). Thus, instead of directly measuring whether the internal life of organizations is changing, I measure whether producers’ online output is changing to include more tools that allow for, or even facilitate, prosumption. If existing producers, including SMOs, are welcoming these changes and technologies, we could expect to see wide and increasing adoption of these tools over time.9 If prosumptive forces are not powerfully influencing producers’ activities, we will see wider scale adoption of technologies that reinforce producer/participant distinctions than technologies that subvert that distinction. Overall, analyses show more limited adoption of other technologies that could be used to further erode participant–organizer distinctions. For instance, the continuum shown in Fig. 1 suggested that commenting features should be the next most subversive technology available for undermining organizer–participant distinctions. But, there appears to be more limited adoption of these technologies that might have been expected. For instance,

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only three social movement areas had a majority of websites that allowed visitors to express their opinion (see Fig. 5). Moreover, in more than half of social movement areas, not even a third of websites allowed users to express a view. Over time, there are no clear time trends in this site characteristic. The rate of allowing site visitors to express themselves on the site is low across the entire observation period and there are no changes that are outside of the confidence intervals for earlier or later years (Fig. 6). Another way to capture user expression is through the presence of blogs since blogs almost ubiquitously allow commenting (although those comments may be moderated). But, here too, opportunities for reader expression are limited. Fig. 7 reports on the relatively limited adoption of blogging, either by entirely organizing a site around a blog or by incorporating a blog within a large site. In fact, only six social movement areas have blogs on 50% or more of sites. It is interesting to note that the social movement areas that allow for reader expression and include blogging make a good deal of sense in light of the existing literature and the results reported on organizational site

Fig. 5.

Proportion of Sites that Allow Users to Express Opinions by Social Movement Area, 2006.

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Fig. 6. Proportion of Sites that Allow Users to Express Opinions, 2006–2010.

Fig. 7.

Proportion of Sites that Include Blogs by Social Movement Area, 2006.

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sponsorship in Fig. 3. For instance, although the labor movement has had a few well-known organizations that have deployed innovative tools on their sites (e.g., the AFL), and even have a long history of being online (i.e., LaborNet was a very early online social movement area), many scholars have argued that the movement overall is a prime example of an overly bureaucratized and formalized movement (e.g., Craft, 1991; Dimick, 2011).10 It is not surprising, then, that the labor social movement area had one the lowest rates of including blogs on sites or allowing for user expression, and is also one of the social movement areas dominated by SMO-run websites. On the other hand, right wing websites were the most likely to offer users the ability to express their opinions and the most likely to include blogs, and right wing websites showed one of the lowest levels of SMO-sponsorship. Over time, the prevalence of blogs on websites, shown in Fig. 8, did increase, particularly in the last two years of observation. If those increases are real (they are outside of the prior year’s confidence intervals), then comment forums were becoming more common online, at least in reaction to blog posts. However, we do not know if the blogs on these sites moderated comments or not.

Fig. 8.

Proportion of Sites that Include Blogs, 2006–2010.

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According to Fig. 1, user submitted information represents a moderate mix of subversion and support for traditional organizer–participant distinctions. On the one hand, it does bring participants into the organization’s day-to-day life more by using participants to bring in key information (such as soliciting atrocity tales, as discussed earlier). On the other hand, the information sought is targeted and then vetted by organizers. And yet, this technology was rarely employed. At no point in time did more than 20% of all websites studied adopt a technology that allowed users to provide information to organizers. Indeed, in 2006, four social movement areas had no websites at all that allowed users to submit information, and no social movement area had more than 25% of sites that would allow users to submit information. Clearly, this kind of engagement is fairly rare. In contrast, two technology uses that help to support traditional organizer–participant distinctions were very common. In the continuum shown in Fig. 1, involving participants in choreographed protest actions is the technology use that is second most supportive of existing organizer– participant distinctions. It is also one of the most common uses of Internetbased technology for protest, as shown in Fig. 9. In fact, across most

Fig. 9. Proportion of Sites Showcasing or Allowing Participation by Social Movement Area, 2006.

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social movement areas, the majority or near majority of websites allow participants to engage in action while on the site or advertise the past undertakings of protest participants. In fact, as Fig. 9 shows, in all but seven social movement areas 45% or more of the sites allow for participation or showcase prior participation. This suggests that even though websites often limit the feedback they can receive from site visitors, they are happy to court participant engagement in preorganized and choreographed actions. Fig. 10 suggests that if there is any significant trend across time, it is toward more websites adopting online protest opportunities. On the one hand, this means that more websites are allowing visitors to engage in action through the website. On the other hand, that action is through choreographed participation in which site visitors and potential participants generally exert little control.11 Moreover, the broadcast of information, which most fundamentally embodies the distinction between broadcaster and audience, or organizer and participant, is also the most commonly used technology on protestrelated websites. Fig. 11 shows the strikingly large proportion of sites across all social movement areas include news or educational materials relevant to

Fig. 10.

Proportion of Sites Showcasing or Allowing Participation, 2006–2010.

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Fig. 11.

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Proportion of Sites Broadcasting News or Educational Materials, 2006–2010.

the social movement area. Not only is this a very prevalent activity, it appears to be an activity that may have increased over time as the proportion of sites offering information approached one by 2010. Of course, it is not that one could reasonably expect that websites would not attempt to inform site visitors about social movement issues. Rather, if prosumption was powerfully subverting strong organizer–participant distinctions, one would expect that the rate at which websites informed visitors would be roughly equivalent to the rate at which it allowed site visitors to provide information, comment, etc. Instead, we see that a broadcast modeling of informing is widely diffused but subverting technologies are not as widely diffused.

CONCLUSION This article has examined the extent to which protest-related websites use technologies that either help to subvert or reinforce organizer–participant distinctions. Given the rapid adoption of technologies designed to facilitate

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interaction and cocreation and their use to undo classic distinctions between producers and consumers in other areas of social and economic life, there are reasons to suspect that organizer–participant distinctions could be subverted where online protest is concerned. The rise of so-called participatory politics by youth (Cohen et al., 2012) suggests that a notable percentage of young people engage in activities that subvert traditional boundaries, potentially creating demand for these kinds of opportunities within the protest field. Yet, the professionalization of the social movement sector in the preceding 40 years has substantially strengthened organizer– participant distinctions in offline protest. This article examined the net effect of these two competing trends – the online move toward prosumption in different sectors of social and economic life versus the offline move toward professionalization and reliance on SMOs – to determine whether organizer–participant distinctions were being subverted or supported on online protest websites. An important part of answering that question involves describing kinds of technology use that would either support or subvert such a distinction. Fig. 1 described a continuum from support to subversion that plotted different technology uses. For instance, broadcasting was cast as supporting organizer– participant distinctions, while the nonprofessional production of online protest was cast as subverting organizer–participant distinctions. Fig. 1 also charted the middle ground between these two poles, such as soliciting information from site visitors and/or allowing them to express opinions that are published on the site. Although this article cannot report on the demand for such tools, findings do evaluate the ‘‘supply side’’ of this equation by estimating how often tools to subvert or reinforce historical distinctions are deployed on social movement websites. Data from protest websites across 20 different social movement areas collected over five years were examined to determine the extent to which various technologies from this continuum were deployed. Suggesting some capacity to subvert organizer–participant distinctions, a significant proportion of websites were not run by formal SMOs and a number of social movement areas included websites on which users could generate their own protest tactics (i.e., warehouse sites). These are notable findings because they show that there are areas in which prosumption is making in-roads into online protest. Moreover, the large share of sites produced by non-SMOs shows that the reliance on SMOs that has been so central to social movement scholarship over the last several decades doesn’t match the empirical landscape of online activism. Instead, sites organized by an array

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of other actors – from individuals, to small groups, to organizations that are not SMOs – are prevalent online. Yet, it would be a mistake to assume that the entire story of online protest is about prosumption and the subversion of organizer–protester distinctions. Other technologies that can help to subvert these distinctions were not as commonly used. For instance, technologies that would allow site visitors to express their views on topics central to the social movement area or comment on information (e.g., through comments on blogs) were not deployed often (although blogs became more prevalent across time). Technologies that allowed site visitors to provide information to a website were rarely deployed. These findings suggest that the subversion of organizer–participant distinctions is not proceeding as quickly in the protest sector as it has in other areas of social and economic life (e.g., as quickly as it has with entertainment-related prosumption). Further, there is evidence that a broadcast model is also alive and well on most sites. The vast majority of sites in every social movement area broadcast information. Moreover, websites seem interested in actively involving site visitors when that engagement centered on preplanned, choreographed protest actions. Of course, there was some variation across social movement areas in these trends. For instance, there was not much evidence of substantial challenge to the organizer–participant distinction on labor websites, but right-wing websites tended to more often deploy technologies that subvert organizer– participant distinctions. Nonetheless, overall trends were still clear: despite some challenges to the organizer–participant distinction in the online protest sector, this distinction is still fairly bright and enduring. Most of the prosumptive impacts came from routing around SMOs, whereas little change came from existing producers deploying subverting technologies. One limitation of this study is that there is no data on the actual decisionmaking processes of each website; the study must rely on apparent adoption or non-adoption of different tools exclusively. This means, for instance, that a site could not adopt one of these tools because site developers don’t believe site visitors would use such tools. However, given work on engagement in participatory politics online (Cohen et al., 2012), it is unlikely that site visitors don’t desire such tools. Alternatively, sites could have offered these tools in mass before the observation period and then abandoned them in mass because they were not used. This also seems unlikely because it would be unusual for innovations to diffuse so quickly and widely and then for information on ‘‘failure’’ to be so ubiquitous that an innovation is also

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quickly and thoroughly removed. Nonetheless, whether websites failed to deploy subverting tools for these reasons, or others, it remains the case that site visitors largely have access to tools that reinforce their status as nonorganizers. Future research should identify other technologies that could erode organizer–participant distinctions and examine trends in adoption. Future research should also examine whether the rise of Facebook and Twitter have impacted these trends. For instance, drawing on Jenkins (1992, 2006), it is likely that a small minority of individuals are now using popular social media like Twitter and YouTube to further subvert organizer–participant distinctions. On the other hand, it is also likely that SMOs (like for-profit organizations before them) will move to incorporate social media into their media strategies and attempt to leverage social media for their own purposes, which may result in supporting current organizer–participant distinctions. For instance, much as companies like Lego moved to bring prosumers into the production process to provide targeted feedback, organizations like MoveOn have brought members into organizational agenda setting processes through structured surveys and feedback periods. Chadwick (2011) shows that the news industry, which was impacted by prosumption earlier and heavier than many other areas, has developed more blended professional-amateur models. Perhaps this is preface to how protest might change over the next two decades. Likewise, other companies used marketers to bring active customers into the marketing strategies, attempting to use them as unpaid brand ambassadors. We are already seeing this in the institutionalized political arena: Kreiss’s work (2012) suggests that significant infrastructural investments in institutional politics have laid the foundation for successful campaign uses of social media. And, to some extent, it appears to be already unfolding in the social movement sector as well as SMOs ask supporters to spread their message through their own e-mail, Twitter, and Facebook accounts. Indeed, the ‘‘share buttons’’ on websites that facilitate the sharing of information on a webpage through various social media have become ubiquitous. In other words, while only future research will be able to chart this with any certainty, it is likely that just as prosumption in other areas of social and economic life was met with a wide array of reactions from for-profit corporations, it is likely that prosumption in the protest sector will be similarly met with a range of reactions. How much those reactions, taken in aggregate, ultimately serve to preserve organizer–participant distinctions is an important question.

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NOTES 1. Large peer-produced projects such as Wikipedia (Karpf, 2011) and open source software (Kreiss, Finn, & Turner 2011) have also received substantial attention. This article’s focus, though, is not on these massive peer cooperative projects, or the internal development process of amateur turned professional groups (e.g., Chen, 2009), but instead on nonprofessional, or amateur, prosumption. 2. There has so far been less evidence of this second avenue of change. For example, Bimber et al. (2012) find that across three major organizations, MoveOn, AARP, and the American Legion, most members rate their interaction with the website as impersonal and only somewhat entrepreneurial (entrepreneurial is how they describe having an influence on how the organization operates; see Bimber et al., 2012, pp. 111, 113, 115 for the distribution of member attitudes). 3. I am only able to measure the ‘‘supply side’’ of deployment, not the ‘‘demand side’’ of actual usage. To measure actual usage, one would need data on site visitor behavior, which I do not have access to. Nonetheless, I argue that studying the deployment of these technologies is a critical first step because without these technologies being deployed on sites, there is not even a potential for site visitors to use them. Moreover, there is strong existing evidence to suggest that participatory tools are used frequently (Cohen et al., 2012), when available, but not strong existing evidence on the adoption of these tools across a range of websites. 4. It is worth noting that Garrido and Halavais (2003) are among the few scholars to have published social movement studies using a hyperlink crawler. 5. It is important to note that I do not sample from a list of social movement organizations; websites from any kind of producer, not just SMOs, are included in the sample. 6. Readers may wonder how entities, such as SMOs, that are active in multiple areas are handled. For instance, the ACLU works on privacy, civil liberties, human rights, and immigration, among other issues and so could have been sampled in any of those four social movement areas if it was returned in Google search results for the area. Let’s hypothetically assume that the ACLU was sampled in a number of these areas. The project would not decide the ACLU was really a civil liberties SMO and nothing else and then only retain it in the civil liberties social movement area. Instead, the data collection strategy assumes that if the ACLU is acting in each of these four areas, it is part of each of these four areas, and so is rightly at risk of being in the sample for all four of these areas. More generally, entities that are more generalists in the sense that they act in multiple movement arenas could appear in more than one sample. Specialists that are only acting in a single area are only risk of being sampled in that area. Since every movement is truly made up of generalists and specialists acting, the dataset reflects that. Were the data to arbitrarily remove generalists from each area, or assign them to a single area arbitrarily, the researcher would be skewing the image of what is actually taking place in the real world. 7. Although users often do not look at sites returned by a search that are not in the top 10 results, this method is designed to identify the population of sites that users are at risk of finding through search, even if most choose not to examine many returns from any given search.

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8. It is also possible that warehouse sites included tactics on a given movement issue (e.g., the environment), but were not sampled under that movement area by random chance. After all, these findings do not report on a census of movementrelated websites, and relatively rare types of sites are at least risk of being sampled. 9. I do not differentiate between SMO-built and non-SMO websites in the analyses that follow because if new producers also fail to incorporate these tools, not just SMOs, then this is powerful evidence that the only influence of prosumption will be through routing around. 10. It is worth noting that scholars have also argued that when unions were able to be more democratic and participatory, they were also more effective (Martin, 2008; Stephan-Norris, & Zeitlin, 1995; Voss & Sherman, 2000). 11. Walker (2009) shows how these kinds of pre-choreographed actions may serve an organizations goal while actually not developing individual participants’ civic voices much. Although his study was on grassroots lobbying firms, this effect is likely applicable to other organizers and participants.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank the National Science Foundation for generous support of this research through an NSF CAREER Award (SES-0547990) and to the many research assistants who worked on this project (see http://jearl.faculty.arizona.edu/internet_and_activism_lab for a full listing). I’d like to also thank Kirsten Foot and Steve Schneider, who shared their coding instructions for several variables used in this analysis, and Heidi Reynolds-Stenson for her research assistance.

REFERENCES Ackland, R. (2009). Social network services as data sources and platforms for e-researching social networks. Social Science Computer Review, 27(4), 481–492. Benkler, Y. (2006). The wealth of networks: How social production transforms markets and freedom. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Best, J. (1987). Rhetoric in claims-making: Constructing the missing children problem. Social Problems, 34, 101–121. Bimber, B., Flanagin, A. J., & Stohl, C. (2012). Collective action in organizations: Interaction and engagement in an era of technological change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chadwick, A. (2011). Britain’s first live televised party leader’s debate: From the news cycle to the political information cycle. Parliamentary Affairs, 64(1), 24–44. Chen, K. K. (2009). Enabling creative chaos: The organization behind the Burning Man event. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Clemens, E. S., & Minkoff, D. C. (2004). Beyond the iron law: Rethinking the place of organizations in social movement research. In D. A. Snow, S. A. Soule & H. Kriesi (Eds.), The blackwell companion to social movements (pp. 155–170). Oxford: Blackwell Publishing.

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Cohen, C. J., Kahne, J., Bowyer, B., Middaugh, E., & Rogowski, J. (2012). Participatory politics: New media and youth political action. Chicago, IL: MacArthur. Craft, J. A. (1991). Unions, bureaucracy, and change: Old dogs learn new tricks very slowly. Journal of Labor Research, 12(4), 393–405. Dimick, M. (2011). Revitalizing union democracy: Labor law, bureaucracy, and workplace association. Denver University Law Review, 88(1), 1–54. Earl, J. (2006). Pursuing social change online: The use of four protest tactics on the internet. Social Science Computer Review, 24(3), 362–377. Earl, J. (2013). Studying online activism: The effects of sampling design on findings. Unpublished manuscript. Earl, J., & Kimport, K. (2009). Movement societies and digital protest: Fan activism and other non-political protest online. Sociological Theory, 23(3), 220–243. Earl, J., & Kimport, K. (2011). Digitally enabled social change: Activism in the internet age. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Earl, J., Kimport, K., Prieto, G., Rush, C., & Reynoso, K. (2010). Changing the world one webpage at a time: Conceptualizing and explaining internet activism. Mobilization, 15(4), 425–446. Earl, J., & Schussman, A. (2003). The new site of activism: On-line organizations, movement entrepreneurs, and the changing location of social movement decision-making. Research in Social Movements, Conflicts, and Change, 24, 155–187. Garrett, R. K. (2006). Protest in an information society: A review of the literature on social movement and new ICTs. Information, Communication, and Society, 9(2), 202–224. Garrido, M., & Halavais, A. (2003). Mapping networks of support for the Zapatista movement: applying social-networks analysis to study contemporary social movements. In M. McCaughey & M. D. Ayers (Eds.), Cyberactivism: Online activism in theory and practice (pp. 165–184). New York, NY: Routledge. Jenkins, H. (1992). Textual poachers: Television fans and participatory culture. New York, NY: Routledge. Jenkins, H. (2006). Convergence culture. New York, NY: NYU Press. Jenkins, J. C. (1983). Resource mobilization theory and the study of social movements. Annual Review of Sociology, 9, 527–553. Karpf, D. (2011). Open source political community development: A five-stage adoption process. Journal of Information Technology and Politics, 8(3), 323–345. Karpf, D. (2012). The MoveOn effect. Cambridge: Oxford University Press. Kreiss, D. (2012). Taking our country back. Cambridge: Oxford University Press. Kreiss, D., Finn, M., & Turner, F. (2011). The limits of peer production: Some reminders from Max Weber for the network society. New Media & Society, 13(2), 243–259. Lenhart, A., & Madden, M. (2005). Teen content creators and consumers. Washington, DC: Pew Internet and American Life Project. Lessig, L. (2004). Free culture: How big media uses technology and the law to lock down culture and control creativity. New York, NY: Penguin Press. Martin, A. W. (2008). The institutional logic of union organizing and the effectiveness of social movement repertoires. American Journal of Sociology, 113(4), 1067–1103. McCarthy, J. D., & Zald, M. N. (1973). The trend of social movements in America: Professionalization and resource mobilization. Morristown, NJ: General Learning Press. McCarthy, J. D., & Zald, M. N. (1977). Resource mobilization and social movements: A partial theory. American Journal of Sociology, 82, 1212–1241.

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Melucci, A. (1989). Nomads of the present: Social movements and individual needs in contemporary society. London: Hutchinson Radius. Meyer, D., & Staggenborg, S. (1996). Movements, countermovements, and the structure of political opportunity. American Journal of Sociology, 101(6), 1628–1660. Michels, R. (1949). Political parties. Glencoe: The Free Press. O’Mahoney, S., & Bechky, B. (2008). Boundary organizations: Enabling collaboration among unexpected allies. Administrative Science Quarterly, 53(3), 422–459. Piven, F. F., & Cloward, R. A. (1977). Poor people’s movements: Why they succeed, how they fail. New York, NY: Vintage Books. Postigo, H. (2012). The digital rights movement. Boston, MA: MIT Press. Rheingold, H. (1993). The virtual community: Homesteading on the electronic frontier. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Rohlinger, D. A. (2006). Friend and foe: Media, politics, and tactics in the abortion war. Social Problems, 53(4), 537–561. Rohlinger, D. A., Brown, J., & Bunnage, L. (2010). Unpacking media strategy: The case of the academic freedom movement. Paper presented at the Annual Meetings of the American Sociological Association, Atlanta, GA. Schussman, A., & Earl, J. (2004). From barricades to firewalls? Strategic voting and social movement leadership in the internet age. Sociological Inquiry, 74(4), 439–463. Shirky, C. (2008). Here comes everybody: The power of organizing without organizations. New York, NY: Penguin Press. Staggenborg, S. (1988). The consequences of professionalization and formalization in the prochoice movement. American Sociological Review, 53, 585–606. Stein, L. (2009). Social movement web use in theory and practice: A content analysis of US movement websites. New Media and Society, 11(5), 749–771. Stephan-Norris, J., & Zeitlin, M. (1995). Union democracy, radical leadership, and the hegemony of capital. American Sociological Review, 60, 829–850. Vegh, S. (2003). Classifying forms of online activism: The case of cyberprotests against the World Bank. In M. McCaughey & M. D. Ayers (Eds.), Cyberactivism: Online activism and theory and practice (pp. 71–95). New York, NY: Routledge. Voss, K., & Sherman, R. (2000). Breaking the iron law of oligarchy: Union revitalization in the American Labor Movement. American Journal of Sociology, 106(2), 303–349. Walker, E. T. (2009). Privatizing participation: Civic change and the organizational dynamics of grassroots lobbying firms. American Sociological Review, 74(1), 83–105.

MEDIA, MOVEMENTS, AND MOBILIZATION: TEA PARTY PROTESTS IN THE UNITED STATES, 2009–2010 Tarun Banerjee ABSTRACT What is the relationship between a social movement and the media coverage it receives? Using data on the Tea Party and supplementing it with a broad dataset of coverage in nearly 200 state and local newspapers over an 18-month period, I address key questions on the recursive relationship between media coverage and mobilization. Results provide support for the mobilizing influence of the media. Instead of following protest activity as post-facto news, coverage tended to precede mobilization and was its most important predictor. Second, the conservative media occupied a distinct and indirect position in impacting mobilization. Though not direct predictors of mobilization, conservative media coverage was a strong predictor of subsequent coverage in the broader media. Further, this influence was asymmetrical, with the general media having no impact on conservative media. Finally, results suggest that the conservative frame of ‘‘liberal media bias’’ enabled a unique mobilizing effect where negative coverage in the broader media increased mobilization. These findings shed light on the dynamic relationship between

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 39–75 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036005

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movements, protests, and the media, and that of conservative movements in particular. Keywords: Tea Party; protests; mobilization; media; conservative media

What is the relationship between social movement mobilization and the coverage it receives in the media? I address this by examining two related questions, each of which rests on generally accepted positions in social movement scholarship. The first comes from a consensus among researchers that coverage on a movement increases subsequent mobilization. I address this by asking if and under what circumstances this is true. The second arises from a commonly held idea that large demonstrations result in greater coverage for a movement. This leads us to ask if this is the case and under what conditions it holds true. These two questions in turn lead to an inquiry on the reciprocal relationship between mobilization and coverage. Do mobilization and media coverage impact each other, and if this relationship is reciprocal, is it one of equal influence? I address these questions through an examination of the Tea Party movement. While this case may not generalize to other movements, especially those that are dissimilar in important respects, these findings should contribute to furthering our understanding on the reciprocal relationship between social movement mobilization and media coverage on the movement, as well on as the unique dynamics of conservative movements.

THEORY I first present theories on media coverage related to their effect on subsequent protest mobilization. In the following section, I discuss approaches that seek to explain this coverage. Media Effects on Mobilization Scholarship on the impact of media coverage on mobilization takes a number of approaches. These include understanding media influence from (a) the informational role of the media; (b) the persuasive effect of positive coverage; (c) perceptions of a liberal media bias; and (d) the impact of

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partisan outlets. Although other media- and non-media related aspects remain, I present these as broad approaches that together seek to understand movement mobilization from a number of both supporting and competing perspectives. Informational Effect The first approach paints the broadest picture, arguing that media coverage is, as a whole, a net gain for mobilization. This is captured in the early approach of Lipsky (1968): If protest tactics are not considered significant by the media, or if newspapers and television reporters or editors decide to overlook protest tactics, protest organizations will not succeed. Like the tree falling unheard in the forest, there is no protest unless protest is perceived and projected. (p. 1151)

Much research has since provided validity to this perspective. For example, the media were central to the spread of sit-ins in the southern United States in 1960 (Andrews & Biggs, 2006). Diffusion of this protest repertoire followed the circulation patterns of local newspapers, with participants frequently learning of sit-ins in other cities from media coverage on those events, not from social networks. This appears true for television coverage as well. The spread of race riots in the mid-1960s to early 1970s was patterned such that diffusion followed the broadcast regions of television stations (Myers, 2000). In another account, the media played a key role in the amplification of Right Wing violence against asylum seekers in Germany in 1991. Koopmans (2004) found that even though the initial attack was not directed against asylum seekers, the media’s framing of the event as such led it to be broadly perceived as against asylum seekers. Consequently, such attacks spread to many other cities and towns and became the most prominent aspect of Right Wing violence. The central mechanism at work is the ability of the media to amplify a movement’s agenda through the sheer information-sharing capacity the media holds. In Andrews and Biggs’ (2006) study, for example, they argued that ‘‘[what] mattered was not editorial endorsement but rather information about protest elsewhere y Information, most basically, made potential protesters aware of this novel tactic’’ (p. 769). This therefore leads to the following expectation: Hypothesis 1. Greater media coverage in state and local newspapers increases subsequent mobilization of a movement.

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Persuasion Effect However, the media are neither neutral nor homogenous in their coverage on movements, which is in many ways deeply political and selective. In addition to the volume of coverage, therefore, the content and slant of this coverage is an important consideration. The media show selectivity for a number of reasons, including their opposition to labor and unions (Beharrell & Philo, 1977), proclaimed public safety concerns (Gitlin, 1980), and the power of the individuals and institutions covered (Goren, 1980). They may employ a number of tropes that can assist in this regard. For example, media coverage has delegitimized certain movements by skewing coverage toward the outward appearance of participants (Gitlin, 1980), disproportionately highlighting movement violence (Murdock, 1981), or using public opinion polls to highlight the deviance of participants (McLeod & Hertog, 1992). Therefore, movements that have gained supportive access to the media have already shown some degree of strength. When movements gain such access, they may use it as a mediating force to challenge dominant discourses (Gamson, Croteau, Hoynes, & Sasson, 1992), expand their support (Friedman, 1999; Koopmans, 1993), and gain beneficial leverage (King, 2008). With this in mind, coverage that is supportive of the movement should enable it to mobilize more effectively. Hypothesis 2. Supportive media coverage increases subsequent mobilization of a movement. Liberal Media Bias Yet there is reason to believe conservative movements may be unique in this respect. Research shows such movements have long held the belief that there is a liberal bias in the media. For example, in an analysis on movement organizations involved in abortion issues, conservative organizations held more negative views of the media than liberal organizations (Rohlinger, 2002). Where the National Organization for Women – a pro-choice, liberal organization – actively sought media coverage as a goal for the organization, the conservative Concerned Women for America held that the media were biased against the movement. This altered the mobilizational strategies these organizations pursued. This perception is wide-ranging, with major conservative outlets supporting this view (Brock, 2004). For this reason, negative coverage in the media at large may have an additional complicating effect on conservative movements. Rather than providing evidence against mobilization

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(the persuasion model), negative coverage may legitimate grievances of a liberal bias; and hence provide added incentive to mobilize. This is not to suggest that for conservative movements ‘‘bad news is good news.’’ Instead, such coverage may have this effect because it fits a broader frame of understanding supported by Right Wing and conservative outlets about what constitutes a grievance, and therefore, what may mobilize participants. This suggests that when conservative outlets are able to bring their agenda to the fore, a unique and seemingly contradictory effect may be at play. Hypothesis 3. Negative coverage on the Tea Party in the general news media will increase subsequent mobilization when issues related to the movement are salient in the media. Partisan Effect Building on the ‘‘liberal bias’’ approach, a driving force for this belief comes from conservative and Right Wing media. Research shows this goes back to a wide-ranging effort on the Right to develop alternative media institutions over the last many decades (Diamond, 1995). These resulted in innovations such as conservative television programming (Gross, Medvetz, & Russell, 2011) and talk radio (Davis & Owen, 1998). Perceptions among conservative movements of the liberal biases of the mainstream media therefore arose alongside this development (Alterman, 2003; Blee & Creasap, 2010; Gross et al., 2011). These media have been central to the mobilization of conservative movements such as the Christian Right (Diamond, 1995) and the anti-gay movement (Berlet & Lyons, 2000). This suggests that: Hypothesis 4. Greater coverage in conservative outlets will lead to increased protest mobilization. Although not an exhaustive list, the above approaches constitute broad avenues of scholarship that examine the impact of news coverage and outlets. While there are numerous other factors that aid and impede mobilization – most notably the organizational capacity of the movement and the relationship it has to power holders – these are not the focus of the present inquiry, which has been on the effects of the media on mobilization. Though I do not elaborate on theoretical approaches surrounding these other issues here, I model them in my analyses and provide more detail in the methodology section.

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Mobilization Effects on Coverage A second line of inquiry explores the ability of movement mobilization to generate subsequent coverage. A tenet of this approach is that effective mobilization can generate additional media coverage. This demands the question of what constitutes effective mobilization and under what conditions it spurs coverage on the movement. Visibility of Public Demonstrations Larger demonstrations tend to receive greater coverage. This holds true whether considering national newspapers (Amenta, Caren, Olasky, & Stobaugh, 2009) as well as state and local papers (Andrews & Caren, 2010). For example, in a study of local environmental organizations in North Carolina, groups that participated in demonstrations received more coverage in the subsequent year, accounting for other characteristics of the groups and the issues they worked on (Andrews & Caren, 2010). This effect remains after controlling for the disruptiveness and violence of the demonstrations (Amenta et al., 2009). Larger events tend to receive more coverage even if the demonstrations are low risk (McCarthy, McPhail, & Smith, 1996). In addition, studies on selection bias in the media show that although the media cover only a portion of public demonstrations, the effect of size still remains (McCarthy et al., 1996; Oliver & Myers, 1999). Therefore, whether considering the violence of demonstrations, the scope of the news media considered, or the effects of selection bias, there is broad support for the proposition that larger demonstrations can increase coverage on a movement. Hypothesis 5. Larger demonstrations lead to greater coverage on the movement. Movement Capacity In addition, the organizational capacity of movements can impact coverage (Amenta et al., 2009; Rohlinger, Kail, Taylor, & Conn, 2012). Greater organizational capacity allows movements to devote more attention to how the media cover the movement as well as the issues of concern to it. Movement organizations can also devote resources to reports and studies that media outlets subsequently draw on (Griffin & Dunwoody, 1995; Ramos, Ron, & Thoms, 2007). For example, the ability of pro-choice SMOs to devote time and resources to fostering relationships with journalists translated into increased coverage for the movement (Staggenborg, 1988).

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In addition, the activity of local organizers may lead to greater coverage (Oliver & Myers, 1999). Research shows that movement organizations are frequently aware of these pressures from the media and adapt their efforts to respond to the requirements of the media (Rodgers, 2009). However, the capacity of movements is not just a function of its organizational presence, but also of its membership support. Coverage may be a measure of the membership base of a movement (Andrews & Caren, 2010) as well as a signifier of its broader influence (Gamson, 2004). Therefore, the ability for movements to translate their organizational capacity into coverage should be positively impacted by their ability to establish an organizational base and convert the broader public to the movement. Hypothesis 6. Greater organizational presence and membership will lead to increased coverage. Partisan Coverage As referenced earlier, mobilization among the Right over the last few decades has led to a close relationship between Right Wing political interests, and conservative media and movements. This has led to a movement-media dynamic that is twofold. First, the mobilization of a number of such movements has been aided by coverage in these sources (Berlet & Lyons, 2000; Diamond, 1995). Second, the influence these outlets hold, as well as the perception of liberal bias in the mainstream media, increase the focus conservative movements place on sympathetic news outlets. In Rohlinger’s (2002) analysis of movement organizations on competing sides of the abortion issue, the distrust of the mainstream media by Concerned Women for America impacted its own media strategies, leading it to place more efforts on coverage in conservative media. This suggests: Hypothesis 7. Larger demonstrations will lead to greater coverage in conservative outlets. Echo Chamber Effect Finally, where the ‘partisan’ approach predicts a direct relationship between coverage in such sources and mobilization, this takes an indirect approach. It rests on the assumption that key interests for conservative movements and causes first advance within an ideological network of media outlets, policy groups, and other Right Wing institutions (Akard, 1992; Vogel, 1989). It is only subsequently that these enter the ‘‘mainstream’’ media, from where they are accepted as more neutral information (Brock, 2004). That is,

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supportive coverage on Right Wing causes begins through an ‘‘echo chamber’’ where a limited number of outlets with ties to Right Wing political interests develop supportive coverage and this initially only passes through ideologically similar sources. After a while, however, the remainder of the media begins to pick up on these themes and report on them, thereby validating a particular cause or position as ‘‘mainstream.’’ Therefore, characteristics that are both limited to Right Wing institutions as well as apply to the broader media, combine to provide a diffusion mechanism for conservative interests from these news outlets and policy groups to the broader media. This leads to the expectation of an indirect effect of conservative media on mobilization through their role in setting the terms of debate in the media at large. Therefore: Hypothesis 8. Coverage on the Tea Party in conservative media channels increases mobilization indirectly through its influence on coverage in the broader news media. These two pursuits in the literature both speak directly to the relationship between movement mobilization and coverage. Table 1 summarizes the various hypotheses.

Table 1. Hypotheses on Media and Mobilization. Concept

Hypothesis (Number in Parentheses)

Media effects on mobilization Informational effect Greater volume of media coverage in state and local newspapers increases subsequent mobilization. (1) Persuasion effect Supportive media coverage increases subsequent mobilization. (2) Liberal media bias Negative coverage on the Tea Party in the general news media will increase subsequent mobilization when issues related to the movement are salient in the media. (3) Partisan effect Greater coverage in conservative outlets will lead to increased Tea Party protest mobilization. (4) Mobilization effects on coverage Protest visibility Larger demonstrations lead to increased coverage. (5) Movement capacity Greater organizational presence and membership will lead to increased coverage. (6) Partisan effect Larger demonstrations will lead to greater coverage in conservative outlets. (7) Echo chamber effect Coverage on the Tea Party in conservative media channels increases mobilization indirectly through its influence on coverage in the broader news media. (8)

Number of Newspaper Articles

900

160,000

800

140,000

700

120,000

600

100,000

500 80,000 400 60,000

300 200

40,000

100

20,000

0

Number Attending Protests

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Tea Party Protests and Media Coverage

0

Weeks: Jan 2009 April 2010

Newspaper Coverage

Fig. 1.

Protest Attendance

Protest Attendance and Media Coverage by Week.

Where one avenue of research addresses the effect of coverage on mobilization, the other examines how mobilization may impact subsequent coverage. Though important inquiries independently, together they demand a more complete analysis. If mobilization can lead to news coverage, does this increased coverage subsequently give rise to further mobilization? And if the relationship is recursive, is it one of mutual influence or is one more important than the other? Are only some effects reflexive, and if so, what can this tell us about the broader dynamics underlying movements and the media? A visual inspection of weekly mobilization newspaper coverage provides a first glance that the relationship is a close one (Fig. 1). It appears that coverage peaks tend to follow protest peaks. However, increases in activity that give rise to these peaks also appear to begin with news coverage, followed by increases in protest activity. A more thorough analysis is therefore required to parse out the relationship more carefully.

CASE SELECTION The Tea Party is a good test case for reasons that are both empirical and theoretical. First, there is a dearth of scholarly sociological research on

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this movement. Much of the published research has been in political science; and where addressed by social movement scholarship, has not examined the relationship between the media and mobilization. Instead, research has focused on the movement’s ideology (Perrin, Tepper, Caren, & Morris, 2011), make up of its membership (Langman, 2012; Zeskind, 2012), and use of particular frames (Boykoff & Laschever, 2011; Wilson & Burack, 2012). This case also helps contribute to theorizing in two important ways. First, as mentioned above, the recursive relationship between social movements and media coverage remains a vastly understudied dynamic. The majority of scholarship investigates either the impact of coverage on mobilization (Andrews & Biggs, 2006; Koopmans, 2004; Myers, 2000) or the reverse effect (Amenta et al., 2009; Andrews & Caren, 2010; Earl, Martin, Soule, & McCarthy, 2004; McCarthy et al., 1996; Oliver & Myers, 1999; Rohlinger et al., 2012). Important questions about the reflexive relationship between mobilization and media coverage remain unexamined. Second, research on conservative movements is under-theorized and in need of a more complete analysis (Edelman, 2001). Scholarship has in some respects remained stalled at a fundamental question about the relationship such countermovements have to established power sources and how this corresponds to differences between such movements and their liberal counterparts. An impasse exists between the view that conservative movements are ‘‘different’’ in their closer relationship to major institutions and resources (Mottl, 1980) and the approach emphasizing their similarity with liberal movements (Lo, 1982; Zald & Useem, 1987). Although there are exceptions (e.g., Brock, 2004; Koopmans, 2004), research has therefore not fully examined how the media play a role as one possible institutional resource for conservative movements.

DATA AND METHOD Sample and Data Sources To address the various theoretical approaches, I compiled a dataset of factors relevant to Tea Party mobilization and media coverage. My analysis required three main types of data: (a) activity of the Tea Party, including protest mobilization and other movement characteristics; (b) coverage in state and local newspapers; and (c) coverage in conservative media.

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Tea Party Activity Data for mobilization came from the Institute for Research and Education on Human Rights (IREHR). Following an established tradition in the literature (Earl et al., 2004; McAdam & Su, 2002), the IREHR collected data on the size, location, and date of demonstrations from media accounts of these events. Although such accounts inevitably contain a level of bias, ‘‘hard’’ details of events – such as the size, location, and date – tend to be less subject to these errors than ‘‘soft’’ details, such as the goals and framing of the movement (McCarthy, McPhail, Smith, & Crishock, 1999). This demonstration activity serves as my main sample for movement mobilization. Originally comprised of 581 protests, these were reduced to 467 after cleaning the data.1 In addition, I employed data for two other social movement variables from this source: Tea Party groups compiled by state (in all, the IREHR identified 2,824 local and state Tea Party groups) as well as online membership in the 6 national Tea Party organizations (also calculated by state). Newspaper Coverage I compiled media data through searches on LexisNexis Academic. I limited this to newspapers that were local or regional because of the difficulty in parsing out the influence of nationally visible papers such as The New York Times on state-level mobilization. For each paper, I determined that its coverage pertained to a primary state and then collected all articles that referenced the movement using keyword searches. I obtained data for about 200 newspapers over the 18-month period, including local papers (such as The Tulsa World of Oklahoma and The Billings Gazette of Montana) and state papers (such as The San Francisco Chronicle of California and The Houston Chronicle of Texas). In a few cases where papers were difficult to find, I complemented the data with coverage from state and local Associated Press stories. This returned approximately 14,000 articles that referenced the Tea Party. I read the references in these articles and manually removed false positive returns. Where references were unclear, I consulted the entire article to determine relevance. This returned a final sample of 12,884 articles. A listing of newspapers included in the final analysis is available from the author. Conservative Coverage I followed a similar method for obtaining coverage in conservative sources. I employed keyword searches on LexisNexis Academic to identify coverage in a number of television programs on the Fox News network.

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Variables and Operationalization Each of my two dependent variables serves as a main independent variable in the other model. Descriptions on these are summarized first, followed by those on the independent variables and controls. These are presented in Table 2. Dependent Variables Protest Activity Following a body of scholarship, I examined mobilization through protest activity (Amenta et al., 2009; Andrews & Caren, 2010; Earl et al., 2004; Table 2. Variable Dependent variables Protest mobilization Media coverage Independent variables Newspaper sentiment

Conservative coverage Movement capacity

Variables and Operationalization. Operationalization

Total number of people attending protests per week in each state Total number of articles on the Tea Party in state and local newspapers per week in each state Sentiment of coverage on Tea Party through hand coding of sample of coverage in state and local newspapers, averaged by stateweeks Total number of television programs on Fox News channel covering Tea Party by week Number of local and state chapters of the Tea Party by state Online membership in six major Tea Party organizations by state

Controlsa Associated Press coverage Total number of news stories on the Tea Party, by week Issue salience Total number of state and local newspaper articles covering taxation issues by week Total number of television programs on Fox News channel covering taxation issues by week Congressional support Tea Party Caucus fundraising per state and successes Number of hearings and reports on taxation conducted by Tea Party Caucus members, by week State taxation Proportion of overall collections in taxation in 2008 relative to 2007, by state Race Percent identifying as White only, by state Education Percent with high-school degree, by state Economic wealth GDP per capital, by state a

See Data and Method section for additional controls for time, dependence between repeated observations over time, and unobserved differences between states.

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Myers & Caniglia, 2004). I calculated weekly protest activity in each of the 50 states in the United States from 2009 to mid-2010. My final variable was the total number of people participating in protests each week per state. I chose weekly participation as a balance between longer and shorter durations: where monthly or greater time periods may lead to a loss in detail, daily activity may suffer from the reverse problem. For instance, the rhythms of the week may contain additional variations that are not addressed by the approaches I test (e.g., the tendency for protests to occur on specific days). I chose states as my geographic boundary because the effects of other variables (most notably media coverage) are difficult to parse out at finer levels. Newspaper Coverage on Tea Party I examined coverage in state and local newspapers by week. I chose a statelevel analysis because of the difficulty in separating effects of coverage on smaller geographic areas. State papers commonly have circulation in some parts of the state and not others, and local papers are frequently read in adjoining areas. At the same time, the effects of national newspapers on state- or local-level mobilization are difficult to parse out. In addition, I chose a weekly analysis because prior research shows that coverage of an event is most likely in the week following it (Andrews & Biggs, 2006). Further, we can expect the effect of coverage on mobilization to follow a similarly dissipating trend, with the effects of news coverage of monthly or greater totals harder to encapsulate. At the same time, daily analysis may be too narrow a time duration. As with protest attendance, news reportage is also a function of the rhythms of the week, with research showing media more likely to cover protests on slow news days. Given that the theories addressed here do not speak to this, weekly totals were chosen.

Independent Variables Newspaper Sentiment To gauge the sentiment of coverage toward the movement, I chose a purposive sample of 1,300 articles on the Tea Party from state and local newspapers. I first selected articles at random. For states that did not receive a total of 10 articles, I randomly sampled from them so there would be a minimum representation of coverage from each state. After excluding articles that did not contain enough information to discern sentiment, these were reduced to 1,287 articles, or approximately 10% of the 12,884 articles

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in my larger sample. With the help of a research assistant, these were coded on a scale to represent their overall sentiment toward the movement (ranging from 1 – very/mostly negative to 5 – very/mostly positive). I first read a random sample of 25 articles and compiled a listing of attributes or frames about the Tea Party from these. These fell into four different categories, those that related to (i) the agenda and goals of the movement, (ii) its origins and sources of support, (iii) the beliefs and biases of participants, and (iv) the potentials and consequences of the movement as a whole. These corresponded closely to research on media frames of the movement (Boykoff & Laschever, 2011).2 I coded these as positive, negative, or neutral to the movement. We then followed a more open method of coding: articles were not required to express a particular sentiment to be given a particular rating. Neither did we assign a specific rating to individual. Instead, the more attributes considered positive that were expressed in the article, the closer it was assigned to a 4 or 5 rating, and the more negatives it had brought it closer to a 1 or a 2. We accounted for placement by giving more weight to concluding sentiments on the movement. However, we did not account for other factors such as the voice or legitimacy of the speaker. In addition, the use of one measure for the overall statistic for each article may not have captured other nuances. Therefore, the final data are intended as a general measure of the overall approach of coverage in articles toward the movement.3 Conservative Coverage on Tea Party I created this variable through coverage on the movement in transcripts on Fox Business News in the following programming: Fox Business Happy Hour, the Neil Cavuto show, Power and Money, Money for Breakfast, Imus Simulcast, and The Willis Report. I chose Fox News because of its conservative coverage (Turner, 2007), associations to the Republican Party and conservative causes (Brock, 2004; DellaVigna & Kaplan, 2007; Morris & Francia, 2010), and support for conservative policy groups (Groseclose & Milyo, 2005). As the ‘‘echo chamber’’ argument stresses the role of a few conservative outlets in amplifying a discourse to the media at large, I looked at coverage in the above national programs and so the data vary by week but not state. Movement Capacity I measured this, first, in the total number of local and state chapters of the Tea Party per state. I calculated these from the 2,824 organizations and

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53

chapters identified by the IREHR. I also gauged the movement’s membership, coded as state-wide online membership in six major organizations: 1776 Tea Party, Freedomworks Tea Party, Resistnet, Tea Party Express, Tea Party Nation, and Tea Party Patriots.

Control Variables Lagged Measures of Dependent Variables The mixed random effects (RE) statistical technique used – elaborated on in the methodology section that follows – does not account for the dependence of observations over time. Yet, one of the strongest predictors for variables that vary over time is frequently the measurement of the variables at a previous time point. For example, a newspaper’s coverage on the Tea Party in a week was likely to be impacted by how much coverage it gave the previous week. I therefore included a one-week lag of the two dependent variables (protest size and coverage volume) in the relevant models. This helps attenuate the effects of unobserved factors impacting the outcome variables. Dummy Variables for Week I also included dummy variables for each week to account for differences through time. Associated Press Coverage State and local newspaper coverage is likely not determined by isolated forces within a state and may be influenced by broader forces in the media. I accounted for this by controlling for coverage in the largest news wire service, the Associated Press. Coverage of Protest Issues on Taxation In addition, both mobilization and coverage are impacted by the salience of protest issues (Koopmans & Olzak, 2004). Coverage on movement issues increases the likelihood that a movement’s frames around those issues are picked up by the news (Kutz-Flamenbaum, Staggenborg, & Duncan, 2012). This can give the movement greater standing in the media and public at large and help publicize its demands around that issue (Amenta, Gardner, Tierney, Yerena, & Elliott, 2012). In addition, media attention to protest issues is a strong predictor that movements related to

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those issues will also receive coverage (Andrews & Caren, 2010; McCarthy et al., 1996). Although, like most movements, the Tea Party is involved in multiple issues, a fundamental concern is opposition to government taxation policies. This can be found at all levels of the movement. For example, about 20% of the almost 40,000 blog posts made on a prominent website referred explicitly to taxation issues.4 And in public opinion polls, people who identified as Tea Party members have been more likely than the general public to be concerned by taxation rates and believe the taxes they paid were unfair (CBS/NY Times Poll: National Survey of Tea Party Supporters). Sympathetic political elites also support this perception (most notably, members of the Tea Party Caucus in the House of Representatives). Finally, this manifests itself in the movement’s protest activities. The two largest peaks in protest activity depicted in Fig. 1 coincide around April 15, 2009 and 2010 – the day tax filings are due to the government.5 Given this, I operationalized coverage on protest issues as number of articles on taxation. To further control for coverage in conservative outlets, I also included a variable with the number of weekly programs on Fox News referencing taxation. As with my main variables on coverage on the movement, I used keyword searches through LexisNexis Academic to collect coverage on taxation.

Congressional Support and Successes The policy climate in areas of the movement’s focus can also spur both mobilization and coverage. Studies show movements are able to take advantage of policy successes to increase mobilization and advance their agenda (Amenta & Young, 1999). News outlets are also likely to pay attention to such developments. Consequently, policy developments that are in line with the goals of a movement increase coverage on that movement (Amenta et al., 2009). I measured Congressional activity supportive to the Tea Party in two ways. First, I included hearings and reports by members of the Tea Party Caucus that mentioned taxation issues.6 I obtained these from LexisNexis Congressional Universe. Second, I used fundraising data of these Caucus members for the year 2009 available through The Center for Responsive Politics. This is a good indicator because Tea Party sympathizers may be more likely to give to politicians who have expressed formal support for the movement, and because the fundraising ability of these politicians may impact the support they can provide the movement.

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State Taxation Given the prominence of taxation grievances, I also controlled for changes in state taxation collections. I did this by considering the amount the state received in taxation for 2008 relative to the previous year. States with a value above 1 increased their taxation collections in 2008 from 2007. I obtained this data from the State Government Tax Collections section of the Census. Socioeconomic Characteristics As movement participants have often been identified as mostly white, wealthier-than-average, and better educated than the general public, I included controls for a state’s percentage of population identifying as white only, the state’s GDP per capita, as well as percent with a high-school diploma. Data come from 2009 U.S. Census calculations. Reflexive Measurements Finally, as a key question of interest is the reflexive nature of movementmedia dynamics, I included independent variables for one side of the dynamic as control variables in the other. For example, although organizational characteristics of the movement are not a part of my main theories on the effect of media coverage on mobilization, these are important factors to take into account. Just as they were included as independent variables in models predicting media coverage on a movement, I included them in models predicting the effect of coverage on mobilization. This ensures we are considering the reciprocal potential of all variables and fully specifying the models. Descriptive Statistics Table 3 presents the number of cases, means, standard deviation, and minimum and maximum values for all variables as well as logged transformations where applicable. Method My two dependent variables relate to the total attendance at protest events and coverage on the movement in state and local newspapers. As I compiled protest and media data by state and by week, this lead to a sample of 3,900 cases (50 states  78 weeks).

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Table 3. Variable

Summary Statistics. N

Mean

Std. Dev.

Min.

Max.

Tea Party protests Attendance Attendance (log)

3,900 3,900

127.67 0.46

984.61 1.69

0 0

23,000 10.04

Tea Party organization TP chapters (per 10,000 people) TP members (per 10,000 people)

3,900 3,900

0.11 6.14

0.06 1.68

0.01 2.90

0.35 10.71

State, local newspaper coverage Coverage Coverage (log) Sentiment (5=most positive) Taxation coverage

3,900 3,900 3,510 3,900

3.30 0.87 3.03 54.37

6.49 0.98 0.59 18.73

0 0 1 20

84 4.44 5 118

Conservative coverage Fox coverage on TP Fox News coverage on taxation

3,900 3,900

3.87 8.47

3.88 3.82

0 1

18 21

National coverage Associated Press coverage on TP

3,900

6.63

9.90

0

35

State taxation Increase from 2007 to 2008 Increase from 2007 to 2008 (log)

2,418 2,418

2.84 0.11

10.11 0.75

0.58 0.54

58.21 4.06

Tea Party Congressional support TP Caucus fundraising (in 100,000$) TP Caucus hearings on taxation

3,900 3,900

11.68 1.090

22.47 1.23

0 0

102.92 5

Socio-demographic factors Percent state White only Percent state with HS degree State GDP per capita (in $10,000)

3,900 3,900 3,900

0.78 0.17 2.59

0.12 0.02 0.38

0.27 0.12 1.92

0.96 0.24 3.57

I used random effects (RE) mixed longitudinal regression models for my main analyses. The equation can be written as: (1)

where yit is the value of the outcome variable of state i at time t; m is the population mean of the outcome variable; xit is the vector of time variant predictors; zi is the vector of time invariant predictors; a represents the unobserved heterogeneity in differences between states that are stable over

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time but are not captured by zi; and e is the random error term with a mean of 0 and constant variance. A mixed RE model allowed me to combine the benefits of fixed and random effects in one model. Where fixed effects (FE) explain within-case variation over time, RE only explain variation between cases (here, between U.S. states). I combined the predictive powers of each by running RE models that disaggregated this variation by splitting each time-varying independent variable into two parts, those measuring within-case as well as betweencase variation (Singer & Willett, 2003). As my data for protests, newspaper coverage on the Tea Party, as well as sentiment of that coverage all vary over time (weekly) and between cases (U.S. states), this allowed me to parse out the different effects. Therefore, while my models contain coefficients for within-case variation, these fixed effects are embedded in a random effects model. Where traditional RE models give single coefficients that are the weighted averages of between- and within-case variation, disaggregating this variation allows for separate coefficients and greater predictive strength. For an additional model predicting conservative coverage (where the data vary over time but not between states), I used negative binomial regression including only time-varying predictors. Where my mixed-effects models have 3,900 eligible cases (50 states  78 weeks), the Negative Binomial model has 78 cases (one for each week). I accounted for effects of time by including an interval-ratio variable for week, which posited a linear positive effect. Data Suitability The appropriateness of mixed RE versus FE techniques can be determined by testing whether the coefficients for within-case variation are the same as those of between-case variation. A statistically significant difference would indicate that a mixed RE model is more appropriate (Allison, 2011). Results indicated random effects were preferable to fixed effects for the data at hand.7 Finally, RE models assume cases are independent of each other. In practice, however, the protest and media activity of states are likely to be highly impacted by other states, as well as by factors unobservable through just the variables included. I therefore ran additional analyses that included dummy variables for states. As multicollinearity did not allow dummy variables for all 50 states, I used purposive sampling to select a portion of states. Results were comparable in both significance and magnitude for all independent variables, suggesting unobserved differences between states did not bias results. In the interest of parsimony, I present just the complete models here. However, additional tables are available from the author.8

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Post-estimation Checks I ensured variables conformed to assumptions of linearity and normality; and where skewed, performed logarithmic transformations, which corrected this problem. In addition, I checked each model for multicollinearity, outliers, and influential cases. In situations where VIF scores indicated multicollinearity may be problematic, I removed the relevant variables and ran the models again. In these cases, none of the effects of the remaining variables was changed indicating multicollinearity was not biasing the results. In the interest of presenting the full models, I present results including these variables. I also inspected standardized residuals to look for outliers and used the Cook’s D statistic to determine influential cases. No cases in my sample were influential cases and so all were included in the analyses.

RESULTS I first tested hypotheses on the effect of media coverage on subsequent (logged) protest mobilization. Table 4 presents results on the four hypotheses on media influence: that from overall coverage, supportive coverage, liberal media bias expectations, and partisan coverage. Beginning with Hypothesis 1, results suggest increased newspaper coverage led to additional subsequent mobilization. As noted earlier, I split the variable on coverage to test both within- and between-state variation. Where the former indicates whether additional news coverage in a state impacts protest activity over time, the latter tests whether states with more news coverage show greater activity. To separate coverage on a protest already occurring, I lagged the data by one week. Results indicate the expectation of between-case variation holds true (b=0.035, po0.001). States with more media coverage had larger demonstrations. The size of the effect can be interpreted as a one-unit increase in the variable resulting in eb increase in the dependent variable. Therefore, states with an average of one additional article on the movement saw additional protest strength of 3.6% compared to other states (e0.037=1.036). This also held for variation within a state (b=0.133, po0.05). The interpretation of the coefficient, however, differs as it is a log-transformed variable. Here, the size of the effect can be understood as xb, where b is the unstandardized coefficient and x a proportionate increase in the independent variable. Therefore, a doubling of the news coverage from one week to the next within a state increased subsequent mobilization by 9.6% (20.133=1.096).

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Table 4. Mixed-Effects Longitudinal Regression Predictors of (Logged) Protest Attendance. Volume of newspaper coverage Tea Party coverage (log): within casea Tea Party coverage: between case Sentiment of newspaper coverage Sentiment toward TP: within casea Sentiment toward TP: between case Conservative media influence Fox Media taxation coveragea Controls Protest attendance in previous week (log)a Associated Press wires on Tea Partya Newspaper taxation coveragea Fox Media Tea Party coveragea High coverage on taxation and movement in Non/Conservative mediaa Tea Party chapters (Per 10,000 people in state) Tea Party members (Per 10,000 people in state) Tea Party Caucus member fundraising (in $100,000) Tea Party Caucus Congressional hearings on taxationa State taxation increase (log)b Race (% White only) Education (% with high-school degree) Economic wealth (GDP per capita in $10,000) N (State-weeks) Mean VIF Highest VIF Wald w2

0.133 (0.075) 0.035 (0.009) 0.135 (0.070) 0.112 (0.075) 0.029 (0.174) 0.041 (0.022) 0.002 (0.039) 0.005 (0.014) 0.007 (0.220) 0.001 (0.001) 0.932 (0.849) 0.014 (0.032) 0.005 (0.001) 0.043 (0.307) 0.063 (0.165) 0.145 (0.350) 0.923 (1.343) 0.094 (0.105) 2,156 1.700 2.940 1051.000

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Table 4. (Continued ) R2 (overall) R2 (within case) R2 (between case)

0.337 0.328 0.602

Note: The first number is the unstandardized regression coefficient and the second number in parentheses is the standard error.  Indicates po.001 significance and  indicates po.05 significance for 1-tailed test. a Indicates variables lagged by one week. b Indicates figure in 2008 relative to 2007.

My test of Hypotheses 2 and 3 indicate the degree of supportive coverage was a significant indicator of mobilization. However, the effect is negative (b=0.135, po0.05). A one-unit decrease in sentiment (on the 5-point scale I used) increased subsequent mobilization by 12.6% (e0.135=0.874). This suggests that rather than positive coverage providing confirmation of the utility of joining the movement, negative coverage may have confirmed expectations of liberal bias and increased the grievances felt by potential participants. As noted earlier, the liberal bias effect is expected to hold when coverage on the movement is generally high, operationalized in Table 4 by the inclusion of an interaction effect for high coverage. When it comes to effect of partisan coverage, results do not support Hypothesis 4. Coverage on the movement in Fox News outlets does not appear to have impacted subsequent protest mobilization. Next, I tested the reverse dynamic: the effects of predictors of newspaper coverage from protest visibility, organizational capacity, conservative media coverage, as well as the ‘‘echo chamber’’ effect. Table 5 presents results of predictors of (logged) state and newspaper coverage on the Tea Party. First, there is no support for Hypothesis 5. While states with greater protest attendance did have greater media coverage, this was very weak (b=0.001, po0.001). More importantly, protest size did not have an impact on subsequent coverage, as seen in the non-significance for the within-case measure of the variable. Next, the data support Hypothesis 6 – the effect of organizational capacity – although this depends on the measure. While chapter membership had a strong positive effect on coverage (b=1.163, po0.001), online membership had a weak negative effect (b=0.047, po0.001). To test Hypothesis 7 – the impact of protest mobilization on conservative outlets specifically – I examined regression estimates of weekly coverage on the Tea Party on Fox News outlets. Since this data varied across time but

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Table 5. Mixed-Effects Longitudinal Regression Predictors of (Logged) News Coverage. Protest attendance Attendance (log): within casea Attendance: between case

0.002 (0.009) 0.001 (0.000)

Movement capacity Chapters (Per 10,000 people in state) Members (Per 10,000 people in state) Conservative coverage Fox Tea Party coveragea Controls Newspaper coverage in previous week (log)a Associated Press wires on Tea Partya Newspaper coverage on taxationa Fox coverage on taxationa TP Caucus member fundraising (in $100,000) Congressional hearingsa State taxation increase (log)b Race (% White only) Education (% with high-school degree) Economic wealth (GDP per capita in $10,000) N (State-weeks) Mean VIF Highest VIF Wald w2 R2 (overall) R2 (within case) R2 (between case)

1.163 (0.287) 0.047 (0.011) 0.314 (0.084) 0.693 (0.015) 0.047 (0.015) 0.021 (0.005) 0.242 (0.066) 0.000 (0.001) 0.388 (0.117) 0.043 (0.061) 0.091 (0.125) 0.374 (0.529) 0.141 (0.035) 2310 1.710 2.750 5239.000 0.702 0.577 0.968

Note: The first number is the unstandardized regression coefficient and the second number in parentheses is the standard error.  Indicates po.001 significance and  indicates po.01 significance for 1-tailed test. a Indicates variables lagged by one week. b Indicates 2008 values relative to 2007.

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not state, I ran negative binomial models using weekly totals of all time time-varying variables. Table 6 shows that total protest size did not impact subsequent coverage in conservative media. Table 6. Negative Binomial Regression Estimates of Weekly Coverage on Tea Party between Conservative and General Media.

Tea Party mobilization Protest attendance

Newspaper coverage Coverage on Tea Party

Coverage on taxation

Conservative Coverage

General Media Coverage

0.000 1.000 0.000

0.000 1.000 0.000

0.001 1.001 0.000 0.008 1.007 0.005

0.002 0.993 0.005

Conservative media coverage Coverage on Tea Party

Coverage on taxation

Congressional Tea Party activity Hearings and reports on taxation by Tea Party Caucus members Week

N Mean VIF Highest VIF Initial log-likelihood Final log-likelihood Pseudo R2

0.014 1.014 0.028 0.039 0.962 0.070 0.022

0.167 1.182 0.043 0.076 0.927 0.026 0.083 1.027 0.004 0.027

1.022 0.006 77 1.890 3.490 176.272 166.211

1.027 0.004 77 1.980 4.000 449.407 425.874

0.131

0.096

Note: The first number is the unstandardized regression coefficient, the second number is the odds ratio, and the third number is the standard error. All variables lagged 1 week.  Indicates po.001 significance and  indicates po.01 significance for 1-tailed test.

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Finally, results confirm the ‘‘echo chamber’’ effect of Hypothesis 8. Although conservative coverage did not have a direct impact on mobilization, it was a strong predictor of coverage in the media at large (b=0.314, po0.001). An increase of one television program that had coverage on the movement increased subsequent coverage in state and local newspapers by about 36.9% (e0.314=1.369). As seen in Table 4, both withinand between-state coverage in these newspapers increased mobilization in the following week.

DISCUSSION The data both complicate and shed light on the dynamics between mobilization, conservative media, and the broader media at large. The data are oriented around three main sets of findings: (a) the one-sided relationship between coverage and protest mobilization, with only the former positively impacting the latter; (b) the negative impact of coverage sentiment on mobilization; (c) the asymmetrical effect of conservative media on the media at large. Mobilization and Newspaper Coverage The first concerns the reciprocal relationship between mobilization and coverage. Contrary to expectations, protest attendance did not have an effect on subsequent coverage. On the other hand, mobilization appeared to follow news coverage. This is notable as the effect of coverage on subsequent mobilization holds after controlling for the effect of between-case coverage. This within-case variation indicates the effect of coverage was not just indicative of different characteristics of the state (e.g., the ideological conservatism of its news sources). Instead, considering biases such as this, an increase in coverage led to greater protest presence the following week in the same state. Given the expectation that the news report on events postfacto, this is striking. In fact, this coverage had a stronger effect than prior protest attendance in the same state, as seen in the lagged control of protest size in Table 4 (b=0.041, po0.05). This differs from the expectation of prior research that saw a strong effect of the size of demonstrations on coverage (e.g., McCarthy et al., 1996). Yet results indicate the movement’s organizational presence may have spurred protest activity. However, this was through an indirect effect on

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coverage: while chapter density did not impact protest activity, it was a strong predictor of coverage, which was in turn a strong predictor of protest size. This suggests the impetus for protest strength did not come directly from internal organization. This is supported by research that argues there has been little grassroots organizing in the movement. DiMaggio (2011) found that the primary strategy of mobilization was for chapters to send numerous emails to their list of supporters. Such a strategy may not be sufficient to elicit direct participation in protests. Attendance appears to have been further necessitated by coverage on the movement. This is consistent with Rohlinger et al.’s (2012) analysis, which found that organizational characteristics played a key role in mainstream media coverage for movements. How may coverage lead to increased protest attendance? The key to exploring this is in an understanding of the role that sentiment of this coverage and the conservative media play in their varying effects on mobilization and the recursive nature of this relationship.

Coverage Sentiment Next is the surprising negative relationship between positive coverage and protest mobilization. There are two points of note here. First, this lends support to the possibility that negative coverage in the general media increased the grievances of movement participants and supporters, and this spurred greater action. This is in line with the mobilizing potential of the perception of liberal media bias. By arguing that a liberal bias exists, conservative media reason they are merely balancing the news by taking a conservative slant (Brock, 2004). As mentioned previously, this perception of liberal media bias has advanced alongside the development of highly active and networked conservative institutions that link media outlets to policy groups, and business associations (Alterman, 2003; Blee & Creasap, 2010; Diamond, 1995; Gross et al., 2011). Second, the positive effect of coverage volume held net of sentiment. That is, though it is possible that negative coverage may mobilize the movement, the sheer amount of coverage in general also still mobilized the movement. This suggests the movement may have operated under a dual effect with the media. There are two restraints to consider. First, this relationship may be curvilinear. Coverage that is highly negative may indeed depress mobilization. In addition, it is possible that the Tea Party – as a movement that has

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frequently straddled lines with electoral politics – is uncontroversial enough so that we would not see any nonlinear effects. Indeed, research shows that coverage has tended to be supportive of the movement overall (Boykoff & Laschever, 2011). While such nonlinear effects are not addressed here, prior research shows that coverage even of highly violent and marginalized movements can still spur activity. Koopmans’ (2004) study on violence against asylum seekers provides the best example. Second, this mobilizing potential may be subject to situations of high coverage. As Koopmans (2004) found, it was in the context of a highly public debate on the asylum system that coverage of the media served as a diffusion mechanism for attacks. As referenced above, the conservative media have maintained an active role in bringing relevant issues to the fore (Berlet & Lyons, 2000; Diamond, 1995). In this study as well, the effect of sentiment holds when considering the situation of high salience in the media – that is the interaction effect of high coverage on the movement and its issues in the conservative and broader media. It may therefore be that the mobilizing effect of negative coverage in the broader press does not hold in the absence of a highly active conservative press.

Conservative and Broader Media Results also suggest participation may be fostered by broader forces, such as the dynamic between conservative media and the media at large. Returning to the ‘‘echo chamber,’’ there are three parts to the argument: (a) Right Wing outlets influence the broader discourse in the media; (b) they have an indirect impact on Right Wing movements via their influence over the broader media; and (c) this influence is predominantly one-sided, that is, the broader media do not impact these outlets to the degree that conservative media impact the general news discourse. As seen earlier, media coverage on Fox News was a highly significant and strong predictor of subsequent newspaper coverage. Second, coverage on Fox News did not directly spur protest mobilization. Instead, such coverage was a strong predictor of coverage in local and state newspapers (Table 5); and it was this newspaper coverage that was the strongest predictor of subsequent protest activity (Table 4). To test the third aspect of the argument, I compared regression estimates of weekly coverage on the Tea Party on Fox News outlets (Table 6). As seen in the odds ratios (presented as the second statistic for each variable), while doubling coverage on the Tea Party on Fox News increased coverage in the

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broader media (by just over 18%), the relationship ran in one direction: coverage on the movement in the general news did not have any impact on coverage on Fox News. In addition, the effect of Fox New coverage was highly significant (po0.001). This lends strong support to the ‘‘one-sided’’ expectation of the effect. Reflexive effects What do these findings tell us about the reflexive dynamic between the media and mobilization? In considering the various effects at work here, the ‘‘echo chamber’’ argument provides the best explanation for the overall reflexive nature of the dynamic. This is because: (a) in addition to the data confirming expectations of this argument, it provides the most complete explanation for the other unexpected findings seen here; (b) these findings together outline a number of causal mechanisms at work; (c) finally, though they suggest a broad dynamic of media influence, the ‘‘echo chamber’’ approach orients us to understand how movements may be situated in specific historical alignments of media power. The three sets of findings discussed above both confirm as well as complicate expectations of theory. The ‘‘echo chamber’’ approach addresses these well in the following ways. Media Effect on Mobilization First, it helps explain the disproportionate effect of newspaper coverage on the movement. This finding – that media coverage has a strong effect on subsequent mobilization while the reverse has no effect – is puzzling; given both the expectation that the news report on events after the fact, as well as prior findings that coverage is impacted by protest mobilization (McCarthy et al., 1996). This extends to coverage in conservative media as well. Consistent with prior findings (Rohlinger et al., 2012), mobilization did not impact coverage in conservative outlets (Hypothesis 7). While this result is counterintuitive, the ‘‘echo chamber’’ approach orients us to look outside this to broader dynamics in the media. The finding that neither chapter nor membership strength impacts protest mobilization is equally unexpected. However, protest activity is predicated here as more a consequence of media coverage than a cause, an expectation borne out by the data. Negative Sentiment and Mobilization Second, it best accounts for the inverse effect of positive newspaper sentiment on mobilization. By positing two separate dynamics at work (that

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of development of conservative agendas within the conservative press, and of its subsequent impact on the broader media), it allows for the understanding that the conservative media can still impact the public at large even if they are not in control of how the message is received. The emphasis on identifying the general media as operating with a liberal bias may provide the broader frame that enables this to be a mobilizing frame instead of one that demobilizes potential participants. Partisan Coverage and Mobilization In addition, it helps explain the surprising non-significance of the ‘‘partisan effect.’’ Given that conservative media are central to the ‘‘echo,’’ it appears counterintuitive that such media do not have a direct effect on mobilization (as predicted by Hypothesis 4). There are two possible explanations: first, coverage in outlets such as Fox News is more uniformly high so as to not have as much deviation. In fact, summary statistics (Table 3) show that the amount of coverage in Fox News outlets has half as much deviation as coverage in state and local papers.9 Second, viewers of Fox News are already among those more sympathetic to the movement. Additional coverage may, therefore, not lead to significantly greater mobilization if viewers are already more likely to be mobilized. Yet, as research shows, such conservative outlets are indeed central to the mobilization of many conservative movements (Berlet & Lyons, 2000; Diamond, 1995). Instead of discarding the effect of conservative media, the more dynamic model offered here allows for strong albeit indirect effects.

Causal Mechanisms Together, these results suggest a few separate causal mechanisms may be at work. The positive impact from coverage volume on protest attendance suggests the occurrence of an ‘‘informational effect.’’ As with previous studies, such as Andrews and Biggs’ (2006) work on diffusion of Civil Rights sit-ins, the media may impact movements by spreading awareness of the movement. Therefore, people are brought into participation foremost by being made aware of the movement’s presence. The specific content of the information is a separate matter, as borne out by the impact of news article sentiment toward the Tea Party. This suggests a second mechanism: contrary to having a simple ‘‘persuasion effect,’’ negative coverage on a movement can encourage involvement if supporters have a frame of reference to understand this negative information. Where the positive effect

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of coverage volume suggests the media may aid movements by convincing those who perhaps did not yet have enough information to merit support, the negative effect of sentiment suggests an impact on people who are already movement sympathizers or otherwise ideologically compatible with the movement. In these cases, the media emerge as a consistent mechanism enabling protest. This is seen, for example, in the fact that previous coverage on the movement was a stronger indicator of subsequent protest than past protest. In addition, movement chapter strength impacted protests only indirectly, through its influence on newspaper coverage. Yet results also imply these mechanisms are further embedded in broader structural forces, the central one considered here being the relationship between the conservative and broader media. This suggests a broader agenda-setting mechanism underwrites the more-proximate ones. The surprising lack of a direct relationship between conservative media and mobilization further suggests this may be the case.

Balancing Mechanisms of Causation Given these mechanisms, however, theories on the media must be cautious not to provide over- or under-determined explanations. As Ryan (2004) notes, movement access to the media is not a simple matter of ‘‘knowing how to write a press release’’ (p. 486). The media are political and selective. Yet at the same time, theories should not over-determine their influence or the barriers to entry. With this in mind, although the analysis here suggests a strong media influence, this occurs in ways that are neither predetermined nor immutable. First, the role of the conservative press is not one of determining content in the media at large. Although conservative coverage spurred general coverage, the argument does not require that Fox News or any particular outlet control how the broader media receives the message. And while results support the mobilizing potential of the ‘‘liberal media bias’’ perspective, this is a frame that was not predestined but the result of active and prolonged mobilization of conservative movements with policy formation groups and other organizations (Alterman, 2003; Blee & Creasap, 2010; Diamond, 1995; Gross et al., 2011). With this in mind, these findings provide a framework for understanding a movement in the context of a historically specific alignment of media power.

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LIMITATIONS While certain causal mechanisms may be supported here, there are two main limitations to these inferences. Aggregation of Data First, the data are aggregated to state-weeks. Although seeking to strike a balance between shorter time periods (such as daily) and longer ones (e.g., monthly), protests and coverage may indeed be more sensitive to each other. Papers may cover protests within the same day, just as people may be brought into participation within a short period of time of learning more about a movement. State totals may similarly not capture finer geographic dynamics. Final Mechanisms of Causation Second, even if state-week aggregates are most appropriate, what is the final mechanism of causation? How does media coverage ultimately result in action? Without detailed individual- or organization-level data, decisions around participation remain in a ‘‘black box’’ of extrapolations made from less fine-grained data. At the level of the news source, what motivates journalists, editors, or particular outlets to ‘‘pick up’’ a story from another outlet? The data here do not allow us to know these more-proximate mechanisms.

FUTURE RESEARCH This analysis therefore necessitates a number of future lines of inquiry. Perceptions of Media Bias First, research can elucidate more on the impact of perceptions of media bias on mobilization. Although results are consistent with mobilizing effect of the ‘‘liberal media bias’’ frame, it remains to be seen how this works. Further, does it extend to other conservative movements? In addition, the

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measure of sentiment here was intended as a generalized and exploratory measure. The prolific field of framing theory in social movement research is well poised to take this further, connecting not just sentiment but specific frames to action. Role of Conservative Media In addition, the asymmetrical influence of conservative media in mobilizing supportive movements requires further elaboration. Is Fox News unique in this respect? Although research suggests it occupies a central position in the conservative media network (Brock, 2004; Morris & Francia, 2010), it remains to be seen how broadly diffused this agenda-setting network may be. Mediated Effect of Coverage Third, how does coverage play a mediating role in converting organizational presence into protest strength? The indirect effect of Tea Party chapter density on protest size suggests the movement is able to convert organizational presence into news coverage. What factors of this organization also preclude it from having a direct effect on protest mobilization? Generalization of Findings Finally, and at a broader level, how much do the findings here generalize to other movements, especially conservative movements? Do conservative movements tend to follow different dynamics from their more liberal counterparts, as suggested by some (e.g., Mottl 1980)? And if so, how central are the conservative media to this?

CONCLUSION With these in mind, this research both sheds light on and complicates the theory in a number of ways. It encourages a reconsideration in social movement research of our understanding of conservative movements. Where McQuail (1983) argued the mass media are not able to motivate people to participation in movements, my analysis provides support for the possibility

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that movement agendas can be shaped in the conservative press and then be subsequently embraced by the media at large. In this manner, the media may enable mobilization by a movement indirectly rather than report primarily on past news. While this has been documented for a range of political mobilization (e.g., Akard, 1992), this connection has been understudied in explaining conservative social movements. Further, results allow for a consideration of the seemingly contradictory influence of coverage sentiment on mobilization. Negative coverage may not demobilize a movement if this coverage also strengthens grievances of bias against the movement. Therefore, this chapter addresses key aspects of the mobilization of conservative movements through the indirect effect of the conservative press.

NOTES 1. I excluded protests that involved two or fewer people or that involved an unknown number of participants, as well as those that occurred in Washington, DC. 2. In their study analyzing coverage in major newspaper and television news outlets, the authors found four main sets of frames: those contrasting ‘‘the Everyday America vs. Non-Mainstream, Grassroots vs. Establishment-Affiliated, FiscalFederal Frustrations vs. Amalgam of Grievances, and Election Impact vs. Flash in the Pan.’’ 3. Sentiment scores for the 25 common articles my research assistant and I both coded were correlated at 0.928, suggesting that we tapped into the overall generalized sentiment measure we sought. 4. http://social.patriotactionnetwork.com/ 5. The 3rd, lesser spike coincides with Fox commentator Glen Beck’s 9–12 rallies in 2009. 6. Published hearings include the transcripts of witnesses, evidence, reports, and opinions made before committees in the House. Reports are the publications via which representatives in committees make their recommendations to the House as a whole. 7. As my dependent variables are non-negative numeric variables, a Count Data model would generally be appropriate. However, RE does not accurately estimate models for such data (Allison & Waterman, 2002). While a ‘‘hybrid’’ model using Generalized Estimating Equations was another option (Allison, 2011), my models did not converge. A third option was a hybrid linear model. However, such models only provide interpretable coefficients for FE. RE coefficients are only estimated through ‘‘best linear unbiased predictions’’ of standard errors (ibid.). I therefore used linear mixed-models with random effects. 8. I chose states that represented the breadth of activity of my two dependent variables: protest mobilization and coverage on the movement. I first ranked states based on their values on these measures. I then chose states that were in the lowest quartile on both measures, the second lowest, the third lowest, and the top quartile. I also selected states that ranked unequally on these quartiles, that is, states that either

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had high coverage and low protest attendance or high attendance and low coverage. In cases where more than one state was applicable, I selected states that did not violate assumptions of the models, such as from multicollinearity or influential cases. This resulted in six states: those that had low values on both measures (Louisiana and Maryland), high values on both measures (Minnesota and Georgia), as well as high protest attendance but low coverage (Arizona), and low protest attendance but high coverage (Arkansas). While coefficients for these dummy variables confirmed that states have significantly different effects on the outcome variables, they did not impact the effects of the independent variables, indicating unobserved differences between states were not biasing results. 9. That is, the standard deviation as a proportion of the mean for each variable.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank the Institute for Research and Education on Human Rights for releasing data used in their 2010 report ‘‘Tea Party Nationalism: A Critical Examination of the Tea Party Movement and the Size, Scope, and Focus of its National Factions,’’ and Tiffany M. White for assistance in coding newspaper coverage. Thanks also to Michael Schwartz, Joshua Murray, Naomi Rosenthal, Ian Roxborough, Arnout van de Rijt, the editor, as well as the anonymous reviewers for their very constructive feedback.

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Rohlinger, D. A. (2002). Framing the abortion debate: Organizational resources, media strategies, and movement-countermovement dynamics. The Sociological Quarterly, 43(4), 479–507. Rohlinger, D. A., Kail, B., Taylor, M., & Conn, S. (2012). Outside the mainstream: Social movement organization media coverage in mainstream and partisan news outlets. Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, 33, 51–80. Rodgers, K. (2009). When do opportunities become trade-offs for social movement organizations? Assessing media impact in the global human rights movement. Canadian Journal Of Sociology, 34(4), 1087–1114. Ryan, C. (2004). It takes a movement to raise an issue: Media lessons from the 1997 U.P.S. strike. Critical Sociology, 30(2), 483–511. Singer, J., & Willett, J. (2003). Applied Longitudinal Data Analysis: Modeling Change and Event Occurrence. Toronto: Oxford University Press. Staggenborg, S. (1988). The consequences of professionalization and formalization in the prochoice movement. American Sociological Review, 53(4), 585–605. Turner, J. (2007). The messenger overwhelming the message: Ideological cues and perceptions of bias in television news. Political Behavior, 29(4), 441–464. Vogel, D. (1989). Fluctuating fortunes: The political power of business in America. New York, NY: Basic Books. Wilson, A. R., & Burack, C. (2012). ‘‘Where liberty reigns and god is supreme’’: The Christian right and the tea party movement. New Political Science, 34(2), 172–190. Zald, M. N., & Useem, B. (1987). Movement and countermovement interaction: Mobilization, tactics, and state involvement. In M. N. Zald & J. D. McCarthy (Eds.), Social movements in an organizational society (pp. 247–272). New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers. Zeskind, L. (2012). A nation dispossessed: The tea party movement and race. Critical Sociology, 38, 495–509.

PART II ELITES AND ADVANCEMENTS IN RIGHTS

STRATEGIC ACTION FIELDS AND THE CONTEXT OF POLITICAL ENTREPRENEURSHIP: HOW DISABILITY RIGHTS BECAME PART OF THE POLICY AGENDA David Pettinicchio ABSTRACT In the late 1960s and early 1970s, disability rights found a place on the U.S. policy agenda. However, it did not do so because social movement groups pressured political elites or because politicians were responding to changes in public preferences. Drawing from recent work in neoinstitutionalism and social movements, namely the theory of strategic action fields, I posit that exogenous shocks in the 1960s caused a disability policy monopoly to collapse giving way to a new policy community. Using original longitudinal data on congressional committees, hearings, bills, and laws, as well as data from the Policy Agendas Project, I demonstrate the ways in which entrepreneurs pursued a new policy image of rights within a context of increasing committee

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 79–106 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036006

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involvement, issue complexity, and space on the policy agenda, and the consequences this had on policy. Keywords: Strategic action fields; political entrepreneurs; institutional activism; policy communities; disability rights; agenda setting

INTRODUCTION Scholars have increasingly characterized social movements as ‘‘everyday politics’’ (Goldstone, 2003; Meyer & Minkoff, 2004). As activism inside and outside of institutions becomes blurred (see Pettinicchio, 2012), once separate fields of actors increasingly overlap. Movement activists come to interact frequently with political elites through ties that are forged between interest groups and social movement organizations (SMOs), congressional committees, and agencies of the executive branch. This in turn creates a community of actors, including political entrepreneurs, interested in promoting a common cause – that is, a strategic action field (SAF). I use entrepreneurship to refer to proactive behavior on the part of political elites (i.e., socially skilled actors with access to institutional resources and influence) such that their actions ‘‘change the direction or flow of politics’’ (Schneider & Teske, 1992, p. 737). As SAFs, policy communities are the contexts within which political entrepreneurship and institutional activism take place. Policy communities are characterized by the overlap of preexisting fields including governmental, nonprofit, corporate, and grassroots. It is therefore critical to shed light on the relationship between political entrepreneurs and the contexts that facilitate their behavior. Related literatures have sought to address the institutional context of social change (see Lawrence & Suddaby, 2006 on institutional work; Miller & Demir, 2007a on policy communities; Baumgartner & Jones, 1993 and Jones & Baumgartner, 2005 on agenda setting; King, 1997 and Baughman, 2006 on committee structures and committee interactions). This body of work suggests a fairly loose, but organized, field of actors that extend beyond the elected branch of government to include actors in the executive branch as well actors outside the government. Recently in sociology, specifically the study of organizations and social movements, a theory of strategic action fields (SAFs) has been proposed (see Fligstein & McAdam, 2011, 2012) which builds on and brings together existing work in institutional theory (or neo-institutionalism), political and organizational sociology, and social

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movements (e.g., McCarthy & Zald’s (1977) social movement industry and social movement sector; DiMaggio & Powell’s (1983) organizational fields; Roa, Morill, & Zald’s (2000) interstices; Stearns & Almeida’s (2004) state actor–social movement coalitions; McCarthy’s (2005) Velcro triangles). In this chapter, I discuss the nature of policy communities as SAFs so as to describe the context within which political entrepreneurs (aka, strategic actors) work to promote a particular policy image, which eventually leads to important policy change. I use the case of disability to illustrate the rise of a policy community whereby rights discourse was allowed to flourish. I explain the ways in which a policy monopoly composed of incumbent and state-legitimated disability groups, rehabilitation, health and social welfare professionals, and key political elites within a small number of congressional committees and subcommittees gave way to a broader policy community of multiple players across a variety of policy domains. It was within this new field of actors whereby a rights policy framework emerged. I use original longitudinal data based on content analysis of the Congressional Record/ LexisNexis Congressional as well as data from the Policy Agendas Project to describe how a reconfiguration of fields facilitated political entrepreneurship. I discuss the implications of linking policy communities to SAFs, particularly the ways in which this sheds light on the dynamic interplay between insiders and outsiders in producing policy change.

STRATEGIC ACTORS IN STRATEGIC ACTION FIELDS SAFs are a ‘‘meso-level social order where actors (who can be individual or collective) interact with knowledge of one another under a set of common understandings about the purposes of the field, the relationships in the field (including who has power and why), and the field’s rules’’ (Fligstein & McAdam, 2011, p. 3). SAFs draw attention to the ways in which actors within organizations intersect with other actors in other organizations, thereby creating a field or context which helps to shed light on the reproduction of social order as well as the production of social change. Since strategic action requires strategic actors, a theory of fields requires a specification of the link between micro (i.e., strategic actors) and macro (i.e., the context that enables entrepreneurial behavior). Fligstein and McAdam (2012) outline four key features of SAFs. First, actors share a common understanding of their roles in terms of the purpose

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of the field. That is, SAFs coalesce through purposive goal-oriented behavior on the part of entrepreneurs. Second, actors hold different positions in a field such that some actors have more power or are seen as more legitimate than other actors (see also Gamson, 1975 on incumbent and challenging groups). This is relevant to policy communities and entrepreneurship because it determines the extent to which political entrepreneurs are able to exert their influence so as to reframe political discourse and policy images. Third, actors agree on the rules that govern their interaction. Presumably, these rules can be both formal and informal. For instance, formal institutional rules govern the political field, yet less formal rules also exist about the interaction between parties and congressional committees, and between the elected branch and the executive branch (see Weingast 2005). And fourth, actors tend to view their role and others’ role from the perspective of their position in the field. This implies that actors may come into a field with different, perhaps conflicting, ways of understanding goals and objectives of the policy community. A major role of socially skilled actors, such as political entrepreneurs, is to bring other actors in line with their framing of an issue. Entrepreneurs are constantly looking for opportunities, often brought on by broader institutional changes, to improve their place in a field and to ensure that their framing of the issue rules out the competition. While actors are embedded within SAFs, SAFs are themselves embedded within broader environments. Policy communities, by their very nature, are embedded within political alliances and relationships that shape fields. This begs the question as to how SAFs come into being. Although Fligstein and McAdam’s (2012, p. 20) theory of fields accounts for both exogenous and endogenous sources of change, they emphasize the role of exogenous shocks or events in shaping the emergence of SAFs. Exogenous shocks create new intersections of players and thus new normative contexts surrounding interaction.1 The social disorganization that occurs as a result of exogenous shocks creates an opportunity for entrepreneurship. Changes in party control, broad policy moods, and committee composition beginning in the 1960s dismantled existing arrangements and allowed for a new disability policy community to emerge, as well as entrepreneurship to flourish. Thus, SAFs are a product of existing institutional and cultural logics as well as new arrangements brought on by exogenous events. Since SAFs emerge within existing fields (i.e., interstices2), explaining stability and change inherently means thinking about the environment of SAFs. For example, policy communities are fairly dependent (for actors,

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resources, etc.) on the broader institutional context of which they are a part. As a SAF, policy communities are influenced by a set of vertical relationships within committees as well as horizontal relationships between committees, including formal and informal ties between Congress and the executive branch, interest organizations, and activist networks. While a theory of fields includes important macro-level factors, there is a microfoundation to the theory whereby the work of social actors in promoting change is encouraged or discouraged by the normative order of SAFs. SAFs exist because of the behavior of socially skilled entrepreneurs. As Fligstein and McAdam claim, ‘‘It is the blend of preexisting rules, resources, and the social skills of actors that combine to produce fields in the first place, make them stable on a period to period basis, and produce transformation’’ (p. 108). An important goal of strategic action is the creation of a shared capacity for viewing a problem. As strategic action, entrepreneurship involves the ability of actors to create consensus around an issue through frame alignment as well as the mobilization of inside and outside actors into a coalition that assists in that effort.

POLICY COMMUNITIES AND STRATEGIC ACTION FIELDS; SOCIAL SKILL AND POLITICAL ENTREPRENEURSHIP Policy communities are SAFs. They are ‘‘extra-formal interactions (i.e., interactions taking place beyond or outside the formal processes of government) that occur in the interstices between and among government agencies, interest groups, corporations, industry associations, elected officials, and other institutions and individuals. It is a grouping of interrelated policy actors pursuing a matter of public policy important to them for instrumental reasons’’ (Miller & Demir, 2007a, p. 137). This definition alludes to three key points particularly as these pertain to SAFs. First, it denotes that policy communities emerge out of the interstice of actors and organizations both inside and outside the government. Second, it suggests that communities come about for shared purposeful and goal-oriented reasons by third, motivated instrumental actors (i.e., socially skilled entrepreneurs). There are important distinctions between policy monopolies and policy communities. In the case of policy monopolies, the connection between congressional committees, agencies in the executive branch, and interest

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groups is tight-knit – hence the use of the term ‘‘iron triangle’’ (see Givel, 2006; McCarthy, 2005; True & Utter, 2002). Policy monopolies exist when a few elites or incumbents are able to maintain dominance over issues (issues that are generally bipartisan, nonsalient, and generate little conflict over issue framing) (see Baumgartner & Jones, 1993; Rose & Davies, 1994). There is little frame contestation here because elites do not face any real competition, and thus there is no need for entrepreneurship. On the other hand, policy communities are composed of looser coalitions of actors characterized by conflict and frame contestation by political entrepreneurs. Since communities suggest a wider array of actors from different sectors, it also means that outsiders or ‘‘challengers’’ can have access to agenda setting and, indirectly, to the policy-making process – access they would not otherwise have if an issue was largely tied to a policy monopoly. This is relevant to social movement scholars who have recently found that social movements have the most influence in the agendasetting stage of the legislative process rather than the final stages of legislative enactment (e.g., Johnson, Agnone, & McCarthy, 2010; Olzak & Soule, 2009). Like SAFs, policy communities emerge as a result of broader institutional or environmental changes. Exogenous shocks may lead to political realignments and consequently shifts in the policy agenda which propel ‘‘disturbances’’ into a monopoly. The 1960s represents a critical juncture or, what Baumgartner and Jones (1993) refer to as, punctuation. Electoral turnover, policy shifts, and changes in public preferences not surprisingly created new opportunities for issue expansion. The activist government in the 1960s (Birkland, 2007; 2010; Mettler, 2007) created a ‘‘window of opportunity’’ for entrepreneurs to reshape the policy agenda (Kingdon, 1994). With the availability of new venues (such as congressional committees), political entrepreneurs are more freely able to contest policy images once promoted by monopolies. In these episodes of contention (Fligstein & McAdam, 2012, p. 21), socially skilled entrepreneurs seek to elevate a frame above all other competing frames within a limited attention space.3 This typically requires convincing other interested actors of the problem, and proposed policy solutions (see Birkland, 2007; Cobb & Elder, 1983; Carmines & Stimson, 1989; Riker, 1982; Schattschneider, 1935). Thus, a large part of what entrepreneurs do involves persuasion, and their skills can be a function of their personality, their ability to relate to other actors, their position, status, and expertise, and the narrative4 they tell of the problem (see Atkinson & Coleman, 1992; Baumgartner & Jones, 1993; Jordan & Maloney, 1997; Miller & Demir, 2007b; Gottweiss, 2007; Polsby, 1984). Ultimately, the

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goal of persuasion is to make something that was contentious a taken for granted way of understanding a problem (Roa et al., 2000).

DATA AND METHODS This paper seeks to situate the work of socially skilled actors – political entrepreneurs – within the policy communities in which they operate. In order to shed light on how a policy monopoly becomes a policy community, I use both original and existing data that describes the policy agenda in Congress between 1961 and 2006. This time period captures the rise of disability rights, as well as important legislation and subsequent decline in congressional interest. My analysis centers around three key variables: the number and type of disability-related hearings, the number and type of committees involved in disability, and the amount of policy output and change in the type of laws enacted by Congress. Hearings are a measure of congressional interest in an issue. They are part of a legitimizing process of an issue by government where public frame contestation takes place (Burstein & Hirsh, 2007; Costain, 1992; Gamson & Modigliani, 1989; Johnson, 2008; King, Bentele, & Soule, 2007). Hearings are held by committees which are the sites for political entrepreneurship (see Baughman, 2006; King, 1997; Smith & Deering, 1990). Therefore, committee involvement on issues is an integral part of identifying policy communities (see Baumgartner & Jones, 1993; Sheingate, 2006). The enactment of laws is the final stage of the policy process (with the possible exception of implementation which can lead to subsequent reframing and new policy, see Jann & Wegrich, 2007). It is generally believed that in the final stages of the legislative process, actors can no longer reframe policy, nor do outsiders have influence on the outcome (Johnson, 2008; Johnson et al., 2010; King et al., 2007; Olzak & Soule, 2009). Rather, entrepreneurial activity, the work of interest groups, and frame contestation and persuasion occur in the agenda-setting phase. In turn, agenda setting shapes policy output. Information on disability-related hearings, committees, bills, and public laws is based on original longitudinal content analysis of Lexis-Nexis Congressional and the Congressional Record. I follow Burstein and Hirsh’s (2007) strategy. First, I found all public laws related to disability using books, law reviews, and archives, as well as legislative information provided by numerous disability organizations. I then searched Lexis-Nexis

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Congressional to ensure that potentially relevant legislation was not overlooked. Once a sampling frame of laws was created, I content analyzed policies to verify that each policy is disability related. This produced a sample of 393 disability-related public laws. Using a preexisting general list of topics, as well as topics that emerged from my content analysis, I grouped the 393 laws into 10 categories: appropriations and budgets, health and human services, veterans, economic/labor/workforce, access and rights, blind/deaf, transportation, learning/developmentally disabled, elderly/social security, and technology. While I took into account that some policies address multiple issues, for the purposes of this paper, I use the dominant issue to group the policies. Following Jones and Baumgartner (2004), King et al. (2007), and Johnson et al. (2010), I used a yearly count of hearings as a measure of issue attention by Congress. With a population of public laws, I was able to compile a list of all the hearings associated with those laws. I used the legislative history of laws which includes the bills associated with those laws to create a sampling frame of hearings. I then content analyzed those hearings to determine their main focus as well as to eliminate any duplicates (including joint hearings). I then used the Congressional Record and Lexis-Nexis Congressional to find hearings not associated with specific laws or bills.5 This produced a total of 1275 hearings (875 House hearings, 400 Senate hearings). Once a list of bills, hearings, and laws was compiled, I was then able to determine the number and type of committees and subcommittees that were interested in disability-related issues over time, as well as the ways in which the focus of attention shifted in that 45-year period. I complemented my data with Baumgartner and Jones’ comprehensive policy agenda data. The Policy Agendas Project (www.policagendas.org) uses topic and subtopic codes, which allowed me to link my disability-related hearings and policy data with theirs. There are five disability-relevant subtopic codes in the Policy Agendas Project codebook: handicap/disease discrimination (205), mental health/retardation (333), long-term care, home health, terminally ill, and rehabilitation services (334), special education (606), and assistance to disabled/handicapped (1304). Unfortunately, given the magnitude of their data gathering effort, they tend to underestimate or code differently those hearings that have important disability-related implications. However, the benefit of linking my data to theirs is that it allowed me to compare disability to other issues in the policy agenda. In Fig. 2, I used the number of social welfare-related hearings from the Policy Agendas Project (topic code 13) to illustrate the rise of the welfare state. Social welfare includes the following subtopics: food stamps, food assistance,

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and nutrition monitoring programs (1301), poverty and assistance for lowincome families (1302), elderly issues and elderly assistance programs (including social security administration) (1303), assistance to the disabled and handicapped (1304), and social services and volunteer associations (1305). I used the same topic code for the bill sponsorship data presented in Fig. 2 which is from Adler and Wilkerson’s Congressional Bills Project (www.congressionalbills.org).

INNOVATION IN DISABILITY: HOW ENTREPRENEURS IN A SAF PROMOTED A RIGHTS AGENDA Political and institutional entrepreneurs have no doubt played a role in numerous social movements and issues: from race (Santoro & McGuire, 1997) to the environment (Reichman & Canan, 2003) to women’s rights and gender (Banaszak, 2005, 2010). Entrepreneurship is particularly important in understanding the rise of disability rights in the United States for two main reasons. First, there is little evidence that either changes in objective conditions (such as employment, earnings, or health outcomes) or changes in public preferences specifically related to disability drove government action. Second, when entrepreneurs began to shift political discourse away from social services and vocational rehabilitation toward rights, there was no social movement pressuring the government to pursue such action. The movement for rights largely began in the government (see Scotch, 2001; Skrentny, 2002). Despite the lack of these demand-side factors, disability has always had a place on the policy agenda. This is rather unlike issues of race, gender, and the environment, all of which experienced protracted periods of no government attention especially before the 1970s (see Costain, 1992; Johnson, 2008). As Fig. 1 shows, the government was already paying attention to disability well before there was a disability rights movement, and well before the passage of key policies like the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 or the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) of 1990. But, before the late 1960s, much of the policy agenda was controlled by a tightly knit policy monopoly promoting either a medical model or client-service model of disability, not rights or equality. Fig. 1 also indicates an expansion of attention beginning in the 1960s which continued into the 1970s and 1980s. It was at this critical juncture or period of punctuation that entrepreneurs

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were able to pursue rights. In order to understand the expansion of disability rights, it is important to describe the context that facilitated political entrepreneurship including broad environmental changes, the rise of policy communities, and the new actors that became part of that community who championed rights. The Extant Disability Policy Monopoly and Policy Image For much of U.S. history, discourse surrounding disability focused mainly on health, social, and rehabilitative services. Not only was the government’s attention narrow, but so too was the constituency that benefited from these resulting policies, namely veterans, the deaf, blind, and to a lesser extent, individuals with mental/developmental disabilities. For example, important legislation like the Smith-Fess Act of 1920 created vocational rehabilitation for the disabled. After the New Deal, policies like the Randolph-Sheppard Act were enacted to deal with massive unemployment among the blind. The following decades saw similar measures: the 1944 GI Bill, Truman’s Employ the Physically Handicapped Week of 1945, and the Vocational Rehabilitation Act of 1954. In 1961, the Kennedy Administration created the President’s Panel on Mental Retardation and signed the Maternal and Child Health and Mental Retardation Planning Bill in 1963. Other disabilityrelated policies of the 1960s include National Technical Institute for the Deaf Act of 1965, Social Security Amendments of 1967, Urban Mass Transportation Act of 1964, and the Vocational Rehabilitation Act Amendments of 1967 and 1968. Thus, government’s involvement in

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disability grew alongside the government’s increasing role in social welfare. As Scotch (2001, p. 24) notes, ‘‘The concept of rehabilitation was at the core of the ideology of the emerging American welfare state.’’ Political elites in Congress and in the executive branch (namely the Rehabilitative Services Administration, aka, RSA) expanded rehabilitation programs in the 1950s and early 1960s. It is within this context that a tightly knit policy monopoly emerged and sustained itself. As the government promoted an image of rehabilitation and social service, not surprisingly, disability groups (usually not run by people with disabilities) like Muscular Dystrophy Association, March of Dimes, National Society of Crippled Children, and the Easter Seals (see Longmore, 2003) were largely interested in service provision complementing the policy image of the time (see Skocpol, 2007). In the early to mid-1960s, some of the more involved disability organizations (based on their participation in congressional hearings) included the National Federation of the Blind, Paralyzed Veterans of America, Easter Seals, National Society for Crippled Children and Adults, National Association of the Physically Handicapped, National Association for Retarded Children, United Cerebral Palsy, and the National Association for the Deaf. These established groups are in Gamson’s (1975) terms, ‘‘innocuous,’’ incumbent or state-legitimated elite organizations that had fairly close ties to health and social service professionals, politicians, and administrative agencies, and were often involved in protecting or extending social services through the political process. As Scotch (2001, p. 34) claims, although existing disability organizations ‘‘had varying degrees of political involvement y none was oriented toward the general issue of civil rights for all disabled people.’’ Numerous professional organizations were part of this monopoly and were heavily involved in setting the agenda. These include the National Association of State Directors of Special Education, the National Association of Sheltered Workshops, the Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf, the American Medical Association, the American Optometric Association, the Council of State Administrators of Vocational Rehabilitation, and the National Institutes on Rehabilitation and Health Services. Disability and professional groups were joined by key members of the executive branch, namely representatives from the RSA and the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare (HEW). Together, they formed a policy monopoly ensuring the expansion of health and social welfare services – a policy image that went largely uncontested. Indeed, a major obstacle for the emergence of a disability rights movement and advocacy organizations was what Berkowitz (1987) calls the ‘‘rehabilitationists.’’

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The view often promoted by this policy monopoly was one based on the belief that ‘‘disabled people accommodate society rather than society accommodate them’’ (O’Brien, 2001, p. 5). This began to change in the late 1960s and early 1970s with an increasing amount of attention on disability-related issues as a result of exogenous factors that shook the overall policy agenda. Not only was attention to disability increasing in this period, but it was also becoming more complex, touching on a variety of other issues like transportation, civil rights, education, housing, and technology.

Exogenous Shocks: The Rise of Activist Government As institutional scholars (see for instance, Pierson 2007). Have long noted, the 1960s and 1970s saw an expansion of the American welfare state (see Fig. 2). The Democratic Party played an active role shaping the policy agenda and politicizing a variety of social issues. As Nick Edes, a staffer for Harrison Williams and disability rights entrepreneur, claimed (in Scotch, 2001, p. 47):

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Social Welfare-Related Hearings (n ¼ 1919) and Bills (n ¼ 1199) Between 1961 and 2006.

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Part of the Democrats’ success in pursing social and social welfare issues involved not only ideological changes but procedural ones as well. Young Democrats worked to change the rules surrounding committee assignments which had been historically based on seniority, what Polsby (2004) refers to as ‘‘liberalization’’ of congressional rules and norms. Generally, southern Democrats who had the most seniority and thus occupied key positions on a variety of committees were obstacles to the Great Society projects. Eventually, younger liberals changed the balance in the House Democratic Caucus and worked to replace senior conservative southern Democrats. With this, new venues became available for a host of social issues on which entrepreneurs sought to stake a claim. It is thus not surprising that Baumgartner and Jones (1993) find that social welfare became an increasingly larger share of the policy agenda at this time. This had an important impact on legislative activity of the time that came to define the Great Society like the Civil Rights Act and Older Americans Act, and new social programs like the Job Corps, the Neighborhood Youth Corps, Head Start, Upward Bound, and Medicare/Medicaid. It is no wonder that Levitan and Taggart (1976, p. 29) refer to the role of the federal government at this time ‘‘as a lever of institutional change.’’ The executive branch also became more active in social policy as legislators and their aides forged ties with sympathetic elites in the executive, thus ensuring a close relationship between policy creation and implementation. For instance, HEW’s assistant secretary, Wilber Cohen, led a 1960 task force which proposed that Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) coverage should be extended and Congress approved the extension in 1961 (Patterson, 2000). HEW also created the Special Staff on Aging. As Patterson (2000, p. 182) describes, ‘‘HEW y was a liberal bureaucracy with every reason to aggrandize itself.’’ Indeed, the Office of Civil Rights (OCR) within HEW played a critical role in interpreting and expanding the rights provisions of the Rehabilitation Act. The OCR was sympathetic to, and entrepreneurial on, disability rights while the rest of the executive, including HEW as a whole, began to express doubts over the intent of Section 5046 of the Rehabilitation Act.

From Policy Monopoly to Policy Community As the federal government became involved in an increasing number of social issues (Baumgartner & Jones, 1993; Campbell, 2005; Skocpol, 2007), those issues expanded and became more complex. Issue expansion is facilitated by the increasing availability of new venues for political discourse

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(such as congressional committees and executive branch offices) as well as entrepreneurs interested in staking a claim on issues. Disability was no exception. In 1961, only three House committees held disability-related hearings: Veteran’s Affairs, Appropriations, and Education and Workforce. A similar situation existed in the Senate. Indeed, the Committee on Health, Education, Labor and Pensions – a committee that becomes an important site for the rise of disability rights and which will contain the Subcommittee on the Handicapped – held no hearings in 1961, and virtually no hearings in the first 5 years of the decade. By the late 1960s, there was an expansion in the number of committees holding disability-related hearings. Fig. 3 depicts the increase in the percent of all Senate and House committees holding disability-related hearings. Note that the Senate experienced an increase first, followed by the House. This conforms to expectations about the Senate being more entrepreneurial than the House (see Sulkin, 2005). By the late 1970s, the number of Senate committees holding disability-related hearings doubled. In the House, more than half of all committees were holding disability-related hearings by the early 1980s. Following the Architectural Barriers Act of 1968, a range of committees began to hold hearings. While most of the hearings surrounding the Architectural Barriers Act were held before the House Committee on Public Works, a significant portion of hearings were also held by the House Committee on Labor and Public Welfare (where access and equal rights 60 50

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became much more of a concern especially with the Rehabilitation Act). A similar situation emerged with public transportation. Three different committees became involved in the issue of access to transportation in the 1960s and 1970s: the Senate Committee on Labor and Public Welfare (mainly the Subcommittee on Handicapped), the House Committee on Banking and Currency, and the House Committee on Public Works. In a context of growing government involvement, entrepreneurs became specialists on various facets of disability, further expanding the issue across various committees. In the House, the Committee on Energy and Commerce, the Committee on Science, Space, and Technology, and the Committee on House Oversight and Government Reform all heard numerous disabilityrelated hearings. In the Senate, interest increased within the Committee on Government Affairs, the Committee on Environment and Public Works, and the Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation. Attention to disability by committees sheds light on how committees contribute to issue expansion in the policy agenda. Some committees maintain consistent interest in an issue while others see bursts of attention. As Fig. 4 illustrates, only the Senate Labor and Public Welfare Committee

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seems to approximate the general pattern of disability issue attention shown in Fig. 1. Other committees holding disability-related hearings demonstrate much more punctuated interest. This suggests that with exogenous shocks – when there is a normative shift and issue disorganization ensues – some committees not typically interested in an issue begin to hold more hearings because entrepreneurs may see a window of opportunity to stake a claim on new aspects of an issue (see King, 1997), but then return to paying no attention. Committees more invested in the issue (like Labor and Public Welfare) may not experience ‘‘bursts’’ but still, despite their consistent attention, see and ebb and flow in interest. In the 1990s, this committee saw a significant decline in hearings. The late 1960s and early 1970s represent a critical juncture for disability – a period of punctuation that saw a breakdown in the existing arrangement that promoted a client-service policy image of disability. As disability became a larger, more multifaceted political issue in the late 1960s and 1970s, new actors and new venues began to erode the policy monopoly that had long existed. Not surprisingly, the increasing number of committees corresponds to the rise in the amount of attention disability received in Congress.

The Role of Disability Rights Entrepreneurs Senators Bob Bartlett, Hubert Humphrey, Harrison Williams, their aides, like the aforementioned Nick Edes, and members of the executive, like deputy director of the OCR, Martin Gerry, are political entrepreneurs. These are strategic actors who played an important role within an expanding policy community in ensuring that a rights frame continue to be a prominent image of disability policy. In fact, many entrepreneurs saw themselves as such. For instance, Robert Humphreys, who was Senator Jennings Randolph’s aide, claimed that Section 504 was ‘‘essentially selfgenerated on the part of staff of the [Labor and Public Welfare] committee.’’ In a similar vein, Nick Edes refered to Senate staffers as ‘‘the Martin Luther Kings of the disability movements on Capitol Hill and in the government.’’ He claimed that the disablility rights movement emerged out of the work of these institutional entrepreneurs: ‘‘The movement [of disabled people] was stimulated by the acts of a very few individuals who were in the legislative branch’’ (Scotch, 2001, p. 57). Altman and Barnartt (1993) note that disability moral entrepreneurs were often not those with impairments but were, in some ways, considered experts (i.e., ‘‘the wise’’) on disability. I find that disability entrepreneurs

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share three common characteristics: their personal connections to disability, their policy experience with the Great Society, and their political/ professional ambitions and aggrandizement. Anecdotes and personal experiences regarding disability were often part of entrepreneurs’ narrative. Many disability rights entrepreneurs had personal connections to disability (a friend or family member). A major impetus for Bartlett’s Architectural Barriers Act was that his legislative aide was denied access to the National Gallery because the gallery was not accessible to wheelchair users (Katzmann, 1986). Entrepreneurs were also influenced by the changing policy agenda of the 1960s. Hubert Humphrey (whose granddaughter had Down syndrome), who along with Representative Charles Vanik introduced an amendment to the Civil Rights Act to include disability as grounds for discrimination, not surprisingly had been involved with a variety of social policies including the Civil Rights Act. Indeed, many disability rights entrepreneurs had general experience with health and social welfare policies (although not necessarily specific experience with handicap and disability), and to a lesser extent civil rights. Politicians ‘‘need’’ issues as a way to get onto committees and gain prominence in Congress (Sulkin, 2005). Some elites were entrepreneurial because they saw disability as a safe issue with few political opponents. For example, Mario Biaggi (Democratic Representative from New York) had no prior interest in disability and had no connection to the House Public Works and Transportation Committee which had been dealing with access to transportation. Nonetheless, Biaggi proposed an amendment to the Mass Transportation Act such that the disabled ‘‘have the same right as other persons to utilize mass transportation y that special efforts be made in the planning and design of mass transportation facilities y.’’ According to Katzmann (1986) who interviewed Biaggi’s assistant, Peter Ilchuck, Biaggi was a newly elected politician looking for an issue to champion. Disability was also an issue that agencies in the executive branch saw as a way to professionally aggrandize. For example, Martin Gerry who headed the OCR in HEW believed strongly in equal rights for the disabled and saw the assignment of the Rehabilitation Act regulations as a way to expand the OCR’s jurisdiction to a new constituency. Indeed, John Wodatch, who had been put in charge of Section 504, felt that the ‘‘job provided him with a good opportunity to be in charge of a big project from start to finish and to gain experience with policy development’’ (Scotch, 2001, p. 64). Disability rights entrepreneurship in both the Senate and House is a salient example of the connection between strategic actors and the venues within which they act. In the Senate, Harrison Williams created the Subcommittee

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on the Handicapped in 1972 when he was the Committee on Labor and Public Welfare chair. As Scotch (2001 p. 50) notes, when Williams became chair ‘‘he picked up disability as an area which no one in the Senate was working in a concentrated way.’’ He also went on to become a prominent figure in the Senate Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs. In promoting the Biaggi Amendment, Williams made the rights frame central to that committee. Williams held hearings under the Subcommittee on Housing and Urban Affairs which now included disability groups who had not previously seen this committee as a venue for disability issues. He also championed the OCR as the executive branch agency best suited to write and implement Section 504 regulations. At the same time, reorganization in the House saw the Public Works Committee assume control over transportation from the Committee on Banking and Currency. This has important consequences because the Public Works Committee was more rights oriented and committee chair, Kenneth Gray, was a major proponent of equal rights and equal access. In the early 1970s, John Brademas, a key supporter of the Rehabilitation Act, became chair of the House Committee on Education and Workforce. Together with Williams in the Senate and other members of Congress, they in effect created a community of staffers who were critical in forging ties with the executive and promoting disability rights often under the radar. It was entrepreneurial staffers and aides who ensured that the civil rights language in the Humphrey–Vanik bill was inserted into the Vocational Rehabilitation Act Amendments. Legislative staffers and executive branch members also formed close relationships with the nascent disability rights movement. Judy Heumann, founder of one of the first modern cross-disability protest groups, Disabled in Action (DIA) (see Barnartt & Scotch, 2001), interned for Lisa Walker, a staffer for both Brademas and Williams. Entrepreneurs in the executive branch, including Gerry, encouraged protests at HEW offices when David Matthews, the new HEW secretary, was reluctant to act on Section 504. In the 1960s and 1970s, disability exploded as an issue. With the proliferation of new venues focusing on a variety of disability-related issues, new groups and actors were able to join incumbents in promoting social change. With increasing government attention to rights, existing disability groups as well as newly formed organizations became increasingly focused on advocacy, and in some cases protest, rather than service provision. The rise of this broader disability policy community, to use McCarthy’s (2005) Velcro analogy, created a looser set of relationships which facilitated the ability of actors, including SMOs, to come in and out of the political process.

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Policy Consequences Institutional changes that led to a reconfiguration of actors and venues – that is, the collapse of a monopoly and the rise of a community – had important policy implications. First, the increase in the amount of attention disability received on the policy agenda corresponds to an overall increase in legislative activity. The amount of attention disability has received from the federal government differs from other issues and constituencies in that there has never really been protracted periods with no attention. For instance, gender (see Costain, 1992) and race (see Carmines & Stimson, 1989) have had extended periods with little to no legislative activity. As Fig. 5 shows, the 1960s already begins with 15 disability-related laws enacted. In fact, the first 5 years of the 1960s saw more than 45 public laws enacted that relate to disability. Despite starting out with an already elevated baseline of policy output, the 1960s and 1970s did experience an increase in the amount of legislative activity that remained relatively high until about the passage of the ADA in 1990. Second, there is a qualitative shift in the types of laws being enacted given the rise of a policy community promoting new policy images. More than half of all public laws passed in this 45-year period are related to appropriations and the budget, veterans, or health and human services, reflecting the location of a majority of disability-related hearings in those 30 25

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Disability-Related Public Laws by Congressional Year and Calendar Year (n ¼ 393).

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specific committees. Although health- and- human- services- related legislation saw a small peak in the 1970s, it remained a significant proportion of legislative activity between 1961 and 2006. Other issues, some of which had been a central part of the disability policy monopoly like policies aimed at the deaf and blind as well as economic policies regarding vocational rehabilitation and labor force participation, experienced a sharp decline. However, access and rights related legislation (see Fig. 6) saw significant increases in the 1970s and again in the late 1980s just prior to the passage of the ADA. Both of these legislative peaks coincide with punctuation in congressional attention to disability. While rights and access represent only 8 percent of all disability-related policies enacted between 1961 and 2006, the work of entrepreneurs within an expanding policy community influenced the rise of rights-related legislation between 1970 and 1990. In the 1960s, political entrepreneurs, both in Congress and within government agencies, began to frame the problem of accessibility for the handicapped in terms of rights. Their ability to do this was brought on by exogenous shocks such as the rise of the Democratic Coalition and the Great Society of the 1960s, as well as the changing norms about committee assignments that eventually led to a collapse of the disability policy monopoly that had, in many ways, served as an obstacle to rights. This allowed for the emergence of new venues and new actors (both insiders and outsiders) who promoted rights in the government. 18 16 14

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Fig. 6.

Percentage of Policies Related to Access and Rights for the Disabled by Congressional Year and Calendar Year.

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DISCUSSION The primary objective of this paper is to explain the relationship between insiders and outsiders and the context within which they interact. The paper speaks to the renewed and growing interest in the social movement literature on the role of strategic social movement actors and the grassroots and institutional contexts within which they promote change (see Downey & Rohlinger, 2008). However, I also depart from traditional social movement and democratic theories by focusing on specific supplyside factors that contribute to sociopolitical change. I draw from the recent trend in neo-institutional theory that focuses on meso-level social orders. This provides a useful framework for understanding the dynamic link between political elites in the elected and executive branches, incumbent and challenging groups, and the venues that facilitate entrepreneurial behavior. The expansion of disability on the policy agenda and the rise of a disability rights policy image showcase the importance of the institutional context of social change. The late 1960s and 1970s saw punctuation brought on by exogenous shock. This led to the collapse of a policy monopoly that had promoted a narrow policy framing of disability giving way to the rise of a more heterogeneous policy community. This had important consequences for disability. It established new venues for disability political discourse; it facilitated entrepreneurial behavior which led to further issue expansion, including the rise of a rights frame; and it brought in new actors, including newly formed disability SMOs. Consequently, the rise of a disability policy community and the expansion of disability in Congress reshaped disabilityrelated legislative activity. As SAFs, policy communities are a loose but organized set of relationships between socially skilled actors or entrepreneurs with a common understanding and interest in an issue that come together in a tight space between other preexisting fields: Congress, the executive branch, professional associations, nonprofit organizations, and SMOs. SAFs are therefore embedded within broader institutional contexts. Stability or equilibrium creates a situation whereby a tightly knit group of politicians, bureaucrats, professionals, and interest organizations promote a particular policy image that goes largely unchallenged. In the case of disability, key actors confined to limited venues promoted the dominant image of the client-service model of handicap. But the 1960s saw a reconfiguration of the political landscape. Whether exogenous shock in Fligstein and McAdam’s (2012) terms, a critical juncture in terms of historical institutionalism (Thelan, 1999), or

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punctuation for Baumgartner and Jones’ (1993), institutional changes created disorganization in the policy agenda. It is under these conditions that entrepreneurship flourishes. This suggests that political entrepreneurship, as Fligstein and McAdam (2011, 2012) claim, is more relevant for transformation than it is for reproduction of the status quo. Entrepreneurs matter more in disorganized social spaces – that is, when fields are new or emerging, not when they are settled. There are three additional takeaway points alluded to in this paper. The first is in relation to the ways in which SAFs like policy communities democratize social change. There is often a negative connotation surrounding supply-side explanations for social change. Concepts like ‘‘democracy from above,’’ ‘‘overhead democracy,’’ and ‘‘juridical democracy’’ are sometimes used in conjunction with political entrepreneurship (see King, 1997), suggesting that the public has no say on social policy when entrepreneurs are involved. However, the public cannot be consistently aware of, or interested in, all the issues on the policy agenda, especially since Congress has dealt with an increasing number and complexity of issues. For instance, it is unlikely that rehabilitation and social service provision for the handicapped were on the minds of most Americans in the 1950s and 1960s. Should that preclude government from dealing with such issues? It may very well be the case that when policy monopolies exist, outside interests will not have much influence on political discourse. However, entrepreneurship does not erode pluralism but may actually encourage it by dismantling much more restrictive monopolies. Policy communities create more entry points for diverse actors and ideas. This signals a new political opportunity for SMOs such that they gain access to the policy process and become part of the SAF that shapes the policy agenda. Second, the implication of the theory and data I present here is that disability rights is a political innovation that had much more to do with entrepreneurship and institutional activism than outside mobilization or shifts in public opinion. Nevertheless, as the government became increasingly interested in rights, especially by enacting the Rehabilitation Act, it reshaped its interaction with the disability community. Indeed, this is a case of policies creating citizens (Campbell, 2005). The proliferation of advocacy organizations and the sustained use of direct action followed from the Rehabilitation Act; it did not precede it. And, the dissemination of a rights framework to activists, advocates, disabled constituents, and the general public occurred primarily when entrepreneurs, especially those in the OCR, appealed to ‘‘outsiders’’ to pressure the secretary of HEW to pass Rehabilitation Act regulations.

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Finally, while the theory of fields focuses mostly on the emergence of SAFs and the policy literature on the collapse of monopolies and the rise of communities, there is less attention on what occurs to SAFs or policy communities over time. Issues eventually decline in saliency both inside and outside government as entrepreneurs successfully make certain policy images taken-for-granted (Baumgartner & Jones, 1993; Jones & Baumgartner, 2005). Only a core set of actors will continue their involvement in policy monitoring. As McCarthy’s (2005) Velcro triangles suggest, other actors will most likely move onto other issues either within or outside of government. Following the ADA, disability declined as an issue in Congress and became concentrated around a few key issues. Committee involvement also became more sporadic and failed to generate greater attention to disability within Congress (as is indicated by the sharp decline in hearings; see Fig. 1). With a decline in the number of issues and venues, fewer disability groups were involved in the policy process at the federal level. An important objective of the paper is to build on the theory of fields using the case of disability rights at the federal level. The paper has two important limitations. First, I focus exclusively on entrepreneurship as it pertains to federal politics surrounding disability. I do not analyze local or state-level politics. No doubt, entrepreneurs may also be critical within state legislatures especially given that between the early 1970s and the late 1980s, many states had enacted some form of rights-based/antidiscrimination disability legislation. Second, while there is a decline in congressional attention on disability, this may be a result of a shifting focus away from legislative politics to judicial politics. Following the ADA, the courts became an important site of conflict over interpretation of congressional intent regarding the ADA and other federal legislation. Nevertheless, federal politics set in motion a new political orientation particularly around rights and this helped generate a new political constituency that mobilized around a new policy image. This paper brings together themes and concepts from diverse but related literatures including political sociology, political science, policy research, and social movements to shed light on the role institutional entrepreneurs play in generating issue attention. Political scientists and sociologists have often written about the impregnability of iron triangles but the static nature of its application ignored how monopolies over issues emerge and how they decline (Baumgartner & Jones, 1993). Policy scholars in the 1960s and 1970s came to recognize the importance of the coalition of actors inside and outside of the legislature that form policy communities (Fenno, 1977; Lowi, 1964). As movement scholars became increasingly interested in specific

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linkages between social movements and policy, they too recognized the community of incumbents and challengers that come in and out of the political process (i.e., McCarthy’s (2005) Velcro triangles). There are also conceptual overlaps between what political scientists and policy scholars refer to as political/policy entrepreneurs and what movement scholars call institutional activists. But, there are also important differences. Unlike the more demand-side understanding of institutional activist (see Banaszak, 2005, 2010; Katzenstein, 1998; Santoro & McGuire, 1997; Tilly, 1978), political entrepreneurship does not assume that political elites are responding constituents’ demands or that they were or are movement activists (Baumgartner & Jones, 1993; Costain & Majstrovic, 1994; King, 1997; Pettinicchio, 2012; Reichman & Canan, 2003; Sheingate, 2006; Sulkin, 2005). That is, as Wawro (2001) argues, even elected entrepreneurs have a certain degree of freedom in building legislative programs. Entrepreneurs can play a critical role in bringing in movement actors and organizations as they are often required to mobilize outsiders for support (Baumgartner & Jones, 1993; Cobb & Elder, 1983; Fligstein & McAdam, 2011, 2012). This paper sheds light on how supply- and demand-side perspectives come together in explaining sociopolitical change. As strategic actors who ‘‘innovate, propagate, and organize’’ (Fligstein & McAdam, 2012, p. 4), political entrepreneurs are critical in promoting change within policy communities.

NOTES 1. The extent to which changes from exogenous shocks are felt depends on the SAFs’ proximity to the changes taking place. 2. An interstice, as defined by Roa et al. (2000, p. 252), ‘‘is a gap between multiple industries or professions and arises when problems or issues persistently spill over from one organizational field to another.’’ It is a field that, given the complexity or size of an issue, brings in numerous players from different fields whose interests overlap on a given issue. Their discussion of interstices also alludes to the importance of entrepreneurs in bringing in various actors into SAFs. 3. Baumgartner and Jones (2005) suggest that boundedly rational actors, who have become increasingly specialized on issues, disproportionately focus on certain kinds of information given that there is so much of it and a limited attention span. 4. As van Eeten (2007) and Roe (1994) explain, policy narratives are stories (see also Stone, 2002), which can emphasize the casual or personal, the pragmatic, or the logistics of a problem. 5. Note that not all bills or hearings are associated with a specific policy. Often, committees hold hearings as a way to establish a claim on an issue so as to then influence committee bill referrals by parliamentarians (see King, 1997).

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6. Section 504 states: ‘‘No otherwise qualified handicapped individual in the United States shall, solely by reason of his handicap, be excluded from the participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance.’’

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The idea for this paper came about from a conversation with Mayer Zald at the 2011 Young Scholars in Social Movements Conference. I am forever grateful for his advice. I would also like to thank Robert Crutchfield, Steven Pfaff, Edgar Kiser, Debra Minkoff, and Suzanne Staggenborg for their feedback on different versions of this paper.

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INCONSISTENCY IN POLICY ELITES’ SUPPORT FOR MOVEMENT CLAIMS: FEMINIST ADVOCACY IN TWO REGIONS OF PERU Anna-Britt Coe ABSTRACT This chapter bridges cultural and political approaches to determine why elite support for movement claims may be inconsistent across the policy process. I analyze this question empirically through 16 in-depth interviews with government officials in two regions of Peru: Arequipa and Cusco. Regional officials appraised feminist advocacy in two opposing ways. First, they valued feminist advocates’ contributions to policy processes, which enabled them to advance reproductive rights and gender equity initiatives. They also perceived women as a group deserving of these initiatives and framed gender policies in terms of rights and equality. Second, they were critical of feminist advocates’ weaknesses in mobilizing support, which hindered the officials’ own ability to advance reproductive rights and gender equity initiatives. Furthermore, regional officials understood reproductive rights and gender equality to be thwarted by the State’s economic instrumentalism and by Catholic Church’s ultraconservatism. This research shows how a cultural approach to policy

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 107–132 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036007

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elites’ support for movement claims goes beyond their individual attitudes and calculations to capture their perceptions, frames, and understandings tied to the broader cultural context. This wider conceptualization in turn helps clarify inconsistencies in policy elites’ support for movement claims across the policy process. Keywords: Cultural approach; feminist advocacy; movement claims; policy elites’ support; Peru

INTRODUCTION Policy elites’ support for social movements has occupied researchers’ attention for several decades. On the one hand, scholarship from North America and Europe largely conceptualizes this as a political process involving individual calculations and attitudes (Amenta, Caren, Chiarello, & Su, 2010; Schumacher, 1975). Working within this approach, studies in the United States suggest that elite allies do not act consistently upon their support for movement claims across the policy process (King, Bentele, & Soule, 2007; King, Cornwall, & Dahlin, 2005; Soule & King, 2006; Soule & Olzak, 2004). On the other hand, theorizing from Latin America defines policy elites’ response to social movements as a cultural process involving collectively constructed meanings about what constitutes the political arena (Alvarez, Dagnino, & Escobar, 1998; Dagnino, 2003). For example, Dagnino’s (1998) study of policy actors in Sao Paolo, Brazil found that policy elites and civil society actors held different notions of the political arena. A political or cultural approach alone advances our understanding only so far. This chapter seeks to bridge these two approaches in order to determine why policy elites’ support for movement claims may be inconsistent across the policy process. It explores this question through a qualitative study of government officials’ support for feminist advocacy in two regions of Peru – a country that offers a unique opportunity to study this phenomenon. During the first decades of second-wave feminism, activist groups were mostly sidelined from the formal political arena (Barrig, 1989; Vargas, 1989). This changed in the 1990s when many feminist organizations shifted their overall strategy from grassroots awareness-raising to policy advocacy, a trend observed throughout Latin America (Alvarez, 1999; Alvarez et al., 2002; Sternbach, Navarro-Aranguren, Chuchryk, & Alvarez, 1992;

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Vargas, 1992). Feminist advocates gained access to policy spaces, influenced agendas, and even achieved policy reform (Barrig, 2001; Blondet, 2002). Nonetheless, major gaps remained in policy implementation (Boesten, 2006; Coe, 2012). New regional governments established in 2001 provided possibilities to improve the implementation of national policies, in part by constituting an additional point of influence for feminist advocates. But not all was smooth sailing: precisely in response to feminist gains, the Catholic Church leadership mobilized intensive countermovement activities. In 2007, I conducted field research on two reproductive rights coalitions carrying out policy advocacy in the regions of Arequipa and Cusco (Coe, 2011, 2012). Fourteen months later, I returned to these same regions and conducted 16 in-depth interviews with regional government officials – elected and appointed – on their support for feminist advocacy in favor of reproductive rights and gender equality. Grounded Theory (GT) with a constructivist approach was used as the methodology. The goal was to capture how study participants perceived and assigned meaning to their actions. In other words, it was a method well-suited for capturing the cultural dimensions of policy elite’s support for movement claims (Charmaz, 2006, p. 130). The purpose of theorizing was not to produce causal explanations but rather identify patterns that are contingent and modifiable (Charmaz, 2006). According to the findings, regional officials’ appraised feminist advocacy in two opposing ways. While they highly valued feminist advocates’ contributions to policy processes, they were critical of feminist advocates’ weaknesses to mobilize support. Whereas regional officials saw the favorable appraisal of feminist advocacy as enabling their own ability to advance reproductive rights and gender equity initiatives within the state, they saw the unfavorable appraisal as preventing it. Regional officials perceived women as a group deserving of these initiatives and framed gender policies in terms of rights and equality. Yet, they understood reproductive rights and gender equality as thwarted by the State’s economic instrumentalism and opposed by Catholic Church’s ultra-conservatism, two positions that wielded stronger influence than feminist advocacy. To interpret these findings in light of the broader cultural context, I made use of discursive opportunity structures identified in my study of the reproductive rights coalitions (Coe, 2011). In the next section, I review contemporary historical and political changes shaping regional officials’ support for feminist advocacy in Arequipa and Cusco in order to situate the findings.

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FEMINIST ADVOCACY AND POLITICAL CHANGE IN CONTEMPORARY PERU Self-identified feminist groups in Arequipa and Cusco can be traced to the 1980s. They were linked to feminist groups elsewhere in the country, especially those based in Lima, Peru’s capital. Early actions focused on building feminist organizations and training low-income women. Major social changes were occurring at the time in terms of women’s participation in labor, education, and politics. Yet, it was almost impossible to get gender inequality on the policy agenda: women’s issues were defined exclusively in relation to motherhood and reproduction, that is, a maternal frame (Radcliffe, 1993; also see Franceschet, 2004 for Chile) whereas inequality issues were framed exclusively in terms of class (Cotler, 2005; Greene, 2006; Lynch, 1997). Despite a growing demand for contraceptives, the provision of reproductive health services was limited to private clinics and a few highly dedicated professionals in public facilities. A law from 1924 permitting abortion when pregnancy put women’s life or health at risk was rarely if ever implemented. By the 1990s, feminist groups in Arequipa and Cusco, as others elsewhere in the country, perceived limits to the strategy of training low-income women and decided to seek policy reform. Not long thereafter, the Peruvian government began to respond to the demands from feminist advocates regarding reproductive rights and gender equality (Barrig, 2002; Blondet, 2002). Several policy measures reflected feminist demands: contraceptive services were expanded throughout the country and offered at little or no cost, police stations were created for women crime victims and service centers for domestic violence victims were created, and quotas were established for women’s political participation and representation (Blondet, 2002). However, president Fujimori – who had established an authoritarian regime based on corruption and fraud – furtively pursued an aggressive policy beginning in 1995 to get mainly poor, rural women and men to undergo sterilization (Coe, 2004). The policy led to human rights violations and poor quality of care (Tamayo, 1999; Villanueva, 1998). Cusco was hit particularly hard by the policy compared to Arequipa: a group of affected women from the Cusco province of Anta have since been in an on-going legal battle with the Peruvian government for justice. The national policy was reformed in 1998 after widespread critique from various groups, including feminist advocates and the Catholic Church leadership. Nonetheless, in the wake of these reforms, the Catholic Church leadership

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remobilized opposition to reproductive rights and gender equality with support from lay allies in education, business, and political sectors (Chavez & Coe, 2007; Coe, 2004; Mujica, 2007). Whereas the sterilization policy was tainted from the top, many policy reforms on gender equality and reproductive rights were favorable on paper but faced significant challenges in implementation (Boesten, 2006; Coe, 2012). New regional governments created in 2001 offered a potential solution to this problem by responding to demands for greater local control over government decisions (Slater, 1994). In Cusco and Arequipa, feminist groups came together in their respective regions to form coalitions – in 2003 in the former and in 2006 in the latter – to advance reproductive rights using persuasive tactics. Their advocacy straddled policy reform and implementation at the national, regional, and local levels: they mobilized local and regional actors to achieve national policy change and they made claims upon regional and local government officials to implement national policies. For example, coalition members helped mobilize regional actors to achieve the Equal Opportunities Law between Men and Women passed by the national congress in 2007. The two coalitions pursued the same two strategies to advance implementation of the Equal Opportunities Law: the creation of regional equal opportunity plans and regional women’s councils. Although the two coalitions had the same goals with regard to reproductive rights, they prioritized them differently. The coalition in Arequipa pursued the creation of a regional protocol for legal abortion which led to a highly publicized campaign between 2007 and 2008. The coalition in Cusco, while supportive of a regional protocol for legal abortion, pursued a project in the participatory budget process to bring sexual education to adolescents, especially in rural and marginalized urban areas.

BRIDGING POLITICAL AND CULTURAL APPROACHES TO ENHANCE THEORY As stated above, my theoretical aim is to bridge political and cultural approaches in order to understand why policy elites’ support for movement claims may be inconsistent across the policy process. In North American and European scholarship, policy elites’ support for movement claims is commonly defined as a categorical decision resting upon an already-held orientation or ideological assumptions. Schumacher (1975) conceptualizes the social support among policy elites for protesters as ‘‘the attitudes

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of elected and agency officials,’’ where attitudes are understood as a dispositional state of a person predictive of how they will act (Cohen, 1966, p. 341). Amenta et al. (2010, p. 298) conceptualizes this as ‘‘calculations’’: social movements must engage ‘‘in collective action that changes the calculations of institutional political actors’’ and get policy elites to ‘‘see it [the movement] as potentially facilitating or disrupting their own goals.’’ Using these conceptualizations, an important body of research shows that the presence of elite allies is a significant, if not required, condition for social movements to advance their claims and achieve political outcomes (Amenta, Caren, & Olasky, 2005; Andrews, 2001; Cress & Snow, 2000). Studies even show when and how elite allies are important or necessary. For example, studies of both the first- and second-wave women’s movement found that U.S. policy elites were most likely to support feminist claims at the agendasetting stage but not at later stages of the policy process (King et al., 2005, 2007; Soule & King, 2006; Soule & Olzak, 2004). But, these conceptualizations may miss crucial cultural dimensions underlying policy elites’ support for movement claims. While there are several definitions of culture in the social sciences, for the purposes of this chapter I turn to those developed for studying social movements. Polletta (1999, pp. 66–67) defines culture as ‘‘the symbolic dimension of all structures, institutions and practices.’’ Later, she (2008, p. 84) uses the term cultural schemas or models to refer to people’s ‘‘ideas about how the organizations and institutions in which they participate do and should work.’’ Her definition emphasizes culture and structure as mutually constituted: cultural schemas are activated in structures through networks, resources and organizational agendas, making structures reliant upon them (Polletta, 2008, pp. 85–87). Given that cultural schemas can be moved between different institutional fields, all structures are susceptible to contestation (Polletta, 2008, p. 87). Scholars of social movements in Latin America refer to this contestation as cultural politics or ‘‘the process enacted when sets of social actors shaped by and embodying different cultural meanings come into conflict with one another’’ (Alvarez et al., 1998). The outcomes of cultural contestations take the form of altered institutional schemas, which Polletta (2008, p. 85) refers to as changing ‘‘the rules of the institutional game,’’ and Alvarez et al. (1998, p. 2) refer to as resignifying ‘‘the very meanings of received notions of citizenship, political representation and participation, and as a consequence, democracy itself.’’ Both Polletta (1999, 2008) and Alvarez et al. (1998) view cultural schema as shaping all political actors and processes, not merely activist groups’ interests and identities.

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Applying this definition of culture to policy elites’ support for movement claims suggests that the phenomenon consists of more than individual attitudes and calculations. I contend that cultural schemas point to four additional questions. Two questions are addressed by existing literature: how do policy elites perceive a group on behalf of which a given social movement is making claims, and how do policy elites frame an issue about which a given social movement is making demands? Regarding the first question, Skrentny (2006, p. 1765) defines elite perceptions as the underlying ‘‘pretheoretical’’ and taken-for-granted understandings in the background of policy making. He found that U.S. policy elites perceived differently the diverse population groups that demanded affirmative action and consequently varied in their support for policy measures. Their support depended on whether or not they saw the population as a discrete group, as deserving of policy intervention to change their status, and/or as a severe enough menace. Some groups – women included – had to engage in greater collective action for longer periods to get policy elites to consider them a group appropriate for and worthy of affirmative action, and some groups never succeeded. Likewise, research in Latin America found that participants in contemporary social movements first claimed to be subjects bearing rights regardless of the type of claims put forth (Alvarez et al., 1998, p. 2; Dagnino, 2003, p. 48). Because governments had long been organized around maintaining social exclusion, even after the establishment of formal democratic rule, a central task of marginalized groups – including women – was ‘‘to demonstrate that they are people with rights, so as to recover their dignity and status as citizens and even as human beings’’ (Dagnino, 2003, p. 48). The second question – how do policy elites frame an issue about which a given social movement is making demands – pertains to the foreground of policy making (Skrentny, 2006, p. 1765). The concept of elite or policy frames is rooted in research on the social construction of issues. Gamson and Modigliani (1989) show that there are competing ways to interpret social issues and such competition is central to political struggles. Complex interpretive packages are compressed into the form of a simple frame (Gamson & Modigliani, 1989). Steensland (2008, p. 1030) defines policy framing as a cognitive influence that structures people’s attention by emphasizing specific definitions, causes, and solutions of problems. Because frames are easily understood by a wide audience, diverse collective actors with varying ideological positions often employ the same frame. Gamson (1992) illustrated this with the equal opportunity frame and the debate around affirmative action in the United States, and Steensland (2008)

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showed this with several frames and the debate around guaranteed annual income in the United States. Thus, it is not surprising that Steensland (2008) found that frame change appears to occur through frame adoption, which involves shifts in the distribution of frames that actors link to a policy rather than through actor representation, which involves shifts in the range of actors involved in a policy. A third question, which remains unexplored in existing literature, is how do policy elites’ understand the involvement of a given social movement in policy processes. Latin American scholars argue that contemporary social movements are seeking participation not simply in the existing political system but rather in the redefinition of that system, thereby extending the notion of the political arena (Alvarez et al., 1998; Dagnino, 1998). A wellknown example of this is the Participatory Budget Council in Porto Alegre, Brazil, a model since adopted by regional governments in Peru. In North American and European research, shifts in political conditions are captured by political opportunity structure and political process theories (Eisinger, 1973; Kitschelt, 1986; Tarrow, 1998). Research on policy elites remains grounded in this approach. For example, studies show how policy elites act as policy entrepreneurs or femocrats in the case of feminist officials (Banaszak, 2005; Mintrom, 1997), how they shape or are constrained by public opinion and other collective actors (Mintrom, 1997; Steensland, 2008), and how they support countermovement activities (Andrews, 1997; Meyer & Staggenborg, 1996; Soule & Olzak, 2004). This line of inquiry tells us a good deal about the ways in which policy elites act, but little about how they understand their actions. A fourth and final question, also unexplored in the literature, is how all three questions above – policy elites’ perceptions, frames, and understandings of activist groups’ involvement in policy processes – tie into the wider cultural context. As Polletta (1999, p. 67) states, culture is observable not merely in people’s minds but also ‘‘in linguistic practices, institutional rules, and social rituals.’’ One way we can link policy elites’ perceptions, frames, and understandings to the wider culture is by drawing on the concept of discursive opportunity structures used in social movement research. Feree (2003) defines discursive opportunity structures as ‘‘institutionally anchored ways of thinking that provide a gradient of relative political acceptability to specific packages of ideas.’’ In any discursive opportunity structure, there is a gradient of ideas: Feree (2003) refers to the gradient contained within hegemonic discourses as ranging from radical frames that explicitly challenged prevailing cultural beliefs

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and values to resonant frames that tap into hegemonic discourses (Feree, 2003). What is considered radical or resonant depends on the context, as Feree (2003) showed through the case of abortion rights groups in the United States and Germany. Furthermore, there are different ways of challenging discourses. Again referring to hegemonic discourses, Maney, Woehrle, and Coy (2005, p. 362) found that framing by U.S. peace organizations after 9/11 undercut hegemonic discourses along a discursive continuum: at one endpoint, by modifying the meaning of existing symbols (harnessing); at the other endpoint, by discarding and replacing these entirely (challenging). Finally, in any society, there are multiple discursive opportunity structures. Distinguishing between stable and less stable, McCammon, Muse, Newman, and Terrell (2007) identify three discursive opportunity structures: highly stable structures consisted of hegemonic discourses whereas less stable structures included discourses created by social and political change (new) as well as countermovement activities (opposition). I found an additional discursive opportunity structure in my study of the reproductive rights coalitions created by Peru’s regional decentralization processes mandating civil society participation, which I refer to as procedural (Coe, 2011). Given that all political actors – and not merely activist groups – are implicated in cultural schemas, the concept of discursive opportunity structures can be applied to interpret how policy elites’ own perceptions, meanings, and understandings tie into the wider cultural environment. In sum, a cultural approach pushes the conceptualization of policy elites’ support for movement claims beyond individual attitudes and calculations to construct this as perceptions, frames, and understandings tied to the broader cultural context. Existing literature examines policy elites’ perceptions of different groups in society on behalf of which movements make claims and policy elites’ framing of issues about which movements make demands. Missing from existing literature is policy elites’ understanding of the involvement of social movements in policy processes: which issues are considered political, who is considered a legitimate actor, how are actors allowed to participate, and what type of influence are actors afforded. Another research gap is how elite perceptions, policy frames, and understandings of activist groups’ involvement in policies tie into the wider cultural context. Together, these four questions bridge cultural and political approaches to policy elites’ support for movement claims by bringing to the fore the contributions of cultural dimensions and the connections between cultural dimensions and structural factors.

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METHODOLOGY This study analyzes how regional government officials perceived and assigned meanings to their responses to feminist advocacy on reproductive rights and gender equality in two regions of Peru, Arequipa and Cusco. GT was used following a constructivist approach (see Charmaz, 2006). In line with theoretical sampling, I chose regional officials working on reproductive rights and gender equality policies in two regions of Peru. Two regions were selected not to compare them or to ensure representativeness at regional or individual levels but in order to collect sufficient data, gain an in-depth understanding of the research question, and allow the development of a conceptual analysis (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). To identify these regional officials, I received help from members of the two reproductive rights coalitions with whom I had conducted earlier research. Even with local differences, the two sets of regional officials were sufficiently similar to allow a combined data analysis. Prior to fieldwork, the study plan was approved by Bioethics Committee of Via Libre Association in Peru. Study participants were contacted individually and invited to participate first by letter and subsequently by phone. During fieldwork, participants were given a written and oral summary of the project and asked for their written consent to be interviewed and audiotaped. Pseudonyms are used in this chapter to protect their identity. Fieldwork was conducted in September and October 2008. Interviews were conducted with officials from both regional governments until saturation of the research topic was reached. In the end, a total of 16 interviews – nine women and seven men – were held. In each region, the distribution across government branches was as follows: two elected officials in the Regional Council (legislative branch), four to six appointed officials responsible for implementing health and social policies (executive branch), and one appointed official from the people’s ombudsman offices (public sector oversight). Participants ranged in education level from incomplete secondary school to complete postgraduate degree. An interview guide with open-ended questions was followed to address three themes: feminist advocacy in favor of reproductive rights and gender equality; the policy influence of feminist advocates on these issues; and regional officials’ own ability to advance public policies on these issues. When asking the basic questions of what are participants trying to solve and how, emphasis was placed on how participants defined events and situations (Charmaz, 2006, p. 32; Glaser & Strauss, 1967).

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Using a qualitative data software, the transcripts were analyzed following constant comparative methods of GT (Charmaz, 2006; Glaser, 1978). Constant comparative methods began with open coding, which entailed studying every line of text comparatively and labeling each line with a word(s) that reflected ideas identified in the text. The gerund or ‘‘-ing’’ word form was especially used to create codes that captured actions or enacted processes (Charmaz, 2006, p. 136). Open codes were then sorted into categories by grouping together those that related to one another, and each group was studied and named. Next, in focused coding, these preliminary categories were used to reexamine all open codes one by one, compare them with one another, and discard irrelevant codes. Lastly, in theoretical coding, the connections between categories were examined in order to synthesize them into a whole. I consider the resulting data analysis to be trustworthy according to the four criteria for evaluating GT of relevance, fitness, workability, and modifiability (Dahlgren, Emmelin, & Winkvist, 2004, pp. 55–56).

PRESENTATION OF THE FINDINGS The theoretical coding resulted in five categories: Appraising civil society, Perceiving women in society, Framing gender in policies, Addressing state barriers, and Yielding to church opposition. One category was crucial for understanding the empirical and theoretical questions: Appraising civil society. Regional officials appraised feminist advocacy in two opposing ways. They highly valued feminist advocates’ contributions to policy processes, which increased the ability of regional officials to advance related policy initiatives. Alongside this, they were critical of feminist advocates’ weaknesses to mobilize greater support, which hindered regional officials own ability to advance related policy initiatives. Generally speaking, this category illustrates how policy elites do not have fixed notions of the involvement and influence of social movement actors in the policy process but rather are constructing these, thereby imbuing cultural dimensions. This split in two directions can be further understood by the relationship of the other four categories to Appraising civil society. On the one hand, two categories – Perceiving women in society and Framing gender in policies – captured regional officials’ favorable perceptions of women as a group deserving of feminist policy initiatives and framed gender policies in terms of rights and equality. On the other hand, two categories – Addressing state barriers and Yielding to church opposition – captured regional officials’

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understanding of the barriers and opposition to reproductive rights and gender equality, namely the State’s economic instrumentalism and the Catholic Church’s ultra-conservatism respectively, which they saw as wielding stronger influence than feminist advocacy. Generally speaking, the remaining categories illustrate how policy elites understand the involvement and influence of social movement actors not in terms of a direct oneto-one relationship but rather are constructing these in relation to other aspects of the political arena, again imbuing cultural dimensions.

Appraising Civil Society Regional officials acknowledged and valued feminist advocacy and policy influence on two issue areas: reproductive rights as well as gender equality. With regard to the latter, officials from both regions pointed to two current policy initiatives involving feminist organizations and networks: regional equal opportunity plans and regional councils on women. A regional official in Cusco explained: ‘‘We have contact with organizations, above all women’s organizations. Due to their efforts, for example, we achieved the creation of the Regional Council on Women’’ (C6). These initiatives were seen as first-step measures for implementing the Law on Equal Opportunities between Women. With regard to reproductive rights, officials from each region pointed to a single but different current policy initiative involving feminist organizations and networks: whereas regional officials in Arequipa emphasized the regional protocol for legal abortion, regional officials in Cusco emphasized sexual education for adolescents. This is likely due to the divergent priorities of the reproductive rights coalitions in these regions mentioned earlier. In addition to naming specific initiatives involving feminist advocacy, regional officials depicted how feminist advocates were involved in and influenced policies. They described not only being invited to participate in spaces organized by feminist advocates but also involving feminist advocates in government spaces for multi-sectoral participation, such as regional health councils and participatory budgets. The following two quotes from regional officials in Arequipa illustrate this. The first quote is from the beginning of the campaign for the protocol for legal abortion: Organizations [working in favor of reproductive rights] invite us to forums to discuss topics. Last month, an organization in favor of a protocol for legal abortion invited us to discuss and elaborate arguments, justification for the government, trying to sensitize us to support this. (A2)

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In 2008, after the campaign, another regional official from Arequipa reflected back on the process: [Within the Regional Health Council] we convened organizations dedicated to analyzing and raising awareness about the issue [of a protocol for legal abortion] and legal norms regarding the topic. We held several working meetings resulting in the approval of a technical proposal that was later approved as a policy. (A1)

As this last quote signals, regional officials further described receiving feminist advocates’ expertise and support to formulate and implement policies. Whereas regional officials in Arequipa relied on feminist advocates to develop the protocol for legal abortion in Arequipa, regional officials in Cusco relied on feminist advocates to implement sexual education for adolescents, as the following quote illustrates: Another factor facilitating this project is that NGOs working on this topic are involved because we are not going to start from zero: there are valuable experiences that have and are already being developed by for example (y) so we are collecting all of these experiences and we are in alliance to accomplish this one job. (C5)

Regarding gender equality, regional officials in both regions similarly relied on feminist expertise and support to develop regional women’s council and equal opportunity plans, as an official in Cusco described: In many ways they [feminist organizations] have more experience in [gender equality] issues because they have been working on these for many years. As the regional government, we are recently addressing [gender equality] and what we do is take stock of their proven experiences and verify whether these can be implemented. In addition, they lend us their centers, their specialists, their knowledgeable persons, to teach us how to execute [these experiences]. (C4)

Alongside acknowledging and highly valuing advocates’ contributions to policy processes, regional officials conveyed an entirely opposite appraisal of feminist advocacy and its policy influence: they recognized and were critical of the weaknesses of feminist advocacy, which they generalized to civil society participation more broadly in the two regions. Although regional officials expressed unquestionable support for the overall participation of civil society in public policies, their concerns lied with how civil society was organized, how it represented its constituencies, and how it participated in policy processes, as the following quote illustrates: It is not possible to speak of democracy without participation. So, the most important problem is changing the institutionalization of participation from being a type of representation in quotation marks with leaders of organizations lacking internal democracy whose members are not able to express their opinions or participate (y) Representation at the regional level implies organizations that operate across the region

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and not merely in the capital city. It is necessary to change this system to achieve a real representation of the entire region and that the mechanisms [for participation] correspond to the level of government. (A7)

Regional officials detailed the weaknesses they perceived in civil society along two types of organizations: institutionalized and professionalized versus popular and volunteer. According to their understandings, both types demonstrated capacity, legitimacy, and experience to convene diverse actors, to make proposals and lead campaigns; and both types faced weakness regarding representativeness and democratic process. For example, they characterized popular organizations as having strong ties to local populations and developing actions based on broad demands but often lacking in internal democratic structures. They characterized institutionalized organizations as having strong capacity on specific issues rather than representing broad demands but tending to be more interested in self-preservation. Regional officials concluded that these weaknesses limited the power of feminist advocacy in particular, and civil society participation in general, to influence policies in both absolute and relative terms. In absolute terms, they saw feminist organizations and networks as few, working on a small scale and resource-scarce. A government official from Cusco explained: In Cusco, there are collectives, such as the Collective on Monitoring Reproductive Rights, a very interesting collective that has been carrying out several actions. Nonetheless, civil society suffers, as in all Third World countries, from a lack of resources. So it is very difficult for civil society organizations. In rural areas, such as Cusco, it is not easy to reach different places and monitor what is really going on because these aren’t enough resources. (C3)

In relative terms, they compared feminist advocacy and civil society participation to state barriers and church opposition, and concluded that the latter wielded far more power to influence policies than the former. In sum, regional officials held two opposing appraisals of feminist advocacy. This might initially seem surprising, but less so if we consider that their understandings of feminist advocates involvement in policy processes tapped into a procedural discursive opportunity structure, a cultural process created in tandem with the political processes of building regional governments. For example, the law on regional decentralization mandates civil society participation in public policies. A procedural discursive opportunity structure legitimates who is involved and how in policy processes at different levels of regional development (Coe, 2011). The reproductive rights coalitions in Arequipa and Cusco made use of a pluralist frame that tied into this procedural discursive opportunity structure (Coe, 2011). Yet, while the

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coalitions were concerned with the diversity of civil society participation, regional officials in this study were concerned with the quality of civil society participation: hence, appraising its strengths and its weaknesses. They saw the quality of civil society participation as directly related to their own ability to advance related policy initiatives from within the state, including those related to reproductive rights and gender equality. The split in two directions can be further understood by turning to the four additional categories found in the analysis and their relation to Appraising civil society. Perceiving Women in Society and Framing Gender in Policies Regional officials’ favorable appraisal of feminist advocacy was backed by societal perceptions and policy framing strongly anchored in ideas propagated by feminist advocates. Policy elites in Peru have long been concerned with women, at least as far back as when women obtained the right to vote in 1955. But, even after the downfall of the oligarchy in 1968 and the transition to democratic rule in 1979, government authorities typically constructed all women – regardless of their social position – according to an urbanized, upper class ideal of mother and housewife in the family (Radcliffe, 1993). It is therefore especially notable that in this study, regional officials’ perceptions of women were not tied to longstanding maternal discourses. Instead, regional officials in Arequipa and Cusco constructed women according to their position vis-a`-vis men. Compared to men, they described women’s position as marginalized, weak, and abused. Women were thus deserving of interventions to modify their disadvantage in relation to men, as a regional official in Arequipa depicted: The culture itself in which we live has marginalized women from the start, to such an extent that women lack access to education, to everything (y) and in this way, do not make decisions governing society. (A4)

Yet, similar to men, they described women’s position as agents of their lives and leaders of their communities, hence, deserving of recognition as equals to men. The same regional official from Arequipa stated: (y) in marginalized communities and rural populations, women are taking on important and active roles in participation, for example, implementing local social programs. (A4)

Regional officials’ perceptions portrayed women as different and as equal to men. They also perceived differences between women as a group based on class and ethnicity, but especially illustrated these differences as having to

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with the rural–urban divide, as the following quote from a regional official in Cusco describes: Even today, rural women have not made sufficient progress in denouncing their spouses for abuse, as if there is still a sort of submission to men despite the mistreatment they suffer. (C2)

Based on these perceptions, regional officials framed the inclusion of women in society not according to women’s reproductive roles or reproduction but rather according to a definition of women as persons in their own right. Their framing emphasized notions of gender equality and women’s human rights which they applied to policies related to living standards, health, employment, and political participation. In the following quote, a regional official in Arequipa describes the Equal Opportunities Law as a means for advancing women’s rights: I believe that the Law on Equal Opportunities is going to allow us in ensure in practice (y) the fulfillment of this agenda (y) so that women’s rights are achieved. (A5) This was not an empty promise: the regional official continued to point to their own responsibility for advancing this agenda, the role of the Public Ombudsman and Attorney General to monitor its fulfillment, and the importance of women themselves knowing their rights. Especially women officials in this study applied a gender equality frame to support women’s political participation: Just as there are men who are open to women (y) being able to carry out the same functions and duties as they can and do, there are others who are still living as machistas [sexists]. So, I believe we are still paving the way for women to occupy these decisionmaking spaces and ensure that society accepts women as having the same capacity as men to exercise a public position. (C2)

With regard to reproductive rights, the women’s human rights frame was emphasized, as illustrated by a regional official discussing reproductive health policies: It is here where a change in approach has occurred, in interventions (y). A change because I can say that the time when interventions were based on imposing decisions is over. Today, it has been validated that women should decide over their own sexual and reproductive health. (C7)

Similarly, a regional official in Arequipa discussed the regional protocol on legal abortion: In practice, the position in favor of rights wins because when we had the controversy over abortion, a poll by the Catholic University found that 82% of the population was in favor [of the regional protocol]. (A1)

In sum, regional officials’ perceptions of women as a social group and their framing of women’s unequal position for policies strongly reflected

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those interpretations most widely disseminated through feminist advocacy. Even though regional officials’ held different ideological positions from one another and some even opposed feminist positions, all made use of these interpretations. These interpretations tied into a new and less stable discursive opportunity structure (Coe, 2011; McCammon et al., 2007) based upon ideas – novel in the Peruvian context – acknowledging and accepting women’s multiple roles in society using ideas of women’s human rights and gender equality to support this. Similarly, I found that the two reproductive rights coalitions made use of women’s human rights and gender equality frames that tied into this discursive opportunity structure (Coe, 2011). Regional officials referred to hegemonic discourses of motherhood and reproduction as a tool to contrast new ideas with: they characterized women’s role as exclusively tied to motherhood and reproduction as incompatible with new ideas about women’s potential to fulfill multiple roles. Nonetheless, regional officials were moderate in their discursive gradient; they did not go so far as to affirm women’s bodily autonomy, which is still a radical discourse in the context of Peru (Feree, 2003).

Addressing State Barriers and Yielding to Church Opposition Regional officials’ unfavorable appraisal of feminist advocacy was backed by their understanding of state barriers and church opposition to reproductive rights and gender equality, which they saw as wielding stronger influence than feminist advocacy. Although regional officials identified several institutional barriers, they pointed to economic instrumentalism as the single most important obstacle within the state for advancing gender equality and reproductive rights. The state’s economic instrumentalism was characterized by privatization, liberalization of labor and financial protections, market-oriented reforms, and cutback of state-lead social programs. It gained dominance after Fujimori’s government adopted structural adjustment in the early 1990s to deal with Peru’s worst economic crisis ever (Burt, 2004). Regional officials described the State as prioritizing economic development far above social policies, and reproductive rights and gender equality fell into the purview of social policies. In their view, the bulk of State economic resources, bureaucratic organization and political will were allocated to construction and infrastructure to facilitate business interests. One regional official explains: The question is why, if there is so much poverty, aren’t more programs being developed for society’s good instead of just cement and buildings? Health and education are basic

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for the development of human beings and to get out of poverty. But, government programs don’t focus on this; they are simply not interested in this. (C8)

For regional officials, this meant having to make demands upon the State itself for resources and to convince other officials of the value of social policies. They perceived this as frustrating and not necessarily successful, but possible to achieve, as the following quote suggests: Officials are accustomed to first building a church tower or fixing the tiles of the sports arena with materials that are not even obtained locality. Now, we are trying to get projects – including those approved in participatory budgets – oriented towards not only executing physical works but also those of a social nature as in the case of women, children or adolescents. (A5)

In contrast to state barriers, regional officials identified only one opponent to reproductive rights and gender equality: the Catholic Church’s ultraconservatism. The Church’s ultra-conservatism proposes upholding women’s exclusive role as mothers and housewives, restricting their sexuality to marriage, and opposing pregnancy prevention and fertility control (Chavez & Coe, 2007). It emerged in response to gains by feminist advocates during the 1990s but especially took form after the UN conferences in Cairo and Beijing (1994 and 1995 respectively) and in the wake of Fujimori’s aggressive sterilization policy in 1998 (Coe, 2004). Regional officials depicted the Catholic Church leadership’s influence over the population as (re)producing taboos, fear, and silence around sexuality and fertility. Moreover, they portrayed its interference in policies as hindering access to contraceptives, sexual education, and legal abortion. This was evident during the campaign for the protocol of legal abortion in Arequipa developed by feminist advocates and government health officials between 2007 and 2008: Pressure from Catholic Church institutions was strong. Not only did the Bishop visit the regional president and the Public Ombudsman in Lima, taking the trouble to go all the way to Lima, but also the San Pablo Catholic University published an announcement rejecting [legal abortion]. They were confusing the population because the Church took advantage of the debate to oppose abortion in general: one thing is abortion in general and another thing is legal abortion. (A6)

In 2008, the regional president authorized the protocol but soon thereafter rescinded his decision due to pressure from the Catholic Church hierarchy. In contrast to the State’s economic instrumentalism, regional officials perceived far greater obstacles to convincing public opinion and especially to countering the policy interference of Church’s ultra-conservatism. Whereas almost all regional officials interviewed in Arequipa disagreed with the Church’s stance on reproductive rights, they found it difficult to

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consistently oppose this stance publicly due to the threat of repercussions – including social stigma – from the Church hierarchy, as the following official explained: ‘‘In some cases it can provoke problems in one’s employment; in others, salary stagnation or reduction; and yet in others it can reach levels of social marginalization within your own group’’ (A1). In Cusco, although there wasn’t a campaign for legal abortion, regional officials still saw the Church’s ultra-conservatism as an obstacle to reproductive rights. They illustrated this with the interference of the ultraconservative position on national health policies: When Mr. Toledo entered [Peru’s president between 2001–2006], the first two health ministers had a very closed vision of sexual and reproductive health. We were setback many years with the intervention of these ministers so tied to a strict Church. (C7)

And its lasting consequences: In recent years – 2005–2007 – we have been unable to obtain contraceptives during some periods. At one point, I said to myself, ‘‘this is the remnants of a policy of certain persons at the national direction [for the Ministry of Health], that shared the ideas of Opus Dei.’’ I think that there is still fear. (C8)

In sum, regional officials’ understood state barriers and church oppositions as hindering and opposing respectively policy initiatives on reproductive rights and gender equality not only because they were incongruent with these policies but also because they were more powerful. Regional officials challenged state barriers by tapping into an oppositional discursive opportunity structure. In Peru, hegemonic discourses have long emphasized economic development as the appropriate path to modernization and continued after Peru undertook neoliberal policies in the 1990s. In this study, regional officials defined social policies in opposition to instrumental economic development by proposing that the goal of development be to optimize human capacity. They did not, however, reject modernization altogether, which would have been a radical notion in the Peruvian context (Feree, 2003). In contrast, regional officials challenged church opposition by tapping into new discursive opportunity structure (McCammon et al., 2007). In Peru, hegemonic discourses have long emphasized women’s inclusion in society through their role as mothers and housewives, and the Catholic Church hierarchy continues to stand for this discourse. In this study, regional officials did not define women’s inclusion in society in direct opposition to these ideas but rather made use of the new ideas about women’s multiple roles in society that had gained currency among the population and policy since the 1990s acknowledging and accepting

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women’s multiple roles in society (Blondet, 2002). These ideas may have been oppositional back in the 1970s and 1980s, but not by the end of 1990s. In fact, by the 2000s, even the Catholic Church hierarchy had begun making use of feminist frames such as gender equality and human rights to oppose feminist advocacy by infusing its own meaning into these declaring gender equality as complementary roles for men and women and the rights of the fetus. The coalitions in both regions had begun to use a secular state frame to engage in oppositional framing to the Church’s countermovement activities but regional officials did not make use of this at all.

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION The analysis above captured how government officials responsible for policies related to reproductive rights and gender equity in two regions of Peru responded to feminist advocacy. The final step of GT involves linking the conceptual analysis to existing literature in order to build upon and enhance existing theory (Dahlgren et al., 2004). I have already begun to do so by borrowing the concept of discursive opportunity structures from social movement research to interpret the findings above within the broader cultural context. Now a more holistic approach is required to address the central question of this chapter regarding why policy elites’ support for movement claims may be inconsistent across the policy process. The most important finding was that regional officials did not hold fixed notions of feminist advocacy or of the policy process; instead, they were actively involved in expanding notions of these. This finding fills an important gap in current research and theorizing by showing that policy elites too can expand their notions of what constitutes the political arena, including about which issues are considered political, who is considered a legitimate actor, how actors are allowed to participate, and what type of influence are actors afforded (Alvarez et al., 1998; Dagnino, 1998). Regional officials in this study were unquestionably supportive of civil society participation in policies, which is significant in the Peruvian context not only because popular, democratic rule is a recent phenomenon but also given its setbacks under Fujimori’s decade-long authoritarian rule during the 1990s (Burt, 2004; Lynch, 1997). But, following Polletta (2008), we find that several political processes related to regional decentralization were imbued with cultural schemas reflected in the procedural discursive opportunity structure: in the wake of Fujimori’s downfall, Peru seemed to experience a

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second ‘‘democratic transition’’; the creation of regional governments responded to a long held demand from regional inhabitants and elites; and finally, civil society participation was mandated by official decentralization policies from the outset. Political and cultural dimensions continued to intertwine even after regional governments were established. The decentralization process was not limited to elections and transference of duties from the central level, but also encompassed various bottom-up processes produced by the mobilization of diverse sectors of the population and the response of new regional officials to this mobilization. My findings show that regional officials understood their response to this mobilization as having to do with mediating the quality of civil society involvement and influence in policy processes, thus appraising its strengths and weaknesses. Rather than following preestablished policy processes, regional officials found themselves involved in defining these in interactions with civil society. Moreover, they found themselves in need of expertise and experience that civil society actors – including feminist advocates – were in possession of, especially for the implementation of policies. The second important result of this study is that regional officials’ appraisal of feminist advocacy was backed by their meanings assigned to four other spheres: perceptions of women in society, policy framing, state barriers, and church opposition. On the one hand, there was a mutually supportive (positive) relationship between elites’ perceptions of women as a group, their framing of gender in policies, and their favorable appraisal of feminist advocacy. As Skrentny (2006) found, regional officials perceived women as a defined social group deserving of reproductive rights and equal opportunity policies, even though they did not perceive women or feminist advocates as a direct threat. But this should not be taken lightly because according to the reproductive rights coalitions I studied and other studies of feminism in Peru (Barrig, 1989, 2002; Blondet, 2002; Coe, 2012; Vargas, 1992), activists groups had to engage in collective action for many years before regional elites saw women as ‘‘subjects of rights’’ (Alvarez et al., 1998; Dagnino, 2003). And, even though regional officials made use of feminist frames to depict policy deliberations on reproductive rights and gender equality, this was long after feminist advocates had entered the policy arena in the 1990s, during which time the representation of the Catholic Church leadership remained present and in fact intensified (Chavez & Coe, 2007; Coe, 2004). These findings lend support to Steensland’s (2008) conclusion that frame adoption rather than actor representation produces change to policy frames. Consistent with both Gamson (1992) and Steensland (2008) findings, regional officials’ use of

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feminist framing did not mean that all regional officials in this study were ideologically aligned with feminism: indeed, additional research could be conducted to analyze how different actors make use of feminist framing to advance different agendas. On the other hand, there was a mutually supportive (negative) relationship between regional officials understanding of state barriers and church opposition and their unfavorable appraisal of feminist advocacy. Regional officials pointed to the same barrier and opposition identified by Franco (1998, p. 287): she argues that feminism in Latin America is ‘‘a position (not exclusive to women), that destabilizes both fundamentalism and the new oppressive structures that are emerging with late capitalism.’’ In line with Meyer and Staggenborg’s (1996) work on movement–countermovement dynamics, the Catholic Church leadership has not remained a static opposition during the last two decades of feminist advancement. Even in these two regions, it has remobilized as a countermovement in response to feminist advocates’ involvement and influence in policies: first in Cusco in the late 1990s around the abuses in sterilization services and later in Arequipa with the regional protocol for legal abortion. Whereas regional officials did not perceive feminist advocates or women as a threat, they did perceive the Catholic Church leadership as one (Skrentny, 2006). And, regional officials appeared to expect feminist advocates to better mobilize as their allies in the face of this opposition. The third important result of this study is that regional officials’ appraisal of feminist advocacy and their meanings assigned to the four additional spheres were not merely at the individual level but rather tied into the wider cultural environment. Regional officials’ interpretations of feminist advocacy tied into procedural and new discursive opportunity structures, but not oppositional discourses (Coe, 2011; Feree, 2003; McCammon et al., 2007). That is, they made use of procedural ideas about civil society participation and new ideas about women’s human rights and gender equality. These procedural and new ideas challenged hegemonic discourses rather than harnessed them because they discarded and replaced notions about a closed polity and about women’s exclusive role as mothers and housewives (Maney et al., 2005). Regional officials only tied into an oppositional discursive opportunity structure to challenge the State’s economic instrumentalism with human capacity building. In Latin America, almost as soon as neoliberalism emerged in the late 1980s, so too did opposition voices, thereby creating a discursive opportunity structure for opposing economically driven modernization. In contrast, discursive opportunities do not exist – at least not yet in Peru – for opposing the

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Catholic Church’s ultra-conservatism without risking marginalization, which few policy elites wish to find themselves in (Feree, 2003). Regional officials were acutely aware of the threat of the Catholic Church leadership to their professional or personal life. This finding sheds important light on the limitations of procedural opportunities for resolving power differentials between different collective actors involved in shaping policies. To conclude, this chapter shows that a cultural approach offers powerful explanations to why, even when policy elites’ support movement claims, they may only act upon this support under certain situations. Thus, although social movement researchers categorize policy elites – and other actors – as pertaining to the alliance, neutral or conflict sector of a given movement (Evans, 1997, p. 452), the relationship between social movements and political institutions is far more complex (Meyer, Jenness, & Ingram, 2005). The goal of future research should not be to maintain cultural and political approaches separate but rather, as I have shown here, to find ways to bridge them effectively. Additional research is especially needed into the emotional dimensions of policy elite’s support for movement claims and the link to emotional opportunities, which may suggest why oppositional framing around reproductive rights and gender equity was so difficult for the regional officials in this study (Maney et al., 2005).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Fieldwork for the study presented here was undertaken with the generous support from the Department of Sociology at Umea˚ University, Lars Hiertas Minne Fond, and JC Kempes Minnes Akademiska Forskningsfond. The author is grateful for the valuable comments and suggestions provided by three anonymous reviewers of Research on Social Movements, Conflicts and Change.

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PART III PEACEBUILDING PATHOLOGIES AND BEST PRACTICES

PATHOLOGIES IN PEACEBUILDING: DONORS, NGOS, AND COMMUNITY PEACEBUILDING IN CROATIA Laura J. Heideman ABSTRACT Scholars studying postwar settings are often highly critical of the work of NGOs in peacebuilding. In this chapter, I argue that many of the limitations of the NGO model are the result of the structure of funding. Using ethnographic and archival data from donors and NGOs engaging in peacebuilding in Croatia, this chapter examines the incentives build into the dominant donor–NGO model of funding. I find that the incentives for both donors and NGOs built into funding for peacebuilding lead to dysfunctional behavior by both donors and NGOs, and ultimately to ineffective and sometimes counterproductive peacebuilding projects. I find that donors actively shape the agenda of NGOs and push NGOs to see projects as the unit of peacebuilding. Donor funding is novelty seeking, rewarding NGOs for coming up with new project ideas and working in new locations. It also favors quantifiable events and activities for the purposes of reporting. In practice, these systematic preferences lead to the abandonment of successful projects, difficulty in securing long-term

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 135–166 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036008

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funding for work in troubled communities, and the favoring of countable events over development of the interpersonal relationships that are at the heart of successful peacebuilding. Keywords: Peacebuilding; organizations; NGOs; donors; community; Croatia

INTRODUCTION Why do so many peacebuilding projects, begun with good intentions and bountiful resources, fail to create positive change? In Croatia, international donors showered Croatian peacebuilding organizations with money and technocratic advice on how to run their organizations as professional nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), thinking that Croatian NGOs were best positioned to engage in community-level peacebuilding work. While the NGOization of these organizations gave them access to flows of money and expertise, it also bound peacebuilding activists to a set of funding rules that fundamentally limited their abilities to engage in peacebuilding. One project, ‘‘Looking Back, Moving Forward,’’1 illustrates many of the difficulties inherent in this system of donor–NGO peacebuilding. A ruined castle in the Dalmatian hinterland, on the former frontlines of Croatia’s 1990s ethnic war, formed the symbolic heart of the project. The fortress, heavily shelled at the end of the war, had a long multiethnic history; Croatian NGOs saw the castle as the perfect centerpiece for a new peacebuilding project that would include reconstructing the fortress as a multicultural center and conducting peacebuilding activities in the neighboring war-torn villages. These activities, though tied through a grant from the European Union (EU), were performed by different groups of actors. The task of rebuilding the castle into a multicultural center was performed by the family who owned the castle and university faculty members interested in organizing pan-Yugoslavian conferences. A Zagreb-based Croatian peacebuilding NGO, Society for Peace (SFP) developed peacebuilding workshops, designed to bring local rival groups, which included Croats, some Serb returnees, and some refugees from Bosnia, together and train volunteers to become local peacebuilders. While the project looked ideal on paper, it quickly fell apart due to misunderstanding of local history, local political resistance, and lack of community support. The project managers found out that during the war,

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ethnic Serbs had used the castle as a base for shelling neighboring Croat villages, leading some villages to refuse to take part in the peacebuilding activities because the project involved the fortress. SFP also decided not to do work in another village in the region because they judged it ‘‘too dangerous,’’ since the village, deeply scarred by war atrocities, was openly proud of being an ‘‘ethnically pure’’ Croatian village. In the end, SFP had to radically reconfigure the project after it proved to be counterproductive at generating interethnic cooperation. The problems encountered by the ‘‘Looking Back, Moving Forward’’ project are not unusual: many peacebuilding projects in Croatia faced similar difficulties. In this chapter, I examine the effectiveness of the bureaucratized NGO sector at implementing peace projects. I define peacebuilding as the act of rebuilding a peaceful social life in a country following conflict, recognizing Galtung’s distinction between negative peace, or the ‘‘absence of violence’’ (1969, p. 190), and positive peace, or active peace: that is, the integration of previously warring groups, cooperation between these groups, and the presence of social justice in communities in the form of civil rights and human rights. I further define effective peacebuilding strategies as those that address local postwar issues. While this definition is very basic, a surprising number of projects fail to meet these basic criteria because of funding constraints. How are efforts to rebuild peaceful relationships in communities after war affected by the system that funds peacebuilding projects? I address the structural constraints on NGO projects and examine how they affect peacebuilding outcomes. The goal of this study is not to criticize the different actors involved. Indeed, in interviews and observations, I found both donors and project implementers to be competent, intelligent individuals with a strong commitment to the goals of peace and interethnic cooperation. Rather than focusing on individualistic or moralistic accounts of failure, I examine the underlying system: what kind of outcomes does it steer peacebuilding toward? The underlying donor-funded, bureaucratic, NGO-centered structure of peacebuilding is problematic because it systematically shifts NGOs away from effective peacebuilding strategies. There is a fundamental mismatch between the NGO–donor system and peacebuilding activities. The cases are projects begun under the best of intentions that veered into inefficiency and ineffectiveness because of the constraints imposed by the funding system. I show how the limitations and incentives built into the structure of donorfunded projects steer peacebuilding activities toward specific problematic outcomes.

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NGO FAILURES: EXPLANATIONS In the 1980s, international development actors who had grown frustrated by the failures of developmental states turned increasingly to NGOs to implement development agendas (Abdelrahman, 2004, pp. 49–50). The number of NGOs more than doubled between the early 1980s and 1993 in the development NGO sector (Hulme & Edwards, 1996, p. 1), the peace sector, and the human rights sector (Keck & Sikkink, 1998, p. 11). During this period, NGOs were thought to have clear advantages: grassroots community connections, local legitimacy, deep local knowledge, flexibility, the ability to innovate, and opportunities for beneficiaries to participate (Edwards & Hulme, 1995, pp. 850–852). However, by the 1990s, many writing about NGOs had grown disillusioned. Rather than seeing them as a ‘‘magic bullet’’ (Edwards & Hulme, 1996), NGOs were open to a new round of critiques: that they are conservative and risk averse (Goodhand & Lewer, 1999, p. 81); that they reproduce social privileges and the middle class, rather than helping the poor (Belloni, 2001, p. 177; Hemment, 2007, p. 2), as well as reproducing social divisions along race, class, and gender lines (Mercer, 2002, p. 13); that they undermine the legitimacy of new or weak states (Mertus & Sajjad, 2005, p. 119); that they are undemocratic and removed from the grassroots (Mercer, 2002, p. 13; Orjuela, 2003, p. 210; Sperling, Ferree, & Risman, 2001, p. 1180); and that donor money sidelines NGO agendas (Belloni, 2008, p. 184; Mercer, 2002, p. 14; Mertus & Sajjad, 2005, p. 122; Reith, 2010; Sundstrom, 2005, p. 60) and imposes conditionalities on NGOs (Richmond, 2005, p. 28). The most extreme critiques claim that NGOs are completely dependent on donor funds (Zaidi, 1999, p. 263) and that NGOs follow donor money rather than their own agendas (Reith, 2010). Critics of NGOs see them as highly flawed organizations that repeatedly fail to fulfill their potential. Cooley and Ron (2002) offer an alternative explanation for NGO failure. They examine projects from international organizations and NGOs in Bosnia, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Kyrgyzstan. Rather than focusing on distributing blame for NGO failure, Cooley and Ron examine the incentives built into the funding system. ‘‘Dysfunctional organizational behavior,’’ they argue, ‘‘is likely to be a rational response to systematic and predictable institutional pressures’’ (p. 6). They see these pressures arising from the ‘‘marketization’’ of funding through competitive grant applications and renewable contracts (p. 6), causing three problems. First, it creates principal-agent problems, where those implementing the

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projects have control over how projects are run, rather than those whose resources are being used. They argue that this causes those implementing the projects to hide information that may prevent them from receiving future funds from donors (p. 15). Second, competitive bidding gives organizations incentives to apply for many projects, even inappropriate ones, in order to recoup the start-up costs of working in a new location (p. 16). Third, the competition for grants undercuts the opportunities for cooperation among actors, making actors more likely to conceal information from each other and undercut each others’ actions to gain competitive advantage (p. 17). While Cooley and Ron provide a useful alternative conceptualization of NGO issues, they make certain underlying assumptions that undermine the effectiveness of their approach. First, their conceptualization of the principal-agent problem assumes that the donors are the principal actors. This fits into a larger understanding of NGOs as greedy money-grubbers who will engage in any action to get funding. Yet Cooley and Ron recognize that the problem is not a failure to work toward the goals of donors; it is that NGOs work toward goals they feel are important and use donor resources toward those ends, finessing the difference between donor and NGO goals in reports. Perspective is important in principal-agent problems; the actions of NGOs only look problematic if you assume donors are the principal. The second problem Cooley and Ron identify again has an implicit perspective: when talking about recouping startup costs, they are discussing international actors, who do face high startup costs to working in new countries. Local NGOs do not face material startup costs unless they are beginning a project in a new city. Instead, their startup costs come in the form of time, in order to build relationships of trust and local involvement, a theme I will return to in the data analysis. Finally, competitive funding is not necessarily structured in a ways that require cooperation through multi-actor grants and cooperative networks, suggesting that problems with competition arise from the structure of funding rather than the competition itself. In spite of these critiques, Cooley and Ron’s approach of examining incentives built into funding systems is a useful framework for systematically studying how the international system of peacebuilding affects the ability of local NGOs to engage in direct peacebuilding work. Their approach dovetails with the study of organizational pathologies in international organizations, which can shed a light on why peacebuilding projects go awry. In their study of institutional failures in the United Nations, Barnett and Finnemore (2004) work to explain how ‘‘IOs often

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produce inefficient, self-defeating outcomes and turn their back on those whom they are supposed to serve’’ (p. 2). Barnett and Finnemore find their explanation in the bureaucratic regulations of organizations: Bureaucracies can y become obsessed with their own rules and captives of parochial outlooks and internal culture. We call ‘‘pathologies’’ those dysfunctions that are attributable to bureaucratic culture and internal bureaucratic processes and that lead the IO [International Organization] to act in a manner that subverts its self-professed goals. (Barnett & Finnemore, 2004, p. 8)

Pathology is related to two key concepts: organizational culture and bureaucratic processes, both of which can cause organizations to engage in pathological behavior. Barnett and Finnemore point out that ‘‘dysfunction is always a matter of degree, perspective, and kind’’ (p. 35). Functionality relates to multiple goals and interests in any organization. The problem here is that most IOs have multiple audiences, multiple principals, and multiple missions. Consequently, it is difficult analytically to label a behavior ‘‘bad’’ or even ‘‘undesirable,’’ since most behaviors serve someone’s interest. y At minimum, dysfunction’s referent must always be made clear. Behavior is dysfunctional only for something or someone; behavior by itself is neither functional nor dysfunctional. (Barnett & Finnemore, 2004, p. 36)

Their key insight is that actions and outcomes that may look quite reasonable to people within a subset of an organization may nonetheless be counterproductive for the organization as a whole. Because the goals, actions, and outcomes vary by position and perspective, accounting for multiple perspectives is a method for making pathology visible. This is an important observation for this study: actions which make sense from a donor perspective may push NGOs away from fulfilling their mission, and actions which are logical to NGOs may appear to be problematic for donors. Thus, to study pathologies in peacebuilding, it is important to study not just NGOs and projects, but also the donors that fund them.

PEACEBUILDING It is impossible to talk about the effectiveness of NGO activities without considering organizational and programmatic goals. For peacebuilding NGOs, the larger end goal – the creation of positive peace – is vague and aspirational. The more immediate goals are usually related directly to the

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content of projects. I identify six different types of projects that fit under the umbrella of positive peacebuilding: consociation, or creating contact across social divides; rights protection, through monitoring abuses and providing legal protection; humanitarian aid through the provision of basic necessities during times of crisis; norm entrepreneurship,2 or promoting norms congruent with positive peace, such as respect for individual and group rights, nonviolent conflict resolution skills, and democratic values; dealing with the past through documentation of war crimes, promotion and monitoring of transitional justice mechanisms, and creating peace-oriented memorials; and reconstructing communities through activities directed toward community stabilization and revitalization of community spaces after conflict. Peacebuilding is not just about reconciliation; it also involves addressing a wide range of social problems that war creates in even homogeneous communities. Given the nature of peacebuilding activities, some authors have identified time and projectization as interrelated issues of concern for peacebuilding. Cook and Cook (2003) call for patience in the peacebuilding process, as the changes being made by peacebuilding require time, and are therefore expensive (pp. 242–243). Zaidi (1999) notes that this has consequences for the nature of the work NGOs can engage in. ‘‘Since much of the money that donors make available to NGOs is time bound and project specific, the work of NGOs too, becomes time bound and project specific’’ (p. 265). Similarly, Belloni (2008) notes that international actors seek short-term results, with consequences for peacebuilding: ‘‘‘short-termism’ limits the effectiveness of international intervention, in particular by preventing the adoption of longterm structural projects’’ (p. 207). International actors’ need for short-term payoff prevents them from making the long-term investments needed for effective peace. Belloni calls the resulting system ‘‘projectization,’’ where peacebuilding is broken into many short-term disconnected projects, which he argues shifts power toward a ‘‘top-down’’ structure (p. 207). Jad (2007) makes a similar argument about ‘‘projectizing peace’’: ‘‘‘Project logic’ pushes toward upward vertical participation and not downward horizontal participation, and can lead to further concentration of power in the hands of administrators or technocrats’’ (p. 627). Projectized peacebuilding encourages involvement by national and international administrators in community-level projects, while simultaneously making local participation more difficult. These authors call into question the usefulness of short-term project-based systems for peacebuilding.

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METHODS AND CASE How can positive peacebuilding be accomplished under these circumstances? I examine the donor–NGO system of peacebuilding to show the particular problems that this system creates for effective peacebuilding. To study the process of peacebuilding, I did what Janine Wedel (1998, p. 211) calls ‘‘an ethnography across levels and processes.’’ I collected data during four research trips totaling 16 months between January 2008 and May 2010, conducting over 150 interviews3 with regional and national NGOs, community partners, local and national government officials, international NGOs, private and bilateral donors, and international organizations. Whenever possible, the interviews were recorded and transcribed. I also observed the implementation of five projects, the daily activities at four NGOs in three different cities, and the interactions between two NGOs and community leaders. I recorded fieldnotes – both handwritten and typed – from these observations. While in the field, I did preliminarily coded interviews and fieldnotes inductively to identify dominant themes. I also collected documents related to both current and historical funding from NGOs and donors. The project data I collected includes information on activities, community interactions, and donor funding. After completing fieldwork, I used NVIVO to organize all typed documents and used both closed coding schemes for NGOization, and open coding schemes for donor/NGO relationships and project decision-making. I applied the same coding schemes to written documents and notes that were not able to be uploaded to NVIVO. Together, these data allowed me a multilayered view of the peacebuilding process in Croatia from the community to the international level. I triangulated data on the process of granting/receiving funding, the process of reporting on/monitoring projects, and the relationships among the various actors in peacebuilding. Ethnography across levels and processes gives me access not only to the perspectives of individuals at each level of the peacebuilding process, but also to the relationships between the different actors. I arrived in Croatia to study peacebuilding 13 years after the end of the conflict in Croatia, just as most of the major international donors ended or scaled back their funding. I collected data on the history of peacebuilding from 1990 to 2010, allowing me to observe changes in peacebuilding practices and problems over time. The timing of the research allowed me to consider the evolution of the peacebuilding sector as a whole, and to observe a wide spectrum of projects from various periods.

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Croatia was at war from 1991 to 1995, part of the overall breakup of Yugoslavia. The war had a strong ethnic dimension, with ethnic Croats fighting Yugoslavia for independence, and ethnic Serbs within Croatia fighting for an independent ethnic state. Both sides committed acts of ethnic cleansing and human rights atrocities. At the beginning of the war, these were predominantly committed by ethnic Serbs against ethnic Croats. At the end of the war in 1995, ethnic Serbs fled the country as Croatian military operations retook Serb territory in the Dalmatian hinterland and along the border with Bosnia. Only the area along the border with Serbia was peacefully reintegrated without ethnic cleansing into Croatia in 1998 after a three-year United Nations peacekeeping operation. That region remains the most ethnically diverse in the country. The Serb population in Croatia decreased from 12.2 percent of the population in 1991, just prior to the war, to 4.5 percent in 2001, to 4.4 percent in 2011 (Central Bureau of Statistics, 2006, 2012). Officials at both OSCE and The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) expressed concerns that due to a hostile attitude toward return from the Croatian government and legal obstacles put in place to prevent returns in the 1990s, most Serb refugees decided to permanently settle outside the country, even after the environment for return became less hostile in the 2000s (interviews: OK, UNHCR, 3/16/ 09; and BA, OSCE, 4/8/09). After the war, the postwar reconstruction of Croatia was an international effort involving a wide range of international organizations, bilateral donors, and private foundations. The Croatian government’s lack of interest or hostility on most postwar issues made NGOs and international donors the main actors in the peacebuilding sector (interview: HE, US Embassy, 6/ 9/09). Croatia is a case of relative ‘‘success’’ for peacebuilding in that it has a stable, functional government and does not show signs of reverting to civil war, in large part because of ethnic cleansing. It has achieved negative peace, that is, there has been no return to mass violence since the war. If negative peace is a foundation for positive peace, then one would expect to find good examples of peacebuilding here.

PRODUCING DYSFUNCTION As the works of Cooley and Ron (2002) and Barnett and Finnemore (2004) suggest, to understand why dysfunctional outcomes occur, one needs to understand the system that produces them. Unlike Cooley and Ron, I disaggregate the system of donor funding to understand how and when

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pathologies emerge to produce dysfunctional outcomes. The organization of a system produces certain decision points: moments where the actors involved are given a set of choices, as well as an accompanying set of incentives. My analysis is thus broken into three parts: a discussion of the dominant system of donor–NGO and the incentives produced at each stage of the funding cycle; an analysis of the way these incentives produce particular dysfunctional outcomes and the implications of these pathologies for peacebuilding; and a counterexample of a donor that uses an alternative funding model, the Charles Stuart Mott Foundation. In this first section, I examine the process of moving a project from inception through completion and identify five distinct steps in the process of donor funding. Bearing in mind the interests of donors and NGOs, the decision points they face at each step as they both try to implement peacebuilding programs, and the choices available to them at each decision point, I look for moments where the structure of funding pushes the actors involved into making suboptimal decisions that lead to poor outcomes for peacebuilding. A wide variety of major donors became involved in Croatia during the postwar period. The donors included bilateral donors from the United States (the United States Agency for International Development (USAID)), Sweden (the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (SIDA)), and other countries; international funds from UN agencies, the EU, the World Bank, and other sources; and private donors such as the Balkan Trust, Open Society, and the Charles Stuart Mott Foundation. Of these donors, USAID was the most influential. The history of ethnic war in Croatia made peacebuilding funding a priority for donors. As a US Embassy official explained it, One of the reasons we have stayed here longer is the legacy interethnic conflict provides a justified rationale for saying ‘‘well, we want to inject a little more effort into this place, because it has shown a disturbing propensity to cost us all a lot more time/effort/money/ blood/sweat/tears because of some of those ethnic tensions.’’ (Interview: HE, 6/10/09)

While this concern is framed in terms of negative peace, the desire to actively change ethnic tensions supports positive peace activities. Funding for peacebuilding began to slow down in the mid-2000s, with both USAID and SIDA shutting down their missions in 2007. This left the EU as the largest donor, as Croatia has access to large amounts of EU preaccession funding, some of which is earmarked for NGOs. Across Croatia’s many donors, the model of funding is remarkably consistent: donors fund limited-term projects run by NGOs. The one major

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exception, important to note because its behavior was radically different, is the Charles Stewart Mott Foundation, which will later be reintroduced as a contrasting case. However, most of this chapter will focus on the standard model, in which donors give money to NGOs to fund particular limitedterm projects, usually lasting six months or a year. Across standard donors, there are five major steps in the process of funding projects: the call for proposals, the application, the funding decision, implementation, and the final report (see Table 1). Each of these steps includes moments when pathologies can occur in the system, although to varying degrees. The first step, the call for proposals, is initiated by donors and is a oneway communication from donors to NGOs in which donors indicate the kinds of projects they hope to fund.4 For example, the donors may have money earmarked for women’s organizations, and indicate that they are specifically interested in funding projects to prevent human trafficking. Alternatively, they may have funds for postwar areas, seeking projects that provide legal aid for returnees. Two significant problems arise at this stage. First, the changing nature of donor interests makes long-term planning and sustaining projects difficult for NGOs. Second, lack of prior consultation with people working in the region or with the target population can lead to investing in irrelevant problems at the expense of critical ones. These problems are similar to the problems of time and top-down organization identified by previous authors; Table 1. Stage (1) Call for proposals (2) Application

(3) Funding decision (4) Implementation

(5) Final report

a

Standard Funding Stages. Decision Made

What topics to fund; criteria for funding How to match organizational goals to donor goals; how to structure project Which proposed projects fit topic most closely How to follow funded project structure, given changing ground conditions How to report the outcomes of the project, given donor and NGO needs

Who Controls?a Donors NGOs

Donors NGOs

Interactive

These are ideal types, where each actor is responding to the decisions made by the other actor in the previous stage – in practice, there is some interaction between actors during most stages.

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however, my diagnosis of these problems is both more specific and is rooted in the particular dynamics of the funding process rather than a general critique of funding. The human trafficking example nicely illustrates both problems. Many women’s NGOs experienced a sudden shift in donor interests toward funding human trafficking-related projects in the mid-2000s. Funding for a particular subfield is usually a zero-sum game: if donors are interested in funding a particular problem, they redirect existing funds rather than adding new ones. Because of this, when human trafficking prevention became a fad in the donor world, it reduced funding for groups interested in working on other topics in women’s rights. Because funding fads were often followed by multiple donors, the funding opportunities were further reduced. For example, USAID, OSCE (Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe), and SIDA all dedicated a large portion of their funds for women’s issues to human trafficking simultaneously. Thus, many women’s NGOs ended up writing applications for projects related to human trafficking because they felt this was the only way for them to get funding during that grant cycle. While this is an extreme example, compounded by the fact that multiple donors simultaneously embraced a fad, less extreme examples abound. For instance, the EU switches the program focus of its civil society funds annually. Between 2004 and 2008, their annual focus switched among topics such as youth participation, democratization and human rights, sustainable return of refugees, and good governance and the rule of law (European Union internal funding documents, received 4/8/09). That NGOs are forced to adapt their agenda to the whims of donors was particularly frustrating for many NGOs. Each few years, they [donors] change their actions and their goals. For instance, they would fund for three years one type of issue or program activity, and after two or three years, they would say, ‘‘that’s it, in the next phase we shall finance a different issue.’’ y We were frustrated with some situations because donors would, after a year or two, say, ‘‘that’s it, we don’t think there is a need for such projects.’’ But they wouldn’t know – they just wanted to rush on to another issue because they have their own agenda. (Interview: RB, NGO, 12/15/08)

There is no cycle of communication between NGOs and donors about pressing needs; donors set their funding priorities without consulting NGOs about the types of projects their communities need. I did not find a single example of donors consulting with NGOs about local funding needs. The human trafficking example was particularly problematic in Croatia; while it was a large problem in other parts of the Balkans, NGOs told me that Croatia served, at most, as a transition country. To illustrate the futility

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of this funding, funding in Croatia led to the investigation of about 20 cases of trafficking (USAID, 2008, p. 48), while a single organization in a rural region of neighboring Bosnia served around 200 victims (Brankovic´, 2009, p. 22). The second stage in the funding cycle is the application process. In this stage, NGOs respond to both the written call to proposals and their perceptions of donor priorities based on rumors, private conversations with donors, and previous experience. Grant-writing personnel at NGOs spend significant time trying to write grants to satisfy the conditions of the donors. Because the current funding priorities of donors are rarely a perfect match for NGO goals, grant-writers play a delicate balancing game, writing projects they feel are important and worthwhile, while still bending enough to the whims of the donors that they are eligible for the grants. The narrower the conditions of the grant, the harder this game is. This is not to say that NGOs are mere moneygrubbers, writing just to get funding from donors, without regards for the content of the projects. Most of the NGOs would apply selectively to grants, and some even refused proffered donor money. At the NGOs where I conducted interviews and observations, the NGO staff was genuinely interested in the goals they were working toward, but were aware that working toward these goals was difficult or impossible without funding. Given that there were limited numbers of donors and limited amounts of funding, the NGOs sought the grants that were the best match for their goals. When NGOs are dependent on donors who change their desires from grant cycle to grant cycle, NGOs are forced to adapt to the changes in order to survive as a funded organization. The grantwriters’ goal is to make those adaptations while minimizing the changes to the organizations’ overarching goals. Grant-writers joked about speaking ‘‘Brussels-ese’’ in writing EU grants and ‘‘USAID-ese’’ in writing grants for USAID in order to show that their proposals match donor interests. At this stage, NGOs are also looking for and responding to unstated donor cues, either real or perceived, about what they desire in projects. These cues came up in conversations and gossip, or were passed through informal channels. For instance, one donor asked me to spread the word to NGOs that they were interested in former war zones during their next funding cycle. The formal call for proposals did not indicate that the donors were especially interested in targeting these areas; they passed this information informally through people they knew had contacts with many of the targeted NGOs. Informal exchanges of information, either through direct donor–NGO conversations or through intermediaries like large NGOs, local foundations, and informal networks, were key for NGOs who

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wanted to learn what donors were especially interested in funding, allowing NGOs to glean information that would help them better target and tailor their applications. The groups that indicated that they had this informal exchange of information were mostly large, established NGOs based in Zagreb. The Looking Back, Moving Forward project is one example of this informal passage of information. SFP learned that the EU was especially interested in funding projects in the Dalmatian hinterland, and in funding cooperative projects among several organizations. SFP crafted an application to meet these perceived, but not formally expressed, donor wishes. Proposing to meet these donor concerns involved risks for SFP: working far from their base, in an unknown area, without local connections, with unknown partners, and combining the potentially clashing interests of different partners. As most international funding had ended by the late 2000s, NGOs did not have many alternatives to the EU for funding major projects. For SFP, several of these risks translated into major problems for project implementation. The distance between the NGO office and their field sites made it difficult to establish trust and local communication. The lack of local knowledge caused them to choose initially inappropriate villages to work in, which was costly in terms of both time and money. In addition, the interests of the other partners in rebuilding and using the fortress embroiled the peacebuilding NGO in the politics of that site, which proved counterproductive to their peacebuilding work. The distance in this case was not unique; many NGOs reported donors requesting they relocate projects to different areas, including one NGO that was asked to work in a village over 10 hours away. NGOs’ decisions about what projects to seek funding for were also grounded in their previous grant experiences. One organization had a particularly successful program that was designed to last for several years. It was a large project that absorbed most of the NGOs’ personnel and resources. However, they needed to reapply yearly for funding. In spite of the effective work of the project, donors lost interest after the second year, and the NGO was unable to keep the project going. Through experiences like this, the NGO leaders concluded that donors were looking for novelty – doing new projects rather than continuing old ones, no matter how successful. In response, they began to develop a wider array of small projects, allowing them to switch between programs according to donor whims. From an NGO perspective, past rejections shape their perception of the chances of future projects. The leader of an NGO told me of his frustrations working with a local leader to write a joint grant: ‘‘I wanted to

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tell him that the donor would not finance this. y It’s hard to explain that I know they will not give this funding because of past experiences [with a similar project]’’ (interview: RK, NGO, 2/2/09, translation by I. Placˇko). The third step in the process, the decision-making phase, is once again controlled by the donors. They communicated what they were looking for to NGOs and the NGOs did their best to format their projects in ways that will attract donors; now, the donors decide which projects to fund. Donors consider the project proposal itself, and the fit between the projects and the call for proposals. The hidden criteria is the reputation and capacity of the NGOs involved. Assessing NGO reputation and strength involves seeking out word-ofmouth information about potential recipients, even when some donors, notably the EU, claim to be completely neutral in their selection criteria. While I was doing interviews with EU staff members who make grant decisions, they asked me which NGOs around the country did the best work and were worth funding. During interviews with donors, they would routinely seek information from me on ‘‘the best’’ NGOs to fund. Likewise, NGOs would seek inside information about donors.5 NGO reputations matter, because being known as a ‘‘good’’ NGO serves as a basis for repeated grants and helps establish stable donor funding. An NGO’s reputation is established largely from bureaucratic aspects of their previous work. Donors pay the most attention to whether NGOs kept organized paperwork, had good accounting practices, and had a history of ‘‘successful’’ projects, as established through strong final reports on projects. NGO capacity was based on size and skills, including the number of professional staff members and the donor-led trainings the NGOs had previously completed. Finally, donors looked at the likelihood of a successful report for the proposed project. The more concrete the activities are, the easier it is to document achievements. NGO reports I read detailed the number of meetings held, pamphlets distributed, or workshops held; these are easier to document than intangible goals such as improving communication between ethnic groups in a community. Donors and NGOs recognize the difficulty of meaningfully quantifying peacebuilding work, even as they continue with the same reporting practices: ‘‘In the field of human rights and reconciliation, it’s not always very easy to have a clear, objective indicator of success’’ (interview: TR, donor, 4/16/10). An NGO told me that a donor told them they would discontinue funding for a project on the grounds that its activities were ‘‘not tangible enough’’ (interview: NGO, RK, 2/2/09, translation by I. Placˇko).

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While the earlier stages of the funding process produce many pathologies, these pathologies may only have visible consequences in the implementation stage, which makes it easy to blame NGO incompetence for the problems. It is easy to see the dysfunctional outcomes as the projects are being implemented. However, the pathologies usually occur at other stages; the implementation stage reflects, but rarely produces, the problems. For example, the Looking Back, Moving Forward project scrapped plans to work in one village, Stony Village, early on, because SFP saw the work as ‘‘dangerous.’’ We gave up on Stone Village. We are not going there. I was just afraid when I was talking with you. Afterward, when I opened the web portal of Stone Village, and I saw there that 100% of people there are Croats, and they never have anybody else of other ethnicity, only Croats and Croats and Croats. y I can’t believe it: they are living surrounded by other people in history, especially Serbs, but they never have mixed marriages or children from mixed marriages. y Then I was sure we made a very good decision not to go there with our program. (Interview: JV, SFP, 5/6/09)

The emphatically monoethnic character of Stony Village, which was celebrated by the local political leaders, was combined with a traumatic history: Stony Village was the site of a massacre of dozens of Croatian civilians by Serb paramilitaries during the war. After learning this information, SFP decided not to do their peacebuilding projects there. The original decision to work in Stony Village had been made by the grantwriter, who had no field experience in the area. He had selected three villages for SFP to work in: ‘‘They were not randomly chosen, but there wasn’t a specific reason why, these were just kind of main towns, a place with a thousand people’’ (interview: JV, SFP, 4/9/09). The original decision was made at the grant-writing stage, but the consequences were felt at the implementation stage. The SFP field staff then had to make a decision about either continuing in a difficult field site or choosing an alternative location. They chose to switch locations to somewhere they felt their program could be a ‘‘success.’’ These kinds of decisions exclude places where peacebuilding work is most needed. While the decision on the surface appears to be merely risk-averse, its underlying logic is based on the knowledge that the NGO must be able to present its work as a ‘‘success’’ at the conclusion of a limited-term project, and that complex problems cannot be adequately addressed in that time frame. The final stage of the process is reporting. Almost all donors have extensive reporting requirements for NGOs. At the end of every project

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cycle, the organizations have to write reports, often running well over 100 pages, documenting every step of their actions. This was a major bureaucratic headache for the NGOs, who would spend weeks gathering documents, writing reports, and making sure that all receipts were accounted for. An EU official showed me a room at his office filled with project reports, each almost two inches thick. ‘‘Basically, they have to report on everything. It’s terrible, really, because I do not have the time to read it’’ (interview: AG, EU, 4/8/09). The reports, he told me, were there in case anyone ever had any questions – they thus existed less to hold the NGOs accountable for their projects than to hold the EU accountable for its funding decisions. This obfuscation by transparency gives the appearance of holding organizations accountable for their work, while actually making it difficult to evaluate what has been achieved. When a donor does not have time to read a massive report, there is no way to use the detailed information contained in it to evaluate a particular project. While the reports contain every detail about the projects, their sheer volume makes them impenetrable. There is no premium on providing an honest self-assessment of strengths and weaknesses. At their best, reports have the potential to help organizations evaluate their work in order to improve their future peacebuilding efforts. Instead, under the current system of NGO–donor relationships, the reports collect dust rather than producing improved peacebuilding. The centerpiece of most reports is numbers: quantifying activities and tracking pennies. The final reports do not focus on goal achievement, but on tracking countable activities. At NGOs across Croatia, I was shown reports that focused on data such as the number of pamphlets printed, the number of workshops held, and the number of people who attended a training session, rather than on the impact of activities. There are also extensive and at times contradictory accounting requirements for organizations. Organizations have to keep financial records that comply with both the Croatian system and the system of their donors. For organizations receiving EU and US funding, this means being adept at three systems of recordkeeping. This is a good example of Barnett and Finnemore’s point that behavior only seems pathological from certain perspectives. From a donor perspective, extensive recordkeeping is reasonable: they need records kept in certain ways due to the accounting practices of their home country. From an NGO perspective, keeping three sets of books is a bureaucratic nightmare that requires significant financial expertise. For example, one NGO with a fulltime staff of only seven had to employ a fulltime bookkeeper to keep their records in order.

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The system of funding NGOs through project-based donor grants helps explain why dysfunctional outcomes are so common in peacebuilding projects. They are products of the interactions between donors and NGOs in a system that produces perverse incentives. At each step in the process of funding, donors and NGOs face incentives to make decisions that cause the ultimate outcome, successful peacebuilding, to be less likely. As Cooley and Ron’s (2002) work suggested, incentives at each stage in the funding process produces pathological behaviors. The next section will define the particular pathologies and show the implications of these pathologies for peacebuilding.

PATHOLOGIES IN PEACEBUILDING What are the specific pathological outcomes produced by this system? How do they matter for peacebuilding? In this section, I classify four distinct pathologies that this system creates: Novelty-Seeking, Project Mismatch, Claiming Success, and Bureaucratic Overload (see Table 2). In the previous section, I described much of the dysfunctional behavior that is produced by funding; in this section, I will describe what the pathologies are and why they matter for effective peacebuilding. Together, these pathologies suggest that the donor–NGO system of peacebuilding is predicated on some fundamental misunderstandings about the nature of peacebuilding work. The first pathology I identify, Novelty-Seeking, stems primarily from changing donor interests. Usually manifested in the proposal and grantwriting stages, Novelty-Seeking consists of donors changing the types of projects or the regions that they are interested in funding; NGOs must constantly respond to these changes. Novelty-Seeking becomes most visible when donors encourage NGOs to work on particular new types of projects, or in new areas. Congruently, it shows up in the disinterest of donors in continuing to fund projects that are working well, or in villages that have already had major projects. Novelty-Seeking makes it very difficult for NGOs to do long-term work in any particular location. The NGOs I studied worked in communities where there were large numbers of people still missing over a decade after the war ended, where politicians were openly hostile to peacebuilding, where the postwar infrastructure was designed to minimize contact between Serbs and Croats, and where people displaced by the war were still struggling for basic access to housing. War-affected regions often face these kinds of entrenched

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Table 2. Pathologies

Pathology Description

Pathologies. Primary Actor

Funding Stage

Behavioral Outcome

NoveltySeeking

Changing donor focus/interests

Donor

Proposal

Lack of stable funding, NGOs moving between projects

Project Mismatch

Donors setting project agenda without reference to local conditions

Donors and NGOs

Proposal, application

Irrelevant projects

Claiming Success

Pressure on donors and NGOs to have successful projects

NGO

Reporting

Glowing final reports, regardless of achievements

Bureaucratic Overload

Bureaucratic requirements for NGOs that match donors’, rather than NGOs’, needs

Donor

Application, reporting

Overly extensive recordkeeping/ reporting requirements that place value on paperwork, not projects

problems, which are difficult if not impossible to resolve with short-term projects. One NGO worker concluded that this stemmed from a fundamental mismatch between donor and community needs. ‘‘There’s always this problem that donors have short-term agendas. And in peacebuilding, things tend to be long-term’’ (interview: LB, NGO, 4/15/09). NGOs working in new areas also face start-up costs in establishing trust and forging productive partnerships with local leaders. These are prerequisites for a good project, and both are time consuming. The premium donors put on going into new areas with novel programs burdens NGOs with repeated start-up costs, and thus gets less actual work done per dollar committed. Some of the best peacebuilding work in Croatia has been

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done by NGOs that found creative ways to fund multiple projects in a village over the course of several years, often by combining funding from a wide variety of donors. The longest I heard of any activity or community involvement being sustained this way was four years. However, donor attrition makes this strategy unsustainable. The second major pathology I found, Project Mismatch, occurs when the priorities of the donors and/or the projects created by NGOs do not match community needs. For donors, this happens most often when they create funding priorities based on transnational agendas without reference to local conditions. Human trafficking funding in Croatia is a good example of this. For NGOs, this problem arises when projects are created with reference to donor needs rather than local conditions. The Looking Back, Moving Forward project illustrates this clearly as the grant-writer wrote a project for a particular set of villages that would seem plausible to donors, without actually knowing enough details about the villages to make the projects workable. While the mismatch is produced at the call for proposals and proposal stages, the symptoms of pathology become visible during implementation. This pathology manifests symptoms such as a failure to address the needs of local communities, active hostility to the project by the community or local leaders, and lack of community investment in the projects. Many of the ineffective and counterproductive projects that NGOs implement in peacebuilding efforts stem from Project Mismatch. This pathology can only occur because there are few mechanisms during the funding cycle to ensure that the donors and the NGOs are attentive to local needs and conditions at proposed project sites. Donors may not realize the extent of this problem for NGOs, because donors describe any project run by a Croatian NGO as ‘‘local.’’ Grant-writers are often not involved in implementing projects, and not all field staff are local to the areas where the work is done. For example, NGOs based in Zagreb or other regional centers often work on projects in villages that are located a significant distance from the main office, making frequent visits and a presence in the community prohibitively costly, both in terms of time and money. The Looking Back, Moving Forward project is an example of this, where a Zagreb-based NGO attempted to engage in projects located too far away for the organization to have a steady presence. Because of this, it is difficult for these NGOs to closely follow local issues and to assess local needs. Donors, however, assume that these urban NGOs have access to local knowledge in rural areas and are in a position to design effective projects. Neither the NGO nor the donor has an incentive to develop lasting ties in villages, since the Novelty-Seeking pathology will repeatedly and routinely

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move them on to newer sites. One NGO worker engaged in communitybuilding projects described his frustration with this process. The problem with donors is that they just look at a project each year in the short term. They don’t see anything around the project. They don’t see us as an organization. They don’t recognize the relationship between us and the community, that it is a waste to lose this continuity. y This is common across our donors. (Interview: RK, NGO, 2/2/09, translation by I. Placˇko)

NGOs that attempt to build long-term relationships with communities have a difficult time sustaining funding for their work. NGOs are caught in a contradictory position: they need to be not-too-local in order to adapt to shifting funding demands, but the donors need to perceive the NGOs as local to justify delegating peacebuilding responsibilities to them. This pathology is problematic for peacebuilding because it wastes scarce resources, both in terms of personnel and money, on projects that do not actually address local peacebuilding needs. Moreover, mismatched projects can discredit peacebuilding projects in two ways: by harming relationships between peacebuilders and the communities they work in by making peacebuilders appear to be top-down bureaucrats unconcerned with local problems; and, if the project does not find a need, giving the appearance to future donors that peacebuilding problems are solved and further investment is unnecessary. Project Mismatch thus endangers both community–NGO relationships and threatens long-term funding. In the third pathology, Claiming Success, both donors and NGOs label projects as a ‘‘success,’’ regardless of their actual outcomes. The pathological logic of perpetual success is deeply entrenched. Both NGOs and donor organizations need successful projects, because successes reinforce the positive reputation of both donors and NGOs and keeps money flowing. NGOs need to convince donors to fund future projects. Donors need to defend their spending to their constituents, either the governments they serve, in the case of bilateral aid, or a nonprofit board of directors.6 Defining success in terms of documented activities and expenditures is also encouraged because governmental aid agencies and international organizations in particular are also looking to avoid political embarrassment. NGO corruption, embezzlement, preferential treatment, and damaging behavior can politically embarrass the donor organizations, while observing actual success on the ground is difficult for distant constituents. Thus highly bureaucratized accounting and countable activities become an organizational method that meets both donor and NGO needs for

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preventing embarrassing outcomes rather than producing regular but partial progress on achieving long-term peacebuilding objectives.7 The reporting process is about proclaiming success, rather than contemplating how to improve work going forward. The desire of both donors and NGOs to define their projects as successful is evident in the case of the Looking Back, Moving Forward project. At the end of its 14 months, the project was far from reaching its original goals of training 20 community members in each of three villages. Instead, SFP trained 15 volunteers from across the entire area – only a quarter of the population that the project originally intended to reach. I was surprised to learn that both the EU and SFP regarded the project as a success. I can tell you we have a really great group of people from the hinterland, of all backgrounds. It’s 15 people and they’re friends and they participated in our workshops and they hang out. It’s not a lot of people, but still, it’s valuable that they got to know each other through us and they’re looking forward to our every visit there. (Interview: TN, SFP, 4/30/10)

What is surprising about this is that both the donor and the NGO were not just saying it was successful, but that they had internalized the idea of success. Both the EU officials and the SFP staff I interviewed fully expected that the EU would continue to fund SFP projects in the future. Claiming Success ensures a lack of learning, both on the part of the NGOs and the donors. By setting up reports in such a way that both the donors and the NGOs have an interest in concealing any problems that arose during the project, the system actually discourages real evaluation of how well projects work. The lack of authentic evaluation is pathological in both the short and long term. There are other problems that contribute to lack of real evaluation. For donors, there is almost no institutional memory about projects. Many donor organizations deliberately have high staff turnover. For example, the EU tries to limit its staff to no more than three years in any location, in order to prevent ‘‘corrupt’’ relationships from forming between EU staff and recipient NGOs. When donors withdraw funding, their staff scatters around the globe. To interview donor staff involved in Croatia, I conducted interviews with people in London, Budapest, New York, Washington, DC, and Iraq. Moreover, donor records also scatter. When I tried tracking down documents, I was told that they had been turned over to warehouses in Geneva, Vienna, New York, and Washington, DC. In one case, an NGO staff member described how a donor needed access to several paper documents and was unable to locate them in their warehouse, so the donor

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had someone go back to the NGO’s office in Zagreb to copy the NGO’s records. This lack of institutional memory is a manifestation of a lack of interest in long-term evaluation and learning. In a system that rewarded real selfreflective evaluation of projects, both donors and NGOs would be interested in the long-term impacts of projects and learning how to improve projects moving forward. Instead, under the current system, if a project is a ‘‘success,’’ the report is shelved and not revisited. A failure might demand more attention, and thus become costly as well as potentially embarrassing to the donor and the NGO. As Cook and Cook (2003) and Belloni (2008) have pointed out, peacebuilding is a time-intensive process. The culture of success manifested through the reporting stage harms long-term peacebuilding by reinforcing the idea that peace is an achievable event, rather than a time- and resourceintensive process. The need to claim each project as a ‘‘success’’ contributes to the future instability of funds for a region, even as it helps secure funds in the next funding cycle. The rosy project reports also mask underlying problems with the projects. Real evaluation has the potential to help organizations and donors understand the strategies and snares of peacebuilding, and to pass that understanding on to other actors; current evaluations gloss over this type of reflection. The final pathology, Bureaucratic Overload, consists of overly extensive record keeping and reporting requirements that place a higher value on doing paperwork than on conducting projects. Because the level of bureaucratization and professionalization that donors expected of NGOs was steadily rising, requirements for organizations increased over time. These increased requirements effectively shut smaller NGOs out of EU funding. There are less and less NGOs who have the capacities to follow the requests from these calls for proposals, especially from the European Union. There are more and more organizations who are interested in submitting a proposal to the European Union, but maybe only 30 to 40 organizations in Croatia have the capacity. (Interview: JM, NGO, 4/14/10)

This increasing bureaucratic overhead requires NGOs to spend larger and larger amounts of time meeting donor requirements, and many NGOs lack that capacity. This pathology becomes visible in the separation of grant-writing and fieldwork activities, the high overhead costs of NGOs, and in the reports from NGOs that gather dust on donors’ shelves. The separation

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of grant-writing and doing work with local populations undermines effective peacebuilding when grant-writers no longer understand the practicalities of implementing projects, one factor contributing to Project Mismatch, as in the case of the grant-writer in Looking Back, Moving Forward project. But this separation additionally undermines actual work by increasing the extent to which NGO resources are needed for overhead costs, reducing what is available for community work. Most of the NGOs I worked with either had dedicated full-time grant/report writers, or had one or two staff members who took on that work as their primary responsibility. One NGO manager described the difficulties of meeting the bureaucratic requirements: Very often with the funds for the European Union, every time when I have question or when I have quarterly report, I have to submit to four different people. And then I get comments on my quarterly report and I have no idea who is behind these comments or questions. y I had to write a letter of three or four pages to answer all these comments, and actually most of these comments are there by mistake because these people mixed up two reports, so it was not actually addressed to my organization. But I had to go through each comment and write ‘‘I don’t think this refers to us, this is another organization.’’ (Interview: JM, NGO, 4/14/10)

Overhead costs are crucial for Croatian NGOs, because by international standards, the NGOs are very small and overhead makes up a higher proportion of their expenditures. Even the largest Croatian NGOs have only 20–30 staff members, while most NGOs have 2–10 staff members. The high overhead costs of grant-writing and reporting in these conditions makes it difficult to sustain small organizations. Because there are a lot of standards of good practice, it’s very hard because we don’t have enough people. It’s very hard for us. They expect our organization to follow all the rules and all the practices like a huge organization, but with a couple of people, which is very hard to maintain. (Interview: RK, NGO, 10/30/08, translation by I. Placˇko)

Many donors actually place limits on the amount or percentage of their grants that can go to overhead, which means that staffers either do unpaid overhead work and burn out, or the grant-writing and reporting cannot get done and the organization dies. Bureaucratic requirements are detrimental to peacebuilding because they take NGOs’ energies away from doing community work and refocus it on meeting donor requirements. Less obviously, they also encourage complacency on the part of donors. Rather than cultivating intensive NGO relationships, visiting communities where NGOs are working, and directly observing or evaluating projects, donors rely on the NGOs to complete extensive bureaucratic reporting requirements. This places more of the

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burdens of bureaucratization on NGOs than on donors. It also obscures what the reports supposedly provide, real and reliable information about what projects are producing on the ground, while instead offering a credible simulacrum in the form of orderly but largely meaningless data. Donors do not know what NGOs are accomplishing, but do not have to admit ignorance or care enough to get more usable information, because reporting requirements offer a universally acceptable fig leaf.

COUNTEREXAMPLE: THE CHARLES STUART MOTT FOUNDATION The Charles Stuart Mott Foundation provides an interesting alternative to the standard funding model. Instead of giving project-based funding, the Mott Foundation gives what they term ‘‘flexible money’’: grants that last two years that can be spent on the particular needs of the NGO at their own discretion rather than on specific projects. The grants are renewable, and most organizations that work with the Mott Foundation are able to continue receiving a steady stream of funding. This system has oversight through both written reports and site visits from Mott Foundation officials.8 By studying this contrasting model, I can examine which parts of pathological behavior are caused by competitive funding in general and which are caused by specific conventions of the conventional funding process. The flexible approach of the Mott Foundation allows significant leeway for NGOs. Most typical donors only allow a small percentage of the project funds to go toward overhead costs – 7 percent in the case of EU grants. This money is meant to go toward costs like rent, utilities, and basic equipment. It does not cover costs like application fees for grants, the hours spent developing new grants, or unexpected activities in response to unfolding situations. The Mott Foundation sees flexible money as a huge benefit for grantees: We think that by giving organizations flexible money that they can use to strengthen the organization. y We’re never more than 20 percent or 30 percent of the organization’s budget. But money seems to be valued above its percentage contribution to a budget because it’s flexible money. They can fill gaps, they can explore new projects which then might lead to significant project funding from future donors. So it’s good leverage. (Interview: CS, Mott Foundation, 5/7/09)

The strength of flexible funding is in the discretion it gives to NGOs. Several organizations mentioned that the funds had been a godsend when

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they were unable to get sufficient project funds for a grant cycle or, as happened recently during the economic crisis, when national or local funds for projects were withdrawn or cut mid-project, leaving NGOs with bills they were unable to pay.9 Mott Foundation funds could tide them over until the next project cycle. These funds were particularly useful for NGOs that engaged in informal community work. One Mott-funded organization I observed used their funds to travel to a neighboring set of villages that they had been working in for the last several years. Even though they did not have any formal projects in the villages at that time, they were able to maintain an ongoing presence in those villages, keeping up relationships and helping community members apply for grants. This offers a sharp contrast to the effects of novelty-seeking on NGOs. Under the conventional funding model, maintaining these relationships is extraordinarily challenging, as novelty-seeking by donors makes it difficult to renew projects and nonproject work is often perceived by donors as a distraction. If the flexible spending is the strength of these kinds of grants, accountability is the challenge. When there are not agreed-upon activities that an organization will undertake with the funds, how do you hold them accountable? The Mott Foundation’s solution for this is to have both a formal reporting system and site visits by Mott Foundation personnel. While one Mott Foundation official noted that some still ‘‘complained bitterly’’ about reporting requirements, on the whole, NGOs said the process was easier than reporting for other donors. The Mott Foundation also used these personal relationships to push NGOs toward thinking about broader objectives, rather than using reports to simply enumerate activities. If the organization in its annual report lists the number of round tables and the number of publications y and never steps back to say what it all means towards their broader objective – either their mission or their objective to engage people in decision-making, for example – then it tells you kind of where the organization is. y [Reports have] two purposes. One is accountability. Two, it’s also a way of thinking about whether we are going to continue to support this organization – what sorts of things might we need to talk often about as we move into the next period, the next grant relationship. Quite often, we’ll go back to them and then say, ‘‘when you listed that you trained 5,000 people, can you relate that to the goal you set of raising awareness from young people of how local government functions or something or increasing the level of awareness or engagement of young people in the decision making of community level?’’ (Interview: CS, Mott Foundation, 5/7/09)

This is a very different relationship than the technocratic reporting of the EU, where the back and forth is about missing technical requirements for the report, and the final reports sit around unread. For the Mott

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Foundation, the reporting is a conversation that allows both the donor and the recipient to participate. The extrinsic NGO incentive for these issues is access to future funding, the same as under traditional reporting models. However, unlike merely enumerating activities, this style of reporting has intrinsic benefits for the organizations, as they take the time to have serious conversations about the purpose of their activities. Again, this is a sharp contrast to the types of reporting produced by the pathologies of claiming success and bureaucratic overload. Rather than focusing on counting activities and trumpeting the success of projects, the donor and NGO work together in this model to improve the work of organizations. This model of funding is gaining traction in Croatia, as the Mott Foundation played an influential role in designing the National Foundation for Civil Society Development, which likewise gives multiyear flexible funding to organizations, albeit in a less dependable and more technocratic fashion.10 The Mott Foundation was consistently spoken of by Croatian NGOs and government officials with very high respect. For example, a pamphlet from the Office for NGO Cooperation, ‘‘International Funding for Civil Society in Croatia’’ speaks glowingly of the Mott Foundation: The Mott Foundation is known for its long-term perspective and interest in supporting the institutional capacities and entire programs of its carefully selected grantees, in order to contribute to their sustained community mobilization and democratization efforts. y The Mott Foundation has also in several cases in Croatia shown readiness to ‘‘take risk,’’ i.e., to provide initial institutional support to new organizations. y For all of these reasons, the Foundation is often viewed as a true source of support and encouragement by its long-term grantees. (Sˇkrabalo, 2008, pp. 75–76)

The high reputation of the Mott Foundation is not necessarily due to large sums of money being spent: the same report notes that from 2004 to 2008, the Mott Foundation is estimated to have spent only about 1.14 million Euro (approximately 1.43 million US dollars), as compared to the approximately 147 million dollars that USAID poured into Croatia during the same time period (USAID, 2010). The Mott Foundation has influence on civil society because of the manner in which it gives funding, rather than the total amount of funding given. Its system of open relationships, flexible money, and interactive reporting allows it to avoid many of the pathologies common in standard grant funding. Indeed, I found that the Mott Foundations grantees were more stable than other NGOs, and almost all survived the shifts in donor funding in the late 2000s. By supporting organizations rather than projects, the Mott Foundation helps create a stable base for organizations to build relationships with communities and explore new projects.

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CONCLUSION Efforts to create positive peace are undercut by the widespread culture of donor–NGO relationships. My research suggests the problems found in peacebuilding are the result of patterned pathologies, not individual malfeasance. Both donors and NGOs collude in actions that produce ineffective or counterproductive peacebuilding. The hegemonic power of the unusually unified ‘‘international community’’ in post-Cold War peacebuilding efforts creates a culture of peacebuilding that rewards donors and NGOs who impose outside agendas on communities, rather than encouraging donors and NGOs to listen to the voices of local actors. This is more than just donor dependence: this is a system that assumes superior knowledge of peacebuilding on the part of donors, based on outside models rather than local context. The goals of NGOs are secondary to those of the donors. The problems this system creates for peacebuilding go beyond basic pathologies because the system makes projects the unit of peacebuilding. Project-centered investment not only encourages the individual pathologies identified above, but also discourages long-term investment in war-damaged communities. This is not to say that effective peacebuilding is not being done by NGOs; the system of funding simply works in a way that makes effective peacebuilding less likely. The pervasive culture of peacebuilding funding has interesting implications for the study of pathologies in systems. My study suggests that while pathologies in an individual organization are problematic, the effects are exponential across an isomorphic system. It was not especially problematic when a single donor shifted to funding human trafficking, but it became a major problem when multiple donors did. One donor engaging in noveltyseeking behavior is not especially problematic, but it is difficult for NGOs to sustain work when multiple donors do it. In a world characterized by increasing convergence of organizational forms and norms of behavior, this propensity toward pathologies in systems is important to recognize and correct. After all, variety in rules and interests among international donors would go a long way toward ameliorating these pathologies. My research suggests that effective peacebuilding strategies require a shift of power away from donors. Both donors and NGOs have an interest in creating effective programs, but effective peacebuilding is not rewarded under the current funding system. Instead, adherence to rules and bureaucratic capacity on the part of NGOs are necessary to secure future project funds. Donors should seek creative ways to shift bureaucratic burdens away from peacebuilding NGOs, such as relying less on formal

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reports and more on site visits to evaluate funding. In order to build projects that adequately address local needs, donors need to allow for more flexible project descriptions, and to reward NGOs that provide needs assessments for their communities. The solution is not simply to end donor funding, but rather to implement reforms addressing key pathologies.

NOTES 1. For ethical reasons, I assigned pseudonymous names to NGOs, projects, communities, and interviewees. 2. I draw this term from the work of Sunstein (1996). 3. Because of international donors, English is the lingua franca of the NGO sector in Croatia. All interviews and documents are in English unless otherwise specified. 4. The umbrella grant funding provided by USAID and SIDA is a slight variation on this: INGOs (International NGOs) receive funding from the donor, which they then use to grant funding to NGOs following the same rules and procedures as other donors. 5. I handled this research dilemma by passing along, in limited cases, public information, but never my opinions or interview data. 6. Jad (2007) notes a similar tendency for NGOs to present work as unqualified success stories, and notes that this also benefits donors (p. 626). 7. Orjuela (2003) and Belloni (2001) both observed a similar donor preference for countable activities. 8. Nothing from my interviews or publicly available materials explains why the Mott Foundation has adopted this strategy. The origins of the departure from the isomorphic model are less important for this chapter than its consequences for peacebuilding. 9. Some reported that with the terms of local contracts, they were still legally obligated to complete grant activities, even though the funds were withdrawn. 10. During the financial crisis, the National Foundation began cutting prepromised grant amounts without warning. Their accountability requirements also are more technocratic in nature, such as need to personally approve all projectrelated materials distributed by the organizations.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS An earlier draft of this chapter was presented at the 2011 American Sociological Association Meetings in Las Vegas. This research was funded by a National Science Foundation Graduate Research Fellowship, a Fulbright IIE grant, and grants from the European Union Center of Excellence, the Graduate School, the Department of Sociology, and the Center for Russia, Eastern Europe, and Central Asian Studies at University

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of Wisconsin-Madison. I would like to thank Gay Seidman, Myra Marx Ferree, Becky Schewe, Mytoan Nguyen Akbar, Joseph Harris and the anonymous reviewers at Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change for their helpful comments.

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APPENDIX: ACRONYMS EU:

European Union

INGO:

International Nongovernmental Organization

NGO:

Nongovernmental Organization

OSCE:

Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe

SFP:

Society for Peace, a pseudonymous Croatian NGO

SIDA:

Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency, Sweden’s bilateral aid fund

UNHCR: The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees USAID:

United States Agency for International Development, the US bilateral aid fund

ORGANIZATIONAL ADAPTATION AND SURVIVAL IN A HOSTILE AND UNFAVORABLE ENVIRONMENT: PEACEBUILDING ORGANIZATIONS IN ISRAEL AND PALESTINE Michelle I. Gawerc ABSTRACT This article presents the results of a 15-year longitudinal study of the major educational peacebuilding initiatives in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories, during times of relative peace and of acute violence (1993–2008). Using longitudinal field research data and surveys, it examines how peace initiatives, that work across conflict lines, adapt to hostile and unfavorable environments. Additionally, it investigates the criteria that allows some peacebuilding initiatives to survive and persist, when the large majority do not. Building on the organizational and social movement studies literature, I contend that organizations need to successfully attend to a variety of challenges such as maintaining resources, maintaining legitimacy, managing internal conflict, and maintaining commitment to have a significant chance for survival.

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 167–202 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036009

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Moreover, I argue that for organizations committed to working across difference and inequality in unfavorable and hostile conflict environments, it is critical for organizational effectiveness and survival to pay heed to the quality of the cross-conflict relationships, as well as, to matters of equality. Keywords: Peacebuilding; peace organizations; organizational survival; hostile environment; asymmetry; Israeli-Palestinian conflict

INTRODUCTION In the euphoria after the 1993 signing of the Oslo accords, Israeli-Palestinian people-to-people projects multiplied.1 While the individual goals of these initiatives varied, this undertaking sought to increase the involvement of the civil societies with the peace process, and enhance the dialogue and relations between the two sides (Baskin & Al-Qaq, 2004; Herzog & Hai, 2006). According to the conflict resolution and peace studies literature, this need for civil society involvement is well founded. In the literature, there tends to be agreement that in long-standing identity conflicts, it is not enough for the two parties to simply sign a peace process, but there also needs to be a bottom-up process to complement and support the official top-down peacemaking process (Kaufman, 1997; Lederach, 1997). This analysis is supported by the reality that while many contemporary peace accords have been signed, most have failed, and few have led to durable settlements (Lambourne, 2001; de Varennes, 2003). While it is understood that the reasons for this often involve contested struggles and problems in implementation (Rasmussen, 2001), it has also been argued that it is because peace processes fail to address the fear, hatred, mistrust, and bitterness between the involved groups (Fitzduff, 2001; Zartman, 1989). With the eruption of the Second Intifada in September 2000, however, the large majority of these initiatives dedicated to the process of building peace stopped functioning and ceased to exist (Hassassian, 2002). In a conflict already mired in violence, these years stood witness to extreme violence – sieges, raids, assassinations, checkpoints, closures, housing demolitions, and land confiscations in Palestine, and suicide bombings in Israel. In addition to acute levels of physical and structural violence, the facilitating conditions for peacebuilding initiatives, which distinguished the Oslo period, vanished. Indeed, almost overnight, the external legitimacy these initiatives had

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received with the signing of the Oslo accords was retracted, the international funds that had previously supported these initiatives disappeared, and the hope, optimism, and sense of opportunities for peace that had characterized the Oslo period was no longer present to any substantive degree (Baskin & Al-Qaq, 2004; El-Sarraj, 2003).2 While the large majority of these initiatives ceased to exist, remarkably, a handful continued operating in this exceedingly violent and hostile environment. While organizational survival should not be conflated with organizational success, especially if the latter is defined as impacting policy or gaining acceptance as a spokesperson for a legitimate set of interests (Gamson, 1990), organizational survival for peace initiatives is nonetheless of great import. Indeed, as long as peace organizations survive, they are carriers of cultural messages (Marullo & Edwards, 1994) that indicate, in the case of people-to-people initiatives, that peace is possible, and there is a partner on the other side with whom to talk (Gawerc, 2012). These cultural messages can help to create a feeling of possibility and a sense of mutual reassurance, which according to Kelman (2005), are two of the most critical elements of a supportive political environment for a peace process. Moreover, in a context in which most of the joint peace initiatives ceased to exist, these remaining organizations help to maintain an infrastructure, resources, networks, and a collective identity, which have been recognized in the social movement literature as critical for future mobilization (e.g., Edwards & Marullo, 1995; Gamson, 1990; Morris, 1984; Taylor, 1989). Indeed, as Edwards and Marullo (1995, p. 910) argue, this ‘‘focus on the importance of preexisting organizational infrastructures and the availability of resources y suggests the importance of examining social movement organization persistence and mortality through prior periods of demobilization.’’ Just as importantly, Gamson and Modigliani’s (1963) theory on integrative ties highlights that these cross-conflict ties themselves may matter for keeping a social system from breaking down or erupting into violent conflict. Indeed, arguing that tension is ‘‘the ratio of disintegrative forces to integrative ties existing between two nationsy at any point in time (T=D/I),’’ they suggest that the existence of integrative/cross-cutting ties may serve to decrease tension (also see Gawerc, 2006). In fact, Varshney (2002) provides evidence that cross-cutting ties are effective for reducing violent conflict and fostering peaceful relations. Thus, it is critical to consider, what allows some people-to-people organizations to survive and persist in an unfavorable environment, when the large majority do not. The larger study, from which this paper draws,

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presents a longitudinal study spanning 15 years, of the major peacebuilding initiatives with an educational encounter-based approach in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories, during times of relative peace and times of acute violence (1993–2008).3 Utilizing longitudinal field research data and surveys, this paper examines how peace initiatives, that work across conflict lines, adapt to hostile and unfavorable environments, the challenges they face, and why are some able to adapt and survive while others are not. I address two aspects of adaptation: the ability to maintain resources and legitimacy with critical constituencies outside the organization, and the ability to continue functioning effectively as an organization. The latter includes the ability to operate in ways that staff and participants treat as legitimate, manage internal conflicts, and maintain staff commitment. The findings make clear that for organizational effectiveness, organizational survival, and ultimately, the effectiveness of joint peace initiatives in turbulent and inhospitable environments, it is just as important to focus on the relationships and the processes inside the initiatives, as it is to focus on the external goal of peace. Moreover, that in hostile and fundamentally asymmetric conflict environments, organizational effectiveness and survival also depends heavily on the organizations finding ways to manage the asymmetry and to practice equality.

ORGANIZATIONAL AND SOCIAL MOVEMENT THEORY Both the organizational and the social movement studies literatures highlight the range of needs organizations have and the challenges they face as they seek to operate and survive in their respective environments. For starters, the organizational studies literature indicates that organizations are not self-sufficient; they need to acquire resources (Handel, 2003; Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978) and legitimacy from the environment in order to survive (Meyer & Rowan, 1977; Powell & DiMaggio, 1991). Moreover, the literature suggests that organizations need to be able to operate in ways that staff and participants will treat as legitimate, as well as to manage internal conflicts, and maintain staff commitment, if they are to operate effectively; all of which can be influenced by the organizational environment (Scott & Davis, 2007). Indeed, given the profound impact of the organizational environment on organizations, organizational theorists have developed an

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extensive literature which argues that organizations need to adapt to their environment if they are to remain viable and functioning (e.g., Hannan & Freeman, 1977; Lawrence & Lorsch, 1986; Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978; Powell & DiMaggio, 1991).4 Social movement scholars have likewise pointed towards the importance of the environment for understanding social movement organizations (i.e., formal organizations that share the goals of a movement). Indeed, the political process approach, the dominant perspective in social movements, focuses on the political environment – and more specifically the expansion or contraction of political opportunities for change – to explain the emergence and demise of social movements and social movement organizations (Jenkins & Perrow, 1977; McAdam, 1982; Tilly, 1995). More specifically, these studies tend to focus on: the relative openness of the institutionalized political system, the stability of the elite alignments, the presence of influential allies, and the state’s capacity and propensity for repression (see McAdam, McCarthy, & Zald, 1996). While initially focused solely on political factors and conditions that enhance or constrict the chances for survival (as well as success), later political process theorists did not limit themselves to this and extended their view to include the relevant cultural and social factors – and the social and cultural environment in general (e.g., Caniglia & Carmin, 2005; Hermann, 2009; Gamson & Meyer, 1996; Meyer, 2004).5 The social movement literature also underscores the fundamental need that social movement organizations have to mobilize resources and legitimacy from the milieu, as well as to pay heed to internal organizational processes that are similarly impacted by the setting. This includes recruiting members, maintaining commitment, and managing conflict for their survival and effectiveness (Gamson, 1990, 1991; McCarthy & Zald, 1977). In fact, given the range of organizational needs and the challenges involved in meeting them in any environment, Gamson (1990) argues that organizational survival should be viewed as a measure of success for social movement organizations regardless of whether or not they are able to achieve their declared goals (also see Minkoff, 1993, 1995). While the emphasis on the impact of environmental changes on social movement organizations has rightly sensitized us to the importance of the environment and the opportunity structure, it does little to explain, in the words of Ganz (2004, p. 179), ‘‘why one actor should make better use of the same opportunity than another.’’ He rightly argues that, ‘‘It is often in the differences in how actors use their opportunities that social movement legacies are shaped.’’ For this reason, Ganz (2004), Morris (2004), and

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Goodwin and Jasper (2004) argue that agency and strategic choice tend to be side-lined in this theory and researchers need to pay more attention to the actions taken by actors, as they adapt to their environment and their particular opportunity structure. Relatedly, Gould (2004) argues that scholars need to go beyond the narrow focus on movement emergence and decline, and start to pay attention to how movements (and movement organizations) persist in inhospitable arenas.6 As highlighted above, if organizations are to survive and operate effectively as organizations in unfavorable political and social environments, we would expect that they would need to adapt to their surroundings and find a way to maintain resources (McCarthy & Zald, 1977; MacDougall, 1997) and legitimacy with critical constituencies outside the organization (Minkoff, 1993; Marullo & Edwards, 1997). Moreover, we would anticipate that they would need to pay attention to internal processes including operating in ways deemed legitimate by staff and participants, managing internal conflict, and maintaining commitment (Gamson, 1991; Marullo & Edwards, 1997; Reger, 2002). While scholars have paid little attention to differences and inequalities, and the ways in which attention to the above may be critical for organizational effectiveness (except see Breines, 1982, 2006; Kurtz, 2002; Piatelli, 2009), this too could be presumed to matter for organizations actually dealing with these challenges. Paying heed to differences and matters of equality seem particularly relevant for organizations that work across conflict lines in settings of protracted conflict, given the often significant power imbalance and the lack of mutual trust (Baskin & Al-Qaq, 2004; Gawerc, 2006). In fact, several peace and conflict resolution scholars have deemed asymmetry to be the most challenging aspect of joint peace work in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories (Chaitin, Obeidi, Adwan, & Bar-On, 2004; Golan, 2011; Golan & Kamal, 1999; Kaufman, Salem, & Verhoeven, 2006). Maoz’s (2004) findings on Israeli-Palestinian peace initiatives provides support for the importance of paying attention to matters of equality for groups committed to working across disparity in settings of violent conflict. She astutely highlighted the high degree of equality and symmetry that existed in the Israeli-Palestinian initiatives that survived the Second Intifada (compared to those that did not survive). In line with Ganz (2004), Morris (2004), and Goodwin and Jasper’s (2004) argument, that attention needs to be given to agency and the strategic actions taken by movement actors – and Gould’s (2004) argument that scholars need to consider how movement organizations persist in unfavorable environments – this article highlights the actions taken by peace

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initiatives that work across conflict lines to continue to operate and survive in an acutely violent and hostile environment. Building on the above mentioned literature, I contend that organizations need to successfully attend to maintaining resources, maintaining legitimacy, managing internal conflict, and maintaining commitment to have a significant chance for survival. Moreover, I argue that for organizations committed to working across difference and inequality in hostile and unfavorable environments, being able to successfully meet these needs requires attention to managing the asymmetry/inequalities and efforts to work equally. The next section provides contextual background for my study by discussing the challenges Israeli-Palestinian people-to-people organizations faced in their ever-changing environment.

PEOPLE-TO-PEOPLE ORGANIZATIONS IN THEIR ENVIRONMENTS In the last 15 years, people-to-people organizations operating in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories have experienced drastic changes in their environment. Like many peacebuilding organizations, these organizations were to a large degree, a product of the new environment created by the peace process. In addition to the new and profound opportunities for political and social change, Israeli-Palestinian peace initiatives also received, for the first time, an official sanction to operate, providing this undertaking with external legitimacy. Moreover, as a result of the political opportunities that opened up, as a consequence of the peace process, and the new-founded legitimacy for people-to-people initiatives, 25–35 million dollars poured in from the United States and Europe to support these types of initiatives during the Oslo period: 1993– 2000 (Hai & Herzog, 2005).7 As highlighted earlier, with the eruption of the Second Intifada – including the Israeli response – there were radical changes in the environment. While organizational theorists have developed an extensive literature examining how organizations adapt to turbulent environments, they have generally defined these environments in terms of market volatility, changes in the institutional context, and more recently, technological changes and globalization (Barnett & Carroll, 1995; Koberg, 1987; Zuniga-Vicente & Vicente-Lorente, 2006). Rarely have they considered radical changes such as

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popular uprisings, extreme levels of violence, acute ethnic polarization, accompanied by a massive withdrawal of resources from donors (and others in the environment), and the abrupt disappearance of legitimacy for an entire undertaking. Moreover, the organizational studies literature tends to view the environment as independent of the organization. Yet, peacebuilding initiatives that operate in hostile environments do need to consider external actors (i.e., authorities and antagonists) who are trying to influence or even destroy the organization, as part of their environment. The social movement literature, on the other hand, has rarely considered peace movement organizations that work across an active conflict line – thus theoretically operating within at least two different and polarized environments – with the goal of creating social and cultural change (e.g., changing dominant narratives and beliefs).8 Indeed, most of the literature on peace movement organizations in the social movement studies literature suggests that these organizations tend to refrain from working across conflict lines out of fear of losing legitimacy with one’s authorities or civil society (see Cortright & Pagnucco, 1997; Hermann, 2009); which highlights one of the challenges these organizations face. Thus, it should be noted that the challenges faced by peace organizations committed to working across conflict lines during times of acute violence and polarization is of a different magnitude than those faced by most other organizations.9 While many of the challenges these people-to-people initiatives faced were standard organizational needs and challenges (e.g., maintaining legitimacy, maintaining resources, managing conflict, and maintaining staff and participant commitment), because of the tumultuous and hostile environment in which they existed, the challenges were especially acute. By definition, these people-to-people organizations worked across a basic conflict line. Furthermore, the conflict within which they worked, and also sought to address, became increasingly polarized and marked with high levels of violence, animosity, and mistrust. And yet somehow within this turbulent and hostile environment, the partners on each side needed to maintain legitimacy with their own civil society and authorities, as well as with their partners on the other side of the conflict line (Gawerc, 2012; Kelman, 1993). To make matters more challenging, the organizations were dependent on that same hostile environment for a host of resources including funds, permits, facilities, and places to meet. While many of the funding issues that these organizations faced were universal, several were unique to peacebuilding organizations. These included: the rapid drying up of funds after the breakdown of the peace process, the organizations’ dependence on

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international funders, the greater administrative costs that comes with having two directors (i.e., one Israeli and one Palestinian), and their reliance on permits from the Israeli Civil Administration in order to meet (Gidron et al., 2002; IPCRI, 2002). Meanwhile, organizations could not survive without staff and participant commitment, which was a challenge given the lack of societal legitimacy for this work, the challenges involved in working across the conflict lines (both psychologically and logistically), the uncertain resource flow (which had implications for job security and participant compensation), and the tensions involved in working in a partnership across an active conflict line (Dajani & Baskin, 2006; Gawerc, 2012; Hermann, 2006). If this were not enough, these organizations experienced conflict over resources and distribution, control and autonomy, and goals and strategies. While these types of conflicts are standard organizational conflicts, these conflicts were even more numerous and flammable, given the particularities of people-to-people initiatives and the turbulent environment (Maoz, 2000; Reisman-Levy, 2008).

Asymmetry as a Complicating Factor Perhaps one of the greatest challenges in these partnerships, however, was the asymmetry that permeated the environment, and inevitably, the organizations. The staff and participants lived in drastically different realities, which greatly fostered who they were, how they related to the conflict, and even, how they understood peace, and consequently, peacebuilding work. There were also significant differences in the ability of each side to acquire and maintain legitimacy with their respective civil societies and governing authorities. Most notably, while the Israelis who were engaged in this work experienced some societal disapproval, for Palestinians, such engagement could have a serious impact on their personal and professional status in Palestinian society, as well as potentially on their physical security (Endresen, 2001). While there were differing perspectives in the Palestinian society, the mainstream belief was that relations between Palestinians and Israelis should not be ‘‘normalized’’ until the negotiations were completed and Palestinians had a state of their own; otherwise, it was normalizing the Israeli military occupation (Gawerc, 2000; Mi’Ari, 1999). While people-topeople activists tended not to see this work as normalization – and rather

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understood it as a component of the nonviolent struggle to end the occupation – it was construed as such by the Palestinian mainstream. And even before the environment took a major turn for the worse with the Israeli military response to the Second Intifada, some Palestinian peacebuilders had already started to feel ostracized from their community and faced threats due to their involvement in joint Palestinian-Israeli initiatives. Beyond the inevitable psychological impact of this asymmetry, it also had practical implications. As many Palestinians noted, more of their time needed to be focused on trying to establish legitimacy in their own society as well as trying to recruit and maintain participant and staff commitment by ‘‘proving’’ that this work was not normalization. Indeed, one Palestinian peacebuilder, Mohammad Joudeh10 argued, ‘‘All of the society is against this kind of [joint] meeting so it took 90% of our efforts, how to convince the people and how to prove that until now I am [still] Palestinian, I am a patriot, and I am not a spy [for Israel]. And 10% is to be a partner with the Israeli y The Israeli partner is 100% [focused on] how to build this project because y [in] his society, there is no one who wants to shoot him because of his [participation].’’ Further complicating the situation, Israelis had significantly more state and societal resources to draw on than Palestinians given that they came from an established state. These resources included more professional and training opportunities, and potential institutional support. Consequently, this led some scholars and activists to argue that there was a ‘‘capacity gap’’ between the two groups that impacted many of the partnerships (NaserNajjab, 2004). In addition to the above, given that the main donor offices tended to be in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem – and Palestinians had limited freedom of movement – Israelis tended to have greater access to the international funders. Moreover, because most funders would only allow for one ‘‘principal partner,’’ when Palestinian and Israeli organizations partnered up and applied for a grant, they needed to decide, which organization this would be (i.e., who would be in charge). For various reasons including that Israeli organizations were more likely to be registered as NGO’s (in contrast to Palestinian organizations for whom registering was significantly more complicated due to the taboo against normalization) the Israeli partners were more likely to be trusted by the predominantly Western donors (Hijazi, interview). Consequently, the Israeli partners were more likely to serve as the ‘‘principal partner’’ to the funders; thus receiving all the funds from the donor, being the main communication link, and ultimately being responsible for the project (Salameh & Zak, 2006).

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If this was not problematic enough, given the asymmetrical situation on the ground, the two sides had very different needs, goals, and expectations for these initiatives. Indeed, as Naser-Najjab (2004, p. 128) pointed out, ‘‘While Palestinians considered dialogue as one form of their struggle against the Israeli occupation and its practices (which they saw continuing around them), Israelis came to meet Palestinians for cooperative purposes and to establish relations in an era of peace.’’ While neither side chose or perhaps even wanted this imbalance, it was a reality on the ground, and inevitably impacted the organizational partnerships. Perhaps not surprising given the asymmetry in resources, access, societal legitimacy, and organizational experience and capacity, there was a tendency during the Oslo period for Israelis to lead and even dominate in many people-to-people initiatives (Maoz, 2004; Naser-Najjab, 2004; Salem & Nasrallah, 2007). As several evaluation reports have noted, many Palestinians felt that they were just ‘‘added on’’ to initiatives and not equal partners (Baskin & Al-Qaq, 2004; IPCRI, 2002). The organizations that I investigated – those that operated for at least four years during the eleven year period (1997–2008) – were already some of the more equal organizations compared to the larger category of people-topeople initiatives that did not survive the Second Intifada (see Maoz, 2004).11 Nonetheless, as Golan (2011) highlights, even for these organizations that took steps towards equality that went significantly beyond the asymmetric environment in which they were located, symmetry was still limited by external conditions (see also Gawerc, 2012).12

METHODOLOGY AND GROUPS STUDIED This study involved the collection and analysis of longitudinal field research data and surveys of peacebuilding initiatives in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories in order to investigate how organizations adapt to a radically changing environment and why some are able to adapt and survive while others are not. The field work and interviews cover a 15-year period that has experienced radically different contexts: a time of relative calm (the Oslo period, 1993–2000), a time of acute violence (during the Second Intifada, 2000–2005), and a more ambiguous yet still hostile and turbulent period following the acute violence of the Second Intifada (2005–2008).13 The 12 cases I examined include the major Israeli-Palestinian people-topeople initiatives that have involved educational encounters for at least

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4 years, during the 11 year period, 1997–2008. Their activities included working with students in the classroom, working with youth in informal educational arenas, working with teachers, and the writing of educational curricula and historical narratives. It should be noted that this grouping does not include organizations that defined their agenda – during the Oslo period or at founding – as being advocacy, solidarity, or humanitarian rather than education, unless they simultaneously had a well-established educational program. My interest in the latter is due to the recognition that these educational initiatives are seen in the conflict resolution and peace studies literature as an integral part of peacebuilding (which should accompany the peacemaking process). While a strong argument could be made that advocacy, solidarity, and humanitarian action should also be understood as an integral component of peacebuilding (Gawerc, 2012; Schirch, 2005), there is no consensus on the former (see Gawerc, 2006; Kahanoff & Neumann, 2007). Moreover, Hassassian (2002) suggested that it was these organizations concerned with education – most notably, changing attitudes, beliefs, and narratives – that were the most likely to fail and cease to exist after the breakdown of the Oslo accords. Lofland (1993, p. 288) would likely not be surprised as he argued that organizations with a consensus orientation (rather than a conflict orientation) – which describes most educationally oriented peacebuilding initiatives – are likely ‘‘to slump as quickly as they soared’’ when the conditions that fostered them change.14 Further decreasing their chances of survival, these organizations all involve working across a protracted conflict line. While the majority of the organizations are joint Israeli-Palestinian organizations, this category also includes Israeli and Palestinian organizations that work together, and international organizations with local bases in the region (Table 1).15 I collected extensive data on two of the leading initiatives both prior to and during the Second Intifada utilizing a semi-structured interview guide, organizational questionnaires, student questionnaires, and formal and informal observation. These initiatives include the Israel/Palestine Center for Research and Information’s Peace Education Program and the School for Peace at Neve Shalom/Wahat al-Salam. Furthermore, I engaged in participant observation with two additional initiatives during the Second Intifada – the Peace Research Institute in the Middle East’s History Textbook Project and the Seeds of Peace Jerusalem Center for Coexistence. The fieldwork in the post-Second Intifada period, included semistructured interviews with the current Israeli and Palestinian directors and other staff of the various initiatives, as well as with previous directors (who

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Table 1.

Organizations Engaged in Israeli-Palestinian Peacebuilding in Israel/Palestine.

Joint Organizationsa

Israel/Palestine Center for Research and Information Middle East Children’s Association

Israeli Organizations

Palestinian Organizations

International Organizations with a Local Base

School for Peace

Hewar Center for Peace & Development

Seeds of Peace

Sulha Peace Project

Center for Conflict Resolution & Reconciliation

Crossing Borders

Windows-Channels for Communication Peace Research Institute of the Middle East Parents Circle-Families Forum Combatants for Peace a

It should be noted that two of the Israeli-Palestinian joint organizations originally started as Israeli organizations: Windows-Channels for Communication and Parents Circle-Families Forum.

left for varying reasons), organizational questionnaires, and formal and informal observation. Beyond the two for which I already had extensive data, and the two for which I had partial data, I had identified another eight initiatives, which met my criteria. These included Middle East Children’s Association, Windows-Channels for Communication, Crossing Borders, Hewar Center for Peace and Development, Center for Conflict Resolution and Reconciliation, Sulha Peace Project, and the educational initiatives of the Parents Circle-Families Forum, and Combatants for Peace. For these initiatives, which I broadened my study to include, I made every effort to reconstruct the past, while also collecting information on their status after the Second Intifada. The remainder of the paper will discuss the ways in which the organizations adapted to the radically changing environment. As will be evident in this data section – and will be discussed further in the conclusion – one of the key aspects was how the organizations managed the asymmetry, which was critical for organizational effectiveness, while also meeting their need for resources and legitimacy from critical constituencies outside the organization.

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ADAPTATION AND SURVIVAL Given the tremendous challenges these organizations faced and the hostility of the environment during and after the Second Intifada, surviving as an organization went against all odds. From an organizational standpoint, as argued earlier, their survival itself is a mark of success. This next section will look more closely at how the organizations managed the legitimacy issues, maintained a resource flow, and managed internal conflict in a hostile and radically fluctuating environment.16 Managing Legitimacy According to Scott (1995), an organization becomes construed as legitimate through the sanction and approval of particular actors in the environment. His three-pronged framework includes: regulative legitimacy from actors who have a certain degree of sovereignty over organizations, normative legitimacy which flows from actors that define what is morally acceptable, and cognitive legitimacy resulting from the prevalence of similar organizational types. In the case of people-to-people organizations, this translates into the necessity of achieving and maintaining legitimacy with the authorities (regulative legitimacy) as well as with the civil societies and powerful actors within these societies (normative legitimacy). Moreover, it also indicates that they are influenced by the prevalence of similar organizations (cognitive legitimacy). In addition to the above, these organizations had the fundamental challenge of needing to maintain legitimacy with one’s partners on the other side of the conflict line. All of this, of course, needed to be done in a highly tumultuous environment. These challenges cannot be overstated especially during periods of acute conflict. During these periods, as Coser (1956) has indicated, the lines tend to be drawn more tightly and there is less tolerance for going outside the group perspective. Kelman (1993, p. 241) has suggested that by cutting across this basic conflict line, these partnerships constitute ‘‘an uneasy coalition.’’ Managing Legitimacy with the Civil Societies and Authorities While maintaining legitimacy with the civil societies and authorities were a challenge for both sides (and at times this challenge led to a delicate

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balancing act), it was without a doubt, significantly more challenging for Palestinians. As noted earlier, this type of initiative was simply not acceptable in the widely accepted Palestinian cultural framework – especially during and after the Second Intifada. Organizations needed to carefully consider legitimacy both during the Oslo years, as well as after the eruption of the Second Intifada. .

Actions Taken during Oslo Perhaps to be expected, many of the organizations considered legitimacy prior to forming (which for the majority, was during the Oslo period). For some of the joint initiatives, this was clear in the symmetrical structure that they built (i.e., being co-led by both an Israeli and a Palestinian). The serious consideration given to managing legitimacy was also apparent in the actions many of the organizations took to try and be ‘‘mainstream,’’ or at least reach the mainstreams of the two sides. For example, several engaged both the Israeli and Palestinian Ministries of Education, which they believed would help provide them with broader legitimacy, as well as with a broader audience. In addition to the above, the actors in the initiatives also framed the need for people-to-people in culturally acceptable ways. On the Israeli side, these initiatives – which were mostly founded during the Oslo years – were framed (and justified) on the basis that there needed to be efforts to educate the two sides towards peace if the two sides were going to engage in a peace process. On the Palestinian side, dialogue with Israelis was carefully framed as continuing the Palestine Liberation Organization’s political decision to engage in dialogue with Israelis as a means to end the occupation. While these constructs may have been strongly felt, on both sides, these were also attempts to frame the innovation in ways consistent with the widely accepted cultural framework in Israel and Palestine, respectively. Actions Taken during the Second Intifada During the Second Intifada – as the environment became significantly more hostile – many of the organizations sought to keep a low profile. Rather than fight the environment, these organizations carefully recruited from it. For instance, on the Palestinian side, many of the Palestinian peacebuilders resorted to recruiting participants through their alumni and word of mouth, rather than by publicly advertising it. While Israelis did not experience the same level of threats, several on the Israeli side, likewise sought to keep a lower profile.

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In addition, after the eruption of the Second Intifada, many of the organizations began to focus on uni-national work and their activities inside the community (whether in Palestine and/or Israel). For the majority, while this was something of utmost importance in this environment, it was also a way of managing the normalization taboo on the Palestinian side. Meanwhile – and to the chagrin of many of the Palestinian participants – some of the organizations sought to maintain legitimacy on the Israeli side by staying focused on educational matters and not participating in protest activities. The challenge was while the Israeli organizations could maintain legitimacy on the Israeli side if they were not seen as political, the situation was the complete opposite on the Palestinian side. If the message focused loud and clear on resisting the occupation and influencing Israelis to protest and end the occupation, the effort became significantly more legitimate for many in the Palestinian society. While it was inevitably a delicate balancing act – and there were no easy solutions – some of the organizations started to adopt more political content or engage in activism, during and after the Second Intifada, as a way of managing the legitimacy issues on the Palestinian side. Several other organizations began conducting humanitarian projects in the Palestinian territories. In the words of one Jewish Israeli interviewee, humanitarian activities were a way of showing Palestinians ‘‘that we really care [and we want to improve the situation on the ground].’’ Finally, many organizations found that in order to give legitimacy a chance on the Palestinian street, it also became increasingly important to pay attention to the asymmetry and be able to indicate that the organization practiced equally. Indeed, as Maoz (2004) noted, working equally was a way of challenging the common criticism faced by Palestinian peacebuilders in Palestinian society – namely that their organizations ‘‘normalized’’ the situation of occupation by reinforcing and reflecting the asymmetric relationship.

Managing Legitimacy with the Partner An inherent problem for these organizations was that not only did they need to maintain legitimacy with their civil societies, but like other organizations, they needed to operate in ways that would be deemed legitimate by staff and participants. For these organizations that engaged in partnerships across the conflict lines, they also needed to maintain legitimacy with their partners. This was no easy feat as the environment hardened, trust between the two

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societies shattered, and many partnerships (in the larger people-to-people field) dissolved. Actions Taken The key elements to maintaining legitimacy with one’s partners were trust and commitment to the partnership, recognition of the need to help each side maintain legitimacy with their public, recognition of the asymmetry and willingness to work toward equality, and for some, shared political commitment. Interestingly, while Palestinians needed to pay more attention to maintaining legitimacy with their public after the Second Intifada – a result of the strengthening of the normalization taboo – Israelis found themselves needing to pay more attention to maintaining legitimacy with their Palestinian partners. Most notably, Israelis found that as the gap between the two communities grew, ironically, they needed to move closer to their Palestinian partner to help them maintain legitimacy with their public (given the asymmetrical challenge) and indicate a shared political commitment. One basic indication of this was that many, if not all of the organizations, began to discard terms such as ‘‘coexistence’’ and use terms that were more acceptable to Palestinians such as ‘‘dialogue’’ and ‘‘youth leadership.’’ Even more consequential in the eyes of Palestinian peacebuilders was that as the environment became more hostile to people-to-people (especially in the Palestinian territories), more and more Israeli peacebuilders were willing to engage in peace activism; something that many Palestinian peacebuilders saw as fundamental. Rutie Atsmon from Windows-Channels for Communication was one of many Jewish Israeli peacebuilders who came to recognize that engaging in activism was critical for building and maintaining legitimacy with one’s Palestinian partners. In her own words: ‘‘Many [Palestinian] organizations would be more careful in trusting Israelis, and one of the ways to gain the trust is if you are active also, in more direct action because education [itself] is a long process y We assume that if we work with many kids and teachers it will have an impact, but it’s not going to change the situation tomorrow or make it easier for the Palestinians to live better tomorrow. So I think this was one of the things that helped us y We don’t do humanitarian aid or participate in different direct actions because we want to build trust – we do it because we believe in action. But it definitely helps.’’ Similarly, after the eruption of the Second Intifada, it became increasingly clear to Israelis that if they wanted to maintain legitimacy in the eyes of their

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Palestinian partners that they needed to be mindful of the power asymmetry. Moreover, they needed to be willing to work as equally as possible. As the above section indicates, the challenges of maintaining legitimacy and the actions required – both with critical constituents outside the organizations and with partners inside the organizations – was bound up with the radically changing environments. And ironically, as Marullo and Edwards (1997, p. 90) argue, ‘‘The constricting opportunities facing declining movements make legitimacy both harder to come by and more crucial to survival.’’

Maintaining and Managing Resources In addition to managing legitimacy, organizations need to draw on an array of resources from their environment, in order to survive (McCarthy & Zald, 1977; Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978). Moreover, as Pfeffer and Salancik (1978) indicate, organizations also need to find ways to manage their dependencies on other entities for resources. For people-to-people organizations, the critical resources took the form of funding, legal permission to operate, permits from the Israeli Civil Administration for Palestinians to enter Israel or to go abroad, spaces to meet, staff for their labor force, participants to recruit, and last but certainly not least, partners themselves. While all of the above were necessary, this section will focus predominantly on the overwhelming challenge of obtaining and maintaining funding, which for all these organizations came from abroad – whether in the form of larger governmental grants, foundations, or private grants.

Obtaining and Maintaining Funding Most of the organizations viewed operational funds as fundamental in allowing them to develop, and at the same time, saw the maintenance of funds as part of the fight for their survival. While the challenges were tremendous, many of the funding issues these organizations faced were not all that different from the ones facing other nonprofit organizations. For instance, the need of funders for accountability, the emphasis on funding something new even when existing programs were working well, the funders belief that they were providing seed money that the organization would eventually replace with other sources to keep programs running, and the

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desire of funders to fund specific projects rather than operating and administrative costs, are universals built into the funding system. Nonetheless, because of the special circumstances – the asymmetry, the reality of two heads for most of the initiatives (and thus greater administrative costs), the tumultuous environment which meant that projects could not always be implemented as proposed, and the dramatic drying up of funds after the breakdown of the peace process – the challenges, as well as the consequences, were especially acute for these joint Israeli-Palestinian partnerships. Actions Taken There were numerous actions that organizations took to try to maintain funding. For starters, given that the organizations were dependent on donors for financial resources, many of the organizations felt a need to align themselves with the donors’ agendas. While this raised multiple issues for the organizations, one of the remarkable aspects was the creativity of many of the organizations as they sought to maintain their organizational commitments, while having it align with the donors’ mandate. For example, the School for Peace was able to get considerably more funding to do dialogue work between Israelis and Palestinians, than between Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel, which was their raison d’etre. While they chose to follow the money, it was important to them to maintain a place for Palestinian Israelis. After some experimentation, they opted to include Palestinian Israelis in most of their projects as Israelis. While some organizations suggested that the challenge was being able to be creative within the donors’ agenda, other organizations argued that at times it was critical for them to draw boundaries with the funders, and not give in to these external pressures. Most notably, several of the Palestinians emphasized not accepting conditions. For instance, Noah Salameh argued, ‘‘Sometimes I don’t agree to take funding y if there are a lot of conditions, because there are some people who are put in roles and they do not have any clue about the situation y [And they say:] ‘We want the funds to go in this direction.’ No! I’m not doing this! y I don’t want to take your model and [approach] y I know my people, my culture, my situation, and I have to create and put a model suiting my situation y And sometimes you have to struggle with [this]. And even sometimes, you say, okay I don’t want [your funding].’’ As the above indicates, not only could this decision be seen as critical for maintaining legitimacy with one’s society, but just as importantly, it could be seen as critical for maintaining integrity within the project.

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Several organizations wanted to cover activities that their larger funders did not want to finance. This led several of the organizations to find additional donors or have individual donors fund this activity. For example, Combatants for Peace found that some funders only wanted to subsidize their dialogue work and not their nonviolent protest activity. As a result, at one point in their fundraising, they made the distinction between their dialogue activities, and their direct action and civil disobedience activities. While they noted that donations could be made to either activity, they specifically requested donors to consider funding their protest and solidarity actions noting that it was significantly harder to get money for activities that take a step beyond dialogue and challenge the occupation and the status quo. Meanwhile, when survival was on the line, organizations resorted to cutting costs, as would be expected. Some conducted fewer encounters, while others found cheaper (and perhaps less desirable) facilities for encounters, or reduced the number of participants. Several of the organizational directors also bore the costs themselves, taking a cut in their salary. Others resorted to laying off staff, and a couple of the organizations even chose to close centers. The younger and more grassroots organizations often survived by maintaining themselves as a volunteerbased organization, with few, if any, paid staff. Finally, over time, several coalitions were created that brought the peace NGO’s together to advocate for new funding. One, the Alliance for Middle East Peace (ALLMEP) was started in 2003 by a lawyer living in Washington, DC. He started the alliance as a pro bono project and sought to help the peacebuilding initiatives get more resources from the US government. The second, the Palestinian-Israeli Peace NGO Forum, was the brainstorm of several Israeli and Palestinian peacebuilders, and initially funded by the European Union. Beyond serving to build bridges between the organizations allowing for communication and strategizing, one of their main goals had been to try and obtain more financial support for these types of organizations. These coalitions have succeeded in advocating for more funds. Indeed, ALLMEP was able to get the House and Senate to authorize 9 million dollars for reconciliation NGO’s. The Peace NGO Forum likewise succeeded in receiving some additional funding – 1 million euros for 2009. As Rutie Atsmon exclaimed, ‘‘This is coalition work to convince donors!’’

Managing the Money It should also be noted that for these organizations, the challenges did not end with maintaining a budget – it also involved managing the budget. As

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mentioned earlier, for a variety of reasons, the Israelis often served as the principal partner to the funders. Consequently, the money was most often sent to the Israelis, and the Palestinians were then in a situation of needing to account to their Israeli partner for all their expenses. This was an issue of high sensitivity for many of the Palestinians. Some went as far as to suggest that the Israelis were in control of the initiatives since they controlled the budgets. Indeed, in the words of Mohammad Joudeh, ‘‘They come with the money, they come with the experience, they come with the teamy[They] have everything; this is power y [It feels] like occupation, [just] in a different way.’’ While several of the Israelis recognized the sensitivity of this situation for Palestinians, several expressed feelings that they were in a complicated situation since they were the ones who would be held responsible by the donors. As the primary partners, the Israelis were often the ones who needed to provide full transparency and to indicate that they were following the project expenses diligently. This tension was only made more difficult for both sides by the fact that on the Palestinian side, transparency was not always possible in the form of receipts, and costs could change dramatically due to the rapidly changing situation on the ground. This combined with the perception that the donors did not understand the difficulties within which they were working, only increased the tension felt by both sides. Perhaps not surprisingly, given the above, these organizations needed to give considerable thought to how they could manage the budget in a way that would build trust and equality (or at minimum, ‘‘do no harm,’’ to employ the words of Anderson, 1999). Actions Taken with regards to Building Trust and Equality The following were some of the main actions taken by the organizational partnerships to build this trust and equality: requiring two signatures (one Israeli and one Palestinian) for any use of money; opening the bank account in Palestine (with the intention of reducing the asymmetry); and distributing the resources (between the partners as well as the two sides) equally. While this adaptation was critical for the above mentioned reasons, these were not easy changes to make. As Nava Sonnenschein noted, ‘‘In funding, there is a very big difference between what the Israeli and Palestinian organizations get. And also [their] ability to raise funds is different. So I believe that you have to build it step by step, to examine all the time are you behaving like the oppressor or do you really try to work as equally as possible?’’

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It should be noted that not only did it require awareness and constant attention by the organizations to make sure they were not reflecting and reproducing the asymmetry in their partnership, it required doing this in the face of external policies of funders – which however unintentional – served to maintain and reinforce the distribution of power on the ground. While having one primary partner might be a way of ensuring accountability, it served to reinforce the relationship of asymmetry, which these initiatives were struggling to overcome. Fascinatingly, while only a few organizations practiced equality of funding and control during the Oslo period, during the Second Intifada period, this practice began to evolve into a norm. And the more the environment fostered mistrust and inequality, the more important these practices became for organizational effectiveness (most notably, managing conflict).

Managing Conflict The literature on organizations is clear that the management of conflict is critical to the functioning of an organization (Kolb & Putnam, 1992; Reger, 2002). Indeed, it recognizes that if conflict is not managed, it could lead to: increased job stress and burnout; reduced communication between individuals and groups; a climate of mistrust and suspicion; damaged relationships; reduced job performance; and decreased organizational commitment and loyalty (Rahim, 2001). In these peacebuilding organizations, conflicts were seen as a given. Beyond the regular organizational challenge of managing projects with two leaders, these organizations had the persistent challenge of Israelis and Palestinians working alongside one another, in an intractable conflict within a tumultuous environment. In the words of Nir Oren, a Jewish Israeli, ‘‘It’s not easy to run an organization with two heads – any organization! [And] it’s not easy because it’s Israeli-Palestinian! Basically I think that you can find within the organization a concentrated conflict of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which means everything is within y You know lack of trust, suspiciousness, disapproval, and debates – it can be similar to the IsraeliPalestinian conflict.’’ One of the major issues had to do with the asymmetry of power between the two sides. As noted earlier, many of the Palestinian interviewees’ believed that equality was limited inside some of the organizations and that the Israelis had a tendency to dominate. Other organizational conflicts

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revolved around the tendency for Palestinians to be more politically driven, with a clear focus on ending the occupation, while Jewish Israelis tended to prefer learning about the other as a catalyst for building peace and better relations between the two groups. While this divide did not always fall along national lines (Kelman, 1993; Maoz, 2000), it often did, and constituted a pattern that has long been recognized in the field (Dajani & Baskin, 2006; Golan, 2011). As also clear from the above, many of the conflicts were triggered by the fact that the two sides were in very different circumstances, with differing goals and ideas. Speaking to this, Mazen Faraj argued, ‘‘Peace for me – it’s my freedom! Peace for the Israelis, it’s security y So we have a different meaning for peace too and this is also [a source of] conflict. But they [the Israelis in my organization] respect that there is no security for the Israelis without my freedom. And [likewise] they have said that there is no freedom for the Palestinians without security [for the Israelis] y There are sometimes many problems between the staff inside the organization. It is not easy y we are different societies y, [and we often have very] different opinions!’’

Managing Conflicts: Actions Taken There were various actions taken to manage the conflicts including: discussions and talking it through; engaging mediation; making compromises; framing and treating issues as joint problems; and setting things aside when agreement could not be found. Perhaps not surprisingly, discussions and talking it through were the main actions taken by the organizations to manage conflict. Most of the organizations brought people together whether in a regularly scheduled meeting or sporadically to talk through the conflicts and discuss whatever issues were coming up. Other organizations engaged in mediation processes to resolve conflicts. Several of the heads of organizations were active in mediator roles between Israeli and Palestinian staff, as well as between the participants. And in the months leading up to the eruption of the Second Intifada, one organization, the Israel/Palestine Center for Research and Information, designed a program on mediation and used this program to help manage the conflicts between the staff. They continued to use their mediation program throughout the acute days of the Second Intifada. Given that people-to-people organizations involve conflicting groups, with different goals and agendas, compromises were also a critical tool for

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dealing with conflict. For instance, in the Sulha Peace Project, like many of the organizations, the Palestinian participants wanted the focus to be on issues of justice, whereas the Jewish Israeli participants wanted the focus to be on the cultural and educational level. Gabriel Meyer-Halevy, the Israeli Co-Founder stated, ‘‘Basically the Jews give way to some of the Palestinians issues of justice and the Palestinians have to let go a little bit of immediately solving stuff [connected to the occupation]. [For example,] the Palestinians in the West Bank have been saying over and over ‘let’s demonstrate against the wall.’ [Yet] they are slowly realizing that you can’t just focus on demonstrating against the wall – you have to see why people support the wall on the Israeli side, and how you are going to change their views y And the Israelis are realizing, ‘Well, we can’t say we just want to play our music [all together] when this Palestinian participant was stuck in a checkpoint for three hours, and his brother was just killed by a soldier. [So both sides are compromising].’’ While both sides needed to compromise for the organization or organizational partnership to function effectively, individuals and organizations knew when they were not willing to compromise. For Noah Salameh, this took the form of insisting on the principles of equality inside any partnership. Noah explained, ‘‘All my partners know that I’m not [an] easy person, especially when it comes to the principle of how to be equal. I don’t want another copy of occupation. And I feel that y if the Israeli takes the decision y the occupation is going on, even in the peace work.’’ Another common approach to managing conflict was to try to recognize problems as joint problems rather than as a zero-sum/win-lose game. While most of the organizations were able to do this, it was not far-fetched for there to be internal fighting, and at times, for it to be seen as one side winning and one side losing. Shimon Malka, who worked with Crossing Borders, believed that there was a direct connection though, between being able to frame an issue as a joint problem and the partners having a good relationship based on respect and openness. He noted, ‘‘If there is an open discussion that is respectful between the partners they can say [to each other], ‘Well, I have to be seen as strong in this project for my participants y This is the only way that they will y start to touch this peace business’. And if it’s clear that this is our joint mission – ours as a Palestinian, as a Jordanian, and as an Israeli – we will find a way. But if it is being [articulated] as a decision of one or as a take-over [of the project] that you’re trying to do [against] me, immediately I will be against it and I will block you. If it’s a zero-sum game – no way I will let you win! But if you will word it as our problem and you will say that in order to reach the

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[participants] in Palestine, we need to do 1, 2, and 3, than as an Israeli, it’s also my goal to reach the Palestinians, so I will do whatever is needed, to reach them.’’ Notwithstanding the above, many organizations found that some of the conflicts could not be resolved since the underlying issues – Israel and Palestine for starters – were unresolved. Several organizations suggested that the challenge was learning how to live with the conflict, managing it if they could, and setting it aside if they couldn’t agree. For instance, when a conflict would arise between the participants in the Peace Research Institute of the Middle East, the two heads would first seek to discuss the issues in the group, but if it was not working, they would change the group dynamic by going from the bi-national setting to the uni-national setting.

Strengthening Integrative Ties: Actions Taken It is one thing to focus on the disagreements, which might encourage an organization or partnership to collapse – or even the concrete actions taken to manage manifest conflicts – but as Gamson and Modigliani (1963) suggest, while essential, this is not enough. There can be very severe conflicts, which involve the basic goals of organizations (or other entities) and yet these entities do not break down while other entities with comparable disagreements do. Hence, as Gamson and Modigliani (1963, p. 38) noted, ‘‘We must ask not only about forces of disintegration (disagreements or conflicts) but about integrative bonds y A disagreement of given severity is less dangerous for a relationship in which there are strong integrative ties y than it is for one in which there are weak ties.’’ Thus, perhaps not surprisingly, in addition to the concrete actions taken to manage the overt conflicts, there were also actions taken by the peacebuilders to build and strengthen the integrative ties between the two sides so they would be able to withstand additional disagreements. These actions included: building trust, confidence, and a sense of a shared mission in the partnership; respecting ones partners’ sensitivities, abilities, and culture; meeting expectations; and efforts to work and manage resources as equally as possible. Speaking to the importance of the above, Carola Becker, a European who had been involved with several initiatives over the last decade, suggested that trust and respect were two of the key components that made partnerships successful. She defined respect as, ‘‘Knowing that the other ones are trying to change the situation and are really trying to do

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something y’’ She defined trust as the belief that they will continue doing that. She argued, ‘‘I think this is the main thing. If you have doubts that the other side is really doing the best they can to change the reality [i.e. to end the occupation and the conflict], you might just end the partnership.’’ Meeting expectations – especially after a violent attack or a significant injustice – was also a key component of building this trust and strengthening the cross-conflict relationships. At times, this involved a willingness to take stances on hard political issues such as state violence and suicide bombings. Hanna Siniora from the Israel/Palestine Center for Research and Information believed this willingness to take stands was critical. Speaking about his partner Gershon Baskin, and himself, Hanna noted, ‘‘We have similar positions – even on suicide bombings. Myself, as a Palestinian, do not condone them. I called them immoral and I participated with Palestinians in popularizing this stand by putting an advertisement in Arabic in the local press and signing those advertisements y We expect also from our [Israeli] colleagues here to have a similar position on the violence of the [Israeli] state and the settlers.’’ Last but certainly not least, a conscientious effort to work and manage resources as equally as possible was critical for maintaining a strong relationship that was able to withstand some degree of conflict – especially from a Palestinian perspective. In these organizations and partnerships, power relations were often scrutinized as being under a magnifying glass. Reflecting on one joint project, Noah Salameh from the Center for Conflict Resolution and Reconciliation suggested that the history of Israeli dominance in many people-to-people initiatives combined with his feeling that his organization was being seen in a patronizing manner by his Israeli partner’s facilitators, ‘‘put me in a challenging position for the whole project and I became very strict in measuring things, especially during the first months until we [my Israeli colleague and I] built confidence between us as coordinators’’ (Salameh & Zak, 2006, p. 6). Anat Reisman Levy, who worked with several of these initiatives, contextualized the importance of being attuned to the power relations. She argued, ‘‘When [participants and staff] start examining power relations [in the Israeli-Palestinian context] y [they] don’t stop at the Israeli-Palestinian conflict [at the macro level] y If the organization does not reflect the same values and if the team does not reflect the same values [that you are teaching and encouraging, e.g. peace and equality] you cannot move on. [There will be], conflicts within the team, [and] conflicts with the organization y Power relations [are] not some sort of external envelope – all these components are to be examined. So the staff is being examined, the facilitators, and the

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organization. And if the organization is not symmetric, if the power relations in the organization are not symmetric according to what it says, then there’s a lack of trust, towards the organization, towards the staff, and towards the team y’’ As several interviewees noted, the conflicts in these initiatives were often reflections of the disagreements in the macrocosm. And the more polarized and hostile the environment became, the more important it became for the organizations to pay attention to the quality of the cross-conflict relationships as well as the tools at their disposal for dealing with and managing the conflicts.

CONCLUSION Addressing Ganz (2004), Morris (2004), and Goodwin and Jasper’s (2004) call for more attention to be given to agency and the strategic actions taken by movement actors – and Gould’s (2004) recommendation that attention be given to what allows some movement organizations to persist in an inhospitable environment – this article has highlighted the organizational needs and actions taken by peace initiatives that cross conflict lines to continue to operate and survive in a hostile and unfavorable environment. It is surprising that some of these organizations even survived, considering the odds. In addition to operating in a polarized environment filled with high levels of violence and mistrust, legitimacy and resources were often withdrawn by donors and others in the environment. In addition the initiatives needed to contend with external actors in both societies who would destroy the initiatives if they could. As the literature has predicted, in order to survive and operate effectively, these organizations needed to find ways to maintain resources and legitimacy from the environment, while also operating in ways deemed legitimate by staff and participants, while managing conflict, and maintaining the commitment of staff and participants. Interestingly though, my research indicates that the ability of these organizations to meet the above mentioned needs, rested on giving critical attention to the quality of the cross-conflict relationships and the organizational processes, and above all, to matters of equality inside the organizations/partnerships. As is the reality in numerous movement organizations which work across difference (see Breines, 2006; Kurtz, 2002; Piatelli, 2009), inequalities permeated the environment, and inevitably, the organizations (Golan, 2011; Maoz, 2004; Naser-Najjab, 2004). To survive in the hostile and polarized

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environment following the breakdown of the peace process and the eruption of violence, it became critical to pay serious attention to managing the asymmetry, working equally, and ensuring that the needs and expectations of both sides were being met. Indeed, a commitment to working as equally as possible, combined with an awareness of the reality, the needs, and the expectations of one’s partner, was critical for building and maintaining trust and respect in the partnership; and for each side being able to preserve legitimacy with the other side (both within and outside the organization). Moreover, it was essential for having the stamina to withstand greater disagreements and to be able to manage the conflicts in the organization and partnership. Finally, it was fundamental in maintaining staff and participant commitment and motivation (see Gawerc, 2012). Fascinatingly, building on the above mentioned authors, my research shows that in order to operate effectively as an organization – and to increase the chance for survival – in a malevolent environment, organizations that work across difference (at least in conflict settings) need to be mindful of the differences and power asymmetries between the groups involved, and pay heed to matters of equality. The question that remains is whether these findings will be applicable for all organizations that work across difference and inequality in unfavorable environments or if these findings are mostly relevant for organizations operating in situations of protracted conflict. While future research will need to indicate the relevance for movements in general, there are reasons to believe that these findings will have relevance for other movements – including both transnational movements that work across vast inequalities (including the Movement for Democratic Globalization which has activists participating from both developed and developing countries) and national movements that work across race, gender, and/or class lines. After all, for organizations within these movements that work across divides, it is quite likely that their ability to maintain the commitment and motivation of participants from across the divide(s), manage conflicts, and operate in ways deemed legitimate, will rest to some degree on attention to difference (including the varying perspectives, needs, and goals) and a sensitivity to the inequalities. The findings, however, are clear for joint peace initiatives in areas of protracted conflict. Asymmetries manifest themselves in peace initiatives, as they tend to do in other organizations, and if joint peace initiatives want to weather a hostile, polarized, and unfavorable environment, they will need to manage the power asymmetries and pay attention to issues of equality.

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While it has been an immensely challenging process, these organizations have actually managed to survive. This involved finding ways to maintain and manage resources, maintain legitimacy with critical constituencies outside the organization, manage conflict, and maintain staff and participation commitment. In such a hostile and turbulent environment, marked with profound asymmetries, this is quite a feat. As previously mentioned in the introduction, the survival of joint peace initiatives has social, cultural, and political import. In addition to being carriers of cultural messages (Edwards & Marullo, 1994) that indicate that peace is possible, and that there is a partner on the other side with whom to talk (Gawerc, 2006), these surviving peace organizations also allow for maintaining an infrastructure, networks, and a collective identity that are deemed as critical for future activism and mobilization in a more favorable environment (Edwards & Marullo, 1995; Morris, 1984). Furthermore, the attention these partnerships began paying to the relationships, the organizational processes, and matters of equality – suggests that these surviving initiatives which managed to survive the Second Intifada do not only have experience, but they also reflect quality. The quality of these initiatives is especially important for a field struggling for legitimacy in two conflicting societies and operating in the context of grave asymmetry. The quality of these organizations provides the hope and possibility that when the environment is more favorable, these partnerships could be the basis for an eventual infrastructure at the civil society level supporting a just peace.

NOTES 1. Some of the material in this article draws from my recent book, Prefiguring Peace: Israeli-Palestinian Peacebuilding Partnerships (2012). This material has been adapted and reprinted with permission. 2. For a more detailed description of the Oslo period and the Second Intifada environment, see Gawerc (2012). 3. The field work and interviews were carried out between January 1997 and June 2008, with an update in December 2010. While I did not conduct interviews between 1993 and 1996, I made every effort through the interviews and looking at relevant organizational documents to reconstruct the experience of organizations during these early years of the Oslo process. 4. While many organizational theorists posit that organizations can and do adapt in ways that aid their survival, the organizational ecology paradigm in organizational studies questions whether organizations are indeed malleable. This view point suggests that the need organizations have to mobilize resources when they

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are forming, and the strategies and structures they use to maintain these resources once acquired, commits organizations to a certain organizational strategy and structure, and that change becomes both rare and costly, with the risk of death (Hannan & Freeman, 1977). Stinchcombe’s (1965) study which highlighted the link between the period in which an organization was formed and its structural characteristics provides evidence of this view that organizations do not tend to change and rather organizational forms tend to persist over time. 5. Notwithstanding the fact that many theorists have broadened their conceptualization of the environment to include the social and cultural environment, a growing number of social movement scholars have argued that political factors, and the political environment in general, continue to be privileged in the literature (e.g. Armstrong & Bernstein, 2008; Goodwin & Jasper, 2004; Van Dyke, Soule, & Taylor, 2004). These scholars argue that the primary focus on political factors – and the suggestion that these are relevant for all movements – is problematic given that these factors are considerably less relevant for movements seeking to create cultural change and for whom, social and cultural factors are likely to be of more importance (Goodwin & Jasper, 2004; Hermann, 2009; Kreisi, 2004). 6. As Gould (2004) suggests, there is a sizable literature on movement (and movement organization) decline. According to the literature, smallness, organizational ‘‘adolescence’’ (i.e., being between 3 and 8 years old), lack of a formal organizational structure, a narrow social change focus, partisan electoral activities, and a ‘‘consensus orientation’’ are some of the risk factors that tend to predict decline for movement organizations (Edwards & Marullo, 1995; Gamson, 1990; Gidron, Katz, & Hasenfeld, 2002; Lofland, 1992; Minkoff, 1993, 1999). 7. Fascinatingly, while these initiatives were in their heyday, the Israeli peace movement on a whole – as Hermann (2009) convincingly argues – was facing a more challenging political opportunity structure. Hermann (2009) attributes this to frustration for not receiving credit for the Oslo breakthrough, for being distanced by the Rabin government, and having troubled relations with the governments that followed. It should be noted, Hermann (2009) also highlighted the institutionalization of some peace activities – most notably Israeli-Palestinian dialogues – as one of the factors that hurt the more political peace movement on a whole. 8. Snow (2004) and Goodwin and Jasper (2004) would suggest that the main reason for this omission is that political process theorists have prioritized movement organizations seeking political change and targeting the state, at the expense of those seeking social and cultural change (e.g., changing cultural norms and dominant narratives), and targeting civil society. 9. Peacebuilding groups have characteristics of both nonprofit organizations and social movement organizations (see Gidron et al., 2002). Like the former, these bodies provide a service to their participants and the public, in line with their goal of promoting peace. Similar to the latter, these organizations have, as their mission, to promote cultural values that diverge from dominant and institutionalized values, which create the potential for conflict with both the authorities and the public. Consequently, Hasenfeld and Gidron (2005) argue that these groups should be understood as hybrid organizations. 10. Permission has been obtained to use people’s real names.

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11. In an article that focused on the peacebuilding organizations that survived the Second Intifada, Maoz (2004) highlighted the higher degree of equality and symmetry that existed in many of these organizations. She highlighted their equal representation of Israelis and Palestinians in the organizational hierarchy; their use of offices in both Israel and the West Bank; and their use of either English as a ‘‘neutral’’ language or using Arabic in addition to Hebrew. 12. It should be noted that in some partnerships, gender was a further complicating factor. Indeed, inside the educational initiatives, the majority of Israelis were women, and the majority of Palestinians, were men. For more on the gender factor in cross-conflict initiatives, see Golan (2011). 13. Field work and interviews were carried out during the following periods: January 1997–January 1998, August 1999–2000 (pre-Second Intifada); August 2001– July 2002 (during the Second Intifada); and September 2007–June 2008 (post-Second Intifada). I also updated the findings in January 2010, to include the post-Gaza War period. For more information on these different environments, see Gawerc (2012). 14. These initiatives, it should be noted, are typically understood in the social movement literature as ‘‘consensus movements’’ (Lofland, 1989, 1992) or ‘‘restrained movements’’ (Downey, 2006). 15. This category, it should be noted, does not include groups where the encounter is between Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel rather than Palestinians and Israelis given that the issues are different. Nor does it include internationally based initiatives if they do not have a center in the Middle East due to the differences in experiences. 16. As noted above, maintaining commitment of staff and participants is an additional aspect of organizational effectiveness. While it will not be discussed here, it was discussed extensively in Gawerc (2012).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to acknowledge William A. Gamson, Deana A. Rohlinger, Janine P. Holc, Shai Fuxman, Ned Lazarus, Karen Ross, and the editor and reviewers of RSMCC, all of whom graciously read and provided helpful thoughts and comments on earlier drafts of this paper.

REFERENCES Anderson, M. B. (1999). Do no harm: How aid can support peace or war. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner. Armstrong, E. A., & Bernstein, M. (2008). Culture, power, and institutions: A multiinstitutional politics approach to social movements. Sociological Theory, 26, 74–99. Barnett, W. P., & Carroll, G. R. (1995). Modeling internal organizational change. Annual Review of Sociology, 21, 217–236.

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PART IV CONSENSUS IN OCCUPY AND IN SOCIAL FORUMS

LEARNING CONSENSUS DECISION-MAKING IN OCCUPY: UNCERTAINTY, RESPONSIBILITY, COMMITMENT Anna Szolucha ABSTRACT Occupy was a leaderless, resistance movement that started as Occupy Wall Street in New York City on September 17, 2011 but soon spread around the world, becoming a truly global movement. This chapter provides a detailed description and analysis of the processes of learning consensus decision-making in Occupy Dame Street in Dublin, Ireland. The analysis draws on more than five months of ‘‘militant ethnographic’’ and participatory action research within the Occupy movement. The chapter points to the ways in which uncertainty impacted on the processes of learning in Occupy and how it intersected with responsibility and commitment of the participants. Keywords: Occupy movement; consensus decision-making; learning; responsibility; commitment; uncertainty Uncertainty is a constant in movement practice. Movement participants invest a lot of time and energy in order to create strong relationships among

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 205–233 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036010

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themselves and take responsibility for different parts of the movement. Why do people do it even though they cannot be certain of the results of their actions? What keeps movement participants engaged even after the initial enthusiasm has passed and the movement itself is subsiding? How do movement participants understand their tasks? How do they carry them out? I will explore the multifaceted nature of uncertainty in a movement where uncertainty intersects with responsibility and commitment. I will demonstrate how the participants of Occupy Dame Street (ODS) in Dublin, Ireland negotiated their responsibility and commitment in the face of uncertainty through the processes of participative learning. This chapter draws upon more than five months of ‘‘militant ethnographic’’ (Juris, 2008, pp. 19–24) and participatory action research (Fals-Borda, 1991; Kindon, Pain, & Kesby, 2007; McIntyre, 2008). I will analyze how the processes of participative learning took place and developed in ODS. Although learning occurred in many places within the Occupy movement, this chapter will concentrate on the processes and areas related to formal decision-making. This offers a rich field for analysis due to the centrality of consensus decision-making for the movement.

OCCUPY MOVEMENT The beginnings of Occupy can be traced back to July 2011 when Adbusters magazine called for a symbolic action on September 17, 2011. Inspired by the revolution in Egypt and the latest wave of encampments in Spain, the protest was to take place in Wall Street, New York City. The call was to ‘‘bring tent’’ – a prologue to a major ‘‘shift in revolutionary tactics.’’ This new tactic was to rely on physical gatherings and assemblies of people that were to organize in a bottom-up and leaderless fashion. Wall Street was seen to represent corporate greed and the source of the ongoing financial crisis. This analysis was captured in the movement’s slogan – ‘‘we are the 99%.’’ Wall Street stood for banks, big corporations, and the other ‘‘super rich’’ among the 1% who claim the world’s wealth and common assets for private profit and their own interests at the expense of the 99% (Van Gelder, 2011, p. 1). Occupy was to respond to their practices that treated capitalism’s flaws as if they were irrelevant and the current economic system as the only one conceivable (Graeber, 2011). This assessment of Wall Street was inextricably linked with the protesters’ objection to the bifurcation of First Amendment freedoms – different for the

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1% and the 99% (Rosenberg, 2011) as exemplified by the issue of Super PACs for instance. They also raised substantial concerns about the workings of the representational form of democracy (Strauss, 2011). The issue was not only that the 1% hold almost $20 trillion in wealth while the entire United States government budget was only $3.8 trillion (Flank, 2011, p. 6). The crucial problem was rather that the government was seen to make active interventions on behalf of the 1%. These included tax breaks for the wealthy, global trade agreements that lead to offshoring jobs, agricultural subsidies that favor big agribusiness over smaller family farming, formation of Super PACs, etc. (Van Gelder, 2011, p. 4). The 99%–1% division was most evident in the data for the share of aftertax income by population slice. In 2007, a vastly unequal growth made these shares grow even more unequally. The top 1% experienced a more than doubling of their share in after-tax income growth between 1979 and 2007. For the remaining 99% of the population, their income barely changed or dropped by up to seven points (Henwood & The Congressional Budget Office, 2011, p. 17). On September 17, an estimated 5,000 people answered the call to demand ‘‘democracy not corporatocracy’’ (Adbusters, 2011) and around 300 camped out at Zuccotti Park (later renamed ‘‘Liberty Plaza’’) (Maryse, n.d.). In early November, the General Assembly – the main decision-making body of the occupation run by the principles of direct democracy – adopted by consensus the following statement of autonomy: Occupy Wall Street is a people’s movement. It is party-less, leaderless, by the people and for the people. y We provide a forum for peaceful assembly of individuals to engage in participatory democracy y We wish to clarify that Occupy Wall Street is not and never has been affiliated with any established political party, candidate or organization. Our only affiliation is with the people y If you have chosen to devote resources to building this movement, especially your time and labor, then [this movement] is yours y (Occupy Wall Street, 2011)

This statement of autonomy describes the character and the principles of the movement that many Occupy encampments around the world drew on. As soon as a few weeks after Occupy Wall Street began, and thanks to social media that played a huge part in the process, the principles and practices of the movement spread to cities across the United States and far beyond to places such as Toronto, Rome, Dublin, Sarajevo, Seoul, and Sydney (AlJazeera, 2011; Gabbatt, 2011; McVeigh, 2011). In early

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October 2011, Occupy protests took place in over 80 countries, making Occupy a truly global movement against economic inequality and the loss of popular political power. Most of the major encampments in the United States were evicted by the authorities by the end of 2011, but in some European cities such as Dublin, the camps lasted longer. The main slogan of Occupy after evictions began was ‘‘you cannot evict an idea whose time has come’’ and the protesters swore that they will be coming back and try to occupy spaces, hold assemblies, and organize for another phase of Occupy.

A Note on Methods This chapter is based on extensive participant observation of ODS in Dublin between October 2011 and May 2012. I was an active member of ODS and helped organize, facilitate, and took part in occupations, marches, demonstrations, sit-ins, and meetings. I was a member of the facilitation working group and was responsible for facilitating General Assemblies and some in-house meetings. My other duties included coordinating with other members of the working group as well as taking, typing up, and forwarding the meeting minutes. The last tasks I shared with other members of ODS. Furthermore, I co-organized five workshops about consensus decision-making and facilitation training sessions. As an ODS participant, I often helped with other tasks connected to the organized actions or the day-to-day running of the ODS camp. Throughout my engagement in ODS, I collected extensive notes and supplemented them with semi-structured interviews of five of the participants. The notes and interviews were transcribed and coded manually. Due to my involvement in ODS, I utilized ‘‘militant ethnographic’’ (Juris, 2008, pp. 19–24) and participatory action approaches to research (FalsBorda, 1991; Kindon et al., 2007; McIntyre, 2008). Militant ethnography says that in order to understand movement practices, one has to become an active participant. This means that a researcher should also help organize actions and workshops, facilitate meetings, take part in strategic debates, and be prepared to ‘‘put one’s body on the line during direct actions’’ (Juris, 2008, p. 20). This corresponded with my own roles in the movement. Moreover, the aim of this study and my involvement in the occupation was to help ODS learn about and choose a form of decision-making. Here the militant ethnographic approach was also helpful as its purpose is not simply

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to de-codify some aspects of the movement, but provide it with specific tools for self-reflection and organizing. Drawing on the participatory action approaches to research, I helped create the workshop and meeting spaces where the ODS participants could clarify the movement/research problem about consensus that we could then analyze, take action, and reflect on. This cycle of research, action, and reflection that Participatory Action Research tradition is based on was helpful because it provided a comprehensive view of how the debates in the movement developed, how meanings were created, and what consequences they produced. Its participatory character also inhibited attitudes that could potentially be vanguardist, which was crucial in ODS as it is for all groups that use direct democracy. I will now introduce consensus decision-making, which is the other focus of this chapter.

CONSENSUS Consensus is a decision-making process in which the views of all participants are acknowledged and validated, and their concerns addressed. Within direct action movements, consensus is often seen as a process that ensures that actions a group agrees to undertake are participatory and sustainable, and that there is individual and collective ownership of the action. Principles that help consensus work best include (1) participants should respect the process and other participants; (2) they should work to develop mutual trust and assume that other participants also have good intentions; (3) they should understand the importance of not only what they do but also how they go about doing things for the world they want to bring about; (4) they are committed to work collectively and creatively on the decisions that need to be made. As Woehrle (2003) points out, consensus is not synonymous with compromise or negotiating the lowest common denominator solution. Rather than merely an outcome of a discussion, consensus is also a process through which each participant can become invested in the decision (Woehrle, 2003, p. 15). It is then also easier for them to support an action even if they do not think it may be the best. This is why consensus does not have to mean unanimity or ‘‘uniformity of opinion’’ (Coy, 2003, p. 88). In the practice of the alter-globalization movement responsible for such anti-summit mobilizations as in Seattle in 1999, consensus has also not meant unanimity. Big actions such as shutting down the World Trade Organization meeting required that the groups involved agreed to act within

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some general guidelines and shared the intention of disrupting the summit. They did not have to agree to use one specific tactic or develop a shared political analysis. The emphasis was on coordination rather than conformity (Graeber, 2009; Starhawk, 2002). Hence, consensus meant identifying a spectrum of individual or autonomous group actions, positions, and responses that were consistent with the overall goal of a larger grouping of people. This was manifested in how large actions were organized. In the wake of the 1999 protests, for example, downtown Seattle was divided into 13 ‘‘pie slices’’ surrounding the Washington Convention and Trade Center where the WTO Ministerial was taking place. Different clusters of affinity groups were responsible for blocking each section (Solnit & Solnit, 2009, p. 107). Starhawk described the wealth of possibilities that each group had: ‘‘[t]here were groups doing street theater, others preparing to lock themselves to structures, groups with banners and giant puppets, others simply prepared to link arms and to nonviolently block delegates’’ (2002, pp. 17, 18). Thanks to that, tactical, personal, and ideological diversity could be embraced and encouraged rather than perceived as something that needed to be overcome. One can point to many advantages of using consensus. Its advocates claim that it produces the best thinking, minimizes egoistic attitudes, and increases problem-solving skills (Coy, 2003, p. 89). Consensus promotes participation and facilitates direct action on the sources of injustice and minimizes hierarchy and professionalization in groups working for social change (Mueller, 1993, p. 56). It surfaces differences that might otherwise remain hidden and provides a space for mutual understanding. It can strengthen movement bonds, foster solidarity (Epstein, 1993, p. 270), and spark innovation and development through participatory democracy (Polletta, 2004, pp. 2–12). The literature about the practice of decision-making within the alterglobalization movement emphasizes also the prefigurative advantages of using consensus. Maeckelbergh (2011) claims that this stress on direct democratic processes marks a shift from strategies that try to ‘‘conquer the world’’ to those that seek to ‘‘build the world anew’’ (Maeckelbergh, 2011, p. 2). Similarly, this short passage about Occupy affirms that prefiguration was seen as one of the movement’s main strategies: [T]he public assemblies, the consensus decision making, yconstitute a set of concrete alternative practices that serve as powerful symbolic yet embodied contrasts between an inclusive, grassroots, and participatory democracy as it ought to be and the current configuration of a representative ‘democratic’ system that serves the interests of the 1%. (Juris, 2012, p. 272)

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Consensus decision-making has a strong prefigurative appeal because of how it tackles the issues of uncertainty, diversity, and responsibility within the movement. Prefiguration fuses the shift to a more constitutive politics in the alter-globalization and similar groups with profound uncertainty of how to live in a better society and the rejection of ideological blueprints (The Free Association, 2011, pp. 31–40). Although prefiguration as the main strategy of Occupy may be a unique feature of that movement, uncertainty that accompanied learning consensus is not. Polletta, for example, also claims that ‘‘[m]uch more than I had expected, 1960s activists were making participatory democracy up as they went along’’ (2004, p. 204). Moreover, prefiguration produces stances that are inherently political. As such, it challenges claims like Mansbridge’s (2003) that thinking that consensus could substitute majority rule in all circumstances is mistaken since it should be only one of many ways of making decisions collectively and it is better used in some contexts rather than others (Mansbridge, 2003, p. 230). While there can hardly be any doubt that the adoption of consensus must be related to a particular context that a given group acts within, it is this assumption that ‘‘the majority rule is here to stay’’ that the Occupy movement and other groups that use consensus want to challenge. One cannot ignore this claim and simply substitute a rational calculus of benefits and costs for empirical analysis of particular groups and context, at least not in the case of the direct action movements that ‘‘reject conventional ideas of political rationality’’ (Epstein, 1993, p. 228). Regarding diversity, consensus is not and should not be considered a space of decision-making that is merely expressive, ideological, or interestdriven. Many differences as well as inequalities are relational and can change through the process. Since consensus embraces and does not attempt to eliminate difference and conflict, participants can strive for a diversity of outcomes that recognizes people’s particular life situations and viewpoints. In this way, they also prefigure a world where pluralism is valued and reflected in the variety and multiple courses of action (Maeckelbergh, 2009, p. 172). This encourages people to take responsibility for their own actions and develop solidarity with the group (Starhawk, 2002, p. 30). Its advantages notwithstanding, consensus decision-making can also have its limits and disadvantages. Some researchers claim that it works better in small rather than large groups (Coy, 2003, p. 103; Epstein, 1993, p. 88; Mansbridge, 2003, p. 238). It may also be more efficient when the movement and its goals are well-defined, and its members think alike (Epstein, 1993, pp. 85, 95). Consensus is sometimes known for its inability to resolve personal conflicts. Arriving at consensus may become really difficult when

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the participants have to, for example, go outside the normative frameworks of friendship that they have relied on so far (Polletta, 2004, pp. 14, 217–218). Furthermore, since the consensus process requires time, deliberation may substitute for action (Polletta, 2004, p. 209). Even in radical political groups, it can create situations in which participants default to conservatism because they cannot reach an agreement on a more radical course of action (Mansbridge, 2003, p. 233; Pollard, 2011; Rhizome, 2011). Formal processes of consensus are often established to allow for diversity of participants and help facilitate decision-making in large groups and such movement situations as big occupations or anti-summit demonstrations. These processes require a specific terminology and a set of practices that are understood and followed by the participants. Here I provide a brief explanation of a few examples of ‘‘consensus lingo’’ that the Occupy movement adopted. General Assembly (GA) is a meeting space where information is exchanged; participants voice their opinions, discuss issues, solve problems, and make collective decisions. Human mic is a technique that allows communication among the participants of assemblies when there is no sound amplification system. The speaker pauses after every phrase to allow other participants to repeat his or her words so that other people standing further away from the speaker might hear everything. There is also a mic check which is a similar mechanism but is usually used to grab the participants’ attention when an announcement is being made. When at the end of GA discussion, facilitators check for consensus on a given proposal, the participants can show their support, stand aside, or block the proposal. When somebody decides to stand aside, it means that they do not agree with the decision and would not like to be bound by it but they are OK if other participants want to proceed with the particular action. When they block the proposal, this indicates that they would not agree and if the group chooses to ignore this, they will leave. The block should not be used on the grounds of somebody’s personal preferences or ideals. It should be based on the conviction that if the particular decision is followed through, it will go against the principles of the group or it would cause substantial harm to it. In order to facilitate the decision-making process, the Occupy movement (drawing on the practice of the alter-globalization and other movements) adopted a few hand gestures. The most common was ‘‘jazz hands’’ or ‘‘twinkling’’ that is used to indicate support or silent agreement. Block is indicated by crossing forearms with hands in fists.

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With this preliminary evaluation of consensus, let us now turn to a description of how and why consensus decision-making was embraced by the Occupy movement in the case of ODS.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF CONSENSUS IN OCCUPY DAME STREET The ODS camp in Dublin lasted for five months from October 8, 2011 to March 8, 2012 when it was evicted by police. It survived winter by replacing tents with huts and turning part of the plaza in front of the Central Bank into a lively place of GAs, Occupy University meetings, live music, communal meals, and a living and meeting space for thousands of people of all creeds and persuasions. ODS had four main demands. The first was that the European Central Bank and the International Monetary Fund stay out of Irish affairs. The second demand was that private bank debt that has been socialized should be lifted. ODS also wanted the oil and gas reserves off the Irish coast – now in the hands of private corporations – be returned to sovereign control. Finally, they demanded real and participatory democracy for all. In the first days of ODS, the participants decided that all decisions will be made by consensus. Very few participants, however, knew how it usually operates, nor did they have many experiences of participating in this process. There were a number of members of Real Democracy Now! – a group that formed in Ireland inspired by and in solidarity with the protesters in Spain – whose open assemblies also operated by consensus. On the first and second day of ODS, quite a few participants came who had been involved in various anarchist and environmental groups in Ireland and abroad. They would also have some experience of consensus decisionmaking. But there was no pressure from those individuals to adopt the consensus process or a will to explain or teach others how it usually works – partly because they did not want to be seen to be ‘‘the voice of ODS.’’ Furthermore, nobody actually even knew if there was any real need to learn consensus, so the question was left hanging in the air for the time being as other, more logistical issues took precedence. As one of the participants and a member of Real Democracy Now! remarked: One thing I was clear of, I didn’t want y Real Democracy Now! [to be] seen as the voice of y Occupy Dame Street. It had its own identity. So on the following assemblies, Real Democracy Now! also emphasised this point y I didn’t want that there could be any

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group that’d be in control and that wasn’t the issue at all at the start because there were so many people from other backgrounds and all supporting the idea of consensus like people [from] the collective in the Seomra Spraoi [social centre in Dublin], people at the Exchange [collective arts centre in Dublin], or people that had those ideas but didn’t have a formal, big group, [but] were aware of them and had been using them before themselves y. I wanted to make sure that it had its own clear identity, so I didn’t push myself y into taking part in a lot of the meetings y because I felt early on that people who were there, camping, doing a lot of the work, had to make a decision themselves, and I would be happy to follow on as long as it y wasn’t against anything that I would fundamentally disagree with. (May 7, 2012 interview)

Initially, the GA’s agenda of the second day of ODS consisted of five points and the facilitators said that they were going to devote half an hour to the discussion of site rules and regulations while leaving five minutes to the item concerning the process of making decisions. In that time, we were supposed to discuss the different methods of decision-making and conclude which one would be best for our Occupy. This was later extended somewhat not because there was disagreement about which method to choose but because people really wanted to know how consensus works and why other groups, including other Occupies, use consensus. The question that the facilitators posed was about whether people wanted to make decisions by consensus or majority rule. I later wrote in my notes from that day: A short discussion unfolded; the time was running out and the facilitators did not seem to want a decision on it at that point. Then one of the participants suggested that we could make a decision about which process to choose by a show of hands. This was picked up by the rest and the result was something very close to unanimity. The man then said: ‘‘So it’s a consensus’’ and a lot of cheering followed. (October 9, 2011 notes)

This moment is also captured in participants’ own stories: Yeah, I know it’s funny. I remember there was something about are we going to have consensus or not and people kind of went: ‘‘Oh yeah, OK.’’ And there was this kind of thing like ‘‘oh yeah, does everyone seem to agree? Oh yeah, so it seems like everyone agrees, OK.’’ (May 4, 2012 interview) AS: Do you remember how it happened that we adopted consensus as our decisionmaking process? I think it was almost like an assumption but everyone accepted it so it was just the way it went y. You see we were running consensus as a decision-making process without having any training with it in terms of a structured way that there is a pro-consensus process. We were just doing jazz hands [laughs] but it worked. (April 24, 2012 interview)

Consensus, then, was adopted as a kind of default method of making decisions. It was a method that other Occupies used as well and it was associated with other mechanisms such as the hand gestures (like jazz hands) and the human mic.

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When I arrived there and I arrived late because I’m Irish [laughs], nothing has started yet. y What happened was that they said that we’re waiting for the microphones to arrive and I was like ‘‘What?! This is insane, look at these people! This is, could be the beginning of something and people are just gonna leave. y We’re gonna do human mic. We don’t need microphones!’’ I was very excited because the night before I watched Naomi Klein [giving a speech in Occupy Wall Street]. I was fired up in my blood and I was like this human mic, and I’ve never heard about it before, this is amazing! y [M]y heart started to pound in my chest. Nobody else is going to do this. If I don’t get up and do this, people are just gonna leave and nothing is going to happen so I stood up y (April 24, 2012 interview)

On the first day of ODS, consensus was not used but the most important hand gestures that accompanied the process in the practice of the Occupy movement were all explained and started to be widely used in all meetings. The participants also emulated the human mic – a way to amplify what a speaker is saying by repeating his or her words by all those who can hear them. Hence, ODS adopted consensus as its decision-making process without much discussion or informed debate about both its advantages and limits. This ‘‘consensus as default’’ option that ODS chose had a number of consequences for the ways in which people began to learn the meaning of consensus as well as the ways in which it works and does not work. First, we might not have appreciated just how complicated a process this could be. Over time and with increasingly structured GAs, it appeared that even a person who participated in the assembly for the first time could quickly learn the different hand signals and the workings of the human mic. However, and as one participant from the media group remarked a week after the occupation started: ‘‘People understand the hand signals but don’t understand how decision-making works’’ (October 14, 2011 notes). Second, this created a situation in which there was a pressure and an expectation that participants needed to discuss the meaning and functioning of consensus. This is a fragment of a discussion among participants in the morning of October 14: Participant A: GA has to be explained – how that’s organised. Participant B: So the first point of the GA should be about consensus decision-making. Facilitator: Can we get a consensus on that? Participant C: Do we know what it is? [laughs] (October 14, 2011 notes)

A similar point was made the next day during an open forum after the march: There has been a lot of talk here about participatory democracy. At the moment it is a very vague slogan. We haven’t really started to talk about what participatory

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democracy is. And we need to start doing that and implementing it here at this place. At the moment this movement is structureless. But structurelessness is not democracy. (October 15, 2011 notes)

Although the above opinion was widespread, it was unclear how this discussion could actually happen and who was supposed to know how consensus works and what it entails. I remember a lot of those things weren’t clear y. [T]here was a mixture of hesitancy by people because you tend to think that somebody must be organising stuff. So people sort of assumed that [because] they don’t want to just make it up completely or make a totally new suggestion, y somebody here must know what’s going on and it’s not me so therefore, there are some people over there who sort of look like they know what’s going on. You know, they must have some good idea of how to run this thing that none of us has ever done before. y I think there was definitely this kind of aspect of ‘‘nobody really knows what is going on so everyone assumes that somebody else really knows what’s going on’’ y. People think there must be a system there where actually there isn’t y (May 4, 2012 interview)

The problem with having an informed discussion about consensus was that nobody and especially nobody with experience in consensus decisionmaking wanted to step up to explain it. A reason for this might be that it would mean temporarily putting themselves in a teacher–pupil relationship instead of allowing the discussion to develop organically. This hesitancy might have stemmed from the fact that the consensus process is nonhierarchical and it is grounded in the ethos of prefigurative politics in which how something is done is as important as what is done (Graeber, 2009; Maeckelbergh, 2009). Eventually, I helped organize two small workshops that were announced using the mic check and about seven people participated each time. I prepared an outline of different versions of consensus as well as its general structure that I was familiar with. I began by saying that all information that I have comes from a number of sources and my own experiences, so they are only some of the many ways of making consensus work. I encouraged every participant to share their own experiences and said that whatever we decide in this workshop had to be something that we think will work best for the ODS’ particular situation. Thus, we should not feel obliged to follow any pre-given model. I avoided using definitive language and framed the points in a way that would leave us room for maneuver. This included such constructions as: ‘‘the way some people found it useful in the past was when they did this in this particular way or following this structure. What do you think?’’ The second time a group gathered for the workshop – on October 14 – it prepared a structure for the consensus process that was to be put before a

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GA so that people could think in more detail about consensus process structures. Whether the proposal was to be adopted, amended, or rejected, the idea was that at any point the structure of the consensus process must remain open to further changes. A workshop participant who introduced our proposal at the subsequent GA said that ‘‘consensus is a way of reaching decisions together but it is not something that we are familiar with’’ (October 14, 2011 notes). Consensus needed to be learned, and the ways in which decisions were taken by simple majority – unlearned. After outlining the proposed structure, he suggested that we try it and see if we can make a decision on this proposal using the structure for the consensus process that it proposed. This learning in practice was not only a way to check if the proposed structure could work efficiently in ODS, but it also created a sort of tautological loop: if the people in the GA were of the opinion that the proposed structure had to be changed, they would have to use that changed structure to make the final decision. It could also provide the first successful decision made by consensus and make the adopted structure more legitimate as it might be hard to question its radically democratic credentials. The consensus process adopted at a GA on October 14, 2011 – six days after ODS began – was adhered to even at the assemblies that were called in March – after the camp was evicted. With this introduction to ODS, let us now analyze how the processes of participative learning about direct democracy developed in ODS. Three notions will be highlighted: uncertainty, responsibility, and commitment. Uncertainty turns out to have two, opposite facets. One of it is positive and helps participants assume ethical responsibility for their actions. The other, when connected to issues of trust and the need for diversity, can undermine commitment to consensus decision-making.

LEARNING DECISION-MAKING IN OCCUPY DAME STREET Following the example of other occupations in Spain and the United States, consensus became the formal decision-making process in ODS. The ways of adopting, learning, and practising consensus were ridden with uncertainties and inconsistencies, as the following example illustrates: To block or disagree, you use this gesture [a man makes an ‘‘x’’ with his forearms and a few people standing right beside him repeat that gesture. We use the human mic to repeat

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what the man has just said.] but the block should not be used very often. [My friend turns to me and whispers: ‘‘It should never be used!’’ And I am thinking: ‘‘Why and how come?!’’] (October 8, 2011 notes)

An obvious aspect of learning consensus is that it creates situations in which people engage in popular education. They learn how to use the human mic, the hand signals, what the block is, and various, non-formalized principles. They create a pedagogical context where knowledge is transmitted, questions are asked and answered. Just like in the fragment above, people who enter such spaces of learning often find a very messy place where claims are made, contested, and negotiated. In ODS, all efforts at making learning spaces happen were appreciated, but they were also scattered – taking place in small workshop sessions, individual conversations, and during GAs. After the consensus structure was adopted, it became apparent that our learning process had only begun. The uncertainties that the participants encountered revealed the complexity of building radically democratic and participatory decision-making practices beyond the common frameworks of electoral politics and representative democracy. Through the processes of learning and practising decision-making in ODS, participants found themselves in a situation where uncertainty meets up with responsibility and commitment. Soon the participants assumed responsibility for teaching, facilitating, and upholding the consensus process. This was challenging as they soon faced the paradox: how can one be responsible for something if one does not know the consequences of one’s decisions? Let us now turn to this problem by exploring the ways in which participants assumed their responsibility in ODS, understood their tasks, and carried them out.

Learning and Responsibility Having adopted a certain structure of the consensus process at a democratic meeting, the participants on Dame Street had to ensure that the process was cared for and the decision respected, while still remaining open to future alterations where the need arose. It was characteristic of all Occupy encampments and the movement as a whole that it did not have any formal membership and anybody could come, camp out, and/or participate in its actions and meetings. Hence, there was a continuous turnover of participants on Dame Street with some staying active throughout. With shifting participation, it was clear that the memory of the structure and the

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technicalities that we agreed to would have to be actively recreated and reasserted. This, in turn, further fed into the learning processes that were already going on and facilitating a transmission and negotiation of knowledge about consensus. One group in particular undertook it as their task to take care of the consensus process and assist people in learning how it operates. The facilitation working group was created in the first week of the encampment on Dame Street. It was a mixed collection of individuals – men and women – most of whom did not live in the camp. There were a few facilitators contributing a lot throughout the entire time ODS was operating, while others joined the facilitation working group for a limited period. Some had quite a bit of previous experience in facilitation while others were only beginning to learn about it. The facilitation group mostly used the assemblies to explain how the consensus structure worked. It also organized workshops about decisionmaking and while in principle those were open to everybody, they were also advertised as training sessions for those interested in joining the facilitation group. The workshops varied in character. Some of them were organized in advance. They had an organized structure and prepared materials. There were two workshops of this kind that I co-facilitated. There were many more training sessions that were more ad hoc and usually happened during facilitation group meetings when there were new participants who wanted to join the group. Such workshops were less structured but the new facilitators usually received all relevant materials that we used via e-mail or by joining the facilitation mailing list. The attendance averaged 10–12 participants and the workshops lasted for around one and a half to two hours. The workshops were places where people’s perceptions about consensus developed and changed because all facilitators were learning about the particular way of practising consensus within ODS. The sessions were practice-oriented and concentrated on facilitator roles and process technicalities. It was mainly in the GAs where most tensions around different merits, understandings, and workings of consensus had a chance to arise. I will outline some of them later in this chapter. The facilitation group took responsibility for helping ODS adhere to its consensus commitments. In late October, the facilitation working was described as follows: ‘‘This group keeps the peace in the sense of everyone getting their say in a true democratic fashion. They also teach others how to facilitate to the best of their ability’’ (October 26, 2011 notes). The task was considered so important that it was agreed that the facilitation team should be the biggest of all ODS working groups.

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Responsibility for the consensus process manifested itself in many ways. Early on we agreed on a model for a GA that was an A4 page of bullet points listing in order things that we felt needed to be mentioned at each GA, such as a short blurb about the movement, the explanation of the hand signals, and the names of the working groups. The idea behind this was that every assembly could be somebody’s first so an introduction to the camp and the movement was necessary. As Derrida (1988, p. 639) puts it, we ‘‘answered to’’ the other because we responded to the fact that most of the participants would not be familiar with the consensus process or the camp as a specific associational form. The learning process was necessary because unless people understood how consensus operates, the unfamiliarity of it could have proved exclusive and driven people away instead of bringing them in, as had happened to some other movements experimenting with participative democracy (Polletta, 2004). The efforts of the facilitation group to learn and teach consensus decisionmaking imbued the process with a meaning which was temporary, equivocal, and open to the future. This took place at the same time as the team was exercising great care in creating structures to give consensus stability and reliability. The facilitation working group had a rota system where we coordinated and volunteered to facilitate GAs and the meetings of active participants (all who participated in organizing ODS’ actions). We also helped develop structures for proposing, agreeing on, and publishing assembly agendas in advance so that everybody knew the meeting themes and could come to those that they were interested in. The group tried to stick to the agreed schedule of assemblies and other meetings. When an assembly was supposed to take place, the facilitators were then always present, ready to facilitate, and it was mainly them who used mic check to announce and begin the GA or other meetings. It was the facilitator’s responsibility to come prepared to the GA, which meant that they had read the minutes from the previous meeting or in other ways found out what the points of the discussion were. These often needed to be summarized at the beginning of the next assembly. The group was also responsible for making sure that the minutes from all GAs were posted on ODS’ website within 24 hours. Over time, each facilitator also developed a routine of preparing for facilitating a meeting. This is an excerpt about my routine: I arrive on Dame Street at around 6 pm and immediately do my usual drill. I come in, talk to whoever is hanging around the usual communal areas (the kitchen, the outreach table, the GA area). This is mostly about very random issues like today I spoke to S about the Tute Bianche and ways the police use force against the protesters. I would then

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look for the minutes book and more importantly, a person kind enough to volunteer to take the minutes. I will try to locate my co-facilitator and a few persons who went to the last night’s GA and knew what the main points of that assembly were and what was to be discussed tonight. Then I would talk to my co-facilitator and we would provisionally divide our roles and think about how best to order the points on the agenda, what structure for discussion would be most efficient, what is the purpose of this meeting and how to ensure that there are action points to be followed on after the meeting. (November 30, 2011 notes)

This short excerpt illustrates a number of things. First, it shows how responsibility could be assumed by a person by virtue of her role as a facilitator. To use Derrida’s (1988, pp. 638, 639) understanding of responsibility, she ‘‘answers for’’ what she perceives she is and the role she thinks she needs to play. Second, the fragment also shows that the structure of the GAs was a constant work in progress. When I wrote this note, for example, it was still not clear how to put an item on a future agenda. ODS later decided to have one planning assembly every week. On a Monday all those who were present made decisions about the themes and issues tackled at the GAs during the week. Finally, the fragment points to the fact that the learning about the structure of GAs was not sufficient to make it work – the structure had to be deliberately upheld and cared for. With time and dropping temperatures outside, it became increasingly difficult to find a person willing to take meeting minutes. The ‘‘minute-taker hunts’’ were necessary in order to ensure that the structures that we all agreed to abide by did not collapse. This is how one facilitator described actions that she was undertaking because of the feeling of responsibility for a kind of ‘‘organizational memory’’ of the movement: I did feel that we could help with doing sort of documentation of the kinds of things that needed to be done at general assemblies – generally in terms of giving a basic introduction, those could vary y. So there wouldn’t be that loss that was already happening after three or four weeks where it was like: wait a second, did we already discussed that before or work was done on that a few days ago, y and we need to hear about it y. I felt that y there was almost this sense of responsibility where you felt like ‘‘well, I have to come again tomorrow’’ y again there was no system to be able to go: ‘‘listen y this has been going on for three or four days and here is some of my knowledge that I can now entrust to within the system.’’ It was like if I leave, that knowledge wasn’t gonna go to serve for anybody else y. Things get forgotten and lost and nobody understands what’s going on and it very quickly becomes anti-democratic because people cannot participate and you have an inevitable situation where knowledge becomes power much more so. (May 4, 2012 interview)

This issue of ensuring smooth communication between participants as a way of keeping it democratic brings us to another facet of responsibility in

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how the facilitators ‘‘answered before’’ (Derrida, 1988, pp. 639, 640) ODS, the Occupy movement, and its democratic ethos. Because of their proximity to the practice of consensus decision-making, facilitators could be a perfect (but obviously, not the only) litmus test for the values of the entire movement. Occupy prided itself to be a leaderless resistance movement that used direct democracy. Hence, it was really important that the facilitators were not perceived as leaders. The task of the facilitation group was not to ‘‘be in charge’’ but to help ‘‘the meeting go forward.’’ The facilitators should also help build, encourage, and foster mutual respect, trust, and personal and collective responsibility. All of these attitudes had to be developed and cherished within the working group as well. The following quotations capture this. The first quote comes from a participant and the second from a co-facilitator of the facilitation workshop that I co-organized in early March 2012. The latter fragments are from participants in one of the facilitation group meetings that took place after GAs. I facilitated a lot in the early days of ODS so some new people who came, took my opinion as representing the movement. I failed as a facilitator and learned never to express my opinion while I’m facilitating. (March 7, 2012 notes) Facilitation is not about being in charge and it is not about directing the group, but helping that meeting go well and helping every voice that it’s heard. There should also be a rotation of roles y. We should help everybody to stay focused y. Facilitators also help the meeting to be enjoyable, which sometimes happens and sometimes it doesn’t. [laughs] y Help the meeting move, summarise but do not move too quickly or assume that you understand every point. As facilitators you don’t have to find points of agreement but our role is to help people find their points of agreement. (March 7, 2012 notes) Can I put forward a proposal that as facilitators, during a facilitation meeting, we respect the speaker and not talk over one another? (November 10, 2011 notes) The issue with the minutes is that – what’s our system? Minutes from last night are not up and the minutes book is off site. [a long discussion follows]. OK, so we are saying that we should trust the minute taker – the facilitators and the minute-taker take responsibility for putting them up [sending the minutes to the media team who put them on the ODS website] and any discrepancies between our accounts of the GAs will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis? (November 10, 2011 notes)

The facilitators were conscious of the principles that the movement stood for and that our responsibility as being so close to the consensus process was to ensure that our practice of decision-making was consonant with the broader ethos of Occupy. The above quotations also demonstrate a hidden underside of responsibility in political action: the moment one makes a claim or a group makes a decision to work according to a particular structure, they are invested with

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the responsibility that works like a double bind in that one is not only responsible for what one can predict will happen, but also what may happen beyond one’s reasonable expectations or predictions. As Derrida puts it: ‘‘I assume responsibility for speaking rightly, justly, on this point, up until now, up to the point when I am no longer responsible for anything. Hence the point from which all responsibility is announced (2000, p. 70, emphasis in original).’’ According to this understanding, all human agency and true responsibility comes from a moment when one makes a decision that is really a leap of faith. Making a fully informed decision would mean acting like an automaton – according to a predetermined program or software. No responsibility could follow from such an automated response. In everyday life, we sometimes like to think that we are free subjects and should only be responsible for decisions that we make following our free wills – hence decisions whose effects we could realistically predict. If that had been the case in ODS, the facilitators should not have taken responsibility for taking care of the consensus process. When it became clear that understandings of what the process entailed differed and the practice of decision-making was imperfect, the facilitation group could have abdicated their responsibility for teaching or sticking to consensus. Since they could not predict that these difficulties would emerge, as soon as they did, there should have been no further basis for assuming responsibility for the workings of consensus in ODS. ODS participants could have just said that they ‘‘did not sign up for this’’ and walk away. However, this is not what happened and it seems that the realization that some degree of uncertainty was inevitable in the situation in which we were in made facilitators feel responsible. By the virtue of the situation in which the participants were camping out in the middle of a city in a very difficult environment, this sense of uncertainty was not solely related to the matter of decision-making. It was strongly intertwined with questions about the camp’s survival. This is how two of the facilitators reflected on the issue of accepting uncertainty and taking responsibility: I see it in myself when people start coming and asking me things as if somehow I know about them [laughs]. It’s like ‘‘I don’t know’’ y. It’s a tendency that I have y sometimes to my own detriment because I see things and I see what needs to be done or at least I have some ideas of what could be done. And then I’m like ‘‘well, OK I should try and make that happen if nobody else is.’’ And sometimes it’s not stuff that I am particularly interested in or good at either but it’s kind of like we’re just descending into chaos here y (May 4, 2012 interview) It was like we were living at the source of the river or something. We were paddling there in the sunshine going ‘‘oh this is great, oh my God. What’s gonna happen? Where we’re

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gonna go?’’ That’s what I remember and I remember getting that feeling a number of times and I remember that feeling not being there. I remember that feeling being less and less there y but never in the wider group – not at meetings. AS: Why do you think it was difficult to get that feeling in meetings? Because they weren’t focused on Occupy. The meetings were focused on functionality, survival y. Like that last day, the day before the [police] came in. I spent the whole day about getting the stuff off camp, protecting stuff and I talked about we need focus, we need a unifying focus again cause that’s gone. And I’d spoken to S about it y because we both agree on so many things. And even when we don’t agree, we allow ourselves to feel that, to believe that change is possible. Because that’s fundamental for our own personal view and we can see how close we can come to that and how quickly it can happen. (April 24, 2012 interview)

The second fragment is particularly intriguing because it shows that in the face of uncertainty, like with the police raid that was expected but the exact date was not known, the facilitator was still seeking to take responsibility. She was trying to find a safe place for ODS’ documentation. Moreover, uncertainty here had two different aspects. One had to do with the possible eviction and camp survival issues. The other referred to the belief that ‘‘change is possible.’’ Why was this good feeling that she mentioned at the beginning not present in meetings? Because they were preoccupied with the matters of survival, they no longer dealt with bigger social and political issues. They lost the feeling that this occupation had potential to make real change happen. Instead of uncertainty of ‘‘what is going to happen,’’ there was certainty that no real social change is going to happen. What were some other bases on which people in ODS accepted this uncertainty? Some of them felt excitement that they were partaking in a form of protest that was something new compared to the practices of the old left and the unions. Occupy was also different from traditional politics since it claimed that it did not have very specific demands. As one participant said: ‘‘What I like about Occupy is that it doesn’t know what it is. It’s refreshing!’’ (January 21, 2012 notes). For activists, it might have been not missing out on an opportunity to do something positive for the community: When you’re an activist, I think, it’s very difficult y when there is an opportunity, when something is happening, and there is an opportunity for you to feel like you’re really acting for the benefit of your community, of your nation, people or humanity, it’s very difficult sometimes to not sacrifice something in yourself or of part of your life. It’s very important, I think, as an activist to not feel any regret because it really diminishes any action that you’ve done. (April 24, 2012 interview)

For others still, it was part of a learning process where a new society was being created: ‘‘We are trying to recreate politics here and an ideal society.

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We’re not just protesters but processors!’’ (October 26, 2011 notes). Some participants found it important that each participant had their response to the question of what Occupy meant to them personally and specifically, as one of them recalled: ‘‘There are so many people asking what we are here for and [I said] that we should have just a short response – we are here for change and that’s it and [every participant] can elaborate on that whatever that is for them’’ (October 13, 2011 interview). How could people in ODS not only accept and embrace all that uncertainty but also take responsibility for upholding and practising consensus in particular, but also for all other tasks that had to be undertaken? Derrida’s explanation of an aporia of a decision may be helpful here (Beardsworth, 1996; Derrida, 2000). People can only take ethical responsibility for a decision that they make without predetermined criteria and a full knowledge of the consequences of that decision. Otherwise, the decision is not really a decision but an unfolding of a program, a mechanistic application of knowledge (Raffoul, 2010). Paradoxically, then, we took responsibility for consensus because our relative lack of knowledge and experience of it as well as the uncertainty surrounding our entire situation was combined with our entanglement in the global Occupy movement. This entanglement together with the facilitation group’s attempts at transmitting the knowledge about consensus are an example of what Derrida calls heritage or inheritance (Diprose, 2006). In the first instance, by learning consensus and becoming responsible for employing it, ODS participants enacted the meanings of it that they had inherited. For example, we learned about the block as part of the consensus process and we adopted a certain meaning of it. In the second instance, however, those enactments like employing the block were never perfect; instead its meanings were reinterpreted, criticized, misunderstood, neglected, developed, and changed in a variety of ways. After a few GAs where the block was used, it became evident that it was difficult to tell if a person was blocking on the grounds of their personal views only or if he or she had the good of the group as their first priority. A problem then emerged about who was to decide whether the block was a ‘‘principled block.’’ Responsibility that was assumed on the basis of this inheritance, then, was far from the traditional notion of being answerable for oneself. Rather, this kind of responsibility opens itself up to the unforeseeable futures and to the other. Ethical responsibility is an opening to all that is not yet present but will shape the meaning of consensus in the future. Hence, by taking responsibility for consensus and performing their chosen tasks in ODS, the participants were required to refer to something beyond

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the present imperfections of Occupy such as described by this participant who, as she claims, does not blame anybody for what happened: There is just reality of what happened like for example me and my friend K were for one day going to be able to go to an assembly. She’d never been to an assembly before. She is a wheelchair user and she lives in North-West and it was this one chance that she got to go to an assembly. And we arrived at the camp and it wasn’t happening and there was this other meeting happening and we weren’t invited into it. Well, we were but there was no wheelchair access. I don’t want to place any blame. She was very upset but she wasn’t upset with the people there but just she was upset because for her the people in Occupy was about inclusion and it’s not anybody’s fault but it’s just how [it] happened y (April 24, 2012 interview).

The facilitation group’s efforts on their own could hardly guarantee that consensus in ODS would work. In order for it to function properly, it was not sufficient to facilitate the spaces for learning about consensus; it had to gain the status of a legitimate and acceptable way of making decisions. Hence, it was also important what response there was to this decisionmaking process in terms of people’s commitment to it.

The Problem of Commitment to Consensus Since there was no constant membership in ODS, the need to learn consensus and develop commitment to it was ever-present but not everybody used the opportunities to learn. This is despite the fact that the workshops and GAs that discussed consensus process were as much about learning about its technicalities as debating the reasons why things were done in this particular way. The discussion was always open for input from every participant and a space for adjusting the process was made. For example, all working groups in ODS were open for anybody to join in and all individuals who participated in GAs could make a proposal to change the consensus process. In the first two consensus workshops, a process thought to be efficient and democratic was agreed to. Later, however, many changes were adopted and implemented, which shows that the decision-making was a constant work in progress in ODS. This was achieved through evaluative discussions of consensus and GAs, identifying things that were working well and those aspects that needed to be improved. For example, soon some members started to feel that there was too much emphasis put on decision-making: AS: What were your impressions about consensus then [when you were a facilitator] and what are they now?

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I wasn’t as concerned with that as I was concerned with debate. I was more concerned with the people being there and people having a chance to voice their opinion. I was concerned with what I felt was important people who came had a chance to be actively involved even if it was actively listening, actively witnessing what happened. I wasn’t so much concerned about this decision-making. (April 24, 2012 notes).

In order to accommodate that and the fact that at the beginning of the encampment not many decisions needed to be made by the assembly (as opposed to those attending the in-house meeting), the 1 p.m. GA format was changed to an open forum. Although the consensus structure was agreed to in at least three GAs, and opportunities for changing it were made, the legitimacy of the consensus process was always severely questioned. In the long run, this significantly undermined people’s commitment to and respect for the process. The structure of decision-making was democratically accepted by the participants on Dame Street, but this neither ended the organizational arguments about which process was most efficient and suitable for Occupy, nor did it solve the real problems that those arguments engaged. In what follows, I analyze two of these problems. One is connected to the lack of trust among participants. The other involves the perceived paradox between Occupy’s commitment to diversity on the one hand, and the consensus process in which everybody had to ultimately agree with one another, on the other. One reason for the deficit of commitment to consensus was the lack of trust between participants and the feelings of uncertainty. This was caused by the fact that most people who came to join ODS did not know each other. They were also uncertain about the potential legality or illegality of the situation in which they found themselves. It was a group of people that were very eclectic and ad hoc and didn’t have necessarily a long term commitment, didn’t know one another. People didn’t necessarily trust each other at the start. Nobody used second names. People wouldn’t like to give their e-mail addresses or phone numbers because of what we were doing was potentially illegal. (May 4, 2012 interview)

People’s uncertainty as to the extent to which others were willing to take responsibility for their actions in Occupy was also evident. As one of the facilitators put it at a GA in early November 2011: ‘‘Appearing, blocking and then not appearing again – that’s not the way it works!’’ (November 10, 2011 notes). Furthermore, the complex environment that the participants were in and the kinds of relationships that they were developing contributed to uncertainty. Over time, participants were managing a myriad of relations at different levels. Some were living in the camp, were getting to know each

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other there, forming friendships and welcoming the newcomers. Many were also balancing family and work relationships. There were also complex connections between the campers and the participants who were living off site. In addition, there were the frequent encounters with the supporting public, with the police, the passers-by, the Central Bank employees, the local businesses, the politicians, and other political groups. The fear of ‘‘free riding’’ and a threat of being hijacked by one of the ‘‘revolutionary parties’’ of the old left was especially strong in ODS. All of those relationships were characterized by a degree of uncertainty and sometimes outright mistrust. Those feelings had a profound effect on discussions about consensus. They immediately made the fundamental premises of the process problematic as one of the participants emotionally remarked: ‘‘Good intentions?! That’s impossible! If you disagree, people will accuse you of hostile intentions!’’ (November 10, 2011 notes). This comment demonstrates clearly the ways in which mistrust and the broader context of uncertainty could undermine the entire process and thus hollow out the participants’ commitment to it. At the same assembly, another participant did not put the issue explicitly in terms of trust but used a different category to describe some of the problems with the inevitably diverse and sometimes conflicting world views that people in ODS held: The elephant in the room seems to be that consensus relies on the assumption of good faith and I think that people who support the principle of a block perhaps imagine themselves blocking but what if the people they don’t like started blocking? (November 10, 2011 notes)

Through the discussions about consensus, participants became wary of the consequences of embracing political diversity in ODS, or as the above fragment puts it – the influence of people who they may ‘‘not like.’’ Moreover, an irreconcilable tension arose when the notion that conflicting and even mutually-exclusive opinions are inevitable was juxtaposed to the broad base that Occupy was aspiring to speak to (the 99%). In the middle of that tension was the decision-making process. Consensus decision-making is based on a set of premises such as people’s goodwill that make the process work better in some groups and settings rather than others. With its ‘‘we are the 99%’’ ethos, the Occupy movement is indiscriminate as to who could participate. As ODS showed, it can be difficult to live up to the associational metaphor of the 99% because it has real consequences in how we shape our deliberative practices. Through GAs and other discussions in ODS, discourses about consensus developed in which suppositions were taken for granted. One was people’s

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irreconcilable opinions. This conflicted with an understanding of consensus as synonymous with unanimity. This brought forward numerous problems. The most pertinent was about how does ODS’ commitment to freedom and egalitarian discussion square with the process in which we all have to ultimately agree with each other. If put that way and ignoring the intricacies and ‘‘ethos’’ of the process of decision-making, consensus seemed like an absurd proposition. What came to challenge that discourse was a largely moral argument about hope, regaining control over our lives and setting ourselves as an example that would contrast with the practices of traditional politics. People invested a lot of hope in the consensus process and many moral arguments were made in support of it: ‘‘Let’s educate ourselves about consensus. I don’t understand why we can’t try something [new] but we have to use something that’s already being used somewhere else and we know it doesn’t work! Let’s give it a try!’’ (November 10, 2011). Another, young participant claimed: ‘‘the whole percentage idea – it’s what our government is doing!’’ (November 10, 2011 notes). Some individuals in ODS were able to claim higher moral ground for the assemblies and the consensus process because it was different from the discredited electoral and parliamentary procedures of contemporary liberal democracies. It could also counteract the perceived alienation and the lack of egalitarian spaces to discuss things freely with other individuals. For example, a member of the food group told me about the value that the assemblies and the process had for her: ‘‘The greatest thing [about consensus] is being able to talk to people because we’ve all grown so apart’’ (November 16, 2011 notes). The situation of tension between consensus and diversity became even more complex when many participants started to associate the consensus process with a few GAs where proposals for cooperation with the Socialist Workers Party (SWP) and the Dublin Council of Trade Unions were discussed. Since the proposals were blocked, ODS did not take part in their campaigns. Many considered this a mistake on the part of Occupy and a failure of the consensus process because it strengthened individualism and fed into an already strong paranoia against the SWP.

OCCUPY – ACTING IN AN INTERSTITIAL SPACE It is difficult to summarize such multifaceted processes as those of learning decision-making in Occupy. The above analysis, however, shows clearly that the feelings of uncertainty and fear were part of the learning in Occupy. The

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lack of commitment and trust in the decision-making process and in one another further fed into these feelings. Hence, it becomes apparent that uncertainty has two, very different dimensions. Although it has a positive dimension since it encourages creativity and facilitates real social change, it could also have negative effects for building commitment and trust in movement practice. Participants formed new relationships, took on countless tasks and responsibilities despite all uncertainty, and because of this uncertainty they knew that they were partaking in a true moment of disruption. They experienced a moment of the impossible – a moment that required them to confront their fears and uncertainties and take responsibility for the effects of their actions even though they could not predict what those effects would be. At the same time, uncertainty made alliances with other political actors difficult and inhibited effective communication and cooperation in ODS itself. In order to further facilitate our learning and help consensus work better, we may engage in movement practice with a little more awareness of or appreciation for the ‘‘interstitial nature of autonomy’’ (Pickerill & Chatterton, 2006, p. 732). What people thought were the logical paradoxes in ODS’ discourses and undesirable tensions that undermined trustworthy relations may not necessarily be caused by some mistake of strategy. Rather, it is an ordinary result of the building of an autonomous and egalitarian space that operates by the rules of direct democracy in the midst of a city and a political and economic system that is in no way conducive to the world that Occupy wants to bring about. Interstitiality is about living in between two worlds: the actual one and the one such movements as Occupy hope for. Therefore, it was not (or not primarily) the consensus process that led to or exacerbated those tensions; they were rather a predictable and inevitable feature of any such space as ODS simply because just as ‘‘there is no ‘out there’ external to capital relations’’ (Pickerill & Chatterton, 2006, p. 737), there is no ‘‘out there’’ where the 99% could participate in a truly and perfectly egalitarian discussion. Those spaces have to be built and the building of such spaces is a process that does not start with a blank sheet of paper. Instead, it is protracted and has to take into account many complex contexts, players, and challenges. Uncertainty is an inevitable and at the same time indispensable part of social movement practice because it helps people assume ethical responsibility for their actions. In general, then, uncertainty can carry both positive and negative effects but it does not have to stop people from standing up for what they believe is right. Uncertainty never renders people’s actions

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futile – far from it. It points to the complexity of building radically democratic and participative communities in the here and now. It informs our processes of learning in a myriad of ways and forces us to take real ethical responsibility for our decisions.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank the wonderful people I met and worked with in Occupy Dame Street. It was an extraordinary and marvelous experience and I was very fortunate to be able to share it with you. Many thanks to the anonymous Reviewers and the Editor Patrick G. Coy for offering their insights and suggestions, which greatly improved this chapter.

REFERENCES Adbusters. (2011, July 13). #OCCUPYWALLSTREET. Adbusters. Retrieved from http:// www.adbusters.org/blogs/adbusters-blog/occupywallstreet.html. Accessed on January 20, 2013. AlJazeera. (2011, October 16). ‘‘Occupy’’ protests continue across the globe. Al Jazeera English. Retrieved from http://www.aljazeera.com/news/americas/2011/10/20111016161015677 960.html. Accessed on January 20, 2013. Beardsworth, R. (1996). Derrida and the political. London: Routledge. Coy, P. G. (2003). Negotiating identity and danger under the gun: Consensus decision making on peace brigades international teams. In Patrick G. Coy (Ed.), Research in social movements, conflicts and change (Vol. 24, pp. 85–122). Bingley: Emerald (MCB UP). Retrieved from http://www.emeraldinsight.com/10.1016/S0163-786X(03)80022-8 Derrida, J. (1988). The politics of friendship. The Journal of Philosophy, 85(11), 632–644. Derrida, J. (2000). The politics of friendship. (G. Collins, Trans.). London: Verso. Diprose, R. (2006). Derrida and the extraordinary responsibility of inheriting the future-tocome. Social Semiotics, 16(3), 435–447. doi: 10.1080/10350330600824193 Epstein, B. (1993). Political protest and cultural revolution: Nonviolent direct action in the 1970s and 1980s. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fals-Borda, O. (1991). Some basic ingredients. In O. Fals-Borda & M. A. Rahman (Eds.), Action and knowledge: Breaking the monopoly with participatory action research (pp. 3–12). New York, NY: The Apex Press. Flank, L. (Ed.). (2011). Voices from the 99 percent: An oral history of the Occupy Wall Street movement. St Petersburg, FL: Red and Black Publishers. Gabbatt, A. (2011, October 15). ‘‘Occupy’’ anti-capitalism protests spread around the world. The Guardian. Retrieved from http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/oct/16/occupyprotests-europe-london-assange Graeber, D. (2009). Direct action: An ethnography. Oakland: AK Press.

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Graeber, D. (2011, September 25). Occupy Wall Street rediscovers the radical imagination. The Guardian. Retrieved from http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2011/ sep/25/occupy-wall-street-protest Henwood, D., & The Congressional Budget Office. (2011). It really is about the 1%. In K. Gessen & A. Taylor (Eds.), Occupy!: Scenes from Occupied America (pp. 15–17). London: Verso. Juris, J. S. (2008). Networking futures: The movements against corporate globalization. Durham: Duke University Press. Juris, J. S. (2012). Reflections on #Occupy Everywhere: Social media, public space, and emerging logics of aggregation. American Ethnologist, 39(2), 259–279. doi: 10.1111/ j.1548-1425.2012.01362.x Kindon, S. L., Pain, R., & Kesby, M. (Eds.). (2007). Participatory action research approaches and methods: Connecting people, participation and place. London: Routledge. Maeckelbergh, M. (2009). The will of the many: How the alterglobalisation movement is changing the face of democracy. London: Pluto Press. Maeckelbergh, M. (2011). Doing is believing: Prefiguration as strategic practice in the alterglobalization movement. Social Movement Studies, 10(1), 1–20. doi: 10.1080/ 14742837.2011.545223 Mansbridge, J. (2003). Consensus in context: a guide for social movements. In Patrick G. Coy (Ed.), Research in social movements, conflicts and change (Vol. 24, pp. 229–253). Bingley: Emerald (MCB UP). Maryse, T. (n.d.). A snapshot of Occupy Wall Street: The use of social and citizen media. Storify. Retrieved from http://storify.com/mRAWRyse/a-snapshot-of-occupy-wallstreet-the-use-of-social. Accessed on January 20, 2013. McIntyre, A. (2008). Participatory action research. London: Sage. McVeigh, K. (2011, October 4). Wall Street protest movement spreads to cities across US, Canada and Europe. The Guardian. Retrieved from http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/ 2011/oct/04/wall-street-protest-movement-spreads Mueller, C. (1993). Ella Baker and the origins of ‘‘participatory democracy’’. In V. L. Crawford, J. A. Rouse & B. Woods (Eds.), Women in the civil rights movement: Trailblazers and torchbearers, 1941–1965 (pp. 51–70). Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Occupy Wall Street. (2011, November 10). Statement of autonomy. NYC General Assembly. Retrieved from http://www.nycga.net/resources/documents/statement-of-autonomy/. Accessed on January 20, 2013. Pickerill, J., & Chatterton, P. (2006). Notes towards autonomous geographies: Creation, resistance and self-management as survival tactics. Progress in Human Geography, 30(6), 730–746. doi: 10.1177/0309132506071516 Pollard, D. (2011, September 24). When consensus doesn’t work. How to Save the World. Retrieved from http://howtosavetheworld.ca/2011/09/24/when-consensus-doesnt-work/. Accessed on January 18, 2013. Polletta, F. (2004). Freedom is an endless meeting: Democracy in American social movements. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Raffoul, F. (2010). The origins of responsibility. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Rhizome. (2011, September 25). When consensus doesn’t work. Rhizome: Participation, Activism, Consensus. Retrieved from http://rhizomenetwork.wordpress.com/2011/09/25/ when-consensus-doesnt-work-or-are-we-all-conservatives-really/

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PRACTICES OF LOCAL SOCIAL FORUMS: THE BUILDING OF TACTICAL AND CULTURAL COLLECTIVE ACTION REPERTOIRES Pascale Dufour ABSTRACT Since the first edition of the World Social Forum in Porto Alegre, Brazil, 2001, similar initiatives have flourished at the local scales. In the existing literature, local social forums are generally considered to be a natural replication of the world social forums. Beyond the label ‘‘social forums,’’ what do the practices of local social forums specifically entail and what is the meaning of these practices for local activists? I propose a comparison of eight cases situated in two distinct societies (Quebec and France). I use a multi-approach methodology, combining direct observation, focus groups, interviews, and documentary analysis. I show that despite strong national differences, a highly decentralized process, and the strong autonomy of local actors, local social forums share structural characteristics, and the expression ‘‘social forum’’ is associated with ways of doing things that limit the variety of local social

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 235–266 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036011

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forum initiatives: organizers share a common intentionality; the mode of operation of local social forum process and event belong to the same political culture and translate into the same practices; and the outputs of these gatherings are similar in terms of the building of ties. Overall, local social forums are used as tactical and cultural collective action repertoires by actors, redefining the boundaries of social resistance and its practices. Keywords: Local social forums; collective action repertoire; comparison France; Quebec

INTRODUCTION: LOCAL SOCIAL FORUM EXPERIENCES In October 2011, four thousand people spent three days in a small village of 400 inhabitants in the Bas-du-Fleuve region in Quebec, Canada, dividing their time between participative workshops, social gatherings, and artistic performances. Forty years after witnessing their first collective rebellion, inhabitants welcomed one of the region’s largest gatherings of activists in 10 years: the first edition of the Forum social Bas-du-Fleuve. By the end of the event, enthusiasm was patent. In January 2011, a thousand participants gathered in Se´ne´, a small village in the region of Brittany in France, for the seventh edition of the local social forum FS 56. For two-and-a-half days, participants attended conferences on three main themes: environment, food, and labor conditions. They attended participative workshops as well as artistic performances, including plays and concerts. Lunch and dinner consisted of free home-made food served in a central room where participants had an opportunity to meet, discuss, and visit the numerous stands presenting the various organizations involved in the social forum process. As for other editions, it was deemed successful by the few local media that did cover it. Thousands of local social forums (LSFs) like these are taking place all over the world each year. Few media report these events, even locally. Local social forums exist as ‘‘hidden collective actions’’ in the sense that while they do take place, they do not really exist publicly, or they receive very little publicity. Though LSFs are hidden and have little visibility, this does not mean they are not important. These gatherings are very intriguing for at least two main reasons: quantitatively, in Europe, part of North America (the United States and the province of Quebec in Canada), Latin America,

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South-East Asia, and, more recently, Africa and the Arab World, thousands of people and groups who are committed to the fight for ‘‘another world’’ have been involved in local social forums (WSF, 2012). But beyond the numbers, LSFs are an expression of the transformation of the Global Justice Movement. Immediately following the World Social Forum (WSF) process, initiated in 2001 in Porto Alegre, Brazil, LSFs became local gatherings of activists who wanted to ‘‘change the world’’ for themselves and their community. They are self-organized by local social actors and have no connections to institutional agendas. As a result, LSFs are the concrete translation of global social justice movements at the local scale, offering an accurate barometer of the shape of the movement on a territory. Yet we know very little about this phenomenon of collective action, the existing literature focuses more on social forums at the world and regional scales (Beaudet, Canet, & Massicotte, 2010; della Porta, Andretta, Mosca, & Riter, 2006; della Porta & Tarrow, 2005; Gautney, 2010; Pleyers, 2010; Smith, Byrd, Reese, & Smythe, 2012). Subsequent editions of the WSF have been studied extensively since the first event took place in Porto Alegre in 2001, and we are very much aware of who was in attendance, how it was organized, and what the underlying processes were. The same is true for the European Social Forum (ESF), at least for the first four editions held in Florence in 2002, Paris in 2003, London in 2004, and Athens in 2006 (della Porta, 2009; Sommier, Fillieule, & Agrikoliansky, 2008). In contrast, very few extensive studies exist on local experiences, except for the US social forums (Karides, Katz-Fishman, Scott, Walker, & Brewer, 2010; Smith, Juris, & the Social Forum Research Collective, 2008). In this respect, it would appear that local social forums are understood mainly as a ‘‘natural’’ or nonproblematic variation of larger events. In this chapter, I wish to explore this presupposition: Beyond the label ‘‘social forums,’’ what do the practices of LSFs specifically entail, and what is the meaning of these practices for local activists? Existing literature on social forums at various scales (except at the world scale) offers some empirical evidence of the specifics of place-based forums, focusing more on their uniqueness than on their commonalities. Pleyers (2007, p. 131) mentions that LSFs are built differently in each city, depending on the types of groups that are active in the localities, the connections among them, the affinities of local activists, etc. Canet (2008) shows that the Global Justice Movement is more diverse than generally believed, and he demonstrates how some regional/continental sensitivities appear in the themes addressed in the forums as well as in the forms of mobilization. In particular, he notes strong differences between ESF and

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ASF events. We could probably add the Maghreb social forum of 2011 as a contrasting example. Studies of local social forums provide an even clearer illustration. In Sweden, for example, local forums have been organized in seven different towns since 2002. They sometimes referred to themselves as ‘‘social forums’’ and other times as ‘‘socialist forums’’ due to a mix of factors, from the presence of certain actors and the absence of others to the local political context or naming process (Nordvall, 2009, p. 442). In their work, Larmer, Dwyer, and Zeilig (2009) show how national, regional, or continental forums in Africa (which have existed since 2002) have proposed a local re-appropriation of the forms and contents of the WSF to make it more relevant to the social and political dynamics of Africa and closer to nation-state alternatives. Karides et al. (2010) demonstrate convincingly how the success of the United States Social Forum (USSF) is in large part due to the involvement of the sector of grassroots organizations, especially in historically marginalized communities (p. 9). These examples clearly illustrate how it is impossible to suppose that the label or name ‘‘social forum’’ describes specific forms or even content. The simple question ‘‘What are social forums?’’ appears to depend strongly on geography, that is, the place and scale of the forum. To deepen our knowledge and understanding of the social forum process, I propose a comparison of eight cases situated in two distinct societies, that is, Quebec and France. I argue that despite strong structural factors that have led to highly diverse situations and few points in common for LSFs, at a certain general level, strong regularities do exist among cases. Local social forums function as a label in the sense that intentionality is shared by organizers (they have the same kind of expectation of what the format of the event and the process should be), the mode of operation of the LSF process and event belong to the same political culture and translate into the same practices, and the outputs of these gatherings are similar in terms of the building of ties. Following the ‘‘soft’’ definition of repertoire (Fillieule, 2010), I show that despite strong national differences, a highly decentralized process and the strong autonomy of local actors, local social forums share certain structural characteristics. Furthermore, the label ‘‘social forum’’ is associated with ways of doing things that limit the variety of local social forum initiatives.

METHODOLOGY The present study is based on an analysis of eight local social forums. Four of the forums took place in Quebec (Canada): Forum social Bas-du-Fleuve,

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Forum social Lanaudie`re, Forum social de Laval, and Forum social du Saguenay-Lac-St-Jean. Four of them took place in France: Forum social du Morbihan (FS 56), Forum social en Forez, Forum social d’Ivry (FSI), and Forum social mondial en Provence (FSMP). As Snyder (2001) has underlined, comparing subnational units better equips us to handle spatially the uneven nature of social processes (p. 94). Although Quebec is not a country, but rather a province in a federal state, it could be considered analytically as a society, distinct from the rest of Canada in terms of its citizenship regime (Jenson, 1998). In other words, LSFs in Quebec society are also subnational units. The two cases are not strictly equivalent, but this comparison has proven useful in the social sciences, given the amount of work published in very diverse subfields (Bidart, Bourdon, & Charbonneau, 2011; Dupuis-De´ri, 2009; Revillard, 2008; Vatz Laaroussi, 2001). These societies are located in the northern hemisphere (though on two different continents), in areas with similar GDP per capita, and sharing the same language. Consequently, these two cases are less diverse than they could be, considering the dispersion of LSF phenomena around the world. Conversely, within the Western world, they exhibit important and interesting differences, particularly regarding activism and collective action toward globalization. In France, struggles against neoliberal globalization emerged in relation to the campaign ‘‘for the cancellation of the debt of third-world countries’’ at the end of the 1980s (Agrikoliansky, 2005), while in Quebec, it is connected to the negotiation of a free-trade agreement by the federal state in the mid-1990s (Brunelle, 2010). These two unique origins result in two different networks of actors involved in the struggles against neoliberal globalization, the content of claims, and the trajectories of protest. In France, the organizations concerned have also developed strong links with the ESF process, while in Quebec, the structuring event is primarily the Social Forum of the Americas. The two regional events have developed differently, responding to their particular economic and political contexts (Canet, 2008). In each society, I documented both the process that leads to the event and the event itself. I attended all events, carried out direct observations (in Quebec, with the help of two research assistants), made audio recordings of most of the workshops, and gathered information regarding attendance, the number of workshops, the format of workshops, and other activities (conferences and artistic performances). I also analyzed the physical attributes of the sites where the events took place. When possible, I led a workshop with participants during the event on the following theme: A Local Social Forum in X: What For? In Quebec, I was able to do this for each forum. The number of participants in the focus groups varied greatly,

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from 5 to 25. In each case, I conducted the workshop with certain visual supports (photographs, statements, definitions) and asked the participants to react to these. All focus group discussions were recorded and fully transcribed. Before and after the event, I conducted individual and group interviews (in Quebec, with the help of the two research assistants) with the organizing committees of the LSFs. Each organizing committee consisted of 5–15 key persons. The minutes of each preparatory meeting for the event were analyzed, and a local press review was conducted. These materials were used to analyze the organizational process a posteriori, as it was not possible to document each case during the process itself. Finally, I carried out extensive research on the local history of activism. Each case was analyzed on an individual basis first, using a common grid: the research team (including the researcher and two research assistants, each of whom worked on each case to facilitate the sharing of information and arriving at a common understanding of it) produced case reports, which were structured as follows: a first section on the process of emergence (chronology, structure of the organizational committee, main rules of operation, transcripts of interviews); a second section on the event itself (map of the site, data on attendance of each workshop or conference and estimated global attendance according to gender, age and origins; transcripts of workshops when available; transcripts of focus groups when available; field notes including photographs, general comments, and remarks on the event and overall impression; local press review); and a third section on the local context (data on the local political and economical context, history of local activism). By induction, I produced a comparative analytical grid (please refer to Appendices A–D) and returned to the data when necessary. For example, the minutes of the meetings of the organizing committees were analyzed a second time to verify the first analysis of the interviews and to confirm that subjects of conflicts among members followed the same patterns in each case. The research team completed these grids, using all the data available. The data were manually codified/standardized at this point in a comparative perspective. This multi-approach methodology, combining direct observation, focus groups, interviews, and documentary analysis, has produced rich data for each case. The primary aim of our study was not to select cases that were necessarily representative of LSFs, nor was it to be exhaustive (even if this was probably the case in Quebec). Rather, I chose to document a limited number of cases as thoroughly as possible in order to understand how activists in different local contexts make use of ‘‘social forums’’ and how they make them work.

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Most of the LSFs in Quebec took place in 2009–2011, while in France they took place in 2010 and 2011. Our selection of cases was based on two separate strategies. In Quebec, I covered seven LSFs organized (i.e., all but one), and I selected the four most relevant for the purposes of this chapter. These four cases best illustrate the argument. The addition of the remaining three cases would not have changed the analysis. For France, the selection was conducted on the basis of feasibility. More than 70 LSFs are organized on the territory each year, far too many for the type of qualitative analysis I am conducting. In the end, the eight cases I selected represent very diverse experiences and practices of the LSFs, in terms of localization on the territory, the number of editions (from one to five), the dynamics of global justice forces in each community, and its history. In the next section of this chapter, I show that two trends compel us to focus primarily on the differences among the cases: first, the conditions of emergence of LSFs are very undetermined; second, Quebec LSFs and French LSFs exhibit strong national specificities.

WHY THE LSF LABEL MIGHT BE A MISNOMER One of the characteristics of LSF emergence might create a very undetermined context, thereby reinforcing the probability of high varieties among cases: there is no hierarchy between the international committee of the WSF and LSF initiatives. If someone wants to initiate and organize an LSF somewhere on the planet, it can be done, and nobody will verify the ‘‘authenticity’’ of the process and deliver the label; you can use it if you want to (conference speaker Chico Whitaker, member of the International Committee, World Social Forum, Dakar, 2010). In this highly decentralized context, the question of practices is even more interesting: With no obligation, legal framework, or any constraining rules, what do people do with social forums at the local level? At first glance, I found a great disinclination of the LSF context: local leaders could decide to organize an LSF once and then stop; they could decide not to organize one at all; or they could organize them for years and then stop. In this context, it would be reasonable to expect that LSFs should be connected primarily with local affairs and that local factors (e.g., political context, local activist history) would play the main role in explaining the differences among cases. Our eight cases, which are situated in two unique contexts, present strong differences that are connected to their national belonging. In the French cases, local social forum events are strongly related to the Association pour la

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taxation des transactions financie`res pour l’aide aux citoyens (ATTAC) (Wintrebert, 2007) and its regional/local collectives (Appendix A, column 1). Thus, the presence/absence of ATTAC is certainly a determining factor in understanding most of the LSF experiences and initiatives on French territory, the coalitions of actors that are present or absent from LSF initiatives, and the global dynamics among actors. ATTAC-France is a highly centralized structure – even if local particularities do exist (Ancelovici, 2002) – and the main function of its headquarters is to structure the actions of local collectives. Three periods can be distinguished in the relationships of the national association ATTAC-France with LSF initiatives. Between 2001 (first WSF) and 2003 (ESF in Paris-St-Denis), local social forums were not encouraged at all by ATTAC-France and were not even recognized as a relevant experience (interviews, LSF organizers, FSI, Dakar, 2010). After 2004, ATTAC-France had more tolerance for LSFs, and a few local collectives began to initiate certain processes, as illustrated by the LSF repertoire in France.1 After 2008, an informal network operated by ATTAC leaders, the Re´seau de facilitation des FSL, tried to foster LSF initiatives.2 Yet LSFs in France are not solely an ‘‘ATTAC affair.’’ For instance, no ATTAC members were involved in one of the cases considered (FSMP). In Quebec, the national history of LSFs is very different (Appendix A, column 1). The emergence of LSFs is linked to two very diverse origins. At the outset, local initiatives were put forward by individuals who had participated in the WSF in 2001 or 2002 and decided to try something locally. They were like pioneers in a new field of action. This story begins in the Quebec City region. The inaugural event of the Forum social re´gional de Quebec Chaudie`re-Appalaches took place in September 2002 and led to the founding of a permanent network, which is still in operation today. Also in 2002, youths of the Estrie region organized the FS de la jeunesse estrienne (a second edition was held in 2005). These first two initiatives used the social forum ‘‘label’’ and were inspired in large part by their participation in the WSF in 2001. However, their operating methods were quite different from the Porto Alegre Charter in that the event was structured as a deliberative process with the objective of producing a common declaration. Lastly, the LSF of the Outaouais region (2003) is a part of this history of people pioneering the social forum processes at different scales and trying to push similar local initiatives. The second turning point in the history of the LSFs in Quebec is linked with the Quebec Social Forum (QSF) initiative (Beaudet, 2010; Dufour & Conway, 2010). The chaotic trajectory of the QSF process from 2002 to

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2006 generated specific learning opportunities for the activists involved in it. The QSF event in 2007 represents the point where a significant number of leaders outside the Montreal area learned about social forums for the first time. It also represented the place where activists from the various regions of Quebec received concrete incentives from the QSF process to elaborate social forums in their own areas, including financial incentives. This is the case for most LSFs that were held after 2007 in the regions, and it is the case for all LSFs considered here. Looking at the big picture, the emergence of LSFs in the two societies has little in common, and the contexts in which LSF initiatives were put into place are highly different. Moreover, empirically I found societal characteristics that distinguish the French and Quebec LSF experiences and reinforce the argument developed in the literature to the effect that regional or local social forums are colored by local characteristics. For example, in the eight cases, a strong national difference exists in terms of the type of collective actors involved (Appendix A, column 2). In Quebec, community groups (mainly defenders of collective rights), unions, and youth organizations were at the forefront of the experiences. In France, aside from ATTAC, I encountered solidarity associations, immigration networks, and extreme-left networks. Overall, interest in LSFs in France is much stronger among baby boomers than among teenagers or even young adults (with some exceptions), while in Quebec, the intergenerational aspect of processes and events is more present. Often, young people provided the spark behind the LSF initiatives. Also, the building processes underlying LSFs are very different in terms of their degree of inclusion. The organizational process appears much more open in the Quebec context. In most LSFs in Quebec, the formal organization of LSF initiatives was as follows: a sovereign general assembly where everybody was allowed to participate in the debates (rules were adopted in certain cases to manage the right to vote for nonaffiliated individuals versus group representatives, but in other cases, the rule was simply one vote per person) and a coordination committee with subcommittees was in charge of the day-to-day work. The planning of the event was based on the WSF format: self-organization. In other words, groups and/or individuals were required to suggest and lead conferences and workshops. In most of the cases, one or two people were paid to coordinate the process, and other highly involved members often exercised their role within committees as part of their job. In two cases, the legal status of LSFs was formally recognized (nonprofit organizations or associations of individuals, which are the two possible categories under Quebec law). In two other cases, an informal collective

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managed the process, but they were always closely connected to an organization or networks of organizations. This access to important material resources is tied to the involvement of unions as well as with the public financing of social groups, which is very specific in Quebec (Laforest, 2012; White, 2004). Interestingly, this semi-institutionalization of the organizational process (because people were officially in charge of the process and paid for their work) goes hand in hand with a very open mode of operation. In France, in all of the cases considered except one (FSI), the organizers were volunteers. In consequence, FSL processes and events were very dependent upon external resources (public authorities and municipalities that were willing to support them). The organizational processes were much less open than in the Quebec cases. In all but one case, members of the organization committee decided on the program content and who would be invited to conferences and workshops. Lastly, LSFs in France are usually much more closely connected to the global framework (e.g., the fight against neoliberal policies and globalization and the strong presence of political analysis of contexts at the conferences and workshops I attended). In Quebec, in contrast, local problems take center stage. Sometimes, the connections with more general political dimensions and contexts are only built during the event and not even mentioned in the program. In other words, the political analysis is more the result of the event than its point of departure. But, of course, there are exceptions. In the following sections of this chapter, I argue that LSFs are much more than very different events sharing the same name. They are a new item in the toolbox that collective actors can mobilize at some point, both as a tactical and as a cultural repertoire of action.

LSF AS A TACTICAL AND CULTURAL REPERTOIRE Following Fillieule (2010, p. 11), I adopt a ‘‘soft’’ definition of a tactical repertoire, as a distinct universe of practices, multiple but not without limitation, codified and routinized, transformable, historically constituted, and culturally delineated, but always in motion. As Sime´ant (2009) has demonstrated in the context of hunger strikes, when such an action begins, a specific process is commencing with its own rules, its own temporality, and its own logic, ‘‘giving a family resemblance to movements initiated by very different actors (p. 9).’’3 This is exactly what happened with LSF processes.

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C. Tilly (1977, 1984) and L.A. Tilly and Tilly (1981) first developed the concept of the collective action repertoire in the 1980s. The concept has undergone several formulations since that time, but when Charles Tilly reworked it in 2008, he drew a distinction between protest repertoires and tactical repertoires (consisting of a set of performances). Each protest repertoire is closely linked to a certain period of history. Thus, the premodern repertoire of protest in Europe was linked to the form of the premodern state (mainly local and noncentralized), while the modern protest repertoire was linked to the modern form of the state (organized at the national level and much more centralized). A protest repertoire of actions contains several tactical repertoires that coexist. Inside tactical repertoires, actors make strategic choices among different performances. Each organization has some preferences for one performance or another, depending also on the political context in which claims are formulated. In the next section of this chapter, I consider LSFs as a tactical (and cultural) repertoire, imposing a universe of constraints upon actors that choose this specific set of performances, which are relatively standardized. Activists who are involved have a shared consciousness of what the performances should look like in terms of the nature of the interactions, what is expected and what is not expected, and how it should operate. However, beyond means of actions, the cultural dimension of tactical repertoires should be taken into account (Diani, 1992, p. 11) because social movement actors are involved in political and/or cultural conflicts. For Taylor, Rupp, and Gamson (2004), the meaning people give to their actions plays a major role in whether or not they make use of a tactical repertoire. Fillieule (2010) urges analysts of social movements not to detach the observation of modes of actions from the cultural meanings that are attached to them by those who use them or by the targeted populations. In this perspective, a mode of action (or a tactical repertoire) always carries some meaning, which varies depending on the actors that make use of it and the context in which it is expressed (Fillieule, 2010, p. 98). Following this line of inquiry (Offerle´, 2008; Pe´chu, 2006; Sime´ant, 2009; Steinberg, 1999, p. 780), I maintain and demonstrate that LSFs consist of tactical and cultural repertoires of action. A comparison of these eight cases suggests that their emergence processes, the way in which participants made use of the event and the main results they produced, share strong similarities. First, LSFs do have some crucial points in common: they are planned in order to bring together people belonging to a territory and to create bridges between them. LSFs are also based on the shared willingness to ‘‘do things

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differently’’ (e.g., searching for alternative ways of acting in their respective domains and also experiencing alternative ways of being together). So, actors involved in the organization of LSFs know in advance what it should be or look like, and they share an intentionality. Second, LSFs offer a practical framework: the process and the events go hand in hand with certain types of debates and certain types of practices (and not with others).

Intentionality The intentionality of core organizers at the beginning of the process is very clear: they choose to organize an LSF to bring different people together and create a place where they can meet, talk with, and learn from each other. In the eight cases considered, the explicit aim of each forum was for participants to work together to change, transform, or solve problems and to find alternatives in the local area. These aims are very vague. This is precisely what defines social forum experiences and distinguishes them from other types of collective action. Their focus is much less a specific external target (e.g., workers’ rights) and more of an open space ‘‘for the free and horizontal exchange of ideas, experiences, and strategies oriented to enacting and generating alternatives to neoliberalism (Conway, 2012, p. 9).’’ Because social forums are a gathering place for organizations and activists involved in multiple fields of protest, the umbrella under which they gather remains very broad (searching for alternatives, working for change), and most of the shared values of social forum activism rely more on the ‘‘methodology’’ of the forums (the ways things have to be done to organize the forum: the notion of open horizontal space, consensus-building, and nondeliberative entities) than on a specific objective (Glasius & Timms, 2006, p. 190). Thus, LSFs are planned as ‘‘a space of meetings for groups and/or individuals,’’ ‘‘a space of potential convergences among groups,’’ ‘‘a space of learning from the experiences of others,’’ and ‘‘a space of citizens’ participation (interviews with LSF coordinators).’’ All organizing committees hope that LSFs will contribute to the social transformation or social change of their region. The slogans adopted to promote the events are also very clear on this issue: ‘‘To open new paths (Lac-Saint-Jean),’’ ‘‘Toward a social warming (Bas-du-Fleuve),’’ ‘‘For a more human tomorrow (Laval),’’ ‘‘Another world is possible; work together to reach it (Ivry),’’ ‘‘Learn, think and act for another world (Morbihan),’’ and ‘‘Imagine, share, resist, exchange: Solidarity in all its states (Forez).’’

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These aims are very congruent with the way activists and leaders define WSF. The first article of the WSF Charter of Principles states: The World Social Forum is an open meeting place for reflective thinking, democratic debate of ideas, formulation of proposals, free exchange of experiences and interlinking for effective action, by groups and movements of civil society that are opposed to neoliberalism and to domination of the world by capital and any form of imperialism, and are committed to building a planetary society directed towards fruitful relationships among Humankind and between it and the Earth. (WSF, 2002)

Clearly, LSF organizers situate their forums along the lines of the WSF, at least as far as their discourse is concerned: multi-sectoral gatherings of groups and activists concerned with the alternative development of the place in which they live. Interestingly, in all cases, activists involved in the organization process referred to other social forums they had heard about or in which they were involved, and the fact that they had decided to do something locally back home. But it is important to note that the pre-practices of social forums are not a necessary condition for having a forum take place somewhere. The theoretical knowledge of it is sufficient for people to initiate a process, even if it is very vague. In addition, the referent social forum could be local (or national) and not just at the world or European scale. Therefore, the important point is not so much the notoriety of a forum than the knowledge of an experience or its existence. As one of our key sources from FS BasSaint-Laurent has stated, ‘‘It is part of our vocabulary now; we all have heard of social forums.’’ So, a common image of social forums definitely exists. People who decide to organize a forum know what it should look like, and they know that it exists as a tool that can be activated and mobilized. What makes social forums local is the emphasis of forum leaders on the territory over which they have control. For example, sometimes it is only the town in which the forum takes place. This idea is crucial in all of the cases documented: LSFs were seen as a place where participants could create certain levers of actions together at the local level. Not only do LSFs share an image, but they also offer a framework of actions, during the emergence process as well as during the event. A Cultural and Tactical Framework of Action The organizing committees in all eight cases declared that they would follow the WSF Charter of Principles. Some LSFs formally adopted their own local version of the WSF principles, while others simply applied its most

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important rules, namely, that social forums are open meeting spaces (art. 1), that nobody is entitled to speak on its behalf (art. 6), that political parties are excluded from the forum spaces (art. 8), and that social forums value diversity and plurality (art. 9). These principles restricted the practices of LSFs, mainly because they caused disagreement among organizers and activists (Appendix C, column 1). The minutes of the meetings show that hours were spent discussing specific issues (which, in the majority of cases, were the same) (Appendix C, column 2). As mentioned earlier, the formats of the events were very diverse, but there were underlying similarities present in all cases. The main points of disagreement among activists included the following: the format of the proposed activities and their respective weight (whether to hold conferences with experts, specialists, intellectuals, and professionals, versus more participative workshops and artistic performances), the location of the forum, the management of its finances (whether to charge entrance fees and the question of sponsors and grants), the presence of political parties or of private actors, and the individuals (officials) invited to attend the opening event and the follow-up of the event. This is not happenstance: social forums are born outside of (and sometimes against) party politics and representative democracy in order to give a voice to social movements, their opposition to economic and financial globalization, and their translation into political systems (Pleyers, 2010). So, LSFs, as tactical and cultural repertoires of action appropriated by local actors, have to deal with this genealogy and the same types of issues. Organizing an LSF involves specific steps and specific decisions that reinforce the common points of LSFs despite their variations. But even if a consensus existed at the level of principle, disagreements still arose during the event. For example, in a majority of the cases analyzed, multi-activists who belonged to a political party and to an organization felt uncomfortable with the rule that excluded political parties (Appendix D, column 1). One of the participants of the Forum social Lanaudie`re (Quebec) explained, ‘‘At the end of the forum, during the plenary session, I felt very frustrated that the federal Member of Parliament was invited to speak and use the forum for the purposes of self-promotion, while I was not allowed, as a participant, to speak on behalf of my party, Que´bec Solidaire.’’ This tension reflects the dynamics of the relationships between the social movement field and left politics in the two societies. In France, several ATTAC activists are also involved with the Socialist Party or Les Verts (Waters, 2006), while in Quebec, many activists involved in LSFs are, at the same time, activists within community groups and activists within the new left party, Que´bec Solidaire (Dufour, 2009).

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Another clear illustration of this point is the question of the ‘‘status’’ of social forums, as a space that does not have the power of an entity (no one is allowed to speak on behalf of the forum, and no statement can be made on behalf of the forum). However, adherence to this rule during the event can be difficult to sustain (Appendix D, column 1). For example, during the concluding plenary session of the Forum social Bas-du-Fleuve (Quebec), some participants expressed the desire to end with something concrete and collective. The assembly of 400 participants who were gathered in the church asked for a statement by the forum. Several organizers explained that it was not possible, because the forum was only a space. ‘‘This is not the purpose of a forum; it is not its role. If we did that, it would not be a forum but something else (Closing conference, coordinator, Esprit-Saint, 2011).’’ The same kind of issue arose during the Forum social de Laval (Quebec), during the FSMP, and during the FS 56 (France). Each time, the organizers explained their position: a social forum is not an organization that is able to make decisions. Rather, it is an opportunity for debate and awareness. Organizations present during a forum can take away certain ideas and transform them into actions. Also, some alternatives were suggested to satisfy the desire of the participants to end with ‘‘something concrete and not just speeches (interview, participant, FS Morbihan)’’: to write and publish a synopsis of the forum with proposals for future actions to be initiated or followed by the community or to mandate a committee outside the forum to write a manifesto. Activists who contributed to the emergence of a local forum had a very strong opinion about what a forum was and what it was not, and the occasion of the forum was a learning opportunity for participants on what a forum was supposed to be. Our focus groups at the events were also very struck by the surprise of first-time participants concerning the notion that ‘‘we are not an entity or a body and we will not make decisions.’’ In contrast, veteran social forum participants were much more comfortable with this rule, and some of them defended it. For the majority of organizers, the absence of a representative body is an integral part of the nature and success of LSFs. To deal with these recurring nodes, organizing committees used consensus-building as their dominant strategy, and it is a common point in all the cases studied (Appendix C, column 3). In the interviews conducted, all key actors emphasized that consensus-building was the most important element in explaining the success of the process, its particularity, and its identity. For example, the coordinator of the Forum social Ivry (France) stated, ‘‘Without consensus, we would not have been able to sustain our

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activities for such a long time, and we would not have grown in this way, with more and more associations asking to join us. It is a question of spirit. We have adopted the spirit of the WSF, and at the heart is consensusbuilding.’’ In Quebec, the main coordinator of Forum social de Laval said, ‘‘It works very well. Of 11 people, only one or two were more reluctant concerning some decisions. But after discussing it we were all able to agree. That is very important in a forum; if not, it will not work and it will not be a forum, right?’’ The interviews revealed that consensus was as an essential, fundamental characteristic of the forum, distinguishing it from other places where people are involved. They are extremely attached to it as a value and a principle upon which actions are based. From the present analysis, it is also clear that consensus-building was a concrete practice they tried to apply. The reasons underlying this strong characteristic are very complex and interrelated. They involve the willingness of activists to value, in theory and in practice, what is seen as a central element of a counter-political culture, offering an alternative to the majority rule. Consensus-building is also seen as a way of getting to know each other better and learning from exchanges, even if it is generally considered to be inefficient in terms of time spent versus the nature of the decisions made. A clear illustration of this was provided by the FS 56. In the minutes of the 15 meetings that preceded the 2011 LSF, the principle of action ‘‘search for consensus’’ was reaffirmed, and members present were reminded of this each time a disagreement arose. Sometimes, several meetings were necessary before a decision could be made. It is important to emphasize that organizing committees tried to reach a consensus before making a decision, but this did not mean that such consensus was reached without power struggles or tension. I observe from the cases studied that LSFs were originally initiated to ‘‘change’’ or ‘‘transform’’ local situations or local ways of doing things. Also, LSFs were thought of as a way of doing things together, but differently than what had been done previously in the community. A minimum level of rules was adopted in the consensus-building process to provide certain guidelines for participation and the decision-making process that define the boundaries of a specific political culture. The people who were involved in the elaboration process spent a large amount of their time trying to balance the theories and practices of the social forum process, asking how horizontal, how inclusive, and how efficient it was in practice. The same kind of introspection is present in social forums organized at other

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scales (e.g., De Angelis, 2004; Karides et al., 2010; Beaudet, 2010; Smith et al., 2008). Beyond their differences, LSFs belong to the same kind or family of events. In the last section of this chapter, I demonstrate how LSFs are producers of new social ties, during the building process as well as during the event.

LSFS AS PRODUCERS OF NEW SOCIAL TIES The LSF emergence processes indicate that people have learned a great deal from each other and have developed a habit of working together over quite a long period of time (ranging from six months to two years, with at least one meeting per month). This is true at the level of individuals as well as at the level of organizations. Since organizations are involved in multiple fields of action (housing, immigration, poverty, etc.), the strong ties that have been built have an impact on the future of their potential collaboration. In collective interviews, activists underlined the richness of the ties developed and how it had affected the work of their organizations afterward. For example, one of the Forum social Forez (France) members stated, ‘‘I am very active in the association Amnesty International. They are not used to thinking about globalization and having a political position on neoliberalism. Therefore, it is quite a stretch from alterglobalization. However, since I am involved in the local social forum process, I was able to bring these issues to their attention. I asked a lot of questions, I knew people, I knew who did what, and I was able to work better with them. I think it has enriched my work, and it has also enriched the work of my association.’’ For the person in charge of the mobilization committee, working to create the Forum social Bas-du-Fleuve was ‘‘a way of working for the social development of the region [her job at the Rimouski town] and establishing connections between all the people working in this field who did not know each other.’’ In the cases where subsequent editions of LSFs were held, all organizations involved at the outset continued to be part of the process, reinforcing the argument that organizational ties have been built by the process of emergence itself. Two other examples can be provided here as illustrations. In the FS Ivry process, each year of its existence corresponds to an extension of the networks involved in the forum, as well as the networks outside of it. For example, since its origins in 2004, they have progressively included immigration groups, which allowed all group members to develop new links with groups abroad, in their home country. Ties were extended

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locally and globally. Between the first and second editions of the FS Forez, ties were much stronger among member groups and individuals. They knew how to work together very well, and they also shared more analyses. Here, it was not the scope of the actions that grew, but the degree of convergence among groups. At a certain level of generality, it is possible to say that LSFs are ‘‘machines that produce organizational ties,’’ and these machines come with a set of instructions to follow: specific steps for development, specific debates, and specific ways of doing politics. Beyond the process, the event itself creates ties among participants. People involved in a collective action are building social relationships of a certain type, producing effects on individuals and groups and on the way the event is taking place (Fillieule, 2010). LSFs can constitute strong individual learning experiences (in the sense of knowledge acquisition), independent of the forum format, where participants learn something about the selected topics (economy, ecology, racism, etc.). In the case of conferences given by experts, it is more of a passive learning process, where they listen to a speaker who gives a talk on a specific subject. In the case of participative workshops, the learning process is more active, and participants are asked to react to certain content, to think about it and discuss it. In all cases, they had the opportunity to exchange with others on a specific topic and to come away with information. In all focus groups conducted, participants emphasized the high level of knowledge and understanding generated by the event. ‘‘In two days, I have learned so much! Of course, I have to take some time to digest it all, but I am certainly a different person now than I was two days ago’’ (participant, FS SaguenayLac-St-Jean). In most of the cases, LSFs are not only designed and thought of by organizers as a ‘‘space of meeting, exchanges and transformations,’’ but also used as such by participants to differing degrees. While participants describe all LSFs as providing very rich personal experiences, I note that the time schedule of the event, the physical characteristics of the place where the event takes place, the physical characteristics of the rooms where workshops and activities are held (Lorenzo & Martinez, 2005), and the preferred method of workshop participation exert an influence on the actual LSF experience. Two types of forums can be distinguished by the degree of conviviality offered. The first type is very similar to an academic congress: there is not much time between sessions, there is no designated dining area, few artistic events are scheduled in the evenings, and the room setups do not favor discussions and exchanges. These events generally take

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place in the buildings of a university campus, which offer little in the way of conviviality and minimal opportunity for exchanges and meetings among participants. The other type of forum is at the opposite end of the spectrum: the event is organized in a small town, with rooms available on site that are all within walking distance. They have a specific place designated for people to meet outside the activities, and participants are able to dine together, sampling local food. Participants feel more like guests than delegates at a congress. People are very friendly, and they encounter many opportunities during the event to exchange with other participants. Of course, several empirical situations fall between these two types. For example, the FS Lanaudie`re was held in a college, but much effort was put into the welcoming of participants with local foods and an area set aside for meals. Interestingly, to become a collective experience (and not only an individual one), LSFs must be organized in a specific manner. In particular, the presence or absence of discussions in plenary sessions and the presence or absence of transversal or convergent workshops are important moments in the collective building of solidarities. For example, in one of the forums studied (FS Bas-du-Fleuve), the format of each workshop was imposed by the coordination committee: they asked people who proposed an activity to follow strict rules, with three quarters of the time allotted for collective discussion and only one quarter of the time allotted to the moderator. They also suggested the use of participative strategies such as role-play or working together in small groups. Furthermore, the content of discussions that took place in parallel workshops on the day of the forum was reported to all participants via written documents, posters, and signs on site. Persons in charge of workshops strictly followed these guidelines, and participants were kept highly informed and very active during the event. When organizers structure the format of an LSF so that people can speak and think together, it generally works this way.

CONCLUSION: LSFS AS A TACTICAL AND CULTURAL REPERTOIRE OF COLLECTIVE ACTION Beyond the indeterminacy of the LSF context (because each LSF is a collective creation and not a replication of the WSF formula), and beyond the local character of each LSF experience documented by the literature, LSFs are characterized by striking similarities that exist more or less

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regardless of the national context. In other words, social forums are in the toolbox of local activists, as a cultural and tactical repertoire of action. First, all eight cases analyzed were based on the objectives of ‘‘working for social change (or social development)’’ and ‘‘searching for alternatives, together.’’ In addition, the organizing committees of LSFs developed congruent discourses about social forum phenomena (local, national, regional, or global): it is a space where different people and organizations can meet, discuss, and create convergence about what the local (and sometimes global) problems are and the possible solutions or alternatives. Second, the LSF building process also follows central rules. Most LSFs adopt a charter of principles at the beginning of the process or refer to existing charters in their day-to-day operations. Without exception, they also follow the rule of consensus-building when making decisions, which is applied to certain recurring debates. Even if the various social forums do not arrive at the same decisions on these issues, the fact that common ground existed in the debates among the organizing committees illustrates that the format of the tactical repertoire (a social forum) acts as a set of constraints (and possibilities) for action. In this respect, social forums offer key guidelines for the actors involved. During the event, I also observed that certain constraints (and possibilities) were constant among the cases. For example, since an LSF is a space for dialogue as opposed to a decision-making body, this limits the type of output that is possible. However, it can also push for creative alternatives in terms of follow-ups to the LSFs and successive collective actions on the territory. Finally, I have shown that LSFs are efficient tools for individual learning (and sometimes collective experiences), as well as for building interindividual and collective ties. As mentioned in Section ‘‘Introduction: Local Social Forum Experiences,’’ in the social forum literature, the sparse research that focuses on local or national social forums highlights the specificity of these initiatives, explaining how local context has an effect on the form and content of local forums. My analysis complements these works: taken separately, each LSF is unique and can be analyzed as the complex result of interactions between local and national dynamics. However, if we place these local experiences (at least in the two societies considered) in a comparative perspective, certain empirical similarities emerge. More research is necessary before making generalizations, but we can reasonably suppose that the same will be true in societies that share the same broad characteristics (e.g., economic development, location in the northern hemisphere, dominant democratic political culture).

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In addition to the specifics of regional, national, and local social forums, researchers have tended to measure their effects or impacts. Baykan and Lelandais (2004) analyze an emerging social forum at the national level together with certain local initiatives and show how social forums bring together different political cultures, producing social changes through interaction. Smith et al. (2008) and Karides et al. (2010) reach the same type of conclusion for the USSF. The International Council of the World Social Forum, which called for a US social forum in 2004, provided the first input. Then, US activists and leaders developed regional and local forums in order to prepare the initiative at the national scale. In the end, the USSF proposed a few new avenues for the world process, especially in terms of inclusion of a wide range of grassroots organizations and self-financing. della Porta and Mosca (2010, p. 77) discuss the contribution of LSFs in Italy to contemporary social movements, stressing the importance of the presence of ‘‘rooted cosmopolitans’’ that are able to serve as brokers between the global and local levels and therefore translate global settings into local ones, thereby establishing a connection across diverse constituencies. In the eight cases that are the subject of this study, it is difficult to reach similar conclusions. Social change is definitely one of the main goals of LSF organizers. However, the measure of the change actually achieved by the end of the process is beyond the scope of this chapter, and further analyses will be required. Nevertheless, I demonstrate that LSF, as social practices, can be more than a vehicle for ‘‘outside’’ change: for most of the local activists met with in the context of this study (those involved in the organizational process), LSF are direct political experiences in which certain specific political attitudes are valued. In particular, consensus-building (instead of majority rule) is seen as the core of the ‘‘newness’’ and distinct character of the experience. Furthermore, this perceived specific political culture appears as the result of collective social practices among activists during the organizational process and the forum event themselves, and is much less connected to ‘‘rooted cosmopolitan’’ leaders who bring their know-how to local colleagues. In some of the cases, LSF coordinators had no previous social forum experience at other scales and they had only heard about some of them. According to the results of the present study, LSFs are not radically transforming the forms of protest in the societies considered, but they do offer an answer to the perceived lack of dialogue among different sectors of struggles: the need for local social actors to collectively appropriate the complex dynamics of economic globalization and its impacts and the need to search for new opportunities for change in situations that are

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traditionally closed to change. Overall, they are certainly redefining the boundaries of social resistance.

NOTES 1. http://openfsm.net/projects/facili-tation-de-fsl/annuaire-des-fsl, consulted October 4, 2012. 2. http://openfsm.net/projects/facili-tation-de-fsl/project-home, consulted October 4, 2012. 3. All citations have been translated by the author.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This research received the financial support of the Social Science and Humanities Research Council (Canada) (individual grant, 2010–2013). I thank the anonymous reviewers for their constructive and helpful comments, my colleagues and students at the Centre de recherche sur les politiques et le de´veloppement social (CPDS) who generously discuss a previous version and Christina Cusano for her meticulous copy-editing work.

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Brunelle, D. (2010). Chronique des Ame´riques. Du Sommet de Quebec au Forum social mondial. Sainte-Foy: Les Presses de l’Universite´ Laval. Canet, R. (2008). L’intelligence en essaim. Strate´gie d’internationalisation des forums sociaux et re´gionalisation de la contestation mondiale [Intelligence as a swarm. Internationalisation strategies of social forums and regionalization of global contestation]. Culture et conflits, 70, 33–56. Retrieved from http://conflits.revues.org/ Conway, J. (2012). Edges of global justice. The World Social Forum and its ‘‘others’’. London: Routledge. De Angelis, M. (2004). Opposing fetishism by reclaiming our powers: The Social Forum movement, capitalist markets and the politics of alternatives. International Social Science Journal, 56(182), 591–604. doi: 10.1111/j.0020-8701.2004.00519.x della Porta, D. (Ed.). (2009). Another Europe. Conceptions and practices of democracy in the European Social Forums. London: Routledge. della Porta, D., Andretta, M., Mosca, L., & Riter, H. (2006). Globalization from below. Transnational activists and protest networks. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. della Porta, D., & Mosca, L. (2010). Build locally, globally link: The Social Forum Process in Italy. Journal of World System Research, 16(1), 63–81. della Porta, D., & Tarrow, S. (Eds.). (2005). Transnational protest and global activism. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Diani, M. (1992). Analyzing social movement networks. In M. Diani & R. Eyerman (Eds.), Studying collective action (pp. 107–135). London: Sage. Dufour, P. (2009). From protest to partisan politics: When and how collective actors cross the line? Sociological perspective on Quebec Solidaire. Canadian Journal of Sociology, 34(1), 53–78. Retrieved from http://ejournals.library.ualberta.ca/index.php/CJS Dufour, P., & Conway, J. (2010). Emerging visions of another world? Contestation and collaboration at the Quebec Social Forum. Journal of World System Research, 26(1), 29–47. Retrieved from http://www.jwsr.org/ Dupuis-De´ri, F. (2009). L’anarchisme face au fe´minisme. Comparaison France-Quebec [Anarchism and feminism. A comparison between France and Quebec]. In O. Fillieule & P. Roux (Eds.), Le sexe du militantisme [The sex of activism] (pp. 187–204). Paris: Presses de sciences po. Fillieule, O. (2010). Tombeau pour Charles Tilly. Re´pertoires, performances et strate´gies d’action. [Grave for Charles Tilly. Repertoires, performances and strategies of action]. In E´. Agrikoliansky, I. Sommier, & O. Fillieule (Eds.), Penser les mouvements sociaux [Thinking social movements] (pp. 77–99). Paris: La De´couverte. Gautney, H. (2010). Protest and organization in the alternative globalization era. NGOs, social movements, and political parties. New York, NY: Palgrave MacMillan. Glasius, M., & Timms, J. (2006). Social forums: Radical beacon or strategic infrastructure? In M. Glasius, M. Kaldor & H. Anheier (Eds.), Global civil society 2005/6 (pp. 190–238). London: Sage. Jenson, J. (1998). Les re´formes des services de garde pour jeunes enfants en France et au Quebec: une analyse historico-institutionnaliste [Reforms of child care services for young children in France and Quebec: A historical and institutionalist analysis]. Politique et Socie´te´s, 17(1), 183–216. Retrieved from http://www.erudit.org/revue/ps/1998/v17/n1-2/ index.html Karides, M., Katz-Fishman, W., Scott, J., Walker, A., & Brewer, R. (Eds.). (2010). The United States Social Forum: Perspectives of a movement. Chicago, IL: Changemaker Publications.

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Laforest, R. (2012). Voluntary sector organizations and the state. Building new relations. Vancouver, BC: UBC Press. Larmer, M., Dwyer, P., & Zeilig, L. (2009). Southern African social movements at the 2007 Nairobi World Social Forum. Global Networks, 9(1), 41–61. doi: 10.1111/j.14710374.2009.00241.x Lorenzo Vila, A. R., & Martinez Lopez, M. (2005). Asambleas y reuniones: Metodologı´as de autoorganizacio´n [assemblies and meetings: Methodologies for self-organization]. Madrid: Traficantes de Suen˜os. Nordvall, H. (2009). Making sense of the social forum. On the local framing of a fashionable global symbol. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 38(4), 435–464. doi: 10.1086/ 210358 Offerle´, M. (2008). Retour critique sur les re´pertoires d’action collective (XVIIIe–XXIe sie`cles) [Critical review on the collective action repertoire (18th–21th centuries)]. Politix, 2008/ 1(81), 181–202. doi: 10.3917/pox.081.0181 Pe´chu, C. (2006). Entre re´sistance et contestation. La gene`se du squat comme mode d’action [Between resistance and protest. The birth of the squat as a political action]. Travaux de science politique de l’Universite´ de Lausanne, 24, 3–51. Retrieved from http:// www.unil.ch/iepi/page16551.html Pleyers, G. (2007). Forums sociaux mondiaux et de´fis de l’altermondialisme. De Porto Alegre a` Nairobi [World Social Forums and challenges facing alterglobalization. From Porto Alegre to Nairobi]. Louvain-La-Neuve, Belgique: E´ditions Bruylant-Academia s.a. Pleyers, G. (2010). Alter-globalization. Becoming actors in the global Age. Cambridge, MA: Polity Press. Revillard, A. (2008). Quelle politique pour les femmes ? Une comparaison France-Quebec. [What politics for Women? A comparison between France and Quebec]. Revue internationale de politique compare´e, 15(4), 687–704. doi: 10.3917/ripc.154.0687 Sen Jai, A. A., Escobar, A., & Waterman, P. (2004). The world social forum: Challenging empires. New Delhi: The Viveka Foundation. Sime´ant, J. (2009). La gre`ve de la faim [The hunger strike]. Paris: Presses de science po. Smith, J., Juris, J., & the Social Forum Research Collective. (2008). ‘‘We are the ones we have been waiting for’’: The US social forum in context. Mobilization. An International Quarterly, 13(4), 373-394. Retrieved from http://www.mobilization.sdsu.edu/index.html Smith, J., Reese, E., Byrd, S., & Smythe, E. (2012). Handbook of world social forum activism. Boulder: Paradigm Publishers. Snyder, R. (2001). Scaling down: The subnational comparative method. Studies in Comparative Development, 36(1), 93–110. doi: 10.1007/BF02687586 Sommier, I., Fillieule, O., & Agrikoliansky, E´. (Eds.). (2008). Ge´ne´alogie des mouvements altermondialistes en Europe. Une perspective compare´e [Genealogy of alterglobalization movements in Europe. A comparative perspective.] Aix, France: Karthala. Steinberg, M. W. (1999). The talk and back talk of collective action: A dialogic analysis of repertoires of discourse among nineteenth century English cotton spinners. American Journal of Sociology, 105(3), 736–780. doi: 10.1086/210359 Taylor, V., Rupp, L. J., & Gamson, J. (2004). Performing protest: Drag shows as tactical repertoires of the gay and lesbian movement. Research in Social Movements, Conflict and Change, 25, 105–137. doi: 10.1016/S0163-786X(04)25005-4 Tilly, C. (1977). Getting it together in Burgundy, 1675–1975. Theory and Society, 4, 479–504. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/656865

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Tilly, C. (1984). Les origines du re´pertoire de l’action collective contemporaine en France et en Grande-Bretagne [The origins of the collective action repertoire in France and GreatBritain]. Vingtie`me sie`cle. Revue d’histoire, 4, 89-108. Retrieved from http://www.jstor. org/stable/info/3769489 Tilly, L. A., & Tilly, C. (1981). Class conflict and collective action. Beverly Hills, CA: Published in cooperation with the Social Science History Association by Sage Publications. Vatz Laaroussi, M. (2001). Le familial au coeur de l’immigration. Les strate´gies de citoyennete´ des familles immigrantes au Quebec et en France [The family at the heart of immigration. Citizenship strategies of immigrant families in Quebec and France]. Paris: L’Harmattan. Waters, S. (2006). A` l’Attac. Globalization and ideological renewal of the French Left. Modern & Contemporary France, 14(2), 141–156. doi: 10.1080/09639480600667665 White, D. (2004). The voluntary sector, community sector and social economy in Canada: Why one is not the other. In A. Zimmer & C. Stecker (Eds.), Strategy mix for nonprofit organisations. Vehicles for social and labour market integration (pp. 117–144). New York, NY: Kluwer Academic. Wintrebert, R. (2007). Attac France et le mouvement altermondialiste. [ATTAC France and the alterglobalization movement]. Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP, 33–34(1978–1979), 5–62. doi: 10.3917/cris.1978.0005 World Social Forum. (2002). World Social Forum charter of principles. Retrieved from http:// www.forumsocialmundial.org.br/main.php?id_menu ¼ 4&cd_language ¼ 2 World Social Forum. (2012, October 5). Processo FSM – Calenda´rio de mobilizac- o˜es. Retrieved from http://www.forumsocialmundial.org.br/main.php?id_menu ¼ 12_1&cd_language ¼ 1

France

Que´bec

Regional groupings of unions.

University students.

Lanaudie`re

SaguenayLac-StJean (3rd edition)

Attac 56

Community groups around the CDC Laval.

Laval

Morbihan

Executives of the college teachers’ union.

Core Activists at Start

Bas-SaintLaurent

Local SF

Local associations or local section of national associations from many different fields: environment, migrants, political parties, unions, solidarity

Mainly community groups, unions to a lesser extent. Mainly unions organized around Solidarite´ Lanaudie`re, also women’s groups to a lesser extent. Mainly unions and community groups. Presence of unaffiliated citizens.

Unions, community groups, and unaffiliated citizens.

Actors Involved in the Organization

Yes

Yes

No

Inspired by participation to the WSF Heard of the WSF

Yes, strict rules to ensure participative workshops Yes, for regional forum only

SelfProgramming

Organizers participated to the WSF

Participated to the QSF

Heard of WSF, participated to the QSF

Inspiration Source

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Attac Forez, activists centered around the Montbrison (MBS) social center.

Migrants’ associations, participants to the ESF (23 associations and unions).

8 people (two women) used to work together to sustain immigrants.

Forez

Ivry

Provence

economy, anticapitalists, anarchists. Local associations or local section of national associations from diverse fields: anticapitalists, ecologists, human rights, and solidarity economy. Not opposed to unaffiliated citizens. Mainly immigrant associations. The local Attac section was opposed to the LSF. Presence of unaffiliated citizens. Organizers were involved in their own name but are also involved in associations working with immigrants. No

Partially

No

Continuation of the popular education mandate of the MBS social centre and WSF

2003 European social forum

WSF

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Que´bec

Saguenay-LacSt-jean (3rd edition)

Organization committee, subcommittees, and a general assembly.

Organization committee, subcommittees, and a general assembly (fell into disuse). Organization committee and subcommittees.

Laval

Lanaudie`re

Organization committee, subcommittees, and a general assembly.

Structure

Bas-SaintLaurent

Local SF

Legal corporation (OSBL) since 2006

Informal coalition built around Solidarite´ Lanaudie`re

Informal coalition built around the CDC Laval

Legal corporation

Legal Status

One person was hired full-time for six months before and after the forum, staff, and volunteers centered around Solidarite´ Lanaudie`re. One person paid parttime during four months, core of seven volunteers.

One paid coordinator (a union delegate), three other employees. A core of 10 volunteers by the end of the process. Community groups (via CDC Laval) paid one person full-time, two others for shorter terms.

Human Resources

Mainly from unions, Socie´te´ d’aide au de´veloppement des collectivite´s (networks of nonprofit organizations), QSF Municipal sector, publics subsidies, members of the National Assembly

Mainly from CDC Laval, QSF

Unions and various municipal entities, QSF

Financial Resources

APPENDIX B: DIMENSIONS OF THE FORMAL ORGANIZATION OF LOCAL SOCIAL FORUMS IN QUE´BEC AND FRANCE

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France

Organization committee and communication subcommittee.

Organization committee, a facilitation team for internal debates, and a general assembly. Organization committee, subcommittees, and a general assembly.

Forez

Ivry

Provence

Organization committee, subcommittees, and a general assembly.

Morbihan

Mainly members, low institutional support

One permanent employee and a (volunteer) president.

One main animator and a 10-person core of activists, all volunteers.

Mayor’s office (important), LSF members (low amounts), revenues of the LSF

One main animator (formerly of the social center), one employee from UVA, and a 10-person core of volunteer activists.

No, Universite´ de la vie associative (School of community life) antenna for MBS takes care of subsidies Yes (Law on association)

No, informal group

Mayor’s office (loans of material), LSF members (low amounts), revenues of the LSF (main source) Mayor’s office (Conseil ge´ne´ral and Conseil re´gional), revenues from the LSF, LSF members

One main animator, a 10person core of activists, all volunteers.

Yes (Law on association)

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France

Que´bec

Yes, close to the QSF Charter, with regional adaptations

Yes, modified to be more solution-oriented and inclusive of corporations and political parties

Lanaudie`re

Saguenay-LacSt-jean (3rd edition)

None, rejected after discussions

None, but close the QSF charter

Laval

Morbihan

Yes, based on the WSF Charter

Presence of a Local Charter?

Bas-SaintLaurent

Local SF

Admission of new members; presence of political parties (especially during elections)

Presence of business representatives, financial sponsors, presence of elected representatives

Political character of the SF

Date of the SF, choice of themes, sponsors’ visibility, location of the forum, legal structure, logo Exclusion of political parties

Subjects of Contention in the Building Process

Consensus applied, but this procedure was contested. Initial organizers had an important leadership in the process.

Consensus applied, preeminence of main organizers. Consensus applied. A group left due to differences regarding the organisation. Consensus applied, a few votes on minor issues.

Consensus applied, preeminence of main organizers.

Consensus Rules and Application

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None, they refer to the WSF charter

None, although there is a leaflet with references to the WSF charter

None, they refer to the WSF charter

Forez

Ivry

Provence

Themes of the forum; date

Hiring of a permanent employee; use of the LSF office

Location; uses of revenues

Consensus mostly respected and leadership of the initiator. Consensus applied, with a majoritarian dynamic (auto-exclusion from projects that are not interesting). Presence of a facilitation team to help solve problems. Leadership of initiators and of one specific member.

Practices of Local Social Forums 265

France

Que´bec

A federal Bloc Que´be´cois MP was invited as well as a mayor for presentations Representatives were invited and gave conferences

Lanaudie`re

Forez Ivry Provence

Morbihan

Political parties included, source of contention Not accepted Not accepted Not accepted

Could be present but do not allow to speak

Laval

Saguenay-Lac-St-jean (3rd edition)

Could be present but do not allow to speak

Rules Regarding Political Parties

Bas-Saint-Laurent

Local SF

No No No

No

Nothing in ‘‘Pathways’’ were adopted by the workshops

Attempted by the plenary, rejected by committee; discussion of actions in the workshops and plan of actions two months after the forum Follow-up of local actions decided by local forums in the workshops Adoption of 48 proposals for action by the forum’s plenary

Claims Making by the Forum Itself

APPENDIX D: RULES OF DELIBERATION IN THE LOCAL SOCIAL FORUMS IN QUE´BEC AND FRANCE

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PART V 50 YEARS LATER: SMELSER REAPPLIED

YOU HAVE TO FIGHT! FOR YOUR RIGHT! TO PARTY! STRUCTURE, CULTURE, AND MOBILIZATION IN A UNIVERSITY PARTY RIOT Stephen C. Poulson, Thomas N. Ratliff and Emily Dollieslager ABSTRACT This chapter integrates both structural and symbolic interactionist perspectives used in the study of collective behavior to provide a thorough examination of the campus culture and student–police interactions that precipitated a riot near James Madison University (JMU). While the analysis is anchored by Smelser’s (1971 [1962]) ‘‘value-added’’ model, it also accounts for cultural conditions common on college campuses. Importantly, the dynamics associated with this case may be similar to other riots – at sporting events, at religious processionals, etc. – occurring when authorities disrupt gatherings that have strong cultural resonance among participants. In these cases, attempts at disruption may be seen as an assault on norms strongly associated with a group’s identity. The study also used a unique data source – 39 YouTube videos posted of the riot

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 36, 269–305 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1108/S0163-786X(2013)0000036012

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event – that made it possible to capture the interactive and emergent quality of rioting behavior in real time from multiple vantage points. Keywords: Riot; collective behavior; policing; value-added model; Neil Smelser; elaborated social identity model (ESIM)

INTRODUCTION On Friday evening, April 9, 2010, James Madison University (JMU) students began assembling by the hundreds at the Forrest Hills Manor apartment complex, the site that year for the annual ‘‘Springfest’’ block party. Previously, police and property managers had forced a change in the party venue from Foxhill Townhomes and they now acted preemptively to ‘‘shut-down’’ the party again. This time, the early partygoers were dispersed by police who were accompanied by a Forrest Hills property manager (Scott, 2010). Still, by 3:30 p.m. the next day, an estimated 8,000 people found their way to the block party. That afternoon, following an attempt to ‘‘politely’’ police the party, the event was declared an ‘‘unlawful gathering’’ by the local police department and a civil disturbance unit was dispatched to the party. After several dramatic skirmishes with some partygoers the police forcefully dispersed the crowd. Broken beer bottles littered the parking lot – many had been thrown at the police – and cars and apartments had been vandalized. Two large dumpster fires – fueled by furniture and debris from the party – were extinguished once fire department trucks could enter the complex. By then, police had deployed tear gas and pepper spray and arrested over 30 partygoers. According to local media, there were roughly 40 injuries to both civilians and police, including one partygoer who was stabbed in the leg (Somers and Sutherland, 2010). One definition of riot is when ‘‘one or more persons, part of a larger gathering, are engaged in violence against person or property or threaten to so engage and are judged capable of enacting that threat’’ (McPhail, 1994, p. 2). The study of riots and crowd behavior emerged in the late 19th century following the publication of Gustav LeBon’s (1968 [1895]) The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind. This work has since been much criticized and problematized, particularly the notion that crowd behavior causes de-individualization and the characterization of crowd behavior as contagion fueled by collective irrationality (see McPhail, 1991; Reicher 1984). Notably, after a series of American urban riots in the summer of

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1967, President Lyndon B. Johnson established a National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders whose findings were largely at odds with the LeBonian tradition (Waddington, 2007). Rather than ‘‘irrationality,’’ social conditions – grievances, frustration, negative interactions between citizens and the police, and precipitating incidents – were considered potential triggers for disorder (NACCD, 1968, p. 1–30). Not surprising, this period saw an increase in the study of race riots (e.g., Geschwender, 1964; Spilerman, 1970). Since then, prison riots (e.g., Useem, 1985), food riots (e.g., Auyero & Moran, 2007), and particularly riotous behavior during sporting events and celebrations (e.g., Armstrong, 1998; Braun & Vliegenthart, 2009; Dunning, 2000; Finn, 1994; Rosenfeld, 1997; Stott, Adang, Livingstone, & Schreiber, 2007; Vider, 1999) have been investigated. Also studied are so-called ‘‘issueless’’ celebratory riots that have taken place at universities (see Ruddell, Thomas, & Way, 2005). One tension in the study of crowd behavior – a question also central in social science – is the degree to which structure and agency are causal to human behavior. In this respect, the study of crowds – beginning with LeBon to the present period – has veered between social, psychological, and structural models in explaining why people assemble and sometimes riot. Notably, Neil Smelser’s (1971 [1962]) much discussed ‘‘value added’’ model – an approach that anchors this study – used language closely associated with the LeBonian tradition. At the same time, Smelser (1971 [1962], p. 23–66) steadfastly examined the values and norms that caused otherwise ‘‘rational’’ people to become ‘‘swept-up’’ by a craze, hysteria, or fad (e.g., speculation in the stock market). While Smelser (1971 [1962]) advanced the idea that ‘‘structural strain’’ is a necessary component for collective behavior, another goal outlined in Theory of Collective Behavior was to reconcile the tensions between different approaches to the study of collective behavior. In this respect, the 50th anniversary of the text seems an appropriate time to revisit the value-added model. Neil Smelser’s (1971 [1962]) ‘‘value added’’ approach to the study of collective behavior was considered an important text, but then largely abandoned as structural functionalist orientations became less used in sociological study. While the value-added model serves as the ‘‘backbone’’ for our inquiry, we have also integrated the perspectives of other theorists who often regarded their approaches as mutually exclusive to Smelser’s. Practically, we had data that reinforced structuralist perspectives associated with the value-added model, and other data that reinforced perspectives associated with the interactionist approaches championed by Turner & Killian (1987 [1972]) and more recently advanced by Reicher (1984) and his

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colleagues (Drury & Reicher, 2009; Drury & Stott, 2011; Drury, Stott, & Farsides, 2003; Reicher, 1987, 1996; Reicher & Potter, 1985; Stott & Drury, 2000). Social science convention largely dictated that we should ‘‘choose sides,’’ but we believe that combining various approaches offered the greatest explanatory potential with respect to our case. Importantly, Smelser (1972) recognized that his model had neglected both the ‘‘internal processes’’ and ‘‘psychological mechanisms’’ of collective behavior and he was open to reconciling these problems within the model. For example, following the publication of two studies that applied his approach to the Kent State shootings (see Lewis, 1972; Rudwick, 1972), Smelser (1972, p. 98) stated, ‘‘While I made a number of explicit psychological assumptions (1971, p. 11-, 12) I have come to the conclusion that I definitely underplayed the importance of psychological mechanisms in the dynamics of episodes of collective behavior.’’

TOWARD AN INTEGRATED APPROACH FOR EXPLAINING RIOTOUS BEHAVIOR One benefit of the Smelser (1971 [1962]) approach was that it provided a way to present an integrated picture of the structural conditions that informed collective behaviors. Neil Smelser’s (1971 [1962]) value-added approach identified six variables sequenced and causal to each other. These are (1) structural conduciveness, (2) structural strain, (3) generalized belief, (4) precipitating factors, (5) mobilization, and (6) operation or failure of social control. First, structural conduciveness consists of social-structural characteristics that potentially facilitate or mitigate public disorder. Structural strain is a collective feeling of frustration that emerges when a group perceives its rights – relative to other groups – have been violated (Smelser, 1971 [1962]). The third factor, the growth and spread of a generalized belief, is the process whereby the source of frustration is identified and blame is assigned. This belief may cause a group to pursue some form of collective action (Brown & Goldin, 1973; Smelser, 1971 [1962]). Shared beliefs that fuel riot are not usually as deliberatively crafted as those created during the social movement framing process (Benford & Snow, 2000). Smelser (1971 [1962]) described precipitating factors as events providing a concrete example of generalized beliefs. Strain and belief were not always considered sufficient to generate a riot without some precipitating factor that ‘‘sparks’’ a riotous event (Brown & Goldin, 1973; Smelser, 1971 [1962],

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1964; Waddington, 2007). This event ‘‘either magnifies and sharpens existing tensions or removes inhibiting uncertainty about the implications of a particular generalized belief’’ (Brown & Goldin, 1973, p. 129). Precipitating factors can cause those with grievance to plan a crowd mobilization that confronts those responsible for an inequity (Smelser, 1971 [1962]; Waddington, 2007). While mobilization during the context of a social movement is often highly deliberative, a high level of planning is not usually associated with rioting. Brown and Goldin (1973) argued there is often a ‘‘spiraling of emotion’’ fueled by rumor and/or generalized belief that causes people to act collectively, but more spontaneously compared to social movement mobilization. The final factor in Smelser’s (1971 [1962]) model is the operation or failure of social control. Smelser assumed that countermeasures would be taken at various stages during a crowd mobilization and that the strategies of control available to officials were contingent upon the type and severity of public disorder (Brown & Goldin, 1973; Smelser, 1964, p. 120). For example, authorities might offer a compromise preempting mobilization, but when there is a failure of social control during the process of mobilization, authorities often respond with reactive measures that subdue a crowd through force.

The Importance of Culture in Social Structure and During Mobilization Our account of structural conduciveness is largely informed by McPhail’s (1994, p. 9) work. Generally, these are the conditions that enabled students to routinely mobilize ‘‘to party’’ at JMU and put them into routine conflict with local police. Previously, the Smelser (1971 [1962]) model would have proscribed an examination of ‘‘norms’’ and ‘‘values’’ associated with student life, but culture can also be regarded as patterns of student behavior that help create and maintain normative values. Rather than regarding culture as something only ‘‘in people’s heads,’’ we saw it as symbolic relationships that could be observed in ‘‘linguistic practices, institutional rules, and social rituals’’ that characterized the party culture at JMU (Polletta, 2004, p. 100). As such, our account of structural conduciveness focused less on accounting for normative values of students and more on how these values are maintained and reinforced by rituals and tropes associated with the JMU party culture. During the 2009–2010 academic year, the JMU administration and Harrisonburg police attempted to disrupt routine practices associated with

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JMU party culture, which we characterize as a form of structural strain. One response to this strain was the reinforcement of an established generalized belief among some students that they had a ‘‘right’’ to party. In our case, we argue that a perceived assault on normative student values created conditions that made riotous behavior more likely. In this case, the attack on student values became more resonant when police attempted to disrupt an annual block party. This was a precipitating factor that helped turn the party – an annual event for roughly a decade – into a riot. Notably, following the introduction of the value-added approach, Marx (1970) and McPhail (1971) argued that ‘‘grievance’’ and ‘‘strain’’ did not appear evident with respect to celebratory and other issueless riots. With respect to our case, we think that strain and grievance – conceptualized differently than Smelser might have – were causal with respect to this particular celebratory riot. Attempts to disrupt annual events – religious traditions, sporting events, cultural gatherings – are common. Many of these traditions – ‘‘periodic assemblies’’ as defined by McPhail and Miller (1973) – are also mobilizing structures built into a culture. Participation in these traditions often has considerable meaning and resonance to participants. For example, the close associations that people have with sports teams, and how these associations can precipitate routine acts of riotous behavior, have become a focus of study in Europe (see Stott, Adang, Livingstone, & Schreiber, 2007) and sometimes explored by scholars in the United States (see Lewis, 2007). Attempts at disrupting these events or the establishment of overt forms of control – by authorities or competing groups – may often be a precipitating factor that helps enable riot events. In the case of Springfest block party, once there was an attempt to disrupt the event the party became both the ‘‘cause’’ and the ‘‘structure’’ around which the crowd was mobilized (see McKay, 1998).

The Interactive Quality of Riotous Behavior: Extenuating Circumstances and the Failure of Social Control During our examination of the final variables of the value added model, extenuating circumstances and the failure of social control, we discuss the emergent quality of rioting behavior (McPhail, 1994; Turner & Killian, 1987 [1972]). We think much of this behavior was enabled, and also patterned, by a shared student identity (see Drury & Stott, 2011; Reicher, 1984). Indeed, the shared association that students have with JMU – its designation as a ‘‘party school,’’ for example – made it easier to fashion collective grievances

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against the JMU administration and community police who were trying to curtail excessive drinking. Importantly, we had access to unique data – 39 YouTube videos of the riot event – which allowed us to observe the riotous event from multiple perspectives as it unfolded. This offered a unique opportunity to describe, in a detailed manner, the emergent quality of riot behavior. For example, Turner and Killian (1987 [1972]) have noted that during riots people actively try to ‘‘make sense of’’ what they are observing around them – and that in confusing situations people constantly evaluate others’ behaviors in order to figure out what is normative. Similarly, McPhail’s (1994) sociocybernetic approach assumes that participants gather information from multiple ‘‘feed-back’’ loops they use to assess and re-assess ongoing events. Notably, Reicher (1984) extended interactionist perspectives while crafting the social identity model (SIM) that was further ‘‘extended’’ (ESIM) by others (Drury & Reicher, 2000; Stott & Drury, 2000; Stott & Reicher, 1998). Generally, the ESIM approach is anchored to landmark findings in the field of social psychology, particularly the process of ‘‘self-categorization’’ within the context of groups (see Tajfel & Turner, 1979, 1986). In this regard, people define themselves as individuals, but during this process they also craft comparative identities in which they ‘‘self-categorize’’ themselves with groups of people they regard as similar or like-minded. Further, these personal and collective associations often determine the options available when people decide to act collectively. It also determines who feels an affinity with a certain type of collective action, so much so that as observers they may even be inspired to join a group.

The Failure of Social Control: Police–Student Interactions Criticism of how Smelser characterized extenuating circumstances and social control are common. He tended to focus on the reactive measures taken by authorities after a situation was ‘‘out of control’’ and neglected how styles of policing can help precipitate, prevent, change, or worsen a riot event (Waddington, 2007, p. 41; Waddington, Jones, & Critcher, 1989, p. 174–177). Practically, since the introduction of the Smelser model there are indications that the policing of crowds has changed dramatically. Many have argued that the police, since the period of the 1960s, have been trained to use less confrontational methods when policing crowds and protesters (see McCarthy & McPhail, 1998). Still, the size of a protest events and the threat posed to the police are still closely associated with the decision to use

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force against civilians (see Earl et al., 2003; Earl & Soule, 2006). In fact, Soule and Davenport (2009, p. 1) have argued that ‘‘the character of the protest event and the threat to police’’ are the most important variables that predict the use of force against protesters. Directly related to our inquiry is a study by McCarthy, Martin, and McPhail (2007) that compared police reactions to campus protest events and campus gatherings that were ‘‘convivial’’ in nature. Convivial events would include the Springfest block party studied in this paper. Their primary concern was whether police responded differently to threat based on the composition of the crowd. Like previous studies, they found both the size of the gathering and the threat to police (i.e., physically confrontational behavior) were associated with the use of police force. But, protest events are more tightly coordinated and police respect ‘‘first amendment’’ rights, so there was a tendency to use less force when policing these types of events. Important to our study was the finding that aggressive policing directed toward convivial campus gatherings was more common: Police in campus communities across the United States have struggled in responding to this new kind of disorderly gathering, and y are much more likely to use the aggressive tactics of making arrests or employing tear gas or pepper spray and riot batons to disperse disorderly convivial gatherings, as compared to protest events; these features are reminiscent of the ‘‘escalated force’’ approach that previously characterized police responses to protest disturbances during earlier periods. (McCarthy et al., 2007, p. 292)

The Elaborated Social Identity Model (ESIM) and Policing The ESIM approach has been developed by scholars studying both protest events and large convivial gatherings – soccer hooliganism is commonly studied – that often involve routine interactions with police. In particular, Reicher and his colleagues (Stott & Drury, 2000; Stott & Reicher, 1998) extended the ESIM approach while investigating the ‘‘poll tax riot’’ that took place at Trafalgar Square in London. In this case, roughly 250,000 peaceful protestors participated in an event that, following a series of police–protester interactions, resulted in a considerable amount of violence between these groups. As stated previously, ESIM approaches assume that people self-categorize and act collectively with those who are similar. This both constrains and enables certain behaviors in a crowd context. In this case, nonetheless, some members of an ostensibly peaceful protest group ultimately battled with police. Afterwards, many others in the crowd later condoned this behavior. Why did this happen?

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The poll tax riots provided an opportunity to think about how identity can shape action within groups, but also how group interactions shift what is considered acceptable behavior (see Stott & Drury, 2000; Stott & Reicher, 1998). Indeed, ESIM theorists now presume that mobilizations are often inter-group encounters. Often, these groups interpret the same behavior in different manners. For example, the Trafalgar conflict seems to have escalated when protesters engaged in a ‘‘sit-down’’ strike on a busy street. The protesters regarded this as a legitimate form of protest, but many police interpreted the act as a ‘‘threat to both public safety and public order’’ (Drury et al., 2003, p. 1501). The interpretation of an act as illegitimate by a powerful group can often precipitate a spiraling of conflict, making it more likely that the use of violence becomes legitimate. Drury et al. (2003, p. 1501) state: ‘‘conflict can arise where (a) there is asymmetry between the way in which social location is seen by crowd members themselves and by out-group members y. And (b) the out group has the power to enact its understanding over and against the resistance of crowd members.’’ Similar to ESIM approaches is the ‘‘flashpoints’’ model of public disorder developed by Waddington and colleagues (Waddington 1987, 1992, 1998; Waddington, Jones & Cricher, 1989). Like ESIM, the model highlights how differing definitions of the situation by in-group and out-groups (e.g., the police) increase the likelihood of conflict (Waddington et al., 1989). With respect to the ESIM model, there is a high level of group resonance associated with being a college student. Indeed, college life is a period when people often form intense associations with ‘‘their school,’’ and routine patterns of student life – the rallies, the sporting contest, etc. – act to reinforce these associations. As this paper will make clear, many JMU students – even as they engaged in behavior others at the event characterized as self-destructive and dangerous – did not regard their partying as a violation of social norms. Indeed, within the context of their primary associations many regard excessive partying as a legitimate mode of student expression. In short, for many students the party culture at JMU is what makes the university great (see Vander Ven, 2011). Notably, this normative value became increasingly at odds with those of the JMU administration and local police in the period before the Springfest riot.

DATA AND METHODS Like others, we found applying the Smelser model was largely a qualitative endeavor best suited to a descriptive case study methodology (see Lewis,

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2007). Many of the data for this study were collected by the JMU administration and the Harrisonburg, Virginia, Police Department. We also searched the online database of student newspaper, The Breeze, for articles and editorial comments that characterized student grievances against the administration during the academic year when the Springfest riot took place. Finally, we used videos posted on YouTube (n = 39) that documented the Springfest Riot in order to construct a timeline of the event and characterize the diverse responses of partygoers to the riot. We found these videos through keyword searches – JMU, riot, Springfest, James Madison University – and also searched YouTube’s ‘‘featured videos’’ column to ensure that we achieved a reasonable saturation point for recordings of the event. These range from the early nonviolent gatherings to the period when police finally disperse the crowd. One author is a JMU professor and he visited the riot site in order to check the spatial orientations associated with the riotous behavior. Due to the fluid nature of YouTube video availability, we did these searches at different points in time – between November 1, 2011 and December 15, 2011. The analysis of the YouTube accounts required a combination of several qualitative methods used in visual sociology, a field that often analyzes society through the coding of images presented in photographs, film, video, and increasingly, electronically transmitted images (International Visual Sociology Association, 2012; Schutt, 2012). In particular, the YouTube videos allowed us to observe the riotous behavior in real time and from multiple vantage points within the crowd. Importantly, these real-time responses to a unique event are likely more authentic than those which would have been provided by the same participants had they recounted their reactions to an interviewer at a later date. Indeed, the increasing availability of handheld recording devices (e.g., ‘‘smart phones’’) and venues where these recordings are shared (e.g., YouTube) will likely make this type of data increasingly available. Each video was viewed multiple times until a thick description of the action in each was transcribed. These descriptions included partygoer and police activities (i.e., movement in space, interactions between partygoers and police, interactions among partygoers, the types and occurrence of property damage, violent behavior by police and partygoers, etc.), where the scenes in the video occurred (i.e., in the parking lot, balcony of apartment, around a dumpster fire, etc.), indicators of time (i.e., daylight and dusk), and comments by police and partygoers when audible in the video. In many respects, these were virtual field notes taken from the comfort of an office with the advantage of having a rewind and pause button when the action

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observed became frenetic and disorienting. Indeed, we often felt like uninvited voyeurs experiencing the event from multiple perspectives as it unfolded, with none of the associated risk. After eliminating duplicate and corrupted videos we had a final sample of 39 from which we used to construct our descriptions of the event. In total, 1 hour and 43 minutes of YouTube videos were analyzed. In our account of the riot, we selected a few exemplary events that matched categories of behavior developed by others who have studied riots (see Parlett & Hamilton, 1976). Importantly, the descriptions of the riotous behaviors in this paper are not meant to be a complete accounting of all the material in the videos – there is far too much data to do that – but rather provide a timeline and qualitative description of acts that contributed to escalating crowd violence, or which were representative of student responses to this violence.

CULTURE AND STRUCTURAL CONDUCIVENESS AT JMU James Madison University is considered a very good Virginia state university. For example, US News and World Report ranked JMU as ‘‘the top public, master’s-level university in the South’’ for 17 consecutive years (JMU, 2010). In the fall of 2009, the enrollment was 17,281 undergraduate students and 1,690 graduate students. JMU students are overwhelmingly ‘‘traditional’’ in that they usually enter the university directly after graduating from High School and over 80% complete their undergraduate degree 4–5 years later. About 70% are Virginia residents, primarily from the Washington, DC suburbs, the Tidewater/Norfolk region, and Richmond. These students are overwhelmingly white (84–85%) and relatively affluent, with over two-thirds estimating that their family income is above $100,000 dollars annually. In 2009, Asian Americans represent 5% of the student population, followed by African Americans (4%) and Latinos (2.5%) (JMU, 2010). Proximity of ‘‘Off-Campus’’ Student Housing to Campus and the ‘‘Open’’ Party Culture at JMU All incoming freshmen at JMU must reside in student housing provided by the university. But the rapid growth of the student population has made

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on-campus housing more difficult to obtain following the first year. As a result, most JMU students, after their first year on campus, move ‘‘offcampus.’’ This trend facilitated a building ‘‘boom’’ of apartment complexes directly adjacent to the Southeast corner of the university. Studies have indicated that high-density housing is associated with a greater propensity to riot (McPhail & Miller, 1973; Snyder, 1979). The Springfest Riot occurred in an area of high-density apartment housing compacted into 250–300 acres with no single-family dwellings. It is occupied almost entirely by JMU students. We contacted local apartment managers to estimate occupancy. When they refused to provide occupancy rates, we estimated by counting individual units. A conservative estimate is that approximately 3,500 students are being housed in this area. Map 1 identifies these complexes in relation to the JMU campus. Table 1 indicates the estimated occupancy of these complexes. These complexes are the primary hub for weekend parties at JMU as units within different buildings pool their resources and sponsor multiple parties that are open to all-comers. Traditionally, the beer and alcohol is provided

Map 1.

Student Housing Cluster Near James Madison University. Note: Apartment complex labels were added by the authors.

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Table 1.

‘‘Off-Campus’’ Student Housing Complexes and Occupancy.

Complex Name Forrest Hills (both ‘‘Manor’’ and ‘‘Greenbrier’’) Ashby Crossing Hunter’s Ridge: Apartment (13 buildings)

Hunter’s Ridge Townhomes (99 townhomes)

Devon Lane Townhomes (70 units) Foxhill Estate Squire Hill Apartments South View Apartments (960 beds) The Commons (528 beds)

Approximate Occupancy 498 (reported by manager) — 312–624 (estimated range) 312 (estimate=2 bedrooms per unit) 468 (estimate=3 bedrooms per unit) 624 (estimate=4 bedrooms per unit) 297–396 (estimated range) 297 (estimate=3 bedroom per unit) 396 (estimate=4 bedrooms per unit) 280 occupants (reported by manager) 404 occupants (reported by manager) 95 occupants (reported in the ‘‘mid-90s’’) 947 occupants – (reported 98.6% full) 523 occupants – (reported 99.3% full)

for free. The complexes are close enough – roughly within a mile of the campus – that students can walk to this area from most campus dormitories. For those living on the outerreaches of campus or other areas of Harrisonburg, there is bus service, provided by the city, between these complexes and the JMU campus. Students affectionately refer to the nightly weekend service as ‘‘the drunk bus.’’ Ridership on an average weekend is greater than 10,000 individual rides. One co-author of this study is a former JMU student and during discussions with her peers she found, much like Thomas Vander Ven (2011, p. 23), that drinking is ‘‘synonymous with college life.’’ So much so, that many equate the decision to go to JMU – which has a reputation as a ‘‘party school’’ – as related to an expectation that they will drink routinely as college students. The degree to which excessive drinking is now normative college behavior has been captured nicely in Vander Ven’s (2011, p. 24) recent study in which he provides accounts of student decisions to drink. One student stated: ‘‘it wasn’t really a decision, it was just an assumed action’’ (19-year-old male) (pp. 24). Another 21-year-old female student (pp. 23) stated: ‘‘So I guess I didn’t really have to decide to drink, the decision was made three years ago.’’ At JMU, judging from the number of arrests made for being drunk in public, party intensity during the academic year follows a pattern. Incidences of arrest dramatically increase when students first arrive back

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Drunk in Public Liquor Law Violations

60

50

Total Violations

40

30

20

10

0 Jan 09 Feb 09 Mar 09 Apr 09 May 09 Jun 09 Jul 09 Aug 09 Sep 09 Oct 09 Nov 09 Dec 09

Month

Fig. 1.

Drinking Violations Reported by Harrisonburg Police Department in 2009.

at campus in late August and early September. October has high arrest rates too, due to the number of people arrested during Halloween. The arrests decline throughout the fall and winter and then spike dramatically in April, the month the outdoor party season begins. During the summer, when many students leave campus, these rates drop dramatically. Fig. 1 indicates this pattern the year previous to the Springfest Riot.

JMU Proximity to Highway 81 and Other Colleges The weekend party site lies directly beside a major highway that runs NorthSouth through the state (see Map 1). Regional college students – there are nearly a dozen major universities and smaller colleges within 2 hours of

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JMU – are aware of the open party tradition at JMU and many drive to this area to party on the weekends. Military personnel on leave, local high school students, gang members from surrounding communities, etc., also attend these weekend parties. Violence at parties is routine with fist fights, sexual assaults, and verbal harassment being the most common. Sometimes the violence is extraordinary. For example, on November 9, 2008 during a party at the Hunter’s Ridge apartment complex a 19-year-old Liberty University student, Reginald ‘‘Shay’’ Nicholson – who had grown up in nearby Staunton, Virginia – was shot and killed. Five months after the Nicholson homicide, a local television news reporter conducted a follow-up report on the party culture at JMU. In this case, the reporter rode along with Officer Palaskey of the Harrisonburg Police Department, who was designated to respond to the ‘‘party calls’’ that weekend. He reported: ‘‘Having a good time off-campus isn’t difficult. On Saturday, we were able to get into six parties in just half an hour’’ (WHSV News, 2009). This news report also provides evidence that a largely ‘‘watchman’’ style of policing had been adopted by the local police. This style of policing allows officers to ‘‘ignore many common minor violations y to use the law more as a means of maintaining order than of regulating conduct, and to judge the requirements of order differently depending on the character of the group in which the infraction occurs’’ (Wilson, 1968, p. 140, as cited in Hawdon, 2008). For example, during the ‘‘ride-along’’ when Officer Palaskey responds to a routine fight call he tells students at the party: ‘‘No, I’m not looking to get anybody in trouble. I’m looking to make sure that the person who’s gotten into a fight is OK’’ (WHSV News, 2009). Later, he indicates that police have been talking with residents about the ‘‘openparty’’ tradition and stressing that party organizers limit attendance to people they know. ‘‘They call us, and they’re like, ‘Look, we have these people in our party.’ We’re not going to not help them because they’re having a party. We want them to have a successful party. We’re not here to tell people not to get together and have a good time.’’ Despite this polite style of policing, roughly 15–18% of JMU students annually self-report that their drinking has resulted in ‘‘trouble with the police’’ (see Table 3). Judging from ‘‘letters to the editor’’ in the student newspaper (discussed in more detail below), many JMU students believe the police routinely harass them when they are partying. Importantly, routine negative interactions with police in areas of high-density housing have been shown to increase the likelihood of riot events (McPhail, 1994; Snyder, 1979).

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JMU Party Culture and Patterns of Student Drinking Not all students at JMU ‘‘party’’ – a significant minority do not drink at all – but many students consider the ‘‘party atmosphere’’ when they decide to enroll. While heavy drinking on college campuses in the United States is increasingly normative (see Vander Ven, 2011), JMU students are exceptional in this respect. While the Princeton Review methodology has been critiqued, it does compare student responses nationwide and has consistently ranked JMU as a top 20 party school. Similarly, the JMU Substance Abuse Prevention (SAP) office has compared rates of drinking at JMU to a national sample of college students using the Core Alcohol and Drug Survey administered to nearly 200 colleges in the United States during the past 15 years. The responses indicate that JMU students drink more than most other students in the United States. In terms of average weekly drinks consumed, JMU students are in the 90th percentile of colleges (Substance Abuse Office, 2008). CORE survey results also indicate that the drinking culture at JMU more rapidly converts non-drinkers into drinkers than at other colleges. Table 2 indicates this conversion. While police do not appear to routinely target underage drinking, many students believe that campus and local police are ‘‘out to get’’ students. Letters and articles addressing ‘‘police harassment’’ are commonly published in The Breeze where students complain of overzealous policing (see Knott, 2009). While local police usually ignore drinking in areas considered ‘‘private’’ property, they do not allow people to drink in the ‘‘public’’ areas (parking lots, streets, or sidewalks) outside these parties.

Table 2. Conversion to Drinking on U.S. College Campuses and JMU. National Sample (n=15,000)

Non-drinkers Drinkers Heavy-episodic (4/5 once past two weeks) Problematic (8/10 once past two weeks)

JMU (n=3,068)

Survey 1 (Freshmen)

Survey 3 (Follow-up)

Survey 1 (Freshmen)

Survey 3 (Follow-up)

62% 38% 24%

51% 49% 32%

53% 47% 33%

36% 64% 49%

7%

10%

9%

17%

Note: Originally presented by JMU Counseling Services using data from the 2010 CORE survey results provided by the JMU Office of Substance Abuse Research.

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They also monitor parties that grow dangerously large and respond to calls that report violence. If someone is drunk in a public area (e.g., a sidewalk), the police may intervene and make an arrest. Still, even ‘‘polite’’ policing put some students in confrontational situations with local law enforcement (see Knott, 2009). Indeed, the CORE survey (see Table 3) found that 15–18% of JMU students reported being in some trouble with the police as a result of drinking. Moreover, roughly 45% reported fighting or arguing as a result of drinking. Vander Ven (2011) makes a persuasive argument: the negative consequences associated with drinking (e.g., fighting, being sick, and missing classes) are mitigated by a system of ‘‘drunk support’’ in which fellow students provide crisis management to someone who experiences these negative consequences.

Table 3. Percentage of Students Reporting Problematic Consequences Due to Alcohol Use at JMU in Comparison to Virginia Students and a National Sample.

Arrested for DWI/DUI In trouble with police Damaged property, pulled alarm, etc. Driven a car under the influence Got into an argument or fight Tried to commit suicide Seriously thought about suicide Been hurt or injured Taken advantage of sexually Taken advantage of another sexually Tried unsuccessfully to stop using Thought I might have a drinking/drug problem Performed poorly on a test/important project Done something I later regretted Missed a class Criticized by someone I know Had a memory loss Got nauseated or vomited Had a hangover

2008 JMU Campus

2006 JMU Campus

2004 JMU Campus

2000 2006 All Nation Virginia

.7 15.3 10.5 23.4 44.2 .4 5.5 28.6 12.8 2.5 8.3 17.1

.4 16.9 9.7 28.7 45.6 1.2 5.7 29.8 12.2 1.6 6.5 15.3

0.0 18.1 9.3 25.6 36.3 1.4 4.7 25.1 10.8 1.9 5.6 13.0

1.1 14.9 8.7 30.2 30.9 1.2 3.7 15.5 12.1 5.3 5.4 10.1

1.4 13.7 6.8 27.0 32.3 1.3 4.5 16.2 10.1 3.2 5.2 10.8

30.8

31.9

24.4

22.6

22.1

50.5 41.2 42.3 49.3 65.2 75.4

50.0 43.3 38.8 55.5 68.8 74.6

43.7 33.2 41.4 46.3 62.1 64.7

39.5 32.5 30.6 34.3 53.1 60.6

37.2 30.1 30.9 33.9 54.3 62.5

Note: Originally published by the JMU Office of Substance Abuse Research (2008).

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In the case of JMU, the physical layout of the campus, combined with routine modes of student communication, helps maintain a party culture that is probably more extreme than most other universities. In particular, the evidence that students at JMU are more rapidly ‘‘converted’’ into drinkers than at other universities is indicative of the strength of this culture. In effect, social structural conditions at JMU make organizing and attending large parties – numbering in the thousands of students – a routine event. Once these party tropes were established, this transfer of knowledge became embedded in the cultural repertoires of place and ensured that ‘‘partying’’ has become closely associated with the JMU collegiate experience.

STRUCTURAL STRAIN AND GENERALIZED BELIEF In the months preceding the Springfest Riot, strain between the JMU administration and some students increased as measures designed to decrease student partying were established. One problem associated with identifying the ‘‘strain’’ variable in the Smelser model is the ex-post-facto nature of the enterprise, which can cause researchers to look in the ‘‘nooks and crannies’’ of their data to ‘‘find evidence of strain’’ (Marx, 1970, p. 32). It may seem remarkable that we have characterized strain to be associated with policy designed to compel students to drink less, but it was not difficult to find evidence that some students responded to the administrative crackdown by arguing they had the ‘‘right to party.’’

Student Grievance An incident that particularly galvanized student opinion occurred when the Harrisonburg Department of Public Transportation (HDPT) shortened the bus schedule, eliminating the last hour of the so-called ‘‘drunk bus.’’ For many, weekly rides on the ‘‘drunk bus’’ – which includes singing and other forms of revelry – is a JMU ‘‘rite of passage.’’ Despite Harrisonburg Department of Public Transportation claims that the bus cuts were a result of limited funding, disgruntled students laid most of the blame on school-affiliated administrators (see Edwards, 2009; Krumpe, 2010). In fact, Rob Cellucci – the Student Government Association (SGA) Committee Chair of Student Services and student representative to the JMU Board of Visitors – helped launch a survey administered to over

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4,000 students that asked how the cuts affected their drinking behavior. In the student newspaper, The Breeze, articles associated with the shortening of the ‘‘drunk bus’’ hours almost always argued that the administration was being shortsighted, particularly since students were going to ‘‘party anyway.’’ Many argued the administration was placing students in greater danger. For example, Steven Knott (2010) stated the cut in service had not reduced student drinking and that it did not make sense to punish students for drinking. He ended with a few rhetorical questions: What service will be denied next? Will the University Health Center decide to stop treating smokers suffering from sinus infections because they are the result of irresponsible behavior? The question seems foolish, but it is equivalent to what the university has done by declining bus hours: refuse to help those who need it.

Another source of contention was the administrative response to a student organized ‘‘flash mob’’ at the East Campus Library that took place during exam week that fall semester. The event was organized through social media, primarily Facebook, and over 4,000 confirmed that they were going to attend. In this case, thousands of students convened at the East Campus Library, accompanied by a disc jockey, and started an impromptu dance party which lasted for approximately half an hour. Because other universities had held ‘‘flash mobs,’’ there was an informal competition among campuses concerning who could mobilize the largest number of people. This is evident in a video compilation of the event on YouTube in which one caption states: ‘‘This is why JMU does it better y. It ain’t a rave until people start jumping off the balconies and climbing the walls’’ (Flash Mob, 2009). And, in fact, the video shows students jumping off the second floor balcony into the crowd below and also climbing columns from the first floor to the second. The JMU administration regarded the event as dangerous and inappropriate. Indeed, judging from YouTube videos it is remarkable nobody was seriously injured. By way of contrast, the student organizers and participants were awed, pleased, and inspired by the number of people who showed up at the ‘‘rave.’’ This satisfaction, combined with the student perspective that the event had been ‘‘harmless,’’ contrasted sharply with the administration response. In particular, V.P. of Student Affairs Mark Warner sent the JMU student body an e-mail stating the event was dangerous and inappropriate. Some students responded in The Breeze that they resented being treated ‘‘like children’’ and that Warner was ‘‘out of touch’’ with student sensibilities.

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PARTY ‘‘TRADITION’’ AS MOBILIZATION AND THE FAILURE OF SOCIAL CONTROL Like other annual celebrations the Springfest party was built into life at JMU. In effect, students always planned to ‘‘mobilize’’ and party during the spring. In this respect, student grievances did not precipitate a mobilization, but the annual event was a mobilizing structure made more volatile by tensions throughout the 2009–2010 academic year. Ultimately, attempts to disrupt this event made the party both the means by which students mobilized and also the cause – the ‘‘right to party’’ – that many fought for (see McKay, 1998). ‘‘The Spark’’ and the Failure of Social Control In the case of the Springfest riot the failure of social control could be regarded as the inability to curb the party culture at JMU throughout the year. It can also include the specific actions undertaken by police that increased the likelihood of riotous behavior. In this regard, one event that constituted a ‘‘spark’’ appears to have been the police attempts at disruption the week and days previous to the party. These became well known when The Breeze reported, under the title ‘‘Police to Pressure Springfest,’’ that both the police and Alcohol Beverage Control (ABC) intended to elevate their presence at Springfest (Sutter, 2010). A few days previous to the event, the Foxhill Townhomes property manager posted flyers on all the unit doors stating: ‘‘Please be advised that this event violates the Restrictions, Covenants, and Bylaws of the Foxhills Townhomes Association and may put you in default of your respective leases’’ (Sutter, 2010). Students quickly moved the party venue to another venue at Forrest Hill Townhomes. These actions appear to have made some students more determined ‘‘to party’’ during Springfest. This became apparent to one author of this study when he overheard a student, before class, talking with others about the police attempts ‘‘to stop’’ Springfest. He insisted he was ‘‘going to party’’ and then informed other students if they ‘‘poured out’’ their drinks before the police approached they could avoid being arrested. Not all students were as ‘‘committed’’ to party as this student – some pointedly said they intended to skip the event. After the riot, student comments in The Breeze also indicated many believed police intervention changed student attitudes. A typical response

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was an editorial by JMU student John Scott (2010, p. 7) who stated (italics added): When the Harrisonburg Police Department did not trust students enough to party peacefully, there was a fundamental shift in students’ attitude about their right to party. These responsible drinkers who were cast out Friday inherently saw the police’s action as a slap in the face. Those usually orderly individuals in turn acted like children on Saturday because they were being treated like children on Friday.

In this case, the spark and failure of social control variables are interrelated. Once news that police were intent on establishing control of the event was disseminated some students became more determined to party. Initially, relocating the event at another nearby housing complex was not difficult given that students routinely organize large parties in this location too. But following the second attempt at disruption (the night before the party) it appears many students simply decided to ignore police attempts to shut down the second venue. In effect, the attempt by police to prevent Springfest became another action that helped solidify some student grievance toward the police. In the Springfest case, the ‘‘precipitating event’’ is out of sequence with regards to its placement in the original value-added model. In this respect, the planning for the Springfest mobilization does not fit into the time sequence of the Smelser model because this annual event is part of the JMU culture. Like other celebrations, the mobilization was built into life at JMU, but conditions throughout the 2009–2010 academic year made the annual event more volatile.

POLICE–STUDENT INTERACTIONS AND THE FAILURE OF SOCIAL CONTROL Police actions varied during the party and often affected crowd behavior. In this respect the nature of the event changed from dangerous revelry toward an active fight, by some partygoers, against the riot police. Generally, patterns of violence shifted when police moved from trying to politely control the gathering to dispatching a ‘‘civil disturbance unit’’ that then steadily escalated in their use of force in order to clear people from the party site. In line with the findings of McCarthy et al. (2007), it appears that the scale of the party (roughly 8,000 were in attendance) – combined with direct threat to the police – helped precipitate a fairly rapid escalation in the use of force police employed against partygoers.

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We were able to observe one pivotal moment during the initial policing of the event in which four regular uniformed police officers were surrounded by a crowd of hundreds. This small group of officers had cordoned off a section of parking lot and a hillside near the entrance of the complex where the party was being held. In established patterns for policing weekend parties, this is technically an area of public space that the partygoers should not encroach into. In this case, people in the crowd openly mock police attempts to maintain this public space. They sometimes boo as two officers attempt to maintain a spatial boundary between ‘‘public’’ and ‘‘private’’ areas at the complex (TheFederalistJMU, 2010a). During this attempt to police ‘‘politely’’, one videographer interviews a young man who is urging the crowd to surround the officers. ‘‘Honestly, they think they have power, but they really don’t y. If you surround them all at one time and link arms they cannot stop you.’’ Later, he coaxes another partygoer toward moving into the public space. He later yells, ‘‘This is not a police state!’’ His actions make him an exemplary agent provocateur or ‘‘exploiter’’ who encourages others to act in a confrontational manner conducive to creating more volatility and violence (Turner & Killian, 1987 [1972], p. 29). Soon afterwards a beer bottle is thrown toward the officers and some in the crowd cheer. Next, four police officers can be seen withdrawing from the parking lot – people throw cups and bottles of beer as they withdraw – and then the crowd, many cheering and obviously ecstatic, rush into the now unoccupied public space. From an ESIM perspective, this is an exemplary interaction between police and partygoers that was likely interpreted by these groups in wildly different manners. The student occupation of public space – coupled with disregard of police authority – was a clear norm violation from police perspectives, and also clearly different than the routine patterns of policing used to control parties in this housing area. Students may have regarded the parking area as an extension of student housing, or perhaps expected an exception would be made for the block party. Practically, once police were pushed from this space the escalation in police force became a largely inevitable response. Importantly, this event was specifically referenced by a police spokesman in a WHSV television interview directly following the riot: ‘‘‘They started getting beer bottles thrown at them, different debris thrown at them so they backed out. Once they backed out we called in the civil disturbance unit,’ says Lt. Kurt Boshart with the Harrisonburg Police Department’’ (WHSV, 2010). In the interim period between when the police ‘‘back out’’ and before the riot police arrive, there were clear acts of violence and damage to property

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that appear unrelated to police actions. In particular, in a ‘‘backyard’’ area of the complex, another event similarly escalates as hundreds of partygoers stand among flying beer bottles, some directed at people on decks above the crowd. Townhome windows are broken and a chair is eventually thrown from a deck into the crowd below. At the center of the crowd is a small electrical transfer box surrounded by hundreds of beer cans, bottles, and other trash. Glass can be heard breaking during a ‘‘King of the Mountain’’ game in which men take turns standing atop the box while some in the crowd pelt them with beer cans and beer bottles. After dodging the bottles, the men often dismount once they are hit with bottles of beer. Others take their place. On occasion, the videos show objects that appear to explode – likely full bottles of beer – after someone is hit. Throughout, people in the crowd cheer as individuals are forced to dismount from the box (Bj2451, 2010; BIGNeek08, 2010; SuperLolwut9000, 2010a, 2010b, 2010c, 2010d, 2010e, 2010f, 2010g; Thatsabadvideo6121, 2010). By this time some partygoers are beginning to exhibit feelings of uneasiness, but many – literally as they dodge the beer bottles being thrown at them – seem intent on maintaining the ‘‘cheeriness’’ associated with routine party behavior. Beer bottles, at times, literally rain from the sky. A shirtless man with a bloody mouth appears as chants of ‘‘USA’’ rise throughout the crowd. Someone off-camera notes that they were ‘‘hit in the eye.’’ Another clearly worried but not panicked, states, ‘‘I want to leave now.’’ But as this barrage of bottles increases in intensity others begin chanting ‘‘ole ole ole ole’’ while collectively jumping up and down (Adamsma48, 2010). The response is different among people observing the event from its periphery. One bystander observing the spectacle comments incredulously, ‘‘People are throwing full beers y do you see this? The guy in the cowboy hat [the target on the box] is going to get reamed man y he’s going to get fucked up, dude y he’s going to get cranked.’’ Another adds, ‘‘he’s going to get killed.’’ Yet another person exclaims, ‘‘People are fucking retards man. Throwing bottles?’’ And some levity from a young woman, ‘‘that’s just immature y first of all that’s just wasting beers’’ (Biged921, 2010). At this point, the conventional definition of a ‘‘riot’’ has been fulfilled, but it is also striking how ‘‘calm’’ and sometimes detached people are from events, sometimes dangerous, taking place in close proximity to them (see McPhail, 1994). Some respond nonchalantly to questions from the impromptu documentarians as the melee occurs behind them. Even people most proximate to the danger do not devolve into a mob or the ‘‘mad crowd.’’ A few people are concerned, a few leave, and others see the events as acceptable revelry and respond to destruction with chants and cheers in

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unison. Similar to McPhail (1994) we observed relatively few people – hundreds among the thousands in attendance – engage in destructive behaviors during the riot. Likewise, those who did engage in violence did not do so continually. There is a split among partygoers concerning their attitudes toward the police. In one video posted by the TheFederalistJMU (2010a), the cameraperson asked multiple partygoers: ‘‘What do you think of the police involvement?’’ One man characterizes the police as ‘‘doing their job.’’ A young woman laughs before responding, ‘‘They are doing a really good job of not getting involved.’’ Soon after these statements, police in riot gear station themselves at the periphery of the party and this clearly affects the riot trajectory. The police then adopted tactics associated with strategic incapacitation and prepare to use non-lethal weapons – tear gas and pepper spray – to gain control of the space (see Fernandez, 2008; Gillham & Noakes, 2007; Ratliff, 2011; Soule & Davenport, 2009). This appears to precipitate defiance among the most committed members of the crowd toward the police (see Waddington, 2007). ‘‘You guys know the cops have riot gear and stuff, what do you think about that?’’ the TheFederalistJMU (2010a), later asks a group. One responds, ‘‘I dare them.’’ Another, clearly intoxicated, states loudly: ‘‘Fuck the cops y Fuck the PO-Lease.’’ The police station themselves at the periphery of the party – they first arrest a few partygoers who kneel in front of them to block their progress – then roughly a dozen form a line, shields drawn, and slowly walk into the parking lot where the party is being held. At first they talk with some partygoers, some are filing past them, leaving the party. A few who actively try and impede – some kneel, others later stand with their fingers in ‘‘peace signs’’ – are pepper sprayed and stagger away from the police. The goal of the police appeared to be dispersion of the crowd, but on a few occasions partygoers are physically detained.

Escalating Confrontations The number of riot police observed is not large; 12–15 actually advance into the complex in the beginning and this precipitates the first confrontation between them and partygoers in the main parking lot. McPhail (2006) has noted that dispersal orders given by police officers are often not audible to those in the crowd and that it is common that insufficient time is allowed for crowd members to follow these orders. We cannot make an emphatic judgment as to whether everyone in the crowd heard the dispersal orders,

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but it seems evident that the police were making a concerted effort to have their orders heard and for people to respond. Throughout the escalation, one uniformed officer – standing behind the line of officers in riot gear – did make several announcements using a megaphone. Notably, we were able to transcribe the announcement that preceded the deployment of the tear gas (discussed below). We did observe that many partygoers, after the riot police arrived, did move quickly to the periphery of the party area. Those who do not disperse were about a couple hundred in number. A few hurl bottles toward the police. Others do not actively fight, but seem intent on not allowing the police to disperse them. Others simply watch while remaining in close proximity to the violence. As this smaller crowd resisted dispersal, the officer with a megaphone states: ‘‘Everyone who is outside, we are about to deploy gas. This is going to be serious. I am going to say it again, you need to leave immediately y this is very serious y you are going to be choking in a minute. Move inside or move away or you are going to get gas on you’’ (Blockparty, 2010). As gas is deployed many in the crowd scatter, running from the gas, but others watching the scene cheer. A few canisters of tear gas are thrown back toward the police. One hits an officer and cheering again erupts from the resisting crowd and from some bystanders. From other vantage points – in apartments or on a hill directly above the action – people actively watch, and sometimes cheer for those fighting the police. Many appear elated by the events. A few comment on the opportunity to observe something ‘‘historical’’ or ‘‘epic.’’ An exploiter shouts, ‘‘Someone hit that Beamer!’’ Another editorializes, ‘‘this is a little ridiculous.’’ And another states, ‘‘this is awesome y way too funny’’ (NR1025, 2010). Onlookers from inside an apartment find the deployment of gas extraordinary and excessive, but another concerned woman states, ‘‘No, they deserve it, like honestly, like everyone is being a fucking idiot’’ (Thatsabadvideo6121, 2010). In another apartment, after cursing the police, one man exclaims loudly, ‘‘I love my school!’’ and then addresses a friend, ‘‘You wish UVA [University of Virginia] was this rowdy!’’ (Xact5adventures, 2010). In the final stages of dispersal, police in formation moved toward hundreds of partygoers who surrounded, and occasionally added fuel to a large dumpster fire. A few rioters continued to throw bottles at police, cars, and buildings – a ‘‘streaker’’ runs between them (Lundahbs, 2010b; Ohbridget, 2010; Pissbucketvideos, 2010). This group of approximately 75–100 of the most committed remain gathered around the fire (see Pictures 1 and 2) as

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Picture 1. Crowd Surrounding Dumpster Fire during Springfest Riot. Originally published in Somers & Sutherland (2010), ‘‘War Zone,’’ The Breeze. Photographer Robert Boag.

a line of 20 or so police in riot gear look on from 30–40 yards away. Lundahbs (2010a) posted a video that captured a partygoer’s perspective as a second dumpster, closer to the police, began to catch fire: ‘‘I mean, this is y I will y I will walk away from my college career knowing that this happened when I was here. I’m going to graduate happy now.’’ Pissbucketvideos (2010) ended their video on a more philosophical note by quoting renowned journalist William Allen White (1937 [1932], p. 331): ‘‘If our colleges and universities do not breed men who riot, who rebel, who attack life with all their youthful vim and vigor, then there is something wrong with our colleges. The more riots that come on college campuses, the better world for tomorrow.’’ There is also one last lingering confrontation that occurs in an area adjacent to the housing complex at the Liberty gas station (see Picture 3). In this case, police remain on the periphery of the complex – intent on not allowing students back into the space they had secured – while some students continued to hurl invective, and occasionally a few bottles, in the direction of the police. Most in the crowd seem less committed at this point, although a few continue to engage in largely symbolic acts of resistance toward police (see Picture 3).

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Picture 2. A Rioter in Front of a Dumpster Fire. Originally published in Somers & Sutherland (2012), War Zone, The Breeze. Photographer David Casterline.

The FederalistJMU, (2010b) now talking to people disengaged from the action on the fringe of the Liberty gas station, asks a young man why he thinks the police intervened so forcefully: It’s bull shit dude, all right, you know, you ever heard of block party? I’ve been here since 12 o’clock, 12 o’clock p.m. when this shit started; we were one of the first people in that little clearing up here; we were just drinking, like y partying, they had music, the shit seemed legit y fuckin’ about five o’clock people start throwing beer bottles. My best friend is in the hospital, he got hit in the face with a fuckin’ forty, a Budweiser forty! It was like a fuckin’ war zone dude. I was standing there and dude got hit with a fuckin’ big ass forty; eight inch fuckin’ shard of glass in his skull y

Another person interrupts saying, ‘‘they didn’t even tell us they were going to tear gas us, they didn’t even warn us.’’ This prompts the cameraman to

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Picture 3. Rioter, Dispersed from Party Site, ‘‘Moons’’. Police from the Liberty Gas Station. Originally published April 10, 2010 in the online edition of The Breeze. Photographer David Casterline.

ask, ‘‘Why did they start doin’ the tear gas?’’ The first partygoer responds: ‘‘People were fighting; people were beating the shit out of each other.’’ Another partygoer adds that ‘‘kids were fighting the police y [but] if the police didn’t show up they wouldn’t fight ’em.’’ Then, the first partygoer chimes back in (italics added): All y no y police intervention until fuckin’ people started getting hurt. And then they came, they had it blocked off for a little while y but you could still get in through here [the hillside by the Liberty gas station] so people were still flowing in. Shit got out of control, they wanted to take charge. They really have no control over this whole fucking area right now y there is zero control.

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CONCLUSION This year marks the 50th anniversary of Neil Smelser’s (1971 [1962]) renowned work, Theory of Collective Behavior, in which he introduced the value-added model for explaining collective behavior. Initially the work was much ballyhooed, and then later much criticized. Some later criticisms included that it was too wedded to the structural functionalist tradition and did not capture the emergent quality of collective behavior. A more specific criticism was the approach was not adequate for describing so-called ‘‘issueless’’ riots, which often included ‘‘celebratory’’ riots, because these events occurred in the absence of both ‘‘generalized grievance’’ and ‘‘structural strain’’ (Marx, 1970; McPhail, 1971). We are not interested in resurrecting the structural functionalist tradition, but do believe the anniversary of Theory of Collective Behavior offers an opportunity to reassess the value-added approach. We also believe in the case of the Springfest riot that both grievance and strain were likely causal to the riot event. At the very least, an evaluation of these variables provides insight into how JMU students assessed the riot event as they observed it. We find support for many aspects of Smelser’s value-added approach. In all, we believe our data indicates the model variables were present and likely causal with respect to enabling the Springfest riot. But our study, like others, also demonstrates the problematic nature of claiming the model is ‘‘valueadded’’ and we doubt the variables in Smelser’s model are sequentially causal to one another. Rather, there is likely some interaction between variables in the model that create differing levels of causality with respect to riotous behavior. While perfectly ‘‘weighting’’ these interactions is impossible in this study, describing these variables does offer a ‘‘big picture’’ view of social conditions causing the Springfest event. Depending on a riot event’s characteristics some variables are more important than others. And some variables – particularly routine patterns of mobilization associated with parties, sporting events, etc. – are not mutually exclusive. In the case of the Springfest riot, we believe the block party became the ‘‘cause’’ – the ‘‘right’’ to party – that students were fighting for. At the same time, it was a mobilizing structure built into JMU’s culture. As such, we included a discussion of cultural tropes and repertoires when describing structural conduciveness. We believe JMU party culture – particularly routine organizing of large parties – is closely associated with structural conduciveness in this case.

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Our approach may still seem deterministic, but we did adapt the Smelser model – largely using a modest application of ESIM perspectives – to account for the emergent quality of crowd – police interactions during the riot event. These emergent behaviors point to an important interaction between ritualistic cultural practices – much loved and clearly normative behaviors among many students at JMU – that created the intense meaning that the Springfest event had for many students. Moreover, the disruption of an event closely associated with a valued ritual appears to have evoked greater hostility toward JMU officials and the Harrisonburg Police Department. Thus, future research on celebratory riots might benefit from examining if people are reacting to attempts at changing a tradition or cultural celebration – and this would include tropes associated with sporting rituals – in which there is a high degree of personal attachment and group solidarity. In fact, it is possible that attempts to disrupt celebratory festivals are often a tipping point – they may reinforce grievance – even though the events may initially present themselves as celebrations or parties not associated with long-standing grievances. The Springfest riot was not inevitable, and its trajectory was clearly affected by specific police–student interactions, but the structural and cultural context at JMU makes the incidence of party riot more likely. Indeed, we are reasonably sure there will be party riots in the future at JMU due to the structural and cultural variables we have described. Quantifying the degree to which these variables are causal to a specific riot experience is difficult, but we think the adoption of a heuristic approach – one that integrates theories that ‘‘best fit’’ the specific event and data available – helped us explore riotous behavior more thoroughly in this case study. We also believe that our case, while unique, does capture many of the same types of interactions that are causal to rioting events on other college campuses. In the direct aftermath of the Springfest Riot, considerable pressure was exerted on students by the JMU administration. Policies were changed and disciplinary action associated with excessive partying hardened. The policing became far less polite. The parties at the Port Republic complexes were more closely monitored. In the 2 years since the riot, there has been no Springfest party. Moreover, the current JMU administration continues to explicitly inform students that the alcohol culture at the university will be changed. But practically, the routine modes of partying – after this initial crackdown – have been largely re-established. It is not hard to find a party at JMU on the weekend. Despite administration attempts to ‘‘change the alcohol culture’’ at JMU, we suspect more riots are likely in the future. Indeed, riot is built into both the structure and the student culture of the institution. Notably, this was not

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the first party riot at JMU, the previous one occurring on August 25, 2000, the weekend most JMU students returned to campus for the fall semester. This riot also took place at the Forest Hills complex. In this case, many attending a ‘‘back-to-school’’ party that drew about 2,000 people resisted police attempts to disperse them at midnight, resulting in a 3 hour stand-off between 35 officers in riot gear who also used pepper spray and tear gas during the confrontation. Partygoers returned fire with rocks and bottles. Many cars were vandalized during the fight, including a police car that was tipped on its side during the melee (The Breeze, 2010). Notably, the initial institutional response in the aftermath of that riot event appears nearly identical to the ongoing attempts by JMU officials to reduce student drinking. Indeed, after the riot in August 2000 a task force was formed to assure that a similar event would not happen in the future. In all, the emergent quality of riot events makes prediction – in a narrow sense – a difficult endeavor. Indeed, this problem has long befuddled students of collective behavior. Recent studies, however, have examined how different forms of state repression (e.g., counterterrorism and protest policing) influence dissent in different ways over time (see Davenport, 2007). In particular, Earl and Soule (2010) showed how different strategies and levels of force used by police at protest events impact subsequent protest levels, although the suppression of protest differs over time and by social movement. Likewise, others have shown that police respond differently to different crowd contexts (McCarthy et al., 2007), when different tactics are used by social movements, and even to the different spaces where a crowd mobilization occurs (see Ratliff, 2011). We do not want to conflate the claims-making undertaken by social movements with the types of grievances that fuel violence during ‘‘beer riots,’’ but we do think the shared identity of students coupled with their routine, often negative interactions with police created the potential for the greater violence during the Springfest party. Further research is needed with respect to how different forms of collective behavior are influenced over time, particularly in cases in which methods of control are implemented as a means of ensuring public safety. In this respect, the Springfest case is useful because it offered the opportunity to examine many factors – cultural, structural, emergent, and situational – that made a violent outcome more likely.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A version of this paper was presented at the Southern Sociological Society Annual Meeting in 2012. The authors thank our colleagues at James

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Madison University and Virginia Tech, particularly Kerry Dobransky, Chris Colocousis, Jim Hawdon, John Ryan, and Dale Wimberley for helpful comments on the manuscript. The staff at JMU Counseling Services, particularly David Onestack, gave an informative in-service presentation to the JMU Sociology Department that provided a considerable amount of information concerning the unique drinking culture at the university. David later provided us with a couple tables reproduced in this article and directed us to JMU administrative reports that helped further document this culture. A few writers at the excellent JMU student paper, The Breeze, did some remarkable reporting of the event. Among these was Kaleigh Sommers, at the time a student in a sociology class at JMU taught by Stephen Poulson, who spoke with him at length following the event. We thank Robert Boag and David Casterline, at the time student photographers for The Breeze, for the permission to reprint the photographs that were published in the student newspaper. The quality of these photographs is self-evident, and not surprisingly both Robert and David, after graduating from JMU, are now working as professional photographers. Thanks also to the JMU students who spoke with us concerning their party experiences generally and their specific experiences at Springfest.

REFERENCES Adamsma48. (2010, April 11). 2010 JMU block party riot. YouTube. Retrieved from http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v¼br14CNRvWH4&%20feature¼related. Accessed on November 1, 2011. Armstrong, G. (1998). Football hooligans: Knowing the score. Oxford: Berg. Auyero, J., & Moran, T. P. (2007). The dynamics of collective violence: Dissecting food riots in contemporary Argentina. Social Forces, 85(3), 1341–1367. Benford, R. D., & Snow, D. (2000). Framing processes and social movements: An overview and assessment. Annual Review of Sociology, 26, 611–639. BigEd921. (2010, April 12). JMU Springfest 2010 insanity. YouTube. Retrieved from http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v¼04Fyiz7-MPI&feature¼related. Accessed on November 1, 2011. BIGNeek08. (2010, April 12). JMU block party 2010. YouTube. Retrieved from http://www. youtube.com/watch?v¼omjsQXkwzZ0&feature¼related. Accessed on November 1, 2011. Bj2451. (2010, April 11). JMU Springfest 2010 riot. YouTube. Retrieved from http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v¼ZWJqDbirGm8&feature¼related. Accessed on November 1, 2011. Blockparty2010. (2010, April 11). Best of JMU block party 2010 Riot HQ 4-10-2010. YouTube. Retrieved from http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR¼1&v¼%20ayBz36AurUA. Accessed on November 1, 2011.

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS Tarun Banerjee is a Ph.D. candidate of sociology at State University of New York at Stony Brook. His research is in the areas of social movements, organizations, and class analysis. His dissertation is on protests against large corporations in the United States, and examines the impact of social networks between these corporations in their responses to social movement demands. Anna-Britt Coe is a postdoctoral researcher at the Umea˚ Center for Gender Studies, Umea˚ University, Sweden. She has a Ph.D. in sociology from the same university. Previously, she worked in reproductive rights advocacy in Peru and Washington, DC for over 10 years. Her research interests include the influence of social movements on policy and society as well as the construction of gender and generations in movements. Her dissertation, How Social Movements Influence Policies: Advocacy, Framing, Emotions and Outcomes among Reproductive Rights Coalitions in Peru (2010), examined how two reproductive rights coalitions carried out advocacy and influenced policies in two regions of Peru, Arequipa and Cusco. Within the Epidemiology and Global Health Unit at Umea˚ University, she analyzed the construction of gender and generations in the mobilizing structures for youth activism on sexual health in Peru and Ecuador. Her postdoctoral research compares framing and ideology between youth and adult feminists in Peru and Ecuador. She has published in Social Movement Studies, Mobilization, Sociological Perspectives, Journal of Gender Studies, Youth & Society, and Journal of Youth Studies. Patrick G. Coy is professor and director of the Center for Applied Conflict Management at Kent State University. He was a Fulbright Scholar at the University of Botswana in 2010–2011, working with the Research Centre on San (Bushman) Studies. His research has been funded by the National Science Foundation, the Hewlett Foundation, the Albert Einstein Institution, the American Sociological Association, and the Council for International Exchange of Scholars. His most recent publications include a comparative analysis of the potency of frames used by President Bush and 307

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by the US peace movement following 9/11 (Social Movement Studies), a survey of the state of scholarship in nonviolent studies (Peace Review), a comparative analysis of the field practices of three international nonviolent accompaniment organizations (International Journal of Human Rights), and an article examining the connections between the goals of traditional liberal arts education and peace and conflict studies curriculum (Journal of Peace Education). Patrick G. Coy currently serves on the board of directors of the International Peace Research Association Foundation and as vice president of the board of directors of the Cleveland Mediation Center. Emily Dollieslager is a graduate of James Madison University where she received a BS degree in sociology in 2011. She is currently working in Virginia Beach. Pascale Dufour is a director of the Research Centre on politics and social development and an associate professor in the Department of Political Science at the University of Montreal. She focuses on collective action and social movements in comparative perspective. She has been working on struggles against globalization, the World March of Women and most recently, student movements. Her research has been funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Fonds que´be´cois de recherche socie´te´ et culture. Her recent work has been published in Politics and Society, French Politics, Canadian Journal of Political Science, Canadian Journal of Sociology, Mobilization, and Social Science Quarterly. Her most recent publications include a book on social protest and globalization struggles (Presses de l’Universite´ de Montreal, 2013); an edited volume on marginalisation and social mobilisations (2012, EHESP); and a book on Transnationalizing Women’s Movement (UBC Press, 2011, coauthored with Dominique Masson and Dominique Caouette). Jennifer Earl is a professor of sociology at the University of Arizona. She is Director Emeritus of the Center for Information Technology and Society and Director Emeritus of the Technology and Society Ph.D. Emphasis, both at University of California, Santa Barbara. Her research focuses on social movements and the sociology of law, with research emphases on the Internet and social movements, social movement repression, and legal change. She is the recipient of a National Science Foundation CAREER Award for

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research from 2006–2011 on web activism and a member of Youth and Participatory Politics Research Network, sponsored by the MacArthur Foundation. She has published widely, including coauthoring an MIT Press book entitled Digitally Enabled Social Change, and in major sociological journals such as the American Sociological Review and the Annual Review of Sociology, as well as in respected specialty journals such as Sociological Theory and Mobilization, among others. Michelle I. Gawerc is an assistant professor of sociology and global studies at Loyola University Maryland. Her research areas include the sociology of peace, war, and social conflict, social movements, and organization studies. She is the author of Prefiguring Peace: Israeli-Palestinian Peacebuilding Partnerships and several articles including ‘‘Peacebuilding: Theoretical and Concrete Perspectives’’ and ‘‘The Al-Aksa Intifada: Revealing the Chasm,’’ coauthored with Alan Dowty. Michelle I. Gawerc is a recipient of a number of honors and awards, including a United States-Israel Educational Foundation Fulbright Fellowship, a Program on Negotiation Graduate Research Fellowship from the Harvard Law School, and a United Nations Memorial Fellowship Award from the American Sociological Association’s Peace, War, and Social Conflict Section. Laura J. Heideman is an assistant professor at Northern Illinois University in the Department of Sociology and the Center for NGO Leadership and Development. In 2013, she was a postdoctoral fellow at the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies at the University of Notre Dame. She earned her doctorate in sociology from the University of Wisconsin-Madison in 2012. Her research examines the peacebuilding apparatus in Croatia in the aftermath of the breakup of Yugoslavia, and examines the intersections of NGOization, civil society development, and peacebuilding. The research published here was funded by a Fulbright Fellowship and a National Science Foundation Graduate Research Fellowship. Heideman has longterm interests in post-conflict studies, development studies, and political sociology. She has done previous research on the long-term reintegration of guerrilla ex-combatants in South Africa. David Pettinicchio is a postdoctoral research fellow in Sociology and Nuffield College at the University of Oxford. He will begin as assistant professor of sociology at the University of Toronto in autumn, 2014. He received his PhD in Sociology from the University of Washington in 2012. His research areas include political sociology, social movements and social

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policy. He has published articles on institutional activism and social movements, gay marriage politics, and ethno-nationalist policies and migration. His article in this volume draws from his dissertation, ‘‘From the Government to the Streets: Why the U.S. is an Innovator in Disability Rights,’’ which was funded in part by a National Science Foundation Dissertation Improvement Grant. Stephen C. Poulson is an associate professor of sociology at James Madison University. He received his Ph.D. from Virginia Tech in 2002. He primarily studies social movements in the Middle East and is the author of Social Movements in Twentieth Century Iran: Culture, Ideology and Frames (Lexington Books, 2006). He is also the author of Why Would Anyone Do That?: Adventure Sport in the Twenty-First Century (Rutgers University Press, forthcoming). His most recent work investigates patterns of violence directed toward civilians during the civil war in Iraq. Thomas N. Ratliff is an assistant professor of criminology at Arkansas State University. Ratliff’s research interests include: violence and social control; protest event policing; theories of crime, disorder and change; and culture, discourse, and aesthetics. He received his Ph.D. in 2011 from Virginia Tech where his dissertation research examined the factors influencing violent outcomes and different types of police action at protest events in the United States from 2006 to 2009. His current research extends his dissertation work by evaluating policing styles and citizen ‘‘performances’’ at protest events in the United States from the ‘‘Battle in Seattle’’ in 1999 through the emergence of Occupy Wall Street. Other projects in progress examine: protest policing strategies in New York; differential policing of racial/ethnic minorities at protest events; social movement families/ensembles; antiwar protest in the Vietnam and ‘‘War on Terror’’ eras; and the media framing of protest and police brutality. Anna Szolucha is a Ph.D. student in the Department of Sociology, at the National University of Ireland in Maynooth. She completed her MA (Honors) in international relations at the University of St Andrews, Scotland. While pursuing this degree, she spent one year studying at the University of Toronto, Canada, where she was also a research fellow researching online archives about protest in postcommunist Eurasia. Anna has a keen interest, both personally and professionally, in social movements that use direct action and direct democracy. She has conducted her research in this area in Poland, Ireland and the United States. Anna has published

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about autonomy in anarchist organizing and participatory action approaches to research. She has also written many movement-relevant texts that were published in nonacademic outlets. Anna is a journal participant of Interface – an international journal for and about social movements. Her postgraduate research is funded through the Doctoral Teaching Scholarship from the National University of Ireland in Maynooth.