The Applied Anthropology Reader [1 ed.] 0205324916, 9780205324910

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James

H. McDonald

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The Applied Anthropology Reader

Edited by James H. McDonald University of Texas at San Antonio

Allyn and Bacon Boston

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Jennifer facobson

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Copyright © 2002 by Allyn & Bacon A Pearson Education Company 75 Arlington Street Boston, MA 02116 Internet: www.ablongman.com All rights reserved. No part of the material protected by this copyright notice may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner. Between the time Website information is gathered and then published, it is not unusual for some sites to have closed. Also, the transcription of URLs can result in unintended typographical errors. The publisher would appreciate notification where these occur so that they may be corrected in subsequent editions. Thank you.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The applied anthropology reader / edited by James H. McDonald. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 0-205-32491-6 (alk. paper) 1. Applied anthropology. I. McDonald, James H. GN397.5 .A66 2002 301—dc21 2001046174 Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

Preface 1

Vii

Introduction

1

SECTION ONE « Issues Ds Roles

8

BREADING

1

Laura Thompson (1976) “An Appropriate Role for Postcolonial Applied Anthropologists” 10 @READING

2

Laura Nader (1999) “Thinking Public Interest Anthropology 1890s—1990s”

3 Ethics

18

24

BREADING

3

Philippe Bourgois (1990) “Confronting Anthropological Ethics: Ethnographic Lessons from Central America” 26 e @MREADING4

Carolyn Fluehr-Lobban (1994) “Informed Consent in Anthropological Research: We Are Not Exempt” 39 BREADING

5

William O. Beeman (1992) “Proprietary Research

and Anthropological Ethics” 4

Methods MREADING

56

61 6

TimothyJ. Finan and John van Willigen (1991) “The Pursuit of Social

Knowledge: Methodology and the Practice of Anthropology” @READING

62

7

James Beebe (1995) “Basic Concepts and Techniques

of Rapid Appraisal”

70

ili

iv

Contents

RBREADING

8

Merrill Singer (1999) “Toward the Use of Ethnography in Health Care Program Evaluation” 88

Policy

105

MREADING

9

TimothyJ. Finan (1997) “Changing Roles of Agriculture in Global Development Policy: Is Anthropology (Out)Standing in Its Field?” BREADING

106

10

John van Willigen and V. C. Channa (1991) “Law, Custom, and Crime against Women: The Problem of Dowry Death in India” 116 @READING

Il

BenitaJ.Howell (1983) “Implications of the Cultural Conservation Report for Social Impact Assessment” 130

SECTION TWO

6

e Domains

Urban Anthropology @READING

139

12

Oscar Lewis (1952) “Urbanization without Breakdown:

A Case Study” @READING

140 13

Philippe Bourgois (1995) “Workaday World, Crack Economy” READING

14

James Diego Vigil (1996) “Street Baptism: Chicano Gang Initiation” 156 ZREADING

15

Elizabeth S. Grobsmith (1992) “Applying Anthropology to American Indian Correctional Concerns”

Medical Anthropology BREADING

165

172

16

George M. Foster (1952) “Relationships between Theoretical and Applied Anthropology: A Public Health Program Analysis” 173

149

Contents

BREADING

17

Merrill Singer, Ray Irizarry, and JeanJ.Schensul (1991) “Needle Access as an AIDS Prevention Strategy for IV Drug Users: A Research Perspective” 194 MREADING

18

Edward C. Green and Raymond B. Isely (1988) “The

Significance of Settlement Pattern for Community Participation in Health: Lessons from Africa” 215 @READING

19

Robert L. Welsch (1986) “Primary Health Care

and Local Self-Determination: Policy Implications from Rural Papua New Guinea” 230

Development Anthropology SREADING

20

Sol Tax (1958) “The Fox Project”

HREADING

248

250

21

)

Daniel R. Gross (1971) “The Great Sisal Scheme” MWREADING

255,

22

Art Hansen (1994) “The Illusion of Local Sustainability and SelfSufficiency: Famine in a Border Area of Northwestern Zambia” BREADING

260

23

Sidney Ruth Schuler and Syed M. Hashemi (1994) “Credit Programs, Women’s Empowerment, and Contraceptive Use

in Rural Bangladesh”

278

Environmental Anthropology @READING

298

24

Edward Liebow (1995) “Inside the Decision-Making Process:

Ethnography and Environmental Risk Management”

@READING

es)

25

Ronald Nigh (1995) “Animal Agriculture for the Regeneration of Degraded Tropical Forests” 310 @READING

26

Thomas R. McGuire and Gloria Ciria Valdez-Gardea (1997) “Endangered 318 Species and Precarious Lives in the Upper Gulf of California”

vi

Contents

10

Anthropology and Education BREADING

329

27

Jules Henry (1955) “Docility, or Giving Teacher What She Wants” BREADING

330

28

T. L. McCarty (1987) “The Rough Rock Demonstration School: A Case History with Implications for Educational Evaluation” 338 @MREADING

29

Teresa L. McCarty and Lucille J. Watahomigie (1999) “Indigenous

Education and Grassroots Language Planning in the USA” MREADING

353

30

James Diego Vigil (1999) “Streets and Schools: How Educators Can Help

Chicano Marginalized Gang Youth”

11

363

Business and Industrial Anthropology MBREADING

eh

31

Eliot D. Chapple (1941) “Organization Problems in Industry” BREADING

380

32

Ann T. Jordan (1995) “Managing Diversity: Translating Anthropological Insights for Organization Studies” 389 MREADING

33

Nancy Rosenberger (1999) “Business Anthropology in a Work Subculture: Korean and Japanese Young, Single, Working Women” 403 MREADING

34

Christopher A. Brown (1997) “Anthropology and Social Marketing: A Powerful Combination” 414 BREADING

35

Carrie McLaren (1998) “Shopping Spies”

Credits

422

419

Preface

Anthropology majors are a select group—without much explicitly labeled experience with the discipline at the precollege level, they manage to find their way into the field. Commonly they have taken a course or two and have found that anthropology speaks to important questions they have about the world, and they find stimulating the approach taken by the discipline to understand and interpret human behavior. Perhaps what grabs them is the unique combination of science and a distinctly humanistic bent, the local-level perspective that provides a fine-grained understanding of culture, or simply an interest in cultural diversity. Whatever it is that speaks to students of anthropology, certainly one of the questions I hear most frequently from undergraduate anthropology majors or those interested in changing their major to anthropology is what they can do with their degree. The emergence of courses that respond to this question, whether they are specialized courses in applied anthropology or more basic introductory courses with an applied focus, is in part driven by student interests and concerns. It is also driven by the expansion of applied and practicing anthropology as a viable career path over the past twenty-five years. This book emerged out of this context. I was putting together an upper-division undergraduate course on applied anthropology, in part out of my own interest but also out of student desire for such an addition to our curriculum. In the process, I ended up compiling a packet of readings that supplemented the textbook I chose to use. While the text had short ethnographic vignettes intertwined with a more abstract discussion of the field, I wanted more rich case-based material for my students to consider. In addition, I also wanted a set of readings that foregrounded important intellectual concerns and issues that have emerged out of applied anthropology rather than simply framing the field as the intellectually barren counterpart to academic anthropology that applies ideas rather than creates them. In contrast, I see much applied work as a kind of praxis—a confluence of theory and practice that generates new knowledge. Thus, in many ways, I would argue that the distinction made between applied and academic anthropology is more than a bit spurious. Yet it is hard to deny that there are important differences between the two approaches. This can be illustrated by examining a major theoretical area—political economy—which has a long history of use to frame work conducted by both academic and applied anthropologists. The crux of political economy turns on issues of ideology, power, and conflict. Academic anthropologists have used this approach to critique the effects of capitalism on local peoples, along with their responses and sometimes resistance to the process of capitalist domination. Along the way, they have developed some very exciting and seductive ideas, imagery, and analysis—wild men, devils, fetishes, man-eating mines.

Often, however, this work also portrays local cultures in quite romantic and ahistorical terms. Applied work is more likely to mute this sexy contextualization in favor of practical analysis that speaks to the problems and challenges faced by the people with whom we work. The difference, then, between academic and applied approaches is often more a matter of what gets emphasized and for what ends.

Vili

Preface

In addition to these intellectual concerns, this book also seeks to provide readers with a broad introduction to applied and practicing anthropology that goes beyond addressing the diverse activities of anthropologists working in different applied domains (e.g., development, education, medicine, and the like). Thus, while the book explores those

domains, it also expands coverage into areas concerning the roles of applied anthropologists who operate in a complex and changing world; the ethical dilemmas that they will face; the traditional and new methods they will adopt in their work; and how applied research situates anthropology as a policy-oriented discipline.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to begin by thanking all the journals, presses, and professional associations that have made their material available for this reader. I would also like to thank the staff at Allyn and Bacon whose help, support, good judgment, and humor kept this project on track. Specifically, the idea for this book was hatched by Elizabeth Garza and Sarah Kelbaugh. It was then brought to fruition by my editor, Jennifer Jacobson, and her assistant ‘Iom Jefferies. Io all these people, I owe a

great debt of gratitude. Additionally, a number of University of Texas at San Antonio graduate students have worked on various aspects of this project, for which they know I am very grateful; they include Fedra Papavasiliou, Jennifer Neel, and Jessica West. Finally, as deadlines loomed ominously, UTSA anthropology faculty member Dan Gelo generously lent me his graduate research assistant, which helped ensure that last-minute loose ends got tied up and that I maintained my sanity.

ABOUT THE EDITOR James H. McDonald is associate professor of anthropology at the University of Texas at San Antonio. His main work has focused on the development of small-scale commercial farming in central and west Mexico. Additionally, he has examined the changing nature of politics in Mexico. He is coeditor of the journal Culture & Agriculture, and his work has appeared in a number of journals including Human Organization, NAPA Bulletin, Critique of Anthropology, American Anthropologist, Research in Economic Anthropology, and Cultural

Anthropology.

l

Introduction

As a discipline, anthropology is a curious mix of Enlightenment and anti-Enlightenment thought. The former is expressed by an interest in our ability to know and explain the world through scientific method. In close proximity to this are anti-Enlightenment ideas, such as

the culture concept and relativism, as well as with more humanistic approaches. Another source of tension in the discipline can be found between academic and applied anthropology. Alexander Ervin (2000) notes that cultural anthropological research is really best thought of as falling along a wide continuum between work that is purely academic in orientation (focusing on problems of theoretical concern) to that done by practicing anthropologists working in nonacademic settings on real-world problems faced by a specific client for whom they are consulting and doing research. In between you find an array of work done by academic anthropologists interested in social problems of varying sorts or academic applied anthropologists with a concern for policy and perhaps some sort of intervention into a particular problem with which they are concerned. It is worth noting here that in anthropology we often make a distinction between applied anthropology (university based) and practicing anthropology (nonacademically based). There are some important differences between these two groups: university-based applied anthropologists have more control over what they study, how they study it, and the breadth of theoretical scope that they can adopt; that is, they have more latitude to engage those high-profile social and cultural issues that grip their interest. Practitioners may have very similar concerns to their academic counterparts, but their work is often more constrained and tightly focused in order to meet the needs of the client for whom they are working. It is often said that academic anthropology is about theory building while applied and practicing anthropology is about using theory to address and solve real-world problems. ‘This has led to an odd relationship between academic versus applied anthropologists, the latter of whom are often seen by their academic counterparts as doing less prestigious research. As Laura Nader (1999) contends, this tension between what she calls “public interest” and the academic realms of research has a long history in the United States. She argues convincingly that from the Civil War onward, there has been a notable shift in American

academics away from public engagement—either in the form of advocacy or applied research. The sad implication is that as American academics’ prestige goes up, their public engagement goes down, a situation that finds little parallel elsewhere in the world. In Mexico, for example, where I do the majority of my work, academics and other notable public figures formed the San Angel group in the early 1990s, which centered its attention on critical issues of democracy and public political participation. Recently, political

Z

Chapter | © Introduction

scientist Jorge Castafieda became foreign minister in the country’s first opposition presidential administration in seventy years. At my university, a political science colleague recently returned home to Peru as a consultant to the government in the wake of the resignation and self-imposed exile of former President Alberto Fujimori (1990-2000). Both are examples of scholars actively engaged in public life. This volume is dedicated to exploring the myriad ways that anthropologists have gone public. And clearly, if we accept Laura Nader’s (1999) argument, those who have done so have bucked the general trend in U.S. intellectual life. Though it forms but one part of the history of anthropology, we can go back to the earliest stirrings of anthropology in the United States and find a concern with identifying and engaging major social problems of the day. As anthropology emerged as a discipline in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Franz Boas spoke out forcefully on the topic of race and racism in his efforts to derail the American eugenics movement, the Women’s Anthropological Society of Washington, D.C. did research on housing and the urban poor; James Mooney framed the violence of colonial encounter in his analysis of the Sioux ghost dance; Hortense Powdermaker cast a critical analytical gaze on the issue of race and class in rural Mississippi.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF APPLIED ANTHROPOLOGY For most of the history of anthropology, applied research has formed an important presence in the discipline. Following van Willigen (1993), applied anthropology’s history can be roughly divided into five stages: a predisciplinary stage (pre-1860); the applied ethnology stage (1860-1930); the federal service stage (1930-1945); the role extension, value ex-

plicit stage (1945-1970); and the policy research stage (1970—present). While I will briefly summarize each of these stages, longer and more detailed histories have been developed by a number of scholars (e.g., Chambers 1989; Eddy and Partridge 1987; Ervin 2000; van Willigen 1993). John van Willigen (1993:18-20) begins with the predisciplinary stage (pre-1860), which covers an impressively wide range of attempts to deal with practical social problems ranging from Herodotus (485-325 B.C.) to nineteenth-century European attempts to formally train colonial development agents in non-Western culture and society. Clearly during this period, colonial expansion and culture contact drove the need to understand (and control) unfamiliar cultures. In the United States, the earliest work was among Native

American groups, especially under conditions in which they were being relocated and placed on reservations. What emerged was an early version of salvage anthropology designed to describe indigenous culture before it was completely altered by the colonial experience or Native American groups were wiped out altogether. The applied ethnology stage (1860-1930) saw more concerted and organized efforts at salvaging native culture. In the United States, ethnologists worked either for private foundations or federal agencies, such as the Bureau of American Ethnology. Franz Boas,

as noted earlier, was also heavily involved with attempts to counter race-based policies in the United States. Across the Atlantic in Britain, Oxford University established the first anthropology department in 1906 with the explicit intent to train colonial administrators.

Chapter 1 © Introduction

3

Researchers during the period commonly adopted a support role to policy makers, gathering the data upon which policies were developed (van Willigen 1993:20-23). The federal service stage (1930-1945) saw the U.S. federal government stepping up its social research activities. As van Willigen (1993:23) notes, however, the actual number of anthropologists employed was still relatively small, and many venturing into applied research ended up returning to an academic setting. Nonetheless, the trend to deploy anthropologists in government research reached its zenith during World War IL. A few examples will help underscore the breath of activity during this period. The Indian Reorganization Act of 1934 helped stimulate the creation of an applied anthropology unit within the Bureau of Indian Affairs under Commissioner John Collier. Walter Goldschmidt conducted his groundbreaking research on the affect of agribusiness on community life in rural California as an employee of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Numerous efforts also revolved around the war effort including work by such well-known anthropologists as Ruth Benedict, whose work resulted in Chrysanthemum and the Sword (1946), a study on Japan-

ese culture. Also during this period anthropologists became research consultants to business and industry, marked most notably by the Hawthorne Project (1931-1932) at the Western Electric plant outside Chicago, which explored work conditions and their relationship to worker productivity. During the role extension, value explicit stage (1945-1970), van Willigen (1993:27-33)

notes a fundamental break with the past. Anthropologists were no longer simply relegated to the collection of data; they were now also increasingly included in the process of policy formation and social intervention. As agents of social change, anthropologists had to confront far more directly and explicitly the ethics of planned change. Applied anthropologists became increasingly uncomfortable shrouded in the veil of objective, value-free research conducted in the service of science. This research had functioned as something of an alibi for researchers doing work on previous periods, which was then used by colonial administrations. During this period, researchers argued that the values driving planned change had to be made explicit, and the local people whose lives were impacted by a particular project should be active participants in that research—a preview of what today is referred to as participatory development. This is nowhere clearer than in the Fox Project developed by Sol Tax, which sought active input from Mesquakie Indian community members in an openended, emergent development project. Allan Holmberg’s Vicos Project in Peru also sought to identify values and then create strategies for their enhancement in a rural development project. This was an action approach that sought positive development initiatives, which included local people as important producers rather than just consumers of the project. The policy research stage (mid-1970s onward) follows the aftershock of the Viet-

nam War period. During this stage, anthropologists experienced the luxury of an expanding job market coupled with disillusionment with and distrust of government and corporate interests in the wake of exposure that anthropologists had been both willingly

and unwittingly involved in Cold War operations, as well as with the collection of information used in the war effort (van Willigen 1993:33-38). As the academic job market

began to slow in the late 1970s, however, anthropologists began to return to nonacademic applied research. Unlike the federal service stage, most of the people going into nonacademic work would stay there. Indeed, anthropologists’ roles in applied work over the past twenty-five years have become increasingly broad within both the governmental and private sector. In 1972, only 12 percent of anthropology Ph.D.’s took nonacademic

4

Chapter 1 © Introduction

jobs. Since 1977, about one-third of all anthropology Ph.D.’s have found employment outside of academia (Price 2001). Virtually all master’s degree recipients sought nonacademic employment. Clearly there is a close relationship between the academic job market and the percentage of anthropologists employed in nonacademic jobs. What is equally clear is that nonacademic employment has become increasingly important for anthropologists and will undoubtedly continue to be a major outlet for members of the discipline.

THEORY AND PRACTICE As noted earlier, academic anthropology is often viewed as “theory building” while applied anthropology is viewed as “theory using.” This has led to a general perception that there is a gap between theory and practice. Because anthropology is still largely an academically based discipline, theory takes on a privileged position while practice is marginalized. I find this distinction highly problematic. Indeed, the majority of work done in academic anthropology takes existing theory, uses it as an explanatory framework, and perhaps along the way ends up making some modifications to that theory. Rarely do wholly new ideas spring up. The main difference is really in terms of where the stimulus for research comes from. On the academic side, research problems evolve from theory. Put another way, they stem from some problem with our ability to understand and explain the social world through our existing theories. Applied research is stimulated by a real-world social problem. In both cases, theory provides an interpretive framework guiding the researcher, and along the way our research findings might lead us to modify our theoretical model. While the stimulus for research may be different, the general process of doing research is largely the same—both have the potential to modify and thereby build theory. The reality of the situation, of course, is that applied work is also concerned with producing useful information concerning social problems and placing those findings within a broader context of policy making and implementation (cf. Ervin 2000). Some applied anthropologists emphasize the practical aspects of their work over the theoretical and vice versa. Not surprisingly, academically based applied anthropologists are more likely to highlight theoretical contributions of their work, while practicing anthropologists working for a client on a specific short-term project may highlight the practical. Just as academic anthropology is characterized by a wide range of objectives (theory building to relativist description) and approaches (science based to radical postmodern), so too we find a range of difference among applied anthropologists. The theory—practice debate has led some to argue for treating applied and practicing anthropology as a fifth subdiscipline (Ervin 2000:7). This is particularly driven by what many see as the differing conditions under which practicing anthropologists operate in nonacademic settings. It is clear from discussions with colleagues working outside of academia that they are confronted on a daily basis by problems and issues that do not typically hamper academically based anthropologists. For example, the time constraints they face in terms of collecting and analyzing their data often leads them to see their academic counterparts as slow and lethargic. I fear, however, that such a move would do considerable harm by underscoring difference rather than similarity, further driving a wedge between academic and nonacademic anthropologists. In this scenario, the process of ghettoization of practicing anthropology (and, to a very real extent, academically based applied anthro-

Chapter 1 ¢ Introduction

5

pology) embodied in such things as the theory—practice debate would hardly result in the

desired outcome—enhanced equality within the field. To see the real negative possibilities of this, one only has to look at the relationship between sociologists and social workers (a.k.a. applied sociologists) both within and outside the academic setting. As Alexander

Ervin (2000:7) additionally suggests, another implication of the fifth subdiscipline is to

further separate academically based applied anthropologists and their practicing colleagues. And undoubtedly both would find themselves further distanced from their “pure” academic colleagues.

TOOWARD A PRAXIS ANTHROPOLOGY Is there an alternative to the fifth discipline approach that would be unifying rather than potentially divisive? Marietta Baba (2000) outlines four models of theory production that are commonly used to represent the production of knowledge in the social sciences. Academic disciplines commonly represent their work in terms of linear theory (i.e., theory informs practice). Applied social sciences represent their work in terms of feedback theory (i.e., there is a feedback relationship between theory and practice). A variant of this second model is policy theory, by which feedback moves both between practice and theory on the one hand and practice and policy on the other. A fourth model of theory is based on the concept of praxis (i.e., “a way of knowing that relies on engagement of social reality, on being embedded in the process of social life”; Baba 2000:26). Praxis carries with it a strong sense of social critique whereby people with whom we work may be liberated from the exploitative and alienating circumstances of their lives (Baba 2000:26). While there is certainly the possibility for the unification of theory and practice in the feedback theory modeling of social science, the ideal of a praxis anthropology that critically links theory creation with practice provides a powerful alternative to the more standard models of knowledge production, and puts an end to the kind of dualism that has created the theory—practice divide in anthropology and other disciplines (cf. Baba 2000; Hill 2000; Kozaitis 2000). One response to this is that many practicing or applied anthropologists, like their academic counterparts, might not think of their work as particularly “critical” because it fails to focus on such issues as inequality, repression, or alienation. Kathryn Kozaitis (2000:47-50) argues, however, that cultural anthropology is funda-

mentally oriented by a particular kind of practice (ethnography), and that academic anthropologists are themselves a kind of practitioner within the university, which is best thought of as a human-based social service organization based on social practice. When we turn to theory in anthropology, we find that the field’s theoretical orientations and methodologies themselves are cultural constructs that have emerged out of specific historical, social, political, and economic contexts. Therefore, whether we are aware of it or

not, our work has fundamental political implications. Kozaitis (2000:55) argues that the key to praxis is “synthesis of intellectualism, pragmatism, and compassion in organized efforts to understand and serve humanity.” Much of this underlies Laura Nader’s (1999) recent call for a “public interest anthropology.”! Holding a praxis orientation as an ideal

serves to remind us of the political nature of what we do and, thus, the need to always keep the ethical implications of our work foremost in our considerations when conducting applied research.

6

Chapter | © Introduction

In sum, the orientation of this book is that there are many applied anthropologies. It is an area that has resulted in a number of important contributions to the discipline. Indeed, the field, broadly conceived, has led to numerous areas of new research (e.g., drug rehabilitation, educational evaluation, rural industrial development, and broadcast media) (van

Willigen 1993:36). It has also resulted in new methodological developments as well (¢.g., participatory action research, rapid rural appraisal techniques, and cyberethnography).

STRUCTURE OF THE BOOK This book is designed to introduce students to applied anthropology by supplying a series of article-length case studies that provide more ethnographically rich material than is possible within the scope of a standard textbook. It is divided into two broad sections: “Issues” and “Domains.” The first section, “Issues,” (Chapters 2—5) examines key areas associated with applied anthropology in chapters on roles, ethics, methods, and policy. Chapter 2, “Roles,” explores the parts, broadly conceived, that have been played historically by applied and practicing anthropologists, and argues for a responsible, publicly engaged anthropology as we enter the twenty-first century. Chapter 3, “Ethics,” explores a central concern for all applied anthropologists due to their involvement, either directly or indirectly, with culture change. Chapter 4, “Methods,” explores the diverse data-collecting approaches adopted by applied anthropologist, allowing for the consideration of the similarities and differences between applied and academic anthropologists. Chapter 5, “Policy,” considers the role of anthropology in policy making, and builds an argument that anthropology has long been and should continue to have a role as a policy discipline. The second section, “Domains,” (Chapters 6-11) provides historic as well as contemporary examples of the kinds of work done by applied and practicing anthropologists. Chapter 6, “Urban Anthropology,” includes work on such problems and issues as drug addiction, gangs, and the law and the criminal justice system. Chapter 7, “Medical Anthropology,” explores the use of anthropological knowledge and analysis on diverse medical and public health issues. Chapter 8, “Development Anthropology,” includes work on U.S.—based and international development in areas such as community development, agriculture, women and development, and the role of credit and microenterprises. Chapter 9, “Environmental

Anthropology,” complements Chapter 8 that precedes it and addresses a range of current, important topics—risk perception, sustainability, and environmental destruction. Chapter 10, “Anthropology and Education,” highlights the long-standing interest among anthropologists in education in terms of teaching and learning, while also focusing an analytical gaze on the nature of educational institutions themselves. Finally, Chapter 11, “Business and Industrial Anthropology,” focuses on applied work in diverse facets of the business world from analysis of corporate culture to consumer and marketing research.

Note 1. Nader (1999:1) defines public interest anthropology as “a combination of academic anthropology and its use in an advocacy frame, by the same or other persons. It is to be differentiated from strict applied anthropology or strict academic anthropology, but makes use of both. . .”

Chapter 1 ¢ Introduction

References Cited Baba, Marietta

2000 ‘Theories of Practice in Anthropology: A Critical Appraisal. NAPA Bulletin 18:17—-44. Chambers, Erve 1989 Applied Anthropology: A Practical Guide. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Eddy, Elizabeth M., and William L. Partridge 1987 Applied Anthropology in America. New York: Columbia University Press. Ervin, Alexander M.

2000

Applied Anthropology: Tools and Perspectives for Contemporary Practice. Boston: Allyn & Bacon.

Hill, Carole E.

2000

Strategic Planning for Rebuilding a Theory and Practice Synthesis. NAPA Bulletin 18:1-16.

Kozaitis, Kathryn

2000

‘The Rise of Anthropological Praxis. NAPA Bulletin 18:45—66.

Nader, Laura

1999

Thinking Public Interest Anthropology, 1890s—1990s. General Anthropology 5(2):1, 7-9.

Price, Laurie

2001

The Mismatch Between Anthropology Graduate Training and the Work Lives of Graduates. Practicing Anthropology 23(1):55-57.

van Willigen, John 1993 Applied Anthropology: An Introduction. Westport, CT: Bergin & Garvey.

2

Roles

When we think of the wide range of roles in which we find applied and practicing anthropologists, it is common to think in terms of a diverse set of consulting and other activities in areas such as business, development, urban planing, clinical work, politics, and the like. The majority of this reader highlights those myriad roles played by anthropologists in the engagement of real-world issues. In this chapter, I encourage readers to think about the concept of roles more broadly in terms of how applied research shapes policy and public advocacy through two provocative articles by Laura Thompson and Laura Nader. Thompson provides a useful reflection on the history of applied anthropology, poignantly reminding us of the historical relationship between applied anthropology and the colonial enterprise. Her critique underscores the important point that social science (applied or otherwise) is never value free. For our very theoretical models for interpreting social reality are themselves born out of a particular historical, socioeconomic, and

political context. This is to say that our work has political implications whether or not we are fully aware of it. While her critique provides us with a helpful historical framing of applied anthropology, she takes the next step, which is to suggest an alternative vision that still has a resonating quality twenty-five years later. Nader also provides us with a historical framing of the public intellectual in the United States. She urges us toward public engagement. While she does not necessarily see her position as synonymous with applied anthropology, it is nevertheless an excellent starting point for anyone whose interests and motives are charged by a desire to engage important social problems of the day. Over the course of the history of the field, applied anthropologists have increasingly moved from the role of data collector, working in support of policy makers, to actually having a hand in the policy-making process. Indeed, over the course of the past twenty-five years, there seems to have been a general expansion of the roles adopted by applied anthropologists. This is underscored in a career development column that is now a semi-regular feature in the Anthropology Newsletter of the American Anthropological Association, which discusses the diverse roles of anthropologists, especially those working outside the university setting. This includes, for example, a feature on cultural anthropologists who work in the technology industry as “experience modelers” (February 2001) and in marketing firms (March 2000), as well as linguistic anthropologists working in various aspects of the business world (November 2000).

My own history in the discipline provides another kind of example, one which points out how an individual’s roles vary considerably over time. I was trained in an anthropology program that was quite traditional in scope. At the time we did not have anyone on the faculty who considered him- or herself an applied anthropologist. My dissertation was, not surprisingly, academically oriented, but focused on a major social problem—the emergence

8

Chapter 2 ¢ Roles

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of inequality in a community of small-scale farmers in central Mexico. I have also worked within a large metropolitan community college district in which I occupied a low-level administrative job that allowed me to have some influence not just on policy makers, but on the shaping of policy itself in terms of the college’s distance learning program. While much of my activity was embedded in the day-to-day activities and problems we faced, I also turned the experience into an object of knowledge (cf. McDonald 1993, 1995). Once I secured an academic job, my attention remained focused on various social issues revolving around rural development and political culture in Mexico. Most recently, I have found myself in the role of ethnographer on a long-term, policy-oriented rural development project in western Mexico. More is undoubtedly to come as I have always been drawn to social problems and applied themes. In all frankness, mine is not a particularly amazing or noteworthy story, and it is useful precisely because of that. It demonstrates that applied anthropologists often come out of more traditional programs, and not just ones that are oriented toward applied research. It also shows that we often find ourselves in various nonresearch roles that we can turn into praxis—action-oriented knowledge production. ‘Though I cannot speak for my colleagues working in nonacademic jobs, as an academic anthropologist I have been able to maintain my interest in what I feel are important social issues, and over time my work has become increasingly applied and policy oriented. Applied anthropology, in sum, is a diverse field with many different niches, and indeed we can occupy multiple niches or change them over time. For readers thinking about how to match their own skills and interests with possible roles in anthropology, there are two recent career-oriented books that should prove most helpful (Cameson 2000; Omohundro 1998). The Washington Association of Practicing Anthropologists (WAPA) has also come out with a relatively recent volume on finding work among the many different organizations in and around the Washington, D.C., area (Koons, Hackett, and Mason 1989). Additionaily, Robert Trotter (1988) has edited a collection of essays on the creation of applied and practicing university programs at the graduate level that may also provide

interesting, useful, and helpful career insights, as well as stimulate thought about where to go for an advanced graduate degree should the reader be so inclined.

References Cited Cameson, Blythe 2000 Great Jobs for Anthropology Majors. Lincolnwood, IL: VGM Career Horizons. Koons, Adam, Beatrice Hackett, and John P. Mason

1989

Stalking Employment in the Nation’s Capital: A Guide for Anthropologists. Washington, DC: Washington Association of Professional Anthropologists. McDonald, James H. 1993 The Interpenetration of Technology and Institution: An Assessment of an Educational Computer Conferencing System. NAPA Bulletin 12:49-65. 1995 Te(k)nowledge: Technology, Education, and the New Student/Subject. Science as Culture 21:535-564. Omohundro, John T. 1998 Careers in Anthropology. Mountain View, CA: Mayfield. Trotter, Robert T., ed. 1988 Anthropology for Tomorrow: Creating Practitioner-Oriented Applied Anthropology Programs. Washington, DC: American Anthropological Association.

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BREADING 1 An Appropriate Role for Postcolonial Applied Anthropologists Laura Thompson Applied anthropology became a recognized discipline in the prewar colonial epoch. Indeed, during the 1920s and 1930s colonialism and its concomitant commercialism seem to have shaped the various roles that applied anthropologists have assumed: trouble-shooting, management consulting, government administration, research and development. The thesis of this paper is that many applied anthropologists are still operating in the colonial harness. However, clinical anthropology provides a theory and method by which applied anthropologists can break away from outmoded models and assume a professional role in keeping with the changed problems and perspectives of the postcolonial era. This thesis will be discussed in historical perspective as follows: (1) applied anthropology under the colonial yoke; (2) the search for an appropriate postcolonial role; (3) re-

view of fundamentals: the natural history approach; (4) development of multidiscipline research; (5) some empirically based generalizations; (6) emergence of a deductive work-

ing hypothesis; (7) an appropriate role for postcolonial anthropologists; and (8) summary.

APPLIED ANTHROPOLOGY UNDER THE COLONIAL YOKE The term colonial yoke is used here in a broad sense. Politically the expression refers to the superimposition of foreign rule by a few commercially dominant nations over most of the world’s culturally unique, geographically rooted peoples, an era that lasted from one to several centuries. The term is also used to denote a dated way of behaving, thinking, feeling, and evaluating based on the assumption, often unconscious, that a human community or individual can be shaped, according to preconceived exotic norms, by superimposed, culturally alien forces. From countless case studies made in many parts of the world, however, we have discovered that even when foreign administration succeeded in enforcing a kind of superficial conformity, according to its own policies and programs, in the behavior and productions of a subject people, such outward expressions barely concealed the hostility, conscious and unconscious, that it engendered. Mental illness and the arresting or regression of personality maturation according to native patterns, often accompanied conforming behavior.! It is not necessary to specify in detail how anthropologists have been employed in colonial situations both abroad (as in the British, Dutch, and American colonial services) and at home (as in the Mexican, Canadian, and United States administration of Ameri-

can Indian populations and tribes). The point to be emphasized is that while trouble-

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shooting may have somewhat decreased, most of these approaches are still in use among applied anthropologists. For example, James A. Clifton (1970), in his recent volume of readings in applied anthropology, illustrates three types of involvement. The first is the well-known postwar administration of the United Nations Trust Territory of Micronesia as described by Homer G. Barnett (1956). In this case the anthropologists worked on behalf of their client, the United States High Commissioner of the territory. Their role was to act as government consultants and liaison officers with the native population and to assist in planning and implementing official policy and programs for developing the economic resources and encouraging self-government in the area. The second case is that of the famous Hacienda Vicos, Peru, described by Allan R. Holmberg (1965). Here the anthropologist assumed the role of patrén of a hacienda, leased by Cornell University from Peruvian owners for purposes of “research and development.” Although the anthropologist-patrén and his associates formulated the basic goals of the project before it commenced, they gradually worked their Indian peons into leadership and decision-making roles. Finally, through the expropriation of the land by the Peruvian government, the Vicosifias themselves were able to purchase the hacienda on reasonable long-range terms. The third case is the much-publicized Fox Project, directed and described by Sol Tax (1958) and his associates. Although this project started with a philosophy tinged with the “development” concept, the anthropologists assuming the role of “learning while helping,” its meticulously described and evaluated strategy shifted during the fieldwork. Eventually the idea of “concerned interference” in the lives of the Fox Indians was rejected in favor of planned action to increase “the areas of free choice available to the Indians and of helping the Indians understand better the choices available” to them (Peattie 1960:300-04). All of these cases reveal overtones of the “colonial yoke” to a greater or lesser degree. They were motivated by an intent to bring about “introduced” or “directed” change in the cultures of the communities under consideration. They were imbued with value judgments stemming from a “development” philosophy. But the very terms, underdeveloped or undeveloped peoples, imply that such groups are somehow deficient from the Westerner’s viewpoint. As an informant from a new nation recently freed from colonial political status remarked, “These words reveal a belief that something is wrong with us.” Even a change in semantics from “underdeveloped” to “newly-developing,” suggested by George M. Foster (1962:ix), does not disguise the widely held premise that such peoples are all in need of guidance, health care, technological development, and cultural change.

THE SEARCH FOR AN APPROPRIATE POSTCOLONIAL ROLE Whether or not we accept this premise, all three cases demonstrate some degree of awareness of the need for a more appropriate postcolonial role for the applied anthropologist (Lewis 1973:591). In his discussion of “the ethics of helping people change,” Foster (1969:174-79) shows a fine sensitivity regarding the problem of professional role but he

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does not succeed in elucidating an orientation entirely free of the “colonial yoke,” according to the present thesis. The point to be stressed is that if an anthropologist rejects the value-loaded philosophy of “development” with its implications of the need for cultural change on the part of new nations, he or she has no alternative but to look for an appropriate professional role conspicuously free of the “colonial yoke.”

REVIEW OF FUNDAMENTALS: THE NATURAL HISTORY APPROACH One way to begin such a search is by reviewing fundamentals. At the risk of spelling out the obvious, let us consider the origins of modern ethnographic research. Until recent decades (and even today among some practitioners of the discipline) anthropology has been considered to represent the emerging science of humankind. It has not only essayed to combine biological, sociocultural, and humanities approaches in the study of human groups, it has also staked its maturation on empirically based methods and generalizations. Indeed it may be distinguished from other disciplines centering on Homo sapiens by its emphasis on first-hand fieldwork (i.e., ethnography) on human communities in their natural and social settings. Isolated natural laboratories where human groups have gained a foothold have been sought as the locus of research. For this purpose the classic natural history approach, with its four traditional phases of investigation—general description of observed phenomena, classification, comparison, and empirically based generalizations—was borrowed from Charles Darwin and other classic natural historians. Each of these scientific investigators carried under one hat the elements of several field disciplines, including biology, geology, botany, and zoology, as well as ethology and eventually ecology. The rationale behind this type of field research is that deductive hypotheses, based on inductive generalizations rooted in first-hand observations in situational context and,

capable of scientific verification, will in time emerge. The best example of the process is of course Darwin’s theory of organic evolution based on natural selection.

DEVELOPMENT RESEARCH

OF MULTIDISCIPLINE

As ethnology based on ethnographic fieldwork developed, the kinds of information needed about a community under investigation expanded spatially, temporally, and in psychological depth. The number of disciplines needed by the investigator increased in complexity and degree of specialization. No longer, it was felt by some anthropologists, could all this expertise be mastered by one person. If ethnology was to aid in developing a unified sci-

ence of humankind, fieldworkers would have to cooperate in multidisciplinary teams.

The use of several methods by professionals from many disciplines working together on the same unit of research has afforded the opportunity for students of the human group to obtain many viewpoints on a single complex event (a human community) in its natural setting in space and time virtually simultaneously.’ The resulting multifac-

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eted perspective has yielded new insights into the processes of culture change in depth and suggested the probability that such students might before too long develop the tools and the analytical skills to forecast correctly the probable behavior of known groups under certain likely conditions.

SOME EMPIRICALLY BASED GENERALIZATIONS By these two approaches—ethnography as natural history and as multidiscipline research— ethnologists have long since found that a culture is not merely a heterogeneous collection of customs, beliefs, attitudes, and values, as was once assumed. It is to a degree consoli-

dated; that is, its component parts are internally related to one another. But the discovery to be emphasized is that a culture is patterned by the behavior of its members. The people of the community, creating and expressing a lifestyle by their actions and productions, are the active agents in making, adapting, and structuring their lifeway in relation to their attempts to resolve their living problems—past, present, and future. Thus, each culture, viewed as a whole, is a unique creation of the group whose lifestyle it expresses. Most important to the applied anthropologist, however, is that such a culture can be changed, over the long haul, only by the group members themselves. The culture-creating propensity of a people as a problem-solving device is the innate, uniquely human activity that differentiates human beings irrevocably from all other organic phenomena. Animals have social systems, child training patterns, communication devices, and many other attributes formerly considered uniquely human. But the community’s culturebuilding proclivity, exhibited by no other species, is humanity’s most significant characteristic. Herein lies the most human power and the unique genius of Homo sapiens.’ Contrary to popular stereotypes, the propensity of people living in groups that inhabit diverse ecological niches of the world to create distinctive lifestyles appropriate to their needs, has evidently evolved adaptively through natural selection, according to the Darwinian theory. The cultures themselves change but do not evolve, except by rather farfetched analogy. To talk about cultural evolution, or social progress, as these terms are generally used is, in the light of worldwide ethnographic findings, grossly misleading.

EMERGENCE OF A DEDUCTIVE WORKING HYPOTHESIS From the above-stated empirically based generalizations and others derived from fieldwork on human communities in many parts of the world, a deductive working hypothesis has emerged that may help to clarify an appropriate postcolonial role for applied

anthropologists. Since this has already been described in detail elsewhere, I shall merely

summarize it here.* Populations of the species Homo sapiens tend to seek out viable, culturally congenial niches and to settle into them. Once established they explore the habitat and, by a process of trial and error, decide how its natural resources may be used for their purposes. On the basis of preferred patterns expressed in the culture that the founders have brought

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with them, or borrowed from their new neighbors, community members organize themselves to solve their practical living problems in the new locale. These include obtaining and distributing balanced nutrition and craft productions so as to enhance group welfare without exhausting their essential resources. They try to foster and control the reproductive habits and size of their population in relation to their total living arrangements and the changing environment in situational context. They also activate and empower their leadership for decision making regarding essential group tasks. For these purposes, they build, adapt, and consolidate their culture as a problem-solving device, uniquely fashioned to cope with their particular living problems within the limitations and potentials of their specialized habitat. And they devise symbolic media: language, rhythmic movement, song, myth, ceremony, to communicate with one another and to train oncoming generations in order constantly to revise and to perpetuate their culture. Thus, a human population is conceived as one unit among a number of transacting species, each with its own biogram, forming a local ecosystem in a worldwide network of such systems. Such a natural biosystem tends in isolation through time to consolidate itself in the direction of optimum control of its future function. Other species use natural mechanisms for this purpose but the human population uses both natural and cultural devices. This theory, it should be noted, affords no basis for the concept of a lineal evolution of

society, the Western thought pattern underlying “development.” In both its unilineal and its multilineal versions, this stereotype has long since been disproved by empirical evidence. It tends to persist, however, as a convenient rationalization for action in the colonial tradition.

An example will suffice. It is well known that, in developing his thesis, Karl Marx was influenced by the three-phase theory of unilinear social evolution elaborated by Lewis H. Morgan. Beginning in 1869 Morgan, an American lawyer and student of ancient society, corresponded with Lorimer Fison, a Wesleyan Methodist missionary in Fiji, about Fijian organization and land ownership. Fison’s description, used as the prototype for Morgan’s “Middle Period of Barbarism,” was accepted not only as a model for unilinear evolutionists but also as an orthodoxy by which to administer land rights and social relations in the British Crown Colony of Fiji (France 1969:117). Despite the fact that its limitations and inaccuracies have been demonstrated, it has also been used extensively as a norm by which to judge the validity of subsequent research in the area. In the deductive hypothesis summarized above, however, the biologically based concept of “homeostasis” replaces that of “social evolution,” “development,” and “progress” in popular Western ideology. Homeostasis, conceived in this context, may be defined as a universal process by which a human population adapts itself to its changing natural and social situation and tries to resolve its basic problems as a group by tailoring and consolidating its culture toward optimum future function (Thompson 1969b). The effects of this process are most easily recognized in populations that have been isolated geographically or socially. Once identified, however, they may be detected in every human group, rural and urban. Investigation of the homeostatic process demands a research model with directional dynamic, and with temporal as well as spatial dimensions. The concept affords a research tool to investigate feedback relationships between the behavior of a human population and its productive and reproductive institutions under favorable conditions. It postulates a cultural change process that discards as irrelevant alimited, linear, sequential concept of “cause and effect” and a simple additive scale for measuring cultural health and maturity. Rather, it projects a norm for evaluating group growth and maturation in terms of in-

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creased biocultural adaptation, consolidation, and balance in the transaction of a human population with its environment.

AN APPROPRIATE ROLE FOR POSTCOLONIAL ANTHROPOLOGISTS According to the present thesis, a human society, whether a small group, community, region, state, or nation, is viewed as its own innate problem-solver. In the postcolonial world each such unit is considered to be a potentially independent entity, both culturally and politically. When specialized information or consultation is needed the society itself becomes the appropriate client that may solicit or hire professional services to meet its needs. When the expertise of an anthropologist is solicited by such a client a crucial question arises. How can his or her professional role be defined to fully use the client group’s culture-creating and culture-changing proclivities and its intimate acquaintance with its own problems in its changing day-by-day situation? How can the anthropologist’s role explicitly complement and underwrite the client’s function to make and implement its own decisions and to bring about changes in its lifestyle? How can that role reinforce the client’s inevitable responsibility as the only agent that can succeed, over the long term, in solving its own problems? According to present perspectives, an applied anthropologist may not appropriately assume the part of an administrator, developer, manipulator, “do-gooder,” or missionary.

He or she sets no goals, engineers no solutions, activates no policies. In fact, personal politics and morality are irrelevant to professional performance. If hired by a client group, an anthropologist should be equipped to provide services as a consultant and to supply information and options requested by the client, on the basis of first-hand experience and research as well as professional training and worldwide perspectives. Thus, his or her designated role will be one of understanding in depth the group’s condition in its ongoing life situation, and of clarifying its realistic choices of action under likely future situations. Whether or not the client group acts on this information, and if so how, is in no way part of the anthropologist’s professional problem from the present viewpoint. It would be highly improper and probably harmful—perhaps even fatal—to the well-being and maturation pattern of the client society for an outsider to interfere with its decision-making and action prerogatives. This definition of an applied anthropologist’s role leads directly to a clinical approach to the practical problems of a client community. Indeed, a clinical approach to such problems involves adding a final step to the classic ethnographic method. Having placed in an ethnographer’s custody its traditions, laws, geneaologies, skills, and arts—perhaps even its ceremonies and secret wisdom—the community may now regard him or her as a basic cultural resource, even its ultimate authority on custom. Thus, by common consent, many ethnographers are fully qualified for the role of community consultant to the group under

investigation. By this final step, the relationship between unit of research and ethnographer changes to one of client to consultant and prognosticator. We should not assume, however, that this final step will be easy. Indeed it is quite

the opposite, as anyone who has attempted it can attest. It is well known that most of the world’s nations prefer to do their own research and consultant work. When they hire

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outside specialists they usually turn to lawyers, political scientists, or technicians. Because the crucial importance of cultural factors in decision-making processes at all levels of complexity is not generally recognized, the role in modern nation building that anthropologists are equipped to play is often overlooked. Besides, their historic link with colonialism may work against them. But as the colonial experience recedes and the significance of cultural research becomes clearer the situation of applied anthropologists may be expected to improve, provided we continue to upgrade our skills in relevant directions. Role clarification is an indispensable first step. Meanwhile a few veteran anthropologists are blazing a new trail in applied anthropology. For example, the people of the Pacific Trust Territory, inhabiting what will soon become the last area under a United Nations Trusteeship,” are grappling with difficult decisions. Leonard E. Mason, an anthropologist well known for his first-hand reports on Micronesians, has made his extensive knowledge of the territory and its problems available to the local inhabitants (and other interested parties) as the work out a constitution

and negotiate with United States government officials regarding their future political status.© Whether such services will be sought by Micronesians, however, remains to be seen.

A clinical approach in ethnography has many other potentials. In 1973, for example, Iceland notified the United States that it would like the 1951 North Atlantic Treaty Organization agreement revised so that American troops stationed on the island would be withdrawn. This happens every three or four years. The problem has been diagnosed as the need to draft a treaty that will satisfy not only the security needs of the alliance but the talents of the Icelanders as well (Thompson 1960).

On the basis of ethnographic research we know that this small nation (population about 210,000) has devised some extraordinary means of identifying, training, and using its human resources. This skill, which eases human relations and gives dignity to the individual, could be worked into the NATO draft agreement so that its participants would be committed to respect one another and use their available talents regardless of population size and existing power structures. Thus, the unique assets of a small nation and its potential contribution to a large international organization would be formally recognized and a step toward mutually satisfactory peaceful relations would be taken. A significant move in this direction might be made if the United States would grant Iceland’s recent request to employ Icelanders rather than Americans on nonmilitary, nonstrategic jobs at the Keflavik Air Force Base.

SUMMARY ‘To recapitulate, in the postcolonial world two crucial questions arise regarding application of a multidisciplinary ethnographic approach and its factually based findings to contemporary social problems. First, how can a client community’s situation be formulated to foster and use the problem-solving and culture-changing assets of its members? Second, if a client group is accepted as the decision maker and active agent of change, what should be the role of an applied anthropologist in relation to it? According to the present clinical approach, it is suggested that, on the basis of professional training and eye-witness experience, an applied anthropologist may aid a client group as consultant by defining the group’s practical options in local, regional, national,

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and global context. Using understanding of group behavior in the context of its ongoing life situation, a clinical anthropologist may predict, within certain limitations, the probable effect that the selection of each option would have on the client community were it to be selected and implemented by the membership. Choice of a preferred alternative and its enactment, however, should remain the prerogative and responsibility of the client. Notes 1. See, for example, Erik H. Erikson, Childhood and Society (1950); Alice Joseph, M.D., and Veronica Murray, M.D., Chomorros and Carolinians of Saipan: Personality Studies (1951); A. Irving Hallowell, “Ojibwa

Personality and Acculturation” (1952); and the monographs of the Indian Education, Personality and Administration Research. Thus see Alice Joseph, Rosamond Spicer, and Jane Chesky, The Desert People: A Study of the Papago Indians (1949); Clyde Kluckhohn and Dorothea Leighton, The Navaho (1946);

Dorothea Leighton, M.D., and Clyde Kluckhohn, Ph.D., Children of the People: The Navaho Individual and His Development (1969); Dorothea Leighton and John Adair, People of the Middle Place: A Study of the Zuni Indians (1966), Gordon Macgregor, Warriors without Weapons: A Study of the Society and Personality Development of the Pine Ridge Sioux (1946); Laura Thompson and Alice Joseph, The Hopi Way (1967); and Laura Thompson, Culture in Crisis: AStudy of the Hopi Indians (1973). 2. For a well-known example of the use of multidiscipline methods, see two related monographs by Clyde Kluckhohn and Dorothea Leighton (1946, 1969). 3. For an elaboration of these points, see Laura Thompson, The Secret of Culture: Nine Community Studies (1969a). 4. For an elaboration of this hypothesis, see Laura Thompson, Toward a Science of Mankind (1961), and

“Some Limitations of the Peasant Concept” (1970:75-76). 5. Termination of the New Guinea Trusteeship is in transition. 6. Personal communication, Leonard E. Mason.

References Cited Barnett, H. G.

1956

Anthropology in Administration. New York: Harper and Row.

Clifton,J.A., ed.

1970

Applied Anthropology: Readings in the Uses of the Science of Man. Boston: HoughtonMifflin.

Erikson, E. H.

1950

Childhood and Society. New York: W. W. Norton.

Foster, G. M.

1962

1969

‘Traditional Cultures and the Impact of Technological Change. New York: Harper and Row. Applied Anthropology. Boston: Little, Brown.

France, P.

.

The Charter of the Land: Custom and Colonization in Fiji. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. | Hallowell, A. I. Ojibwa personality and acculturation. Jn Acculturation in the Americas. S. Tax, ed. Chicago: 1952 University of Chicago Press. 1969

Holmberg, A. R. 1965 The changing values and institutions of Vicos in the context of national development. American Behavioral Scientist 8(7):3-8.

Joseph, A., R. B. Spicer, andJ.Chesky 1949 The Desert People: A Study of the Papago Indians. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Joseph, A., and V. Murray

1951

Chamorros and Carolinians of Saipan: Personality Studies. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Kluckhohn, C., and D. Leighton

1946

The Navaho. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Leighton, D., and C. Kluckhohn

1969

Children of the People: The Navaho Individual and His Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Leighton, D., andJ.Adair 1966 People of the Middle Place: A Study of the Zuni Indians. New Haven, CT: Human Relations Area Files. Lewis, D.

1973 Anthropology and colonialism. Current Anthropology 14(5):581-91. MacGregor, G. 1946 Warriors without Weapons: A Study of the Society and Personality Development of the Pine Ridge Sioux. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Peattie, L. R.

1960

The failure of the means—ends scheme in action anthropology. In Documentary History of the Fox Project, F. Gearing, R. M. Netting, and L. R. Peattie, eds. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

‘Tax, S.

1958 The Fox project. Human Organization 17:17-19. Thompson, L. 1960 Core values and diplomacy: A case study of Iceland. Human Organization 19:82-85. 1961 ‘Toward a Science of Mankind. New York: McGraw-Hill. 1969a The Secret of Culture: Nine Community Studies. New York: Random House. 1969b Cultural homeostasis: A heuristic concept in understanding culture process. Eastern Anthropologist 22(1):1-12.

1970 1973

Some limitations of the peasant concept. Anthroplogia 12(1):59-82. Culture in Crisis: A Study of the Hopi Indians. New York: Russell and Russell.

Thompson, L., and A. Joseph

1967

The Hopi Way. New York: Russell and Russell.

READING

2

Thinking Public Interest Anthropology 1890s—1990s Laura Nader INTRODUCTION I titled this piece “Thinking Public Interest Anthropology” because we should view public interest matters as a way of thinking, and not as something separate from our profes-

sional behavior. Indeed the United States is one of the few countries in the world where professional behavior is seen as separate from general engagement in the world about us.

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Apparently there are others who agree, because public interest anthropology has been with us for a long time, even though it has not been so labeled. If I were to search for a definition I would say public interest anthropology is a combination of academic anthropology and its use in an advocacy frame, by the same or other persons. It is to be differentiated from strict applied anthropology or strict academic anthropology, but makes use of both as well as reflecting the diverse sub-fields of anthropology. For me personally, ethnography is a crucial component of public interest anthropology as is doing it at home where we have the rights of citizens.

A FEW EXAMPLES Although there are anthropologists who serve private interests, that is the subject for another time. Here I want to focus on what anthropology has done in the public interest and start by recollecting a few examples. From the nineteenth century, I might begin with Louis Henry Morgan and several others, but for my purposes here I would prefer to single out James Mooney’s book (1896) on the Sioux Rebellion, an ethnographic monograph published in the 1890s, in which Mooney described the life of the Sioux in relation to the wider social context that included the Euro-Americans who had taken the things they needed to survive from them. The book was popular with general readers, although not with the power structure in Washington nor with missionaries. It was an empathetic account conveying universal components of Sioux humanity and it described some of the consequences of U.S. government policy for Indian peoples. More recent ethnographies include Jim Spradley’s You Owe Yourself a Drunk (1970), an empathetic description of a tramp population in Seattle. Spradley shows why this population of mainly urban men are arrested over and over again and how it is convenient for the prison authorities to have these “nice” gentlemen around doing the necessary work in the prisons. Spradley’s work affected public policy. The city of Seattle was moved by his work to change its legal treatment of tramps as were several other American urban centers. In the 1980s and 1990s when socio-cultural anthropologists became more able to recognize and study the workings of power, the strategies in monographs changed. Jane Anne Morris’s monograph on the “Not in My Backyard” (1994) movement was the beginning for her of a public interest life based on energy issues. She calls herself a corporate anthropologist because she studies energy corporations and actively mobilizes the uses made of her work. Caroline Tauxe’s work in Farms, Mines and Mainstreets (1993) examines the flows of

power run amok in the Midwest. By taking a vertical slice she connects different strata, a

kind of work that focuses on consequences and enables us not only to examine how power works but on how to understand its exercise in relation to consequences. Patricia Marquez returns to her home country in Venezuela to de-exoticize street kids. She connects their presence on the streets to waves of media and consumer stimu-

lations, the law, and the distribution of different kinds of power. Her ethnography will be published by Stanford in the spring of 1999. Another interesting work is Janine Wedel’s (1998) Collision and Collusion, an ethno-

graphic description of how the Harvard economists (called the Harvard Boys) went to Eastern Europe and Russia as part of development programs, only to collide with their counterparts, leaving devastation in their wake.

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Finally, we could all list what we might agree were direct works in the public interest: Cultural Survival in Cambridge, and earlier, Shelton Dayis’s organization for indige-

nous rights first located in Berkeley then in Boston. In addition, archaeologists and physical anthropologists could come forward with many examples of public interest anthropology from their fields as well.

THE NEED TO ENGAGE So why write about this now? Because there has not been enough such work, because there is no critical mass, no common strategy, no aggregation. Let me take this from another angle. Prior to the Civil War, American historians tell

us American academics did not separate their work from the sociocultural settings they lived in. They were engaged. So were Europeans, such as Marx, Weber, and Durkheim during that same century. It has only been since the Civil War that American universities began to punish academics who overtly advocated public positions—such as those who came out against the Big Trusts in the last century. One historian (Furner, 1975), examined academic freedom cases from 1860 to 1905 that involved the field of economics. The issues were advocacy or objectivity. The way these cases were dealt with set the course in economics, and, some say, in all the social sciences, for the last 100 years. Furthermore,

numbers of historians indicate the growing censorship by academics of self and other as the presence on campuses of military-industrial interests has increased. The tendency has been to keep findings and opinions within academia and out of the public arena. The university, it appears, needs to keep critical work about business and government at arms length because it requires the support of these institutions. As a result, the United States is one of the few places in the world where one’s academic prestige goes up if one does not appear to engage in intellectual life outside the university. In the 1960s this condition of academic isolation was challenged in Dell Hymes’s edited volume, Reinventing Anthropology (1969). What he and those of us who contributed

to the volume had in mind was a more public anthropology, an anthropology not only accessible to the public but one that was a more fundamental part of public life. Psychologists can serve as an example for anthropologists interested in public engagement, although for reasons not necessarily approved of by anthropologists. For example, California psychologists lobbied at the state capital for required social living courses for every high school student. They were successful in this public policy venture partly because of their long-term connection with industry, a relationship often rejected by anthropologists who prefer to move around more freely. Nevertheless, they were actively involved in public issues and topics of public interest. What I sought when I wrote “Up the Anthropologist” in 1969 was something else, a better anthropology, one that was more competent because it included taboo areas in the ethnographic equation. Professional adequacy, I argued, required that we study up, down, and sideways in U.S. institutions, and that we make connections among them. You can’t study ghettos, for example, without understanding banks and redlining. You can’t study families without analyzing marketing techniques that define family relations for little children even before parents do. I felt that the connections part of my paradigm shifting was a key way that anthropology could help the public to understand its own

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predicaments. For example, a psychologist might interpret college freshman depression as an internal process, while an anthropologist might see it as a response to a broader, in-

stitutionally constructed college dorm life. The notion of a vertical slice is key here. An ethnography of a lab as a small group

in isolation would not, in my mind, be a study in the public interest until its connection

to large societal issues was made visible. I teach undergraduates how to do that in a general education course called Controlling Processes.

SUGGESTIONS Let me briefly outline my position, which is not, of course, cast in stone:

1. Change is not neutral. It can have positive and negative effects, as applied anthropologists know only too well. There has recently been published a book on stasists and dynamists that argues that the first are a hindrance to the future. This is what I call the “leap before you look” school. That is what the nuclear industry did in past decades. That is what the genetic engineering debates are about today. We have something to say to the public about change as an ideology. Lloyd Fallers wrote about that in Bantu Bureaucracy (1965) and many anthropologists have had important things to say on the subject since then. 2. Fundamentals in anthropology bear repetition. For example, in 1968 E. R. Leach reminded us, “It is a crime to kill a neighbor, an act of heroism to kill an enemy, but who

is an enemy and who is a neighbor is purely a matter of social definition.” The recent bestseller A Civil Action, by Jonathan Harr, tells the story of eight children who were

poisoned and died of cancer due to contaminated drinking water. The companies settled with a pittance. Juxtapose that with the fact that the U.S. has one of the highest prison rates of any country in the world. Prisoners are being leased over to industry for minimum wage, no benefits, no worker rights. Under the Nazis Volkswagen did something similar. Privatization of prisons may have ominous results. Anthropologists should study this scene and join the public debate. They should also look at and inform the public about such issues as the high rate of imprisonment of black men. 3. We need to exoticize the U.S. For centuries peoples of the East have been quoted in remarks about the West: “They have technology, but no culture, no civilization.” This is repeated from Gibralter to Tokyo. Anthropologists should write more ethnographic description about American culture. We should search for taboo areas, and

connect to what others think of us. Clyde Kluckhohn made this point in his prizewinning book, Mirror for Man (1949). 4. Before all this comes a recognition of the wse/misuse of culture as mind colonization. We should all read Sally Covington’s study, Moving a Public Agenda: The Strategic Philanthropy of Conservative Foundations. Her account is an analysis of 12 conservative foundations with a coherent strategic approach to philanthropy and the public

policy war of ideas, as they called it—the techniques for marketing ideas over 30 years and the ways in which public policy discourse has been conducted through oped pieces, public broadcast, cable TV, or fax machines and web sites—a vast and interconnected institutional apparatus.

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A few quotes by business conservative William Simon (1978) give you the flavor: Funds generated by business . . . must rush by the multimillions to the aid of liberty . . . to funnel desperately needed funds to scholars, social science writers and journalists who understand the relation between politics and economic liberty. Business must cease the mindless subsidizing of colleges and universities whose departments of economy, government, politics, and history are hostile to capitalism.

Or on marketing policy: We hire ghost writers for scholars to produce op-ed articles that are sent to the one hundred and one cooperating newspapers . . . three pieces every two weeks . . . the real test is getting your message out... everything you do everyday must involve marketing in as many as 6 dimensions. . .. Having a broad spectrum of voices pushing on an issue is crucial. By defining the broad bands of debate, you can shift the perception of what constitutes the moderate reasonable center.

Anthropologists understand better than most the importance of ideology and overarching frameworks that are persuasive. We understand networks. We ourselves need a critical mass, a network, a will, and a passion to contribute to public education.

Note Adapted from a paper delivered at AAA Public Interest Symposium, Philadelphia, December 3, 1998.

Bibliography Covington, Sally n.d. Moving a Public Agenda: The Strategic Philanthropy of Conservative Foundations. Washington, DC: National Committee for Responsive Philanthropy. Fallers, Lloyd A. 1965 Bantu Bureaucracy. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Furner, Mary O. 1975 Advocacy and Objectivity: A Crisis in the Professionalization of American Social Science, 1865-1905. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Harr, Jonathan 1995 A Civil Action. New York: Random House. Hymes, Dell H. (editor)

1969 Reinventing Anthropology. New York: Pantheon Books. Kluckhohn, Clyde 1949 Mirror for Man. New York: McGraw-Hill. Mooney, James 1965 The Ghost-Dance Religion and the Sioux Outbreak of 1890, abridged ed. Chicago: University of Chicago press (first published, 1896.) Morris, Jane

1994

Not in My Back Yard. New York: Silvercat Publications.

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Nader, Laura

1969

“Up the Anthropologist—Perspectives Gained from Studying Up.” Jn, Dell Hymes (editor), Reinventing Anthropology, New York: Pantheon, pp. 284-311.

Simon, William E.

1978

A Time for Truth. New York: Reader’s Digest Press.

Spradley, James P. 1970 You Owe Yourself a Drunk. Boston: Little Brown. (To be reissued by Waveland Press, 2000). ‘Tauxe, Caroline S.

1993

Farms, Mines and Mainstreets: Uneven Development in a Dakota County. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Wedel, Janine R. 1998 Collision and Collusion: The Strange Case of Western Aid to Eastern Europe. New York: Saint Martin’s Press.

3

Ethics

As Robert Alvarez (2000:24) notes, “[g]one are the days when in our classes we could shut

out the immediate world, so that the exotic, ethnographic present might live on.” Ethics are a key area of concern for applied anthropologists since their work is not only about critical inquiry into a particular subject, but also about some sort of real-world social or cultural change, whether it is some sort of immediate change at the local level or a shift

in policy at the state level. The Society for Applied Anthroplogy ratified the field’s first formal ethics code in 1949. (The American Anthropological Association followed suit twenty-two years later, in 1971, toward the end of the Vietnam War.) As applied anthropologists, we are often thrust into positions where we have to make careful assessments of how our activities are going to be used (perhaps in ways that we might not like, but have little control over). This is nowhere clearer than in the articles in the previous chapter by Laura Thompson and Laura Nader; Nader argued for a public anthropology that has advocacy as an important goal. This chapter seeks to provide a series of articles that point to the breadth and complexity of these ethical issues and dilemmas (Bourgois; FluehrLobban), including a problem that has long created tension between practicing and academic anthropologists—the ethics of conducting proprietary research for private interests, especially in terms of the use and dissemination of the research that has been conducted (Beeman). Alexander Ervin (2000) observes that one issue that will inevitably confront applied anthropologists has to do with the heterogeneity of the population with which they are working. Clearly people’s interests shift along with their position within a particular social system. Consequently, what we may, as outsiders, see as positive initiatives—increase equity, empower the marginal, make useful forms of information more readily available, enhance local democracy, or provide people with new sources of income—may be seen as negative outcomes by those who hold power. For example, in my own research on rural development in Mexico, small-scale farmers were looking for any possible alternative to the low-productivity, peasantlike farming system and highly controlled local market within which they operated (McDonald 1999, 2000, 2001). Yet this was an area dominated by powerful local political strongmen (caciques) whose political style was typically authoritarian and highly undemocratic. This was most strikingly revealed by whom in the local dairy-based economy was best organized—medium- and large-scale creamery owners who ran the local dairy processing plants. These were the local power brokers. They set the price of milk and would find it very inconvenient if local dairy farmers organized and were

able to demand better prices. Thus, a powerful portion of the community, within which 24

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I worked, was opposed to any change to the local economy that would threaten their domination. I was stuck between different constituencies, both of whom were seeking support and legitimacy from the project on which I participated. One important outcome of this work revealed the radically different explanatory models possessed by farmers in contrast to the local power elite when it came to explaining the process of local dairy production. The local elite berated farmers as “backwards” and “traditional”—in sum, irrational in their adherence to the attitudes and practices of the past. Farmers, on the other hand, recognized the constraints and dilemmas they faced in terms of production activity. That is, they had a very rational assessment of their situation and were under no delusions about the difficulties they faced. How to weigh their interests became of critical concern. In the end, I was forced to conclude that the much anticipated neoliberal reform of the rural economy was virtually impossible given Mexico’s current set of socioeconomic conditions. While finding “solutions” to the problem of local development may not have been realistic, was the research itself merely a waste of resources and energy or worse, a process that raised false hope? I would argue that if nothing else, we worked hard to represent the difficulties faced by local farmers in a way that was understandable to policy makers. At the very least, we were able to represent the perspectives of farmers whose voice is commonly erased from the discourse on rural development. I have outlined this case not to underscore what may seem like the futility of applied work, but rather to emphasize that what we do is often more complex than simply finding solutions to problems. Indeed, part of our job may be to realize that solutions (in some straightforward sense) are not possible and why.

References Cited. Alvarez, Robert R.

2000

‘Teaching Ethics: The Local and the Global. Anthropology Newsletter January:24—25.

Ervin, Alexander M.

2000

Applied Anthropology: Tools and Perspectives for Contemporary Practice. Boston: Allyn & Bacon.

McDonald, James F1.

1999

2000 2001

The Neoliberal Project and Governmentality in Rural Mexico: Emergent Farmer Organization in the Michoacan Highlands. Human Organization 58(3):274-284. Milk Quality and Globalization: Metaphors of Modernity in Northwestern Michoacan, Mexico. Research in Rural Sociology and Development 8:181-209. Reconfiguring the Countryside: Power, Control, and the (Re)Organization of Farmers in West Mexico. Human Organization 60(3): 247-248.

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MREADING

3

Confronting Anthropological Ethics: Ethnographic Lessons from Central America Philippe Bourgois NORTH AMERICAN CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY The ethics of anthropological research are too complicated and important to be reduced to unambiguous absolutes or even perhaps to be clearly defined. The human tragedy and political dilemmas I encountered in my ethnographic fieldwork in Central America obliged me to confront the inadequacy and internal contradictions of current anthropological definitions of ethics in research. In this article I will be referring to cultural anthropology primarily as it is practiced by North American scholars researching the Third World. These ethical quandaries arise within the epistemological tension imposed by the US. intellectual tradition of allegedly apolitical liberal relativism in opposition to engaged universalism. In Europe, Latin America, and elsewhere this intellectual dichotomy be-

tween science and politics is not as clearly drawn. Indeed, throughout the rest of the world, engaged scholarly analysis is not only legitimate but part of the researchers’ “social responsibility.” I am not proposing a systematic political economy of North American anthropological knowledge, but I do feel that the framing of ethical issues in cultural anthropology needs to be understood in the context of the history of the development of the discipline in the larger society. The eminently political orientation of a supposed apolitical commitment to empirical research must be appreciated for its internal inconsistencies and ultimate ethical poverty. Finally, the emergence of the contemporary “postmodernist deconstructivist” focus on “culture as text” within symbolic anthropology as the dominant theoretical tendency among U.S. anthropologists needs to be placed in the problematic context of anthropological ethics in a politically polarized world. In the late 1960s and early 1970s North American social scientists began discussing the ethical dilemmas faced by fieldworkers studying and living in a world rife with political turmoil. Several important edited volumes in anthropology were produced on the subject (cf. Weaver, 1973; Hymes, 1972) and major journals devoted considerable space to earnest— and at times polemical—debates by important figures in the discipline (cf. Current Anthropology, 1968, vol. 9, no. 5, pp. 391-435; 1971, vol. 12, no. 3, pp. 321-356). In an important

early volume a dozen anthropologists from around the world questioned the historical relationship between the development of the discipline in a functionalist theoretical framework in Great Britain and the political and economic realities of British colonial domination and indirect rule in Africa and elsewhere (Asad, 1973). This critical reappraisal of the roots of the discipline was even prominently incorporated in a major cultural anthropology textbook in 1981 (Keesing, 1981, pp. 481-499). Respected anthropologists in

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North America have denounced the conscious and unconscious collaboration of anthropology with the counterinsurgency agencies of the U.S. government—specifically Project Camelot in Latin America (Horowitz, 1967), Project Agile in Thailand (Gough, 1973; Jones, 1971; Wolf & Jorgensen, 1970), and the Himalayan Border Countries Project in

India (Berreman, 1973). By this time, however, the U.S. Defense Department had already successfully tapped anthropological expertise to refine counterinsurgency strategies in Indochina. The U.S. military even started an Ethnographic Study Series and published a volume, Minority Groups in North Vietnam, which was “. . . designed to be useful to military and other personnel who need a convenient compilation of basic facts about the social, economic, and political institutions and practices of minority groups in North Vietnam” (Kensington Office of the American Institutes for Research, 1972).!

The at times polemical debates of the late 1960s and early 1970s have injected an important self-consciousness among U.S. anthropologists researching far from home. We have come a long way from our European forebears (especially the British) who flew into colonial war zones under the auspices of colonial offices to interview “natives” and write “how-to-administer-more-humanely” reports for government bureaucracies intent on increasing “administrative” efficiency and lowering costs. Today, few self-respecting anthropologists would condone the exercise of anthropology at the service of a world superpower or as a complement to espionage. Most ethnographers now include a discussion of the methodological and personal ethical dilemmas they faced during their fieldwork.

THE DISCIPLINE’S NARROW DEFINITION OF ETHICS Let us examine the more commonly cited of these ethical dilemmas: we worry about whether or not our research subjects have truly consented in an “informed” manner to our study; we ponder over the honesty of our presentation of self; we condemn the distortion in the local economy caused by the resources we inject into it in the form of “informants’” gifts or wages; we are wary of the social disapproval foisted on our primary informants when they become the objects of envy or ridicule from the rest of the community because of the resources, prestige, or shame we heap upon them; we no longer steal ceremonial secrets unapologetically; we examine our emotions introspectively to watch for glints of ethnocentrism; we struggle to uphold cultural relativism and to avoid unconsciously conveying disrespect for traditional institutions and values through our lifestyle; we studiously preserve the anonymity of our research subjects and host communities; we feel guilt for violating the privacy of our informants and their culture; we worry about “scientific colonialism” and our “responsibility to the host community” so we send extra copies of our publications to our research site; we might even read translated versions of our publications out loud to our host families and friends if they are illiterate; we do not take photographs indiscriminately and we do not tape record without obtaining prior permission; we discuss the pros and cons of consulting forbidden archives or quoting from personal diaries and letters; we question the ethics of accepting financial support from governments and politically biased institutions; we worry about the potential misuse of our research material once it has been published in the public domain; and finally we take care not to jeopardize the access of future colleagues to our fieldwork site by our actions and publications.

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These are indeed all vitally important ethical issues that we must all confront during fieldwork and write-up. But why does the anthropological concern with ethics stop here? What about the larger moral and human dimensions of the political and economic structures which are ravaging most of the peoples that anthropologists have studied historically? With notable exceptions most North American anthropologists do not include the political and even human rights dimension confronting the people they research in their discussion of “anthropological ethics.” In fact the dominant trend has been to avoid these issues by a theoretical focus on the meaning of signs and symbols outside of social context. The problem with contemporary anthropological ethics is not merely that the boundaries of what is defined as ethical are too narrowly drawn, but more importantly, that ethics can be subject to rigid, righteous interpretations which place them at loggerheads with overarching human rights concerns. How does one investigate power relations and fulfill the researcher's obligation to obtain informed consent from the powerful? What about the right to privacy of absentee landlords as a social group? It is much more difficult—if not impossible—to satisfy the discipline-bound anthropological/methodological code of ethics if we attempt to research marginalization and oppression, than if we focus on the philosophical aesthetics of cosmology. Can we address the urgent problems faced by our research subjects and still obey our discipline’s interpretation of methodological ethics?

A MORAL IMPERATIVE TO ANTHROPOLOGY The simple solution so often adopted by anthropologists is to avoid examining unequal power relationships—and to orient their theoretical interests toward safer, more traditionally exotic focuses. In the late 1960s Eric Wolf (1972 [1969], p. 261) admonished an-

thropology to avoid a“. . . descent into triviality and irrelevance” by focusing on large-scale “... problems of power.” More recently Roger Keesing (1987) has reiterated the gist of Wolf’s “moral” auto-critique of the discipline by calling on symbolic anthropologists to situate analyses of the hermeneutics of signs and symbols systematically in the political economy of power relations. He goes further, arguing that it is scientifically necessary to place interpretations of “culture as text” in the context of the real world in order to counter the tendency to impose articulate but intensely subjective and “exotic” interpretations of religion, myth, and cosmology on the people we study. A logistical imperative could also be advanced for why cultural anthropologists might want to assign priority to an analysis of power inequalities in their research. Unlike philosophers, literary critics, or art historians we usually study living human beings. Furthermore, we differentiate ourselves methodologically from other social science and humanities disciplines which also study humans through our technique of participant/observation fieldwork. We are not allowed to remain at our desks to pore over census tracts; we have to venture into the “real world” not just to “interview” people but to actually participate in their daily life and to partake of their social and cultural reality. In the Third World, therefore, fieldwork offers a privileged arena for intensive contact with politically imposed human tragedy. Perhaps this methodological obligation to be participant/observers could inject a humanistic praxis into our research? Does social responsibility have to contradict our discipline’s commitment to cultural relativism? A moral argument for theoretical compassion does not stop at methodological

praxis. We also have a historical responsibility to the particular types of research subjects

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selected by our forebears. Historically our discipline differentiated itself from sociology and other social sciences by focusing on the “distinctive other” (Hymes, 1972, p. 31). Since our inception we have had what Keesing (1997, p. 161) calls a “predilection for the exotic” and what Sidney Mintz (1970, p. 14) criticized as a “preoccupation with purity.” We are most famous for having trekked deepest into the remotest corners of colonial territories to try to find people outside the reach of “civilization.” We have unabashedly worshipped “the traditional”—so long as it is in a pristine vacuum. Over the past two decades we have begun to remedy our ahistorical, disarticulated focus on the particular. Ethnographies are increasingly situating our research in regional contexts. In fact, as Carol Smith (1984) notes in an article on the Maya in the western highlands of Guatemala, it

has almost become fashionable for anthropologists to bemoan the myopic-communitystudy-in-a-vacuum focus of traditional anthropology. Even when we succeed in finding a particularly remote cultural cranny where a “traditional” people has had only minimal contact with the outside world, we can safely predict that these noble folk will sooner or later be sucked into the world economy in a traumatized manner. There is a good change that their land and subsistence base will be stolen; their efforts at resistance will be met with violence, sometimes genocide; their entrance into the labor market will be in the most vulnerable niche; if they are hired by a multinational agroexport company—as they so often are—they will be systematically assigned to the labor gangs that spray venomous pesticides; if they work for a transnational subsidiary exploiting mineral resources—as they so often do—they will be sent to the bottom of the shafts to contract black lung—or worse. If they manage to maintain their ancestral lands, when they finally start to bring their produce to markets they will be obliged to sell at below subsistence prices; when they come into contact with the dominant ethnic groups and classes or their nation, they will be ridiculed. In other words, with few exceptions, the traditional, noble,

and “exotic” subjects of anthropology have today emerged as the most malnourished, politically repressed, economically exploited humans on earth. As a rule of thumb, the deeper, more traditional, and more “isolated” the people our forebears studied, the more traumatized their lifeways have become today. Given that there is virtually no such thing as a traditional people disconnected from the outside world, then our “traditional” fieldwork sites should grant us privileged access to the massive sector of humanity pinned into the world economy’s most vulnerable nexus. We have chosen to study the wretched of the earth. These are the individuals too often condemned to periodic famines, to below subsistence-level incorporation in flooded labor markets, to relo-

cation, dislocation, or more simply extermination. Many of our discipline’s former research subjects are fighting back in organized political movements; but as the Central American experience demonstrates, their struggles are prolonged, bloody, and often unsuccessful. Although as uninvited outsiders it might be naive and arrogant for us to think we have anything definitive to offer, we can still recognize the ethical challenge. Why do we avoid it? In the early 1980s dissertations were written on the hermeneutics of shame among the Maya. But how can we understand the meaning of that important cultural construct if we ignore the tens of thousands of Maya massacred by the military at the same time, or the hundreds of thousands who migrate each year to harvest cotton, sugarcane, and coffee. Even if there were no urgent human rights imperatives as in the case of the Maya; even if there were no extreme economic exploitation and subsistence dislocation; there is at least a scientific imperative to situate their “webs of significance” in the context of what they are really doing every day.

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COMPASSION FOR THE FOURTH WORLD—ONLY The journals and books that regularly denounce ethnocide and genocide published by indigenous rights organizations—such as the IWGIA in Copenhagen, Survival International in England and France, or Cultural Survival in Cambridge, Massachusetts—are a

welcome exception to the tendency for anthropologists to escape a human rights mandate. Significantly, however, often these organizations tend to legitimize their militance by purposefully narrowing their focus in the classically anthropological manner—in pursuit of the “noble savage.” They prefer to denounce genocide when it also entails ethnocide. In Central America this theoretical orientation is referred to as indigenista or “fourth worldist.” Amerindian culture is seen in a manichean manner as the human ideal while Hispanic culture is treated as irrelevant at best. This indigenista tendency is most prevalent among North American anthropologists, and one can recognize its intellectual roots in the discipline’s traditional focus on exotic, isolated community studies. Although guided by a moral vision to denounce human rights abuses, fourth worldists tend to ignore international geopolitical contexts because of their geographically and culturally reductionist theoretical focus. This leads to arbitrary compassion; for example, I published a brief account of the poisoning of Guaymi Indian banana workers who spray pesticides for the United Fruit Company in a special issue of a French fourth worldist journal documenting the human rights violations of indigenous peoples in Central America (Bourgois, 1986). The editors would not have been interested in the article had the poisoned sprayers been Hispanic mestizoes rather than Amerindians. In fact they decided not to publish anything on massacres in the Salvadoran countryside because the peasants being killed were not Amerindians. Ironically, only two generations ago most of the grandparents of these “Hispanic” Salvadoran rural dwellers currently being massacred were Pipils. They were forced to abandon their traditional language, dress, and indigenous culture when the government began systematically killing all indigenous peoples—between 18,000 and 30,000 individuals were massacred—following an Amerindian rebellion in 1932. Fourth worldists provide vitally needed documentation of tragic human rights violations but they often fail to make common cause with human beings. They discriminate according to ethnicity, reproducing the traditional anthropological focus on the “exotic other” in a vacuum. This obscures their theoretical understanding of the structural roots of repression and exploitation by framing it exclusively in manichean culturalist terms.

FIELDWORK IN CENTRAL AMERICA At War in Nicaragua’s Moskitia Let me document this critique in a classically anthropological manner—by drawing on my own fieldwork experience. My first stop in pursuit of a dissertation topic was Nicaragua in 1979, just after the overthrow of Somoza by the Sandinistas (Bourgois, 1981). Like a good anthropologist, I went as far away from the capital city as possible into the Moskitia, the most remote corner of the only province where an indigenous population—the Miskitu—

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were said to have maintained organically their non-Hispanic culture. Their language, religious system, cultural identity, structure of land tenure, etc., were indeed distinct from the national Hispanic mainstream. Of course the historical record reveals that there is nothing “traditional” or isolated about Amerindian culture in the Moskitia. The Miskitu emerged as a people distinct from their Sumu Amerindian neighbors in the 1600s through the colonial confrontation of the two great superpowers of the time—Spain and England. They allied themselves with British pirates—and later with Her Majesty herself—to fight off the Spanish conquerors. In the process they became the first indigenous people to obtain firearms. This enabled them to conquer all their aboriginal neighbors. They became warriors and economic middlemen selling Amerindian slaves and smuggled trade goods from the Central American mainland to British settlers in the Caribbean. Some of this historical legacy has been frozen linguistically—one-third of the words in their “traditional” language bear a relationship to English (Holm, 1978). Soon after I arrived in the heartland of Miskitu territory, the indigenous population began mobilizing to defend their rights to land and autonomy in a tragic alliance with the Central Intelligence Agency. “My” fieldwork village, accessible only by a full day’s journey upstream in a dug-out canoe, became the central arena of a bloody conflict against the central government. Although the underlying causes for this indigenous war were the historical structures of racism and marginalization of the region dating back to the colonial period, the fighting itself was sponsored economically and was escalated militarily by the U.S. government. My theoretical training in anthropological approaches to political economy and history prepared me to deal with understanding who the Miskitu were—why there was nothing “traditional” about them—and why they might rise up in arms against their central government. I was completely unprepared, however, for what to do on the more important practical human level. Should I publish my material or would CIA analysts perusing academic journals seize upon my information to refine counterinsurgency operations the way monographs by unsuspecting—and not so unsuspecting—anthropologist working in Indochina were abused in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War (cf. discussion by Jones [1971] and the preface to Condominas [1977})? When I discussed these issues at professional

societies in the U.S. context I was “being political” or I was “outside the realm of anthropology.”” If I went to the media I was by definition no longer an academic researcher—or worse yet—I was a political activist posing as an anthropologist. If we are to be logically consistent to our discipline’s position on honesty of self-presentation, should we punish the closet human rights activist as firmly as we condemn the counterrevolutionary spy? Peasant Massacre in El Salvador

My next aborted fieldwork experience proved to be even more painful and even more “political.” Having been a participant/observer among a people who went through an extraordinarily rapid political mobilization, I decided to leave ethnicity aside and to investigate the broader theoretical relationship (potentially encompassing ethnicity) between ideology and material reality in the context of radical political mobilization. A rigorous debate on peasant revolutions exists in the literature, but relatively few researchers talk to revolutionary peasants let alone live and work with them. Anthropology’s tradition of participant/observation fieldwork encouraged me to try to live among radicalized peasants rather

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than merely to examine their vital statistics from the vantage point of historical archives or census tract statistics. With this in mind I went to explore the possibility of fieldwork in a Salvadoran refugee camp in Honduras (Bourgois, 1982). My central ethical concern was that counterinsurgency experts would have access to my eventual publications and that I might unwittingly contribute to more efficient repression in the long run. I was also concerned lest I attract attention to refugee political leaders merely by being seen talking to them regularly. Because of these problems I initially cancelled my fieldwork plans, but on second thought I decided it was too important a human issue to abandon without at least a preliminary feasibility investigation. In my exploratory visits to the refugee camps I was surprised to learn that the refugees desperately wanted foreigners to reside in the camps with them. They sought out my company because a foreign witness deters local military officials from engaging in random abuses. They assured me that far from placing them in danger, my physical presence granted them a measure of security. The church and United Nations organizations operating the camps were also interested in having an anthropologist present on a long-term basis. They pointed out that, as a full-time researcher, I would also be in an ideal position

to document human rights abuses and to help receive civilians continuing to flee government search and destroy operations just across the border. In fact, all the human rights workers I spoke with urged me to stay and undertake my study in the camps. This did not remedy the problem of the potential misuse of my published research. Several refugees suggested I cross the border into E] Salvador and discuss this complicated issue with the fighters and sympathizers who remained in their home communities. (I think the refugees also hoped that a brief visit on my part would end my repeated uninformed questions on such obvious facts as the distance between their houses or the fertility of their fields.) Although CIA analysts probably collect most theoretical studies on peasant politicization in Central America, I thought one manner of reducing the practical counterinsurgency value of such research would be to delay publication—aside from periodic human rights reports—until the political and military situation had changed sufficiently to limit the applicability of my data. The theoretical questions I would be exploring were already a part of the rigorous scholarly debate on revolutionary peasants in the social sciences. Was that entire debate to be eliminated from social science research for fear of raising the analytic capabilities of the CIA? To abbreviate a long story, a few days after my arrival, while I was still debating this issue, a group of peasants planning to cross into E] Salvador a few hours later offered to let me accompany them. I impetuously—in retrospect unwisely—jumped at the opportunity. My intent was to stay in El Salvador for only 48 hours. I thought conversations with peasants and fighters in the war zone would help me come to a final decision as to whether or not extended fieldwork in the refugee camps in Honduras was feasible and—more importantly—ethically defensible. My 48-hour visit to El Salvador was prolonged into a fourteen-day nightmare when the Salvadoran military launched a search and destroy operation against the region. The government forces surrounded a 40 square kilometer region (approximately a dozen hamlets) and began systematically bombarding, mortaring, and strafing the entire zone with airplanes, Huey helicopters, and artillery. There were approximately a thousand peasants living in the area and only one or two hundred of these had guns and probably less than

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a dozen were formal members of the FMLN. The population was composed of a typical cross-section of peasants—the kind of people you would find anywhere in rural Latin America if you circled off 40 square kilometers: grandmothers, grandfathers, young and middle-aged men and women, pregnant mothers, suckling infants, children, and soon... We were all the target of the Salvadoran air force and army. I gave the following oral account to a journalist shortly after my return to the United States: When the bombardments and strafings began we would take cover anywhere we could. I was told to crouch beside a tree trunk and, whatever I did, not to move. They’d shoot at anything that moved. I remember inching around a tree trunk to keep something solid between me and the machine-gun fire of the helicopters. Sometimes the mortar shots came 10 times in a row, and there’s a tremendous sense

of panic when you hear them getting closer and closer. I was told that when I heard a mortar fired I should grit my teeth and keep my mouth open to prevent my ear drums from rupturing. ... On the first four days, ... about 15 men, women and children . . . were wounded. Shrapnel was removed, and amputations were performed with absolutely no pain medicine. (Washington Post, 14 February 1982, p. C1)

On the fourth night of the invasion we tried to break through the government troops encircling us. The plan was for the FMLN fighters (i.e., younger peasants with guns and minimal military training) to draw fire from a machine gun nest set up by the government soldiers on a knoll, while the rest of us civilians tried to run by unseen in the darkness of the night. Once again there were about a thousand of us of all ages, several pregnant, others sick, one blind, and many under three years of age: We were on a rocky path with a Salvadoran gunpost off to our left.

FMLN guerrillas, also

on our left and to the rear, drew fire while we made a break for it. The babies the women

were carrying were shrieking at the noise and, as soon as we got within earshot, the Salvadoran forces turned their fire on us. At this point, it was pandemonium. Grenades were landing around us; machine guns were firing; we were running. A little boy about 20 yards ahead of me was blown in half when a grenade landed on him. His body lay in the middle of the path, so I had to run over it to escape. (Washington Post, 14 February 1982, p. C1)

I remember at one point being crouched near a woman under cover of some bushes when her baby began to cry. She waved at me with her hand and whispered to me to run away as fast as possible before the government soldiers heard the noise. I obeyed, and sprinting forward I heard machine gun bullets and shrieks all around me. Mothers and infants made up the bulk of the casualties that night. Only a mother can carry her baby under fire because only a mother has a chance of preventing her suckling infant from crying. The Salvadoran military was shooting in the darkness into the sound of crying babies. Six to seven hundred of us managed to sprint past the machine gun nest. For the next fourteen days, we stayed together, running at night and hiding during the day: One of the major hazards we always faced was the noise of crying babies and the moans of the wounded, making the whole group vulnerable to detection. Rags were stuffed in the mouths of the wounded, so their cries would not be heard. The babies cried a lot because

they were hungry; their mothers’ milk had dried up.

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A young woman gave birth on the second night of our flight. She was up and running for her life the next day, along with the rest of us. Those of us who were young and healthy were lucky. It was the law of survival at its cruelest: the slow runners and the elderly were killed. (Washington Post, 14 February 1982, p. C1)

At one point we crossed back through the villages we had fled from: ... we were hit with the overpowering stench of decaying bodies. There were donkeys, pigs, horses, chickens—all dead. The soldiers had burned down as many of the houses as they could, ripped apart the granaries. It even looked as if they had tried to trample the fields (Washington Post, 14 February 1982, p. Cl).

.. . [We] came upon the naked body of a middle-aged woman. Her clothes had been ripped off and apparently acid had been poured an her skin because it was bubbling off. The body had been left in a prominent position along the path, presumably to terrorize any survivors. (Bourgois, 1982, p. 21)

The Academic Reaction

That was the end of my fieldwork on ideology and material reality among revolutionary peasants. It was also almost the end of my anthropological career, after I sought out the media and human rights lobbyists on Capitol Hill to present my testimony to the public. I had violated several of the anthropological/methodological ethics discussed earlier along with the specific duties of a graduate student to keep his/her academic advisors informed of a change in research plans. A strong argument was made to terminate me as a graduate student—and with abundant justification according to the anthropological ethics I had broken: I had crossed a border illegally, thereby violating the laws of my host country government; I had not notified my dissertation committee of my decision to explore a new dangerous research site; I had notified the media and contacted human rights organizations, thereby violating the right to privacy of my research subjects; I had potentially jeopardized the future opportunities of colleagues to research in Honduras and El Salvador by breaking immigration laws and calling attention to government repression in public forums. Significantly, had I not gone to the media with my testimony of human rights violations, anthropological ethics would not have been violated in as serious a manner. It would have remained a personal story between my committee and myself as an unsuccessful and reckless preliminary fieldwork exploration that had been decided against as too dangerous. By remaining silent I would not have violated anyone’s rights to privacy nor have threatened my colleagues’ access to the field, nor offended my host country government. Of course my personal sense of moral responsibility obliged me to provide public testimony and I entered the media/political arena. An anthropologist is presumably not supposed to document human rights violations if this would involve violating a host country government's laws or contravene the informed consent and right to privacy of the par-

ties involved. In other words, anthropology’s ethics can be interpreted at loggerheads with humanity’s common sense. I could have crossed into FMLN territory as a journalist or as a human rights activist but not as an anthropologist, because access to the information I was seeking was only available by crossing a border illegally: publicizing that information also violated a people’s right to privacy and informed consent. Subsequently, lobbying to change U.S. foreign policy exacerbates these transgressions, since political denunciation is not conduct befitting an anthropologist.

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‘To reiterate, the problem is rooted in a specifically North American epistemology of relativism and “value-free science” which forbids engaged research and—when taken

to its logical conclusion—denies absolute assertions including those of universal human

rights. This alleged “apolitical” orientation expresses itself within U.S. academia in a phobic relationship to the media and in a righteous condemnation of “political activism.” In contrast to Europe—especially France—where political militance and an occasional op.ed. in Le Monde is a sign of academic prestige (Bourdieu, 1984), in the U.S., newspaper editorials and magazine articles are often interpreted as an indication of lack of serious commitment to science. While we do have to be cautious of sacrificing analytical rigor by becoming too immersed in media presentations and political polemics, are we supposed to keep our human rights denunciations out of the public domain in the name of anthropological ethics and scientific rigor?? Itis important that the discipline enforces the tenets of informed consent and respect for host country governments. ‘Taken out of context, however, these academic requisites obscure the political and economic realities of the regions where we have traditionally been most active. A research project which investigates structures of inequality will have a hard time passing a human subject’s review board if the canons of anthropological ethics are rigidly applied. Are we supposed to abandon controversial research? Most political economy studies can be defined as potentially unethical. A fieldworker cannot obtain important information on unequal power relations by strictly obeying the power structure’s rules and laws (cf. Nader, 1972, pp. 303ff.). How does one obtain meaningful information on

peasant/landlord relations if the landlord is required to provide truly informed consent? What are the limits to “informed consent” in settings of highly unequal power relations? Do we have to notify absentee landlords prior to interviewing sharecroppers on their estates? Are we allowed to obtain jobs in factories in order to document union repression? Did I have an obligation to obtain informed consent from the Salvadoran government troops firing at us before photographing the children they wounded? Why not? And where does one draw the line? Does one abandon urgent research simply because a dictatorial host nation government does not want its repressive political system to be documented? How does one decide whether a host country government is sufficiently repressive to warrant breaking its laws? These unresolved questions reveal that there is nothing apolitical about the North American commitment to relativism and to its methodologically defined body of ethics. Most dramatically, the ethic of informed consent as it is interpreted by human subject review boards at North American universities implicitly reinforces the political status quo. Understood in a real world context, the entire logic of anthropology’s ethics is premised on a highly political assertion that unequal power relations are not particularly relevant to our research.

Informed Consent: United Fruit Company versus Banana Workers For my final dissertation fieldwork project, I purposefully selected a host country which was free of civil—political strife; nevertheless, the same ethical contradictions arose. I chose

to study ethnic relations on a United Fruit Company banana plantation in Costa Rica on the Panamanian border (Bourgois, 1988, 1989). My first problem was that the transnational corporation had redefined the border, and the plantation’s operations illegally straddled Panama and Costa Rica. My real host country “government,” therefore, turned out

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to be the United Fruit Company—not Costa Rica or Panama. High-level United Fruit Company officials considered my topic—‘“a history of the ethnicity of the population in the plantation region”—innocuously “anthropological” and ordered local plantation officials to graciously open their confidential files to me. I was even allowed to reside in workers’ barracks for some 16 months. Had management’s consent been truly informed and had the company understood what a historical analysis of ethnicity in a plantation context would reveal, I would obviously not have been allowed to document systematically the transnational’s quasi-apartheid labor hierarchy, its ethnic discrimination on occupational safety issues; or its destruction of the union movement by ethnic recruitment, and so on. The head managers would not have toured me through their golf course, drunk whiskey with me, and made racist comments about their workers to me if they had really understood anthropological participant/observation research technique. Although I was never overtly dishonest; and although I always precisely explained my research topic to everyone; they obviously did not understand my research implications or they would have run me out of the area and/or beaten me up. In fact, participant/observation fieldwork by its very definition dangerously stretches the anthropological ethic of informed consent. We obviously have an obligation to let the people we are researching know that they are being studied and that a book and/or articles will eventually be written about them. Furthermore, we have to explain as precisely as possible the focus of our study. At the same time, we are taught in our courses preparatory to fieldwork that the gifted researcher must break the boundaries between outsider and insider. We are supposed to “build rapport” and develop such a level of trust and acceptance in our host societies that we do not distort social interaction. Anything less leads to the collection of skewed or superficial data. How can we reconcile effective participant/ observation with truly “informed consent”? Is rapport-building not just another way of saying “encourage people to forget that you are constantly observing them and registering everything they are saying and doing”? Technically, to maintain truly informed consent we should interrupt controversial conversations and activities to re-announce our presence and to make sure everyone is aware of the implications of what they are saying or doing. A fieldworker cannot begin every in-depth conversation with old-time informants who have become friends by reminding them that the issues raised in their discussion may be eventually written up. If we recited to our informants their rights to privacy and informed consent—like police officers arresting a suspect—every time we spoke with them, we would make terrible fieldworkers.

Experienced fieldworkers usually advise novice ethnographers not to take notes in public while undertaking fieldwork. Is that not a false representation of self? Is participation/ observation fieldwork inconsistent with anthropological ethics? Where do we draw the line? Once again, these important ethical dilemmas become even more pronounced when we are focusing on conflict and unequal power relations, i.e., dangerous issues. Management’s informed consent and right to privacy were not the only anthropological fieldwork ethics I stretched in my research on the banana plantation. I would frequently accompany management-level informants through their daily routine. Consequently, sitting by their side in air-conditioned company pick-up trucks I illegally crossed the border between Panama and Costa Rica on an almost daily basis.+ Should I have not relied upon management employees as primary informants merely because their illegal activities would oblige me to break immigration laws? Are we allowed to research illegal opera-

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tions? Do we systematically have to avoid frequenting the rich and powerful who regularly bend and break laws?

THEORETICAL CONTEXT Having raised these issues in a somewhat moralistic and righteous tone, let me hasten to add that I am not arguing that anthropologists necessarily have to be human rights activists and political cadre for “worthy” causes in order to remain ethical persons. Although perhaps another—arguably more consistent—way of reformulating anthropological ethics would be to require that our studies among the “poor and powerless” contribute to their empowerment. That would certainly be different from the current practice of requiring “ethical researchers” to obtain the informed consent of landlords and military bureaucracies. Nevertheless, this discussion of our human responsibility to our research subjects does not imply that we automatically have something concrete to offer in their struggles for survival or for political rights. We are outsiders: and we have a formidable capacity unwittingly by our mere presence to cause trouble or to seriously complicate matters. For these reasons, anthropologists are finding it much more comfortable to pursue studies which do not situate signs and symbols in their invariably dangerous political and economic contexts. By focusing exclusively an celestialized meaning, we can rest assured that absentee landlords will not unleash the secret police on our informants; future colleagues will not be prevented by host governments from entering the country because of our controversial publications; and we will not politically embarrass our home institutions. I also want to state specifically that I am not sarcastically implying that interpretive studies within symbolic anthropology are an “immoral political cop-out” or that the postmodernist deconstructivist movement within anthropology does not have important and potentially emancipating insights to offer us. On the contrary, understanding the dialectic of power relations—even if we understand power to be rooted in a labor process and a history of class confrontations—requires a “symbolic approach” as much as a “materialist one.” There should not be anything incompatible between symbolic anthropology and political economy. There have been many important exploratory articles dealing from a symbolic perspective with the most “dangerous” of all subjects—the meaning of violence and political repression from a symbolic perspective (cf. Falla, 1983; Taussig, 1984). Symbolic studies of all kinds are important for the vitality of anthropology just as are literary and artistic criticism, folklore, and philosophy for understanding the most important dimensions of humanity. At the same time, in our pursuit of science let us not forget that we are usually studying the starving and the persecuted. Moreover, let us not flee from human concerns in the name anthropological ethics. Let us not be political when we claim to be apolitical or apolitical in the name of ethics. Let us not support repressive status quo’s in pursuit of vigorously introspective deconstructions of meaning. We have to confront the serious ethical dilemmas without retreating from the theoretical approaches which make dangerous subjects the central thrust of our investigations. Most importantly, we should not systematically forbid fieldwork on exploitation, oppression, and power in the

name of anthropological ethics. It would be dangerous and arrogant to think that there are definite answers to any of these ethical/moral questions. We need to discuss them and think about them in both

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practical and theoretical terms. Meanwhile, however, as all of us (without exception) wal-

low in a phenomenological swamp of signs and symbols we should not forget that our “informants” continue to be crucified.

Notes. 1. The chapter on the “Meo” in the military’s ethnographic study series on North Vietnamese minority groups specifically notes that they “make excellent guides” and “reliable porters, who can carry heavy loads (up to 50 kilograms) while maintaining a rapid gait” (Kensington Office of the American Institutes for Research, 1972, p. 239). 2. A politically conservative non-anthropologist outside member of my qualifying examination protested my academic training to my professors saying something to the effect that anthropology is supposed to be about ritual and religion—not politics. 3. A church-based director of a human rights organization rebuked me when I explained to him the anthropological ethics which prevented me from showing a member of the U.S. Congress photographs of peasant victims during my testimony on the military invasion: “For God’s sake what are you talking about! ‘Testify as a human being then—not as an anthropologist.” 4. In my anthropological obsession to satisfy my legal obligations to my host country government I tried to obtain a special permit from the local immigration official at the border crossing on the plantation. The public official laughed at me in disbelief telling me that so long as it was OK with the company he had no objection to my repeated frontier trespasses.

References Asad, Tatal, ed., 1973. Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter. New York: humanities Press. Berreman, Gerald, 1973. “Academic Colonialism: Not So Innocent Abroad,” pp. 152-156 in Weaver,

1073: Bourdieu, Pierre, 1984. Homo Academicus. Paris: Minuit.

Bourgois, Philippe, 1981. “Class, Ethnicity and the State Among the Miskitu Amerindians of Northeastern Nicaragua,” Latin American Perspectives, vol. 8, no. 2, Spring, pp. 22-39.

Bourgois, Philippe, 1982. “What U.S. Foreign Policy Faces in Rural El Salvador: An Eyewitness Account,” Monthly Review, vol. 37, no. 1, May, pp. 14-30.

Bourgois, Philippe, 1986. “Guaymi:

les damnes de la plantation,” Ethnies, pp. 43-45. Bourgois, Philippe, 1988. “Conjugated Oppression: Class and Ethnicity Among Workers on a Corporate Plantation,” American Ethnologist, vol. 15, no. 2, pp. Bourgois, Philippe, 1989. Ethnicity at Work: Divided Labor on a Central American more: Johns Hopkins University Press.

nos. 4/5, Summer/Fall,

Kuna and Guami Banana 328-348. Banana Plantation. Balti-

Condominas, Georges, 1977 (1957). We Have Eaten the Forest: The Story of a Montagnard Village in the Cen-

tral Highlands of Vietnam. Translated by Adrienne Foulke. New York: Hill & Wang. Falla, Ricardo, 1983. Voices of the Survivors: The Massacre at Finca San Francisco, Guatemala. Cambridge MA: Cultural Survival Occasional Publication, no. 10.

Gough, Kathleen, 1973. “World Revolution and the Science of Man,” pp. 156-165 in Weaver, 1973. Holm, John, 1978. The Creole English of Nicaragua’s Miskito Coast: Its Socio-Linguistic History and a Comparative Study of Its Lexicon and Syntax. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. University of London: Department of Linguistics. Horowitz, Irving, ed., 1967. The Rise and Fall of Project Camelot. Studies in the Relationship between Social

Science and Practical Politics. Cambridge MA: MIT Press. Hymes, Dell, 1972. “Introduction; The Use of Anthropology: Critical, Political, Personal,” pp. 3-79 in Dell Hymes, ed., Reinventing Anthropology. New York: Pantheon.

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Jones, Delmos, 1971. “Social Responsibility and the Belief in Basic Research: An Example from Thailand,” Current Anthropology, vol. 12, no. 3, pp. 347-350.

Keesing, Roger, 1981. Cultural Anthropology:

A Contemporary Perspective. New York: Holt, Rinehart &

Winston (second edition).

Keesing, Roger, 1987. “Anthropology as Interpretive Quest,” Current Anthropology, vol. 28, no. 2, pp. 161-176. Kensington Office of the American Institutes for Research, 1972. Minority Groups in North Vietnam, Ethnographic Study Series. Washington DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Mintz, Sidney, 1970. “Foreword,” pp. 1-16 in Norman Whitten & John Szwed, eds., Afro-American An-

thropology: Contemporary Perspectives. New York: Free Press. Nader, Laura, 1972. “Up the Anthropologist—Perspectives Gained from Studying Up,” pp. 284-311 in Hymes, 1972. Smith, Carol, 1984. “Local History in Global Context: Social and Economic Transitions in Western Guatemala,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 26, no. 1, pp. 193-228. Taussig, Michael, 1984. “Culture of Terror—Space of Death: Roger Casement’s Putumayo Report and the Explanation of Torture,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 26, no. 3, pp. 467-497. Weaver, Thomas, ed., 1973. To See Ourselves: Anthropology and Modern Social Issues. Glenview IL: Scott, Foresman.

Wolf, Eric, 1972. “American Anthropologists and American Society,” pp. 251-263 in Hymes, 1972. Wolf, Eric & Joseph Jorgensen, 1970. “Anthropology on the Warpath in Thailand,” New York Review of Books, 19 November, pp. 26-35.

BREADING

4

Informed Consent in Anthropological

Research: We Are Not Exempt’ Carolyn Fluehr-Lobban Informed consent, with a relatively recent but dramatic history in scientific research, has become the cornerstone for standards of ethics in many areas, including the biomedical,

psychological, and other fields of research involving human subjects. Social scientific research, with its direct and often long-term involvement with studies of human groups, has not, however, been a significant part of the dialogue that specifically included the incor-

poration of informed consent terminology into research methodologies and codes of ethics. In none of the codes of ethics of the major professional social scientific associations, including the American Sociological Association, the American Political Science Association, and the American Anthropological Association, is there specific mention of obtaining “informed consent” from people or groups studied. This omission stands in marked contrast to the American Psychological Association’s specific enunciation of the principle of informed consent, its attendant procedures, and its applicability to psychological research. Informed consent, as a formal legal-ethical construct, is only two decades old. It grew out of the 1972 Supreme Court case Cantebury v. Spence, which articulated the

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principle for medical research. The primary context for informed consent was the need for protection in biomedical research and practice where there existed the potential for harm to humans as a result of the research or treatment. The principle quickly evolved into a doctrine with such legal potency and moral suasion that it became the standard by which biomedical research was conceived, funded, and executed. Failure to conform to informed consent guidelines, monitored by institutional review boards from the mid-

1970s, could easily translate into nonfunded research proposals or denial of applications for renewed funding. The principle acquired such legitimacy that it came to be applied as a general principle to all biomedical research, whether or not it received federal funding. The legal and ethical standard demonstrating that informed consent guidelines have been met has steadily become a requirement for satisfying institutional review boards reviewing proposals involving human subjects, including anthropological research. The underlying question of potential harm to human subjects was the prime mover driving the engine of informed consent. What kinds of harm are there? Is harm both physical and psychological? Does harm extend to future generations? Does it function at the individual, group, or societal levels? These questions were a difficult but engaging problem to a generation of scholars in law and ethics. At the level of the doctor-patient, the core of the newly created ethical principle could be summarized by asking the question, “What would the reasonable patient want to know?” which is a reversal of the past principle and practice that protected the physician’s right vor to disclose information to the patient. The client’s right to know gained legal and moral superiority over the doctor’s right not to tell. This shift amounted to a revolutionary change in this hierarchical relationship where the rights of the normally passive patient/recipient-of-information are protected on a par with, or in excess of, the doctor/information-giver. Moreover, in regard to the vast and complex area of medicine, research, and ethics, the doctrine of informed consent is now embedded

and is virtually synonymous with proper conduct in biomedical research and treatment. Why has such a potent doctrine not been explicitly incorporated within the social sciences and their standards of professional conduct? Why has informed consent phraseology eluded dialogues concerning ethics in these professions, including anthropology? Are the methods of research in the biomedical fields and in the social sciences so different that they raise disparate ethical questions with distinctive answers? For anthropologists, traditionally engaged in research in non-Western cultures, are the rules different because of the na-

ture and conditions of research? The matter of informed consent in anthropology raises a number of questions that are not only central to standards of ethics in the profession, but also focus our attention on the core of our research methodology, participant observation, and on the complicated nature of the anthropologist—“informant” relationship.

INFORMED CONSENT IN THE BEHAVIORAL SCIENCES: RECENT HISTORY IN PSYCHOLOGY, SOCIOLOGY, AND ANTHROPOLOGY Many post-war moral philosophers and ethicists argued, in the wake of the revelations regarding Nazi atrocities in human research, that the consent principle was the central prob-

lem for research ethics. This dialogue remained confined within the discipline boundaries of philosophy and ethics and had little impact on the behavioral sciences.”

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One of the major issues that confounds discussions of informed consent in the social sciences is the image of obtaining consent through the use of forms. Methodological approaches in the social and behavioral sciences, using techniques such as participant observation, questionnaires, and intensive interviewing, and the cultivation of personal relations

with people over a period of time would all tend to discourage the use of consent forms. In this respect, the discipline/profession of psychology has been an exception, due to its more direct association with controlled human subjects and/or laboratory research in certain of its branches. A consent requirement was made a part of the first code of ethics for psychology, its “Principles of Professional Ethics,” as early as 1947 (Faden and Beauchamp 1986:167). It read: “To the maximum degree possible, the free consent of persons (subjects)

involved is secured at each stage of research activity” (Faden and Beauchamp 1986:169). This position of the American Psychological Association was prompted by allegations of misconduct, and a renewed call for ethical review inspired by the Nuremburg trials principles. Attention was again focused on ethics and psychological research in the early 1960s with the experiments by Stanley Milgram (1974) dealing with the question of obedience to authority. These psychological-behavioral science experiments involved misinformation and deception. Uninformed subjects were given the impression (for the aims of the research) that dangerous levels of electric shocks were being delivered by them to anonymous individuals. The majority of subjects evidenced more obedience to the authority figures (psychological researchers wearing white laboratory coats) than to their own humane impulses. While the results were shocking and provocative at the time, the research methodology of Milgram itself became the focal point of controversy. It certainly seemed to be a clear violation of the general code of ethics of the American Psychological Association, and its subsection, “Ethical Principles of Psychologists,” adopted in 1963, whereby “a research agreement between researcher and participant constitutes the first step in their relationship, and whereby the researcher assumes the responsibility to protect subjects from ‘physical and mental discomfort, harm and danger.’ Further, if there is any risk, the subjects must be informed, must give their consent, and the risk must be minimized as much as possible, including the correction of negative long-term aftereffects” (APA code 1963, revised 1981). Milgram’s work appeared to violate not only the spirit of psychology’s code of ethics, but also to represent a case of the denial of the right to informed consent by voluntary research participants. The Milgram experiments, which may have sought to provide interesting insights into the nature of human nature, served more to reinforce the informed consent guide-

lines in psychological research and became broadly known in social scientific research as a negative example. The discipline of psychology moved to strengthen and make more explicit its informed consent guidelines, but the allied social sciences remained unaffected and did not raise the issue of informed consent for wider discussion in the methodologies of their own disciplines. Even at the time of the generation of the first sociological and anthropological codes of ethics in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the special issues raised by informed consent were generally not discussed, nor were they incorporated into the final drafts of the first codes of ethics of these major behavioral sciences. The revised “Ethical Principles of Psychologists,” adopted in 1981, devotes considerable attention to “Research with Human Participants,” mindful in its preamble of both the “dignity and welfare of the people who participate in research” and of “federal and state regulations governing the conduct of research with human participants.” For research

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involving any potential risk to participants, the benefits of such research should be carefully weighed against the potential harm to participants, and the “fully informed and voluntary consent of each participant” should be obtained. Informed consent guidelines and procedures have become a recognized and accepted part of basic psychological research. Why has this not been the case for anthropology and sociology? Sociology and anthropology have also experienced their share of controversy regarding research methodologies and apparent offense to what we may regard today as informed consent or even human rights issues in research. The sociological study of homosexual encounters in public bathrooms (Humphreys 1970) raised eyebrows and serious methodological questions regarding Humphreys’ tactics in conducting research. Humphreys employed direct observation of such encounters and also posed as a “watch queen” in order to gain the confidence of the more than 100 people involved in this research. Humphreys revealed his true identity and intentions as a sociologist to only a few persons, while he secretly followed others. His university colleagues objected to his disregard for the subjects’ right to privacy as well as his use of deception in research, while public critics charged that such deception cannot be justified by appeals to the beneficial consequences for society or social science research (Faden and Beauchamp 1986:177). Subjects in this research who were later contacted apparently claimed no violations of their privacy, but admitted that they had been deceived. The particular set of ethical and moral issues raised by the Humphreys research stirred debate within the discipline of sociology regarding questions of privacy and the potential benefit to society of such a study (Warwick 1975:197). The sociological community was itself divided between those who questioned whether the ends of the research justified its means, and those who advocated complete freedom in research. Anthropologists might have taken greater interest, since Humphreys described himself as following in the tradition of the Chicago school of ethnographic sociology and in the anthropological tradition of Malinowski, Firth, Oscar Lewis, Jules Henry, and Elliot Liebow (Glazer 1975:218). That

they did not was perhaps due to disciplinary boundaries, or because such a controversial study had not yet shaken our own discipline. Humphreys, in a retrospective written for the second edition of his study, describes himself as a true participant observer of behavior in a public place, and that he suffered few doubts or hesitations about the ethics of his methods (Humphreys 1975:226-227). He took far more seriously the legal objections to his fieldwork, insofar as the chancellor of his Ph.D.-granting university argued that numerous felonies were committed during the conduct of his research. The charge was unsuccessful in having Humphreys’ degree revoked on the basis of this claim; however both a teaching contract and participation in a research grant were terminated. In the context of this pressure, Humphreys destroyed much of his recorded data, on tapes, parts of transcripts, and other material. In retrospect, Humphreys acknowledged that he probably placed his “respondents” in greater danger than seemed plausible at the time of the study. He added that were he to repeat the tearoom study, he would spend an additional year cultivating and expanding the category of willing respondents (Humphreys 1975:230-231). Stories of early anthropologists gaining information under coercive circumstances while working under the auspices of U.S. or British colonial occupying forces (as in the cases of Frank Cushing with the Zuni or Evans-Pritchard among the Zande or Nuer) are by now legendary in anthropology and are usually mentioned only as crude vestiges of a bygone era. From time to time, however, controversy has engulfed the discipline and in-

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dividual practitioners as a result of the use of questionable judgment or methods involving deception or failure to properly inform people of the nature and possible consequences of the research. Indeed the primary context in which the first code of ethics of the American Anthropological Association was generated surrounded the issue of anthropologists conducting covert research for the United States government during the Vietnam War. Covert research, it could be argued, represents the antithesis of informed consent in research, since it favors secrecy over openness and disclosure. The response of the professional anthropological community was to condemn such research and to avoid even the appearance of conducting covert research (AAA 1971:section 3.b). In the two decades since the original code was promulgated, its first significant revision made no reference to any sanctioning or disapproval of covert research (AAA 1990). The most widely discussed case of the 1980s, that of Stephen Mosher, whose research in the People’s Republic of China suggested that forced abortions were commonplace, found an attentive audience in the West. Questions were raised regarding his research methods, which placed informants in personal jeopardy with government authorities without informing them of the potential risks. These questions were sufficiently serious for a Stanford University review panel to force Mosher’s withdrawal from its doctoral program in anthropology. While the abortion issue received the public attention, the more serious ethical breach was the risk at which the local informants were placed. The university in this case, and possibly in the Humphreys case, was responding to the moral and political pressure placed on it by federal regulations governing research with human subjects. This federal regulation of research has met with some resistance from social scientists who see such regulation as an infringement upon their freedom in research. It is useful at this juncture to review this history of regulation as it relates to the behavioral sciences, and to evaluate the response of anthropologists and other social scientists to its principles and procedures.

GOVERNMENT REGULATION, INFORMED CONSENT, AND SOCIAL SCIENTISTS, ESPECIALLY ANTHROPOLOGISTS In 1966 the federal government began to take an interest in research involving human subjects; the surgeon general promulgated administrative regulations requiring institutional review of such projects. The Department of Health, Education and Welfare’s requirement in 1966 that institutional review of all research involving human subjects (including social science research) take place was to have far-reaching effects on behavioral science research, although the latter had little to do with the generation of these federal regulations (Gray 1979:45). Wax and Cassell (1979:3) argue that at the time when the

regulations were being drafted, the professional associations of anthropologists and sociologists had too little power or awareness to affect their development. In 1972 the psychologist Herbert Kelman produced the first systematic study of research ethics in the behavioral sciences. He argued that the central norm and standard governing the relationship between investigator and subject is that of voluntary and informed consent. Furthermore, ethical problems in the behavioral sciences occur when this norm has been violated or circumvented (Faden and Beauchamp 1986:180).

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In practice, informed consent provisions required by federal regulations were obtained by consent forms. But the informed consent provision continued to be driven by the nature of the risks involved with biomedical research, while social and behavioral science research

was not subjected to strict guidelines requiring informed consent. In most cases of federally funded research, projects were either exempt from review or eligible for expedited review. The view that significant ethical principles, such as informed consent or positive risk/ benefit ratios, were elaborated without much regard either for the methodology or the goals of social science research has been recognized by anthropologists who examined these federal regulations and their implications for social research (Wax and Cassell 1979:2). In 1981 at the end of the Carter administration, new regulations stated that research

projects involving little or no potential harm to subjects were exempt from institutional review. Most behavioral science research appeared to fall within this category. The President’s Commission for the Study of Ethical Problems in Medicine, Biomedical and Behavioral Research (1980-83) adopted the view that consent need not be obtained for research characterized by the following conditions: 1) the observation of behavior in public places where questions of privacy do not arise; 2) review of publicly available information, including personal identity information; 3) research using low-risk

methods, such as questionnaires, interviews, or tests in which agreement to participate effectively constitutes consent. The modus vivendi for the 1970s and much of the 1980s was that most of behavioral science research fell into the above, low-risk category and was therefore exempt from federal regulation. Moreover, anthropologists have been reluctant to regulate themselves and have generally eschewed efforts to develop methods of review, reprimand, or censure of anthropologists’ actions that might be violations of the code of ethics. Despite the existence of multiple statements of professional responsibility or codes of ethics for professional anthropologists,* a /aissez faire attitude has developed among anthropologists that promotes self-regulation and may deny the appropriateness or validity of institutional review and federal regulation. Indeed, most anthropological research would appear, on the face of it, to be low risk, because it is either unobtrusive, or face-to-face participant ob-

servation, where voluntary consent is presumed by the open nature of the research situa-

tion or by the social relationship engendered between researcher and informant. As with biomedical or psychological research, however, if there is any deception, or lack of full

disclosure in the research methodology, ethical standards and responsibilities should be reviewed and met. Many anthropologists in the field do not practice full disclosure in carrying out research for fear of disturbing the “naturalness” of the participant observation method. This may be an unrecognized or unaddressed form of paternalism in anthropological research, a subject which is discussed further below. A thematic concern with the protection of the individual and personal autonomy is apparent in the development of government regulation. “The informed consent concept is part of a larger movement in our society to protect the individual from institutional forces beyond his control” (Faden and Beauchamp 1986:222). This protection of personal autonomy is ultimately the primary justification for the informed consent provision, and so the question that emerges is the degree to which this particular history applies to behavioral science and anthropological research and their practice. I would argue that it does so, not only on moral and humanistic grounds, but also because anthropological and social science research is increasingly subject to the same regulation.

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ETHICS, INFORMED CONSENT, AND ANTHROPOLOGY The specific terminology using the recognizable legal phrase “informed consent” has not been utilized in any anthropological code of ethics since the term came into popular usage. The first statement of ethics by the Society for Applied Anthropology (SfAA) in 1949 historically preceded consciousness and praxis regarding informed consent and therefore is exempt from this review. Subsequent codes, however (the “Principles of Professional Responsibility” [1971, revised 1990] of the American Anthropological Association; the 1983 revised SfAA code, “Professional and Ethical Responsibilities”; and the 1988 code of the

newest professional association, “Ethical Guidelines for Practitioners” of the National Association of Practicing Anthropologists), do not employ the specific term “informed consent” in any of their documents. It could be argued that informed consent is implied without being explicitly stated in the anthropological codes. The 1971 and 1991 (revised) “Principles of Professional Responsibility” state that the “rights, interests and sensitivities of those studied must be safeguarded” (I.a), and that “the aims of the investigation and of all professional activities

should be communicated by the anthropologist to the informant, or those with whom they work (1971:I.b, 1990:A.3). The Society for Applied Anthropology’s code uses the phrasing in stating that “the participation of people in our research shall only be on a voluntary and informed basis.” It continues, “We shall, within the limits of our knowledge, disclose any

significant risk to those we study that may result from our activities” (1983:1). And the National Association of Practicing Anthropologists, in the most recent of anthropological codes generated, states, “to our resource persons or research subjects we owe full and timely disclosure of the objectives, methods and sponsorship of our activities” (1988:2). There is a certain presumption here that “voluntary” participation is derived from an “informed” participant, but these are separate and not equivalent aspects of a research methodology. In the codes of ethics generated by both academic and applied cultural anthropologists, there has been a more pronounced concern with the protection of privacy and confidentiality of research subjects than with the subject of informed consent. Are privacy and informed consent related, and does sufficiency in the former guarantee protection in the latter? How do these issues relate specifically to anthropological research? Traditional anthropological methods include direct interviewing and questioning, but primarily the less obtrusive method of participant observation, which has been used in both Western and non-Western settings and involves informal observation and recording of social interaction without much introduction or explanation of the researcher’s goals or aims of research. The method does not usually involve deception, but neither is it a method that employs full disclosure. Many anthropologists would argue that such disclosure would interfere with and damage the spontaneity that the method entails and requires. Likewise disclosure would mean that the anthropological researcher loses a certain amount of control over the research setting by revealing that she/he is something more than a simple bystander.

Protection of privacy and confidentiality, on the other hand, has generally been left to the individual researcher where he/she exerts maximum control. Such protection is typically afforded after the fact in the report-writing and/or publication phase where commu-

nity identity, informant names, and other detailed information may be withheld or altered.

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Informant and community anonymity has been so enshrined in anthropological research that it had been the unchallenged standard of practice until some community studies became minor classics and certain of these well-studied individuals or communities requested that their identities be revealed. This dictum of privacy and the absolute protection of anonymity was challenged by a growing number of anthropologists, especially younger professionals (Szklut and Reed 1991), and the 1990 revision of the AAA Principles of Pro-

fessional Responsibility states that “the right of people providing information to anthropologists either to remain anonymous or to receive recognition is to be respected and defended” (A.1).

Implicit in this restatement of the right to privacy principle (where the right to remain anonymous or to receive recognition rests with the information provider and not the researcher) is the embedded premise that the researcher will discuss the research and its reporting or publication with the researched and that information exchange will occur and some consent be received. Were this a version of informed consent, in this reword-

ing of a major ethical principle within anthropology, it would be more an implied consent than one that is given explicitly and directly. Moreover control is still exerted by the researcher, for such “consent” could be obtained at any time during the research project and may only be concerned with the revealing of identity or retention of anonymity. The revised wording does, however, empower the information-giver in that the decision to receive recognition or remain anonymous is theirs, rather than the researcher’s. There is certainly the view among anthropologists and social scientists that codes of ethics exist more for public relations purposes, and what protection is provided by them assists the practitioner more than the general public (Douglas 1979). It is probably true that professional associations have responded to crises and controversies over ethics better than they have engaged in the fostering of an ethical culture within the profession. Despite the numerous influential guides and handbooks on the subject of anthropological research (Bernard 1988, Pelto and Pelto 1978), there has been insufficient discussion of

the issue of informed consent and its intersection with federal regulations and institutional review boards.

SPECIFIC GUIDELINES AND ANTHROPOLOGICAL RESPONSES Informed consent has been defined as “the knowing consent of an individual, or a legally authorized representative, able to exercise free power of choice without undue inducement or any element of force, fraud, deceit, duress, or other form of constraint or coercion” (Protection of Human Subjects, Code of Federal Regulations, 1990). In any number of fed-

erally regulated agencies that sponsor research, the documentation of informed consent must be ensured in one of the following ways: (1) a written consent document to be signed

by the subject or authorized agent; (2) a “short form” summary document ensuring informed consent requirements have been met and signed by the subject, or authorized agent and an auditor-witness; (3) modification of (1) or (2) above where minimal risk is

demonstrated, or where obtaining informed consent would invalidate the objectives of research. In this latter event, the responsibility of the external review committee increases proportional to the diminished informed consent requirement.

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Institutional review boards (IRBs) are established to approve, require modifications in (in order to secure approval), or disapprove all research activities regulated by federal sponsorship. IRBs require documentation of informed consent in certain research situations, or they have developed expedited review procedures for other kinds of research involving minimal risk. Although the social science research may fall within the minimal risk category, social scientists may still be called upon to respond to questions involving informed consent in their research methods by board members who represent various disciplinary backgrounds. Some anthropologists have objected to this federally inspired and institutionally backed intrusion upon their freedom to carry out non-constrained research. Moreover, institutional review boards have been challenged (Murphy and Johannsen 1990) as inappropriate to evaluate social research, since their procedures were designed more for biomedical and experimental research; IRBs inadequately address the complexities of ethnographic research. IRBs and administrators wary of lawsuits have, however, increasingly seen the informed consent guidelines as representing a general principle applicable to all research without any exception being made for social science research. Much anthropological research has historically escaped federal regulation because of its reliance on individual, small-scale projects, or because it was not funded by a federal agency, such as the National Institute of Health, or the National Institute of Mental Health. Anthropologists in increasing numbers are working in applied projects,+ however, and in the public sector conducting research in community and mental health, alcohol and drug abuse research projects, or studies of racial and ethnic minorities in the United States. Such research falls outside of the traditional parameters that have defined anthropological research as taking place in simple, small-scale, nonliterate, non-Western societies, and anthropologists are being called upon to comply with federal regulations that require them to inform subjects of anticipated risks and benefits, to obtain written consent forms, and to protect confidentiality. These requirements have attracted criticism from social researchers, as they are regarded as particularly unsuited to the conditions of ethnographic research, especially the requirements of risk—benefit analysis and informed consent (Akeroyd 1984:147). The above points, and others to follow, help to explain why anthropologists have given a lukewarm or indifferent reception to informed consent in their research methodologies and their ethical codes. Some arguments that have been used by anthropologists and other social scientists to challenge the utility of informed consent regulations in social research include:

Informed consent: a) is difficult or impossible to obtain in social research; b) is an impediment to subjects or actors behaving naturally, c) does not lend itself easily to the methods of participant observation or other unobtrusive methods of research;

d) cannot be explained or adequately obtained in many settings where anthropological research occurs, such as in nonliterate societies;

e) is an impediment to obtaining certain kinds of information about disapproved or illegal activities; f) would keep the researcher from having access to powerful subjects or those in a closed setting where researchers would not normally be admitted.°

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Moreover, Barnes (1979) argues that informed consent is not suitable to the nature

of anthropological research and is contrary to the flexibility required in fieldwork because: g) the researcher cannot always predict the course of fieldwork; h) informed consent is a U.S. or Western concept and cannot be fully explained in the context of cross-cultural research;

i) it is impractical to attempt to inform and to acquire consent from every newcomer to the research situation.° As institutional review boards carry out their mandate to ensure that federal guidelines regulating research with human subjects are followed by social scientists, anthropologists are being held accountable for their research methods, and they are being questioned with specific reference to informed consent. Even small-scale, individual research projects are subject to institutional review, causing some anthropologists to react defensively, while others have objected to the process of review itself.’ The question of exemption from the standpoint of institutional review is already moot, but the more difficult philosophical issues of intellectual or moral exemption are in need of broader discussion within the discipline. If informed consent simply means that the researcher offers the fullest possible disclosure of the goals and potential uses of research before it is undertaken, then the application of informed consent guidelines in anthropological research need not be as controversial as it might appear at first glance. In the first place, consent forms are not a necessary component for obtaining informed consent, and the chilling effect on research that most anthropologists fear can be reduced or eliminated entirely. Philosophically, informed consent can be interpreted as a professional responsibility or charge that in research anthropologists will practice full disclosure, to the best of their ability, and that issues affecting participants regarding methods, use, or publication of research will be discussed with them in advance. In some cases, probably judged to be exceptions, the use of deception might be justified because of the greater benefit from the research that may result by not informing participants of the goals and possible uses of that research. If we review the various objections that some anthropologists have voiced to the application of informed consent guidelines, most can be addressed positively, without affecting the quality of research. Moreover, confronting the challenges informed consent brings to anthropological research can result in an enhanced, more open research environment in which both researcher and participant are made to feel more comfortable. Let us examine these objections in light of the contemporary reality of federal regulation and IRBs, and a changed profession of anthropology, where more applied research is conducted and the “primitive” world has been transformed. 1. Informed consent is difficult or impossible to obtain in social research. This has not been the experience of colleagues in psychological research, which has perhaps been more closely scrutinized with respect to informed consent requirements. Moreover, structured, “obtrusive” research calls for the active participation of persons who will be questioned or interviewed, and the explanation of research goals, methods,

and uses are easily made a part of initial recruitment of participants. Anthropologists and other social researchers are usually very visible parts of the social groups they study, so

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that part of the process of negotiated entry into the group to be studied could include the specific raising ofissues related to informed consent. Informed consent is an impediment to subjects or actors behaving naturally. A number of studies have shown that obtaining informed consent has little or no effect on response in social surveys, even about the most intimate details of one’s life (Singer 1979). The myth of the anthropologist as “fly on the wall” has been repeatedly challenged by anthropologists’ own self-conscious and increasingly reflective evaluation of their presence in other societies as obtrusive rather than unobtrusive observers. Raising issues associated with informed consent can thus be a natural part of the process associated with the explanation of the presence of the outsider-social researcher. 2. Informed consent does not lend itself easily to the methods ofparticipant observation or other relatively unobtrusive methods of research. Social observation, where the researcher is able to remain anonymous and blend in with the social situation she/he wishes to observe, should represent such minimal risk research that it would be exempted from the spirit of informed consent. Other unobtrusive methods, such as reading street signs or using telephone books, are part of the public domain in any society and would likewise be exempt. But participant observation is different from social observation since it involves an interactive dimension between researcher and participant that is qualitatively different from the relatively more passive social observation. Participant observation, which often occurs over extended periods of time, is a continuous process of negotiated entry and acceptance and offers many opportunities for discussions between researcher and participants that reflect the spirit and intent of informed consent. It might even lead to opportunities for collaborative research that would enhance present and future research and yield results that incorporate the participants’ perspective. 3. Informed consent cannot be explained or adequately obtained in many settings where anthropological research occurs, such as nonliterate societies.

This position may have been true to a certain extent in another era of anthropological research; it is certainly not the case today. Anthropologists who work primarily in other languages and non-Western cultures are not the majority of professionals today. Moreover, the “primitive” world has been transformed in the modern period, such that it

is impossible not to work in some contact or formerly colonized area where a European language is a first or second language of the non-Western nation. Likewise, the “subjects” may be literate and knowledgeable of anthropological studies of their own societies and are increasingly sophisticated critics of these published works. Moreover, national research boards are frequent overseers of foreign researchers, granting research permission, assisting with local contacts and often requiring final reports of research activities. In some indigenous communities, especially in native North America, consciousness regarding the local control of research is especially high. Research in the Canadian and U.S. Arctic must be approved by a community-based research board. The principles developed for the conduct of research in the Arctic are stronger and inore explicit than other professional codes examined and make specific reference to “informed consent.” “Research directly involving northern people or communities should not proceed without their clear and informed consent” (Arctic Research 1990:110). The code then describes in

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detail the ways in which informed consent is to be obtained, while the responsibilities of the researcher to full disclosure are also outlined. Certainly the core ideas about informed consent could be communicated in this transformed context where subjects are much less passive and more informed than they have been in the past. In the above case, consciousness about local control of research and sophistication regarding issues of informed consent may indeed be greater among peoples of the Arctic than that of an American subject in a biomedical research project. 4. Informed consent is an impediment to obtaining certain kinds of information about disapproved or illegal activities. This type of research, if it is to be undertaken at all, should clearly evidence greater benefit than harm, and is probably best carried out using unobtrusive methods. The debate over Laud Humphreys’ research is probably the most instructive to date. 5. Informed consent keeps the researcher from having access to powerful sulyects or those in a closed setting where researchers would not normally be admitted. Wherever some deception is required to carry out research, informed consent, which depends upon openness and disclosure, will be problematical. Accounts by some anthropologists (Rose 1988) who have used deception in research have reassessed its value and have been critical of its overall effect on the research environment. Humphreys’ critical reexamination of his own methods in his tearoom study that involved lack of full disclosure or outright deception is another case in point. He concludes that, were he to conduct the study again, he would sacrifice a larger, less voluntary and uninformed group of respondents for a smaller sample of willing and informed individuals from whom, he presumes, he would obtain far richer data than that he achieved in his deceptive “interview schedules” (1975:231).

6. Informed consent is unsuitable because the researcher cannot always predict the course of fieldwork. Informed consent can be as flexible as the course of fieldwork itself. If the research procedure has built into it a system of monitoring, by the researcher in collaboration with participants and the funding agent or client, informed consent can be obtained at various junctures during the course of fieldwork.® Other authors have described the growing unease at being locked into a particular research methodology while a dynamic field situation changed and participants were not fully apprised or informed of the implications of

the change (Graves and Shields 1991). Consideration of informed consent can be built into the regular progress and monitoring of social research at various logical steps along the way to the conclusion of research and its aftermath, whether the end is a publication, policy statement, or plans for future research. 7. Informed consent is a U.S. or Western concept that cannot be fully explained in the context of cross-cultural research. Cultural relativism precludes the use of informed consent. In what may be the ultimate anthropological argument, informed consent could be dismissed as an ethnocentric idea. Anthropologists have, however, reported that people, illiterate and well educated alike, are at least curious, if not seriously interested, in what they

are doing in their community and nation. The anthropologist often gives a simplified sum-

mary of the research project and the conversation moves on to another subject; how easy it would be to open a general discussion of informed consent, where matters of research

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freedom and limits, confidentiality or identification of participant, and a host of related is-

sues could be aired. Politically sensitive research, such as with contemporary studies of Islamic revival in my own research area, would be greatly enhanced and improved by open discussions of research methods and data and its possible uses with participants in these movements. Citing the maintenance of ethical integrity in participant observation as problematic, Jarvie concludes that the official philosophy of fieldwork should “not be relativism,

but honesty and truthfulness about, and in terms of, one’s own society” (1969:508). Cross-cultural research conducted by other social scientists using collaborative models has described participant selection as one of self-selection on an informed basis after discussions of the research procedures and goals had been clearly articulated to possible participants in the local language (Lykes 1989). The author reports no difficulty in translating the concept; however the use of an informed consent form proved to be problematical. 8. It is impractical to attempt to inform and to acquire consent from every newcomer to the research situation. In public places where unobtrusive research can take place, informed consent is impractical and inappropriate. In research where it is appropriate to raise informed consent guidelines with individual participants at the outset, however, it follows that it is also appropriate to inform those who present themselves later, after the initiation of research. Informed consent, as the practice of fuller disclosure and more openness in research, means that discussion of research methods and intentions can be raised at any time with any new participant. In many group research situations it may be naive for the researcher to think that the project is not discussed informally among participants who may know each other by virtue of their association with the group being studied. The use of new technology, such as videotaping of interviews where intimate details of one’s life may be shared, require close attention to consent issues. Social scientists have noted new legal and ethical problems where the life of the video extends beyond the moment of obtaining consent (Chronicle ofHigher Education 1991). If information pertaining to child abuse, for example, is revealed in a taped interview, then the confidentiality promised in the informed consent form may not be protected. For a videotape, the life of which may be measured in decades, obtaining consent from a parent as guardian for a child may not be sufficient to protect the researcher once the child has reached the age of majority. A procedure of openly discussing or obtaining consent at various junctures in the process of research and the utilization of the results of research is therefore advisable.

INFORMED CONSENT WITHOUT FORMS Almost invariably when the subject of informed consent is discussed with anthropologists, the first objection raised is the use of a consent form. That anthropologists, accustomed to their informal, participatory methods, might administer forms to their “informants” or participants is anathema to traditions of field research. Anthropologists are, however, increasingly conducting research for clients under federal sponsorship, and they are being asked to ensure that informed consent guidelines have been met. They may do so with a certain uneasiness, using the required forms or procedures, especially if the research population represents some aspect of American society at risk, such as drug or alcohol users.

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Ina research relationship with non-Western, often relatively powerless participants, the Western researcher may feel that she/he is exerting even greater influence over the relationship by introducing the need for a signed form into the research situation. As a researcher experienced in participatory research describes it, “As long as consent [has been] given, neither the sponsoring organization nor the researcher have responsibility for or to the participant. The former is not legally liable and the latter can now use the data in any way she or he, as scientist, determines” (Lykes 1989:177). Furthermore, the language of even the most enlightened forms, for example, “this

project is being undertaken by trained personnel for a serious scientific purpose” with “careful attention” paid to the participant’s “general welfare” is viewed by Lykes as “paternalistic and gratuitous” (1989:178). The researcher, working with non-Western women,

concluded that the informed consent form became a barrier which also symbolized the great chasm between the demands of research within the university environment and the system of trust that was already a part of the research collaboration. She goes on to describe how her research participants resisted signing the forms, and how she saw this as an assertion of their control over the ground rules for their voluntary participation in the research. This telling description of the failure of the use of informed consent forms is one that most anthropologists would recognize and applaud, but the accusation of paternalism with respect to decisions regarding risk, benefit, or potential harm to participants might be less easy to recognize. The value of open, collaborative research is that informed consent becomes a natural part of the development of the research project, and can be ensured without the use of forms by raising relevant issues that inform and thereby empower the participant. Voluntary participants already sense, or are actually conscious of, that power which flows from their cooperation with the research project. Paid participants, perhaps still a minority in anthropological research, enter into a relationship with researchers that is less ambiguous and therefore more open to all manner of discussion of the research, including informed consent concerns.

PATERNALISM, SOCIAL RESEARCH, AND INFORMED CONSENT In applied fields like social work, increased sensitivity regarding issues of confidentiality, self-determination, and informed consent have been a part of the process of the development of professional ethics, in part due to concerns over the liability of practitioners (Reamer 1987). While applied anthropologists, working for clients or in federally funded projects, are increasingly aware of their professional liability, the concern has not yet been sufficient to exert pressure on the professional organizations and code-makers to alter the language of the ethical codes to include informed consent. Beyond the liability issue, an element of the resistance to informed consent guidelines in the profession may be a subtler, deeper, even unconscious paternalism that has afflicted some attitudes in the field. Paternalism has been acknowledged to be prevalent in the contemporary practice of social work (Reamer 1983:259), and it has been raised as an issue in the conduct of cross-cultural research in psychology (Lykes 1989). Paternalism in social anthropology has long been recognized as having been part of the British colonial encounter, both as a rationale and justification for social research among politically subjugated peoples (Asad 1973). An analogous historical parallel exists

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for the Native American—U.S. government encounter, and a common thread of paternalism might exist for the American anthropologist, for many years a majority, who conducted research among indigenous peoples of America. Paternalism, or the interference with an individual’s or group’s freedom to determine what is for their own good, is not necessarily a bad thing. Some philosophical discussions of paternalism have justified the interference, which might involve some deception or coercion, by references to the greater good of the subject’s welfare (Dworkin 1971, Gert and Culver 1979). In social-cultural anthropology or applied research, under conditions of colonialism or other forms of subjugation, paternalism had a historical context, which was always an “unequal power encounter” between the anthropologist and subject (Asad 1973:16). Colonialism has ended and the formal rationale for paternalism has disappeared; however, de facto social relations between the former occupying power and subject population may not have changed. Other forms of powerlessness, such as widespread illiteracy, have been ameliorated in many places. What may have been historical justifications for paternalism in social research are now being undermined. Paternalism is related to the informed consent issue because it provides a means by which a researcher may not inform subjects of the intent and results of research because she/he knows better what is good for them. The “My Tribe” syndrome has been widely discussed in anthropology, whereby a particular anthropologist is the only, or among a handful, of researchers with a long-term association with the “native” population, who

may have been relatively isolated or nonliterate people. All decisions regarding research, including informed consent, would therefore have been made by the researcher alone. This world is clearly disappearing, and contemporary researchers overseas are confronting conscious, literate people, while U.S.-based researchers are working on projects related to American social problems. “In research, anthropologist’s paramount responsibility is to those they study” (AAA 1971:1). “Their physical, social and emotional safety and welfare are the professional concerns of the anthropologists who have worked among them” (AAA 1991:1). For the most part, providing for the general welfare of participants in research is the responsibility of the anthropologist, while the empowering of participants that flows from information provided and consent obtained remains an option, probably exercised under some coercive authority mandating informed consent. “Anthropologists have an ongoing obligation to assess both the positive and negative consequences of their activities and the publications resulting from these activities. They should inform individuals and groups likely to be affected of any consequences relevant to them that they anticipate” (AAA 1991:1.5). This is the first time that the American Anthropological Association’s code of ethics has used the word inform, whereas it previously stated that “the aims of the investigation should be communicated as well as possible to the informant” (AAA 1971:1.b). The code of the professional association of applied anthropologists is more explicit; “To the people we study we owe disclosure of our research goals, methods and sponsorship. ‘The participation of people in our research activities shall be only on a voluntary and informed basis” (SfAA 1949, 1983:1). Openness and disclosure; reference in social studies to participants instead of informants; models of collaborative research that incorporate informed consent; are all components of anthropological research, whether academic or applied, federally or privately

funded, that is fully current with developments taking place in the world we study and the professions that study it. Informed consent may only be a convenient summary term for

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what has taken place in biomedical and social science research, but when its spirit is implemented it results in better researchers and better research. Notes. 1. I gratefully acknowledge the assistance and support of Bernard Gert, Stone Professor of Philosophy at Dartmouth College, whose perspective from outside of the discipline of anthropology allowed me to see the importance of informed consent to the discipline and the profession. Many of the ideas in this paper were discussed with Professor Gert while I was a Rockefeller Fellow in the Institute for Applied and Professional Ethics at Dartmouth College during 1990. 2. Elsewhere I have described the special history of ethical concerns in the discipline of anthropology, where “ethics” during the 1950s referred to the study of values and the worldview of other cultures. (See “Ethics and Professionalism: A Review of Issues and Principles within Anthropology,” in Fluehr-Lobban 1991.) 3. There are separate statements of professional responsibility or codes of ethics for the following professional organizations of anthropologists: American Anthropological Association, the Society for Applied Anthropology, the Society of Professional Archaeologists, and the National Association of Practicing Anthropologists. 4. A 1986 survey by the American Anthropological Association indicated that a majority of professional anthropologists were working in applied or practicing areas and were not employed in the academy. 5. These issues are abstracted from Smith and Barnes (1979). It should be noted that Smith is a psychologist and not an anthropologist, and the arguments outlined are related to the method of observing public behavior used by various social scientists, not only anthropologists. 6. Barnes’ comments, it should be noted, precede the period when federal regulation and the influence of IRBs have had their greatest impact on anthropological research. 7. As I gathered information for my book on ethics and anthropology, a frustration with institutional review boards was repeatedly expressed to me by anthropologists. I have been both the subject of review by my own institution’s review board on the matter of informed consent and anthropological research, and I have been officially charged with the conduct of similar reviews as chair of Rhode Island College’s Committee on the Use of Human Subjects in Research. 8. Sociologist Janet M. Billson has termed this “the Progressive Verification Method” (1991), which she

has utilized and which she recommends for the study of women cross-culturally. The method envisions the position of the researcher as being on a par with the participants in the study who are informed and not only give consent but can offer suggestions as the study progresses.

References Cited American Anthropological Association (AAA) 1971 Principles of Professional Responsibility. Washington, DC: AAA. 1990 Revised Principles of Professional Responsibility. Washington, DC: AAA. American Psychological Association (APA)

1981 Ethical Principles of Psychologists. American Psychologist 36:633-638. Anonymous 1991 Videotaped Data Pose Legal and Ethical Problems for Social Scientists. Chronicle of Higher Education (March 27):A9. Akeroyd, Anne V. 1984 Ethics in Relations with Informants, the Profession and Governments. In Ethnographic Research: A Guide to General Conduct. R. F. Ellen, ed. Pp. 133-154. London: Academic Press.

Arctic Research 1990 Principles for the Conduct of Research in the Arctic. Arctic Research in the United States 4:110-111.

Asad, ‘Talal, ed.

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Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter. London: Ithaca Press.

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Barnes, J. A.

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Bernard, H. Russell

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The Progressive Verification Method: Toward a Feminist Methodology for Studying Women Cross-Culturally. Women’s Studies International Forum 14:201-215. Douglas, Kack 1979 Living Morality versus Bureaucratic Fiat. In Deviance and Decency: The Ethics of Research with Human Subjects. C. B. Klockers and F. W. O’Conner, eds. Pp. 13-34. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage. Dworkin, Gerald

1971

Paternalism. In Morality and the Law. R. Wasserstrom, ed. Pp. 107-126. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth.

Faden, Ruth R. and T. L. Beauchamp 1986 A History and Theory of Informed Consent. New York: Oxford University Press. Fluehr-Lobban, Carolyn, ed.

1991a_ Ethics and the Profession of Anthropology: Dialogue for a New Era. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. 1991b Ethics and Professionalism in Anthropology: Tensions between Its Academic and Applied Branches. Business and Professional Ethics 10:1-10. Gert, Bernard and Charles M. Culver

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‘The Justification of Paternalism. Ethics 89:199-210.

Glazer, Myron 1975 Impersonal Sex. In Tearoom ‘Trade: Impersonal Sex in Public Places, 2nd ed. Laud Humphreys, ed. Pp. 213-221. New York: Aldine. Graves, William and Mark Shields

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Rethinking Moral Responsibility in Fieldwork: The Situated Negotiation of Research Ethics in Anthropology and Sociology. In Ethics and the Profession of Anthropology: Dialogue for a New Era. C. Fluehr-Lobban, ed. Pp. 130-152. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Gray, Bradford H. 1979 Human Subjects Review Committees and Social Research. In Federal Regulations: Ethical Issues and Social Research. M. Wax andJ. Cassell, eds. Pp. 43-59. Boulder, CO: Westview.

Humphreys, Laud 1970 Tearoom Trade: Impersonal Sex in Public Places. Chicago: Aldine. 1975 Research Retrospect. Jn Tearoom Trade: Impersonal Sex in Public Places, 2nd ed. Pp. 223-232. New York: Aldine. Janvicpln@s

1969

The Problem of Ethical Integrity in Participant Observation. Current Anthropology 10:505-508.

Lykes, M. Brinton 1989 Dialogue with Guatemalan Indian Women: Critical Perspectives on Constructing Collaborative Research. In Representations: Social Constructions of Gender. Rhoda K. Unger, ed. Pp. 167-185. Amityville, NY. Baywood. Milgram, Stanley 1974. Obedience to Authority. New York: Harper and Row. Murphy, Michael Dean and Agneta Johannsen 1990 Ethical Obligations and Federal Regulations in Ethnographic Research and Anthropological Education. Human Organization 49:127—134.

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National Association of Practicing Anthropologists (NAPA)

1988

Ethical Guidelines for Practitioners. Washington, DC: NAPA.

Pelto, Pertti and Gretel Pelto

1978

Anthropological Research. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Reamer, Frederic G.

1983 1987

The Concept of Paternalism in Social Work. Social Service Review 57:254-271. Informed Consent in Social Work. Social Work 32:425-429.

Rose, Daniel

1988 Black Philadelphia Street Life. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Singer, Eleanor 1979 Informed Consent Procedures in Surveys: Some Reasons for Minimal Effects on Response. In Federal Regulations: Ethical Issues and Social Research. M. Wax andJ. Cassell, eds. Pp. 185-216. Boulder, CO: Westview. Smith, M. Brewster

1979

Some Perspectives on Ethical/Political Issues in Social Science Research. In Federal Regulations: Ethical Issues and Social Research. M. Wax andJ. Cassell, eds. Pp. 11-22. Boulder, CO: Westview.

Society for Applied Anthropology (SfAA) 1949 Professional and Ethical Responsibilities. Washington, DC: SfAA. [revised 1983] Szklut, Jay and Robert Roy Reed 1991 Community Anonymity in Anthropological Research: A Reassessment. In Ethics and the Profession of Anthropology: Dialogue for a New Era. C. Fluehr-Lobban, ed. Pp. 97-114. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. U.S. Government 1990 Protection of Human Subjects. Washington, DC: Code of Federal Regulations. Warwick, Donald P.

1975

‘Tearoom Trade: Means and Ends in Social Research. In Tearoom Trade: Impersonal Sex in Public Places, 2nd ed. Laud Humphreys, ed. Pp. 191-211. New York: Aldine. Wax, Murray L. and Joan Cassell, eds. 1979 Federal Regulations: Ethical Issues and Social Research. Boulder, CO: Westview.

READING

5

Proprietary Research and Anthropological Ethics William O. Beeman THE NEW WORKPLACE Anthropologists today are more and more likely to be working in the private sector. Recently, Xerox revealed that a new invention allowing computers to be accessed via FAX machines originated in research on man-machine work patterns done by anthropologists at the company’s Palo Alto Research Center. Anthropologists engaged in research for advertising and marketing firms are helping merchandisers understand how people view their

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products and integrate them into their daily lives. Anthropological studies of work patterns of cultural minorities in the U.S. are helping American firms understand how better to deal with their employees who come from different ethnic backgrounds. Public archeological corporations have sprung up to carry out cultural environmental impact studies for highway and building construction throughout the U.S. These are only a few of the many uses to which anthropological research is being put in private commercial industry. Traditionally anthropology was carried on exclusively in research institutions: universities, museums, and government-sponsored scholarly research facilities. Work in these

settings assumed that information garnered through normal research efforts would be monitored and controlled primarily by the researcher. Publication of research results would also be carried out at the option of and under the control of the researcher. The American Anthropological Association’s code of professional ethics is based on this assumption of individual researcher control. The boom in private sector use of anthropological has been a wonderful boon to employment, but it also creates a new environment in which anthropological work is being done. When anthropologists become employees of private sector firms, it cannot be assumed that they own or have control over their own research. They may not be able to control the research design, the data collection methods, access and control over dissem-

ination of research data, or the publication of the final research. These changes in the nature of the traditional workplace for anthropologists working in the private sector raise important ethical questions that have not been addressed by the profession as a whole. The principal question anthropologists need to address is, What does an anthropologist do when professional ethics are at odds with an employer’s business practices?

PROPRIETARY RESEARCH Employment for proprietary research is the principal basis for potential ethical conflict between anthropologists and private sector employment. By proprietary research we mean research which is done under the direction of a party other than the researcher for compensation, and which the party who has commissioned the research consequently “owns” for their own use in whole or in part. As mentioned above, the reason for potential ethical conflict is loss of control by the researcher over research conduct and dissemination of final research results. At present the American Anthropological Association makes it the responsibility of the individual researcher to see that standards ofprofessional responsibility are met in both of these areas. When research becomes proprietary, the researcher cannot be presumed to have full responsibility for seeing that these standards are met.

AREAS OF POTENTIAL CONFLICT A number of potential problems may arise for anthropologists in proprietary research situations. The following hypothetical situations are illustrative of some of these dilemmas.

1. The employer is engaging in research which is designed to harm or disadvantage the subjects of the study.

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An example of this kind of research might be a study of a community which the research proprietor hopes to target in a publicity campaign designed to persuade the members of the community to accept an environmentally questionable industrial facility in its midst. The proprietary research might be aimed at determining the most effective ways to disarm potential opponents of the proposed facility, and to co-opt influential members of the community for support. A more complicated ethical question arises when we consider an anthropologist who engages in research on a target consumer community for an advertising firm whose ultimate aim is to sell alcohol, tobacco, or nutritionally questionable snack foods. 2. The employer is contracting to do research for a third party whose use of the research results may be detrimental to the subjects of the study, or who may be a secret intelligence gathering organization. A prime example of this is contract work done for the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency or other military intelligence organizations. The American Anthropological Association has had a long-standing prohibition against engaging in this kind of research because of detrimental effects on the reputation of the field as a whole. When a research proprietor engages in contracting this research, an anthropologist employee may have no control over the contract negotiations. Indeed, he or she may not even know who the ultimate purchaser of the research is. 3. The proprietor of research may prevent the dissemination of important research results that could be of benefit to the target population. As an example, an anthropologist working for a research firm may be assigned to conduct research on the effectiveness of community service agencies under a contract with a municipal government. In the course of the research the anthropologist may discover widespread abuse or corruption within the system. His or her employer may forbid publication or discrimination of this information on the basis that it will not be welcome by the contracting agency. 4. Ina related situation, the anthropologist may be prohibited from disseminating information that reflects badly on the ultimate purchaser or sponsor of the research, even though the results are central to understanding the basic problem under investigation. Here the ethical dilemma becomes more complicated. As an example, a commercial firm may hire an organization that employs anthropologists to determine general trends in the consumption of the product manufactured by the commercial firm. In the course of the research the anthropologists may determine that distributors for the contracting firm have been spreading unfounded rumors about the safety of a competing product. The head of the organization employing the anthropologists prohibits inclusion of this information in the final research report, on the basis that this is “extraneous” information not requested by the research contractor. Here the anthropologists’ responsibility is divided between three parties: the public at large, the research contractor, and the employer.

5. The anthropologist discovers information of genuine scientific interest during the course of proprietary research. However, he or she is prohibited from publishing the results by his or her employer because it might indicate to competing firms that the company is making advances in specific research areas that it wishes to hide from competition. For example, an anthropologist in a piece of market research might discover that women in the U.S. have in the space of one or two years become the majority speculators

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in several community sporting events. This would be interesting as an indicator of a shift in gender roles, and could be presented as such in an important scholarly publication. The anthropologists’ employer prohibits publication of this research because it is the basis for development of a whole new set of competitors’ advertising campaigns to be aimed at women during televised sporting events. Here an important opportunity for publishing information of real scientific interest would be suppressed by the employer’s commercial needs.

ANTHROPOLOGISTS’

OPTIONS

Anthropologists finding themselves in conflict over this have few choices. They can protest their employer's policies and risk or disadvantage their jobs. They can work “behind the scenes” to modify research plans, again with possible detrimental effects in their employment. Finally they can quit their jobs if the moral dilemmas become too great. None of these solutions will make life easier for the anthropologist or for the profession. Ideally, anthropologists should be able to continue to be employed in the private sector and should have comfortable relations with their employers. At the same time, they

should not have to worry about professional responsibility—duty to protect informants, free and open dissemination of scientific information, and general moral responsibility to the public. We suggest that the American Anthropological Association needs to open these questions up to more general debate. We have not heard from anthropologists working in the the private sector about their concerns on these issues, except anecdotally. Nor has the profession taken a stand on the governance of its members who are not working in traditional settings. Almost nothing has been heard from employers who hire anthropologists about potential conflicts in the ethical area. Ideally we would like to see anthropologists working in the private sector empowered with a firm statement of ethical responsibility which would apply to their potential work conflicts. This would give an anthropologist-employee something more to take to his or her employer to protest an ethically uncomfortable situation than a personal opinion. Such a statement could be used in many useful ways. 1. The Association could publicize it among commercial firms employing anthropologists to let them know that the Association has a professional opinion about how its members should be allowed to conduct themselves in the businessplace. 2. It could be used as a discussion point for anthropologists being offered jobs in the commercial sector as a way of setting standards for job responsibilities. 3. It could also be used specifically in discussing an ethically uncomfortable directive

from an employer.

CONCLUSION It may be felt that because this situation has not been raised as a major problem in the pro.

.

.

.

.

.

fession that it need not be addressed. We do not want to be alarmist, but we feel that it is a

problem waiting to happen. The first major commercial or industrial scandal that implicates

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anthropologists will do untold harm to the profession and its prospects for working in the commercial world in the future. We would prefer that the ethics of doing work under proprietary research standards be discussed before a major problem arises. As a final thought, it may be wise for the Association to consider a professional certification program for private sector anthropologists which will specify standards of conduct. This could certainly aid in dealing with many potential ethical conflicts in the commercial world.

“+

Methods

Anthropologists George Marcus and Michael Fisher (1986:18) state that “[e]thnography is a research process in which the anthropologist closely observes, records, and engages in the daily life of another culture—an experience labeled as the fieldwork method—and then writes accounts of this culture emphasizing descriptive details.” In this chapter, the lead article by Timothy Finan and John van Willigen makes the important observation that anthropologists are often asked to contribute to addressing a wide range of community-based problems that require project design and evaluation and policy analysis, as well as other skills that we can bring to bear on local concerns. What anthropologists provide to these studies, they argue, is “social knowledge.” As they frame it, social knowledge includes a holistic understanding of the community, its social and cultural patterns, and how that community fits within a larger social system of regional, national, or global scale (Finan and van Willigen 1991:1). Cultural anthropology brings a whole host of ideas to bear on how local communities operate, and anthropologists have a series of methods that aid in the collection of data that lead to fine-tuned understanding of the places in which we work. Anthropology lays claim to participant observation as its main methodological approach for understanding the rhythms and contours of local life. Participant observation is most commonly based on long-term immersion in a particular setting, which allows the researcher to gain a particularly intimate understanding of local culture and social process that sets anthropology apart from the other social sciences. Participant observation, however, has drawbacks as well as benefits. It is an approach that emerged out of early anthropological work that centered on small groups living in what were considered bounded, isolated places where meaning was widely shared. We might well argue that the image of the distant and disconnected community was a fiction. Certainly today there are few who would seriously contend that this image fits the contemporary world in which anthropologists work—an age of transnational migration, elec-

tronic media, and global markets. On the other hand, ethnographic methods remain of significant use in applied contexts. They provide anthropologists with a way to look at people’s behavior in context, which provides a subtle understanding of the complex intertwining of people, places, sociocultural factors, and how those shape and constrain human activity and society (cf. Guest 2001:28). Thus, in this chapter readers will find an array of methods that build upon, modify, and in some cases replace traditional participant observation because of time constraints as well as the problem of increased scale and complexity of the places in which we work. This includes an overarching piece on methods and

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the pursuit of knowledge, by Timothy Finan and John van Willigen; a discussion of rapid appraisal techniques, a method created specifically for the constraints faced by researchers in an applied context, by James Beebe; and an article by Merrill Singer reminding us of the utility of traditional ethnographic methods in applied research.

References Cited Finan, Timothy J., and John van Willigen 1991 The Pursuit of Social Knowledge: Methodology and the Practice of Anthropology. NAPA Bulletin 10:1—-10. Guest, Greg 2001 Anthropology in the Technology Industry. Anthropology Newsletter February:28. Marcus, George, and Michael M. J. Fischer

1986

Anthropology as Cultural Critique: An Experimental Moment in the Human Sciences. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

The Pursuit of Social Knowledge: Methodology and the Practice of Anthropology TimothyJ. Finan and John van Willigen The nature of anthropological inquiry has changed over the last 20 years. The expanding presence of anthropologists in nonacademic professions has increased the range of services and skills expected of them (van Willigen 1982). Furthermore, as the typical anthropolog-

ical unit of inquiry has shifted from relatively isolated populations to local communities within more complex social systems, theoretical questions have begun to focus as much on forms of external integration as on internal social dynamics. As basic tasks and understandings change, there arises a demand for innovative, flexible methods of research.

In their practice, anthropologists are routinely asked to contribute to policy analysis, project design and evaluation, and other specific problem-solving efforts in both rural and urban communities (E. Chambers 1985; van Willigen 1986). What is the primary anthro-

pological contribution? Essentially, it is social knowledge: an encompassing understanding about a local community, its regular and discernible behavior patterns, its cultural logic, and the nature of its integration into wider systems. Anthropologists, in other words, are indefatigable knowledge specialists, students of human society whose holistic and comprehensive perspective ignores disciplinary bounds. Unrestrained by narrow subject matter determinations, anthropologists can document labor allocation patterns for economists,

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trace cross-cultural learning patterns for educators, identify cultivation practices for agronomists, and classify local remedies for health practitioners. In short, anthropologists are trained to know people within their particular social contexts. As anthropologists, we attempt to enter the world of research subjects, to fathom their systems of meaning, and to accurately translate their categories of knowledge into categories we understand and use in other contexts, such as development, health care, and education.

The core anthropological research method has been participant observation (Jorgensen 1989; Salmen 1987; Spradley 1980) and the key informant interview (Casagrande 1960). It is important to the successful use of these core techniques that the researcher be integrated into the local community. As part of the target group, the anthropologist has some access to the “insider” point of view. The access provided by these techniques is an important dimension of the usefulness of anthropological research methods. There are limits, however. For example, participant observation functions most effectively when applied to a small, homogeneous group whose meaning system is shared by all members and further, since success is predicated upon group acceptance of the researcher, the process is often very time-intensive. Key informant interviewing, for all the depth of knowledge it provides, cannot always claim that the data are representative and account for intracultural variation. ‘Two empirical realities make it necessary for practicing anthropologists involved in the application and practice of their discipline to diversify their methodological tool kit. The first reality is the time constraint imposed on current anthropological research. Although the primary task of the anthropologist continues to be the collection and organization of knowledge, 18 months of fieldwork are not feasible in most cases and perhaps not even recommended in some. This necessitates time-effective research techniques. The second factor is the intensification of social complexity. Anthropologists increasingly have come to realize that the “native point of view” is not uniformly (or even harmoniously) shared and may differ substantially from one respondent to another (Pelto and Pelto 1975). Both intragroup disagreement and local rivalries can be frequent, but social heterogeneity is not easily accommodated by participant observation. Rarely does the applied anthropological researcher have the task of providing a uniformist characterization of a culture. More frequently his or her task is to understand differences. The most reliable research technique for addressing internal variation is the survey (Casey and Kumar 1988), based upon a random sample and using uniform interview schedules or questionnaires (Babbie 1973; Dillman 1978). Formal survey techniques in anthropology have enjoyed increasing attention from applied researchers. Where societies or issues are complex, the question for the anthropologist is not only the quality of social knowledge but also its representativeness for the group as a whole. With the formal survey, if the principles of sampling are adhered to and statistical techniques are care-

fully applied, results can be offered as representative with an estimated level of confidence (for most socioeconomic phenomena). The application of the formal survey in many anthropological contexts requires cir-

cumspection. Under severe constraints, the researcher must allocate scarce time and other resources between breadth-of-coverage factors and depth-of-coverage factors. The former category, in practical terms, includes the sample size, the sampling procedure, the logistical demands of interviewing, and the preparation of a standardized questionnaire; the depth factors, on the other hand, include the contextualization and testing of the questionnaire, the training of interviewers, and the length of interviews. In a less than optimal

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situation, the researcher must reconcile these trade-offs and develop a realistic survey strategy that addresses project goals.

A second difficulty with the formal survey arises because of the limitations for developing sampling frames in the kinds of communities within which anthropologists usually work. When no formal lists of households or local censuses exist for the target group, it is difficult to estimate the population for sampling purposes. This technical problem can be partially overcome with more time and local knowledge. Another dimension with regard to the communities anthropologists often study is that under random sampling, in which every household has an equal chance of selection. If this principle is adhered to, the sample will often include the illiterate, the suspicious, and the misinformed as well as the articulate and willing participant. Questions that demand reflection, opinions, and attitudes are very difficult to standardize for quantitative analysis, because the quality of response is so varied. Thus, the resulting information derived from a survey tends to be limited to close-ended questions that most respondents are able and willing to answer. While the survey may in fact identify such variation as the percentage of female farmers, land size, the incidence of disease among the impoverished, and the eating habits of schoolchildren, it often does not reveal why these particular patterns exist. A third difficulty with surveys is their expense. Robert Chambers speaks of “survey slavery” and argues that the survey of which we speak here is the most abused social science research technique. Chambers states, “The costs and inefficiencies of rural surveys are often high: human costs for the researchers; opportunity costs for research capacity that might have been better used; and inefficiencies in misleading ‘findings’ ” (1983:5 1-52). Perhaps the most significant problem is the time that it takes for the research data to be analyzed. Time reduces the chance that the research will be used (Rylko-Bauer, van Willi-

gen, and McElroy 1989). Opportunities for action pass before the data are analyzed because in the world of practicing anthropologists, the quest for social knowledge is often a part of a larger, applied process and, in this sense, is purposeful (or, as Robert Chambers [1985] calls it, “collaborative”). More knowledge is necessary so that something else can occur. The dam builder needs information on population relocation before construction begins; the public health service needs socioeconomic information to improve its delivery system; the educator needs cross-cultural information to prepare the curriculum; the policy-maker needs impact estimates before programs are set; and all this within the context of bureaucratic structures, budgets, and schedules. Since the activity of obtaining

knowledge is but part of a wider process, anthropologists face constraints, usually of the double order—time and money. Unable to pursue knowledge for its own sake and at one’s own rate, anthropologists have thus had to adopt and adapt research techniques that fit within schedules and come in at budget. The methodological implications of these trade-offs are clear. When more time is allocated to breadth factors, a more valid estimate of existing variation is obtained, but a lower

level of communication is achieved (and the quality of social knowledge suffers). In this case, the appropriately designed questionnaire provides a level of knowledge that most participants can answer safely with a minimum of measurement error. The consequent lack of depth, however, may prove unsatisfactory to the anthropologist and to the project. On the other hand, when available time resources are allocated to in-depth factors, the true variation in the population may be underestimated or, worse, ignored. The challenge of methodological innovation in practicing anthropolcgy is to complement the concern for variation

in complex society with the need for quality in gaining social knowledge within the context

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of available resources. The task, then, is how to adapt tried methods and devise new ones

that allow anthropologists to effectively study variation under time and resource constraints, without sacrificing the deep insights that anthropology has traditionally garnered.

THE CHALLENGE TO DO GOOD RESEARCH QUICKLY ... [T]he underlying issue [from a practice orientation] is whether we anthropologists can

contribute to better policy analysis, to more sensitive project design, to more effective problem solving by obtaining social knowledge about a cultural community of people. Although we might all desire it, there is no solution offered, no basic truth revealed, but rather a con-

crete and substantial record of effort that identifies directions currently being explored . . . [Practitioners commonly use] rapid appraisal or focus group techniques. . . . [Focus groups extend] the key informant idea. The difference is that the anthropologist interviews a set of key informants at once, thus increasing the potential that the data are representative. It is more than simply adding numbers for it seeks to increase the representativeness of the data by exposing the statement of the individual to the response of the group. The result is a potentially richer response with limitations in representativeness reduced. ‘The interview process resembles the key informant interview in a number of ways. The selection of those to be interviewed is usually purposive and may be based on the anticipated knowledge of those selected. The interview process is relatively unstructured, focused on the categories of meaning that the interviewees bring to the session. The focus group process, more than anything, is a quest for meaning. It was originally formulated by sociologist Robert Merton to allow analysis to go beyond the researcher’s speculations about why certain frequencies and correlations appeared in surveys (Merton 1989). Because the focus group process is very widely used, there is a rich technical literature that can serve as a guide for using the approach. The rapid appraisal is a generic category for a research methodology that involves short periods of fieldwork, usually less than one month (R. Chambers 1985; Conway, McCracken, and Pretty 1987; Hildebrand 1981) and exemplifies a truncation of the for-

mal survey process combined with some of the useful aspects of key informant interviewing. The fieldwork component of rapid appraisal relies on two information gathering techniques. The first is directed observation, where the researcher records visual (or other sensual) data according to categories established by the research team. On a rapid rural appraisal, for example, the farming systems specialist might detect common land use patterns, identify intercropping combinations, or record the sexual division of tasks; a health specialist might identity staple diets, household hygiene, and the existing public sanitation infrastructure; an educational anthropologist might document the relevant social categories that students use to classify themselves. This dimension does not appear in the focus group technique but could be easily added. The second aspect of the rapid appraisal is the informal, open-ended survey—conducted either individually or in groups (Rhoades 1985). The informal survey does not apply a formal questionnaire instrument, although the interviewing sessions tend to follow a previously prepared topic outline, a feature it often shares with focus group research. In most cases, the sampling strategies in informal surveys and focus groups are neither random nor statistically representative, but purposive in that certain, pre-established characteristics are sought—small farmer, single parent household,

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labor union member, or whatever other category is relevant to the research problem. In the course of the interviews, culturally meaningful and important categories are meant to emerge, so that an appropriate idiom of dialogue is developed. With their particular skills and sensitivities, anthropologists are well prepared to conduct these interviews. Rapid appraisal is often carried out by a team comprising researchers from different disciplines. Each team member gathers information within the respective area of specialization, and afterward the team shares what each has learned as part of a consensusbuilding process. This form of knowledge acquisition is cumulative and processual, and rapid appraisal procedures often indicate the gaps where understanding is less developed and follow-up interviewing is needed. ... [F]lexibility can be seen in the work of researchers who have . . . modified these techniques to fit specific project objectives. For example, McCracken, Pretty, and Conway (1988) demonstrate the utility of distinguishing between what they call topical, exploratory, monitoring, and participatory rapid appraisals. ...[C]arelessly applied, the rapid appraisal can fail to create an adequate communication bond with the local community and, indeed, leave behind an impression of infor-

mation strip mining. The whirlwind tour also instills deep dissatisfaction in a competent researcher, for the sense of intrusion is strong and the quality of data often tenuous. During short village visits, it is not always easy to interpret whose perspective has been presented. The rapid appraisal can only capture broad sweeps of variation in a given region. Focus groups may be influenced by the presence of a few domineering individuals and, although the focus group technique increases the spread of the study efficiently, there are still residual problems with representation. To solve these problems, complementary methods may be necessary and the researcher must always be aware of the real trade-offs.

QUALITY CONTROL IN TIME-CONSTRAINED RESEARCH ... [A]nthropologists are in the process of developing methodologies that address the issue of quality control. We would like to suggest three research strategies that seek to achieve both breadth and depth in time-constrained research. Interactive Methods

Knowledge builds rapidly on knowledge, and it is possible to combine qualitative and quantitative research techniques in a processual, interactive way (Brewer and Hunter 1989; Webb et al. 1966). Focus groups and rapid appraisal procedures are especially effective for obtaining access to the local sociocultural idiom, including relevant categories,

perceived problems, and general patterns of variation. In effect, both can be used to prepare the researcher for a more formal survey. They help identity interesting questions, sampling strategies, logistical needs, and appropriate questionnaire design, and also introduce the researcher to the local community and initiate rapport-building. In an agricultural development project, for example, the rapid rural appraisal elicits important information on differences in landholdings, technologies, management strategies, division of labor, markets, and other general behavior patterns that can be determined

through purposive observation and informal interviews. In attempts to promote breast-

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feeding, mothers’ concerns, which may inhibit breastfeeding, can be identified through focus groups and addressed in community education programs. Both intensity of communication and level of acquired social knowledge can be relatively low after the use of these techniques. Certain questions have been answered, but many more have been raised—most of which relate to the representativeness of the obtained results. The formal survey, when it is the recommended technique, provides the

means of describing the variation in a systematic way. In our agricultural development example, a survey of a representative sample can provide a typology of farmers based on landholding size, on female management, on technical choice, or on integration in the

market (or on a multitude of other categories, if called for). The survey can document important problems not identified in either rapid appraisals or focus groups, such as actual income status of women, actual education status of small farmers, and so on. Unfortu-

nately, the formal survey cannot specify why these regular patterns exist. With survey results in hand, the researcher can return to the same population to seek out a deeper level of social knowledge through more intensive interviewing. This stage, however, is totally dependent on the information obtained from the previous efforts. As in most social science research, certain assumptions underlie this strategy; for example, that one female smallholder is generally representative of all female smallholders for certain kinds of social knowledge (e.g., access to credit). The interactive process di-

rects the researcher toward a representative of a category, the characteristics of which have already been established in analysis of the survey data. The sample is thus purposive, chosen on the basis of these descriptors and a willingness to participate. At this point, the interaction and the iteration have provided both breadth and depth. How long does interactive research take? The process varies according to the logistics of fieldwork in a particular project, the availability of counterpart assistance, and the effectiveness of time spent away from the field in questionnaire preparation, data entry and analysis, and in report writing. The interactive research is meant to reduce the amount of time in the field, while deriving the most communication and knowledge benefit from this time investment. Thus, much importance is attributed to the pre- and post-fieldwork phases, which by building on a growing knowledge base, can vastly increase the effectiveness of field time.

Stepwise Research Frequently, the total time of a research project is less restrictive, but extended fieldwork is not possible. Under these kinds of time constraints, stepwise research allows the anthropologist to design a research agenda in several related components to be carried out in a logical sequence. The specific sequence is dictated by the kind of social knowledge that is sought and may be thought of as either horizontal or vertical. An example of a horizontal sequence can be found in multi-year agricultural development, where important issues may revolve around the seasonality of agricultural activities. Thus, a rapid rural appraisal of rainy season cropping patterns will be followed by a dry season appraisal, so that a more comprehensive description of agricultural strategies is achieved. Or the stepwise strategy may develop vertically, usually by increasing social knowledge through a series of research components that seek more specific and detailed information. For example, the initial study of irrigated cropping patterns may unveil a critical gap in the understanding of traditional water distribution systems, which may lead in turn to a more detailed study of land tenure in irrigated areas.

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As in the interactive strategy, different research techniques may be indicated for the different steps in the research plan. Finan’s multi-year research project in Cape Verde has followed the stepwise approach, and, at each stage, different techniques have been applied— from rapid rural appraisals, to formal surveys (e.g., Finan and Belknap 1985) to crop budgeting procedures (Langworthy and Finan 1987) to detailed studies of irrigation communities. The principal advantage of stepwise research lies in the sequencing of effort. Being able to stop the process periodically and reflect upon interim fieldwork results and consult colleagues on specific issues will increase the quality of social knowledge. Perhaps even more than extended participant observation, the stepwise process invites the opportunity to shift focus and to gain a more objective perspective on the research problem. A further advantage is that many projects, especially those oriented toward development objectives, can embrace stepwise research strategies more readily than extended fieldwork techniques. The principal disadvantage of the stepwise research methodology is the discontinuity of communication with the research population. The personal links that researchers create with their respondents are the critical lines of the communication of social knowledge. In some contexts, discontinuous communication can be interpreted as a lack of commitment on the part of the researcher, in which case, the fundamental level of trust is

threatened. The ability to maintain a strong bond of communication through several contacts is a critical research skill.

Participatory Research A final strategy of improving the quality of resource-constrained research is to create the situation in which the research subjects become partners in the research process (McCracken 1988). The essence of participatory research is that the local community, which maintains its funds of social knowledge, is more willing to share these funds with outsiders if it also shares the basic research objective. In this case, the outside researcher presents the community with a problem and a set of possible techniques. If this problem is accepted by the community, the local individuals become research partners, sharing in both the planning and the execution of the research. Thus, instead of extracting information from the local community, the researcher trains willing community participants (themselves the sources of knowledge) to organize and translate their knowledge into usable research categories. This participatory strategy has been widely promoted, but it is very difficult to implement in social science research. Research projects with very specific and practical objectives, such as the need for background information to locate a road or dam, tend to incorporate local participation more readily. Also, the more literate the population, the greater the potential for participation . . . in the research. In general, however, the techniques for innovative participatory research are not yet developed, despite the potential of this strategy to greatly enhance the quality of social knowledge.

References Cited Babble, Earle R.

1973

Survey Research Methods. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth.

Brewer, John, and Albert Hunter

1989

Multimethod Research: A Synthesis of Styles. Sage Library of Social Research 175. Newbury Park, CA: Sage.

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Casagrande, Joseph B. 1960 In the Company of Man: Twenty Portraits by Anthropologists. New York: Harper. Casey, DennisJ.,and Krishna Kumar 1988

The Collection, Analysis, and Use of Monitoring and Evaluation Data.

A World Bank

Publication. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University. Chambers, Erve

1985

Applied Anthropology: A Practical Guide. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press.

Chambers, Robert 1983 Rural Development: Putting the Last First. London: Longman.

1985

Shortcut Methods of Gathering Social Information for Rural Development Projects. In Putting People First: Sociological Variables in Rural Development. Michael Cernea, ed. Pp. 300-415. New York: Oxford University Press. Conway, G. R., J. A. McCracken, andJ. N. Pretty 1987 ‘Training Notes for Agrosystem Analysis and Rapid Rural Appraisal. London: International Institute for Environment and Development. Dillman, Don A. 1978 Mail and Telephone Surveys: The Total Design Method. New York: John Wiley. Finan, Timothy J., and John Belknap 1985 Characteristics of Santiago Agriculture. Food Crops Research Report. Praia, Cape Verde: USAID. Hildebrand, Peter E.

1981

Combining Disciplines in Rapid Appraisal: The Sondeo Approach. Agricultural Administration 8:423—432. Jorgensen, Danny L. 1989 Participant Observation, A Methodology for Human Studies. Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Langworthy, Mark, and TimothyJ. Finan 1987 Crop Budgets for Selected Irrigated Crops on Santiago and on Santo Antao Islands. Food Crops Research Report. Praia, Cape Verde: USAID. McCracken, Jennifer A. 1988 Participatory Rapid Rural Appraisal in Guarajat: A Trial Model for the Aga Khan Rural Support Programme (India). London: International Institute for Environment and Development. McCracken, Jennifer A.,J.N. Pretty, and G. R. Conway 1988 An Introduction to Rapid Rural Appraisal for Agricultural Development. London: International Institute for Environment and Development. Merton, Robert K. 1989 Focussed Interview. New York: MacMillan.

Pelto, PerttiJ.,and Grefel H. Pelto 1975 Intra-Cultural Diversity: Some Theoretical Issues. American Ethnologist 2:1-18. Rhoades, Robert E. 1985 Informal Survey Methods for Farming Systems Research. Human Organization

44(3):215-218.

Rylko-Bauer, Barbara, John van Willigen, and Ann McElroy

1989

Strategies for Increasing the Use of Anthropological Research in the Policy Process: A CrossDisciplinary Review of the Literature. In Making Our Research Useful: Case Studies in the Utilization of Anthropological Knowledge. John van Willigen, Barbara Rylko-Bauer, and Ann McElroy, eds. Pp. 1-25. Boulder, CO: Westview.

Salmen, Lawrence

1987

Listen to the People: Participant-Observer Evaluation of Development Projects. New York: Oxford University Press.

Spradley, James P. 1980 Participant Observation. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston.

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van Willigen, John 1982 The Great Transformation: Applied Training and Disciplinary Change. Practicing Anthropology 4(3/4). 1986 Applied Anthropology: An Introduction. South Hadley, MA: Bergin and Garvey. Webb, EugeneJ.,D. T. Campbell, R. D. Schwartz, and L. Sechrest 1966 Unobtrusive Measures: Nonreactive Research in the Social Sciences. Chicago: Rand McNally.

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Basic Concepts and Techniques of Rapid Appraisal James Beebe Rapid appraisal allows a team of two or more individuals, usually representing different academic disciplines, to produce qualitative results for decisions about additional research or preliminary decisions for the design and implementation of applied activities. It is especially relevant when time constraints preclude use of intensive qualitative methods by a single researcher and when the different perspectives of the team members (including local participants) are essential for understanding the situation. Rapid appraisal uses the techniques and shares many of the characteristics of traditional, qualitative research, but differs in three important ways: more than one researcher is always involved, researcher team interaction is a critical aspect of the methodology, and the results are produced much faster. Rapid appraisal is characterized by the production of quick results and the simultaneous use of research techniques associated with the three basic concepts: (1) a system perspective, (2) triangulation of data collection, and (3) iterative data collection and analy-

sis. These three concepts provide a flexible but rigorous approach to the collection and analysis of qualitative research data. Individuals with less training and experience with qualitative research methodology have been especially enthusiastic about using the basic concepts for understanding and implementing rapid appraisal. The three basic concepts provide a conceptual foundation for a wide range of activities that can be labeled rapid. The phrases “rapid appraisal,” “rapid assessment,” and “rapid rural appraisal” have been used in discussions on rural development in developing countries since at least the mid-1970s. General use of the phrase “rapid rural appraisal,” however, occurred only after it was used as the title of a workshop at the Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex, in October 1978. In addition to being called “rapid appraisal” or “rapid rural appraisal” (RRA) (Chambers 1983), research approaches having at least some of the characteristics identified above have been referred to as “sondeo” (Hildebrand 1982), “informal agricultural survey” (Rhoades 1982), “rapid reconnaissance” (Honadle 1979), “informal methods” (Shaner, Philipp, and Schmehl 1982), “reconnaissance survey” (Shaner, Philipp, and Schmehl 1982), “exploratory survey” (Collinson 1981), “rapid marketing appraisal” (RMA) (Menegay et al. 1990), “market information needs assessment” (MINA) (Guyton 1992), “commodity systems assessment

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methodology” (CSAM) (la Gra 1990), “rapid assessment procedures” (RAP) (Cernea 1990, Scrimshaw and Gleason 1992), “rapid assessment program” (RAP) (Conservation

International 1991), and “participatory rural appraisal” (Chambers 1991, CUNES 1989). The terms rapid assessment procedures and participatory rural appraisal are particularly attractive for identifying this approach, because the first term forms a descriptive acronym, RAP, and the other term explicitly includes participation as part of the title. Rapid appraisal has, however, been used in this paper because it is a more general term, is not limited to a specific area or topic, and leaves room for the continued use of numerous other terms to describe related approaches. The use of multiple terms is probably desirable in preventing rapid appraisal from becoming a “buzz word” and in focusing on the need to adapt the methodology to the topic being investigated. Robert Chambers (1991:531) cautions that there is a danger that rapid appraisal “could be over-sold, too rapidly adopted, badly done, and then discredited, to suffer an undeserved, premature burial as has occurred with

other innovative research approaches.” Rapid appraisal has been described as: “modified survey” (Hildebrand 1982:289), “survey undertaken without questionnaires” (Shaner, Philipp, and Schmehl 1982:73), “informal,” “exploratory,” “largely unstructured interviews combined with observation” (Honadle 1979:2), “organized common sense, freed from the chains of inappropriate professionalism” (Chambers 1980:15), a way to “increase the opportunities for participatory programs, done best by outsiders jointly with the users themselves” (Cernea 1990:3), “a middle zone between quick-and-dirty and long-and-dirty, . . . cost-effective . . . fairly-quick and fairlyclean” (Chambers 1991:521), “first-cut assessments of . . . poorly known areas” (Conservation International 1991), and “a form of appropriate technology: cheap, practical and fast” (Bradfield 1981 im Rhoades 1982:5).

Rapid appraisal originally received especially for farming systems projects 1982; Hildebrand 1982; Rhoades 1985; last decade, rapid appraisal techniques

attention as a tool for rural development projects, in developing countries (Beebe 1985; Collinson Shaner, Philipp, and Schmehl 1982). During the have also been used for agricultural marketing

(Holtzman 1993, Menegay et al. 1990), nutrition and primary health-care studies (Scrimshaw and Gleason 1992, Scrimshaw and Hurtado 1987), social forestry (Monlar 1989),

agroecosystem analysis (Conway 1985) and irrigation projects (Chambers 1983, de los Reyes 1984). Important references on rapid appraisal include Agricultural Administration (1981), Khon Kaen University (1987), McCracken, Pretty, and Conway (1988), HassinBrack (1988), WRI (1990), Scrimshaw and Gleason (1992), and Kumar (1993). Robert Chambers (1991:523) notes the absence of a comprehensive manual even though several

organizations have produced their own guides. Much of the literature on rapid appraisal has focused on the techniques available for implementation under different circumstances. The references identified above (especially Khon Kaen University 1987, Kumar 1993, and Scrimshaw and Gleason 1992) provide numerous specific examples of when, who, and why

specific rapid appraisal methodological tools might be used. There has been very little attention given to developing an overall conceptual framework that provides guidance to practitioners on minimum conditions that need to be met, and a rationale for choices and

adaptation of techniques depending on the topic being investigated. A conceptual foundation for rapid appraisal based on basic concepts is one way of providing a framework that identifies the essential elements of a rigorous process while maximizing flexibility in the selection of specific research techniques. What is identified as “basic concepts” in this paper could also be referred to as methodological approaches

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or orientations. The three basic concepts identified in this paper are based on “principles”

identified by a working group at the Khon Kaen University International Conference on Rapid Rural Appraisal in Thailand, in September 1985.' There are other basic concepts associated with rapid appraisal and other ways of articulating them. For example, Robert Chambers (1991:522) identifies five basic principles: (1) optimizing trade-offs, (2) offsetting biases, (3) triangulation, (4) learning directly from and with rural people, and (5) learn-

ing rapidly and progressively. The three concepts used in this paper were chosen to provide categories for organizing techniques while identifying specific techniques a team might use to generate timely, valid, and cost-effective qualitative results.

Rapid appraisal is defined as follows: Rapid appraisal is an approach for quickly developing a preliminary understanding of a situation where specific research techniques are chosen from a wide range of options and where it is assumed that (1) all the relevant parts ofa local system cannot be identified in advance, (2) the local system is best understood by combining the expertise of a multidisciplinary team that includes locals, while combining information collected in advance, direct observations and semi-structured interviews, and (3) time should be structured to

ensure team interaction as part of an iterative process.

‘Table 1 illustrates the relationship of the basic concepts and illustrative research techniques associated with them. It should be noted that the listed research techniques are

TABLE 1

Relationship of the Basic Concepts and Illustrative Research Techniques Illustrative Research Techniques

Basic Concepts Systems Perspective — Assumption that elements of a system and their relative importance cannot be identified in advance — Use of local definitions and “emic” categories — Consideration of indigenous knowledge — Consideration of variability Triangulation — Multiple perceptions — Multiple research methods

Specific Techniques Are Chosen and Adapted Depending on the Situation — — — — —

Semi-structured interviews Use of short guidelines Purposeful selection of respondents Group interviews Rejection of the use of survey questionnaire

— Small interdisciplinary teams — Local participation — Combination of interviews, information collected in advance, and direct observation

Iterative Process

— Use of information collected to change the research process — Production of tentative hypotheses and use of findings to refine them

— Structured research with time for team interaction

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not the only way of achieving the basic concepts, but are techniques that have been found to work together under some field conditions. The Sociotechnical Profile (de los Reyes 1984) used with small-scale irrigation systems is a good example of a rapid appraisal methodology that uses different techniques to achieve the basic concepts.

BASIC CONCEPT

1. SYSTEMS PERSPECTIVE

Rapid appraisal should be based on what the participants in the system believe to be the critical elements, their relative importance, and how they relate to each other. Rapid appraisal is designed to contribute to an insider’s perspective of the system. Even limited attention to systems methodology can provide an expanded set of conceptual tools for understanding how local participants view their system. It should be noted, however, that the same techniques can be, and often are, chosen by social scientists based on their professional training and experience without reference to “systems.” Rapid appraisal does not reject or abandon the traditional methods and techniques of the social sciences, but provides for ways to complement and enrich them (Cernea 1990:7).

A system can be defined as a set of mutually related elements that constitute a whole, having properties as an entity (Checkland and Scholes 1990:4). For the purposes of rapid appraisal, it is useful to expand this definition to include that the elements in the “system” behave in a way that an observer has chosen to view as coordinated to accomplish one or more purposes (Wilson and Morren 1990:70). A systems perspective initially considers all aspects of a local situation, but quickly moves toward the definition of a model that focuses on only the most important elements and their relationships to each other. Systems are always complex, and it is not possible to try to deal with all aspects of a system at the same time. The first task of a rapid appraisal team is to make a rough approximation of the system and to identify the elements that are most important for the specific situation being examined. It is very important to note that the elements in a system cannot be identified in advance, nor can decisions be made in advance as to which elements of a system are most important for understanding a given situation.

There is a growing body of literature on the use of a systems approach for investigating and addressing complex issues (Checkland and Scholes 1990). Checkland and Scholes (1990:6) have developed a model for Soft Systems methodology that is particularly relevant to rapid appraisal. They suggest that a soft systems approach includes several steps: (a) identifying a situation which has provoked concern; (b) selecting some relevant human

activity system; (c) making a model of the activity; (d) using the model to question the realworld situation; and (e) using the debate initiated by the comparison to define action which would improve the original problems situation. Research techniques associated with a systems perspective are designed initially to consider all its aspects, including the complexity and interrelationships of its elements, and to move toward the identification of a subset of elements most relevant to the particular situation being investigated. When rapid appraisal is used as part of the design or implementation of applied activities, this subset usually uses those elements necessary to define an action statement and develop a “picture” of the future. Checkland and Scholes also identify several specific techniques for getting a group of individuals to participate in the process of developing an action statement that are relevant to rapid appraisal.

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The use of a system perspective precludes the use of some research techniques and demands special attention to several topics. The important elements of a system usually

cannot be known before initiating the rapid appraisal, and so methodologies that begin with questions prepared in advance, such as questionnaire survey research, are almost always inappropriate. A systems perspective focuses on the context of the information collected, is able to utilize indigenous knowledge even when it is unanticipated by the rapid appraisal team, and recognizes the importance of variability. Each of these topics is discussed briefly below.

The Problem with the Use of Questionnaire Survey Research as a Beginning Point for Understanding Systems. Questionnaire survey research assumes that enough is known in advance to identify the relevant parts of a system and to prepare questions. Since a questionnaire cannot identify unanticipated, site-specific system relationships, it is limited to validating models articulated in advance. The use of techniques associated with a systems perspective does not guarantee success in identifying important system relationships, but research based on a questionnaire often ensures that important elements of the local system will be missed. The problem with questionnaire survey research, as part of a systems perspective, is that unless the context of the data is understood, answers may be based on categories of reality different from those assumed by the question—resulting in answers that consistently will be elicited each time the question is asked, but providing responses that are invalid. Linda Stone and S. Gabriel Campbell illustrate the need to consider the context in addition to the normal sampling and weighing of units found in most research with an example of a knowledge, attitude, and practice survey in Nepal. In this case, even well-designed and carefully implemented questionnaire-based surveys resulted in such inaccuracies as to call into question the analytical and policy conclusions based on the studies (Stone and Campbell 1984:36). It is sometimes incorrectly argued that survey research is quicker and can be done with less experienced, less qualified researchers than rapid appraisal. Data collection by survey sometimes requires less time, but data analysis almost always takes more time. Data usually must be coded, entered into a computer, and then analyzed in separate steps and at places removed from the research site. Survey enumerators may not have to make many independent decisions, but good survey research cannot be carried out without training and close field supervision. In addition, special training in instrument design and data management ensures that survey research usually does not include local participants as full members on the research team (Chambers 1991:526). Rapid appraisal is not a substitute for long-term, basic research methods, including

research based on questionnaire survey methods (Cernea 1990:17). Questionnaire survey research may be necessary to validate rapid appraisal results. The argument is against using questionnaire surveys as the first step, not against other uses of this methodology. A rapid appraisal based on qualitative fieldwork is a better starting point for research because of its ability to discover relationships within the system that may not have been anticipated, its attention to context, possible significant saving of time, and the opportunity for full participation of local people as members of the research team.

Indigenous Knowledge. ‘The beginning point for understanding complex local systems has to be the understanding of those systems by local participants. The goal is to construct

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a model of the local system consistent with the way local people understand it. Doing so usually means trying to use local categories for dividing and describing reality. Using indigenous knowledge involves agreement on the most important components in the system and the most important problems or constraints faced by the local participants (Galt 1985:14). Indigenous knowledge of local systems cannot capture the totality of these systems and there will always be areas of local limited understanding of reality. Rapid appraisal can be expected to pick up the limited understanding of the local participants. Rapid appraisal, however, does not limit itself to indigenous knowledge, and can be expected to get at an understanding of local systems that goes beyond that of local participants, while, at the same time, including new areas of misunderstanding of reality not shared by local participants (see Galt 1985:15). Variability.

In many situations, the average farmer, student, small-business person, or

health care administrator exists only as an artifact of statistics. Each time an additional variable is used to define the average, fewer and fewer actual cases of the “average” can be

found. In many situations, variability and distributions of characteristics are more important than the “average.” Qualitative research approaches implemented without sufficient fieldwork are especially prone to ignore variability. Ignoring variability can result in a very inaccurate understanding of a situation and is especially dangerous when it causes project implementers to conclude that outsiders can design interventions for the “average” and that the recipients need only to adopt them passively. Recognition of variability can be an important beginning point for developing programs based on providing people with expanded options where the value of their decisions is recognized.

Illustrative Research Techniques Assoctated with a Systems Perspective Semi-Structured Interviews. Semi-structured interviews using short guidelines are the key to rapid appraisal based on a systems perspective. The most important way of learning about local conditions is to ask local participants what they know. The rapid appraisal team should get people to talk on a subject and not just answer direct questions. Sufficient time must be invested to establish rapport and to explain the purpose of the rapid appraisal. The interview should be a dialogue or process in which important information develops out of casual conversation. The key to successful informal interviewing is to be natural and relaxed while guiding the conversation to a fruitful end. “Talk with people and listen to their concerns and views” (Rhoades 1982:17). (1985:119-120) recommends the following to improve the interview:

Rhoades

“It is best to keep as low a profile . . . as possible.” “Avoid the opinion poll syndrome [with the] researchers driving up . . . and jumping out with notebook in hand ready to interview.” “Oversized vehicles bearing official looking numbers driven by chauffeurs should, if possible, be avoided.” “Walk as much as possible and in small numbers.” “Be sensitive to the fact that people may be suspicious of outsiders.”

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The semi-structured interview is flexible, but it is also controlled (Burgess 1982:107).

This type of interviewing has also been called “unstructured interviewing,” “conversation” (Burgess 1982:107), and “conversation with a purpose” (Webb and Webb 1932:130). It has been suggested that the rapid appraisal must keep respondents relating experiences and attitudes that are relevant to the problem, and encourage them to discuss these experiences naturally and freely. Keeping the interview moving naturally requires a few comments and remarks, together with an occasional question designed to keep the subject on the main theme, to secure more details, and to stimulate the conversation when it lags. Keeping the conversation moving freely requires culturally appropriate gestures, nods of the head, smiles, and facial expressions that reflect the emotions narrated. Researchers need to have understanding and sympathy for the informant’s point of view. “They need to follow their informants’ responses and to listen to them carefully in order that a decision can be made concerning the direction in which to take the interview. In short, researchers have to be able to share the culture of their informants” (Burgess 1982:108). As a general rule, interviews should be conducted under conditions most relevant to and revealing about the local system being investigated. For example, a rapid appraisal on health care should include interviews in the clinics where services are provided, while a rapid appraisal on agriculture should include interviews in farmers’ fields where the rapid

appraisal team can see visible evidence of farmers’ behavior. Actual observation permits the identification of new topics for discussion. Conducting as many interviews as possible at the site of the action being investigated is an important part of direct observation. The rapid appraisal team should always note where interviews were conducted. Selection of Respondents. It is useful to differentiate between “individual respondents” and “key informants,” and to ensure that “individual respondents” are purposely selected to represent variability and that “key informants” are able to describe the broader system beyond their own direct participation. Better information is collected from “individual respondents” when it is clear to both the respondent and team members that questions concern only the individual’s knowledge and behavior, and not what he or she thinks about the knowledge and behavior of others. Interviews should be conducted with an opportunity sample of purposely selected “individual respondents.” They should be chosen because they represent a wide range of individuals in the system being investigated and should not be limited to what is assumed to be representative or average. For example, an opportunity sample of farmers might include farmer leaders, farmers who have tried recommended technologies, innovative farmers who have successfully developed improved technologies, women farmers who are both members and heads of households, farmers who represent major cropping systems in the area, poor farmers with very limited resources, and traditional farmers who have resisted new technology. The bias of interviewing only one gender when both are involved in the systems must be avoided. Following George Honadle’s (1979:45) strategy for avoiding biases when investigating organizations, the rapid appraisal team could ask for the names of one or more individual respondents who are known to disagree with all decisions, generally promote trouble, and never cooperate with development programs. Responses from these persons can provide valuable cross-checks and insights not available from other interviews.

Key informants are expected to be able to answer questions about the knowledge and behavior of others and especially about the operations of the broader systems. They

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are willing to talk and are assumed to have in-depth knowledge about the system. Key informants for a study of a school system might include student leaders, administrators, school board members, and leaders of parent-teacher associations. It is usually worthwhile to ask who or which group of people are most knowledgeable, and then to seek them out.

Use of Short Guidelines.

Even if there is agreement that rapid appraisal should not be

based on a questionnaire, there is considerable disagreement on the extent to which the team should develop hypotheses and general guidelines before starting the rapid appraisal. The exploratory survey (Collinson 1982:49) at one extreme, uses more than 11 pages of questions as guidelines for examining farming systems. This detailed guideline is to be followed closely, with all questions being asked of at least some farmers. At the other extreme, the sondeo does not even offer a list of topics beyond what is proposed as an outline for the written report. Failure to offer specific questions appears to be premised on the belief that interviews with farmers or other people in the area should be very general and wide-ranging, “because the team is exploring and searching for an unknown number of elements” (Hildebrand 1982:291). It is claimed that a framework prepared before beginning a rapid appraisal can predispose team members toward their own ideas, thereby blocking opportunities to gain new insights. Experience suggests that the use of short guidelines prepared in advance can be useful as long as they are not relied on too much. “In this early phase, the researcher is like an explorer, making a rapid survey of the horizon before plunging into the thickets from which the wider view is no longer possible” (Rhoades 1982:5). While one may begin with guidelines, important questions and direction of the study emerge as information is collected. “One must be able to accommodate new information and adjust research plans accordingly” (Rhoades 1982:7). Guidelines need not be viewed as an agenda to be diligently worked through, but should be viewed as an aid to memory and a reminder of what might be missed (Bottrall 1981:248 in Chambers 1983:25). “Not everything needs to be known. The key to rapid appraisal is to move quickly and surely to the main problems, opportunities and actions” (Chambers 1983:25).

Interviewing Individuals and Groups. Focus group interviews can be extremely useful in collecting certain types of information. Group interviews can be used in some cultures to collect information on topics where an individual may be penalized if he or she replies truthfully, but where a group talking about the community may not feel threatened (Chambers 1980:14). Often similar topics can be taken up in interviews with groups and “key informants” Group interviews where individuals are free to correct each other and discuss issues can identify variability within the community and prevent an atypical situation from being confused with the average. Experience suggests that group interviews may reveal what people believe are preferred patterns as opposed to what actually exists. A very detailed description of the local crop rotation system by a group of farmers was later found not to be practiced by any of them exactly as described (Beebe 1982). Even when some topics have been covered by a

group interview, the same topics should still be covered with individuals. The question changes from “What do local participants generally do?” to “What do you do?” The pres-

ence of others often influences answers, and so those who are present during an interview

may need to be noted. The presence of authority figures can be expected to influence

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comments. For a rapid appraisal on farming, visits to the farmers’ fields may provide an opportunity to be alone with the farmers without the influence of others. Diagrams. Drawing diagrams and pictures allows both individuals and groups to express and check information in ways that are often more valid than linear prose. Checkland and Scholes (1990:45) argue the mason for this “. . . is that human affairs reveal a rich moving pageant of relationships, and pictures are a better means for recording relationships and connections.” Types of diagrams include sketches, bar diagrams, histograms, flow diagrams, and decision trees (Chambers 1991:525).

Use of Interpreters. All members of a rapid appraisal team should speak the local language. In practice, however, one or more members of a team may not speak the local language and an interpreter will have to be used. There is no excuse for not learning and using appropriate greetings. Knowledge of numbers and even a very few key words can allow a team member to appear to be understanding more than they actually do, and can improve the quality of the translation. Interpreters should be chosen carefully to ensure that they understand technical words that are likely to be used in the questions or answers. Before the interview, the team should go over the interview strategy with the interpreter, emphasizing that the team is interested in more than just “answers” to “questions.” The interpreter should not be physically between the speaker and the person being interviewed, but rather beside or slightly behind so that his or her function is clearly indicated. The team member should speak in brief sentences using a minimum number of words to express complete thoughts. The interpreter should be given time to translate before proceeding to the next thought. The team member should talk directly to the respondent, as if the respondent could understand everything said (Bostain 1970:1). Field Note Preparation. One strategy for improving observational skills is to record only actual observations in the field notes. Field notes should contain what is actually seen and heard as opposed to the team members’ interpretation of the event. Far too often the field notes will say something like: The farmer was angry because the price of rice had dropped.

The more useful field notes would report: The farmer ran towards the marketing board office with a large field knife in his hand. Before entering the office he was restrained by his companions. He could be heard screaming “The buying price this year is not even as high as the price they paid last year.” (Adapted from Pelto and Pelto 1978:70)

Field notes limited to careful observations can often prevent the observer from imputing false meaning to people’s actions (Honadle 1979:42).

BASIC CONCEPT 2. TRIANGULATION The term triangulation comes from navigation or physical surveying and describes an operation for finding a position or location by means of bearings from two known fixed

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points. When applied to rapid appraisal, it means systematically combining the observations of individuals with different backgrounds and combining different research methods. The assumption is that for most situations there is no one “best” way to obtain information, and even if there were, it could not be foreseen in advance. Triangulation involves conscious, nonrandom selection of research methods and team members based on

the resources available and the system being investigated. Triangulation of individuals and methods improves the quality of information and provides cross-checks.

Illustrative Research Techniques Associated

with Triangulation Multidisciplinary Teams. By definition, rapid appraisal cannot be done by one person. The expertise brought to the situation by the team members may be the most critical component of rapid appraisal. It is important for practitioners to understand the rationale for a team effort and the types of mixes that are likely to be most effective for triangulation. ‘Team members should represent a range of disciplines that are most relevant to the topic. For example, a rapid appraisal team investigating health practices might include a social worker, a medical doctor, a “traditional” healer, and a public administration specialist. An

agricultural development rapid appraisal team might include an agricultural economist and an agronomist. Semi-structured individual and group interviews provide numerous opportunities for triangulation as team members representing different disciplines initiate varied lines of inquiry and raise issues that otherwise could be overlooked. Team members can benefit from learning each others’ special vocabularies, values, and conceptual models. The disciplinary specialty of each team member often is not as critical as having different disciplines represented. Both men and women should be included on the team (Shaner, Philipp, and Schmehl 1982:74), and all team members should have some famil-

iarity with all aspects of the system being investigated (Chambers 1983:23). Teams should be composed of a mix of insiders from and outsiders to the system being investigated. Outsiders are able to share experience and knowledge from other systems and their participation can be extremely valuable to the insiders in identifying possible options and in noting constraints that might otherwise be overlooked. At the same time, outsiders gain

insights and knowledge from insiders that can guide their understanding of other systems investigated in the future. Participation of insiders as full team members is one way of “putting people first.” Robert Chambers (1991:515) notes that: where people and their wishes and priorities are not put first, projects that affect and involve them encounter problems. Experience . . . shows that where people are consulted, where they participate freely, where their needs and priorities are given primacy in project identification, design, implementation, and monitoring, then economic and social performance are better and development is more sustainable.

Smaller teams are always preferred to larger teams. Members of large teams are

more likely to talk to one another and less likely to listen and learn from others than are members of small teams (Rhoades 1982:16). Large teams often intimidate respondents; are more likely to be conservative and cautious; and take longer to produce a report and recommendations (Chambers 1983:23).

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‘The combination of semi-structured interviews, Information Collected in Advance. observation provides rapid appraisal with direct and advance, in information collected associated with traditional qualitative apusually strength some of the methodological despite the wealth of information in that notes (1980:8) proaches. Robert Chambers papers, government statistics, etc., academic surveys, of reports reports, archives, annual rapid appraisal teams often ignore these sources of data. This failure to collect basic data in advance of the rapid appraisal means that field research time is wasted in collecting already available data. Moreover, important research leads and topics suggested by previously collected material may be missed. The structure of the rapid appraisal process makes certain types of information collected in advance more relevant than others. For example, maps and aerial photos are especially relevant when a team visits an area for the first time. Direct Observation. Direct observation is an important rapid appraisal tool for validating data collected in advance, providing multiple checks on data collected from interviews, and suggesting additional topics for interviews. Direct observation can prevent rapid appraisal from being misled by myth (Chambers 1980:12). “Do it yourself” is an abbreviated form of participant observation where team members undertake an activity themselves. Doing so allows insights and prompts the volunteering of information that otherwise might not be accessible (Chambers 1991:524). Depending upon the situation, several specific di-

rect observation techniques have been found relevant. Where locally accepted, a camera can be an extremely important research tool. Photos can be used to document conditions before an intervention. Sometimes the rapid appraisal team can do the local respondents a favor by sending back or returning with photos (Rhoades 1982:19). Agro-ecological transects based on systematic walks can document diverse conditions along a line, for example, from the highest to the lowest point (Chambers 1991:524, WRI 1990:18). Agro-ecological transects help ensure that direct observations include attention to variability and that poorer areas and microenvironments are not ignored. The preparation of sketch maps (and farm sketches) provide powerful visual tools that encourage the rapid appraisal team and local people to view community issues from a spatial perspective (WRI 1990:13). The use of proxy or nonobtrusive indicators, such as the presence of a sewing machine in a rural household, can provide shortcuts to insights about conditions and changes, especially when these indicators are identified by the participants in the local system.

BASIC CONCEPT 3. ITERATIVE DATA COLLECTION AND ANALYSIS Rapid appraisal is a process during which the researchers begin with information collected in advance, and then progressively learn from each other and from information provided by semi-structured interviews and direct observations. While the rapid appraisal team is searching for trends, patterns, and opportunities for generalization, the iterative nature of the process allows for the discovery of the unexpected. Rapid appraisal can be thought of as an open system using feedback to “learn” from its environment and progressively change itself. The research effort is structured to encourage participants to rapidly change questions, interviews, and direction as new information appears.

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Rapid appraisal is divided between blocks of time used for collecting information and blocks of time during which the team considers the information collected and makes conscious decisions about additional methodology and lines of inquiry. These decisions include what questions or subtopics to revise, add, or delete; what methods, tools, and

techniques to change; where to go next; and what to do upon arrival (Grandstaff and Grandstaff 1985:10). The process is basically the same process as that used in “grounded theory,” where instead of disproving preconceived hypotheses through the collection of data, new data are used to clarify the hypotheses.

Illustrative Research Techniques Associated with Iterative Information Collection and Analysis Rapid appraisals must be scheduled to allow adequate time for group interaction and for collecting additional information. Often, time is set aside at either the beginning or the end of the day for team interaction. While the rapid appraisal is an iterative process itself, it is also part of a larger iterative process in which the results from the study are considered exploratory and subject to change either as new and better information is collected or as the situation changes.

Structuring the Research Time. Opinions differ considerably on how to structure the time of a rapid appraisal, but there is almost universal agreement on the importance of dividing time between collecting data and team interaction to make sense out of the collected data. Interaction between researchers at the end of each day and at the end of the field work is essential for success. Scheduling is necessary to ensure that there will be adequate time for group interaction and for returning to the field to collect additional information. The joint preparation of the rapid appraisal report by the team can be an important part of the iterative process. The most common problem with rapid appraisals is failure to allow sufficient time. At a minimum there has to be time for multiple iterations. There is also a need for sufficient time to be observant, sensitive, and eclectic (Carruthers and Chambers 1981:418). Attempts at rapid appraisal carried out with insufficient time and inadequate planning should probably be called “tourism” (Chambers 1980:2), which introduces predictable biases into the process including inappropriate focus on elements of the system that are most obvious, observation of systems when it is physically easiest to observe, contact with individuals already involved in projects, and contact with individuals who are less disadvantaged (Chambers 1980:3). Inadequate time can also result in too much attention to the observed and not enough to the relationships, and failure to recognize that what is seen is a moment in time and not necessarily a trend which may be more important. The length of a rapid appraisal will depend upon the situation, but anything less than four days is probably inadequate for carrying out discussions; for identifying, discussing, modifying and rejecting ideas that emerge from these discussions; and for putting these ideas together in a usable form (Chambers 1983:28). Investing too much time and effort in a rapid

appraisal is also not desirable. An appraisal that is too long may waste project time and cause participants to view the rapid appraisal as an end in itself instead of a tool for starting the learning process.

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FLEXIBILITY It is the simultaneous application of the three basic concepts and the quick results, and not the specific research techniques, that differentiates rapid appraisal from other approaches to research. While there are research techniques associated with the basic concepts that have proven effective under different conditions, these are not the only techniques available. Since rapid appraisal is not defined by a specific set of techniques, there is real flexibility in the process. Factors that influence how a specific rapid appraisal will be implemented include available resources, research roles, subject matter, prior information available, and the complexity of the system being investigated (Grandstaff and Grandstaff 1985:11). The more limited the rapid appraisal team is in terms of discipline expertise, experience with interdisciplinary work, and experience with rapid appraisal, the more the need for explicit routines and attention to the selection of techniques (Grandstaff and Grandstaff 1985:11). Experience with rapid appraisal in rural areas at Khon Kaen University in Thailand suggests that more than about five hours per day spent in semi-structured interviewing sessions proves exhaustive to even the heartiest team members and makes subsequent interviews less productive. More than about five days of this kind of fieldwork without a break can, however, be counterproductive. These kinds of time constraints operate on the schedule of fieldwork, not the overall length of the rapid appraisal (Grandstatf and Grandstaff 1985:12). Available information collected in advance can have a major effect on methodology, even to the extent of showing that something else is needed instead of, or in addition to, the rapid appraisal. The content of the review will affect the initial guidelines used for semi-structured interviews. When specific information is not available prior to the study, extra time and special techniques may be required to gather it.

CONFIDENCE IN RAPID APPRAISAL AND DATA COLLECTION CHECKLISTS Flexibility is critical to making rapid appraisal relevant to a wide range of systems and is a major strength of the approach. This flexibility can, however, be abused and has been interpreted by some as allowing individuals to do anything, or almost nothing, and call it ‘rapid appraisal.” A set of standard techniques could solve this problem, but only at the expense of the needed flexibility. The alternative to standardization is to documentas part of the rapid appraisal report the techniques used. Checklists that document what was done allow the readers of a report to judge the quality of the work and can also remind the rapid

appraisal team of important issues during the appraisal. A generic checklist is Suggested that must be adapted to the specific situation under which the appraisal is implemented.?

CONCLUSION “It will perhaps always be a struggle to argue, however valid the case, that it is better to be vaguely right than precisely wrong” (Carruthers and Chambers 1981:418).

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Rapid appraisal provides relatively quick qualitative results that are likely to be vaguely right and that can be used for decisions about additional research or preliminary decisions for the design and implementation of applied activities. When applied with care and caution, it can help a decision maker avoid being precisely wrong. Rapid appraisal makes use of selected techniques from the social sciences and it is not suggested that rapid appraisal can substitute for more long-term, in-depth studies, where a situation calls for more than being vaguely right. In many situations, however, being vaguely right is adequate for the design of additional research, to initiate activities which have to be started quickly, or to make mid-

course corrections during implementation. In some situations, initial understanding of complex systems requires the different perspectives of team members with distinct disciplinary training and local participants. Team efforts are possible in the long term, but they are not as likely. Correctly done, rapid appraisal is always better than a quick-and-dirty “tourist” approach during the first phases of an investigation. If done too quickly and without sufficient methodological rigor, however, rapid appraisal can be more dangerous than “tourism” when it results in inappropriate confidence being placed in the results. The experience of those who have used the approach suggests that rapid appraisal could be relevant to a much wider audience. For individuals who have had limited experience with qualitative techniques, there is a need to provide a strong rationale for and an introduction to it; and to help experienced qualitative researchers understand ways in which rapid appraisal differs from traditional approaches. There is general consensus from users that rapid appraisal is best learned while participating as a team member with someone with experience, but that since rapid appraisal is “organized common sense,” it can be self-taught. A 17-minute instructional video has been developed that features the use of rapid appraisal by a Foster Parents Plan project in Guatemala. The video is available in both U.S. and PAL video standards and demonstrates some ofthe techniques, applications, and principles involved (Scrimshaw and Hurtado 1987). It is hoped that sufficient information is provided in this paper to help current users of rapid appraisal do a better job, to allow new users to experiment with the approach, and to convince potential decision-makers who are the clients for rapid appraisal they can have confidence

in the results. This paper has suggested that there are three basic concepts associated with rapid appraisal: (1) a system perspective, (2) triangulation of data collection, and (3) iterative data collection and analysis; and that the use of these concepts to select specific research techniques can provide a flexible, but rigorous, approach to relatively quick qualitative research data that goes beyond a “tourist” approach. The paper has identified numerous specific research techniques while arguing that there are other techniques associated with the three concepts, and that even the techniques mentioned will often have to be adapted to the specific purpose of the study and local conditions. While rapid appraisal shares many of the characteristics of traditional, qualitative research, it differs in that it requires more than one researcher, team interaction is part of the methodology, and results are produced faster. The paper has noted that the most common problem for rapid appraisal is the failure to allow sufficient time to be observant, sensitive, eclectic, and to have multiple iterations of data collection and analysis. Finally the paper has suggested the use of aChecklist for Rapid Appraisal Data Collection to remind the team of important issues during the appraisal and to document what was done.

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Notes 1. Members of the working group, in addition to the author, were Terry Grandstaff, M. A. Hamid, and Neil Jamieson. 2. Sample Checklist for Rapid Appraisal Data Collection

Jide. [1] Objectives: Fieldwork dates: Report completion date: Rapid Appraisal ‘Tearn composition Name tech. background Language[2] Local[3] Experience[4]

EN) Como

1. The title should include the name of the geographic or administrative unit and the unit of analysis. 2. Language use categories: . Exclusive use of respondents’ first language . Use of respondents’ second language . Mixture of respondents’ first and second languages . Mixture of respondents’ languages and use of interpreter . Exclusive use of interpreters Mm re BWN 3. Local or outsider categories: 1. From site, living and working there 2. From outside the area 4. Categories for prior experience: 0. No prior experience doing Rapid Appraisal T. Participation in a training course on Rapid Appraisal 1. ton. Number of prior Rapid Appraisals Number of hours spent in field collecting data Number of hours spent by team in discussions of data Information collected in advance and reviewed by the team

Types of information collected by direct observation

Number of individual respondents interviewed Method of selection Place of interviews

Among individual respondents approximately what percent were from different groups relevant to the system being investigated? For example, women %, old people %, youth % from among the poorest 25 percent %

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from among the 25 percent who live farthest from the road % from road) (note average distance in km. from significant ethnic or cultural minorities % from those identified as “troublemakers” % Number of key informants interviewed Method of selecting key informants Positions/occupation of key informants and topics they reported on ‘Topics for group interviews and composition of groups

Date set for reviewing and updating this report:

References Cited Agricultural Administration 1981 Special Issue on Rapid Rural Appraisal. Agricultural Administration 8(6). Beebe, James

1982 1985

Rapid Rural Appraisal, Umm Hijliij Breimya, El Obeid, Northern Kordofan. Khartoum, Sudan: USAID. Unpublished manuscript. Rapid Rural Appraisal: The Critical First Step in a Farming Systems Approach to Research. (Farming Systems Support Project Networking Paper No. 5.) Gainesville, FL: International Programs, Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences, University of Florida.

Bostain,J. C.

1970

Suggestions for Efficient Use of an Untrained Interpreter. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of State. Burgess, Robert 1982

The Unstructured Interview as a Conversation. Jn Field Research:

A Sourcebook and Field

Manual. Robert G. Burgess, ed. Pp. 107-110. London: George Allen and Unwin. Carruthers, Ian and Robert Chambers, eds. 1981 Special Issue on Rapid Rural Appraisal. Agricultural Administration 8(6).

Cernea, Michael 1990 Re-tooling in Applied Social Investigation for Development Planning: Some Methodological

Issues. Opening address to the International Conference on Rapid Assessment Methodologies, Washington, DC. Chambers, Robert

1980 1981 1983

1991

Rapid Rural Appraisal: Rationale and Repertoire. (Discussion Paper No. 155.) Brighton: Institute of Development Studies. Rural Poverty Unperceived: Problems and Remedies. World Development 9:1-19. Rapid Appraisal for Improving Existing Canal Irrigation Systems. (Discussion Paper Series No. 8.) New Delhi, India: Ford Foundation. Shortcut and Participatory Methods for Gaining Social Information for Projects. Jn Putting People First: Sociological Variables in Rural Development, 2nd ed. Michael M. Cernea, ed. Pp. 519-537. Washington, DC: Oxford University Press, World Bank.

Checkland, Peter and Jim Scholes

1990

Soft Systems Methodology in Action. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons.

Clark University, Program for International Development and Kenya Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources, National Environment Secretariat (CUNES) 1989 An Introduction to Participatory Rural Appraisal for Rural Resources Management.

Worcester, MA: Program for International Development, Clark University.

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Collinson, Michael

A Low Cost Approach to Understanding Small Farmers. Agricultural Administration 8:463-471. 1982 Farming Systems Research in Eastern Africa: The Experience of CIMMYT and Some National Agricultural Research Services 1976-1981. (Michigan State University International Development Paper No. 3.) East Lansing: Department of Agricultural Economics, Michigan State University. Conservation International 1991 A Biological Assessment of the Alto Madidi Region and Adjacent Areas of Northwest Bolivia. (Rapid Assessment Program Working Papers 1.) Washington, DC: Conservation International. Conway, Gordon 1985 Rapid Rural Appraisal for Agroecosystem Analysis: Training Notes for the Aga Khan Rural Support Programme. London: Northern Pakistan, Aga Khan Support Programme, Babar Road, Gilgit, Northern Pakistan and Centre for Environmental Technology, Imperial College of Science and Technology. de los Reyes, Romana 1984 Sociotechnical Profile: A Tool for Rapid Rural Appraisal. Manila, Philippines: Institute of Philippine Culture. Ateneo de Manila University. 1981

Galt, Daniel

1985

How Rapid Rural Appraisal and Other Socio-Economic Diagnostic Techniques Fit into the Cyclic FSR/E Process. Paper presented at the International Conference on Rapid Rural Appraisal, Khon Kaen, Thailand.

Grandstaff, Terry B. and Somluckrat W. Grandstaff 1985 A Conceptual Basis for Methodological Development in Rapid Rural Appraisal. Paper presented at the International Conference on Rapid Rural Appraisal, Khon Kaen, Thailand. Guyton, William 1992

Guidelines for Marketing Information Needs Assessments (MINAs): AMIS Project. Quezon

City, Philippines: Abt Associates. Hassin-Brack, Jeanette

1988

Rapid Rural Appraisal Annotated Bibliography: Nutrition in Agriculture Cooperative Agreement. Tucson: University of Arizona.

Hildebrand, Peter

1982

Summary of the Sondeo Methodology Used by ICTA. Jn Farming Systems Research and Development: Guidelines for Developing Countries. W. W. Shaner, P. F. Philipp, and W. R. Schmehl, eds. Pp. 89-291. Boulder, CO: Westview.

Holtzman, John

1993

Rapid Appraisal Methods in a Diagnostic Assessment of Vegetable Seed Marketing. In Rapid Appraisal Methods: World Bank Regional and Sectoral Studies. Krishna Kumar, ed. Pp. 112-135. Washington, DC: The World Bank. Honadle, George 1979 Rapid Reconnaissance Approaches to Organizational Analysis for Development Administration. Paper presented at the RRA Conference, at the Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex, Brighton. Khon Kaen University 1987 Proceedings of the 1985 International Conference on Rapid Rural Appraisal. Khon Kaen, Thailand: Rural Systems Research and Farming Systems Research Projects.

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Kumar, Krishna, ed.

1993

Rapid Appraisal Methods: World Bank Regional and Sectoral Studies. Washington, DC: World Bank.

la Gra, Jerry 1990 A Commodity System Assessment Methodology for Problem and Project Identification. Moscow: University of Idaho, College of Agriculture. Postharvest Institute for Perishables. McCracken, Jennifer, Jules Pretty, and Gordon Conway

1988

An Introduction to Rapid Rural Appraisal for Agricultural Development. London: International Institute for Environment and Development.

Menegay, Merle, C. Milona, R. Millendez, R. Quero, and R. Alberto

1990

User’s Manual on the Fundamental Analytics for Rapid Marketing Appraisals in the Philippines, 2nd ed. Quezon City, Philippines: Department of Agriculture.

Monlar, A.

1989

Community Forestry Rapid Appraisal: A Review Paper. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations.

Pelto, Pertti and Gretel Pelto

1978

Anthropological Research: The Structure of Inquiry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Rhoades, Robert E.

1982 1985

The Art of the Informal Agricultural Survey. (Training Document 1982-2.) Lima, Peru: Social Sciences Department, International Potato Center. Basic Field Techniques for Rapid Rural Appraisal. Paper presented at the International Conference on Rapid Rural Appraisal, Khon Kaen, Thailand.

Scrimshaw, Nevin and Gary R. Gleason, eds.

1992

Rapid Assessment Procedures: Qualitative Methodologies for Planning and Evaluation of Health Related Programmes. Boston: International Nutrition Foundation for Developing Countries.

Scrimshaw, Susan and Elena Hurtado

1987

Rapid Assessment Procedures for Nutrition and Primary Health Care: Anthropological Approaches to Improving Programme Effectiveness. Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center Publications, University of California.

Shaner, W. W., P. F. Philipp, and W. R. Schmehl 1982 Farming Systems Research and Development: Guidelines for Developing Countries. Boulder, CO: Westview.

Stone, Linda and S. Gabriel Campbell 1984 The Use and Misuse of Surveys in International Development: An Experiment from Nepal. Human Organization 43:27-37. Webb, S. and B. Webb

1932

Methods of Social Study. London: Longmans, Green.

Wilson, Kathleen K. and George Morren, Jr. 1990 Systems Approaches for Improvement in Agriculture and Resource Management. New York: MacMillan.

World Resources Institute (WRI)

1990

Participatory Rural Appraisal Handbook. Washington, DC: World Resources Institute.

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MREADING

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Toward the Use of Ethnography in Health Care Program Evaluation’ Merrill Singer INTRODUCTION Anthropology is defined by its approach to research, more so than most sciences. In particular, ethnography is commonly seen as the sine qua non of anthropological study. Even the whole postmodern challenge to ethnographic authority ultimately contributed to “the validation of ethnography as central to the identity of the discipline . . .” (Marcus 1998, 183). Indeed, it probably is not too much of an overstatement to claim, as Seligman most colorfully has (quoted in Firth 1963, 2), that ethnography is to anthropology “as the blood of martyrs is to the Roman Catholic Church.” Although many sub-disciplines of anthropology (biology, linguistic, and archaeology) seldom conduct ethnographic research, ethnography remains tremendously important to anthropology in general and more so to cultural anthropology. In fact, in the eyes of many cultural anthropologists, however, not to have ever “done” ethnography is tantamount to not being a real anthropologist In no small measure this is because ethnography is far more than a research method in anthropology for both quite related developmental and theoretical reasons. On the developmental side, ethnography is a critically important socializing experience that entails a growing stage one must pass through to be able to emerge at the other end as a bonafide member of the profession. At its core, this “constitutive experience” (Stocking 1983, 70) is often conceptualized as a “twice-born process” (Srinivas 1990). As Geertz (1973, 13) has said, “Finding our feet, an unnerving business which never more than

distantly succeeds, is what ethnographic research consists of as a personal experience . . .” On the theoretical side, ethnography is much more than just a data collection method because, contrary to the common assertion that methods are theoretically neutral strategies for the gathering of empirical data (Pelto and Pelto 1978), ethnography is predicated on a num-

ber offundamental assumptions about the subject under study. If we accept these assumptions, as almost all anthropologists do, then ethnography makes sense; it appears as a perfectly appropriate and useful technique for learning about essential aspects of the human world. Indeed, the celebration of fieldwork as an all-but-mandatory developmental experience for cultural anthropologists arises from its role in the internalization of a set of assumptions that are critical to the anthropological understanding of human social reality. In this light, it is the argument of this paper that these assumptions are germane to ongoing discussions of the contributions of ethnography to the evaluation of human health care programs (Friedman and Wypijewska 1995; Press 1997; Nichter 1993; Weeks and Schensul 1993). As Patton (1980, 17) indicates, evaluation research has suffered from various growing pains, many of them occasioned by the increasing consciousness that the world is complex and not always manipulable according to one’s wishes. Like a child losing its in-

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nocence, evaluation research has grown beyond the simple days when the answer to every evaluation problem was the administration of a standardized test to experimental and control groups.

Ethnography is one of the “new” approaches evaluators have turned to in an attempt to overcome limitations in existing evaluation models. How might the theoretical assumptions of ethnography shape its role as a component of program evaluation? In this paper, I discuss several key features of ethnography as an approach to data collection as well as several basic propositions that underlie anthropology’s elevation of ethnography as its premier research method. Next, I relate this discussion to the goals and key needs of program evaluation to elucidate the contributions of ethnography to this kind of applied research. Because of the author's areas of specialization, many of the examples cited in this paper are derived from substance abuse and AIDS work. The potential contribution of ethnography to health program evaluation, however, is by no means limited to these domains.

THE THEORETICAL ASSUMPTIONS OF ETHNOGRAPHY Ethnography remains an underdefined concept. Used to label both a process and a product (Agar 1980), the term eludes a uniform definition. As a process, ethnography has been described as an approach to research in which the researcher “closely observes, records,

and engages in the daily life of another culture . . . and then writes an account of this culture, emphasizing descriptive detail” (Marcus and Fischer 1986, 18). Yet, it is not clear

that for a study to be called ethnography the researcher involved must be from a culture different from the culture of study. Certainly, ethnographers have conducted studies in their own cultures for at least the last 50 years (Goldschmidt 1947; Henry 1963; Powder-

maker 1939) and evermore frequently in recent years (Burawoy et al. 1991; di Leonardo 1998; Montague and Arens 1981; Spradley and Rynkiewich 1975). Indeed, the terms insider anthropology and native anthropology (Cerroni-Long 1995; Jones 1970) have emerged

to label this increasingly common phenomenon. Further, it has never been determined how much, if any, engagement in the daily life

of the group under study—as opposed to merely observing the group—is required for a research effort to be deemed ethnographic in nature. Sir James Frazer, the leading armchair theoretician of his day (1961, vii), praised Bronislaw Malinowski for living “as a native

among the natives for many months” . . . [Malinowski] laid out the minimum requirements as follows: As regards anthropological fieldwork, we are obviously demanding a new method of collecting evidence. The anthropologist must relinquish his comfortable position in the long chair on the verandah of the missionary compound, government station, or planter’s bungalow, where, armed with pencil and notebook and at times with a whisky and soda, he has been accustomed to collect statements from informants, write down stories, and fill out sheets of paper with savage texts. He must go out into the villages, and see the natives at work in the gardens, on the beach, in the jungle; he must sail with them to distant sandbanks and to foreign tribes, and observe them in fishing, trading, and ceremonial overseas expeditions. (Malinowski 1955, 146-147)

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In this light, is rapid ethnographic assessment authentic ethnography? Some anthropologists would certainly say no, but the activity persists and has gained legitimacy in the ideas of policy makers and program planners (Beebe 1995; Harris, Jerome and Fawcett 1997). Similarly, when the community under study (or a subgroup thereof) is engaged in a social struggle with other social strata within the larger society or beyond its boundaries, is active participation in the conflict an acceptable component of ethnography? Indeed, some anthropologists presented with requests for assistance in such situations have felt that involvement in partisan struggles takes one beyond the pale of legitimate research and have even questioned whether it is possible simultaneously to be ethnographer and advocate (Hastrup and Elsass 1993). Others have countered that “engaged” ethnography, that is, active and committed involvement and side-taking in social conflict, can produce

extremely useful and otherwise unavailable insight (Halper 1993; Singer 1990a). Still others have expressed quite mixed feelings on this issue (Scheper-Hughes 1992). What, then, is and what is not legitimate ethnographic research? Moreover, what constitutes the essence of ethnography? Which procedures set it off from other research approaches? These are questions of concern to this paper. Further, it is necessary to emphasize that ethnographic data are not inherently descriptive or qualitative data. Even if description of culture, including Geertzian thick description (Geertz 1973), is the objective of an ethnographer’s efforts, nothing precludes her/him from also measuring, counting, or performing calculations of various kinds. Ethnographers have engaged in such activities as parts of their descriptions since the early days of the field. Indeed, Malinowski (1961, 17) was quite explicit on this point, instructing ethnographers to adopt what he called “the method of statistic documentation by concrete evidence.” Increasingly, ethnographers have become more sophisticated in the collection of quantitative data and its analysis using established statistical techniques (Thomas 1986) as part of a broader approach to social research. In this sense, ethnography is not a qualitative method per se. And yet, qualitative analysis certainly is a fundamental component of ethnography. The qualitative aspects of ethnography stem from its emphasis on (1) situating the behaviors or beliefs of concern within their natural local and extra-local contexts (e.g., studying an outpatient health clinic in terms of the other social realms of patients and in terms of other factors, perhaps municipal politics or state fiscal debates, that shape events in the clinic); (2) developing observation-based descriptions of these contexts, the social groups

who occupy them, and the daily social processes and relationships that unfold within them: the phenomena that Malinowski in Argonauts of the Western Pacific (1961) so graphically referred to as the “imponderabilia of actual life and of typical behavior”; and (3) attending to the cultural meanings and insider understandings, and the signs/symbols used to express them in any given cultural context (e.g., the solicitation of patient views of a health care program or the illness that brings them into treatment). In other words, like other qualitative approaches, ethnographic data consist, at least in part, of words (e.g., field notes recording the ethnographer'’s field observations and informant responses during informal interviews) or even images (e.g., ethnographic filming). These kinds of data provide both an account of what happened as well as what Malinowski (1961, 20) referred to as the “tone of behavior.” As Miles and Huberman (1984, 215) indicate, “the hallmark of qualitative research is that it

goes beyond how much there is of something to tell us about its essential qualities.”

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In short, ethnography is best considered a blended approach that commonly incorporates both qualitative and quantitative data collection. This blending or triangulation of methods is especially evident in the use of cognitive solicitation techniques (e.g., free lists, pile sorts, triad sorts) that collect information concerning the insider’s cognitive models and produce data that are readily open to both qualitative or quantitative forms of data analysis (Weller et al. 1993). In light of the issues raised above, the term ethnography is used here to refer to firsthand, immersion-based research that is conducted in “natural settings” in which the researcher(s) directly observes and, at least to some degree, participates in the everyday life

of members of the group under study. The term zatural settings is used in contrast to laboratory or other experimental conditions constructed and to some degree controlled by the researcher. Health care programs, although they generally collect intake and other information that is subject to various forms of analysis, can be considered natural settings in the sense that they are not specifically constructed for the purposes of research and commonly are incorporated into the lifeworld of patients and providers. In this light, I believe that focus group interviewing, while certainly a qualitative method that can provide rich descriptive data, usually is not truly an ethnographic technique, unless the group comes together naturally to discuss issues of concern to its members in a place of their

choosing (Singer et al. 1995a). For example, our research team has conducted a community needs assessment for people with AIDS (PWAs) living in three Connecticut counties as part of the Ryan White Comprehensive AIDS Resources Emergency program (Singer et al. 1995b). This assessment involves several components, including focus group interviewing with PWAs. Some of these focus groups were conducted with clients of particular service provider agencies in which the participants had been brought together by the researchers specifically for the purpose of the focus group. The participants did not necessarily know each other nor had they ever gotten together before as a group. Other focus groups were conducted with ongoing support groups. In these instances, getting together at a community-based agency to talk about emergent health problems and challenging life situations with other group members had become part of the natural social world of the participants. It has been our experience that the character, or to use Malinowski’s word, “tone” of discussions in these

two types of groups was quite different, with the former being more “task oriented” and the latter being more free-wheeling and much more likely to focus on participants’ concerns that were not specifically part of the research design. In other words, researcher control in truly natural settings is limited. Finally, with regard to the issue of participation in the everyday life of the people under study, unavoidably this is conditioned by local circumstances. In a study of an illicit drug shooting gallery, the ethnographer is not expected to inject drugs, although there is certainly a long tradition of anthropologists sharing mind-altering substances as participant observers of indigenous drug taking in a variety of cultural settings. Participation in

some situations may be limited to sharing casual time with members of the group under study; in other settings, much more extensive participation may be possible. Often eth-

nography entails “a dialectic process that cycles back and forth between assuming the role of a participant and the role of an observer” (Carlson, Siegal, and Falck 1995, 13). The key element is that the ethnographer gains sufficient access to a group to observe and

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record life as it occurs naturally as opposed to merely interviewing people in artificial settings constructed or adopted for the purposes of research. In sum, the distinctive feature of ethnography is that it demands contextualized experience—near, on-the-ground, up-close and personal research in the natural social scenes and settings of the social group(s) of concern. Such an approach allows simultaneously the collection and linkage of qualitative and quantitative data so as to help explicate the nature of human thought, behavior, and relationship in their social context of origin.

It is for this reason that ethnography is of special use in health care program evaluation, because the concern of such evaluation is with understanding the operation and impact of programs that are intended to become normalized as part of regular social practice. Since a fundamental goal of effective health care delivery is that it should lead to measurable improvements in health and well-being, intervention techniques must be found that are socially and culturally acceptable to and practically adaptable by communities at risk.

SIX THEORETICAL PROPOSITIONS OF ETHNOGRAPHY Thus far, I have talked about ethnography as if it were a type of research method. In fact, the reason ethnography has come to be of such central importance in anthropology has to do with the fact that it is far more than this. Ethnography incorporates not only an approach to collecting particular kinds of data, it carries with it as well a theory of its subject matter (Ruckdeschel 1985). This theory consists of at least six propositions or statements about relationships among key concepts (Pelto and Pelto 1978). First, inherent in an ethnographic approach to research is the assumption that the social whole is more than the sum of its parts; i.e., more than the total of its individual so-

cietal members. In addition, there are the relationships that bound individuals together in complex structures of exchange, communication, social support, and differential authority. As Lincoln and Guba (1985, 105) stress, “Human beings are always in relationships. . . . One cannot study people without taking these relationships into account.” Consequently, since the mid-1980s, a growing number of researchers have incorporated network concepts into the study of health issues (Borgatti 1994; Singer 1985). This work emerged from recognition that focus[ing] on the individual as the primary driving force in behavior is restrictive and fails to account for broader patterns and trends (Auerbach et al. 1994, Friedman 1993; Sterk-Elifson and Elifson 1992). For example, in an extensive study of

network factors and HIV risk in Colorado Springs, Colorado, almost 600 primary respondents were interviewed concerning health, risk, and network variables. Through this

approach, a large network of a well-connected core component and numerous marginal subcomponents was identified. HIV-positive persons were found, mostly, to be isolated in the smaller subcomponents of the network, while those HIV-positive individuals located in the central component occupied noncentral network roles. This important finding was used to explain the low level of endogenous HIV transmission in Colorado Springs (Rothenberg et al. 1994). Conversely, in a study of an HIV high-prevalence area, HIVpositive persons were found frequently to be in the core network component rather than in peripheral components (Friedman 1994). Ethnography, which commonly has been used to trace patterns of social relationship (e.g., kinship structures), presumes that if we

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are to understand social behavior we must simultaneously understand the relations among actors and not just the ideas, attitudes, or intentions expressed when individuals participate in survey research. This is the reason that ethnographers, for the most part, have been hesitant to embrace the dominant psychological theories of health behavior, such as the Theory of Reasoned Action, the Health Belief Model, Self-Efficacy Theory, and the Stages of Change Model. Despite their differences in emphasis, all of these approaches tend to focus attention at the individual level, treating the targets of intervention as if they were not members of families, peer groups, communities, or a broader society. Health and social programs that are informed by one or more of these theories place their intervention emphasis on cognitive and motivational variables, including how individuals interpret behavioral information, how they value that information, and how capable they feel about their ability to use the information, rather than on the kinds of social and structural influences on in-

dividual behavior revealed through naturalistic ethnographic research. Second, ethnography, especially as it has been practiced since the Second World War, assumes that sociocultural systems are dynamic; in large and small ways things are constantly changing along both cyclical (e.g., seasonality) and non-cyclical pathways (e.g., innovation, social evolution, social transformation). As Herskovits (1945, 143) noted some fifty years ago: A society may be never so small, never so isolated; its technological equipment may be of the simplest, its devotion to its own way of life expressed in extreme conservatism; yet changes constantly take place as generation succeeds generation, and new ideas, new alignments, new

techniques come into the thinking of its members. For no living culture is static.

Ethnography, with its traditional emphasis on ongoing data collection and prolonged contact—what has been referred to as the “labor intensive” nature of ethnography (Boyle

1994)—prepares the researcher to expect change and allows her/him to monitor it over time. Put simply, ethnography presumes “the ubiquity of change” (Herskovits (1945, 144). Stateof-the-art street drug use studies, for example, consist of prolonged, community-based observational tracking of changes in drug availability, methods of consumption, and associated HIV, STD, TB, hepatitis, and other health risks. Critical focus in such monitoring is on sit-

uations that Mead (1964) referred to as “points of divergence” in the flow of social processes: i.e., situations that have potential for producing change in pre-existing stabilities. Of course, ethnography has not always been as attentive to change as it is today. Salvage ethnography, the rapid collection of information about disappearing lifeways, was normative in the ethnography of Native American societies for many years and a goal of

functionalist anthropology in the view of mid-century theoreticians like A. R. RadcliffeBrown (Stocking 1984). At times, as a result, ethnographers, to greater or lesser degrees,

ignored change and sought to make anthropology a dehistoricized discipline. It is commonly the case in contemporary ethnography, by contrast, that, as in all evaluation, change is not only assumed—it is the central focus of research. Indeed, efforts to move ethno-

graphy from a diachronic to a synchronic focus were predicated on a denial of the very changes that necessitated salvage approaches to cultural study in the first place. Third, ethnography assumes the fundamental importance of context. One definition of knowledge is understanding a thing in its natural setting. ‘lo comprehend a carburetor,

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for example, it is necessary to grasp its structural and functional relationships with other

components of an internal combustion engine. As Lincoln and Guba (1985, 39) note, “re-

alities are wholes that cannot be understood in isolation from their contexts, nor can they be fragmented for separate study of the parts . . . because of the belief that the very act of observation influences what is seen, . . . research interaction should take place with the entity-in-context for fullest understanding.” Beyond immediate social settings and social

networks, the context of human behavior extends socially across class, gender, ethnic, or

other relations that impact on a program’s characteristics, level of functioning, and shortand long-term impact. As an approach that incorporates a holistic perspective, ethnography possesses a framework for understanding the intricacies of human society and social behavior. Most importantly in this regard, it draws the researcher’s attention to the interplay of contextual variables and away from simplistic unicausal explanations. Fourth, ethnography conditions a profound appreciation of social complexity including heretofore hidden or at least unknown aspects of social behavior; (Koester 1994, 1996). At present, we have no “complete” descriptions of any behavior; there is always more to learn. On this point, Geertz (1973, 29) aptly relates the story of an Englishman, who, having been told by his Indian host that the world rests on a platform which in turn rests on the back of an elephant which in its turn stands upon a turtle, promptly asks what the turtle rests on. Another turtle, he is told. And that turtle? “Ah, Sahib,” his patient host

responds, “after that it is turtles all the way down.” With culturally conditioned human behavior, as with mythical turtles, there is no getting to the bottom of it. Consequently, in social research there is considerable opportunity for new discovery. However, some research approaches are more open to discovering the unexpected than are others. Ethnography, as a form of naturalistic inquiry, is a highly porous approach that imposes little in the way of researcher control over the field of study and hence is quite open to serendipity, including discovery of patterns or relationships that are outside the awareness of, and hence are not self-reported by, research subjects or even previous researchers working in the same area of study. Indeed, ethnography assumes that there are systematic behavioral, symbolic, and structural patterns in human sociocultural life and offers the direct observational and casual interviewing methods needed to discover and record these patterns. Fifth, ethnography attunes the researcher to the realization that in dealing with humans there is the inescapable issue of meaning. Taking an example from Gilbert Ryle, Geertz (1973, 6) summarizes the issue by noting that “the difference, however unpho-

tographable, between a twitch and a wink is vast; as anyone unfortunate enough to have had the first taken for the second knows.” The difference, of course, is communication. The

twitch means nothing; it is an uncontrolled, perhaps unconscious behavior. The wink, by contrast, means a lot, although what the difference is in different contexts, from a sign of

agreement, to a signal welcoming participation in a playful trick, to an invitation to a kind

of playfulness that AIDS and STD researchers refer to as “risk behavior.” A. J. F Kobben (1967) relates another example of meaning based on his work in Surinam. Household census taking among the Djuka is consistently inaccurate, he notes, because people, fearing jealousy or rebuke from their neighbors or the spirit realm, lower the number of children they report, avoid discussing children who have died, and fail to explain to census takers that men maintain more than a single household. In other words, as this example suggests, data collected that ignores the role of meaning in human affairs risks substantial misunderstanding. Non-ethnographic, quantitative, methods especially are at peril in this regard.

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It is evident from ethnographic research that there is no way for human (and, of

course, not only humans) not to communicate meaning. Whatever we do is interpreted by someone as meaning something. Further, meaning is contextually and socially determined and is of paramount consequence in human affairs. As wars reveal, people are will-

ing to kill and be killed for the right meaning. “Failure to attend to the significance of social actions for those who carry them out and [to] the beliefs and institutions that lend to those actions that significance” (Geertz 1995, 127), including the symbolic mechanisms through which meaning is transmitted in social interaction, is to all but ensure that the researcher will misinterpret findings through the imposition of culturally constructed out-

sider “common sense,” suppositions, and/or personal biases. Ethnography assumes the importance of meaning. In Malinowski’s (1961, 25) famous dictum, its goal is “to grasp the native’s point of view, his relation to life, to realize his vision of his world.” In part, it is the location, informality, and duration of ethnography that make this goal achievable.

In a relaxed conversation on one’s own home “turf,” more candid discussion, including discussion of the socially disapproved or situationally awkward, finds expression. In this sense, ethnography allows the researcher to peek behind the masks that social actors wear to create and maintain desired impressions in those around them. In the dramaturgic language of Goffman (1959, 238), in human life, including the

settings in which program evaluations occur: We often find a division into back region, where the performance of a routine is prepared, and front region, where the performance is presented. Access to these regions is controlled in order to prevent the audience from seeing backstage . . . As Berreman (1972, xxxiii) indicates, “[a]n ethnographer is usually evaluated by himself

and his colleagues on the basis of his insights into the back region of the performance of his subjects.” For example, in her ethnographic study of an emergency psychiatric unit at a community mental health center, Rhodes (1991) found an interacting set of front- and backstages spanning the small geographic but considerable social space that separated health center administrators’ offices from the bedrooms and day room of the patients. In the view

of the psychiatrists who worked at the unit, the administrators could not “handle or understand” the unit and had to be protected from some of its methods of operation. The administration cooperated in protecting itself through what the psychiatrists called “active ignorance.” Thus a precarious balance between visibility and invisibility characterized the unit’s relationship to the outside, with the psychiatrists acting as a buffer of the staff. This hiddenness of the unit . . . was related to the issue of the efficient disposition [of patients], for the staff accomplished their work in part through the violation of strict role and paperwork requirements. Finally, as Rhode’s study suggests, despite a fundamental concern with the insider’s perspective, ethnography presumes a gap of potentially monumental proportions between

the favored “ideal” and the observable “real,” including differences between what people say they do and what the ethnographer sees them do. Three examples from HIV prevention research are illustrative. In her study of male clients of female prostitutes in Camden, New Jersey, Terri Leonard (1990) found a notable inconsistency between clients’ self-report of

risk avoidance and their actual preparation for sex with a prostitute. Leonard interviewed

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50 men, 20 of whom said they had used a condom during their last sexual encounter with

a Camden prostitute. Although all the men interviewed were seeking a sexual encounter and had stopped her on the street assuming she was a sex worker, only three of the 20 were in possession of a condom at the time of the interview. Similarly, in studies of injection drug users in Miami, ethnographic observations have failed to confirm self-reports of regularly obtaining new needles before shooting up or of avoiding shooting galleries. Individuals who denied shooting gallery use during structured interviews later have been observed injecting drugs in galleries (Page, Smith, and Kane 1991). A final example can be found in Bolton’s (1992) study among gay men in Belgium. As he notes, “On the basis of surveys that had been done, it was concluded that gay men in Belgium knew how HIV is transmitted and that they had changed their behavior sufficiently to make it unnecessary to expend further efforts on AIDS education and prevention in that segment of Belgium society” (Bolton 1992, 134). However, participant observation in the gay community (up to the point of actual HIV risk), including being picked up in gay bars and taken home by his date, convinced Bolton (1992, 135) that “unprotected anal intercourse was still

widely practiced, as were unprotected oral sex and rimming.” In sum, it is the claim of this paper that ethnography is not merely a neutral research method, in that it is not so much a technique for data collection as it is a methodology for approaching and understanding the subject of social science research. Inherent in this approach is a set of assumptions. Accepting the validity of these assumptions demands that they be taken into consideration in the research design. Ethnographic techniques have evolved to address this demand. Based on this discussion, we turn to the issue of evaluation and ex-

amination of the contribution of ethnography to this endeavor. As in other kinds of social research, the appeal of ethnography in evaluation lies in acceptance of its assumptions about human social phenomena.

EVALUATING HEALTH PROGRAMS Program evaluation is a type of systematic social research that draws its methods from the existing array available to the social sciences. Its distinguishing feature is not methodological per se, but rather in its subject matter: a health or social program of some type that is intended to meet human needs, improve health, or change existing behavioral or social patterns (Coyle et al. 1991), While evaluation research is a potentially important arena for learning basic knowledge about human beings or human social systems, the specific mission of evaluation is program description and assessment of program value. As a result, evaluation is conducted usually under a particular set of social conditions that may be different from those that shape or influence other forms of research. Of particular note in this regard is a set of concerns and attitudes of program funders, program administrators, program staff, program clients, and the wider community. The interests of each of these five stakeholder groups may differ; thus their attitudes toward and expectations regarding the evaluation may conflict, with potential consequences for the working environment of the evaluators.

While evaluations have diverse audiences, they commonly are intended to provide basic descriptive information on program organization and functioning, including program history, extent and nature of services, and effectiveness in reaching the target group; help ensure accountability to a program’s various audiences; and assess and improve pro-

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gram appropriateness, effectiveness in achieving specified goals, and achievement of a satisfactory cost-benefit ratio. There are a number of different types of evaluation research, including formative, process, and outcome approaches, and each of these has a number of

different subtypes, an issue to which I will return momentarily. Formative research is carried out early in a program prior to full implementation and is used to inform the program of conditions and issues that will affect program implementation and effectiveness. Its objective is to develop knowledge that can be used in adjusting the intended program to ensure improved outcomes. Outcome evaluation, while it may rely on data collected throughout the course of a project, is used to answer the question, Did the program work? Outcome evaluation research focuses on assessing the nature and extent of consequences that can fairly be attributed to the program of interest, often is prioritized by funders, and, increasingly, with reference to a cost—benefits analysis, answers the question, Were the outcomes worth the fiscal investment of the funder?

Process evaluation involves the examination and documentation of program administration, operation, and client services, including description and assessment of program de-

sign and activities. It answers the question, What took place in this program? Philosophically, it is predicated on the assumption that actual programs and their activities tend to differ in small or large ways from the program plan developed before the program was actually implemented and subjected to unforeseen and unintended social, physical, structural, or other influential conditions. The ultimate goal is the development

of a full enough program description to explain how results were produced to allow replication in other sites. ‘To varying extents, ethnography is now used in all three types of evaluations. In formative evaluation, ethnography is used to help understand the key questions, concepts, and sentence phrasings that should be included in the quantitative pre- and post-test instruments commonly used in outcome evaluation. But ethnography’s role in formative evaluation is potentially much greater. As Patton (1980, 73) notes, A formative evaluation based on naturalistic inquiry methods can provide timely information about program dynamics without restricting the ability of administrators and program staff to act on that information. . . . Formative evaluations are aimed at improving program quality. Judgments about quality often require data of considerable depth and detail . . .

It is this kind of data that systematic ethnography produces. For example, in an AIDS prevention project among drug users in Denver, ethnography was used to obtain a “detailed and complete picture of . . . clients’ lives” (Kestrel 1994, 50). This formative activity proved to be of significance as new drugs and patterns of risk began to emerge: With the spread of crack among intravenous drug users, previously distinct drug networks intersected. We frequently witnessed situations in galleries where cocaine, crack, and heroin were all present. We also began to see women who were addicted to crack but who did not inject drugs, exchanging sex with men who both injected drugs and used crack. In addition, we discovered that some of these same women were exchanging sex with gang members who sold crack. (Kestrel 1994, 52)

As a result of these findings, the prevention program was expanded to target and serve both crack users and gang members.

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Ethnography also has been used in process evaluation, because it provides a detailed descriptive account of the day-to-day unfolding of human social behavior, including in-

teractions between administrators and staff, staff among themselves, and between staff and clients within a program. Ethnography is particularly appropriate for conducting process evaluation because to

understand the unique, internal dynamics of a program it is best to approach that program without predetermined hypotheses about what [its] strengths and weaknesses are. . . Moreover, the nature of program processes is sufficiently complex and interdependent that they are seldom easily represented along some set of unidimensional quantitative scales. Nor can quantitative dimensions and scales provide the kind of detail that is necessary for blueprints of program process where the description of those processes are to be used in constructing models for the purposes of replication and demonstration (Patton 1990, 61-62).

Least commonly, ethnography has been incorporated in outcome evaluation, in that the latter sometimes is construed as a quantitative endeavor while the former is believed to be a qualitative approach. As we have seen, it is not accurate to view ethnography as solely a qualitative method and thus it is argued here that ethnography has the potential to enhance all of the major approaches to program evaluation and need not remain primarily an occasional tool of formative research or process evaluation. This point can be made most easily by considering the potential range of contributions ethnography can make to outcome evaluation. In an examination of evaluation efforts in HIV-related health and social programs, the National Research Council (Coyle, Boruch, and Turner 1991) has suggested a number of steps for enhancing evaluation design that bear directly on the potential contributions of ethnography. From the available set of alternative outcome evaluation designs, the National Research Council favors controlled experiments in which participants are randomly assigned to either the experimental intervention of concern

or to a control non-treatment

condition, with outcomes

measured in both groups and compared. However, there are a number of threats to the integrity of experimental designs intended to change human behaviors. First, there is the problem of compliance. People often do not adhere to the regimen of their assigned group. Patients on long-term medication, for example, learn to “cheek” their pills and discard them if they do not like previously experienced side effects, see no particular benefits of the medication, or are resistant for other reasons. Similarly, methadone patients allowed to take medication home sometimes sell it on the street, as do patients prescribed a variety of other psychoactive drugs. Overcoming compliance issues to ensure that valid inferences can be drawn from the data requires participant tracking. Ethnography offers one approach for achieving this objective. For example, day-long visits with participants as they go about their personal affairs allows opportunities for the observation of compliance/noncompliance behavior. Second, a threat to the internal validity of randomization is “spillover”: the sharing of information, skills, medicines, or other outcome-influences across experimental and

control group boundaries. For example, heart patients in the experimental group of a clinical trial can share information with acquaintances, friends, or family members in the study’s control group. Ethnography directed at the social networks of participants can be used to monitor the occurrence of spillover behavior.

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Third is the problem of compensatory behavior. For example, individuals who know they are in a control group and are being denied access to the intervention offered to the experimental group may overcompensate for their exclusion by changing their behavior in ways that diminish the differences between the two research groups. As Coyle et al. (1991) report, one means of limiting this problem is through the use of ethnography to identify cases of compensatory behavior in the control group. When changes in behavior in control group members are identified, ethnographers can use informal interviewing to gain insight from participants about why their behavior has changed. Fourth, there is the problem of staff adherence to the research design. Historically, service providers have demonstrated a resistance to research agendas, especially if they involve limiting access to available service as is common in the comparative evaluation of the relative benefit of enhanced and unenhanced intervention models. For example, our research team has been involved in the evaluation of a trial social-service component implemented for methadone maintenance patients. While the original evaluation design called for a comparison of illicit drug use, life skills, and retention outcomes of individu-

als who were or were not assigned to the social services component, evaluation team ethnographers discovered that intervention staff were allowing patients to self-select participation in social services. As a result, comparison of the treatment and non-treatment conditions was not possible because it would have been impossible to ascertain that not only the most motivated patients selected social services. A final problem that confronts randomized design is attrition, resulting in reduced comparability between the treatment and control groups. Ethnographers active in community-based research can conduct outreach to program drop-cuts to assess their motives and characteristics relative to the experimental and control groups. They can also

play a role in re-recruitment for program drop-outs. Although many outcome evaluators prefer randomized designs, often they are not feasible because of situational, fiscal, or other constraints. Other types of outcome evalu-

ation models are available in such instances. When control groups are lacking, as they often are in prevention because of ethical issues raised by maintaining a sample that does not receive potentially life-saving intervention, an evaluative comparison can be made between program completers and program drop-outs. A nonexperimental approach for this type of evaluation is modeling. Although there is considerable debate about the usefulness of modeling approaches in evaluation, as the New Haven needle exchange evaluation conducted by Kaplan and Heimer (1993) shows, modeling approaches are beginning to be used in public health program evaluation. One type of modeling that has potential use in such programs is selection modeling. This approach is used to answer the question, Why do some individuals decide to participate in an intervention while others do not? One data collection method in selection modeling is to collect full life history information on project participants at intake, a data collection method that has been well developed in anthropology and is quite familiar to most ethnographers. The assumption of this approach to modeling is that life histories “taken as a whole, will serve as a proxy for unobservable variables that account for differences in outcomes between groups” (Coyle et al. 1991, 174). For example, patterns of risk behavior prior to entering into an intervention may predict levels of intervention participation. Thus in STD treatment, those who tend to drop out may be those individuals

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with higher rates of sexual activity. Similarly, in AIDS treatment, drop-outs may be those individuals with higher rates of drug use. Beyond the question of evaluation design is the problem of interpreting evaluation results. While desired results may occur following program implementation, it is still important to be certain that the intervention in question is the cause of the observed change. Moreover, it is necessary to determine whether results that occur for one population are generalizable to other groups. As Coyle et al. (1991, 186) indicate: In the end, even if the results are strongly encouraging for a subgroup of a population, generalizability will often be uncertain. The results from a single experiment may allow strong and rather precise inferences of causality, but because they are likely to be based on small, selective samples, they may be equivocal in terms of how the project will work in other groups, other settings, and regions. . . Whatever is known about the experiment should be communicated in the interpretation of results.

Interpretation of this sort is a primary strength of ethnography. Ethnography allows researchers to see not only what the outcomes of an intervention are, but how those outcomes were produced. Close observational study of the intervention, including study of participants, staff, project activities, and staff/participant interactions, as well as ongoing informal interviewing of staff and participants, allows the assemblage of a graphic picture of the intervention and its impact. This type of information is precisely what is needed to make reasonable, context-grounded interpretations of results and to connect results to intervention components.

CONCLUSION There has been a tendency within the social sciences to view research approaches as neutral tools, analogous to those of carpentry which can be used to build (or to tear down) ranch style, colonial, Victorian, or any other type of house or building. In carpentry, it is the intention, resources, and skill of the builder, not the specific brand of tools used, that

primarily determines the actual design of the final product. The first goal of this paper has been to argue that the neutral tool analogy is not appropriate for a research methodology like ethnography. Rather than an impartial instrument for value-free data collection, ethnography is predicated on a number of assumptions about human behavior. In other words, ethnography incorporates at least a partial theory of its subject matter. Inherent in ethnographic research are the understandings that (1) the interactional aspects of social behavior make a social group more complex than the sum of its individual members; (2) social life is dynamic—today’s standard is tomorrow’s nostalgia; (3) behavior is conditioned by context, both the immediate local-context of on-the-ground behavior and the encompassing macro-context of political economy; (4) frontstage presentation masks backstage behavior, while both are patterned in identifiable ways; (5) meaning is intrinsic and fundamental in human affairs; and (6) the gap between intention and actualization is considerable and, hence, the former should never be confused with the latter.

Anthropologists and others find these to be reasonable assumptions about the nature of human social life. Consequently, the discipline’s defining embrace of ethnography,

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an approach that strongly focuses attention on (1) the holistic interconnections that bind seemingly disparate social arenas; (2) the flow of life as an unfolding history of changes small and large; (3) the social location of the behaviors of immediate interest; (4) the dra-

maturgic nature of organized social performance; (5) the insider’s perspective and knowledge; and (6) the relationship between what is said and what is done. These understandings of human social life and the associated constraints on research attention can be seen as strengths, rather than liabilities, of ethnography in evaluation research. These features of ethnography allow for the collection of the kinds of data that are missed by more traditional formative, outcome, and process evaluation methods. Con-

sequently, the second goal of this paper has been to contribute to “making the case” for participant-observation as a needed methodology in health care services evaluation. Advocating the use of ethnography in evaluative research does not entail a naive lack of awareness of, nor a stubborn inattention to, contemporary controversies in ethnography (Singer 1990b, 1994; Marcus 1998). Rather, it is predicated on the realization that what-

ever its limitations in enabling us to construct a completely unimposed “truth” about the behaviors of other people, our objective must remain “achieving the particular kinds of truths needed to establish programs to save people’s lives” (Kotarba 1990, 260). Ethnography in this sense has the potential to provide evaluation research insights that are “good enough” for this purpose. As Geertz (1995, 133) observes, ethnography fosters the pursuit of “research you can believe in and [the writing of] sentences you can more or less live with.” Notes. 1. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Workshop on Qualitative Methods in Health Care Provider Behavior and Policy Research sponsored by the RAND Corporation, 1995.

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Ethnographic Research on AIDS Risk Behavior and the Making of Policy. In Speaking the Language of Power: Communication, Collaboration and Advocacy. Edited by David Fetterman. London: Falmore Press.

Weller, Susan, Lee Pachter, Robert Trotter, and Roberta Baer 1993 Empacho in Four Latino Groups: A Study of Intra- and Inter-Cultural Variation in Beliefs.

Medical Anthropology 15:2:109-136.

°

Policy

Historically, anthropology has a long relationship with policy. Anthropologists have contributed to policy formation as basic data collectors whose work informed policy makers; though increasingly over the history of the discipline, we have become more heavily involved with actual policy making itself. Anthropologists have also treated policy formation and implementation as an object of analysis. It is easy to think of policy as a top-down process with strong antidemocratic overtones. From this perspective, policy is a tool used against people and their humanity. Policy might also be thought of as some abstract phenomenon that shapes institutions and individuals in powerful ways based on a codified set of rules and procedures. From this perspective, it is all too easy to fall into what for many is the comfort of the Weberian notion of bureaucracy—an abstract, rational system. Anthropology has a different way of conceptualizing policy that envisions it as a highly political, negotiated process shaped and framed by ideological factors. Those who shape policy have power because they control the process, which establishes rules and procedures, that ultimately has the potential to shape peoples actions, interactions, and ways of viewing the world. However, it is important to remember that the policy envisioned by its makers may become something else in the hands of its implementers, whose goals and agendas may be in conflict or competition with policy makers. Consequently, as policy moves down through a hierarchy of actors who implement or pass along various parts of it, there is also the possibility that it can be reworked and recontextualized in ways that were not intended or imagined by the policy makers themselves (cf. McDonald 1999). Thus, Alexander Ervin (2000:41-43) observes that policy is a cultural process by which problems are identified, publics affected are identified, plans are developed, and actions are taken. Policy (as a set of rules and procedures) is built on a foundation of rationality, efficiency, and planning that is the concern of various kinds of institutions, ranging from government, nongovernmental organizations (e.g., Save the Children, Amnesty International),

and corporations, which provide procedural blueprints for internal as well as external activities (Ervin 2000:43). Power and ideology are infused in the policy-making and implementation process. We may or may not like how problems are defined or plans developed because of the ideological framing that shapes and informs them. For example, development policies frequently trade on an assumption of local backwardness that is linked to either a set of personality traits or cultural dispositions. It is then assumed that Western technology and know-how can fix the problems created by this backwardness. Neoclassical economics so strongly shapes this approach that it is often impossible for policy makers and implementers to disconnect their economic models from how local economies actually operate.

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This snapped into relief when I was talking with a técnico (agricultural extension agent) sent by the state to work in a highly impoverished area of the west Mexican highlands (McDonald 2001). He told me that his job was to get the region’s predominantly small-scale farmers to “change their ideologies.” Rather than seeing farmers’ strategies as reasonable and logical outcomes of the complex constraints that shape their behavior, he chose to see them as conceptualizing their situation in a manner that was simply wrongheaded. “They don’t want to change” was his frustrated response to a question about how his attempts to effect change were going, rather than “they can’t change” because of certain material constraints they face. From his perspective, these farmers were backward and rejected the well-intended help he offered. The implication is that if (or really when) they fail and go out of business, they are to blame. This chapter features a series of articles from different sectors of applied research— agriculture (Finan), law (van Willigen and Channa), and cultural conservation (Howell)—

each of which have strong policy implications. By critiquing as well as contributing to policy formation, anthropology has increasingly situated itself as a policy discipline in the areas that are examined in the second section of this volume.

References Cited Ervin, Alexander M.

2000

Applied Anthropology: Tools and Perspectives for Contemporary Practice. Boston: Allyn & Bacon.

McDonald, James H.

1999 2001

The Neoliberal Project and Governmentality in Rural Mexico: Emergent Farmer Organization in the Michoacan Highlands. Human Organization 58(3):274-284. Reconfiguring the Countryside: Power, Control, and the (Re)Organization of Farmers in West Mexico. Human Organization 60(3): 247-258.

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Changing Roles of Agriculture in Global Development Policy: Is Anthropology (Out)Standing in Its Field? TimothyJ. Finan INTRODUCTION It is perhaps symptomatic of our bridge-building metaphors, never cians nor politicians seem to know called “globalization” has assumed

fin-de-siécle atmosphere that, despite all the current has the crossing been so uncertain. Neither academi-

what awaits us on the other side, because the process proportions of a social and economic juggernaut that

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is transforming the world in ways we cannot quite predict. From Stephen Hymer’s (1972) pioneering explorations into the internationalization of capital to the corporate organizational theorizing of David Korten (1995), the global “phenomenon” has generated a

sense of urgency and apprehension that one feels upon entering looming, uncharted territory. Particularly, among those anthropologists who study and practice in the field of rural development, it is a matter of significant concern as to how local communities will fare in the wake of such a relentless global process. Nevertheless, while the other side of the century remains murky and only dimly perceived from our current vantage point, it has become crystal clear that anthropologists will be challenged to adapt to altered political and economic realities, to new problems that require new tools, and to seek new levels of engagement in the global community. Globalization, in fact, evades easy definition, and most attempts have recourse to

metonymic expressions that describe specific outcomes of the process: the piecemeal stitching of soccer balls in Pakistan that are then propelled into goal nets with Reeboks produced in Malaysia; the 3-dollar-a-day job (and happy to get it!) in a Nogales maquiladora; the rapid expansion of international finance capital; legal and clandestine movements of labor both off-farm and out-of-country; and the unprecedented spread of information to the seemingly remotest reserves of the planet. In this hegemonic world, the surface flow of goods, capital, labor, and information is not random, but rather both rep-

resents and facilitates a critical undercurrent of international power adjustments. In this sense, globalization is best defined as a restructuring of power relationships across borders, where, in fact, international economic interests subsume, perhaps even subvert, nation-

state loyalties. Major corporations commonly operate in countries with a smaller GNP than the firm itself. The remarkably neutral and impersonal term owt-sourcing provides a guilt-free and highly efficient mechanism of exploiting cheap and very human labor. While governments may remain sovereign in some theoretical sense, their economic policies are more frequently determined by regional (e.g., North Atlantic Free Trade Agreement) or international (e.g., World Trade Organization) policy-making bodies, by imposed multilateral conditionalities, or by the sheer influence of the direct foreign investment. As Max Weber so brilliantly taught us, ideology provides motive and opportunity for economic action. The process of globalization, while certainly a function of the technology of instant communication, depends more fundamentally upon the economic philosophy of neoliberalism. The principal tenets of neoliberalism, much as they were in Adam Smith’s time, include the following: ¢ Markets possess the unrivaled ability to distribute goods and services most efficiently; ¢ National wealth increases for all partners when free trade is permitted; ¢ National wealth and well-being are defined in terms of increased consumption, i.e., growth; and ¢ Government's role is to provide the institutional context that facilitates free market and

trading activity. Any other public intervention is ultimately inefficient and detrimental. It is this economic philosophy, nattily attired in scientific robes, that provides the sanctioning benediction for globalization. If one were to question any of the above tenets, to suggest that the efficient solution might not be the socially desirable one or to make the

case for improved distribution of national wealth, globalization might take a much different direction than the current trajectory.

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agriculture In this modest essay, I wish to examine the impact of globalization upon ¢ meaning its and elopment dev rural upon production, agricultural of forms social the and in this uncertain context, upon agricultural anthropology and, I argue, its expanded responsibility in documenting the impacts of this truly worldwide phenomenon. But facing an uncertain future, I have ‘chosen to consult the dev elopment archives in search of past insights for clues to how anthropology might respond. First, I review the relationship of agricultural change to development—as common wisdom would have it.

THE ROLE OF AGRICULTURE IN DEVELOPMENT In 1994, for the first time in documented history, the World Bank (1996) reported that less than half the world’s labor force (49 percent) was involved in agriculture. At the same

time, the portion of the world’s population that resides in rural areas is rapidly diminishing. In 1994, 45 percent of the world’s population was characterized as urban. With a few exceptions that yield to ready explanation, the poorer countries have greater proportions of the labor force in agriculture and fewer people living in cities. Even among the poorer economies, however, the trend toward urbanization and nonfarm economic activity is pronounced. At the household level, this trend assumes a more human face. The household

surveys carried out by the Bureau of Applied Research in Anthropology (BARA), particularly those related to issues of food security, have quickly dispelled the romantic notion of an independent, self-sufficient, and sustainable family unit (or community unit, for that

matter). Rather, from the most isolated regions of Chad to Mozambique to Haiti, the well-being of households is directly related to access to off-farm income, often times gen-

erated in urban capitals or in foreign countries. In a paper that became de vigewr classroom text on economic development, Johnston and Mellor (1961) defined the contribution of agriculture to the development process. In this traditional model, agriculture produces food to feed urban populations and food and fiber for industry, transfers (excess) labor into urban-based employment, generates capital for nonagricultural investment, and creates demand for agroindustrial products, such as farm implements, pesticides, fertilizers, seeds, and fuel. In this dynamic, agriculture plays a “leading-sector” role in the evolution and diversification of the economy. Hence, agriculture “leads” to a structural transformation of the economy (Johnston and Kilby 1975) where the rural population seeks higher wages off-farm, leaving those behind to improve their labor productivity through the expansion of farm size and the adoption of laborsaving technologies. While this theoretical approach was built on a Western reality and validated among the industrial powers of the Far East Japan, Taiwan, and South Korea), it

assumes the existence of a nonagricultural sector robust enough to absorb excess farm labor as well as access to institutions and technologies that permit the anticipated advances in labor productivity (e.g., land and credit markets, local research institutions). The structural-transformation model retains its influence yet today, and most de-

velopment scholars agree that the 1.5 hectare farm for the average rural family of six is not consistent with a vision of improved well-being. Consequently, the major agricultural development themes on the last three decades have focused on the processes of technical and institutional change that underlie such a transformation. That most countries have,

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in fact, not gone through this transformation shall be dealt with below. For the present,

however, I wish to review—in broad sweeps of the development brush—three major motifs that have characterized recent history, each with a slightly different focus on the role

of agriculture and with different implications for applied anthropology: ¢ The Green Revolution promoted the development and widespread adoption of “technological packages” consisting of a powerful combination of high-yielding hybrid seed, fertilizer and pesticides, and, in most cases, irrigation water. The Green Revolution constituted a worldwide effort to eradicate famine in food-deficit countries,

and as such the essential development role was defined in terms of food production at the national level. The success stories were those that reported the achievement of national self-sufficiency in both food and fiber. * The movement called Farming Systems Research and Extension (FSRE) arose amidst

severe criticisms of the Green Revolution. One such vector of criticism centered on the distributional problem: the benefits of the Green Revolution were experienced at national levels and unequally captured by those producers with adequate access to markets and capital. Most producers remained marginal to the stream of benefits. A second vector of criticism attacked the implicit Green Revolution methodology of technology transfer for its emphasis on single-crop technologies and its lack of farmer participation. The several versions of FSRE introduced a systems approach that focused on households, the complexity of household systems, and the importance of “client-orientation,” which includes the farmer as active partner in technology adoption. In contrast to the Green Revolution, the FSRE approach interpreted the development impact of agriculture in terms of improved household food production and income generation, particularly for the majority of farm households that filled the ranks of the poor. ¢ In the 1980s, Structural Adjustment Policy Reform (SAP) moved the development focus to the macro-level and reduced, if not ignored, the importance of local communities

and households. In fact, as many critics point out, structural adjustment worsened the position of large segments of the population, at least over the short run. The neoliberal philosophy that defined the components of policy reform was widely accepted by policy makers in developing countries. As a result, the role of government was drastically curtailed. All forms of producer and consumer subsidies were eliminated or severely diminished; primary health and education services became feebased; domestic prices were harmonized with border prices; local currencies were devalued; and the ownership of much economic activity was transferred into private

hands. Under SAP reforms, agriculture became “outward-riented,” and its development role was to make agriculture generate export income and, through export production, contribute to the macro-level recuperation of the economy. In the now-familiar “stick-and-carrot” strategy that characterizes the patrons of SAP re-

form, the receipt of international aid became conditional upon adherence to the program (the stick), while bountiful funds were made available to the faithful in order to

promote privatization, land entitlement, market development, and other components of neoliberalism (the carrot).

As I sketch this rough-hewed history of agricultural development, critical reflection must acknowledge the meta-level themes that pervade these three phases. Even if the

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laudable intentions of the donor community remain, for the moment, unassailed, it is

clear that the priorities within the structure of agricultural production change dramatically in each development paradigm. The development burden agriculture must shoulder shifts from national food security (staving off starvation) to household food security (upholding households) to stabilizing the national economy to secure its place in the world economy. These priorities bear important implications for the dialectic between growth and equity as well as the power dialectic between worlds ordinally defined. On further reflection, regardless of the specific emphasis of a particular phase, development as a sys-

tem of purposive human endeavor has reinforced, even if unconsciously, the globalization of local communities. To be more straightforward, the development process has radically intensified meddling in the affairs of the poor. At the same time, the trend line defined by these stages has also charted dramatically changed roles for applied anthropology.

ANTHROPOLOGY AND RURAL DEVELOPMENT Anthropology as an applied science has gained increasing respect through these different development paradigms, in effect establishing its legitimacy in terms of both theoretical perspective and unique methodology. In an interesting and ongoing dynamic, agricultural anthropologists have earned their turn in the development debate, while at the same time being profoundly affected by it. More than any other discipline, we have moved beyond our professional “funds of knowledge” to acquire and incorporate new concepts, to learn about physical, chemical, and biological processes that intimately affect human communities. Our methodological toolbox has expanded to adapt to new problem definitions. For example, we have anthropologists in BARA who feel as comfortable with social science applications of GIS and remote sensing as they do with ethnography, an adaptability that in effect empowers anthropological knowledge, removing it from the esoteric and applying it to concrete problem solving. In this evolution of their applied science, anthropologists have, at each emergence of a new development motif, adjusted their range of inquiry and developed tools that throw significant light on the human condition without sacrificing the uniqueness of the anthropological essence. Let us detail this progression more fully. Green Revolution

If one can mark the beginnings of the Green Revolution to about the mid-1960s, the period also becomes a benchmark for the emergence of an applied anthropology of development. Prior to this period, the bulk of anthropological inquiry in agriculture examined peasant society, its material or ideological bases, its internal differentiation, and its ex-

ploitation by external forces. With the Green Revolution and in the geopolitical spirit of the 1960s, anthropologists and other social scientists came to acknowledge “directed change” as an emerging social reality. Major international efforts were channeled into solving technological problems through large-scale infrastructure projects (e.g., in the Sene-

gal River valley, Egypt, and Sri Lanka), through international research centers developing

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new, fertilizer-responsive varieties of basic grains, tubers, and livestock in both the semi-

arid and humid tropics, and through the promotion of extension institutions and methodologies designed to “teach” farmers how to increase production.

While the Green Revolution registered important advances in national food security, particularly in Latin America and Asia, its technological approach favored specific forms of agricultural production. From several locally based perspectives, anthropologists were well poised to evaluate the impacts of this technology intensification on communities and households. For the most part, anthropologists examined issues of access to Green Revolution technologies by poor households, particularly those requiring irrigation; the approriateness of high-yielding grain varieties that might subperform traditional varieties in poor climatic years; the reduction in crop diversity on subsistence farms; the negative environmental and distributional impacts of infrastructural projects designed to promote Green Revolution transformations; and the disregard of local indigenous knowledge in the development of technological options. In general, anthropology projected a persistent gadfly image, one that did not endear it to the major development actors, but which did serve notice that issues other than the technological solution must be addressed if development goals of increased well-being were to be met. From the established Redfieldian genre of peasant studies and the pioneering advances of Wolf, Cancian, and others, the nature of inquiry changed to address an emerging reality—the imposition of the concept of progress on the world’s societies. While development and its underlying moral imperative had precedents throughout the colonial world, including Native American North America, the Green Revolution marked the first

worldwide attempt to meddle, good intentions notwithstanding, and to meddle in a consistent, encompassing manner. Among those anthropologists who chose to engage, some defended their “people” from such directed change as if it were mutated colonialist pestilence, disguised but no less virulent; others accepted the paradigm, but remonstrated that such change had failed to “ fit” the social context and, well, failed (see Cernea 1985). For both

camps, the Green Revolution created a certain need for the anthropological perspective and thus spawned an intellectual debate that, albeit dimly, turned our attention toward the impacts of global process.

Farming Systems Research and Extension In my own, possibly biased, opinion, the FSRE phase of agricultural development formally and explicitly acknowledged the indispensability of the anthropological perspective and offered new opportunities for both applied science and anthropological practice. The multidisciplinary component of this system-oriented methodology! and its specific focus on farmer (and household) participation created unprecedented employment opportunities for agricultural anthropologists. In contrast to the Green Revolution phase, where anthropology played the more marginal role of ex post critic, the FSRE anthropologist actually designed projects from their very inception, including proposed interventions, the implementation methodologies, and the monitoring systems. At an unprecedented scale, FRSE generated a “mass demand” for the anthropological perspective on both field teams and in bilateral and multilateral donor agencies.

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With its pointed focus on short-term pariticipatory problem solving, FSRE again modified the nature of anthropological inquiry and method. Applied anthropologists were challenged to adapt their funds of imnowledge to issues of appropriate technology, to think of “constraints and opportunities,” and to acquire basic levels of common idiom to permit effective, albeit patient, communication with team members who couldn’t differentiate moieties from molehills. It is also in the context of FSRE that anthropologists began to “discover” the impacts of intrahousehold variability on successful rural development. It can be argued that the emergence of FSRE and the institutionalization of gender issues in the Women-in-Development (WID) divisions of most bilateral and multilateral agencies did not occur coincidentally, but much resulted from the systematic study of households around the world (Henderson 1995). Finally, it was during this period that sustainability became part of the anthropological vocabulary, with a definition and a research strategy that even cultural ecologists could find unique. I confess possible bias with regard to FSRE, because its time in hay-making sunshine also inspired and occasioned the expansion of the BARA research agenda into multidisciplinary agricultural development. Its portfolio of projects expanded to include long-term research in farming systems in Portugal, Cape Verde, and Mozambique, which led to the client-based, mixed-methods approach that orients our current research philosophy. At the same time, BARA established its Women-in-Development program and a WID philosophy that permeates our institutional research and training, in or out of agriculture. In a resounding fashion, the time-tempered tools of anthropological ethnography had to be reworked to fit the resource and time constraints of actual FSRE projects. The initial step in the methodology called for a rapid survey of a project region (Hildebrand 1981) by the multidisciplinary, team. The outcome of this survey was a classification of “recommendation domains,” household types that shared unique sets of constraints which, logically, would require unique problem-solving interventions. The criteria that differentiated recommendation domains were often established through a combination of social and technical factors. However, these surveys were carried out under binding time constraints, often six weeks or less, hardly appeasing the sentivities of the traditional ethnographer. Applied anthropology responded to this methodological summons by converting the rapid rural appraisal (RRA) into a refined and highly flexible anthropological fieldwork tool. Even a casual review of Human Organization or a perusal of the syllabi of applied methods courses in most anthropology departments attests to the widespread acceptance of RRA as a legitimate field method. In fact, in research units such as BARA, we continuously strive to improve rapid appraisal skills and techniques to fit specific problem settings (e.g., household food security and natural resource management), and RRA in one or another manifestation has become an important component of BARA’s integrated research approach (Finan 1996). The legacy of FSRE for applied anthropology and its role in rural development goes beyond an expansion of the range of inquiry and the fashioning of new field tools. This phase of development also produced a generation of applied scientists without a “people.” Among this group, it is not to be heard that some colleague studies the Bunyoro or the Kiowa, but rather that this prototypical colleague works in East Africa or “does” Latin America. One respected colleague told me she had worked in 60 countries! At the same time, with FSRE, anthropologists have come to accept the proactive role as legitimate par-

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ticipants and partners in the development process. For example, BARA developed its international program during the FSRE wave and has defined its mission in precisely those terms: a research (and training) unit committed to promoting the social science dimensions of development.

Structural-Adjustment Policy Reform Applied anthropology has traditionally considered itself a “policy science” ... During the 1980s, the conventional focus of a policy science expanded to encompass the nature of macro-micro relationships (e.g., DeWalt and Pelto 1985), i.e., to examine how impacts of

macro decisions were channeled to local communities. In this sense, anthropology was partially poised to respond to this particular development phase. Throughout the 1980s and into current times, most of Africa and Latin America and many countries in Asia “underwent” either structural-adjustment reform or stabilization programs, which to pursue the surgical idiom, entailed a neoliberalism implant. During this period, there was general consensus among the international donor giants and conservative Western governments that the Third World had mismanaged itself into a crisis that could upset the stability of the world economic system. Even if one argues, as I have, that structural-adjustment reform did not constitute “development,” it was imposed under sets of conditionalities linked to development assistance. Thus, country after country was wheeled into the operating theater, reformed along neoliberal lines, then re-embraced by the donors. Since structural reform is based on classical economic theory and thus the domain of monetarist free-market economists, few anthropologists participated in the design of the reform programs. Nonetheless, as a class, anthropologists reacted against SAP reform for two reasons: on theoretical grounds to the blind adherence to culture-free, marketbased solutions; and on practical grounds to the negative burden SAP reform imposed on the disadvantaged and underprivileged. In the latter case, anthropologists with other social scientists set to work to document the impacts of structural reform on different segments of the population (e.g., Gladwin 1991). With regard to the former criticism, the reigning emphasis on policy effectively broadened the intellectual and methodological interests of anthropology in the policy-making process. Perhaps inadvertently, structural adjustment made policy specialists of applied anthropologists to a degree and in a manner heretofore unseen. The flurry of criticism surrounding the documented impacts of structural adjustment on local communities led the World Bank to first consider mitigating safety-net programs for the poor, then to invest large amounts of resources into the measuring of poverty in reformed countries. As the donor priorities have shifted to poverty-alleviation measures, another niche for anthropologists has opened. Thus, with a twist of irony, the macro-reform decade of development succeeded in turning attention to the “real” development problems: poverty and household food insecurity. The development role of anthropology in the wake of structural adjustment has again required a refocusing of anthropological inquiry and creative methodological adaptations. The theoretical issues that emerge around the SAP reform effort involve the effectiveness of market-based interventions, the social desirability of widespread privatization, and the process by which policy decisions are transmitted to local communities. With the subsequent concern on poverty, anthropologists have been asked for methods to better identity

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the poor segments of society, to target interventions more effectively, and to promote better community participation. As BARA has discovered in its numerous food-security studies (including perhaps the largest rural household survey in the history of Haiti—a sample of 4,300 households), the greatest methodological challenge is to convert field-level data into policy-relevant text, to translate analytical results into an idiom that policy makers can understand and act upon.

DEVELOPMENT

IN CRISIS? NOT!

This historical sketch of development suggests what some might consider an unstable voguish quality to development theories and approaches. I can also accept the criticism that reigning paradigms of development are seriously flawed, both intrinsically in their own definition of terms (i.e., “what is development”) and operationally in their inability

to eliminate the undesirable conditions they target. But if we seek out prevailing and pervasive trends over the last three decades or so, we can begin to perceive the process of globalization reflected in this development sequence. Moreover, to the extent that anthropology had adopted and expanded to the challenges inherent in each phase, the profession itself has become increasingly globalized. We must recognize that as professionals we too have become effective meddlers, and no level of human activity, from micro to

macro, escapes our meddling. Escobar’s (1995) influential critique has coalesced a group of anthropologists who sound the development death knell. Their argument promotes the current notion that development is a Western-based discourse that has perpetuated hegemonic control over Third World societies and, as such, is a bankrupt enterprise best abandoned. This position is well stated and from a certain perspective attractive. However, it fails to address a double reality. One is the reality of poverty as defined in terms of human deprivation and the absence of opportunity to realize essential human potential due to food insecurity and lack of health, education, and employment. To ignore utter worldwide responsibility for the welfare of all human communities is to creep dangerously close to a distorted and morally suspect cultural relativity that applied anthropology has only recently escaped. The other reality is the irreversibility of the globalization process itself. Meddling shall continue to increase and the sharedness of global culture will expand. Anthropologists have been part and parcel of this dynamic, and even if the world that globalization is crafting remains imperfectly perceived, the role of applied anthropology is well defined. If by development, one means an industrial First World conspiracy to subjugate powerless Third World communities into a role of self-effacing cultural and economic inferiority, let the endeavor be ceased and the concept exorcized. If, on the other hand, development means directed change toward the minimization of poverty and the expansion of opportunity, then it becomes not only desirable but essential in a globalizing world. As that bridge appears large on the horizon, anthropology must take up the gauntlet, as it has done before. We must identify the critical problem and forge the appropriate tool to discern, decipher, and depict a rapidly transforming world. The anthropologist as documentarian of the marginalized, as advocate of the powerless, as interpreter and evaluator

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of policy, as scholar, advisor, and bureaucrat shall find the greatest levels of engagement as cultures and communities continue to meet and negotiate with one another.

Notes 1. Every FSRE team was comprised of the compulsory anthropologist, the agricultural economist, and a potpourri of agricultural or livestock scientists. In the FSRE methodology these team members, often with little prior experience in multidisciplinary teamwork, were required to reach consensus on constraints and possible intervention strategies. Such consensus building often generated a dynamic that itself would inspire very interesting analysis.

References Cited Cernea, Michael M., ed. 1985 Putting People First: Sociological Variables in Rural Development. New York: Oxford University

Press. DeWalt, Billie R., and Pertti J. Pelto, eds.

1985

Micro and Macro Levels of Analysis in Anthropology: Issues in Theory and Research. Boulder, CO: Westview.

Escobar, Arturo

1995

Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Finan, TimothyJ. 1996 Anthropological Research Methods in a Changing World. In Transforming Societies, ‘Tranforming Anthropology. E. F. Moran, ed. Pp. 301-324. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Gladwin, Christina H., ed.,

1991

Structural Adjustment and African Women Farmers. Gainesville: University of Florida Press.

Henderson, Helen K., ed.

1995

Gender and Agricultural Development: Survey of the Field. Tucson: University of Arizona Press.

Hildebrand, Peter E. 1981 Combining Disciplines in Rapid Appraisal: The Sondeo Approach. Agricultural Administration

8:423-32. Hymer, Steven 1972

The Internationalization of Capital. Journal of Economic Issues [V(1):91-112.

Johnston, Bruce F., and John W. Mellor 1961 The Role of Agriculture in Economic Development. American Economic Review 51:566-93. Johnston, Bruce F.,, and Peter Kilby 1975

Agriculture and Structural Transformation: Economic Strategies in Late-Developing Countries.

London: Oxford University Press. Korten, David C.

1995

When Corporations Rule the World. West Hartford, CT: Kumarian Press.

World Bank 1996 World Development Report. Washington, DC: The World Bank.

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MREADING

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Law, Custom, and Crimes against Women: The Problem of Dowry Death in India John van Willigen and V. C. Channa A 25-year-old woman was allegedly burnt to death by her husband and mother-in-law at their East Delhi home yesterday. The housewife, Mrs. Sunita, stated before her death at the Jaya Prakash Narayana Hospital that members of her husband’s family had been harassing her for bringing inadequate dowry. The woman told the Shahdara subdivisional magistrate that during a quarrel over dowry at their Pratap Park house yesterday, her husband gripped her from behind while the mother-in-law poured kerosene over her clothes. Her clothes were then set ablaze. The police have registered a case against the victim’s husband, Suraj Prakash, and his mother.

(Times of India, February 19, 1988)

This routinely reported news story describes what in India is termed a “bride-burning” or “dowry death.” Such incidents are frequently reported in the newspapers of Delhi and other Indian cities. In addition, there are cases in which the evidence may be ambiguous, so that deaths of women by fire may be recorded as kitchen accidents, suicides, or murders. Dowry violence takes a characteristic form. Following marriage and the requisite giving of dowry, the family of the groom makes additional demands for the payment of more cash or the provision of more goods. These demands are expressed in unremitting harassment of the bride, who is living in the household of her husband’s parents, culminating in the murder of the women by members of her husband’s family or by her suicide. The woman is typically burned to death with kerosene, a fuel used in pressurized cook stoves, hence the use of the term “bride-burning” in public discourse. Dowry death statistics appear frequently in the press and parliamentary debates. Parliamentary sources report the following figures for married women 16 to 30 years of age in Delhi: 452 deaths by burning for 1985; 478 for 1986 and 300 for the first six months of 1987 (Bhatia 1988). There were 1,319 cases reported nationally in 1986 (Times of India,

January 10, 1988). Police records do not match hospital records for third degree burn cases among younger married women; far more violence occurs than the crime reports indicate (Kumari 1988).

There is other violence against women related both directly and indirectly to the institution of dowry. For example, there are unmarried women who commit suicide so as to relieve their families of the burden of providing a dowry. A recent case that received national attention in the Indian press involved the triple suicide of three sisters in the industrial city of Kanpur. A photograph was widely published showing the three young women hanging from ceiling fans by their scarves. Their father, who earned about 4,000

Rs. per month, was not able to negotiate marriage for his oldest daughter. The grooms were requesting approximately 100,000 Rs. Also linked to the dowry problem is selective

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female abortion made possible by amniocentesis. This issue was brought to national attention with a startling statistic reported out of a seminar held in Delhi in 1985. Of 3,000 abortions carried out after sex determination through amniocentesis, only one involved a male fetus. As a result of these developments, the government of the state of Maharashtra banned sex determination tests except those carried out in government hospitals. The phenomenon of dowry death presents a difficult problem for the ethnologist. Ethnological theory, with its residual functionalist cast, still does not deal effectively with the social costs of institutions of what might be arguably referred to as custom gone bad, resulting in a culturally constituted violence syndrome. This essay examines dowry and its violent aspects, and some of the public solutions developed to deal with it in India. Our work consists of a meta-analysis of some available literature. We critique the legal mechanisms established to regulate the cultural institution of dowry and the resultant social evils engendered by the institution, and argue that policies directed against these social evils need to be constructed in terms of an underlying cause rather than of the problem itself. We consider cause, an aspect of the problem infrequently discussed in public debate. As Saini asserts, “legal academicians have shown absolutely no interest in the causal roots of dowry as practiced in contemporary India” (1983:143).

THE INSTITUTION Since ancient times, the marriage of Hindus has required the transfer of property from the family of the bride to the family of the groom. Dowry or daan dehej is thought by some to be sanctioned by such religious texts as the Manusmriti. Seen in this way, dowry is a religious obligation of the father of a woman and a matter of dharma (religious duty) whereby authority over a woman is transferred from her father to her husband. This transfer takes different forms in different communities in modern India (Iambiah 1973). In

public discussion, the term dowry covers a wide range of traditional payments and expenses, some presented to the groom’s family and others to be retained by the bride. Customs have changed through time. The financial burdens of gifts and the dowry payments per se are exacerbated by the many expenses associated with the marriage celebration itself, but dowry payment is especially problematic because of its open-ended nature. As Tambiah notes, “marriage payments in India usually comprise an elaborate series of payments back and forth between the marrying families” and “this series extends over a long period of time and persists after marriage” (1973:92). Contemporary cases such as the death of Mrs. Sunita, often revolve around such continued demands.

A daughter’s marriage takes a long time to prepare and involves the development of an adaptive strategy on the part of her family. An important part of the strategy is the preparation for making dowry payments; family consumption may be curtailed so as to allow accumulation of money for dowry. Seeing to marriage arrangements may be an important aspect of retirement planning. The dowries that the family receives on behalf of their sons may be “rolled over” to deal with the daughter's requirements. Families attempt to cultivate in both their sons and daughters attributes that will make them more attractive in marriage negotiations. Many things besides dowry are considered in negotiations; “non-economic” factors have demonstrable effect on the expectations for dowry and the family’s strategy concerning the dowry process.

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Education is a variable to be considered in the negotiation process. Education of young women is somewhat problematic because suitable husbands for such women must also

be college educated. The parents of such young men demand more dowry for their sons. A consideration in sending a young woman to college will therefore be her parents’ capacity

to dower her adequately so as to obtain an appropriate groom. In any case, education is secondary to a man’s earning power and the reputation of a woman’s family. Education is, however, important in the early stages of negotiation because of the need to coordinate the level of the education of the men and women. Education qualifications are also less ambiguously defined than other dimensions of family reputation. Physical attractiveness is a consideration, but it is thought somewhat unseemly to emphasize this aspect of the decision. Advertisements in newspapers are used for establishing marriage proposals (Aluwalia 1969, Niehoff 1959, Weibe and Ramu 1971), but contacts are more typically established

through kin and other networks. Some marriages may be best termed “self-arranged,” and are usually called “love marriages.” In these cases, young men and women may develop a relationship independent of their families and then ask that negotiations be carried out on their behalf by family representatives. Analysis of matrimonial advertisements shows some of the attributes considered to be important. Listed in such advertisements are education, age, income and occupation,

physical attributes, gorra (a kind of unilineal descent group) membership, family background, place of residence, personality features, consideration of dowry, time and type of marriage, and language. Consideration of dowry and other expenditures are brought out early in the negotiations and can serve as a stumbling block. Dowry negotiations can go on for some time. The last stage is the actual “seeing of the groom” and the “seeing of the bride,” both rather fleeting encounters whose position at the end of the process indicates their relative lack of importance. Marriage is a process by which two families mutually evaluate each other. The outcome of the negotiations is an expression of the relative worth of the two persons, a man and a woman, and, by extensions, the worth of their respective families. This estimation

of worth is expressed in marriage expenditures, of which dowry is but a part. There are three possible types of expenditures: cash gifts, gifts of household goods, and expenditures on the wedding celebration itself. The cash gift component of the dowry goes to the groom’s father and comes to be part of his common household fund. The household goods are for use by the groom’s household, although they may be used to establish a separate household for the newlyweds. When separate accommodations are not set up, the groom's family may insist that the goods do not duplicate things they already have. Dates for marriages are set through consideration of horoscopes; horoscopy is done by professional astrologers (pandits). This practice leads to a concentration of marriage dates and consequent high demand for marriage goods and services at certain times of the year. During marriage seasons, the cost of jewelry, furniture, clothes, musicians’ services,

and other marriage-related expenditures goes up, presumably because of the concentration of the demand caused by the astrologers. The expenditures required of the woman’s family for the wedding in general and the dowry in particular are frequently massive. Paul reports, for a middle-class Delhi neighborhood, that most dowries were over 50,000 Rs. (1986). Srinivas comments that

dowries over 200,000 Rs. are not uncommon (1984).!

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ETHNOLOGICAL THEORIES ABOUT DOWRY Dowry had traditionally been discussed by ethnologists in the context of the functionalist paradigm, and much theorizing about dowry appears to be concerned with explaining the “contribution” that the institution makes to social adaptation. The early theoretician Westermarck interpreted dowry as a social marker of the legitimacy of spouse and offspring, and as a mechanism for defining women’ social roles and property rights in the new household (Westermarck 1921:428). Murdock suggests that dowry may confirm the

contract of marriage (1949). Dowry is interpreted by Friedl as a means to adjust a woman to her affinal home as it rearranges social relationships including the social separation of the man from his parents (1967). Dowry payments are public expressions of the new relationship between two families, and of the social status of the bride and groom. Dowry is seen in the social science literature as a kind of antemortem or anticipated inheritance by which a widow is assured of support, and provision for her offspring (Friedl 1967; Goody 1973, 1976). It transfers money to where the women will be and where they will reproduce; as a result, resources are also placed where the children will benefit, given the practice of patrilineal inheritance of immovable, economically valuable property like farm land. In India, dowry is also seen as an expression of the symbolic order of society. According to Dumont, dowry expresses the hierarchal relations of marriage in India and lower status of the bride (Dumont 1957). The amount of dowry given is an expression of prestige. The capacity to buy prestige through dowry increases the potential for social mobility (Goody 1973). Dowry is a kind of delayed consumption used to demonstrate or improve social rank (Epstein 1960). There is a significant discontinuity between discussions of dowry in the ethnological theory and in public discourse. Certainly the dowry problem does appear in the writing of contemporary ethnologists, but it is simply lamented and left largely uninterpreted and unexplained.

THE EXTANT SOLUTIONS TO THE PROBLEM The Dowry Prohibition Act of 1961, as amended in 1984 and 1986, is the primary legal

means for regulating the dowry process and controlling its excesses. ‘The laws against dowry are tough. Dowry demand offenses are “cognizable” (require no warrant) and non-bailable, and the burden of proof is on the accused. There are, in fact, convictions under the law. The act defines dowry as “any property of valuable security given or agreed to be given either directly or indirectly—(a) by one party to a marriage to the other party to a marriage; or (b) by parents of either party to a marriage or by any other person, to either party to the marriage or to any other person” (Government of India 1986:1). The act makes it illegal to

give or take dowry “If any person after the commencement of this act, gives or takes or abets the giving or taking of dowry, he shall be punishable with imprisonment for a term which shall not be less than five years; and with fine which shall not be less than fifteen thousand rupees or the amount of the value of such dowry which ever is more” (Government of India 1986:1). While this section unambiguously prohibits dowry, the third section allows wed-

ding presents to be freely given. Thus the law does not apply to “presents which are given

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at the time of marriage to the bride (without demand having been made in that behalf)”

(Government of India 1986:1). Identical provision apply to the groom. Furthermore, all such presents much be listed on a document before the consummation of the marriage. The list is to contain a brief description and estimation of the value of the gifts, name of pre-

senting person, and the relationship that person has with the bride and groom. ‘This regulation also provides “that where such presents are made by or on the behalf of the bride or any other person related to the bride, such presents are of a customary nature and the value thereof is not excessive having regard to the financial status of the person by whom, or on whose behalf, such presents are given” (Government of India 1986:2). Amendments made in 1984 make it legal for a person to demand dowry with the same penalty as under the earlier “giving and taking” provision. It was also declared illegal to advertise for dowry, such an offense being defined as not bailable, with the burden of proof on the accused person. This legislation was coupled with some changes in the Indian Penal Code that legally established the concept of “dowry death.” That is, “where the death of a woman is caused

by any burns or bodily injury or occurs otherwise than under normal circumstances within seven years of her marriage and it is shown that soon before her death she was subjected to cruelty or harassment by her husband or any relative of her husband for, or in connection with, any demand for dowry, such death shall be called “dowry death,” and such husband or relative shall be deemed to have caused her death” (Government of India 1987:4). The In-

dian Evidence Act of 1871 was changed so as to allow for the presumption of guilt under the circumstances outlined above. Changes in the code allowed for special investigation and reporting procedures of deaths by apparent suicide of women within seven years of marriage if requested by a relative. There were also newly defined special provisions for autopsies. ‘To this point, however, these legal mechanisms have proved ineffective. According to Sivaramayya, the “act has signally failed in its operation” (1984:66). Menon refers to the “near total failure” of the law (1988:12). A similar viewpoint is expressed by Srinivas, who wrote, “The Dowry Prohibition Act of 1961 has been unanimously declared to be an utterly ineffective law” (1984:29).

In addition to the legal attack on dowry abuses, numerous public groups engage in public education campaigns. In urban settings, the most noteworthy of these groups are specialized research units such as the Special Cell for Women of the Tata Institute of Social Sciences (Bombay), and the Center for Social Research (New Delhi). Also involved in the effort are private voluntary organizations such as the Crimes Against Women Cell, Karmika, and Sukh Shanti. These groups issue public education advertising on various feminist issues. The anti-

dowry advertisement of the Federation of Indian Chambers of Commerce and Industry Ladies Organization exemplifies the thrust of these campaigns. In the following advertisement, which was frequently run in the winter of 1988 in newspapers such as the Times of India, a photograph of a doll dressed in traditional Indian bridal attire was shown in flames.

Every time a young bride dies because of dowry demands, we are all responsible for her death. Because we allow it to happen. Each year in Delhi hospitals alone, over 300 brides die of third degree burns. And many more deaths go unreported. Most of the guilty get away. And we just shrug helplessly and say, “what can we do?” We can do a lot. Help create social condemnation of dowry. Refuse to take or give dowry. Protest when you meet people who condone the practice. Reach out and help the girl being harassed for it. Act now. Let’s fight it together.

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As parents, bring up educated, self-reliant daughters. Make sure they marry only after 18. Oppose dowry; refuse to even discuss it. If your daughter is harassed after mar-

riage stand by her. As young men and women, refuse marriage proposals where dowry is being considered. As friends and neighbors, ostracize families who give or take dowry. Reach out to help victims of dowry harassment. As legislators and jurists, frame stronger laws. Ensure speedy hearings, impose severe punishments. As associations, give help and advice. Take up the challenge of changing laws and attitudes of society. Let us all resolve to fight the evil. If we fight together we can win. SAY NO TO DOWRY.

Also engaged in anti-dowry work are peasant political action groups such as Bharatiya Kisan Union (BKU). BKU consists of farmers from western Uttar Pradesh whose political program is focused more generally on agricultural issues. The group sponsored a massive 25-day demonstration at Meerut, Uttar Pradesh, in 1988. The leadership used the demonstration to announce a social reform program, most of it dealing with marriage issues. According to news service reports, “The code of social reforms includes fixing the maximum number of persons in a marriage party at 11, no feasts relating to marriage, and no dowry except 10 grams of gold and 30 grams of silver” (Times of India, February 11, 1988). Buses plying rural roads in western Uttar Pradesh reported to have been painted with the slogan “The bride is the dowry.” Private campaigns against dowry occurs in the countryside as well as among the urban elites, although it is likely that the underlying motivations are quite different.

POLICY ANALYSIS Our argument is based on the assumption that social problems are best dealt with by policies directed at the correction causative factors, rather than at the amelioration of symp-

toms. While current legal remedies directly confront dowry violence, the linkage between cause and the problematic behavior is not made. Here we develop an argument consisting of three components: women’s access to production roles and property; delocalization of social control; and economic transformation of society. The pattern of distribution of aspects of the institution of dowry and its attendant problems is important to this analysis. Although dowry practices and the related crimes against are distributed throughout Indian society, the distribution is patterned in terms of geography, caste rank, socioeconomic rank, urban/rural residence, and employment status of the women. In some places and among some people there is demonstrably more violence, more intensity of dowry practices, and more commitment to dowry itself. Much of the distributional data are problematic in one way or another. The most frequent problem is that the studies are not based on national samples. Furthermore, the interpretation of results is often colored by reformist agendas. There is a tendency to deemphasize differences in frequency from one

segment of the population to another so as to build support of dowry death as a general social reform issue. Nevertheless, while the data available for these distributions are of in-

consistent quality, they are interpretable in terms of our problem.

Women’s Access to Production Roles and Property. Dowty violence is most frequent in north India. Some say that it is an especially severe problem in the Hindi Belt (.e., Uttar

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Pradesh, Haryana, Punjab, Delhi, Bihar) (Government of India 1974:75). It is a lesser, al-

beit increasing, problem in the south. There is also a north/south difference in the marriage institution itself. To simplify somewhat, in the north hypergamy is sought after in marriage alliances, in which case brides seek grooms from higher rank descent groups within their caste group (Srinivas 1984). In the south, marriages are more typically isogamous. The literature comparing north and south India indicates important contrasts at both the ecological and the institutional levels. Based on conceptions developed by Boserup (1970) in a cross-cultural comparative framework on the relationship between the farming system and occupational role of women, Miller (1981) composed a model for explaining the significant north/south differences in the juvenile sex ratio [the ratio of males to females ten years of age and below]. The farming systems of the north are based on “dryfield plow cultivation,” whereas in the south the farming systems are dominated by “swidden and wet-rice cultivation” (Miller 1981:28). These two systems make different labor demands. In the wet-rice or swidden systems of the south, women are very important sources of labor. In the north, women’s involvement in agriculture production is limited. According to Miller, women in the north are excluded from property holding and receive instead a “dowry of movables.” In the south, where women are included in the production activities, they may receive “rights to land” (Miller 1981:28). In the north, women are high-cost items of social overhead, while in the south, women contribute labor and are

more highly valued. In the north there is a “high cost of raising several daughters” while in the south there is “little liability in raising several daughters.” There is thus “discrimination against daughters” and an “intense preference for sons” in the north, and “appreciation for daughters” and “moderate preference for sons” in the south. Miller thus explains the unbalanced-toward-males juvenile sex ratios of the north and the balanced sex ratios of the south (Miller 1981:27-28). The lower economic value of women in the north is ex-

pressed in differential treatment of children by sex. Females get less food, less care, and less attention, and therefore they have a higher death rate. In general the Boserup and Miller economic argument is consistent with Engels’s thesis about the relationship between the subordination of women and property (Engels 1884, Hirschon 1984:1). Miller extended her analysis of juvenile sex ratios to include marriage costs (including dowry), female labor participation, and property owning, and found that property owning was associated with high marriage costs and low female labor force participation, both of which were associated with high juvenile sex ratios. That is, the death rate of females is higher when marriage costs are high and women are kept from remunerative employment. Both of these patterns are associated with the “propertied” segment of the population (Miller 1981:156-159). Her data are derived from the secondary analysis of ethnographic accounts. The literature concerning the distribution of dowry practices and dowry death is consistent with these results. Miller’s analysis shows a general pattern of treatment of females in India. Their access to support in various forms is related to their contribution to production (Miller 1981). This analysis does not explain the problem of dowry violence, but it does demonstrate a fundamental pattern within which dowry violence can be interpreted. The distribution of dowry varies by caste. In her study of dowry violence victims in

Delhi, Kumari found that members of the lower ranking castes report less “dowry harassment” than do those in higher ranking castes (Kumari 1988:3 1). These results are consistent with Miller’s argument since the pattern of exclusion of women from economic

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production roles varies by caste. Women of lower castes are less subject to restrictions concerning employment outside the realm of reproduction within the household. These women are often poor and uneducated, and are subject to other types of restrictions. In the framework of caste, dowry practices of higher caste groups are emulated by lower caste groups. This process is known as “Sanskritization” and it may relate to the widely held view that dowry harassment is increasing in lower ranking castes. Sanskritization is the process by which lower ranked caste groups attempt to raise their rank through the emulation of higher rank castes. The emulation involves discarding certain behaviors (such as eating meat or paying bride price) and adopting alternatives (Srinivas 1969). Attitudinal research shows that people of the lower socioeconomic strata have a greater commitment to dowry than do those of higher strata (Hooja 1969, Khanna and Verghese 1978, Paul 1986). Although the lower and middle classes are committed to dowry, the associated violence, including higher death rates, is more typically a middle class problem (Kumari 1988). Employment status of women has an effect on dowry. In her survey of dowry problems in a south Delhi neighborhood, Paul (1986) found that the amount of dowry was less for employed middle-class women than it was for the unemployed. This pattern is also suggested by Verghese (1980) and van der Veen (1972:40), but disputed by other (Murickan

1975). This link is also manifested among tribal people undergoing urbanization. Tribal people, ranked more toward the low end of the social hierarchy, typically make use a bride price (i.e., a payment to the bride’s family) rather than dowry (Karve 1953). As these groups become more integrated into national life, they will shift to dowry practices to emulate high castes while their women participate less in gainful employment (Luthra 1983). Croll finds a similar relationship in her analysis of post-revolutionary China. She says, “it is the increased value attributed to women’s labor which is largely responsible for the decline in the dowry” (1984:58). Both Kumari (1988) and Srinivas (1984) developed arguments based on non-economic factors. Kumari in effect indicated that if dowry could be explained in economic terms, marriage would be simply a calculation of the value of a woman; if the value were high, bride price would be paid, and if the value were low, dowry transactions would occur. This formulation was presented as a refutation of Madan’s dowry-as-compensation argument (Kumari 1988). We agree that reducing this practice to purely economic terms is an absurdity. The argument is not purely economic, but it is certainly consistent with a cultural materialist perspective (Harris 1979) in which symbolic values are shaped by an underlying material relationship that is the basis for the construction of cultural reality.

Delocalization of Social Control. Dowry violence is more frequent in cities (Saini 1983). Delhi has the reputation of having a high frequency of problems of dowry (Srinivas 1984:7). The urban-rural distribution pattern may be a manifestation of the effects of the delocalization of dowry. Dowry, when operative in the relationships among local caste groups in related villages, was to an extent self-regulating through caste panchayats (councils) and by the joint families themselves. These groups easily reach into peoples’ lives. By contrast, the national-level laws have inadequate reach and cannot achieve regulation. While in some areas caste groups continue to function to limit abuses, these groups are less effective in urban settings. Population movements and competition with state-level social control mechanisms limit the effectiveness of self-regulation. A government com-

mission study of women’s status argues “that because of changed circumstances in which

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a son generally has a separate establishment and has a job somewhere away from home, the parents cannot expect much help from him, and so they consider his marriage as the major occasion on which their investment in his education can be recovered” (Government of India 1974:74). These views are consistent with the research results reported by Paul, who demonstrates that dowry amounts are higher among people who have migrated to Delhi and those who live in nuclear families, because the families in general and the women in particular are less subject to social constraints (Paul 1986). New brides do not

seem to have adequate support networks in urban settings. Economic Transformation of Society. “The custom of dowry has been thrown into disarray by inflationary pressures. The consumer price index for urban non-manual workers has increased from its reference year of 1960 value of 100 to 532 for 1984-85 (Government of India 1987). The media of dowry exchange have changed dramatically because of the increasing availability of consumer goods. It has become increasingly difficult to prepare for giving dowry for a daughter or a sister. Sharma argues that, in part, dowry problems are caused by rapid change in the nature of consumer goods which made it no longer possible to accumulate gift goods over a long period as the latest styles in material goods could not be presented (1984:70-71). The current regime of individual dowry seeking and giving is constituted as a kind of rational behavior. That is, it is achieved through choice, is consistent with certain val-

ues, and serves to increase someone’s utility. There are a number of things sought by the groom’s family in these transactions. Wealth and family prestige are especially important. The family prestige “bought” with marriage expenditures, which is relevant to both the bride and groom’s side in the transaction, is no doubt very much worth maximizing in the Indian context. From the perspective of the bride’s family, dowry payments involve trading present consumption for future earning power for their daughter through acquiring a groom with better qualities and connections. In a two-tier, gender-segregated, high unemployment, inflationary economy such as that of India, one can grasp the advantage of investing in husbands with high future earning potential. It is also possible to argue that in societies with symbolic mechanisms of stratification, it is expected that persons will attempt to make public displays of consumption in order to improve their overall performance and so to take advantage of the ambiguities of the status hierarchy system. The demand for both symbolic goods and future earnings is highly elastic. Family connections, education, and wealth seem especially important in India, and they all serve as hedges against inflation and poverty. With women having limited access to jobs and earning lower pay, it is rational to invest in a share of the groom’s prospects. If you ask people why they give dowry when their daughters are being married they say, “because we love them.” On the other hand, grooms’ families will find the decision to forgo dowry very difficult.

SUMMARY The distributional data indicate that the relationship between the way females are treated

in marriage and their participation in economic production is consistent with Miller’s development of the Boserup hypothesis. It is assumed that the pattern of maltreatment of females has been subject to various controls operating at the levels of family, caste, and

community. Urbanization reduces the effectiveness of these mechanisms, thus increasing

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the intensity of the problem. This trend is exacerbated by the economic transformations within contemporary Indian society. It is our viewpoint that policies developed to reduce dowry-related violence will fail if they do not increase the economic value of women. The criminalization of dowry may have been a politically useful symbol, but it has not curtailed the practice. As dowry is attacked, the state has not adequately dealt with the antemortem inheritance aspect of the custom. If dowry continues to provide a share of the family wealth to daughters before the death of the parents, then legally curtailing the practice is likely to damage the economic interests of women in the name of protecting them. One might argue that the primary legal remedy for the dowry problem actually makes it worse because it limits the transfer of assets to women. Perhaps this is why research on attitudes toward dowry indicates a continued positive commitment to the institution (Mathew 1987). India is a society in which most people (most particularly the elite) have given and received dowry; most people are even today giving and taking dowries. Declaring dowry a crime creates a condition in which the mass of society are technically criminals. The moral-legal basis of society suffers, and communal, parochial, and other fissiparous forces are encouraged. To be effective, anti-dowry legislation must make sure that the social utility provided by dowry practices be displaced by practices that are less problematic, and that the apparent causes of the practice be attacked. ‘Io do so would mean that attempts to eradicate the social evils produced by the dowry institution to be based on an examination of women’s property rights so as to increase their economic access. Traditional Hindu customs associated with inheritance give sons the right from birth to claim the so-called ancestral properties. This principle is part of the Mitakshara tradition of Hindu law, which prevails throughout India except in Bengal, Kerala, Assam, and northen parts of Orissa. These properties are obtained from father, paternal grandfather, or paternal great-grandfather. According to Sivaramayya (1984:71), “The Hindu Succession Act (the law which controls inheritance) did not abrogate this right by birth which exists in favor of a son, paternal grandson and paternal great grandson. The availability of the right in favor of these male descendants only is a discrimination against daughters.” This right is derived from ancient texts. According to Tambiah (1973:95), the Dharmasastras provide that it is “essentially males who inherit the partrimony while women are entitled to maintenance, marriage expenses and gifts.” While the Hindu Succession Act abrogates much traditional law, it specifically accepts the principle of male birthright to the property of the joint family. That is, “When a male Hindu dies after the commencement of the Act, having at the time of death an interest in a Mitakshara coparcenary property, his interest in the property shall

devolve by survivorship upon the surviving members of the coparcenary and not in accordance with this Act” (Government of India 1985:3). The Hindu Succession Act in its most

recent form provides for the intestate or testamentary inheritance of a female of a share of the family property. Yet the prior right of males at birth is not abrogated. Hindu males own a share of the family rights at birth; females can inherit it. Testamentary succession over-

rides the principle of intestate succession, and therefore the interests of females can be usurped simply by writing a will. The other procedures for a female to renounce an interest in family property are very simple. Moreover, according to Sivaramayya (1984:58), “no specific formality is required for the relinquishment of the interest beyond the expression of a clear intention to that effect.” Instruments of relinquishment can be and are forged. The antemortem inheritance function of dowry has been eroded or perhaps supplanted by transfer of goods to the groom’s family for their consumption and the expression of the so-called prestige of the family. Indeed social science commentary on dowry in

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India suggests that this aspect of dowry is relatively unimportant in any case because only a small portion of the total marriage expenditure is under the bride’s control. There is evidence that even the clothing and ornaments and other personal property of the bride are being usurped (Verghese 1980). Implementation of a gender-neutral inheritance law as advocated by the Government of India Committee on the Status of Women may serve to increase the economic value of women in general, while it serves as an alternative to the

antemortem inheritance aspect of dowry. Since dowry constitutes a kind of antemortem inheritance, it is logical to change the inheritance laws in conjunction with the restrictions on dowry behavior. Sisters as well as brothers need to have a share in the family wealth from birth, and that right should be associated with legal procedures that increase the difficulty of alienation of property rights. There is no question that such a procedure would serve to erode the stability of the patrilineal family by diluting its economic base. The government of India has passed legislation such as the Hindu Succession Act (1955) and the Hindu Adoption and Maintenance Act (1956), both of which inter-alia pro-

vide for a woman’ right of inheritance from her father. For example, under the Adoption and Maintenance Act, a women has a claim of rights of maintenance from her husband’s

father in case she is widowed. Moreover, she has the right to claim inheritance from her deceased husband’ estate. In spite of these changes, inheritance provisions are quite different for males and females. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of India, Honorable Mr. Justice Y. V. Chandrachud wrote that in spite of changes, “some inequalities like the right of birth in favor of a son, paternal grandson and paternal great grandson still persist” (1984:vii). Provision of females with equal rights to inherit ancestral property from birth, or from a bequest, or at the death may reduce dowry problems. Furthermore, property that is allowed to remain in the name of the deceased for any length of time, as is frequently the case in India, should revert to the state. As it stands, property may remain in the name of a deceased ancestor, while his descendants divide it informally among themselves. The establishment of a gender-neutral inheritance law represents a significant shift in public policy. We argue that there is a link between pro-male property laws and violence toward women. While we assert this position, we also need to recognize that the property laws give coherence and stability to an essential Indian institution, the joint family. The Mitakshara principle of male inheritance rights is both a reflection and a cause of family solidarity. Modifying this principle in an attempt to reduce violence toward women could have a deleterious effect on family coherence. In addition, the fundamental nature of these institutions make it inconceivable that there would be substantial resistance to these changes. Yet if one considers this issue in historic terms, it is apparent that during the twentieth century, legal change is in the direction of gender neutrality, a process that started with the Hindu Law of Inheritance (Amendment) Act (1929) and the Hindu Suc-

cession Act (1956), and continues through judicial decisions to the present (Diwan 1988:384). As Diwan notes in reference to the changes brought by the Hindu Succession Act of 1956, “the Mitakshara bias towards preference of males over females and of agnates over cognates has been considerably whittled down” (1988:358). Such change is not

easy. The changes brought with the Hindu Succession Act in 1956 were achieved only after overcoming “stiff resistance from the traditionalists” (Government of India 1974:135).

The same report states, “The hold of tradition, however, was so strong that even while introducing sweeping changes, the legislators compromised and retained in some respects

the inferior position of women” (Government of India 1974:135). It must be remembered

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that the texts that are the foundations of contemporary law include legislation (such as the Hindu Succession Act itself), case law, and religious texts, so that the constitutional ques-

tion is also a question for religious interpretation, despite the constitutional commitment to secularism. We are advocating further steps toward gender neutrality of the inheritance laws so that women and men will receive an equal share under intestate succession, and have an

equal chance to be testamentary heirs. The law should thus be gender neutral while still permitting a range of decisions allowing property to stay in a male line if the holder of the property so chooses. The required social adjustment could be largely achieved through the decisions of a family, backed by the power of the state. Families could express their preferences, but the state would not serve to protect the economic interests of males. The process could involve the concept of birthright as well as succession at death. We do not choose to engage those arguments, but do point out that the rapid aging of the Indian population may suggest that a full abrogation of the Mitakshara principle of birthright would be the best social policy because doing so would give older people somewhat greater control over their property in an economy virtually devoid of public investment in social services for older people (Bose and Gangrade 1988, Sharma and Dak 1987). There are precedents for such policy at the state level. In Andhra Pradesh, the Hindu Succession Act was amended to provide for a female’s birthright interest in the Mitakshara property. In Kerala, the Mitakshara property concept was legally abrogated altogether. Other gender asymmetries in the laws of India need to be attacked. The overall goal of policy should be to increase the economic value of women. Ethnological theory directs our attention to social recognition of marriage and property transfer as functionally important features of the institution. The state can provide a means of socially recognizing marriage through registration and licensure. The law expresses no explicit preference for traditional marriage ritual, and it is possible to have a civil marriage under the provisions of the Special Marriage Act (1954) through registration with a magistrate. Nevertheless, this system co-exists parallel with the traditional system of marriage, which is beyond the reach of state control. Other marriages may be registered under this act if the persons involved so choose, and if a ceremony has been carried out. These special marriages are an alternative to an unregistered marriage. We conclude that a useful mechanism for state control of dowry problems is the establishment of universal marriage registration, which does not exist at the present time. Marriage registration is also called for by the first Round Table on Social Audit of Implementation of Dowry Legislation (Bhatia 1988), which may serve to provide some monitoring of dowry abuses and perhaps to manifest the state’s interest in an effective marriage institution. It would be naive to assume that such a policy would be widely honored, but as it is, low-income persons do not get married because they do not have the resources for marriage under the traditional non-state controlled regime. There are numerous reform groups that organize mass marriage ceremonies of village people so as to help them escape the burden of marriage expenditures. The point is that compliance is a large problem even under current circumstances. In conclusion, we feel that the causes of the dowry problems are a product of the low economic value of women, loss of effective social control of abuse through delocalization, and pressures caused by economic transformation. The traditional family, caste group, and

community controls which have been reduced in effectiveness should be replaced by state

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functions. The foundation of state control is universal marriage registration and licensure. The impact of the economic value of women on the problem is indicated by the

transition from bride price to dowry among tribal people. It is also associated with a re-

duction in the extent of gainful employment and lower dowry amounts demonstrated for employed women. A broad program to increase the economic value of women would be the most useful means of dealing with the problem of dowry. Further restrictions on dowry without providing for a radically different property right for females is probably not in the interests of Indian women, since dowry represents antemortem inheritance. This underlying paradox may explain the commitment to dowry revealed in attitudinal research with Indian women, even though it is also an important feminist issue. The alternatives include the abolishment of the legal basis for the joint family as a corporate unit as has been done in Kerala, or the legal redefinition of the joint family as economically duolineal, as has occurred in Andhra Pradesh.

Note 1. For purposes of comparison, a mid-career Indian academic might be paid 60,000 Rs. per year.

References Cited Aluwalia, H.

1969 Matrimonial Advertisements in Panjab. Indian Journal of Social Work 30:55-65. Bhatia, SaC. 1988 Social Audit of Dowry Legislation. Delhi: Legal Literacy Project. Bose, A. B. and K. D. Gangrade 1988 The Aging in India, Problems and Potentialities. New Delhi: Abhinav. Boserup, Ester 1970 Women’s Role in Economic Development. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Chandrachud, Y. V.

1984

Foreward. In Inequalities and the Law. B. Sivaramayya, ed. Pp. iv-vi. Lucknow: Eastern Book Company.

Croll, Elisabeth

1984

The Exchange of Women and Property: Marriage in Postrevolutionary China. Jn Women and Property—Women as Property. Renee Hirschon, ed. Pp. 44-61. London/New York: Croom Heim/St. Martin’s Press.

Diwan, Paras

1988

Modern Hindu Law, Codified and Uncodified. Allahabad: Allahabad Law Agency.

Dumont, Louis

1957

Hierarchy and Marriage Alliance in South Indian Kinship. London: Royal Anthropological Institute. Engels, Fredrich 1884 The Origin of Family, Private Property and the State. New York: International. Epstein, T-. Scarlett 1960

Peasant Marriage in South India. Man in India 40:192-232.

Friedl, Ernestine

1967

Vasilika, A Village in Modern Greece. New York: Holt, Rhinehart and Winston.

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Goody, Jack 1973 Bridewealth and Dowry in Africa and Eurasia. In Bridewealth and Dowry. Jack Goody and S. J. Tambiah, eds. Pp. 1-58. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1976 Production and Reproduction, A Comparative Study of the Domestic Domain. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Government of India 1985 The Hindu Succession Act. New Delhi: Government of India. 1986 The Dowry Prohibition Act, 1961 (Act No. 28 of 1961) and Connected Legislation (as on 15th January, 1986). New Delhi: Government of India.

1987 1974

India 1986, A Reference Manual. Delhi: Ministry of Information and Broadcasting. ‘Towards Equality: Report of the Committee on the Status of Women. New Delhi: Government of India, Ministry of Educational and Social Welfare.

Harris, Marvin

1979

Cultural Materialism: The Struggle for a Science of Culture. New York: Random House.

Hirschon, Renee

1984

Introduction: Property, Power and Gender Relations. Jn Women and Property—Women as Property. Renee Hirschon, ed. Pp. 1-22. London/New York: Croom Heim/St. Martin’s Press. Hooja, S. L. 1969 Dowry System in India. New Delhi: Asia Press. Karve, Irawati 1953 Kinship Organization in India. Bombay: Asia Publishing. Khanna, G. and M. Verghese 1978 Indian Women Today. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Kumari, Ranjana 1988 Practice and Problems of Dowry: A Study of Dowry Victims in Delhi. In Social Audit of Dowry Legislation. S. C. Bhatia, ed. Pp. 27-37. Delhi: Legal Literacy Project. Luthra, A.

1983 Dowry among the Urban Poor, Perception and Practice. Social Action 33:207. Mathew, Anna 1987 Attitudes Toward Dowry. Indian Journal of Social Work 48:95-102. Menon, N. R. Madhava

1988

The Dowry Prohibition Act: Does the Law Provide the Solution or Itself Constitute the Problem? Jn Social Audit of Dowry Legislation. S. C. Bhatia, ed. Pp. 11-26. Delhi: Legal Literacy Project.

Miller, Barbara D.

1981

The Endangered Sex, Neglect of Female Children in Rural North India. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Murdock, George P. 1949 Social Structure. New York: Macmillan. Murickan,J. 1975 Women in Kerala: Changing Socio-Economic Status and Self-Image. Jn Women in

Contemporary India. A. de Souza, ed. Pp. 73-95. Delhi: Manohar. Niehoff, Arthur H.

1959

A Study of Matrimonial Advertisements in North India: Eastern Anthropologist 12:37-50.

Paul, Madan C.

1986

Saini, Debi

1983

.

Dowry and the Position of Women in India. A Study of Delhi Metropolis. New Delhi: Inter India Publishers.

Dowry Prohibition Law, Social Change and Challenges in India. Indian Journal of Social Work 44(2):143-147.

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Sharma, M. L. and T: Dak

1987

Aging in India, Challenge for the Society. Delhi: Ajanta Publications.

Sharma, Ursula 1984 Dowry in North India: Its Consequences for Women. In Women and Property—Women as Property. Renee Hirschon, ed. Pp. 62-74. London/New York: Croom Helm/St. Martin’s Press.

Sivaramayya, B. 1984 Inequalities and the Law. Lucknow: Eastern Book Company. Srinivas, M. N.

1969 1984

Social Change in Modern India. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Some Reflections on Dowry. Delhi: Oxford University Press.

‘Tambiah, S. J. 1973 Dowry and Bridewealth and the Property Rights of Women in South Asia. In Bridewealth and Dowry. Jack Goody and S. J. Tambiah, eds. Pp. 59-169. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. van der Veen, Klaus W.

1972

I Give Thee My Daughter—A Study of Marriage and Hierarchy Among the Anavil Brahmins of South Gujarat. Assen: Van Gorcum.

Verghese, Jamila 1980 Her Gold and Her Body. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Weibe, P. O. and G. N. Ramu

1971

A Content Analysis of Matrimonial Advertisements. Man in India 51:119-120.

Westermarck, Edward

1921

The History of Human Marriage. London: Macmillan.

TREADING

11

Implications of the Cultural Conservation Report for Social Impact Assessment by Benita J. Howell Section 101 of the National Environmental Policy Act of 1969 (NEPA) directs federal agen-

cies “to use all practicable means, consistent with other essential considerations of national policy, to improve and coordinate Federal plans, functions, programs, and resources to the end that the Nation may . . . preserve important historic, cultural, and natural aspects of our national heritage, and maintain, wherever possible, an environment which supports diversity and variety of individual choice.” Section 102 of NEPA authorizes federal agencies to “utilize a systematic interdisciplinary approach which will ensure the integrated use of the natural and social sciences and the environmental design arts in planning and in decision making which may have an impact on man’s environment.” The Social Impact Assessment

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(SIA) process was developed in response to NEPA as one component of the Environmental Impact Statement (EIS). Subsequent legislation (e.g., the Rivers and Harbors Act of 1979

and the Housing and Community Development Act of 1974) provided a clearer mandate for SIA and stimulated agency action to develop specific procedures for compliance. Although NEPAs language embraced preservation of archeological and historic resources as well as other environmental protection issues, these resources already had been treated more specifically in the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966. This act, its amendments, and related legislation protecting archeological and historic resources, properties, and data have provided a very effective basis for the activities that have come to be

known as cultural resource management (CRM). The difficulty with CRM in practice has

been its neglect of intangible cultural resources. Guidelines for research and protection activity have focused almost exclusively on archeological and architectural resources. Finally, while formulating the 1980 Amendments to the National Historic Preservation Act, Congress responded to professional concerns that architectural and archeological resources enjoyed clear protection while “intangible elements of our cultural heritage” (Loomis 1982b:i) were not being addressed adequately. Thus Section 502 of the 1980 Amendments authorized the Department of the Interior and the Library of Congress (American Folklife Center) to produce a report that would summarize professional opinion, survey current cultural conservation programs, and make recommendations concerning federal involvement in expanded cultural conservation efforts. Between September 1981 and July 1982, Bennie Keel, representing the Department of the Interior, and Alan Jabbour and Ormond Loomis, representing the American Folklife Center, worked with a panel of professional consultants to determine the scope and thrust of a draft report to be authored by Loomis. The panel included anthropologists and archeologists Steven Arvizu, James Deetz, Ruthann Knudson, and John Peterson, as

well as folklorists Archie Green and Henry Glassie. Preliminary drafts were circulated for individual comment and were discussed in special sessions at professional meetings, including the March 1982 SfAA meeting in Lexington, Kentucky. A final draft, incorporating many suggested additions and revisions, was prepared in November 1982 and presented the following month at the AAA meetings in Washington. The published report, “Cultural Conservation: The Protection of Cultural Heritage in the United States,” was scheduled for release in 1983.

REPORT FINDINGS AND RECOMMENDATIONS Although the Cultural Conservation draft report (Loomis 1982b) focuses primarily on means of stimulating folk arts and folklife through performance, exhibit, and documentation, certain of the issues addressed in its thirty-odd recommendations are of considerable interest to anthropologists as well as folklorists. Most important is the definition of intangible cultural resources that emerged during meetings of the consultant panel.

Rather than adopting a narrow definition of folklife, the report identified the broad realm of community life and values as the object of its concern. Furthermore, although the shapers of the report focused on opportunities for positive initiatives rather than reaction to threatened impacts on communities, they also recognized

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that a broad national policy on cultural conservation must address such threats. The consultant panel felt that “broadening Federal policy could be accomplished by inserting the concept of community values, or folklife, into existing laws and administrative guidelines rather than by creating totally new legislation and programs” (Loomis 1982a:4). Reflect-

ing this strategy, the executive summary of the draft report makes the recommendation to “include folklife and related traditional lifeways among the cultural resources recognized by the National Historic Preservation Act and the National Environmental Policy Act” (Loomis 1982b:ii). The body of the draft report also includes a specific recommen-

dation to “strengthen the role of the Council on Environmental Quality by requiring consideration of folklife and related traditional lifeways among the factors discussed in social impact assessment” (Loomis 1982b:88). The report is only a first step toward developing a clear national policy concerning intangible cultural resources, but now is the time to consider how implementing these recommendations might affect anthropologists, particularly those involved in SIA.

SIA AND CULTURAL CONSERVATION CONCERNS Some SIA guidelines already recommend extensive ethnographic study of community life-styles and values. For example, “Social Impact Assessment: An Overview” (U.S. Army Engineers Institute for Water Resources 1975), prepared in response to NEPA and the Rivers and Harbors Act, stresses that cultural information is essential in developing a baseline profile and systems model for project host communities. This report lays out a twopage outline (1975:29-30) of ethnographic and historical investigations under four broad headings: (1) life-styles; (2) historical (legacy) features; (3) world views, beliefs, percep-

tions and definitions of reality; and (4) intercultural perceptions and relations. In practice, however, partly because of the time and budget constraints of many SIA projects, quick-and-dirty research methods relying on various statistical indicators of quality of life have loomed large in SIA reports. Reviews of state-of-the-art SIA have called for more qualitative approaches to data collection, through ethnographic “side studies” coordinated with SIA (Soderstrom 1981 :ix), or through full integration of ethnographic techniques into SIA (Peterson and Gemmell 1981:387). Critiques have noted that SIA often fails to address the cultural impacts perceived as most critical by the local populace (Wolf 1978:185); participant-observation has been suggested as the best means of developing understanding of these community concerns (Finsterbusch 1981; Soderstrom 1981; Torgerson 1981). These criticisms are founded on a

concern that values of the host community as well as national interests should be considered in planning development projects. Recent attempts to replace cursory public hearings with real public involvement in the planning process have highlighted the importance of identifying all segments of the community affected by a proposed project and developing an understanding of each group’s lifeways, values, and attitudes toward the project (Peterson and Gemmell 1981:393; Soderstrom 1981:72-73; Torgerson 1981; Willeke 1981).

In order to provide greater opportunity for SIA findings to influence development

decision making, Wolf (1978:184) advocates earlier entry into the EIS process. Soder-

strom (1981) envisions expanding SIA from a one-time study to a continuous monitoring

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process begun in the project preplanning phase and continued periodically until actual postproject changes can be assessed. Wolf, however, points out that SIA and the EIS process in general rarely contribute substantially to planning decisions (Wolf 1978:184-185). In contrast, Historic Preservation legislation and regulations do provide a clear legal mandate for mitigating impacts on architectural and archeological resources. Plan modifications as well as research and documentation have become established as means of achieving mitigation of potentially adverse impacts. The coordination of SIA and Historic Preservation concerns proposed in the Cultural Conservation Report offers perhaps the best opportunity for SIA to expand in the directions its practitioners already desire, while gaining a firm legal mandate for participation in the planning process comparable to that presently required in CRM.

CASE STUDIES OFFERING FOOD FOR THOUGHT The following case studies are presented to stimulate thinking about effective means of coordinating the SIA process with ethnography that might originate from cultural conservation concerns. Because extensive ethnographic research is now a rarity in SIA, the only project described here that was SIA in the legal sense is Canadian; the other projects

were conducted under provisions of historic preservation or American Indian religious freedom legislation, or as an integral part of development planning.

Big South Fork Folklife Study.

The Big South Fork National River and Recreation

Area (Howell 1981), authorized in 1974 and still under construction, will eventually in-

clude 123,000 acres along the drainage of the Cumberland River’s Big South Fork, parts of five counties in Tennessee and Kentucky. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Nashville District, is overseeing planning, land acquisition, and construction, but the National Park Service will administer the area. My personal experience as director of the Big South Fork Folklife Study convinced me, even before the Cultural Conservation Report was commissioned by Congress, that projects like mine should be coordinated with SIA. In fact, the folklife project developed as an adjunct to historic preservation research, not SIA. The idea for a folklife study originated with Park Service archeologists who already were conducting a preliminary survey of archeological resources in 1978-79. ‘They were able to argue their case successfully and obtain Moss-Bennett funds for the project because the enabling legislation for the recreation area specifically called for conserving and interpreting historic and cultural as well as archeological resources. The project report was to contain recommendations for mitigating impacts on threatened resources and for developing programs and materials to interpret local history and culture to recreation area visitors. The folklife study scope-of-work ranged broadly across cultural artifacts (structures and cemetery markers) and intangibles (food, medicine, speech, folklore, oral history, music and

dance, and social customs). But because impacts on people posed the greatest threat to the

area’s living traditional culture, the folklife study in effect took on a function parallel to the ethnographic component now found in Native American SIA (see Geisler et al. 1982). The folklife study probably would not have taken this direction if SIA for the recreation area had been adequate, but such was not the case. The Environmental Impact

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Statement, prepared by Coastal Zone Resources, Inc., was released in December 1976,

concurrently with the first design document prepared by the Nashville District. This EIS included only five pages discussing social impacts, accompanied by 20 statistical tables compiled from federal and state agency sources. Although relocation of families living within the project boundaries was identified as the gravest anticipated social impact, the EIS gives no indication that researchers ever made personal contact with these families or used other methods to investigate their patterns of land ownership, land use, occupation and income, etc. Of the 20 land or minerals owners who were questioned briefly, 14 held more than 1,000 acres and only 1 owned fewer than 200 acres. No additional SIA was conducted. Miller, Wihry, and Lee, a landscape architecture

and planning firm, contracted in 1978 to produce the project master plan. In October 1979, three months after folklife study fieldwork began, the draft plan was presented at public meetings. By this time the plans were already so detailed that the public felt they could only raise objections (probably futilely), not contribute constructively to planning. The folklife study report itself was to become an appendix to the master plan; thus I also wondered whether it would have any real effect on planning. Had the folklife study been authorized earlier, information gathered from families scheduled for relocation might have served as a basis for recommending modifications in the land acquisition and relocation programs that would bring them into line with local landholding practices, but procedures were already in place and being implemented by the summer of 1979. It was possible, however, to emphasize potential employment opportunities for local people in the recreation area’s interpretive programs—for example, sales, exhibits, and paid performances for craftspeople and musicians. Some recommendations concerning construction of facilities and management policies also were made, again pointing to the desirability of employing local people because of their traditional skills and knowledge of the area. While the folklife study scope-of-work was based on the assumption that area folk culture was dying and that documentation was the only means of preserving it, the project report stressed that proper incentives and rewards, both psychological and economic, could contribute substantially to persistence of traditional skills. If the Big South Fork development project had been subject to the more stringent post-1974 SIA requirements, and if strong cultural conservation requirements had also been in place, the folklife study might have been more important to overall project planning. Its potential to contribute to SIA might have been clarified, and it undoubtedly would have been authorized much earlier, not as an afterthought to archeology.

Kaibab Paiute Tourism Facility (Stoffle et al. 1979; Stoffle 1981).

In 1967 the De-

partment of Commerce Economic Development Administration began a grant program to encourage tourism on Indian reservations. An especially noteworthy example of the results is the Kaibab Paiute project in Arizona, jointly developed by the Kaibab Paiute Tribe and the University of Wisconsin—Parkside Applied Anthropology Field School. A survey of Arizona “Strip” tourists was conducted to determine their interest and preferences concerning reservation tourism facilities. Then, over the course of several summers, the tribe

and field school collaborated to build educational hiking trails and a cultural heritage center; develop interpretive materials incorporating natural history, archeological, and ethno-

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historic information, and prepare exhibits and displays. The project continues to provide employment for Kaibab Paiute people, and their ability to earn a living through culture conservation activities improves the psychological climate for cultural persistence. Stoffle attributes the success of this reservation tourism facility to the tribe’s active participation in all phases of its planning and execution. Equally important was the continuity provided by the continuous involvement of a single outside agency. The Kaibab Paiute project suggests that SIA and cultural conservation research might profitably be undertaken by a single agency whose personnel can furnish the various skills required to conduct needs and impact assessments, to ensure that all affected groups are heard during project planning, and to pursue ethnohistoric and ethnographic research in response to the cultural conservation concerns that arise. The single agency approach is feasible only for small projects like the Kaibab Paiute tourism facility, not for massive developments like the Big South Fork project, which are contracted out to different government and private-sector agencies in numerous stages. In these cases, individual projects should be coordinated by the lead agency so that their sequencing is logical and unnecessary overlaps are minimized, but these goals are difficult to achieve. Alberta Oil Sands Environmental Research Program (Kasinska 1981). The Alberta Oil Sands research program exemplifies one attempt at coordinating independent but related projects. This comprehensive impact assessment program was conducted jointly by the Canadian and Alberta governments from 1975 to 1979 and continued for a second five years by the Alberta government alone. It was designed to assess impacts on Fort McMurray and neighboring communities of two crude oil extraction plants, the Suncor plant (begun in 1961 and opened in 1967) and the Syncrude plant (begun in 1971 and opened in 1978). The research effort was divided into four sectors: air, water, land, and

human systems. The human systems project began with an exploratory study that developed background information on boom towns and defined areas for subsequent field study. Concerns expressed by the local populace were considered in identifying areas for field study. A general conceptual framework was then developed to link the separate field projects on local history, economic development, labor issues, social and personal adjustment (quality of life), and human use of the natural environment. The local history study, which is of most interest from the perspective of cultural conservation, was essential to the overall human systems research effort, given that effects

of the Suncor plant already had been experienced for almost 15 years before the environmental research program began. The predevelopment baseline state of Fort McMurray had to be reconstructed from documentary sources and residents’ recall. In addition to providing an overview of the area from the 1890s through the 1970s, the history study focused on migration and settlement, social and economic development before the advent of the oil sands industry, attitudes toward government, and the history of local community relationships to the provincial and federal governments (especially with regard to social change programs). Investigation of these issues linked the history component to other human systems research projects; however, coordination of the five independent human

systems projects was not entirely successful, in part because some field studies began be-

fore the conceptual framework was fully formulated.

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© Auwes

The Alberta Oil Sands research Suggests that SIA and cultural conserv ation

research efforts can be conducted independently, with the caveat that proper timing and collabo

ration on overall planning, research design for specific studies, and scheduling of fieldwork activity are essential to achieving maximal results with minimal duplication of effort. In practice, a single comprehensive scope-ofwork, perhaps undertaken as a joint venture by appropriate contractors, would seem to provid e the best framework for achieving the degree of coordination needed.

Intermountain Power Project, Ethnographic Survey (Stoff ie et al. 1981: Stoffle and The special nature of Native American SIA offers increased opportunities for ethnographic and ethnohisto ric research, because in addition to complying with envir

Dobyns 1982; Stoffie et al. 1982).

onmental protection laws and guidelines, developmen t projects affecting Native American groups must comply with Section 55989 of the 1978 NEPA regulations, which guarantees Indian tribes partic ipation in the NEPA process. In addition, the American Indian Religious Freedom Act of 1978 requires that areas and resources held sacred by groups who live or once lived hear proposed development sites must be identified so that continued access can be guaranteed and appropriate mitigation steps can be taken. Extensive ethnohistoric and ethnographic research is essential, first to identify the groups who should be consulted regarding 2 particular development area, and then to survey their sacred places and cultur al resources. Determining the degree of importance attached to particular sites and resou rces also requires close consultation with members of the Native American community. The Applied Urban Field School of the U niversity of Wisconsin—Parkside has conducted ethnographic research in accordance with the American Indian Religious Freedom ‘Act in southern Nevada and in southwes t Utah along portions of the Intermou ntain Power Project proposed transmission

line. Although conducted as Separate studi es, these projects have been closely allied with SIA i that findings from field studies with native

tion is aided both by the documentatio n that results from ethnographic stad ies and br mitigation decisions that underscore the value of cultural conservation. The IPP Utah study, for example, greatly increase

d the store of published information on Southern Paiute and Ute ethnobotany; it also provided the rationale for protecti ng ane valley that is especially rich in culturally significant plan ts. The Intermountain Power Authority may eventually agree to return this vall ey to Indian control for use as a cult ural park (Stofile, personal communication). Mitigations of this kind can help to create a posi tive environment for cultural persistence. Stoffle’s experience with ethnog raphic research for the Interm ountain Power Project suggests that projects indepe ndent

—

of SIA can contribute ettectively ning process so long as their results to the planare made available to planners before the of SIA is complete. However, as final Stage SIA moves towa

rd greater community involveme strategy already well developed in nt, a Native American Impact Assessme nt. there will be less rationale for the BLM and othe r agencies to rigidly separate obvi eush: complementary research activities. Cost-efficiency as well as the needs of populations affected by development would be better served through coor dina

tion.

:

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CONCLUSION Although most of the recommendations in the draft Cultural Conservation Report concern initiatives for documenting and encouraging the folk arts, the report recognizes that massive development projects pose immediate threats to traditional community life and values, and that these must be addressed in any comprehensive cultural conservation program that is established. In effect, the draft report proposes an alliance between Historic Preservation and SIA that could greatly benefit the latter. The many critiques of state-of-the-art SIA make it obvious that the legislative mandate under which SIA currently is performed has offered a much less effective means of addressing cultural concerns and protecting cultural resources than has the Historic Preservation legislation. The wedding of CRM and SIA efforts envisioned in the Cultural Conservation Report would necessitate rewriting agency regulations to mandate the more extensive ethnography and greater community involvement in planning that SIA practitioners already are seeking. Critiques of SIA and negative reviews of SIA draft reports can accomplish little in the way of substantive improvement without such reevaluation of agency policies, because agencies rather than researchers ultimately set the agenda for contract SIA. These comments have been offered in the hope that cultural anthropologists will realize that the Cultural Conservation Report speaks to their interests as well as those of archeologists, historians, and folklorists, and that they will join the Historic Preservation

community in lobbying for implementation of report recommendations.

References Cited. Finsterbusch, K.

1981

The Potential Role of Social Impact Assessment in Instituting Public Policies. In Methodology of Social Impact Assessment, 2nd ed. K. Finsterbusch and C. P. Wolf, eds. Stroudsburg, Pa.: Hutchinson, Ross.

Geisler, C., R. Green, D. Usner, and P. West, eds.

1982

Indian SIA: Social Impact Assessment of Rapid Resource Development on Native Peoples. Natural Resources Sociology Monograph Series 3. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan.

Howell, B. J.

1981

A Survey of Folklife along the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River. Report of Investigations 30. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Anthropology Department.

Kasinska, B.

1981

An Approach to Social Impact Research in the Athabasca Oil Sands Region. Jn Social Impact Assessment. Papers presented at the Social Impact Assessment Conference, Calgary, Alberta, 1978. EJ. Tester and W. Mykes, eds. Calgary: Detselig Enterprises.

Loomis, Ormond

1982a Cultural Conservation Report, Draft Portion. Ms. 1982b Cultural Conservation: The Protection of Cultural Heritage in the United States. Draft, November 1, 1982. Ms.

Peterson, G. L., and R. S. Gemmell

1981

Social Impact Assessment: Comments on the State of the Art. In Methodology of Social Impact Assessment, 2nd ed. K. Finsterbusch and C. P. Wolf, eds. Stroudsburg, Pa.:

Hutchinson, Ross.

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Soderstrom, E. J. 1981 Social Impact Assessment: Experimental Methods and Approaches. New York: Praeger.

Stoffle, R. W. 1981 Comment on Dennison Nash’s Tourism as an Anthropological Subject. Current Anthropology 22(5):475—476. Stoffle, R. W., and H. F. Dobyns, eds. 1982.

PUAXANT TUVIP; Utah Indians Comment on the Intermountain Power Project, Utah

Section. Intermountain-Adelanto Bipole I Transmission Line. Ethnographic (Native American) Resources. Kenosha: University of Wisconsin—Parkside. Stoffle, R., M. Jake, M. Evans, and P. Bunte

1981 1982

Establishing Native American Concerns in Social Impact Assessment. Social Impact Assessment 65/66:4-9. Southern Paiute Peoples’ SIA Responses to Energy Proposals. Im Indian SIA: Social Impact Assessment of Rapid Resource Development on Native Peoples. Natural Resources Sociology Monograph Series 3. C. Geisler et al., eds. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan.

Stoffle, R., C. Last, and M. Evans

1979

Reservation-Based ‘Tourism: Implications of ‘Tourist Attitudes for Native American Economic Development. Human Organization 38(3):300-306.

‘Torgerson, D. 1981 SIA asa Social Phenomenon: The Problem of Contextuality. In Social Impact Assessment. Papers presented at the Social Impact Assessment Conference, Calgary, Alberta, 1978. FE J. Tester and W. Mykes, eds. Calgary: Detselig Enterprises. U.S. Army Engineers Institute for Water Resources 1975 Social Impact Assessment: An Overview Report. (IWR Paper 75-P7). Consultant team: E. Vlachos, W. Buckley, W. Filstead, S. E. Jacobs, M. Maruyama, J. H. Peterson, Jr., G. E.

Willeke. Willeke, G. E.

1981

Identifying Publics in Social Impact Assessment. In Methodology or Social Impact Assessment, 2nd ed. K. Finsterbusch and C. P. Wolf, eds. Stroudsburg, Pa.: Hutchinson, Ross.

Wolf, C. P.

1978

The Cultural Impact Statement. Jn Cultural Resources: Planning and Management. R. S. Dickins and C. E. Hill, eds. Boulder, Colo.; Westview Press.

6 _

Urban Anthropology

Anthropology is typically not associated with work in urban settings. Erve Chambers (1989) notes that there really is no historically deep commitment to urban research in the

discipline. A sustained interest in urban problems, in fact, can only be traced back to the mid-1960s. Nevertheless, important urban research was undertaken in the 1950s and earlier. Most noteworthy is the work by Oscar Lewis, who followed migrants from rural Mexico into Mexico City and documented their lives in a series of highly popular books, including Five Families: Mexican Case Studies in the Culture of Poverty (1959), The Children of Sanchez (1961), and A Death in the Sanchez Family (1969), as well as La Vida (1969),

which explored the urban Puerto Rican experience in San Juan and New York City. Lewis’s focus on rural-urban migration formed a kind of seamless intellectual rationale for shifting focus to urban locales and the urbanization process. The problems and challenges faced by those migrants as they attempted to carve out a new life became the social and political rationale for this research. Other urban-based efforts predate the work by Lewis and others on the urban poor. For example, as early as the 1880s the Women’s Anthropological Society of Washington, D.C., was concerned with the myriad social problems facing the growing urban poor population in that city. Yet Chambers (1989) is certainly correct when he says that there is no deep and committed historical interest in urban problems among anthropologists and more recent work has been piecemeal at best. The traditional anthropological orientation toward small, bounded, rural populations has diverted attention away from urban topics in important ways. The discipline’s romantic focus on tribal and peasant peoples has resulted in the exclusion of urban working-class people from our attention. As Renato Rosaldo (1989:198) observes, “fone can readily map zones of cultural visibility and invisibility onto the spacial organiza-

tion” of a given country. He goes on to argue that we have rendered invisible those who we think too closely resemble “us.” This would include everything from urban dwellers to a commercial farming class. For they appear to be “rational,” and therefore lack “culture” and are “too transparent to study” (Rosaldo 1989:198-199). ‘To this we might well add that because urban dwellers are often clearly participants in a capitalist economy, their economic adaptation is considered either unproblematic or uninteresting, when this is indeed anything but the case. Consequently, it is worth considering how the ethnographic map of the world has been drawn and why certain groups are deemed worthy of study while others are not. Such an exercise will necessarily take us into an interrogation of our comfortable assumptions about culture and the exotic “other.” Additionally, work in urban settings, especially among the poorer and more marginal peoples toward whom anthropologists gravitate, is

simply logistically difficult and sometimes has the potential to be quite dangerous. 139

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This section begins with a classic article by Oscar Lewis to historically situate the field. Lewis’s work generated important and controversial concepts, such as the “culture of poverty” and “urbanization without breakdown.” While it is worthwhile debating the nature of these concepts and their implications, one thing is certain—they underscore that the culture concept has important political and policy implications. The remaining essays explore the diversity of work conducted by urban-based researchers, including drug use and abuse (Bourgois), gangs (Vigil), and crime and the law (Grobsmith).

References Cited Chambers, Erve

1989

Applied Anthropology: A Practical Guide. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press.

Rosaldo, Renato 1989 Culture and Truth. Boston: Beacon Press.

READING

12

Urbanization without Breakdown:

A Case Study Oscar Lewis This is a preliminary work report on a research project on urbanization in Mexico City. The research is an outgrowth and continuation of my earlier work in the village of ‘Tepoztlan. In brief, we attempted to learn what happened to individuals and families from the village of Tepoztlan who had gone to live in Mexico City. Before presenting some of the preliminary findings, I should like to indicate how our work is related to other studies in the same field. In the first place, it should be noted that there have been very few studies of the sociopsychological aspects of urbanization in Mexico or other Latin-American countries. Urban sociology in Mexico has lagged behind developments in some of the other social sciences. The data most nearly comparable to ours are to be found in the rural-urban migration studies done by rural sociologists in the United States. These studies have been primarily concerned with the causes, the rate and direction, and the amount of migration, factors of selectivity, and occupational accommodation. ‘To the extent to which they have dealt with the adjustment of migrants in the city, the findings have on the whole highlighted the negative aspects, such as personal malad-

justment, breakdown of family life, decline of religion, and increase of delinquency. The

total picture has been one of disorganization, sometimes referred to as culture shock in-

cident upon city living. One common theoretical explanation of these findings has been in terms of the change from the primary group environment, which is generally charac-

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terized as warm, personal, moral, and intimate, to a secondary group environment, which is described as cold, impersonal, mechanistic, nonmoral, and unfriendly.” The preliminary findings of the present study of urbanization in Mexico City indi-

cate quite different trends and suggest the possibility of urbanization without breakdown. They also suggest that some of the hitherto unquestioned sociological generalizations about urbanization may be culture-bound and in need of re-examination in the light of comparative studies of urbanization in other areas.’ Some of our generalizations about the differences between rural and urban life also need to be re-examined. It should be recalled that direct studies of the urbanization process itself are difficult, and most studies have

been indirect and inferential. Sociological generalizations about the differences between rural and urban society have been based largely on comparative statistical data on the incidence of crime in rural and urban areas, on birth, fertility, and death rates, size of fam-

ily, educational opportunities, and social participation. As Ralph Beals has recently pointed out, “... sociologists paid much more attention to urbanism than to urbanization.”*

Moreover, we know very little about the psychological aspects of urbanization as it affects specific individuals and families. Perhaps one of the difficulties in this field has been the inadequate methodology. There is not, to my knowledge, a single study that has followed up migrants from a rural community which had first been the subject of intensive analysis on the social, economic, political, and psychological levels. An adequate research design for the study of the sociopsychological aspects of urbanization would require a project consisting of three phases: a well-rounded study of a rural or peasant community, including intensive family and psychological studies; locating families from this community who have gone to live in the city; an intensive study of these families in the city. The present research has attempted to conform to this design. The first phase was completed some time ago with a study of the village of Tepoztlan. The second and third phases were begun last summer in Mexico City. The specific objectives of the research were conceived as follows: (1) to study the process of urbanization directly by analyzing the changes in custom, attitudes, and value systems of Tepoztecan individuals and families who had gone to live in Mexico City; (2) to compare family life and interpersonal relations of selected urban families of Tepoztecan origin with those of the rural community from which they had migrated; (3) to relate our findings to the more general theoretical findings and problems in the field of culture change. The study was planned on two levels. First, we wanted to do a broad survey of all Tepoztecan families in Mexico City and obtain data for each family on such items as date of and reasons for leaving the village, size of family, kinship composition of the household, the extent of bilingualism (Spanish and Nahuatl), the general level of living, the religious life, the compadre system, curing practices, and the life cycle. For most of these items we had rather full data on the village of Tepoztlan; these data could therefore be used as a

base line from which to analyze the nature and direction of change. Second, we planned to do intensive studies of a few selected families representative of the different lengths of residence in the city and of different socioeconomic levels. Other variables that might become significant in the course of the study were also to be taken into consideration. We located 100 Tepoztecan families in Mexico City and interviewed each family at least once. Sixty-nine families were interviewed twice, and 10 of these were interviewed

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ten times. The quantitative data in this paper are based on the 69 families for which we had the fullest data. The major factor in our inability to gather more information on the remainder of the families was lack of time. On the basis of the data obtained in the one interview with each of the 31 families, it appears probable that our total picture would not have been appreciably changed. The fact that the 69 families were distributed in many different sections of the city and that they represented distinct socioeconomic levels further ensures against an inadvertently loaded sample. The city families were located with the help of our informants in Tepoztlén, many of whom had friends and relatives in the city. But most of the families were located with the aid of officers of the now-defunct Colonia Tepozteco, an organization of Tepoztecans in Mexico City, which kept a list of the names and addresses of Tepoztecans living in the city. We have reason to believe that the 100 families we located represent approximately 90 percent of all Tepoztecans living in the city. It should be noted that fieldwork in the city is in many ways more difficult, more costly, and more time-consuming than in the village. The Tepoztecan families were scattered in 22 different colonias, or neighborhoods, extending from one end of the city to the other. Much time was lost in traveling to and from the homes, in making appointments for interviews (only one of the families had a telephone), and in establishing rapport. Often we would spend an entire morning calling on two or three families, only to find people out or otherwise unavailable. Moreover, we did not have the advantage of working through community leaders, of becoming familiar and accepted figures in the community, or of utilizing neighbors—and village gossip—as sources of information. The earliest contacts between Mexico City and Tepoztlan probably resulted from trade. A small number of Tepoztecan merchants regularly sold their products (mainly hog plums and corn) in the Merced, Lagunilla, and Tacubaya markets. Consequently, some of the earliest migrants of whom we have record settled near these markets, and to this day there are small concentrations of Tepoztecan families around the markets. Our study revealed that the Tepoztecan families now living in Mexico City came in three distinct periods of migration. The first was prior to the Mexican Revolution of 1910; the second was during the Revolution, from about 1910 to 1920; the third since 1920. The motives for migration and the number and quality of migrants, as well as their social composition, show interesting differences for each of these periods. During the first period only young men left, their primary motives being to get a higher education and to seek better employment opportunities. These early migrants were generally poor young men related to the best families in the village. We located 15 individuals who left during this period. In general these early migrants made good, economically speaking. Some became professionals and have achieved important positions in the city. Many became the intellectuals who later formed the core of the Colonia Tepozteco, which was to play such an important part in community affairs. The second period was one of forced migration, when hundreds of Tepoztecans left the village, generally as family units, to escape the ravages of the civil war. The earliest ones to leave during this period were the cacique families who fled before the threat of the Zapatista revolutionaries. Later, when the village became a battleground for opposing forces, people from all social levels fled. It is estimated that by 1918 there were approximately a thousand ‘Tepoztecans in the city, and, according to our informants, approximately 700 attended one of the early meetings preceding the formation of the Colonia ‘Tepozteco.

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Most of these migrants returned to the village after peace was established. Many of those who remained were the conservative, wealthier families who had been ruined by the Revolution. About 65 percent of the families we studied came to the city during this period. The striking thing about migration during the third period is the relatively small number of migrants. Only 25 percent of our families came during 1920-50. We find a wider variety of motives for migration than formerly, but the two most important seem to be improved educational and economic opportunities. During the later ’20s and early ’30s, however, a number of men left because of the intense political strife which flared up in the village. Again we find that the young men predominated in the exodus, but now there were also young women, who came either to attend school or to serve as domestics. In all cases during this period, the migrants came to live with relatives or compadres. There was apparently a sharp increase in the number of migrants to the city toward the latter part of this period, particularly after the road was built in 1936. The figures for Tepoztecans in Mexico City are not an accurate index of the total migration from the village. This was established by a study of all the cases that have left the village since 1943. Of 74 cases that left, only 41 went to live in Mexico City; the remainder went to other villages and towns. Of the 41 in Mexico City, there were 23 single males, 16 single females, and one married couple. Over 90 percent were from two large barrios in the center of the village. ‘Tepoztecans in the city live in three types of housing: the vecindad, the apartment house, and the separate, privately owned dwelling. The vecindad represents some of the poorest housing conditions in the city. It consists of a series of one-story dwellings arranged around a courtyard. Often there is a communal water fountain in the center and one or two toilets for a settlement of 25 families. In a few cases there is piped water in each apartment. One of our families lived in a vecindad of 150 families—practically a small com-

munity in itself. The rentals varied from 25 to 65 pesos ($3-$8) a month. Forty-four percent of Tepoztecan families live in vecindades. The dwellings are generally small, usually consisting of two rooms. The apartment house provides much more privacy and represents a distinctly higher standard of living. Sixteen percent of the families lived in apartment houses, at rentals ranging from 65 to 300 pesos a month. Professionals and skilled laborers live here—typical Mexican lower-middle-class families. The apartments are better constructed than the vecindades and have more and larger rooms. Privately owned homes were dwellings for 28 percent of the families. There was a wide range in the styles, size, and property value of these houses. Some were one- or tworoom wooden shacks built on tiny lots on the outskirts of the city; others were modern eight- or ten-room buildings, with enclosed private gardens and patios, located in a thriv-

ing middle-class neighborhood. Home ownership is therefore not a good index of wealth or class position. The average size of Tepoztecan households in the city was somewhat larger than in the village—5.8 as compared to about 5 (Table 1). The composition of the household shows about the same pattern as in the village except that there is a slightly higher percentage of extended families living in the city (Table 2). In contrast to Tepoztlan there were no cases of persons living alone or of unrelated families living together. There is probably greater economic pressure for families to live together in the city than in the country. In Tepoztlan, if young couples do not get along well

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TABLE 1

Number of Persons per House Site, Tepoztlan and Mexico City

No. of Persons per House Site

Percentage of House Sites, Tepoztlan

Percentage of H ouse Sites, Mexico City

ce ey a a8

41 53 6

1-5 6-10 11 and over

TABLE 2.

Kinship Composition by Households—Tepoztlan, 1943, and Mexico City, 1951

Type Simple biological family Biological family with married children and grandchildren Married siblings with their children Persons living alone

Unrelated families living together Miscellaneous

Families in Mexico City (69) (Percentage of All Families)

Families in Tepoztlan (662) (Percentage of All Families)

66.6 17.2

70 13.5

2.9 0 0 133

Bee 6.7 7 7.5

with the in-laws and wish to live alone, they can almost always find someone who has an empty house that can be used rent-free. The same is true of old people and widows, who manage to eke out a living with garden produce and by raising chickens or pigs. We found very little evidence of family disorganization in the city. There were no cases of abandoned mothers and children among our 69 families studied nor was there a history of separation or divorce in more than a few families. Families remain strong; in fact, there is some evidence that family cohesiveness increases in the city in the face of the difficulties of city life. In Tepoztlan the extended family shows solidarity only in times of crisis or emergency. Although there is more freedom for young people in the city, the authority of parents shows little sign of weakening, and the phenomenon of rebellion against parental authority hardly exists. Nor are the second-generation children ashamed of their parents. Perhaps this can be explained by the general cultural emphasis upon respect for age, authority, and parenthood. Similarly, we found no sharp generation cleavage in values and general outlook on life. As might be expected, the general standard of living of Tepoztecan families in Mexico City shows upward movement as compared with Tepoztlin. Thus, 78 percent of our city families had radios as compared to about | percent in the village; 83 percent had clocks as compared to about 20 percent in the village; 54 percent had sewing machines as compared to 25 percent in Tepoztlan; 41 percent reported buying a newspaper with some regularity as compared to 6 percent; 3 of our 69 families owned cars in the city; there were no car owners at the time of our Tepoztlan study. In the city all slept in beds; in the village only 19 percent slept in beds in 1940. However, there seemed to be more crowding

in the city, especially among the poor families, than in the village. I found cases, in vecin-

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dades, of ten people living in one room and sharing two beds. A similar situation holds in regard to toilet facilities. All Tepoztecan families in the city had some toilet facilities, but we found cases where 15 families shared a single toilet, and in other instances there was a semienclosed toilet in the kitchen. From the point of view of hygiene, it is doubtful

whether this was an improvement over the orchards of Tepoztlan. The diet of the city families is similar to that of the village except that there is greater variety, depending upon income. The city dwellers all enjoy Tepoztecan cooking and continue to make mole on festive occasions. They strongly prefer Tepoztecan tortillas, and many continue to prepare beans with epazote, as in Tepoztlan. About 80 percent of the families continue to use the metate and meclapil, especially for preparing fiesta meals. A few buy corn and make tortillas at home; a larger number buy mill-ground corn or masa; a still larger number buy ready-made tortillas. The ‘Tepoztecan custom of having household pets continues in the city. Fifty-four percent of the families owned a pet—dogs, cats, or pigeons, and 24 percent owned either chickens or pigs or both. Most of these families lived in privately owned homes. The religious life of Tepoztecans in Mexico City appears to be at least as vigorous as in Tepoztlan. Again, the evidence does not support the findings of rural sociologists in this country to the effect that there is a decline in church attendance and religious practices when farm people move to the city. In our study it is not so much a matter of becoming more or less religious, but rather of achange in the content and form of religious expression. Specifically, it is a matter of becoming more Catholic and less Indian. In general, the city Tepoztecans follow the Roman Catholic tradition more closely. The village belief that E] Tepozteco is the son of Mary is no longer held and is regarded as backward and superstitious in the city. Tepoztecans in the city tend to send their children more regularly to Sunday School to learn doctrine, to take first communion, and to attend mass. Confession is as unpopular among city Tepoztecans as in the village, but probably occurs more often. Mexico City, as the center of the Catholic Church in Mexico, has better organized

and better staffed associations, which carry on intensive programs of indoctrination. In many vecindades we found religious shrines, usually of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and all residents are expected to honor them as the protector of the vecindad, to lift the hat in passing, to cross themselves, and to partake in the collective prayers organized by some enterprising member of the vecindad. That social control is strong can be seen from this statement by an informant: “If one does not salute the Virgin, the janitor and all the old women of the vecindad begin to call one a heretic and throw dirty looks.” Such shrines are also found in some of the factories in which our informants worked. A few of our Tepoztecans who are bus drivers tell of the requirement to carry images of San Cristobal, the patron saint of their union. They also tell of religious pilgrimages or-

ganized by the unions. One Tepoztecan explained that he had never bothered about the Virgin of Guadalupe when he was in Tepoztlan, but since working in the city has gone on

two union pilgrimages. This same informant, who as a child in the village had received no training in doctrine classes, had no first communion, and rarely was obliged to attend mass, now attends mass frequently, consults a priest about his economic and domestic problems, and, thanks to the perserverance of Accién Catolica, regulary sends his four children to Sunday School. As another example of the increased activity of, and the greater identification with,

the church is the fact that several of our city informants draped their doors with black

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crepe to mourn the death of a bishop of the church. In Tepoztlan it is doubtful whether the death of the Pope himself would lead to such action. There are some differences in church organization in the city which affect participation of Tepoztecans. Unlike the village, there are no barrio mayordomos. Many of the tasks connected with the care of the images and the church, which in the village are assigned to members of the community or to the specific barrio, are carried out by paid church personnel in the city. Since many of these jobs were the work of men in the village, the net result is that in the city the men play much smaller roles in the religious life. Another difference is that the Tepoztecans in the city contribute less money to the church than in the village. The system of compadrazgo continues to function among Tepoztecans in the city. Each Tepoztecan interviewed in Mexico City had compadres, godparents, and godchildren. With one or two exceptions the changes that compadrazgo has undergone represent an adaptation to urban life rather than a breakdown or even a weakening of the system. A major change in compadrazgo in the city is the disappearance of several types of godparents known in the village—namely, the godfather of iscoton, godfather of the ribbon, godfather of evangelio, godfather of the scapulary, godfather of the Child Jesus. There is also much less use of the godfather of confirmation and the godfather of communion. The compadrazgo system is largely limited to the godparents of baptism and of marriage, thereby resembling the original Catholic practice as introduced by the early Spaniards and as practiced to this day in Spain. The decline in the role of the godfather of baptism is another important change. In the city he is no longer consulted in the selection of the godparent of confirmation in the cases where this occurs. Moreover, in the city there is no sacamisa, thereby eliminating the

role of the godparent of baptism in this ritual. The absence of the sacamisa is probably due to the unwillingness of the mothers to remain at home for forty days after the birth of the child, as is required in Tepoztlan. Another adaptation to city life is the delayed baptism. In ‘Tepoztlan babies are baptized as soon as possible, often when only a few days old, almost always before three months. In Mexico City baptisms in our families did not occur for 12 to 18 months and sometimes not for several years. This delay may be attributed in part to the lower death rate among infants born in the city and to a lessened anxiety about infant health. Another interesting change in the city is the increased frequency with which relatives are selected as godparents. In Tepoztlan it is unusual to find relatives who are compadres. Most ‘Tepoztecans consider this undesirable, for it conflicts with the basic notion of respect and social distance that should exist between compadres. In the city, where Tepoztecans find themselves without friends, they turn to relatives for godparents. Family ties are thereby reinforced by the ties of compadrazgo. But this changes the character of the compadrazgo relationship from a formal and ceremonial relationship to a more informal and personal one. The mode of address among compadres in the village is always of “Vd.—Ud.” In the city it is frequently merely a continuation of the form of address used prior to becoming compadres. Thus, in the city we find compadres addressing each other as “tu-tu,” “Vd.—tu,” and “Vd.—Vd.” The “tutu” is used between brothers or sisters who have become compadres. The “Ud.-tu” is used when an uncle and nephew become compadres. In rural Spain we found the compadre system to be practically identical with the urban forms in Mexico. Still another change in the system in the city is the custom whereby a man or woman will offer to be a godparent before the child is born. In the village one always waits to be asked in a formal manner. Since it might be taken as an insult to turn down an offer of godparentage, the net effect is to reduce parental control in the matter of selection. The

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obligations of godparents to godchildren and of compadres to one another are more clearly and specifically defined in the village than in the city. In the city there is much more familiarity between compadres, and a compadre may ask for almost any kind of favor. Many ‘Tepoztecan families in the city still use herbs for cooking and curing. In almost all the privately owned homes and in some of the vecindades common herbs such as yerba buena, santa maria, and manzanilla are grown in gardens and flowerpots. Herbs are used to cure colds, headaches, stomachache, toothache, and so on, much the way they are in

‘Tepoztlan; however, city families tend to rely more upon patent medicines than do village families. Illnesses such as evil eye, Jos aires, and muina (“illness of anger”), for which there are no patent medicines, necessarily are cured by native herbs. In these cases it is not uncommon for city people to return to the village to be cured. It should also be noted that, when other illnesses do not respond to patent medicines or to medical treatment, the sick person may be taken to the village for rediagnosis and cure. One informant told of suffering a partial paralysis of the face and of being treated unsuccessfully by several doctors. Finally, a visitor from Tepoztlan diagnosed it as an attack of Jos aires, whereupon the patient went to the village and was promptly cured by means of appropriate herbs placed in a bag suspended around his neck. The daughter of another informant was stricken with poliomyelitis and despite hospital treatment remained paralyzed. Her father, in desperation, took her to Tepoztlan, where she was given a series of sweat baths in a temazcal. This treatment, according to her parent, brought about considerable improvement. Sometimes, in the hope that the local curanderos would “understand” the illness better, an incurably ill person may be taken from the city to the village, only to die there. Thus, not only do country people go to the city seeking cures, but the same process works the other way around. In considering stability or change in the way of life of Tepoztecans in Mexico City it is important to realize that the ties between the city families and their relatives in the village remain strong and enduring for almost all the city families studied. They visit the village at least once a year on the occasion of the Carnaval. Many go much more often, to celebrate their own Saint’s Day, to attend their barrio fiesta, a funeral, or the inauguration of a new bridge or school, to act as godparent for some child, or to celebrate a wedding anniversary, or the Day of the Dead. The ties with the village do not seem to weaken with increase in years away from it. On the contrary, some of the most ardent and nostalgic villagers are those who have been away from it the longest. Many old people expressed a desire to return to the village to die. Some men, who have been living in the city for thirty years, still think of themselves as Tepoztecans first and Mexicans second. Fifty-six percent of the families studied owned a house in the village, and 30 percent owned their private milpas. The proximity to Tepoztlan, and the bus line which now runs to the village, facilitate visiting. The young people enjoy spending a weekend or a Sunday in their village. There is also some visiting from Tepoztlan to friends and relatives in the city. In the past few years Tepoztecans in the city have organized a soccer team and play against the village team. The organization of a team in the city means that Tepoztecans from distant colonias must get together; however, the cohesiveness of Tepoztecans with their village is much greater than among themselves in the city. The Colonia ‘Tepozteco has not been functioning for many years, having broken up because of factionalism within the organization. In summary, this study provides further evidence that urbanization is not a simple, uni-

tary, universally similar process, but that it assumes different forms and meanings, depending upon the prevailing historic, economic, social, and cultural conditions. Generalizations

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concerning urbanization must take these conditions into consideration. From our study of Tepoztecans living in Mexico City, we find that peasants in Mexico adapt to city life with far greater ease than do American farm families. There is little evidence of disorganization and breakdown,) of culture conflict, or of irreconcilable differences between generations; many of the trends and characteristics found among these urbanized Tepoztecans are in direct opposition to those that occur among urbanized farm families in the United States. Family life remains strong in Mexico City. Family cohesiveness and extended family ties increase in the city, fewer cases of separation and divorce occur, no cases of abandoned mothers and children, no cases of persons living alone or of unrelated families living together. Household composition is similar to village patterns except that more extended families live together in the city. There is a general rise in the standard of living in the city, but dietary patterns do not change greatly. Religious life in the city becomes more Catholic and disciplined; however, men play a smaller religious role and contribute less money to the church in the city. The system of compadrazgo has undergone important changes, but remains strong. Although there is a greater reliance upon doctors and patent medicines to cure illness, city Tepoztecans still use village herbal cures and in cases of severe illness sometimes return to the village to be cured. Village ties remain strong, with much visiting back and forth. In considering possible explanations for the above findings the following factors would seem to be most relevant: (1) Mexico City has been an important political, economic, and religious center for Tepoztecans since pre-Hispanic times. The contact with an urban, albeit Indian, culture was an old pattern, and has continued throughout recent

history. (2) Mexico City is much more homogeneous than most large urban centers in the United States, both in terms of the predominance of Catholicism and of the cultural backgrounds of its people. Neither Mexico City nor Mexico as a whole has had much immigration from other parts of the world. The population of Mexico City therefore has very close ties with the rural hinterlands. (3) Mexico City is essentially conservative in tradition. In Mexico most of the revolutions have begun in the country. The city has been the refuge for City is not conditions cities and

the well-to-do rural families whose local positions were threatened. (4) Mexico as highly industrialized as many American cities and does not present the same of life. (5) Mexican farmers live in well-organized villages that are more like towns than like the open-country settlement pattern of American farmers.

(6) Finally, Tepoztlan is close to Mexico City, not only geographically but also culturally. The similarities between the value systems of working-class and lower-middle-class families in Mexico City and those of Tepoztecans are probably much greater than those between, let us say, families from the hill country of Arkansas and working- and middle-class families from St. Louis or Detroit. In conclusion, it must be emphasized that this study is still in its preliminary stage, and the findings are therefore tentative. The primary purpose has been to indicate a research design which might yield valid and reliable data for the understanding of the urbanization process. It may be that Tepoztlin was not the best possible choice for this kind of study because of its proximity to Mexico City. It may also be that Tepoztlan is a special case from

other points of view. Certainly we need other studies. We should have follow-up studies of migrants to the city from George Foster’s Tarascan village of Tzintzuntzan, from

Robert Redfield’s and Villa Rojas’ Maya village of Chan-Kom, from Julio de la Fuente’s Zapotecan village of Yalalag, to determine to what extent the findings agree with those

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from ‘Tepoztlan. It would also be important to have comparative studies of migrants to Mexico City, not from ancient and stable communities like Tepoztlin, but from plantation areas populated by poor and landless farm laborers. Notes 1. Tam grateful to the Graduate Research Board of the University of Illinois for financial assistance on this project. The field research in Mexico City was carried out in the summer of 1951 with the aid ofa group of students from the University of Illinois. 2. The tendency to view the city as the source of all evil and to idealize rural life has been corrected somewhat by the work of rural sociologists in recent years. We are no longer certain that rural society per se is nearly as Rousseauan and anxiety-free as we once thought. Studies by Mangus and his colleagues suggest just as high an incidence of psychosomatic illness among the farm population of portions of Ohio as in urban areas (see A. R. Mangus and John R. Seeley, Mental Health Needs in a Rural and Semirural Area of Ohio, Mimeo. Bull. No. 1951. Columbus: Ohio State Univ. [January 1947]). Moreover, a study by Goldhamer and Marshall suggests that there has been no increase in the psychoses (and, by inference, also in the neuroses) over the past hundred years in the state of Massachusetts, a state that has undergone considerable industrial development during this period (see Herbert Goldhamer and Andrew W. Marshall, The Frequency ofMental Disease: Long-Term Trends and Present Status. The Rand Corp. [July 1949)). 3. Theodore Caplow’s excellent article on “The Social Ecology of Guatemala City” (Social Forces, 28, 113 [December 1949}) suggests the provincialism of earlier sociological ideas about the nature of the city. Caplow writes, “The literature of urban geography and urban sociology has a tendency to project as universals those characteristics of urbanism with which European and American students are most familiar... there was until recently a tendency to ascribe to all cities characteristics which now appear to be specific to Chicago . . .” (p. 132). Caplow raises the question whether “much of the anarchic and unstable character attributed by many authorities to urban life in general is not merely a particular aspect of the urban history of the United States and Western Europe since the Renaissance” (p. 133). 4. Ralph Beals. “Urbanism, Urbanization, Acculturation,” Am. Anthropol., 53 (1), 5 January—March, 1951).

5. There is the possibility of other kinds of disorganization which might be manifested on a “deeper” level. In this connection it will be interesting to compare the findings of the Rorschachs given to the Tepoztecan families living in the city, with the findings on the Rorschachs from the village of Tepoztlan. It should also be noted that our findings for Tepoztecan families in Mexico City do not mean that there is no “disorganization” in Mexico City as a whole. A comparison of the statistical indices on crime, delinquency, and divorce, between urban and rural populations in Mexico, shows a much higher incidence for urban areas (see José E. Iturriaga. La Estructura Social y Cultural de Mexico. Fondo de Cultura Econémica, Mexico [1951)).

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Workaday World, Crack Economy Philippe Bourgois I was forced into crack against my will. When I first moved to East Harlem—*E] Barrio”— as a newlywed in the spring of 1985, I was looking for an inexpensive New York City apartment from which I could write about the experience of poverty and ethnic segregation in the heart of one of the most expensive cities in the world. I was interested in the political economy of inner-city street culture. I wanted to probe the Achilles’ heel of the richest

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industrialized nation in the world by documenting how it imposes racial segregation and economic marginalization on so many of its Latino/a and African-American citizens. My original subject was the entire underground (untaxed) economy, from curbside car repairing and baby-sitting to unlicensed off-track betting and drug dealing. I had never even heard of crack when I first arrived in the neighborhood—no one knew about this particular substance yet, because this brittle compound of cocaine and baking soda processed into efficiently smokable pellets was not yet available as a mass-marketed product. By the end of the year, however, most of my friends, neighbors, and acquaintances

had been swept into the multibillion-dollar crack cyclone: selling it, smoking it, fretting over it. I followed them, and I watched the murder rate in the projects opposite my crumbling tenement apartment spiral into one of the highest in Manhattan. But this essay is not about crack, or drugs, per se. Substance abuse in the inner city is merely a symptom—and a vivid symbol—of deeper dynamics of social marginalization and alienation. Of course, on an immediately visible personal level, addiction and substance abuse are among the most immediate, brutal facts shaping daily life on the street. Most important, however, the two dozen street dealers and their families that Ibefriended

were not interested in talking primarily about drugs. On the contrary, they wanted me to learn all about their daily struggles for subsistence and dignity at the poverty line. Through the 1980s and 1990s, slightly more than one in three families in E] Barrio have received public assistance. Female heads of these impoverished households have to supplement their meager checks in order to keep their children alive. Many are mothers who make extra money by baby-sitting their neighbors’ children, or by housekeeping for a paying boarder. Others may bartend at one of the half-dozen social clubs and after-hours dancing spots scattered throughout the neighborhood. Some work “off the books” in their living rooms as seamstresses for garment contractors. Finally, many also find themselves obliged to establish amorous relationships with men who are willing to make cash contributions to their household expenses. Male income-generating strategies in the underground economy are more publicly visible. Some men repair cars on the curb; others wait on stoops for unlicensed construction subcontractors to pick them up for fly-by-night demolition jobs or window renovation projects. Many sell “numbers”—the street’s version of off-track betting. The most visible cohorts hawk “nickels and dimes” of one illegal drug or another. They are part of the most robust, multibillion-dollar sector of the booming underground economy. Cocaine and crack, in particular during the mid-1980s and through the early 1990s, followed by heroin in the mid-1990s, have become the fastest-growing—if not the only—equal-opportunity employers of men in Harlem. Retail drug sales easily outcompete other income-generating opportunities, whether legal or illegal. Why should these young men and women take the subway to work minimum-wage

jobs—or even double-minimum-wage jobs—in downtown offices when they can usually earn more, at least in the short run, by selling drugs on the street corner in front of their apartment or schoolyard? In fact, I am always surprised that so many inner-city men and women remain in the legal economy and work nine-to-five plus overtime, barely making ends meet. According to the 1990 census of East Harlem, 48 percent of all males and 35 percent of females over 16 were employed in officially reported jobs, compared with a citywide average of 64 percent for men and 49 percent for women. In the census tracts surrounding my apartment, 53 percent of all men over 16 years of age (1,923 out of 3,647)

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and 28 percent of all women over 16 (1,307 out of 4,626) were working legally in officially

censused jobs. An additional 17 percent of the civilian labor force was unemployed but actively looking for work, compared with 16 percent for El Barrio as a whole, and 9 percent for all of New York City.

“IF IT WAS WORKING LEGAL . .” Street dealers tend to brag to outsiders and to themselves about how much money they make each night. In fact, their income is almost never as consistently high as they report it to be. Most street sellers, like my friend Primo (who, along with other friends and co-

workers, allowed me to tape hundreds of hours of conversation with him over five years), are paid on a piece-rate commission basis. When converted into an hourly wage, this is often a relatively paltry sum. According to my calculations, the workers in the Game Room crackhouse, for example, averaged slightly less than double the legal minimum wage—between 7 and 8 dollars an hour. There were plenty of exceptional nights, however, when they made up to ten times minimum wage—and these are the nights they remember when they reminisce. They forget about all the other shifts when they were unable to work because of police raids, and they certainly do not count as forfeited working hours the nights they spent in jail. This was brought home to me symbolically one night as Primo and his co-worker Caesar were shutting down the Game Room. Caesar unscrewed the fuses in the electrical box to disconnect the video games. Primo had finished stashing the leftover bundles of crack vials inside a hollowed-out live electrical socket and was counting the night’s thick wad of receipts. I was struck by how thin the handful of bills was that he separated out and folded neatly into his personal billfold. Primo and Caesar then eagerly lowered the iron riot gates over the Game Room’s windows and snapped shut the heavy Yale padlocks. They were moving with the smooth, hurried gestures of workers preparing to go home after an honest day’s hard labor. Marveling at the universality in the body language of workers rushing at closing time, I felt an urge to compare the wages paid by this alternative economy. I grabbed Primo’s wallet out of his back pocket, carefully giving a wide berth to the fatter wad in his front pocket that represented Ray’s share of the night’s income— and that could cost Primo his life if it were waylaid. Unexpectedly, I pulled out fifteen dollars’ worth of food stamps along with two $20 bills. After an embarrassed giggle, Primo stammered that his mother had added him to her food-stamp allotment. Primo:

JI gave my girl, Maria, half of it. I said, “Here, take it, use it if you need it

for whatever.” And then the other half I still got it in my wallet for emergencies. Like that, we always got a couple of dollars here and there, to survive with. Because tonight, straight cash, I only got garbage. Forty dollars. Do you believe that?

At the same time that wages can be relatively low in the crack economy, working conditions are often inferior to those in the legal economy. Aside from the obvious dangers of being shot, or of going to prison, the physical work space of most crackhouses is usually unpleasant. The infrastructure of the Game Room, for example, was much worse

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than that of any legal retail outfit in East Harlem: There was no bathroom, no running water, no telephone, no heat in the winter, and no air conditioning in the summer. Primo occasionally complained: Everything that you see here [sweeping his arm at the scratched and dented

Primo:

video games, the walls with peeling paint, the floor slippery with litter, the filthy windows pasted over with ripped movie posters] is fucked up. It sucks, man [pointing at the red 40-watt bare bulb hanging from an exposed fixture in the middle of the room and exuding a sick twilight].

Indeed, the only furnishings besides the video games were a few grimy milk crates and bent aluminum stools. Worse yet, a smell of urine and vomit usually permeated the locale. For a few months Primo was able to maintain a rudimentary sound system, but it was eventually beaten to a pulp during one of Caesar’s drunken rages. Of course, the deficient infrastructure was only one part of the depressing working conditions. Primo: Plus I don’t like to see people fucked up [handing over three vials to a nervously pacing customer]. This is fucked-up shit. I don’t like this crack dealing. Word up. {Gunshots in the distance] Hear that?

In private, especially in the last few years of my residence, Primo admitted that he wanted to go back to the legal economy.

Primo: 1 just fuck up the money here. | rather be legal.

Philippe:

But you wouldn't be the head man on the block with so many girlfriends.

Primo: 1 might have women on my dick right now, but I would be much cooler if Iwas working legal. I wouldn’t be drinking and the coke wouldn’t be there every night. Plus if Iwas working legally Iwould have women on my dick too, because I would have money. ; Philippe: Primo:

But you make more money here than you could ever make working legit.

O.K. So you want the money but you really don’t want to do the job. I really hate it, man. Hate it. I hate the people. I hate the environment. I hate the whole shit, man. But it’s like you get caught up with it. You do it, and you say, “Ay, fuck it today.” Another day, another dollar [pointing at an emaciated customer who was just entering]. But I don’t really, really think that I would have hoped that I can say I’m gonna be richer one day. I can’t say that. I think about it, but I’m just living day to day. If I was working legal, I wouldn’t be hanging out so much. I wouldn’t be treating you [pointing to the 16-ounce can of Colt 45 in my hand]. In a job, you know, my environment would change .. . totally. "Cause I’d have different friends. Right after work I’'d go out with a co-worker, for lunch, for dinner. After work I may go home; I’m too tired for hanging out—I know I gotta work tomorrow. After working a legal job, I’m pretty sure I’d be good.

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BURNED IN THE FIRE ECONOMY The problem is that Primo’s good intentions do not lead anywhere when the only legal jobs he can compete for fail to provide him with a livable wage. None of the crack dealers were explicitly conscious of the links between their limited options in the legal economy, their addiction to drugs and their dependence on the crack economy for economic survival and personal dignity. Nevertheless, all of Primo’s colleagues and employees told stories of rejecting what they considered to be intolerable working conditions at entrylevel jobs. Most entered the legal labor market at exceptionally young ages. By the time they were 12, they were bagging and delivering groceries at the supermarket for tips, stocking beer off the books in local bodegas, or running errands. Before reaching 21, however, virtually none

had fulfilled their early childhood dreams of finding stable, well-paid legal work. The problem is structural: From the 1950s through the 1990s second-generation inner-city Puerto Ricans were trapped in the most vulnerable niche of a factory-based economy that was rapidly being replaced by service industries. Between 1950 and 1990, the proportion of factory jobs in New York City decreased approximately threefold at the same time that service-sector jobs doubled. The Department of City Planning calculates that more than 800,000 industrial jobs were lost from the 1960s through the early 1990s, while the total number ofjobs of all categories remained more or less constant at 3.5 million. Few scholars have noted the cultural dislocations of the new service economy. These cultural clashes have been most pronounced in the office-work service jobs that have multiplied because of the dramatic expansion of the finance, real estate, and insurance (FIRE) sector in New York City. Service work in professional offices is the most dynamic place for ambitious inner-city youths to find entry-level jobs if they aspire to upward mobility. Employment as mailroom clerks, photocopiers, and messengers in the highrise office corridors of the financial district propels many into a wrenching cultural confrontation with the upper-middle-class white world. Obedience to the norms of highrise, office-corridor culture is in direct contradiction to street culture’s defini-

tions of personal dignity—especially for males who are socialized not to accept public subordination. Most of the dealers have not completely withdrawn from the legal economy. On the contrary—they are precariously perched on its edge. Their poverty remains their only constant as they alternate between street-level crack dealing and just-above-minimumwage legal employment. The working-class jobs they manage to find are objectively recognized to be among the least desirable in U.S. society; hence the following list of just a few of the jobs held by some of the Game Room regulars during the years I knew them: unlicensed asbestos remover, home attendant, streetcorner flier distributor, deep-fat fry

cook, and night-shift security guard on the violent ward at the municipal hospital for the criminally insane. The stable factory-worker incomes that might have allowed Caesar and Primo to support families have largely disappeared from the inner city. Perhaps if their social network had not been confined to the weakest sector of manufacturing in a period of rapid job loss, their teenage working-class dreams might have stabilized them for long enough to enable them to adapt to the restructuring of the local economy. Instead, they find

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themselves propelled headlong into an explosive confrontation between their sense of cultural dignity versus the humiliating interpersonal subordination of service work. Workers like Caesar and Primo appear inarticulate to their professional supervisors when they try to imitate the language of power in the workplace; they stumble pathetically over the enunciation of unfamiliar words. They cannot decipher the hastily scribbled instructions—trife with mysterious abbreviations—that are left for them by harried office managers on diminutive Post-its. The “common sense” of white-collar work is foreign to them; they do not, for example, understand the logic in filing triplicate copies of memos or for postdating invoices. When they attempt to improvise or show initiative, they fail miserably and instead appear inefficient—or even hostile—for failing to follow “clearly specified” instructions. In the highrise office buildings of midtown Manhattan or Wall Street, newly employed inner-city high school dropouts suddenly realize they look like idioitic buffoons to the men and women for whom they work. But people like Primo and Caesar have not passively accepted their structural victimization. On the contrary, by embroiling themselves in the underground economy and proudly embracing street culture, they are seeking an alternative to their social marginalization. In the process, on a daily level, they become the actual agents administering their own destruction and their community’s suffering. Both Primo and Caesar experienced deep humiliation and insecurity in their attempts to penetrate the foreign, hostile world of highrise office corridors. Primo had bitter memories of being the mailroom clerk and errand boy at a now-defunct professional trade magazine. The only time he explicitly admitted to having experienced racism was when he described how he was treated at that particular work setting. Primo: hada prejudiced boss. . . . When she was talking to people she would say, “He’s illiterate,” as if Iwas really that stupid that I couldn’t understand what she was talking about. So what I did one day—you see they had this big dictionary right there on the desk, a big heavy motherfucker—so what I just did was open up the dictionary, and I just looked up the word #/iterate. And that’s when I saw what she was calling me. So she’s saying that I’m stupid or something. I’m stupid [pointing to himself with both thumbs and making a hulking face]. “He doesn’t know shit.”

In contrast, in the underground economy Primo never had to risk this kind of threat to his self-worth. Primo: Ray would never disrespect me that way; he wouldn’t tell me that because he’s illiterate too, plus I’ve got more education than him. I almost got a G.E.D. The contemporary street sensitivity to being dissed immediately emerges in these memories of office humiliation. The machismo of street culture exacerbates the sense of insult experienced by men because the majority of office supervisors at the entry level are women. In the lowest recesses of New York City’s FIRE sector, tens of thousands of messengers,

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photocopy machine operators, and security guards serving the Fortune 500 companies are brusquely ordered about by young white executives—often female—who sometimes make bimonthly salaries superior to their underlings’ yearly wages. The extraordinary wealth of Manhattan’s financial district exacerbates the sense of sexist-racist insult associated with performing just-above-minimum-wage labor.

“IT DON’T EVEN GOT A DRESS SHIRT” Several months earlier, I had watched Primo drop out of a “motivational training” employment program in the basement of his mother’s housing project, run by former heroin addicts who had just received a multimillion-dollar private sector grant for their innovative approach to training the “unemployable.” Primo felt profoundly disrespected by the program, and he focused his discontent on the humiliation he faced because of his inappropriate wardrobe. The fundamental philosophy of such motivational job-training programs is that “these people have an attitude problem.” They take a boot-camp approach to their unemployed clients, ripping their self-esteem apart during the first week in order to build them back up with an epiphanic realization that they want to find jobs as security guards, messengers and data-input clerks in just-above-minimum-wage service-sector positions. The program’s highest success rate had been with middle-aged African-American women who wanted to terminate their relationship to welfare once their children left home. I originally had a “bad attitude” toward the premise of psychologically motivating and manipulating people to accept boring, poorly paid jobs. At the same time, however, the violence and self-destruction I was witnessing at the Game Room was convincing me that it is better to be exploited at work than to be outside the legal labor market. In any case, I persuaded Primo and a half-dozen of his Game Room associates to sign up for the program. Even Caesar was tempted to join. None of the crack dealers lasted for more than three sessions. Primo was the first to drop out, after the first day. For several weeks he avoided talking about the experience. I repeatedly pressed him to explain why he “just didn’t show up” at the sessions. Only after repeated badgering on my part did he finally express the deep sense of shame and vulnerability he experienced whenever be attempted to venture into the legal labor market. Philippe: Yo Primo, listen to me. I worry that there’s something taking place that youre not aware of, in terms of yourself. Like the coke that you be sniffing all the time; it’s like every night. Primo:

What do you mean?

Philippe: Like not showing up at the job training. You say it’s just procrastination, but I’m scared that it’s something deeper that you’re not dealing with. ...

Primo: The truth though—listen Felipe—my biggest worry was the dress code, ’cause my gear is limited. I don’t even got a dress shirt, I only got one pair of shoes, and you can’t wear sneakers at that program. They wear ties too—don’t they? Well, I ain’t even got ties—I only got the one you lent me.

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I would’ve been there three weeks in the same gear: T-shirt and jeans. Estoy jodido camo un ben. {Y'm all fucked up like a bum.]

Philippe: What the fuck kinda bullshit excuse are you talking about? Don’t tell me you were thinking that shit. No one notices how people are dressed. Primo: Yo, Felipe, this is for real. Listen to me. I was thinking about that shit hard. Hell yah. Hell, yes, they would notice if somebody’s wearing a fucked-up tie and shirt. I don’t want to be in a program all abochornado [bumlike}. I probably won’t even

concentrate, getting dished, like... and being looked at like a sucker. Dirty jeans .. . or like old jeans, because I would have to wear jeans, ’cause I only got one slack. Word though. I only got two dress shirts and one of them is missing buttons.

I didn’t want to tell you about that because it’s like a poor excuse, but that was the only shit I was really thinking about. At the time I just said, “Well, I just don’t show up.” And Felipe, I’m a stupid [very] skinny nigga’. So I have to be careful how I

dress, otherwise people will think I be on the stem [a crack addict who smokes out of a glass-stem pipe].

Philippe: [nervously] Oh shit. ’m even skinnier than you. People must think ’m a total drug addict. Primo:

Don’t worry. You're white.

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Street Baptism: Chicano Gang Initiation James Diego Vigil Street gangs in Chicano barrios (neighborhoods) have regularized a gang initiation ordeal which serves several functions. While long and deep exposure to street socialization has made many youths at risk to become gang members, this “street baptism” of gang initia-

tion has become a clear marker and accelerator of gang behavior. For the gang,! the bap-

tism functions as a ritual ceremony to show admittance and dedication to the gang. For the initiate, the baptism is an introduction to the gang and “sanctifies” him (or less often, her) as a true member. This event represents different facets of the gang subculture, such as group membership, social solidarity, ritualistic behavior, ceremonial processes, gender clarification, and symbolic changes.

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Data and information for this analysis have been gathered over several years, from 1978 to 1982 and again from 1989 to the present (Vigil 1988a, 1988b, 1993a, 1993b,

1994), in a continuing ethnographic investigation of more than two dozen different barrios of Mexican Americans in the greater Los Angeles area. Old and more recently established gangs in urban and suburban neighborhoods were examined. In all, more than sixty life histories and three hundred questionnaire-guided interviews were gathered along with many pages of ethnographic observation notes. Although female gang members were included in the study, the emphasis usually (as here) was on males. The focus was the cholo (marginalized) gang youth, from 12 to 19 years of age, who belonged to and identified with the barrio street gang. These gangs have been fixtures in some communities for over 40 years (Vigil 1988a) and recently have spiraled out of control with gang violence—drive-by shootings, random shootings, school ground fights, and so on—daily capturing the attention of the media and law enforcement. Most of the older Southern California barrios, both urban and (originally) rural,

came into being as visibly distinct, spatially bounded neighborhoods separated from other neighborhoods, located, e.g., “across the tracks,” in a government-owned housing development or in ravines, hollows, etc.—what Bogardus (1926) called the area’s interstices.

Families of unskilled and semi-skilled workers settled into the small houses or apartments, which were often located near major worksites—railroad yards, brickyards, or concentrations of small factories. Socioeconomic and cultural barriers reinforced the physical boundaries. Later, most of the rural enclaves were incorporated into the suburbs that grew up around them, but they remained visibly distinct from the surrounding tract home neighborhoods. Newer urban and suburban barrios arose in once prosperous, but now rundown, neighborhoods as the Mexican American population continued to grow. In these, as in the older barrios, relatively low skill levels of the workforce led to recurrent joblessness and poverty for many households. For example, the White Fence barrio is located across a river and freeway from downtown Los Angeles. It was first settled in the 1920s by Mexicans who worked nearby and built their houses in the ravines alongside an affluent Anglo neighborhood. Centered on its small Catholic church, the community remains one of the poorest in the county and still features empty lots on many blocks. On the other hand, the Cucamonga barrio began, also in the 1920s, as a Mexican farm laborers’ settlement. It was located in a vineyard and close to the citrus groves near the boundary between San Bernardino and Los Angeles counties. By the 1970s, it was surrounded by middle-class housing tracts, but still had many unpaved roads and no sewers (Moore and Vigil 1993). While these barrios have dis-

tinctive differences, they and most others in the region share a history of sociocultural marginality, poverty, crowded living conditions, and institutional neglect (Vigil 1988a).

An age-graded cohorting tradition in each barrio ensures a fairly steady, if small (usually no more than 10%), supply of youths (often the brothers, nephews, cousins, and sons of older members) to carry on the gang reputation for fighting and defending its “turf.” Even though the adolescent group that constitutes the gang participates in normal youthful activities such as socializing, playing sports, and driving cars, it is the more destructive habits that reflect the troubled and deeply disturbed lives of its members. Poverty, stressed families, insensitive schools, intergenerational strife, and culture conflict are among the precursors to the creation of gangs and gang members (e.g., Covey et al. 1992). Moore (1991), for

example, found that more than a third of the gang members in her systematic sampling of

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two East Los Angeles gangs had been raised in father-absent households. Similarly, in an ongoing study of the families of gang members in an East Los Angeles public housing development, I found that these families were significantly more often headed by single females than a control sample of randomly selected households from the same project (Vigil 1994); moreover, the “gang family” households also contained more household members. Children seeking respite from crowded, unsettled households spend increasing amounts of time outside in the streets. There, in an often dangerous but also exciting environment, they come under the influence of similarly displaced peers and older street toughs. Thus, such youths are often pre-conditioned for gang participation while they are still in elementary school. Junior high school “is where intensive gang membership activity typically begins. It is... where street youths from different barrios come into regular contact with one another . . . [and] with other children also willing to experiment and flirt with new

role behaviors” (Vigil 1993a:97). Home conditions have not been conducive to completing assigned homework, and by now the street-socialized youth have lost interest in school, “ditching” often to hang out with youths with similar inclinations. With more time on their hands, the youths begin to get into minor (and subsequently more serious) illicit behaviors, drawing them into contact with the criminal justice authorities. Many are incarcerated for varying lengths of time in youth camps or even prisons. Thus, over the generations, the gang has become a social group with cultural rules and values derived from “street socialization” which has replaced what was lost when parents, schools and police failed. Gang baptism occurs especially during the adolescent status shift when age and sex development and assertion are most crucial. The gang initiation ordeal of “jumping-in” a new member (a timed affair in which two or three gang members beat up a novitiate) is a “shock” treatment for many personal and group objectives. At its simplest level, the ordeal is a mechanism wrought by street youth to recruit, test, and turn out more gang conflictoriented youth and thus perpetuate the existence and purpose of the gang. In many ways it is a trade-off: we'll protect you if you help protect us from our enemies. At its most profound level, however, it is a surreal coming of age under the auspices of the street. The streets, with their dark, overwhelming, fear-inspiring threats, have left many youths un-

protected and unsupervised. Where there is the need for protection and escape from fear, there is also the need to vent pent-up aggression born of trauma and rage. In such a context, the initiation is an inverted “gang-bang” (Klibaner 1989), where the gang members

get to do to a new member what they do to rival gang members.

THE INVERTED GANG-BANG: TYPE, TIME, AND PLACE For most individuals, the path toward becoming a gang member begins early, and initiation into it for the most part simply formalizes membership; some can even avoid such trials. Specific routines of induction do exist, however, and how these are practiced varies with particular gangs and individuals. Generally, although details of the initiation vary, its ceremonial character and function have been much the same from one site to another and over time. In any event, these routines indicate the public nature of membership in the gang and provide insights into the psychological underpinning of gang behavior. An initiation is commonly viewed and accepted as an ordeal that entails a physical beating by

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several other gang members. Gang entrance ceremonies are most commonly prescribed for peripheral and temporary members, less often for regular gang members whose early

experiences have tended to lock them into the gang subculture. In nearly all cases, the initiation occurs when the individual is in junior high school, at the age of 12 or 13. A much smaller number are initiated in grammar school. Each of such early initiates the author has encountered came from long-established barrios and had older relatives who were already gang members. Only a handful of initiations occur when the individual is already in high school. Such individuals that the author encountered lived in established barrios, however, and they had refrained from joining until peer pressure overwhelmed them. Before high school is over, they usually quit the group. Most initiations take place somewhere in the barrio, usually near the “hangout” or at the home of one of the initiators. Geronimo, from Barrio Nuevo Estrada, described his

initiation (which occurred when he was in junior high school): If you wanted to get in, one, two, three guys, you go against them, so I went up against them. It was in the front yard of one of the guys’ homes. It was during the afternoon. They surrounded me. If you just stood there and let them hit you and they whip your ass and you don’t do nothing, you’re going to get an ass whipping for nothing. I guess I took an ass whipping to be able to back up the barrio. They would go about thirty seconds. They would count like this: one [5 seconds elapse), two [4 or 5 seconds elapse), and so on.

It is usually a spontaneous affair. Some are initiated at a party when most of the initiators are under the influence of alcohol or other substances. One 18-year-old from White Fence, who had grown up in the barrio, recalled his initiation at age 14: They came up to me ata party, all at one time. It was a big party . . . They told me if Iwant to get into the barrio. I said I don’t know, ese [guy], I want to get in, but I want to think about it. They said, when you get into the barrio you have to be trucha [alert, prepared], for youre taking a big risk and you can get killed by anyone just by being from White Fence. I thought about it, and said: “Orale [O.K.], I'll get in.” . . . It was about 2:00 in the morn-

ing. I was loaded, but I knew what I was doing. I went out into the alley and eight homeboys followed me. Like, there was a big crowd, you know, a lot ran out after them, but eight of them did the thing. “Orale,” one of the homeboys said, “take a trago [a drink], ese, be-

fore you do it.” I drank the rest of the bottle, about half ofit.Then one of the homeboys hit me in the mouth. I kept on going for about twenty seconds, I was going head-on, throwing with one of them. Throwing mine in and they would get theirs in. All the eight guys were coming at me at the same time. I never got a second of a break, for every moment was a serious hit. They downed me about four times, and I kept getting up. I was all fucked up, I had a broken nose and everything.

When the onlookers, especially the homegirls who by now pitied him, thought he had enough, they said, “He’s a homeboy now.” He shook hands with everybody to confirm the fact. Some describe the initiation as a gauntlet trial of running through two lines of gang members. For others, however, especially among members of younger contemporary

cliques, it is a timed affair, from thirty seconds to two minutes, with two to eight gang members doing the pummeling. Whether the initiation is administered by a small or large

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group, or timed or untimed, the severity of the beating is dependent on a number of other factors. If members are intoxicated at the time they decide to initiate someone, which

often happens spontaneously and typically is aimed at a younger, weaker youngster, the beating can be intense and open-ended, as in the example cited above. There are even instances where a nonresident of the barrio has had to undergo a stabbing to show his mettle, as this account from the Chicano Pinto Research Project (1979) shows: They stabbed him and threw him into the bushes. The dudes that got him in were loaded and were muy locos (real crazy), and he kept getting up and he kept saying he was from the neighborhood. They kept getting him in and getting him out and finally they just stabbed him.

More commonly, however, the beating is merely a formality, especially for a long-term barrio resident. As one youth said,

When they would jump us in, they would start a fight. Some other guy jumps in, then another. They would get me down, then start hitting and kicking me, to see if I had huevos (balls; literally, eggs]. They’re not out to really hurt you, you know, they just want to see if

you can take the punches.

Individuals already known as “able to take it” are accordingly subjected to briefer pro forma attacks. Whatever the circumstances, the initiate must accept the group’s determination of where and how the ordeal takes place. The beating must also be endured without complaint (although this does not preclude fighting back); the slightest whimper or other expressed sign of pain could result in rejection of membership. The initiation thus acts as a prerequisite to weed out the weak and uncommitted. Successful endurance of the ordeal also reinforces the attraction of gang membership. Even those informants who admit to substantial trepidation prior to initiation assert that it enhances their desire to belong to the gang. In fact, the desire to belong, prove oneself, gain respect, and show loyalty are all intertwined with the appropriate (by gang standards) role behaviors expected of the initiate.

THE ROLE OF INITIATION IN GANG

LIFE

More than three and a half decades ago, Bloch and Niederhoffer likened gang initiations generally with “puberty rites in primitive societies” and added that “we may conceive of much of gang practice and the spontaneous, informal rituals of gang behavior as arising because our culture has been unable, or has refused, to meet the adolescent’s needs during a critical juncture in his life” (1958:30). In the same work they noted that, for the new member of a gang, “once having succeeded in passing through the ceremony with honor, the psychological aftermath of the experience contributes towards creating bonds of solidarity with those other initiates who have shared this vital experience with him” (1958:123). Structurally, the barrio gang exists in part to provide psychological support for youths who have not received adequate reinforcement from family and other social caretaker institutions. Initiation can additionally be viewed as affirming one’s ethnic orientation. Some

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of the street solidarity and ethnic loyalty is based on defiance of school and law enforcement authorities, which many adult residents and nearly all the resident disaffected youth consider insensitive to low-income Mexican barrios. Thus, the event also tends to affirm

one’s ethnic identification as well showing they are “Chicano.” (On a psychological level, of course, it may also satisfy sadomasochistic urges, opportunities to intimidate and coerce, and even simply a sense of excitement in aggressive, socially sanctioned—by street standards—combat.)

In tribal societies, initiation practices aid in building social cohesiveness and sexual differentiation. This is especially the case “in tribal societies, where equality of status among adults of the same sex is emphasized” (Barry and Schlegel 1980:134; Schlegel and Barry 1991). While egalitarianism among gang members is also valued, there are other el-

ements in the gang subculture which the gang initiation emphasizes. For instance, because many gang members come from households that are female-centered and the streets are dominated by males, the initiation serves to mark passage to a new status. In their crosscultural survey, Burton and Whiting (1961) pointed out how initiation serves to clarify such cross-sex ambiguities, and the gang subculture serves this same purpose. Thus, gang baptism jointly marks passage to a new status, enhances social cohesiveness, creates a cer-

emonial atmosphere, encourages ritualistic behavior, and serves practical gang goals.

MARKING PASSAGE AND SEX ROLE DIFFERENTIATION As with the two examples of gang initiation noted above, marking passage for these members meant that they now were expected to abide by gang rules and routines and perform acts in the name of the gang. There are clear ego, group, and role psychological aspects to the baptism. The initiation itself is charged with symbolic, rite of passage messages which signal a rebirth of an individual as a gang member who adheres to the street subculture. When a beating is administered, at least two signs emerge: the act of gang members pummeling an initiate under the purview of other gang members who witness it, and the actual imprints of the beating (i.e., the bruises, abrasions, blackened eyes, nicks, etc.)

left on the novitiate. These two signs symbolize that established gang members recognized the newcomer as a “homeboy.” The new homeboy also carries that evidence, the street imprimatur, upon him and proudly displays the wounds as a badge of honor wherever he may go. Moreover, the act marks a key period of puberty, the childhood to adult (or more appropriately, “manhood”) transition, where a new affiliation is formalized. Such a group

event has tremendous personal ramifications. Typically, gang initiates (of both grammar school and junior high ages) mentioned a desire for group acceptance or to “prove oneself,” that is, to demonstrate manliness, as motivation for undergoing the ritual.

The rite of passage, with all its new gang role expectations and symbolic qualities, operates at the personal level to assuage the “psychosocial moratorium” that Erikson dl968) spoke of as occurring during the adolescence transition when a new age/sex identity is sought. This is especially important for those youth who come from female-centered households and have lacked adult male role models. Where ambivalence and ambiguity of one’s sex identity may have reigned before, the initiation helps dramatize a clarification, even if

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it is an ephemeral, superficial personal adjustment, to announce that a boy has been transformed into a “man.” A significant event related by a 16-year-old youth who just underwent the baptism illustrates this point: I remember my Mom used to comb my hair . . . she used to comb it to the sides. So one day I took the comb from and started combing it back. That’s when I started thinking I was all chingon [in control; literally, fornicator].

Thus, with gang baptism, street gang swagger, slang cholo talk, and a Jocura (quasi-crazy, wild behavior) mind-set are expected and enhanced. The new gang member is now ready to perform gang tasks. Among these “manliness” tasks are to join in forays and raids against rival barrio gangs and to more habitually ingest alchohol and drugs, like un hombre con huevos (a man with balls).

SOCIAL SOLIDARITY Social cohesiveness and solidarity is strengthened by the initiation. Each time a new member is “jumped-in,” all the witnesses reexperience their own baptism to connect with the newcomer. Thus, the event acts as a reaffirmation to solidify the group psychology of the gang. This mental leap entails that the individual surrenders his identity and allegiance to the barrio gang. Now, the person can affix his nickname (most gang members are given a moniker, like “Loco,” “Wino,” “Puppet,” for example, by fellow gang members, reflecting a personal habit, quirk, or feature) to that of the barrio name. The joint personal and group logo, such as “Loco de White Fence,” becomes another type of imprint, more ob-

servable for all to see. Indeed, central to this newfound identity is the affixing of personal tattoos and graffiti signatures with nickname and barrio name: El Loco de White Fence. It is the plague of public authorities and home and business owners, but to gang members, it is a public demonstration of an intent to be “famous all over town” (Santiago 1984). Thoughts and actions emanate from this group psychology, as a person claims por mi barrio todo (for my neighborhood, or gang, everything). As an affair viewed and sanctioned by the group, it is also a ceremonial celebration. It happens at a fixed point in one’s life (roughly, junior high school) to commemorate that the controllers of the street now control you and have affixed a “branding” for all to see, especially you. In one instance cited above, other members of the large party, including homegirls who usually are excluded from such events, followed the initiators outside and became the audience to the ceremony. One of the homegirls, in fact, stepped in to end the affair with her proclamation, “He’s a homeboy now.”

GANG TRADITION AND PRACTICAL IMPLICATIONS Because the gang requires fearless fighters, and the streets are such a fear-inspiring place, there is a need to recruit and retain “tough” gang members. The initiation is a way that gangs developed to help screen, test, and authenticate gang members. Most of the earli-

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est gangs did not have an initiation because they were formed spontaneously and unevenly. Over the decades, as the street conditions which spawned gangs persisted and there was intergenerational continuity, a gang subculture evolved with norms and values. Initiation ordeals are one of the gang’s subcultural traditions. It has become a ritualistic affair that is interwoven with the “psychosocial moratorium” and the group psychology of the gang in that a new member is subjected to a type of gang “magic.” Because toughness is associated with manliness, or machismo, one of the expected outcomes of this magic is that the novitiate is endowed with huevos or that kind of physical and mental power in order to be allowed into the gang. If the test proves him worthy, he gains the approval of the gang members. He is accepted and can now count on gang members to offer protection and friendship. However, there is a practical side to this tradition. While gangs serve many purposes, for most of their time is spent in the usual adolescent and youth socializing and partying (cf. Vigil 1988a:Ch. 7), one important and highly publicized activity is gang conflict. Gang-banging, as the gang members refer to it, entails ongoing fights and shootings with rival barrio gangs. There is a traditional aspect in these conflict activities, as some of these gang rivalries span several generations, sometimes son following father amassing battles in a long, protracted “turf” war. The initiation allows for the selection and screening of good “battlers.” It is a type of ritual homicide in that the former person (pre-initiation) is killed and a new person (postinitiation) created. As noted, many of the initiators revel in this opportunity to mete out punishment, as personal aggressions help let off steam in a controlled way (e.g., a type of ritualized /ocura binge). This, in many ways, keeps them in shape for the real battles which await them, sometimes on a daily basis; like training and practice before fights with rivals.

CONCLUSION The gang baptism is a remarkable phenomenon. While many of their neighbor non-gang peers respond to the role expectations of parents and school teachers and learn to behave accordingly, the gang members “jump hoops” for established gang members. Since the gang, and the subculture that is a part of it, have taken over where other caretaker units (i.e., parents and schools) have failed, there has evolved a gang initiation ceremony to as-

sert the gang’s claim on newcomers. The ostensible purpose for this “inverted gang-banging” is to test the physical and mental mettle of novitiates and weed out the weak and uncommitted. Then the new “street baptized” homeboy can join to help against enemy barrio gangs. The latter is the practical goal, but them are other objectives to the initiation event and different messages which reflect it. As an example, the gang imprimatur becomes an element in one’s tattoos, a public announcement of one’s new status. Scrawling gang graffiti of one’s nickname and the barrio gang’s name is further advertisement that the initiation “took.” Providing new gang members with a set of role expectations and behaviors 1s also something that is encouraged and accelerated in the aftermath. Many of the symbolic outcomes are focused on aggression and masculinity: the signs of the beating, the sullen, defiant stare of “I can take it,” a witnessed public “ritual homicide” to match the “soul murder” a person willingly submits to because of a sense of self-worthlessness, and the

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non-verbal, body language “pats-on-the-back” one receives from gang members as they welcome a new member of the “select group.” Until such time that major social institutions, such as the family and schools, are able to win over social control from the street gangs, the latter will continue to socialize and

enculturate large numbers of barrio youth and subject them to a street baptism. Street baptisms, of course, are culminating events that usually succeed a long, deep series of experiences that compel a youngster to join a gang. I have elsewhere discussed these background experiences leading to and accompanying gang participation as “multiple marginality” (Vigil 1988a), which constitutes a set of ecological, economic, sociocultural, and psychological forces, and events.

In large measure, the initiation is a “boyish” inclination to mark a “manly” passage under the pressures of the street. Personal and social factors are intertwined in understanding this process. It is notable that gangs have spontaneously formulated this initiation in such a way that it resembles what many pre-industrial tribal societies have followed as tradition. Gender differentiation and clarification and social solidarity and cohesiveness are both served by the gang initiation, just as they frequently are in such groups.

Note 1. Over the years, the term gang has been defined and redefined many times (cf. Covey et al. [1992] for a recent review). In Chicano barrios in the U.S., gang has generally meant a territorially affiliated group of youths (typically organized into age-graded cliques) dedicated at least in part to fighting other, similar groups.

References Cited Barry, Herbert, and Alice Schlegel 1980

Bloch, H. 1958 Bogardus, 1926

Early Childhood Precursors of Adolescent Initiation Ceremonies. Ethos 8(2):

132-145.

A., and A. Niederhoffer The Gang: A Study in Adolescent Behavior. New York: Philosophical Library. Emory The City Boy and His Problems. House of Ralston: Rotary Club of Los Angeles.

Burton, R. V., andJ.W. M. Whiting

1961

The Absent Father and Cross-Sex Identity. Merrill-Palmer Quarterly 7:85-95.

Chicano Pinto Research Project (CPRP)

1979

A Model for Chicano Drug Use and for Effective Utilization of Employment and Training Resources by Barrio Addicts and Ex-Offenders. Los Angeles: Final Report for the Department of Labor and National Institute of Drug Abuse.

Covey, Herbert C., Scott Monard, and RobertJ. Franzese

1992

Juvenile Gangs. Springfield: Charles C. Thomas.

Erickson, Erik H.

1968

Psychosocial Identity. International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, 7:61-67. New York: Macmillan and the Free Press.

Klibaner, Aaron K.

1989

Concepts of Initiation. Unpublished Student Paper, University of Wisconsin-Madison.

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Moore, Joan W.

1991

Going Down to the Barrio. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Moore, Joan W., and Diego Vigil

1993

Barrios in Transition. In In the Barrios: Latinos and the Underclass Debate. J. W. Moore and R. Pinderhuges, eds. Pp. 27-49. New York: Russell Sage Publications.

Santiago, Danny 1984 Famous All Over Town. New York: Penguin Press. Schlegel, Alice, and Herbert Barry 1991 Adolescence: An Anthropological Inquiry. New York: Free Press. Vigil, James Diego 1988a Barrio Gangs: Street Life and Identity in Southern California. Austin: University of Texas Press. 1988b Group Processes and Street Identity: Adolescent Chicano Gang Members. Ethos 16(4):43 1-445. 1993a The Established Gang. In Gangs: The Origins and Impact of Contemporary Youth Gangs in the United States. S$. Cummmings and D. Monti, eds. Pp. 95-112. New York: State University of New York Press. 1993b Gangs, Social Control, and Ethnicity: Ways to Redirect. Jn Identity and Inner-City Youth: Beyond Ethnicity and Gender, S. B. Heath and M. W. McLaughlin, eds. New

1994

York: Columbia University, Teachers College. Gang Families in a Public Housing Project. Unpublished report to the Department of Health and Human Services, Washington, DC.

MREADING

15

Applying Anthropology to American Indian Correctional Concerns Elizabeth S. Grobsmith Opportunities abound for the application of anthropological methods, techniques, and data in addressing issues relative to incarceration. Over the last sixteen years, I have

worked in a variety of capacities with and on behalf of Native American inmates incarcerated in the Nebraska Department of Correctional Services. My roles as teacher, consultant, trainer, and expert witness have evolved over the years, in response to the

changing concerns of the Indian prisoners. In Nebraska, Indian inmates represent about 4 percent of the prison population, which is disproportionately high compared to the 1 percent of Nebraska population that is Indian. As their understanding of their rights to religious freedom has increased, so has their demand for anthropological consultation. I receive letters from Indian prisoners throughout the United States who are seeking similar professional expertise. Becoming such a resource person can easily turn into a full-time job. Furthermore, Native Americans

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are only one of a number of ethnically diverse groups within the prison population that could benefit from the work of anthropologists.

TEACHING My work with Indian prisoners began in 1975 when Native American inmates were awarded a Consent Decree by the U.S. District Court in Nebraska which enabled them to practice their religion and culture behind the walls. One of the first provisions of the decree that Indian prisoners wished to implement was access to education, so the prison, in negotiation with the State of Nebraska Indian Commission, provided academic programs in American Indian Studies. Teaching in such a program is a rather different experience from teaching large groups of undergraduates at a typical college campus. The educational preparation of Indian prisoner students is quite variable; offering a college course may be unrealistic when members of the class are from nonliterate societies and have dropped out of school by the third grade. Indian prisoners are also rather different constituents from ordinary college students in that they may wish to hear more about their own tribal heritage rather than about other traditions, and they are not afraid to say so. This can be an even greater problem when the number of different tribes represented in a single class may be ten or more. Being a non-Indian anthropologist carries with it some genuine hazards, including being accused of exploitation and having to deal with sensitive, volatile issues such as religious beliefs being presented from the perspective of a non-Native outsider. Another challenge was being a female in a maximum security prison. While there were some disrupters, the majority of inmates behaved in a most gentlemanly manner. This included one occasion when all the electricity in the prison went out and I stood in front of fifty maximum-custody male inmates in complete darkness for twenty minutes. While this might appear to be a very threatening situation, in actuality, the inmates were so desper-

ate for educational services that any outsider offering such a service would have been greatly protected. ‘Teaching under these circumstances does leave something to be desired, as we are not accustomed to constant criticism, class disruption, and challenges, if not outright dis-

agreement with what we are teaching. After two semesters, I decided that it was time to give someone else the learning experience of teaching Indian prisoners about their history and culture in prison. Though difficult, the role of teacher is extremely important, for prisoners are acutely in need of education, and they stand to profit both from an academic perspective and from the increased self-respect which education affords. Their culture gains credibility by being the subject of a prison college class.

CONSULTING FOR PRISON AUTHORITIES The Consent Decree led to increased tension between inmates and correctional officers. Indian inmates now had opportunities to conduct religious ceremonies in prison, and guards encountered unusual and therefore suspicious religious paraphernalia and procedures. Sage, cedar, and sweetgrass burned at ceremonies and during private prayer can

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easily be mistaken for the smell of marijuana by the untrained. The Sacred Pipe, wrapped carefully with special religious articles, requires special protocol in being unwrapped and used and poses a challenge to normal inspection procedures. Healing ceremonies conducted by medicine men and women from outside the prison, sometimes in a totally blackened room as required in Lakota Sioux ceremonies, and the taking of skin sacrifices with scalpels or exacto blades understandably makes guards nervous. The contribution of the anthropologist can be great here, serving as consultant to

correctional authorities and guiding them as to the legitimacy and meaning of these religious practices. Absence of regular training programs and turnover of employees result in ignorance and insensitivity on the part of correctional officers and continual mistakes which prisoners deeply resent. Guards may be unaware of how “count” in prison can be conducted at a sweat lodge and at what points in the ceremony the “doors” (flaps, tarps) to the lodge may—or may not—be opened. Inmates are offended by accusations of drug use at their sacred sweat lodge grounds and would rather refuse a urinalysis and suffer an automatic conviction of “guilty” than humiliate themselves by consenting. Anthropological expertise is of benefit not because the inmates are incapable themselves of explaining their traditions. Rather, the use of an “outside expert” or consultant affords legitimacy to the entire process. The consultant attests to the fact that these traditions are real—that they exist outside the prison walls and have not just been invented to inconvenience the prison system. Greater dependence on such consultation could only improve prisoner—guard relations, and it could potentially reduce the involvement of prisons in continual litigation. Another area in which anthropological consultation can be beneficial is in dealing with alcoholism among the inmate population. Intake procedures normally ask very limited questions about personal histories, and an inmate’s criminal record may be but a skeletal overview of involvement in a criminal career. Nebraska prison data estimate that 40 percent of Indian inmates have a chemical dependency problem. On the other hand, my 1986-87 interviews with forty-five inmates in the Nebraska Department of Corrections (a 56 percent sample) revealed that 100 percent of Indian prisoners claimed to be chemically dependent. The actual involvement of alcohol or drugs in offense commission was unknown by correctional authorities for nearly 74 percent of Indian inmates; in my research, I discovered that between 91 and 100 percent of offenses were alcohol or drug related. (See Elizabeth S. Grobsmith, “The Relationship Between Substance Abuse and Crime Among Native American Inmates in the Nebraska Department of Correctional Service,” Human Organization 48,4[1989]:285—298.)

These data should have a tremendous impact on the estimate of services required by and for this population. Anthropological consultation on data gathering procedures used during the intake process can upgrade the quality of inmate intake profile data, which in turn can reinforce the prison’s request for resources to develop treatment programs. Anthropological consultation can also improve the design of treatment programs. Underuse of prison programs concerns prison mental health staff who do not understand why their programs are not popular among Native American inmates. Anthropologists have worked extensively with Indian populations, and they recognize the need to accommodate Indian religious and cultural practices in the design of alcohol and drug treatment programs. Native Americans share—or perceive that they share—certain cultural bases for alco-

holism; consequently, addressing the causes and cure must reflect an understanding of

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Indian values and culture. Indian clients in prisons express hesitation to self-disclose unless they are assured the safety of relating exclusively to other Indians. Usually this means separate Indian therapy groups, which prisons hesitate to employ. In addition, incorporation of traditional spiritual elements such as the sweat lodge and use of the pipe can have a significant impact on the degree of commitment to rehabilitation Indian inmates are willing to make. The consequence of ignoring Native American prisoners’ needs is the ultimate return of most Indian inmates to incarceration. A follow-up of the forty-five inmates in my original study showed that within three years of their release from prison, two-thirds either had returned to prison or were confined in a city or county jail following an alcoholrelated offense. (See Elizabeth S. Grobsmith and Jennifer Dam, “The Revolving Door: Substance Abuse Treatment and Criminal Sanctions for Native American Offenders,” Journal of Substance Abuse 2,4{1990]:405—425.)

CONSULTING FOR THE PAROLE BOARD Anthropological consulting can be even more effective as inmates prepare to seek release from prison. ‘They typically face a parole board which, like the correctional system, has little knowledge of or sensitivity to Indian cultural approaches to rehabilitation. For example, the Nebraska Board of Parole commonly requires that an offender who has a history of substance abuse attend Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), but the general rejection of AA by the Indian prison population makes such a requirement meaningless. While attendance may result, sincere involvement in addressing one’s alcoholism cannot take place in an environment which is distrusted. Native Americans are, once again, far more willing to involve themselves in the therapeutic environment when clients are exclusively Native American, an option which is often available at urban Indian centers. Outpatient therapy available at specific Native American treatment centers is also a far superior option to attending AA in a “generic”

group with which Indians fail to identify. Most cities with even small Indian populations have some Indian treatment programs or centers, or at least an Indian counselor. In some cities, Indian AA meetings are available which incorporate principles of AA but in a less Judeo-Christian way. Anthropologists’ understanding of Native perspectives on alcohol treatment can be invaluable in helping to implement systems which inmates wi// use and which are more likely to be effective. One step is to educate the parole board about Native American perspectives. Some members of the Nebraska Board of Parole have been very receptive to such ideas and have even attended Native American prison club functions to discuss the parole process with Indian inmates. I served as liaison in this process, bringing the two parties into the first dialogue they have ever had and giving inmates the opportunity to express their preferences for referrals in the alcohol rehabilitation process. I have also served as cultural interpreter or broker and have used ethnographic documentation to support Native American requests. For example, an Indian inmate wanted to attend the funeral of his grandfather, but prison and parole regulations prohibit inmates from attending funerals of anyone but an “immediate” family member. Anthropologists can provide cross-cultural perspective on the extended family and the frequency with

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which Native Americans are raised in extended family networks or by grandparents alone. As another example, Indian prisoners sometimes request to attend rituals such as the Vision Quest or Sun Dance. In Nebraska inmates with minimum custody are eligible to attend ceremonies away from the prison, but permission to attend these activities is normally denied Native Americans. If parole authorities understood that for most American Indians in prison, attending a Vision Quest or Sun Dance is a principal avenue for alcohol rehabilitation, it would hardly seem reasonable that they would deny such access. The provision of ethnographic information to a parole board serves to educate, and also to lend credibility and thus support to inmate requests.

SERVING AS EXPERT WITNESS When prison authorities continue to refuse Indian inmates access to the religious practices which inmates believe are within their constitutionally guaranteed rights, they file grievances and lawsuits. In these instances, there are many ways anthropologists can be and are involved. First, and basic to all positive settlements, is the education of attorneys

with reference to Indian prison religious practices. All suits filed by Nebraska Indian inmates are reviewed by the Chief Judge of the U.S. District Court for the District of Nebraska and a law firm appointed by the judge. If the judge deems the grievance relevant to the original Consent Decree and worthy of being litigated, the case is assigned to an attorney. The attorneys have rarely had any experience with Native American inmates, however, and generally know nothing of Indian culture. On the other hand, the Nebraska Attorney General’s Office, which always conducts the correctional system’s defense, has

excellent knowledge of Indian prison practices. Attorneys who find themselves in this position are desperate for assistance, and they are extremely grateful for anthropological involvement, both to educate them and ultimately to serve as expert witness in the legal proceedings. They gladly petition the court for expert witness fees to help the scholar prepare material in support of the case. But getting to court is further complicated by the fact that the Indian plaintiff and his or her attorney may not “speak the same language,” both figuratively and literally. Not only must attorneys achieve a greater understanding of Indian culture, Indian inmates must also come to understand the legal negotiation process. They must realize that they cannot always win on every point and that settlement and compromise with correctional officials may be the best avenue to making some gains. On one memorable occasion in my work as liaison between plaintiffs and attorneys, an attorney and I were invited to come to prison and smoke an inmate’s Sacred Pipe to bless the negotiation and cement our ties. I have served as expert witness in suits brought by Indian inmates against the prison in seven instances. The role of the anthropologist here is to inform the court of the content and validity of cultural and religious practices. In this vain, I have testified, as have other anthropologists, about the Native American Church and its use of peyote, the Sun Dance, sweat lodges, powwows, hand games, and religious principles in general. This is probably the most significant role the anthropologist can play, for in this environment we submit our credentials for the court’s review and, when permitted, offer testimony that ex-

plains the historical and cultural bases for Indian religious practices. In one lawsuit success in alcohol therapy was at issue, and my own research data—rather than the ethnographic

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literature—were presented as testimony in support of the claim that prison data seriously underestimate the extent of alcohol and drug addiction and that the prison is unable to provide suitable therapy for its Indian population.

ETHICAL ISSUES A statement about the role of anthropologists in corrections would not be complete without a comment on ethical dilemmas. Numerous issues surface, not the least of which are

reciprocity and safety. Inmates who participate in research also get released from prison and, in the Indian tradition. they expect reciprocal kindness. These are delicate issues for the anthropologist, for one does not want to convey that one is happy to “use” informants in prison, and then refuse to associate with them once they have been released. But neither can one allow the expectation that the anthropologist is willing to go to dinner or to park for a quiet, private visit with an ex-offender. Teaching and/or consulting in prison may carry with it some obligation of continued involvement with Indian prisoners, but the issue is most pronounced for researchers. Ethnographic and interview research brings the investigator and the subject into much closer personal contact. The prisoner who opens up and shares his criminal as well as alcohol or drug history with a researcher is revealing an intimate part of his or her past, and that self-disclosure requires a very high level of trust. The bond which results can easily be misinterpreted by prisoners as personal affection or willingness to do favors; at a minimum such prisoners are likely to feel that since they shared an important and deeply personal reflection of their lives, the researcher has an obligation in turn to be sympathetic. While teaching and consulting also bring prisoners and the service provider into contact, the depth of one-on-one contact is greatly increased in research with personal interviews, particularly where sensitive information is revealed. Other ethical concerns revolve around discovery of sensitive information in prison and the protection of confidentiality and anonymity for one’s informants. Discovery of intended crimes, illicit drug or alcohol use in prison, or information about unsolved crimes all bring the anthropologist’s moral decision making into play. From my perspective, anthropologists can make only one choice—that is, to maintain the strictest confidentiality under all circumstances—for without that, informants will withdraw their trust and ulti-

mately refuse to participate in research of any kind. Protection of the confidentiality of data is particularly difficult for researchers whose data are requested in court testimony. Divulgence of one’s sources for verification may be requested, but revealing the identity of our research subjects is forbidden according to the ethics of our discipline, and the anthropologist must be prepared to defend the privacy of the research data.

CONCLUSION There is a tremendous need for anthropologists in correctional affairs. With the largest number of inmates representing minorities, and correctional staff seldom representative of those same groups, anthropologists are frequently sought as liaisons, cultural resource persons, and simply savvy outsiders who can help minority individuals interact with the

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complex, legal world in which they live. Correctional authorities benefit from this interaction as well, through improved inmate-staff relations, decreased litigation, and prison accreditation standards which reward institutions that permit and cooperate with research. For the anthropologist the rewards of this type of involvement are numerous, but they are not primarily financial. While there may be enough work to keep an anthropolo-

gist busy full-time, the court is not accustomed to paying for expert witnesses, and the clients are nearly always indigent. Attorneys are appointed to cases by the court and normally receive no compensation for their services. However, in the cases in which I have been involved, attorneys have attempted—sometimes successfully—to obtain a small expert witness fee for the consultant. Anthropologists may then receive a fee for the preparation and delivery of their testimony or service, but it can in no way compensate them for the amount of time that must be expended in preparing for court. Also, the irregularity of litigation would preclude providing such a service on any but a periodic consultation basis. The rewards of this type of advocacy lie, rather, in a sense of accomplishment from the activities conducted and services rendered. Few activities are more satisfying than helping to mend an intercultural communication network that has broken down. The satisfaction of such a role is primarily in the process, for the actual gains often seem few and far between. Those that do occur are extremely gratifying professionally, and they may put the anthropologist in a situation of great demand and generate numerous additional opportunities for applied work.

‘

Medical Anthropology

Medical anthropology is concerned with the centrality of health to human well-being, and examines the variable distribution of disease among populations; the cultural construction of illness and healing; and how illnesses are discovered and treated in a manner that is cul-

turally appropriate. In sum, medical anthropologists explore the sociocultural context and implications of disease, illness, and curing. It is also not uncommon to find medical anthropologists who have training in public health or medicine, and many themselves work in a clinical setting (cf. Johnson 1987). Daniel Joralemon (1999:8-12) provides a very useful overview of the field of medical anthropology. He notes that early on in the history of the discipline, anthropologists identified human health problems and their cure as a social process. Importantly, it was a social process that was as rational and logical among less complex societies as it was for their more complex counterparts. In the Cold War era after World War I, the United States sought to actively expand its sphere of influence, not just in the rebuilding of Europe and Japan, but also elsewhere in the world. Agencies emerged in the U.S. government, as well as on the international scene, that sought to improve poorer and more marginalized countries, thereby helping stabilize global politics and orient those countries toward a Western model. Thus, the precursor to the Agency for International Development (AID) emerges in the United States. Internationally constituted organizations, such as the World Health Organization (WHO), the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank, were formed at

about the same time. All are oriented by a modernization model of development that emphasized providing less-developed areas with Western technology and know-how, while at the same time identifying and removing cultural barriers to successful development. Another dimension of the overall engagement of anthropology in the medical field is through clinical anthropology in which anthropologists have tried to humanize the clinical setting and broker a more positive relationship between the patient and health care providers. Not surprisingly, Hans Baer, Merrill Singer, and Ida Susser (1997:16) see a marked ethnocentric biomedical bias in the work conducted by anthropologists at that time. The idea was to bring Western biomedical resources, practices, and ideas to those who did not have them, and in the process figure out what cultural barriers (e.g., beliefs, values, superstitions) might impede the adoption of these practices and ideas by patients. From this perspective, culture is treated as a “risk factor” that must be dealt with. While there have been many theoretical developments in the field since the 1950s and 1960s, Joralemon (1999:12) contends that they have remained largely independent of one

another, thus limiting the possibility for the cross-fertilization of ideas. Within the field, applied medical anthropology has remained an important contribution by anthropologists concerned with health and human well-being in the context of the health care system. Jo-

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ralemon (1999:12) notes that, “[t]heir role is often as cultural broker, an intermediary be-

tween biomedical practitioners and groups whose cultural assumptions might be at odds with those underlying scientific medicine.” While much research focuses on the culture of the patients who are the subjects of the medical system, there is also a growing literature that “studies up” (to borrow Laura Nader’s term), turning its critical analytical gaze on the physicians and other power holders in the health care system and how their assumptions and practices lead to particular patient outcomes (cf. Hunt, Arar, and Larme 1998). This chapter provides a broad overview of the diverse activities of medical anthropologists working in the health care field. I situate the readings historically with George Foster's article that expresses the early concern for public health in the 1950s. From there, emphasis is on work on public health issues (Singer, Irizarry, and Schensul), community

participation (Green and Isely), and policy (Welsch).

References Cited Baer, Hans A., Merrill Singer, and Ida Susser

1997

Medical Anthropology and the World System: A Critical Perspective. Westport, CT: Bergin & Garvey.

Hunt, Linda M., Nedal H. Arar, and Anne C. Larme

1998

Contrasting Patient and Practitioner Perspectives in Type II Diabetes Management. Western Journal of Nursing Research 20(6):656-682.

Johnson, Thomas W.

1987

Practicing Medical Anthropology: Clinical Strategies for Work in the Hospital. Jn Applied Anthropology in America. Elizabeth Eddy and William Partridge, eds. Pp. 316-339. New York: Columbia University Press.

Joralemon, Daniel 1999 Exploring Medical Anthropology. Boston: Allyn & Bacon.

MREADING

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Relationships between Theoretical and Applied Anthropology: A Public Health Program Analysis George M. Foster! INTRODUCTION Many, if not most, American anthropologists regard applied anthropology with ambivalent feelings. On the one hand there is a growing feeling that the anthropologist must play a more positive part on the contemporary scene, that his obligation to society cannot entirely be fulfilled by traditional research and teaching. On the other hand there is evident reluctance to come to grips with the “applied” challenge for fear one’s scientific integrity

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will be compromised. This situation stems from the historical and cultural conditions which have surrounded the evolution of the anthropological disciplines. Until recent years, this developmental period corresponded with an era in which the optimistic belief was generally held that society was steadily and automatically becoming more humane and just. Such an outlook was conducive to a scientific point of view which laid stress on research for its own sake, and which held that any and all new contributions to knowledge were justifiable, simply as contributions to knowledge, and not because of their practical import. The goal structure and value system of anthropology were formed under these conditions, so it is natural that maximum prestige came to be attached to theoretically based research. Social and economic progress might require the technological application of the fruits of the physical and biological sciences, it was thought, but not of the social sciences. During the past generation it has become apparent that progress—whatever its definition may be—is not automatic and inevitable. Our generation, unlike earlier ones, no

longer assumes that its children and grandchildren will live under more desirable conditions than now exist. Rather, it is generally realized that the achievement of progress will require the full utilization of all human knowledge, and that broad-scale social and economic planning (which is by no means the same as a totally “planned society”) are essential on both a national and an international basis. The size and scope of American technical aid programs, popularly known as Point IV, testify to the extent to which we as a nation accept this changed point of view. Cultural concepts will play an increasingly important role in such programs. The question is, will anthropologists contribute a fair share to such programs, or will problems of a cultural nature be dealt with by others scientifically less well qualified? As possessors of specific knowledge, concepts, and working techniques, anthropologists recognize intellectually their responsibility to contemporary society. But it is apparent that wholehearted acceptance of this responsibility, in the sense of willingness to participate in action programs, is a difficult step for many to take. To a very considerable extent, our professional value system is still based on premises which were true when it came into being. The truth of this statement is illustrated by the difficulties encountered in securing qualified personnel for programs which deviate sharply from the fields in which anthropologists traditionally have worked. As a profession, we who claim to know most about peoples and their cultures are facing the third quarter of the 20th century and its worldwide socio-economic problems with a definitely limited point of view. This is a most serious matter, for the future growth and utility of anthropology will be seriously constricted if we are unwilling or unable to recognize the tremendously expanded scientific environment in which we live, and its opportunities, as well as the possibility that we may have to pay certain penalties in order to exploit them. The reconciliation of the theoretical and applied points of view is perhaps not as dangerous nor as difficult as is often imagined. This paper describes an attempt to bridge the gap. Only one type of applied anthropology is considered: that dealing with technical aid programs of the type now popularly referred to as Point IV, carried out by the United States government in cooperation with the governments of countries technologically less advanced. Conclusions reached suggest that anthropological participation in this type of work offers unusually fresh fields for basic cultural research, while at the same time planning and execution of the practical programs may be materially aided. The field research here discussed grew out of a combination of circumstances: the availability of Institute of Social Anthropology field personnel living in Latin America who

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were well acquainted with local cultures; their belief that there are meaningful culture patterns common to most Latin American countries which if isolated would be useful in the planning and execution of technical aid programs; the existence in 17 Latin American countries of Institute of Inter-American Affairs technical aid programs, some with a his-

tory of 10 years’ operation, in the fields of public health, agriculture, and education. The research problem was defined in the following general terms: how can the anthropological axiom—‘“in order to work with a people it is essential to understand their culture”—be translated into terms that would be meaningful to administrators. Two conditions were to be met: (1) the results must be such that Institute of Inter-American Affairs administrators would see how they might be applied immediately to existing and future practical programs; (2) contributions were to be made to basic anthropological theory, within or apart from the applied context, in the sense of testing premises or hypotheses. With respect to the first requirement we defined a practical program as one where a conscious attempt is being made to change the habits and action patterns of a group for its benefit. This might be through better health and hygiene, higher agricultural yields, or basic education and increased literacy. Cultural data which would promote a higher degree of efficiency in carrying out such programs would meet the first requirement. We begged the question of values by avoiding the problem of whether is is possible to say in an absolute sense that any program is “good” for the people toward whom it is directed. With respect to the second requirement, the most promising lead appeared to be the testing and evaluating of the assumption that cultural phenomena occur in cross-cultural patterns that can be defined and analyzed, that they are not haphazard and unique events. If this assumption is correct, it follows that once significant patterns have been isolated and are understood, they will have predictive value of a generalized nature, not perhaps in the sharp sense of the natural or physical sciences, but sufficient to furnish useful guides to program planners and administrators. Obviously the ultimate success of a technical aid program depends in considerable part on the ability to predict how the people one hopes to benefit will react to the proposals made to them, and how the human element may be manipulated to achieve a particular goal, once it is set. The ability to predict accurately gross human behavior requires a significant sharpening of basic theory in the field of cultural dynamics. It appeared that analysis of certain public health programs—particularly health centers—established by the Institute of Inter-American Affairs in cooperation with local ministries of health offered the most promising research possibilities. Comparable programs existed in all countries where it was proposed to work; they involved contact with a wide range of people, particularly rural and low-income urban groups; ideas of health and illness are always deeply imbedded in the folk belief and the folk value system of such people; these are situations and conditions in which anthropologists have had wide experience. The experimental situation, then, as finally outlined, may be summed up as follows: Beginning in 1942, essentially identical cultural stimuli (modern public health programs)

were applied to a number of countries which, although of the same super-culture area, show local and national variations in both horizontal and vertical directions. In 1951-52 some of the results of these stimuli were studied simultaneously by cultural anthropologists

familiar with the general outlines of each culture, using essentially the same field techniques and methods. Suggestions were made to the administrators of each project as to ways in-

creased efficiency might be injected into programs, and cross-cultural comparison of all

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results was made. We felt that such a situation, if any, would give us an opportunity to find regularities in cultural processes which, if known, would facilitate the development of concepts and operational procedures that might be applied successfully to similar situations in other cultures.

THE RESEARCH SETTING The Health and Sanitation Division of the Institute of Inter-American Affairs? operates in 17 Latin American countries through cooperative agreements with one or more ministries. The operational units (except in Brazil) are known as the Servicio Cooperativo Interamericano de Salud Publica, usually abbreviated to Servicio, a term which has come to be

used generically to describe any cooperative program of this type. The original objective of the Division was to provide professional and technical aid and service in the field of public health in Latin America. In line with this policy major programs have been carried out in the fields of preventive medicine, control of specific diseases (malaria, yaws, venereal disease, tuberculosis, and others), environmental sanitation and health education. Due

to a lack of medical facilities in many places, numerous hospitals and dispensaries have been constructed and maintained, so that an important part of the budget has been devoted to medical care as well as to public health in the more limited sense. The health center is a focal point of an important part of these services. A typical center, usually a building constructed especially for this purpose, offers pre- and post-natal hygiene, infant hygiene (including innoculations), dental clinic, communicable disease control, (including venereal disease and tuberculosis clinics), laboratory analysis, environmental sanitation, home visits by nurses, and vital statistics analysis. Privy construction, milk distribution to the needy, public baths, and other additional services are found in some. Maternal and child health services constitute the core of all programs. Families are enrolled, and the appropriate members are expected to come regularly for services according to prearranged schedules. Nurses spend part of their time within the centers, in the several services, and the remainder in home visiting. In theory the work is “preventive,” that is, not directly concerned with treatment of illness (except for special diseases). In practice it has been found necessary to offer much clinical care in order to include patients to avail themselves of the services. Staff members of all health centers are nationals of the countries concerned. They include a head doctor and head nurse whose duties are largely administrative and supervisory, and several full- or part-time doctors, nurses,

nurse’s aides, sanitary inspectors, laboratory technicians, and lesser functionaries. Field investigations were carried out in two periods. The initial research was done in the spring of 1951, and lasted for about a month. For this work two health centers in each of four countries—Brazil, Columbia, Mexico, and Peru—were selected, one in an

urban and one in a rural area. Subsequently, Institute of Social Anthropology personnel were asked to participate in a general evaluation of the Health and Sanitation Division programs carried out by a special survey team which included two public health doctors, a public health nurse, a hospital specialist, a sanitary engineer, a civil administrator, and a historian-statistician. Accordingly, in the fall of 1951 and the spring of 1952 the field of anthropological research was extended to include Chile, Ecuador, and El Salvador, and additional research was done in Mexico and Brazil. Health centers continued to be the

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focal point of these investigations, but attention was also given to other aspects of public health, including nursing schools, hospitals, health education. and the like.

This division of the work into two periods made possible a preliminary report’ containing a series of tentative hypotheses and conclusions, based on cross-cultural compari-

son of data from four countries, followed by the opportunity to test these conclusions in three additional countries. Similar field techniques were used in al) countries. Health center personnel, including directors, head nurses, nurses, nurse’s aides, doctors, and sanitary inspectors were interviewed, Doctors and nurses were observed in action in the centers, as

they received and administered to patients. Home visiting nurses were accompanied on their rounds, they were studied at “BCG” posts where they vaccinated against tuberculosis, at “mothers’ clubs” where pregnant women were given instruction in the care of infants, and at volunteer aides’ training sessions. Operations of Servicio hospitals were analyzed. Random varnpling of populations within the area of health centers was done on a door-to-door basis to obtain a cross section of public opinion concerning Servicio projects. Health education

programs were studied, and limited experimental work in health education was carried out. ‘Tests were given in nursing schools to determine the extent erroneous folk belief was retained by nursing students. Use was made of whatever statistical data were available. In-

formants were “worked” in typical ethnographic fashion to formulate the basic patterns of folk belief concerning health and disease. The types of data gathered embrace a rather full description of folk medicine in the seven countries studied, including information on the types of illness for which patients will consult doctors, and those which they prefer to take to the folk curer or treat with home remedies, a good knowledge of health center operations as they impinge on patients, information on attitudes of patients, potential patients, and former patients toward centers and hospitals and th medical profession in general, attitudes of doctors, nurses, sanitarians, and other personnel to their jobs, to cach other, and to patients, and their ideas

of their problems. Statistical data showing the extent to which Servicio programs are patronized were analyzed, as were data on community organization and the possibilities of stimulating better organizations as an aid to public health programs.

FOLK MEDICINE AND INTERPERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS Time did not permit the traditional anthropological approach—of many months of study

culminating in a well-rounded description of all aspects of life of the peoples concerned. For such aspects as economic organization, income and cost of living, family structure,

education and literacy, religion, the prestige complex, and the basic value system, it was necessary to depend largely on the data already on record. Although these fields were by no means neglected, it quickly became apparent that two other categories of data were particularly important for our purposes: 1. The whole complex of beliefs, attitudes, and practices associated with health, prevention of disease, disease, and curing—in the broadest sense, “folk medicine.” Though a considerable bibliography on Latin American folk medicine exists, no systematic

cross-cultural analyses useful for our purposes existed.

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2. The quality and nature of interpersonal relationships, particularly between patients and public health personnel. These proved to be most effectively studied by analyzing patient reaction to public health services, and by noting characteristic attitudes of all groups of people with the other groups with which they came into contact in the public health situation. A limited description of data from both categories is essential for an understanding of conclusions reached.

The Nature of Folk Medicine Almost all groups in Latin America are equipped with a philosophy which explains the cause and cure of disease and the prevention of illness which in many ways is in direct conflict with the teachings of modern medicine. Nevertheless this philosophy forms the basis to explain the action patterns of the peoples in question which must be changed if modern medicine is to prevail. In Latin America there is no single integrated theory of disease, but there is a surprisingly high degree of homogeneity in the sense of common themes and patterns that are so general as to form a framework within which local variations can be studied. These ideas of health and illness are the end result of a long period of fusion of two currents of thought: native American Indian concepts of the universe and man’s place in it, and the ancient medical heritage brought to the New World by the Spanish and Portuguese. Probably the largest single element in the total body of belief is that which has come down through two millennia from the humoral pathology of Hippocrates and Galen. According to that theory each of the four bodily “humors” was characterized by two of the qualities associated with the four elements of fire, earth, water, and vapor. Thus, blood was

hot and wet, phlegm cold and wet, yellow bile hot and dry, and black bile cold and dry. The proper balance of these humors resulted in health; imbalance produced illness, which

would logically be characterized by abnormal cold or heat and dryness or moistness. This concept, with subsequent modifications and elaborations, reached Spain and Western Europe via the Arab world. It was transmitted to Hispanic America after the Conquest, where it remained the basis of medical classification and teaching until the 18th century. Selected aspects of this theory—particularly the concept of heat and cold as qualities of the body, of types of illness, and of foods and herbs—became part of the folk belief of most peoples. General concepts of humors have also prevailed in some places. Hence, today, there is a widespread tendency to explain many illnesses in terms of “heat” or “cold,” terms which do not necessarily correspond to actual temperatures, but which are innate qualities of substances. Pneumonia, for example, may be classified as a “cold” illness, and typhoid fever as “hot.” Frequently, but by no means always, treatment is based on the concept of opposites: “cold” remedies and foods for “hot” illnesses, and vice versa. The “hot” and “cold” distinction provides a general framework of do’s and don’t’s for popular medicine: under what conditions and in what sequence certain foods can be eaten, and what the results will be if the scheme is violated; which remedies can be

used for what illnesses, and what the consequences will be if these rules are transgressed. In each country or area folk medicine has a core of principal illnesses (often with picturesque names) that have no exact equivalent in modern medicine. Each illness has recognized causes, symptoms, and cures. Some “folk” causes may be called “rational” in that

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they are explainable on the basis of the body of empirical knowledge to which the group has access. This knowledge may be erroneous in terms of modern science, but it makes sense in terms of the logical premises of the group. For example, the widespread belief that abnormal cold causes respiratory illness is “rational.” Closely related to extreme cold as a causative agent is aire or mal aire (“air,” “bad air”), when this is explained as an actual cur-

rent of air, a draft, which cools the body, producing various types of illness. Contracting aire is almost inevitable if one emerges from a house when warm, or if one breathes air

much colder than that breathed a moment before. This in large part explains the belief widespread in Latin America that central heating is unhygienic if not downright dangerous. Violations of “hot” and “cold” food prohibitions which lead to illness may also be classified among the “rational” causes. The role attributed to “microbes,” however poorly the term is understood, is another evidence of a rational pattern. For example, the recogniz-

ably contagious qualities of such diseases as measles and smallpox put the in this category— as does the belief that gonorrhea comes from intercourse with a menstruating woman, or from sitting on a hot rock, or that malaria comes from eating certain fruits, or not sleeping enough at night. The Columbian belief that “bad odors” cause illness likewise falls in this category, as does the Chilean concept of empacho. The latter is one of the most common folk ailments of children and is believed to be caused by green fruit, soft bread, half-

cooked food, or some similar object lodging in the stomach or intestines. In general, illness and injury which are explained as due to such “rational” or empirically determined causes are considered by the folk to be “natural.” The most common “natural” diseases have names corresponding to those of modern medicine and, in terms of popular syndromes, sometimes etiologies, but only rarely cures; they are essentially the same: whooping cough, colds, grippe, appendicitis, diptheria, measles, chickenpox, small-

pox, intestinal worms, diarrhea, venereal disease, typhoid fever, pneumonia, tuberculosis, and so on. Other causes may be said to be magical or supernatural in nature, in that they lie outside the body of knowledge empirically verifiable by the group. Mal de ojo, or el ojo (“evil eye”), is the most widespread “illness” in Latin America that is explained in magical terms. Certain individuals have the power, often unintentional and sometimes unknown to themselves, of causing illness in small children by looking at or admiring them. Such a person frequently touches the child at the time of looking, thus preventing the ojo from taking effect, or if this is not done recourse may be had to home cures of a curandero. Sometimes susto (“fright”) is magical in origin in that a malignant spirit or ghost may take possession of an individual, or be the cause of the fright. Bewitchment is not uncommon. For example, rag dolls or images are used to represent the victim, and into them pins are stuck or other injuries inflicted. The belief that a cold essence emanates from a corpse and can cause bystanders to fall ill unless ceremonial bathing or cleansing follow, is another example of a supernaturally produced condition. In El Salvador this emanation is hijillo, and in Columbia hielo de muerto. Folk recognition that strong emotional experiences can cause an individual to fall ill is evidenced by the wide variety of names for sicknesses that are essentially psychosomatic. The emotional experiences which most often produce physiological results include fright, anger, desire, imagined rejection, embarrassment or shame, disillusion, and sadness. Susto or espanto results from fright, and frequently is explained as a shock which separates the

spirit from the body. The cure depends on inducing the spirit to return to its temporal

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home. Colerina is the term often used for disturbances produced by great anger or rage; in Mexico, epilepsy is thought to have this cause. Desires are called antojos; unfulfilled food desires of pregnant women may result in birthmarks, whereas those of small children will give them gastric upsets. (Consequently, in Chile the wise parent never denies a child any food, drink, or sweet it wants, however inappropriate it may be.) In most countries sibling rivalry is recognized, often in a form in which a child shows unconscious resentment toward an unborn child of its mother. In Mexico this is known as sipe, in Salvador the child esta peche, in Ecuador paslon results and often accompanies weaning, in Peru the term is caisa, and in Chile this jealousy is one cause of pensién. In Peru embarrassment or shame produce chucaque, while in Salvador they cause a bothersome sty known as pispelo. The Peruvian tiricia is a result of a strong disillusion, and the Ecuadorian mal de corazon results from the loss of a loved one, loss of money or property, or some similar saddening experience. Perhaps the most significant fact with respect to folk illness is that symptoms usually are broad and vague: vomiting, fever, diarrhea, sore throat, aches, and the like. Be-

cause of the generality of these symptoms they lend themselves to almost any kind of interpretation, and it would seem that this is precisely what happens in the majority of important folk illnesses. When symptoms appear, the experiences which have preceded them are reviewed and will often reveal the occurrence of an event known to produce a certain illness. Was the patient recently exposed to cold or to a current of air? Did he make an enemy who might bewitch him? Was he frightened? Was he embarrassed or angered? Hence, the symptoms, combined with the supposed causative event, are interpreted as due to such-and-such an illness, and treatment is prescribed accordingly. For example, if a child develops fever and diarrhea the parents may recall that the previous night it had fallen from its bed and cried; since such a fall might frighten a child, it is logical to expect susto to follow. Then those symptoms identified with susto and characterized by vagueness are seized upon to confirm the diagnosis. Many can be discerned with little imaginative effort: paleness, eyelashes growing long, sadness, and so on. The parents are now sure the child suffers from “fright” and the curandero is called in. In other cases, symptoms which may have been present all the time assume a new significance after an expectancy is created. Once the culturally recognized cause has occurred, occasional crying or vomiting, either one of which is sufficient to diagnose evil eye, are seized upon as proof that the child indeed has been “eyed” by someone. The symptoms of still other illnesses described here appear in considerable part to be manifestations of culturally patterned behavior: for example, the person who experiences great embarrassment may be expected to evidence some form of illness. (Of course it is possible that the individual actually develops these or other symptoms as a result of his emotional experience.) The functional value of such behavior as being the individual’s way of escape from an unpleasant situation is apparent. In Peru he takes refuge in colerina from the embarrassing or unpleasant aftermath of a fit of anger, and thus renders himself immune from possible retribution. Folk medical practitioners most commonly are called curanderos (feminine curandera) in Latin America, though other terms are encountered: in Salvador, parchero is also used, and in Chile, meico and meica (from médico, “doctor”). Midwives are called variously parteras, comadronas, or curiosas. Usually these men and women have come to occupy their positions after long periods of formal or informal training, not infrequently as apprentices or assistants to older practitioners. Only rarely do they claim divine or supernatural powers to aid

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in their cures, or combine their work with black magic. Their clinical perspicacity is often astonishing—beyond doubt they frequently cure sickness and alleviate suffering—and they have considerable knowledge of herbs, as well as of psychology. In general they are honest, sincere practitioners, and respected members of the community. In most cases they cannot be looked upon as witch doctors, frauds, or shams. Folk cures make use of a variety of techniques, the most common of which are herb

teas. Massage is often resorted to, and usually is explained as an action that removes the illness or poison from the body, in a mechanistic sense. The famous egg-rubbing of the body of a child believed to suffer from evil eye falls into this category. A warm, freshly laid egg is passed over the body of the little patient, broken open and examined, and if a spot appears on the yoke it is assumed that e/ ojo has struck the child. This diagnostic practice also has therapeutic value and frequently is believed to cure the child. Poultices often are used, sometimes for mechanical effects, but more commonly for magical reasons: in Peru

and Columbia a live pigeon is split open and applied to the body for certain illnesses. Diet is important in all areas, with special attention to the “hot-cold” qualities of the foods. Often, certain days are used for curing (Tuesday and Friday, especially in Peru) and certain hours of the day. Religious orations and creeds frequently are recited. Most of these techniques and cures are worthless in a clinical sense; at best their therapeutic value is psychological. Nevertheless, a good deal of significant knowledge has been contributed to medicine through primitive or folk pharmacopoeias, and a number of general symptomatic curing practices appear to be of sufficient value for the entire complex of folk medicine of a people to be critically examined by competent judges before it is decried as worthless. The pervasiveness of folk medicine, its vitality, and its self-sufficiency are noteworthy. It is not just a question of a random collection of old beliefs and superstitions. Folk medicine flourishes today because it is a functional part of the people’s way of life. It is believed in, it is practiced, it is given credit for its own cures—as well as many for which it cannot claim credit—and is recognized, consciously or unconsciously, by its practitioners as a legitimate expression of popular culture. Almost every informant was able to describe with little effort a large number of household remedies and their uses, and had well defined ideas about the causes, symptoms, and cures of a wide variety of illnesses. Informants frequently spoke of their children as having been recently ojeado or asustado (attacked by the evil eye, or “frightened”), and cited cases of friends or relatives who had suffered from one or another of the folk illnesses here described and who had been cured by folk remedies. Curanderos do a brisk business in all places studied.

Interpersonal Relationships A majority of Servicio programs work well, some outstandingly so. Many doctors and nurses manifest a high degree of sense of duty. Pride in the physical equipment of plants and genuine sympathy for patients are felt by many of the personnel. Nevertheless, in many cases there are serious problems of personal relations to be overcome: some centers do not op-

erate to full capacity, in others there is an unnecessarily high turnover of patients, and pa-

tient criticism of health services frequently is sharp. Three general criticisms are leveled at health centers, varying in intensity from country to country and center to center, but present in some degree in all places studied: frequent lack of tact and diplomacy on the part

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of doctors, nurses, and other personnel toward patients; time lost in going to and from centers; failure of many centers to treat sick children who were not previously enrolled, or who had not kept routine appointments.

1. Lack of tact and diplomacy. In many cases doctors and nurses are impersonal to the point of frightening patients, and in some cases they are consciously or unconsciously rude. Part of this stems from ideas of class and status found in Latin America, with

rigidly preconceived ideas of the manners and intelligence of people in all other classes, particularly those one considers below one. In other cases, apparent rudeness is completely unconscious and results from the desire of a nurse or nurse’s aide to do a thorough job: she rushes through a long questionnaire, which bears little relationship to the family situation, meticulously fills it out, scolds the mother for her failure to do the impossible, reiterates ad nauseum the importance of keeping center appointments. In some cases mothers have come to centers begging to have their names stricken from the roles to avoid being annoyed by overly conscientious nurses. 2. Loss of time. This is the most frequent single complaint about center services. Most appointments are by the day, and the patient must wait until he or she is called. For a busy housewife with many small children, a hungry husband coming home at noon, and morning marketing to be done, the loss of up to half a day is a well-nigh insurmountable difficulty, frequently resolved by not going to the center at all. 3. Failure to treat sick children. This is the most bitter of all criticisms of center services. It illustrates the failure of the people served to understand the fundamental distinction between preventive medicine—the basic goal of health centers—and clinical treatment of the sick and ailing. In most centers doctors will examine and prescribe for sick children if they are already enrolled. But in many, a mother may not enroll a sick child, so that in her hour of need she is turned away, to become a bitter critic of

health centers. Unquestionably, whatever the philosophy and logic behind health center programs, parental anger at being refused treatment for sick children has resulted in active antagonism to center activities on the part of many people.

PROGRAM RECOMMENDATIONS The success of public health programs depends to a very great extent on persuading a majority of people in a given area to cooperate with health authorities, to change certain habits, to give up old practices, and to adopt new ones. All cultures are resistant to change, including those of Latin America. As has been pointed out, most of the people toward whom public health programs are directed are equipped with a strong philosophy about the nature of health and illness, and have essential faith in their own system of folk medicine. They believe, as does the public health specialist, that health is a desirable state, but they often differ with him as to how it can be preserved or, if lost, regained. A basic problem, then, is re-education rather than education. Ways must be found to drive out those characteristics of folk medical practice and belief which are in fundamental conflict with the teachings of modern medicine, and to utilize those which are or can be made consonant with the goals of the medical doctor. This means imbuing the recipient peoples with the realization that hygienic living and modern medicine, particularly preventive medicine, are forms of personal health insurance which will help keep them in better health,

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help to lengthen their lives, to work more efficiently, and to enjoy life more fully than will adherence to traditional health practices. It means educating people who consider illness to be due primarily to magical causes or to divine will to believe in scientific concepts of cause and effect, of microbes and their power, and to act accordingly. There is no easy way to achieve this goal. It seems quite obvious, however, that one important approach lies in recognizing the importance of folk medicine to the peoples concerned, and understanding its nature and function. If public health personnel are acquainted with prevailing concepts of folk medicine, in many cases these beliefs can aid rather than hinder the doctor—the good or the useful can be separated from the bad and the useless, and programs planned with this in mind. There are at least two ways such knowledge may be utilized: 1. The ability of trained personnel to utilize folk concepts in interpreting and making intelligible modern medical treatments and preventive measures, and in persuading patients to adopt and follow through with recommended practices. This suggestion is based on the premise that people accept new ideas or techniques more readily if something exists in their culture which is or appears to be similar to the foreign element. 2. The confidence which will be instilled in patients if it is apparent to them that the trained personnel understand folk concepts, even though they believe scientific ways are superior. Occasional examples illustrating the validity of the first manner were found already to be in use. In Chile, as in the other countries, herbal teas form an important part of the

curandero’s pharmacepoeia, and popular confidence in them is great. For infant diarrhea some Servicio doctors prescribe, in addition to other remedies, the herbal teas in which

they know the people have confidence. Drinking quantities of liquid is part of the treatment for diarrhea, and by the device of teas it is possible to ensure that the water is boiled and therefore safe. Were the doctors to say “Give the child lots of boiled water,” mother would be much less likely to follow instructions; but because the treatment is interpreted in terms of local belief they are convinced that the doctors know what they are talking about, and the child is therefore well taken care of.

Other examples in which a similar psychology might be employed were suggested by the anthropologists to Institute of Inter-American Affairs personnel: 1. Ritual numbers, particularly “3,” are frequently interwoven into folk curing. It was suggested that treatment might be prescribed in terms of injections or internal medicines on three successive days, or three times a day, or for three weeks. Thus, deeply ingrained folk ideas of therapeutic measures might be utilized to ensure that the doctors’ instructions are followed. 2. In many parts of Latin America the placenta must be disposed of in ritual fashion. In some places the impersonal hospital disposition appeared to be keeping women from utilizing available maternity services. It was suggested that arrangements might be made to deliver the placenta to the family so that disposition could be made in . the traditional fashion. 3. In some places it is believe that a postparturient woman should eat only those foods she ate during her first confinement. Some women expressed hesitancy about going

to hospitals for delivery for fear they would be forced to eat other foods which they

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felt would harm them. It was suggested that as far as possible mothers be promised the diet they felt they could eat, and that meantime primaparas be sought who had no such restrictions and could eat normal hospital fare. 4. In Peru the concept of “dirty stomach” is widespread. It was suggested that doctors’ prescriptions might be more faithfully followed if, in the case of illness defined by the people as due to “dirty stomach,” the doctor were to remark that the medicine would clean out the stomach. Or, if the problem were to convince someone of the need for a changed diet, it might be efficacious if he remarked that the prescribed diet was a preventive against “dirty stomach.” These suggestions aroused in Servicio personnel both interest and opposition. The principal question was, how far can or must one go in compromising the standard medical approach? We were much impressed with the pragmatic nature of the peoples toward whom these health programs are directed. If a practice is observed to work well, regardless of how much it may conflict with folk belief, people tend to accept it. An illustration comes from the new maternity hospital in Quito. About one-third of all births in the city occurred in the old hospital. The new one has sufficient capacity for about two-thirds. A survey revealed that many complaints against the new hospital were based on folk belief: fresh air, considered dangerous, is admitted to the hospital; patients are bathed; they are sent home in five days, whereas the culture pattern calls for a stay in bed of up to two weeks. Nevertheless, in less than a year the new hospital was operating at capacity, and comments of the following nature were volunteered by townspeople: “Fresh air is dangerous, but there is plenty of it at the Maternidad and it seems to harm no one, so maybe after all it isn’t dangerous.” Bathing of patients, and their short hospitalization were also criticized, but it was remarked that neither mothers nor children seemed to suffer as a re-

sult. Apparently in many cases if a good service is offered, not only will it be accepted, but the very act of acceptance does more to destroy erroneous folk belief than any conscious educational campaign. There seems to be no single rule to indicate the extent to which medical services should cater to or be recast in terms of folk belief, but the limit is con-

siderably lower than we were inclined to believe at first glance. In other ways the failure or the health personnel to understand folk medicine appeared to seriously jeopardize health programs. Although there were noteworthy exceptions, a majority of the doctors interviewed had only the slightest grasp of the importance of folk belief to their patients, and little concrete knowledge of customs and practices. Moreover, they possessed an almost universal tendency to deprecate such beliefs and to ridicule the people who hold them. Not infrequently in the presence of patients doctors remarked on their lack of culture, their ignorance, and their brutishness in failing to cooperate with him. In general, the doctors operated as if folk medicine did not exist, that as far as their goals were concerned it could be ignored. Though they generally felt that

patients distrusted them, they did not realize that their attitude actually reinforced rather than broke down folk belief. By ridiculing their patients’ ideas they contribute to a more or less pronounced dichotomy that already exists in the minds of many Latin Americans between “folk” illnesses and those recognized by medical science. Because they have seen conclusive demonstrations, the “folk” know that certain types of disease can be cured or prevented by the doctor, and so in spite of their natural distrust of him they seek his services when they feel he can help. At the same time they

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feel that there are other illnesses that are best treated by home remedies or curanderos, ill-

nesses which are not understood by the doctor and whose existence he denies. These illnesses are generally those here described as having magical or psychological etiologies. Ifa child’s illness is diagnosed as evil eye, obviously it is poor judgment to take the child for treatment

to an individual who denies that there is such a thing. For example, in Valparaiso a public health nurse visited a home and found a child suffering from bronchial pneumonia. She asked why the child had not been brought to the health center for treatment and was told “the child is suffering from evil eye, and you know as well as I that the doctor does not know anything about the evil eye.” This dichotomy in the minds of the people is not hard and fast. Yet the common tendency of the doctor (or nurse) to ignore or ridicule folk concepts of illness undoubtedly reduces his effectiveness, for patients become more firmly convinced than ever that he has blind spots and, as a result, many genuinely sick persons do not receive proper medical treatment. There is a growing awareness of microbes in Latin America, but there is a marked tendency to understand by “microbes” those things that cause the illnesses the doctor can cure. Microbes have nothing to do with the evil eye, susto, and the like.

If patients could come to believe that doctors and nurses are familiar with folk ideas of health and sickness, and approve of some of its treatments (such as isolation, bathing,

specialized diet, herbal teas), but feel that for many things they have better methods, it is very likely that the folk would have greater tolerance for modern medicine. There must be great numbers of people who would like to follow a doctor’s recommendations but who fear to do so because of the accumulated repressive weight of folk tradition and the doubts which arise from feeling that the doctors are not familiar with the type of sickness with which they are afflicted. If an obviously sick child suffering from fever, headache, and vomiting were brought to the doctor, and the mother did not hesitate to say “I suspect it is the evil eye,” the doctor should lose none of his professional integrity by replying, “Well, let’s see. There are many illnesses with similar symptoms, and my examination convinces me that in this case it is such and such, and I recommend the following treatment.” The doctor is neither ridiculing nor sanctioning the mother’s belief—he is diplomatically bypassing it. As a specialist he points out why it is more likely to be something else, and as a sympathetic specialist his advice may very well be followed. Other cultural factors of a more general nature also affect Servicio programs. A striking example comes from Mexico. In one large urban health center 43 percent of registered women desert prenatal treatment before delivery, the majority dropping out after the first gynecological examination. In a nearby semi-rural health center the loss is only 21 percent. Even if allowance is made for some variation because an urban population is more mobile and less stable than a rural one, there is a significant difference between the two centers. The explanation seems based on Mexican (and Latin American) ideas of decorum and modesty. The first prenatal examination comes as a great shock to most women. The intimate examination itself is embarrassing, and is doubly so because it is made by a man. In the small center the woman is carefully prepared for the experience: the nurse explains just what will be done, why it must be done, that it probably will happen only once during the course of treatment, and that she (the nurse) will be present all

the time. In the large center the patients have little idea of what to expect. “It’s best just to take them by surprise,” was the joking attitude expressed by one doctor. In one Columbian

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center there is, practically speaking, no gynecological examination. The women refuse to submit to it partly because of their own feelings, and partly because their husbands are outraged at the idea of any other man having such intimate contact with their wives. Even in Chile, where health services generally are well advanced, it was noted in one large center that the gynecological examination, such as it was, was made by a midwife; the doctor

barely looked at the patient beyond taking her pulse and listening to her chest. On the other hand, in a small center in El Salvador where, as in the case of the small Mexican cen-

ter, women were well prepared by the nurse, little embarrassment was shown during examinations, and relatively few women abandoned treatment. The impersonality of modern medicine here runs into a cultural barrier of considerable importance; prevailing concepts of modesty are incompatible with the requirements of medical treatment. It was suggested to the Institute of Inter-American Affairs that, at the very least, in all prenatal cases a thorough and sympathetic explanation be made to each woman. Ideally, women doctors should make gynecological examinations whenever possible. In all countries communication between doctors and patients is a problem of greater or lesser magnitude. For a variety of reasons a significant number of patients after seeing the doctor do not understand what they have been told to do. In many cases the patient is nervous and uneasy in the presence of a man, particularly since she usually is of humble origin, and he of a much higher social status; she is unable to concentrate or to grasp what is being said. Development of greater rapport between doctors and patients will partially solve this problem. But it must be realized that the manner in which instructions are phrased is highly important. What appears simple and logical to an educated person may not be at all simple to a less well educated, often illiterate, individual. In the United States

it is taken for granted that patients will understand what is meant by doing something “every three hours.” Yet in much of Latin America such instructions are meaningless. For example, in a Mexican center the doctor told a mother to nurse her infant “every three

hours.” The anthropologist asked the mother at what hours she would feed the child. “At six, seven, eight, and so on,” replied the mother. The startled doctor repeated his instructions, but upon being requestioned the mother still gave the same answer. Instructions in terms of time as defined by hours were meaningless to this woman. She had no clock, she was unable to tell time, and in her life experience it had never been necessary to grasp the import of time as understood in hours. In many other cases time was found to be meaningless, as far as instructions were concerned. When significant numbers of a center’s patients come from illiterate and lowincome groups unused to clocks, it would seem wise to work out local adaptations of the time concept in terms of things that have meaning to the people. In most cities there are factory whistles, municipal sirens, church bells, and so on, that sound at regular hours.

Time points could be established with meaning for each area and instructions might be phrased in such terms.

A similar case was noted in Temuco, Chile, where pregnant women are told by the doctor to walk three kilometers a day if they feel well. This phrase appears to be taken directly from medical text books designed to be read by students and doctors. At a meeting at which volunteer nurse’s aides were being trained, the nurse asked “How much exercise should a pregnant woman take every day?” All trainees promptly replied, “Walk three kilometers daily if you feel well.” The anthropologist asked, “How far is three kilome-

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ters?” This precipitated a lively discussion. The women remembered that they had heard both the numbers 9 and 27, and multiplying each by 3 decided that a pregnant woman

should walk 9, 27, or 81 blocks. But they were unable to agree on which distance. (Ap-

parently they had been told that a kilometer is equal to 9 city blocks). As in the case of time instructions, what appeared to the doctor and nurse to be simple, clear expressions were of no use whatsoever because the people were not trained to think in the same terms as the doctors. Bureaucratic hours and practices were found to constitute a considerable cultural barrier to full acceptance of some Servicio projects. In many parts of Latin America, government hours are from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m., or a similar time period. Allowing for the time it takes to “open” shop, as well as to close it, the effective hours are considerably reduced. Moreover, since full-time doctors are the exception rather than the rule, many doctors put in only an hour or two a day at health centers, with considerable latitude with respect to arrival time. ‘Io be reasonably sure of attention, a patient must come early and await her turn. If some services could be re-scheduled for the afternoon (and this is done in a few

centers), when mothers are less occupied, it is very likely that they would attract more patients, with a resulting increase in goodwill. The humble pit privy may also be used to illustrate the importance of understanding the general cultural configurations of a country in which one proposes to work in public health. Privy campaigns of one sort or another probably have been carried out in all Latin American countries. Public acceptance in some cases has been good, but all too often they end up as chicken coops or grain silos. Customary posture in defecating is perhaps the single most important fact bearing on the acceptance or rejection of privies. A coffee planter in El Salvador, in the interests of his employees, built a series of privies, one for each house, according to the standard American “riser” model. He was upset when his employees refused to use them. Finally an old man offered the suggestion, “Patron, don’t you realize that here we are squatters?” The planter ripped out the seats, replaced them with a perforated slab floor, and was gratified to find that public acceptance was general. Riser privies, for psychological or physiological reasons, seem to cause constipation among squatters. Similar cases could be cited from most other Latin American countries. As a general rule in Latin America the perforated slab privy should be the basic working premise on which a campaign is planned, but other factors may override the traditional posture factor. Attempts to popularize this type in Xochimilco have met with little success. The village is sufficiently close to Mexico City for the inhabitants to realize that the bowl-seat toilet is used by cultivated people, and that the use of the slab marks one as a country yokel. Hence, in this village success of a privy campaign probably will depend on the development of cheap bowl-type equipment. Prestige here is more important that posture. But other attitudes may also enter the picture. After an earthquake in E] Salvador in 1950 the government built temporary camps for the homeless, including fine, modern privies. Their acceptance was limited. Finally it was realized that the people were accus-

tomed to satisfying their bodily needs in the bushes, under the shade of trees. They liked

the outdoor atmosphere. When the privies were moved from open fields and placed under trees, with roofs left off, the psychological requirements for defecation were met and

everybody was happy. Twenty years earlier Rockefeller Foundation doctors in Java had

discovered exactly the same thing!

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In La Dorada, Columbia, Servicio-built privies appear to meet all cultural specifica-

tions, but they are not well accepted. The anthropologist found an important factor was the belief that bad odors in themselves are carriers of infection and causes of illness. Many people avoid privies because the usually smell bad; they feel they are observing good hygiene in not using privies, because they are avoiding contact with sources of illness. In many respects the most interesting conclusions derive from the comparative analyses of results from all countries. The question of preventive medicine versus curative was particularly revealing. Following standard North American practice, in health centers the emphasis has been on preventing rather than curing illness. As previously pointed out, this has given rise to the bitterest of all criticisms leveled at health centers. We felt that improved health and better living conditions may very well come more rapidly through a process of education and persuasion which frankly recognizes the sick individual as an initial target. Fundamentally the preventive medicine specialist must gain the sympathetic ear of the people. Movies, lectures, and demonstrations will be treated with suspicion, and attendance at them will be small among people who are inherently skeptical of the apparent good intentions of government programs. But the mother who has seen a dangerously ill child restored to health will probably have more faith in the doctor’s advice to boil milk then the mother who has been turned away because the center does not treat the sick. Whatever the merits of a public health program based on preventive medicine, the fact remains that the average Latin American is interested in doctors and nurses because they can cure his ills. In most cases he avails himself of Servicio services, not primarily to remain healthy, but to get well. A survey of 100 families was taken in the area of the Beatriz Velasco Aleman Center in Mexico City to find out who patronized the center, and why. Half of the people interviewed had never been to the center. Of the approximately 50 families that had gone, 25 went because they had a sick child that needed attention. An additional one-fourth went because they could get free milk. A number of others went because they needed chest X-rays or other clinical services. Only three or four gave as their main reason for going their desire for a routine examination of an infant. Conversely, one of

the principal reasons why mothers had not taken their children was the fact that they were well, and why should one take healthy children to see a doctor? This reluctance to avail one’s self of medical advice when one obviously is healthy is deep-rooted in Latin American concepts of well-being. Health, it is thought, consists in feeling well; it is not possible to be ill if one feels well and has no evident symptoms of disease. Since sickness is due in large measure to fate or luck, or carelessness in personal habits, there is very little a healthy person can or ought to do to keep himself in this condition, at least as far as a doctor’s attentions are concerned. Treatment is sought when a

person becomes unmistakably ill. This feeling about health is akin to the Latin American concept of machinery maintenance: if a machine runs well, obviously it is in good condition and needs no attention; it is clearly logical to repair it only when and if it breaks down and ceases to function properly. With such a point of view, periodic check-ups simply have no logical explanation in the minds of the people; they feel they are doing the center a great favor in keeping appointments, rather than that they are being helped. At present, there seems to be no stimulus sufficiently strong to keep healthy people coming to health centers, unless certain concessions are made toward what the people believe they need. Moreover, in much of Latin America there is a deep-seated distrust of the motives and knowledge of doctors. Many people feel that the native curandero knows more than a

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medic, that doctors are conceited and actually know very little. Everyone can and loves to tell examples of how the doctor failed and the curandero effected a cure. At the same time, the average Latin American is pragmatic by nature. One of the reasons why Servicio programs should also stress curative medicine is that it is about the only way the doctor can show the patient that he knows what he is doing. To illustrate, in Temuco, Chile, a bad

whooping cough epidemic started in 1951. Fortunately, health authorities were in a position to vaccinate a large number of children and arrest the spread of the epidemic in a graphic fashion. There is no doubt in the minds of most mothers in that town that the doctor is a good man to know when whooping cough threatens. And this faith spreads to other inoculations as well; BCG vaccinations are being carried out with a high degree of cooperation from all. The satisfaction of the patient in receiving a public health service which he or she wants, and the satisfaction of the doctor and nurse in offering a service the public desires, seem to promote an atmosphere in which suspicion and tension are reduced to a minimum, and in which, as a consequence, really good preventive measures can be effected. In the Cerro Baron Center, Valparaiso, Chile, where there is frank recognition that cura-

tive is just as important as preventive medicine, and where no sick child is ever turned away, more than half of the visits are “well baby” visits where the mother has brought the child for a routine check-up. If the premise is accepted that in the long run better world health will come from preventive medicine, the fact must also be recognized that in Latin America, at least, a

sizeable amount of curative services must be available to develop the conditions essential for a preventive program.* The problem of good interpersonal relationships between Servicio staff members and patients turned out also to be linked with the question of relative emphasis placed on curative versus preventive medicine. When the initial studies were made in Mexico, Co-

lumbia, Peru, and Brazil, significant differences in the quality of these relationships were noted. ‘To illustrate, in Brazil there seemed to be a closer understanding between staff members and patients than in Peru. The first hypothesis advanced to explain this situation was rooted in the question of class structure. In Latin American countries with considerable Indian populations one finds that educated city people tend to look upon the lower classes, and particularly Indian groups, as beings from another world, condemned by nature to an inferior existence, and incapable of being assimilated as useful members of national life. At first glance it seemed as if in countries where these conditions prevailed the quality of interpersonal relationships was generally poor. Following subsequent work in E] Salvador, Ecuador, and Chile it became apparent that this tentative formula did not hold. In Ecuador the social gulfs are about as marked as in any American country, and yet doctors and nurses on one hand, and patients on the other, appeared generally to get along well. Tensions and frictions seemed much less marked than in Columbia, where the socio-economic level is much higher, and where class

differences are less marked. Our present tentative hypothesis—and it should be further tested—is that in those countries where there is frank recognition that for a long time to come curative medicine must be an integral part of any public health program, relations between staff members and the public tend to be good. Conversely, in those situations where curative functions are grudgingly accepted, or avoided entirely, interpersonal rela-

tions are poor, and public health programs are much less successful.

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GENERAL ANTHROPOLOGICAL CONCLUSIONS The applied context proved to be an excellent testing ground for a number of anthropological concepts and premises. It indicated, to the satisfaction of those who had participated in the work, that certain fundamental theoretical concepts and field techniques of anthropology can be put to use to help solve the human problems involved in technical aid programs of the type here described, and that simultaneously their own validity is further strengthened. Five general concepts or methodologies have been singled out for discussion. Functionalism. ‘The real meaning of the concept of culture as a functional unit is nowhere more forcibly brought out that in the study of the introduction of Western European technologies and ideas to lesser developed parts of the world. In terms of a public health program, it means that health and sanitation are not isolated parts of the life of a whole people. They are related to education, to social security, to economic productivity, distribution of income, city planning, and a great many other things. Changes in the level of health in any given place may result from improvements in the aspects of culture just mentioned; conversely, changes that can be brought about by planned activity are limited by and dependent upon the changes occurring simultaneously or those that can be brought about in these related aspects. In the case of public health programs in Latin America it was found that there has been a considerable tendency to plan programs as isolated units, without taking into consideration the limitations imposed by other aspects of culture, such as availability of trained personnel, social structure of local peoples, eco-

nomic ability of a community to support health services, patterns of work and travel, and the like. The fallacy of this point of view may be illustrated by a specific project. In this case, planning was carried out with greater care and thought than in many others. There was recognition that a successful public health program depends to a very considerable extent on raising the general economic level of the people. There was recognition that training in home economics and practical farming were integral factors which would contribute to the success of the program. It was decided, therefore, to work in an area where

it would be possible to have the cooperation of another agency which was carrying out grass-roots work in agriculture and home economics. Experimental gardens were set up. Training in home economics was introduced. A health post was established, and arrangements were made to bring a doctor and nurse several times a week to this small village for both preventive and curative medicine. Nevertheless, in spite of such planning—excellent as far as it went—when a complete ethnographic analysis was made it became apparent that certain cultural characteristics in this village render it unlikely that some of the main projects will have any great permanent degree of success. The keystone of the environmental sanitation phase of the work consisted of a privy campaign. Slabs for pit privies were cast locally, and given to each of the 100-odd houses in the village. It was expected that with this preliminary aid, within several months most of the slabs would be in place in back yards with the householder bearing the cost of installation. Nevertheless, six months later less than half the slabs had been put in use. The majority were still lying against the front of the houses where they had been placed, overgrown with weeds, and apparently forgotten by the householders! What are possible reasons for this situation?

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A census of this village of 600 people revealed the following facts: The village is highly unstable in terms of social organization. About half the inhabitants have lived there for five years or less. They do not consider themselves to be really permanent members of the community, but rather are migrating from one part of the country to another, stopping off here temporarily while awaiting the opportunity to move on. They feel no attachment to the community, no stake in its future, and have no interest in making capital investments in something they may not be around to enjoy. A measure of the social disorganization of the village and of the transitory nature of the population is the fact that five professional prostitutes ply their trade, an unbelievable figure in comparison with the average settled Latin American village. Level of income likewise is depressed. Land is marginal, wages are low, and nearly everyone must think carefully about each expenditure, weighing alternative purchases to determine maximum enjoyment or utility. The least expensive houses in this village are worth from $18 to $35. Instructions for building of privies are fairly precise, and the cost is about $10. This means that people who know very little about environmental sanitation and whose cultural background does not allow them to understand or realize the importance of pit privies, are being asked to make an investment of from 25 percent to 50 percent of the total value of their homes. It is quite obvious that most of these lower-income families can never be persuaded to make an investment of this magnitude. From the census it was also discovered that a considerable number of people in this community live rent-free in the homes they occupy. The owners are away for extended lengths of time, or have migrated to other places but have kept their old homes. They permit relatives or friends to occupy the dwellings in order to have them cared for. Since the actual inhabitants are not the owners, and might be put out at a moment’s notice, they are unwilling to spend a relatively enormous sum to build a privy. And since the owners are absent they have little incentive to make such a capital investment when they will not be around to take advantage of it. It is too early to report the outcome of this privy program, but at present the chances for success seem rather slim. Cultural Relativism. Few concepts of anthropology have received more attention in recent years than that of cultural relativism. Emphasis has been on the innate “right” of peoples to do things in their own way, to avoid judging the ways of one group by values of another. Quite apart from moral implications, an awareness of the significance of cul-

tural relativity should be an essential tool of all persons engaged in planning or carrying out technical aid programs in cultures other than their own. North Americans are particularly guilty of assuming that if something works well in the United States it will work equally well elsewhere, and that it will be “good” for those persons lucky enough to be exposed to it. Data from El Salvador reveal how this philosophy not only unjustly “judges” long-standing and essentially “good” practices (by current North American standards) but may also defeat the desired ends of a particular program. About 15 years ago several Salvadoran doctors were brought to the United States under the auspices of private foundations for training in public health. In the United States at that time it was considered best practice to feed infants on a regular schedule— every three or four hours. This schedule became a part of public health teaching and practice in Salvador. Today one of the primary considerations of home visiting public nurses

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in E] Salvador is to urge the mother to nurse her infant every three hours. This was observed to be almost a matter of religious faith, and it was implied that if a child were not well, the trouble was that it was not being fed regularly. In most homes there were no clocks, and

in many even if there had been the mothers would have been idea of feeding a child every three hours goes directly against in Latin American countries, where it is customary to pick up it demands attention. Nevertheless, the nurses hammered away

unable to read them. The the child-nursing pattern and feed a baby whenever on this point, the mothers

looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, and the rapport which should exist between nurse

and patient was endangered—ironically enough doctors now say a child should be fed when it wants to be fed! So, with the best of intentions this American pattern has produced unfavorable results in El Salvador. Had mothers been permitted to follow their natural inclination they would have done essentially the right thing, the nurse could have devoted her time to other matters, and a more fruitful and friendly relationship might have been established. Creole Culture.

Gillin’s concept of Creole culture, as an emergent major variety of

Western civilization, in which the individual cultures “seem to have a common general

framework and a common tone which enables them to be seen collectively as a cultural design distinctive from that of other varieties of Western civilization” has met with a mixed reception from anthropologists.° Insofar as the data of this paper are concerned, they appear to bear out Gillin’s hypothesis. The “common general framework and common tone” which characterize the nature of folk medicine in all Spanish America, at least, if not also Brazil, is striking. The extent of this unity is illustrated by the fact that knowledge of folk medicine patterns in any one (or several) Spanish-American countries made it possible to work immediately and effectively in countries where no anthropological data were available. Likewise, the action patterns of people in all countries studied, from top Servicio personnel to patients, seem to fall well within a “common general framework and common tone.” Under similar circumstances people in Mexico react very much like those in Columbia or Chile, a reaction in many cases very different from that which would be engendered by the same situation in the United States. Comparative analysis of our data impressed us with the similarities from country to country much more forcibly than many years of study concentrated in one or a few countries had done. Conversely the local differences seemed much less important than we had expected.

The Comparative Method. ‘This is often stated to be the most distinctive of anthropological tools. It appears to have been utilized in the applied field to a lesser extent than many other anthropological techniques. As fieldworkers we feel that perhaps the most distinctive contribution of this research lies in the application of the comparative method to a specific practical problem. Though worthwhile data were obtained in each country, data which in themselves contribute to the functioning of each local program, the major ideas come from the opportunity to analyze the results arising from common stimuli in varied cultural settings. The evidence indicates that general cultural patterns exist, and that regularities are sufficiently pronounced so that on the basis of the seven countries analyzed

useful guidelines can be laid down which will facilitate the prosecution of public health

programs in other Latin American countries. Although it is speculation, it also appear probable that these regularities are of sufficiently wide validity to supply useful guidelines for public health programs in other parts of the world, where similar culture types exist.

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Certainly, the comparative method will prove to be one of the most fruitful in the development of applied anthropological science.

The fustification for Generalized Anthropological Fieldwork.

The great bulk of ex-

isting cultural anthropological data have been gathered with no specific problems in mind other than the desire to describe as completely as possible the way of life of the peoples in question. ‘This method—if such it can be called—has been increasingly criticized in recent years as illustrative of anthropologists’ lack of a sense of problem. Whatever the merits of this criticism, and some is certainly justified, the existing mass of accumulated Latin Amer-

ican data of a generalized nature, pointed toward no specific problem, made possible significant research in a surprisingly short time. Although our knowledge of Latin American culture patterns is pitiably small in an absolute sense, it is relatively great compared to that for most other parts of the world. For problems connected with technical aid programs many of these data are particularly good, for in recent years considerable attention has been focused on contemporary non-Indian peoples—precisely those who are most concerned with international aid. Today, the state of our knowledge of contemporary Latin American cultures may be compared to a plateau, uneven in profile, relatively high in some points and low in others, but altogether covering most aspects of human life. This plateau is the result of innumerable studies, some extensive, others intensive, some superficial, others penetrat-

ing, some recent, others old, but together forming a fairly solid base, a useful jumping-off point for the analysis of a wide variety of specific problems. The existence of the broad base of generalized data made it possible for field anthropologists to concentrate on the lacunae in the printed record, the specific data which bore upon the health problem as outlined. Thus, in a very short time—in from one to two months in each country—it was possible

to come to meaningful conclusions. Furthermore, the same generalized anthropological sources that were useful for a health program would have served equally well if the problem had been stated in terms of agriculture, housing, education, or any of the other fields in which technical aid programs are being carried out. Our experiences indicate that many types of applied research may be carried out in far less time than anthropologists usually believe, if the investigation is made in an area in which preliminary spadework has been done, and if this preliminary spadework is of the generalized all-inclusive type. This does not imply that all applied anthropology will be in the nature of spot studies, of “quickies.” The need for long-range, painstaking analysis is just as great as ever. It does mean, however, that relatively few anthropologists working under favorable conditions can produce results much more rapidly that many persons believe. And it emphasizes the fact that fieldworkers, oriented toward the current rage of problematical studies, should not be led to slight the traditional anthropological obligation of gathering as much data as possible on all aspects of the culture under investigation. This broad base of accumulated scientific capital, this body of generalized data

painstakingly acquired, must of necessity continue to be the anthropologist’s stock-intrade, his indispensable working tool. The accumulation of these basic facts, of theoreti-

cal concepts and operational procedures, is a dynamic enterprise in that a final goal can never be reached. The discovery, classification and interpretation of new facts merely points the way to continuing research. Simultaneously, however, this process makes possible the solution of technical problems of steadily increasing the complexity and variety,

and consequently of expanding utility in the practical or applied context.

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Notes 1. The following Institute of Social Anthropology personnel participated in the fieldwork which served as a basis for this report: Charles Erasmus, in Columbia and Ecuador; George M. Foster, in Chile and Salvador; Isabel T. Kelly, in Mexico; Kalervo Oberg, in Brazil; Ozzie Simmons, in Chile and Peru. Dr. Greta Mostny of the National Museum of Natural History in Santiago made important contributions to

the Chilean research. Individual country papers by several persons are in press or projected. Only a small part of the field data are here presented. 2. Now the Division of Health, Welfare and Housing. 3. A Cross-Cultural Anthropological Analysis of a Technical Aid Program, Smithsonian Institution, Wash-

ington, D.C., 1951. 4. The importance of understanding the basic cultural premises of a people in planning health programs is emphasized by comparing the Latin American picture with that of India. In the latter country the Hindus are said to be “more concerned with health than with illness, and prevention of disease is thought to be of greater importance than the treatment of disease.” In the prevailing Ayurveda system of medicine “there has always been a strong emphasis on the prevention of disease” (Carl E. Taylor, “Hindu Medicine and India’s Health,” The Atlantic, Vol. 190, No. 1, July 1952, pp. 38-42. Quotations from pp. 39 and 42 respectively.). A public health program based largely on preventive medicine presumably would stand a greater chance for success in this cultural milieu than in Latin America. 5. This example also illustrates the concept of functionalism. 6. John Gillin, “Modern Latin American Culture,” Social Forces, Vol. 25, 1947, p. 244.

READING

17

Needle Access as an AIDS Prevention

Strategy for IV Drug Users: A Research Perspective Merrill Singer, Ray Irizarry, and JeanJ.Schensul Needle exchange and needle distribution as AIDS prevention strategies have attracted considerable attention over the last five years. Consideration of these approaches was especially emphasized at the Fifth International Conference on AIDS in Montreal (Des Jarlais et al. 1989; Hagan, Des Jarlais et al. 1989; Hagan, Reid et al. 1989; Hartgers et al. 1989;

Purchase et al. 1989). In the absence of an effective treatment or preventive vaccine for HIV infection, and in response to an alarming rise in the rate of AIDS cases among IV drug users (CDC 1989), prevention workers have been forced to consider options that they recognize are emotionally loaded and highly controversial. Consideration of needle

access emerges from the realization that our ability to slow the AIDS epidemic ‘lies in breaking the link between substance abuse and HIV infection” (Joseph and Des Jarlais 1989:5). Interest in needle access has been especially sharp in Australia, the United Kingdom, the U.S. and in Scandinavia. Private companies in both Norway and the Netherlands have produced and are field testing syringe exchange vending machines (Buning et al. 1989; Sumson 1999; Stimson et al. 1990). In assessing the appropriateness of making

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clean syringes and needles available to IV drug users (I(VDUs) as a means of preventing the transmission of HIV infection, several questions emerge:

1. How common is needle sharing among [VDUs? 2. If needle access existed in any given city, would IVDUs make use of it? 3. What is the attitude of the wider non-IV drug user community: is needle access a socially acceptable AIDS prevention strategy? 4. Will needle access contribute to the recruitment of new IVDUs or increased IV injection among current users? 5. Will needle access contribute to a drop in needle sharing and HIV incidence among IVDUs? All of these are research questions, and should be answered through accepted procedures of scientific inquiry. It is in light of the findings of such research that we can develop informed opinions about needle access. Separate from such research, however, we have only a variety of conflicting uninformed attitudes, necessarily limited personal experiences, ideologically rooted biases, and personal preferences. Given the gravity of the AIDS situation in this country, especially among IVDUs, their sexual partners and children, the time has come to move the issue of needle exchange out of the realm of emotionalism and into the realm of empiricism. We will do so on the basis of our own research in Hartford, as well as through a review of other studies by drug and AIDS researchers. While thus far we have available limited “policy relevant research” (van Willigen 1986:146) concerning the aforementioned questions, there is a discernable trend in the findings of existing studies. Following a discussion of ongoing AIDS-related research efforts in Hartford, findings that relate to each of the above questions will be reviewed in turn.

AIDS RESEARCH IN HARTFORD Social science AIDS research in Hartford is rooted in the community action model (J. Schensul 1985; J. Schensul et al. 1997; S. Schensul 1973, 1974, 1985; S. Schensul and

J. Schensul 1978; Singer 1989). As summarized recently by Barger and Reza (1989:258): With this approach, the social scientist may provide many of the same functions as with policy science, such as research and expert information, but there are two principles

which distinguish this model from others. First, it is the needs and goals of a particular community-based group which are being served, and it is this “target group” which has the initiative in seeking changes. Second, the applied scientist takes a clear value position and an active involvement in change events. A primary value is that democratic, selfdetermination is the most effective and constructive means of change, both for the community group concerned and for the larger society.

This is the approach adopted by medical anthropology researchers affiliated with both the Hispanic Health Council and the Institute for Community Research, the two communitybased research institutions that collaborate together and with other community organizations in much of the ongoing AIDS research in Hartford (Singer et al. 1991). This work began in the mid-1980s in response to recognition that AIDS prevention efforts had been hampered by a lack of empirical information on public knowledge and

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beliefs about AIDS, the contemporary distribution of sexual risk behaviors, and the extent

and distribution of IV drug use, especially in ethnic minority populations known to have markedly disproportionate rates of AIDS and HIV infection (Singer, Castillo et al. 1990; Singer, Flores et al. 1990). To overcome these gaps in existing knowledge, researchers at

the Institute for Community Research and the Hispanic Health Council helped to organize a consortium of community-based organizations. Known as the AIDS Community Research Group (ACRG), this consortium has undertaken two studies. The first was de-

signed to locate and interview an ethnically stratified random sample of 290 individuals living in a clearly delineated neighborhood that reflected the ethnic and socioeconomic diversity found citywide (ACRG 1988, J. Schensul et al. 1988). In addition, a number of groups engaged in high-risk behaviors, namely sex professionals, [VDUs, and gay males, were known from previous research to be living in the neighborhood. Interviews were

conducted in respondents’ homes using a structured instrument developed by the research team. The second study, employing the same methodology, interviewed 416 individuals in three ethnically homogeneous neighborhoods (Latino, African American, and Italian/

Polish respectively) and in several city housing projects (ACRG 1989; Singer, Flores et

al. 1990).

The Hispanic Health Council also is part of a second consortium, known as the Northeast Hispanic AIDS Consortium. This group is conducting a 13-city AIDS research project that employs a focus group design targeted to selected at-risk sectors of the Latino community (e.g., [VDUs) (Singer and Castillo 1989). Participants are recruited to an opportunistic sample using community advertising and existing community networks. Focus groups are guided by a facilitator to respond to a structured list of topics and questions. Issues and understandings raised during the course of the group discussion are recorded by a trained observer. The objective of this research is to gain deeper comprehension of community beliefs and attitudes concerning AIDS and the relationship of AIDS-related beliefs and behaviors to core values and understandings. The largest social scientific AIDS research effort in Hartford is a community demonstration initiative entitled Project COPE. This project is a consortium effort that includes the Institute for Community Research, the Hispanic Health Council, Latino/as Contra

SIDA, the Urban League, the Hartford Dispensary, and the City Health Department. Project COPE is designed to study rates of HIV infection, AIDS risk, AIDS knowledge, and culturally appropriate risk reduction for [VDUs and their sexual partners citywide. Using nationally standardized interview instruments at intake and at two points of followup (6 months and 12 months), as well as a locally generated supplemental interview component during follow-up, Project COPE assesses drug use, safer needle injection patterns, and safer sex practices in its target populations. Following the initial interview, participants are assigned randomly to one of three AIDS education and prevention programs, a community-based culturally appropriate intervention program for Latinos, a communitybased culturally appropriate program for African Americans, or a multi-cultural program based in a drug treatment center. Although the approach varies across interventions, all three provide AIDS 101 education, one-on-one or group counseling, and advocated referral for

additional social or medical services. Since it began in October of 1988, Project COPE has interviewed over 900 individuals who are either IVDUs or their sexual partners (or both). During the planning phase of this project, the lead author also conducted in-depth, openended interviews and focus group interviews with a dozen active [VDUs or IVDUs in treat-

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ment. ‘These interviews were tape recorded and provide illustrative material on IVDU experiences and attitudes concerning AIDS risk and response to the AIDS crisis.

NEEDLE SHARING PATTERNS AMONG IV DRUG USERS It is clear to all observers of the contemporary drug scene that needle sharing is a common behavior among IVDUs (Battjes and Pickens 1988); however, it is equally certain that some types of individuals are much more likely to share than at others, some social contexts promote needle sharing more than others, and the users of some drugs administered intravenously are more likely to share than the users of other types of drugs. Among the first 200 participants in Project COPE, we found that men are more likely to report needle sharing than women (76% and 48% respectively), while women are more likely to engage in needle cleaning (41% and 28% respectively). Research by Selwyn and co-workers found that the most common reason (46% of persistent needle-sharers) given by [VDUs for continued needle sharing, despite awareness of the inherent AIDS risk, was “the need to inject drugs, with no clean needle available (Selwyn 1988:102). Similarly, Magura et al.

(1989), in a study of methadone patients who reported current IV drug use, found that the variables directly associated with needle sharing included inability to afford new needles and not owning a set of “works” (syringes and related paraphernalia), in addition to attitudes conducive to sharing (e.g., tolerance of withdrawal symptoms, concern about insulting friends, fatalistic beliefs). In the National Institute on Drug Abuse-sponsored national AIDS demonstration outreach projects (NADR), of 10,174 [VDUs interviewed as of September 30, 1989, 40% indicated that they had shared a needle with a sex partner in the last 6 months, 54% had shared needles with a close friend, and 24% had shared

needles with a stranger (NOVA 1989). In this study, use of unclean needles is equally common among white, African American, and Latino [VDUs.

This last finding is significant because higher rates of HIV prevalence among African American and Latino [VDUs compared to white addicts has led to the assumption that minority [VDUs are more involved in needle sharing. According to the Centers for Disease Control (1989), approximately 78% of known AIDS cases among heterosexual [VDUs are Black or Latino. Studies that have examined needle-sharing patterns across ethnic and racial groups have produced conflicting results, with some studies suggesting greater concern with using clean needles among white [VDUs and other studies finding that whites have higher rates of needle sharing than African American and Latino “shooters” (Schilling et al. 1989). Based on their research in Texas, Dolan et al. (1987) concluded

that compared to [VDUs who do not share needles, those who do (1) tend to combine

multiple drugs, such as heroin and cocaine, or amphetamine and methamphetamine in a single injection; (2) are more likely to shoot up in a shooting gallery; and (3) are more deeply involved in drug use. However, needle sharing was found to be (1) not peculiar to a particular racial or ethnic group; (2) not associated with a user’s level of education; and (3) not characteristic of a particular personality profile (Dolan et al. 1987). Chaisson et al.

(1987:93) conclude that “While needle-sharing is no more prevalent among blacks and Latinos than among whites, the risk of infection is clearly greater for individuals who share needles with minority group members due to the higher prevalence of infection in this

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group.” Moreover, it may be that while needle sharing and use of unclean needles occurs among a large percentage of street [VDUs regardless of race or ethnicity, African Americans and Latinos may be forced more frequently to adopt these behaviors. As Rogers and Williams (1987:91) suggest, “Sterile needles may be more available to whites, and whites may be more able to afford them.” Dolan’s finding of a relationship between shooting galleries and needle sharing is of special pertinence to the assessment of needle exchange (also see Des Jarlais, Friedman, and Strug 1986; Marmor et al. 1987). Shooting galleries or “get off houses” as they are known in some regions have become a cottage industry in the drug subculture, not only because they provide a comparatively safe place to inject drugs and, if necessary, access to needles and syringes, but because they offer an arena for socialization among fellow users and a degree of protection in case of a drug overdose. Still, most [VDUs avoid galleries if they can because “no user likes to part with the fee” (Walters 1985:43) charged by the owner. About 40% of the [VDUs in the national NIDA sample, nonetheless, reported using shooting galleries at least some of the time. The character of needle-sharing behavior in shooting galleries is seen in the following account by the former operator of a gallery interviewed by the lead author in Hartford in 1988. Everyday people would come to my house. They would cop [buy drugs] and do their drugs right there in my house. If they stay in my house to get high, they would have to give me some. A lot of people would come to my house. . .. Sometimes I'd go for four days without sleeping. Word got around that it was a place you could get high. I would charge them. Some guys would give me $10 for using works, plus they got to give me a high. I’d buy a bundle of works from people who where diabetic. . .. We shared works. If one would clog up, someone would use another works to clean it out without washing it. We didn’t care,

we only cared about the high. . . . Usually ten to twelve people would come to the house everyday, twenty-four hours a day. . . . [had two bedrooms that I would use to rent to guys who did drugs. Some guy might go in their with a girlfriend to get laid. I’d rent him the room for the money and the drugs.

This man, who is now HIV positive, reported driving to New York City several times a week to purchase drugs. Interviews with other addicts in Hartford indicate that this is a common practice and that generally customers will “shoot up for the trip home” with rented and/or shared needles. This pattern, promoted by the illegality of needle possession without a prescription in Connecticut, has contributed to the rapid diffusion of HIV infection among the state’s IVDUs. A study of shooting gallery behavior among 125 I[VDUs by Friedman and co-workers (Friedman et al. 1989a) in New York found that IV cocaine users are less likely than IV heroin users to share needles in shooting galleries because cocaine users “shoot up” much

more frequently and thus like to hang on to their own needles. Friedman also suggests that cocaine tends to engender a greater sense of mistrust which also interferes with needle sharing. Friedman and co-workers (Friedman, Des Jarlais et al. 1989b) moreover found

that increased use of crack and the inhalation of heroin (a practice called “chasing the dragon”) have not led to any measurable decrease in intravenous drug use. Since awareness of AIDS and its routes of transmission are now widespread among IVDUs in New York, it does not appear that this population is switching to alternative means of drug consumption to avoid the risk of HIV infection.

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In a street ethnography project in New York, Hopkins (1988) reports the following findings: (1) illicit needle sellers make profits of 50% to 100% from the sale or rental of needles; (2) needles are commonly purchased with forged prescriptions, stolen from hospital emergency rooms, and purchased from diabetics with prescriptions; and (3) about half of illicit needle sellers report repackaging and reselling used unsterilized needles.

These findings indicate there is a strong demand among IVDUs for clean needles, and this demand produces behaviors that put users at risk for both infection and arrest. Finally, over 30,000 IVDUs in the United States already have been diagnosed with

AIDS (CDC 1990). Among active street [VDUs in Hartford, Project COPE (Flores et al.

1989; Singer, Owens, and Reyes 1989) found an HIV positivity rate in the first 900 program participants of about 40%. In New Jersey, [VDUs now account for 54% of reported AIDS cases (CDC 1989), while in Puerto Rico they comprise 60% of AIDS cases among men (ARS 1990). A study of IVDUs in methadone treatment in New York by Selwyn et al. (1989) found a threefold increase in deaths due to AIDS, with mortality related to AIDS growing from 3.6 per 1000 in 1984 to 13.6 per 1000 in 1987. Needless to say, this is a disturbing rate of increase. Moreover, HIV infection is not equally distributed among [VDUs. Cross tabulations of data from the first 200 participants in Project COPE showed that individuals who reported always “shooting up” at home were significantly more likely to be HIV negative (i.e., uninfected) than individuals who never or only sometimes shoot up at home (p = 0.026). Conversely, [VDUs who have injected drugs in a shooting gallery were significantly more likely to be infected than those who reported never using galleries (p = 0.035). Also respondents who reported that they at least sometimes gave their needle to a friend immediately after injecting drugs (i.e., needle sharers) were significantly more likely to be infected that those who never gave their equipment to friends to use (p = 0.031). In short, sharing needles and injecting drugs in places where needle sharing is more likely, especially in the northeast sector of the United States, are risky practices and will

likely lead to exposure to the virus that causes AIDS unless it is carried out in a closed circle of uninfected needle sharers or is accompanied by rigid adherence to effective needlecleaning procedures. Unfortunately, many I[VDUs do not regularly follow recognized needle-cleaning guidelines. Consequently, all of the studies we have cited point to the need for further action to prevent the spread of HIV infection among I[VDUs. Lacking many other viable alternatives, increasingly interest has been expressed among researchers and service/treatment workers both in the United States and in Europe in clean needle exchange to combat the spread of HIV infection. But, as indicated, several critical questions

emerge with regard to this option.

IV DRUG USER RESPONSE TO THE AIDS EPIDEMIC The standard conception of an IV drug user (a view, by the way, that is shared by some active and some ex-users) is that of an individual who is so preoccupied with shooting up and

avoiding “getting sick” (undergoing drug withdrawal) that s/he couldn’t care less about vital infection. As Becker and Joseph (1988:403) note, “There is a general impression that IVDUs are incapable of (or disinterested in) changing their behavior, while IVDUs view public health authorities with suspicion and distrust.” If one embraces this view of the

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IVDU, the needle exchange by definition is a dead-end approach because it is assumed that IVDUs will not go to the trouble of getting clean needles from a distribution program. There are problems with this understanding of the IVDU, however, as there is consistent

evidence showing that IVDUs can and do change their behavior in response to the threat of HIV infection. Over half of 1VDUs interviewed in New York in several different studies report behavioral changes to reduce the risk of infection (Selwyn et al. 1986; Des Jarlais et al. 1988). The two most commonly reported changes in this regard are (1) increased use of (illicitly acquired) sterile needles and (2) reduction in the number of partners with

whom an individual shares needles. The demand for sterile needles has already been felt among illicit needle suppliers in New York (Des Jarlais et al. 1985). Research in San Francisco has shown that an IVDU street education program that included the distribution of bottles of 2.5% bleach solution produced a marked increase in needle-cleaning behavior among addicts. In 1985, only 6% of needle sharers interviewed in San Francisco reported that they usually or always sterilized their needles with bleach; by 1987, this figure had jumped to 47%, while the percentage of individuals who maintained that they never used bleach dropped from 76% to 36% (Chaisson et al. 1987). In the national NIDA study mentioned above, of the first 570 individuals who were exposed to AIDS education and counseling as part of the study, 22% had not “shot up” again six months after their first interview; among the remaining individuals who were still using drugs intravenously: 28% decreased the number of individuals they shared needles with, 20% increased the number of individuals they shared needles with, and 52% reported no change in needle-sharing behavior (Sowder 1989). Among the active “shooters,” 15% reported that they had stopped renting or borrowing needles, 13% started renting or borrowing needles, and 73% reported no change in this behavior. Finally, 28% reported switching to safer needle practices such as using new or bleach-cleaned needles, 11% changed to less safe needle practices, and 61% reported no changes in needle practices. A New York study by Kleinman and colleagues (cited in Friedman, Des Jarlais et al. 1989) found that 16% of IVDUs who had been injecting for under two years, 29% of individuals who had been injecting for 3 to 5 years, and 33%

of individuals who had been injecting from 6 to 10 years reported taking deliberate steps to reduce exposure to the human immunodeficiency virus. These changing attitudes and patterns are reflected in the following comments of a respondent in Project COPE. Very few people are going to stop using drugs, I don’t do as much. If Ibecame a Ist and 16th of the month junkie, that’s an improvement. I have bleach sign up in my house . . . You have to assume that everyone has [the virus.

What these data suggest is that some IV drug users, especially those who have longer drug injection histories, are changing their behaviors to prevent HIV infection. This finding supports the needle exchange strategy in two ways: (1) some IVDUs would decide to make use of needle exchange as an AIDS prevention strategy because they are open to behavioral change; and (2) existing prevention strategies for [VDUs that do not include a needle exchange component are insufficient to prevent exposure to viral infection.

A final piece of evidence that should be mentioned in this regard is the view of IVDUs toward the needle exchange concept. The generally shared attitude of IVDUs who participated in the Northeast Hispanic AIDS Consortium focus groups was that the illegality of needle possession in Hartford contributed to needle sharing because of the

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legal risk to individuals of carrying their own injection equipment. One ex-addict described in some detail the conditions [VDUs are willing to put up with at shooting galleries to avoid the threat of arrest for the possession of drug paraphernalia: If you don’t have any works, they come out with a bag of the most disgusting, vile-looking tools [syringes] you ever saw. They’re so old the numbers are worn off of them, the needles are so dull it feels like you’re poking through leather to get a hit, but that’s what people use. Dve seen people use needles that were ready to bust in half, I know plenty of people that have had them bust off in their arm. The reasons that people went to shooting galleries is because people didn’t like to carry works on them. You got caught with works, you were busted.

Another ex-addict with AIDS affirmed, “to stop the spread of AIDS, the main thing is education and loosening up the legal restrictions on works” These attitudes are not unique. Beginning in November, 1988, during their first follow-up interview, [VDUs in Project

COPE were asked whether they would participate in a needle exchange program if it was available in Hartford. of the first 54 respondents interviewed, 87% indicated that they would participate in the program. The primary reasons given by these individuals for supporting an NEP program were (1) reducing risk of infection; (2) gaining access to free

needles; and (3) increasing the convenience of getting needles when needed.

COMMUNITY ATTITUDES NEEDLE EXCHANGE

CONCERNING

There is also the issue of community attitudes. For example, Congressman Charles B. Rangel, chairman of the House Select Committee on Narcotics Abuse and Control, a

number of police agencies, and several prominent ministers have complained either that needle access will promote drug use or that it will be used as a cheap substitute for the effective drug treatment programs that are so sorely needed in inner-city areas. Needle exchange is seen by opponents as “sending the wrong message” to current [VDUs and others at risk for drug involvement and it is viewed as cruel abandonment of these individuals to the tortures of drug addiction. As a staff member of Project COPE in Hartford stated, “I refuse to give my brother a needle to stick in his arm.” Moreover, there is a concern in African American and Latino communities that

needle access reflects a racist disregard for the heavy toll drugs and drug-related behavior take on people of color in this country. Consequently, needle exchange has been seen as genocidal by some of its opponents. In the words of Rev. Reginald Williams of the Addicts Rehabilitation Center in East Harlem, _.. there will never be a needle-exchange program here. I think the communities and neighborhoods will rise up in opposition. . .. Why must we again be the guinea pigs in this genocidal mentality? (quoted in Marriott 1988:8)

Additionally, in the view of some individuals from minority communities, drug use only became a national concern when white, middle-class youth began to show up in the drug statistics. Further, the idea exists that the ready availability of drugs in many African American and Latino communities is not an accident, but rather part of a governmental

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plan for the exploitation and social control of minorities. As a participant in the Heroin Lifestyles Study asserted: A Black man has no control what goes down in this world. Not in America. There’s no heroin where the White boys hang out at. They don’t let it up in their neighborhoods. They send it down to where the poor Black boys hang outat. . . . No Black man could have brought that kind of shit (heroin) into this country, they just don’t allow that, they don’t allow that. (Beschner and Brower 1985:19-20)

In an insightful summation of African American response to the AIDS epidemic, Dalton (1989:219) asks of needle exchange advocates: You say that making drug use safer (by giving away bleach or distributing clean needles) won’t make it more attractive to our children or our neighbor’s children. But what if you are wrong? What if as a result we have even more addicts to contend with? Will you be around to help us then, especially if the link between addiction and AIDS has been severed? Why do you offer addicts free needles but not free health care? Why do you show them how to clean their works but not how to clean up their lives? In fact, none of these concerns can be dismissed out-of-hand. While heroin use be-

came widespread among African American and Latino youth in the 1950s, it was not until 1970, after the emergence ofa middle-class youth drug subculture, that the Nixon administration began to implement a federal treatment program (Chein et al. 1964; Hanson et al. 1985). In his study of the governmental response to the drug problem, Epstein (1977) demonstrates the exclusive role of political as opposed to public health considerations in directing federal efforts. For example, the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914 that outlawed the use of heroin and related drugs, and ensured, thereby, the creation of an underground

drug use and needle-sharing subculture, was not motivated by public health concerns but rather by a congressional interest in “restricting British dominance of the opium trade to China” (Partridge 1978:356-357). Also we do not know yet if needle exchange, if it proved effective in preventing the spread of HIV infection, would come to be seen as a low-budget, cost-cutting approach for keeping AIDS out of the white heterosexual population. Financial considerations rather than research and treatment needs certainly dominated federal response to the AIDS crisis during the Reagan administration (Shilts 1987). And there

have been various reports that intelligence branches of the federal government have been involved with groups active in drug smuggling both during the Vietnam War and more recently in Afghanistan and Central America (McCoy 1972). What is clear is that community concerns about needle exchange, and the meaning such programs have for oppressed communities, must be taken into consideration in the needle exchange debate. Community resistance to needle access could doom such programs, even if they proved to be effective in AIDS prevention (e.g., Podolefsky 1985). To help assess community attitudes, the AIDS Community Research Group studies in Hartford included data collection on the “cultural feasibility” (van Willigen 1986) of needle exchange. In the first study, 41% of the respondents stated that they supported government-sponsored NEPs for IV drug users as an AIDS prevention approach. Support was highest among African American respondents, with 49% saying needle exchange should be initiated, while the lowest percentage of supporters was found among Latino

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respondents, with only 37% supporting this strategy (ACRG 1988). In the second study, 67% of the respondents supported needle exchange, with 67% of African Americans, 63% of Latinos, and 72% of whites supporting this strategy (ACRG 1989). In both studies, it should be noted, community support was higher for distribution of condoms and bleach for needle cleaning than for distribution of sterile needles. And in both studies, Latinos were the least enthusiastic about needle exchange. Nonetheless, these data suggest that while there is considerable community concern about NEPs, a perhaps growing percentage of people of all major ethnic backgrounds in Hartford would support the initiation of a government-sponsored NEP. This interpretation rests on the assumption that the differences in the findings between the two studies reflect a mounting receptivity to the idea of needle exchange in Hartford, perhaps as a result of growing public awareness and understanding of AIDS. This interpretation is supported by the fact that participants in the second study were better informed about the disease and its prevention than were participants in the first study. Moreover, there has been increasing mass media attention to the issue of needle exchange so that the initial unfamiliarity and discomfort with the practice may be waning. The possibility also exists that different attitudes toward needle access exist in different parts of the city and that neighborhood demographics or experience rather than the passage of time between the two studies explains the ACRG findings.

THE IMPACT OF NEEDLE EXCHANGE ON IV DRUG USE There also is serious concern that NEPs will lead to increased drug use while not effectively promoting decreased needle sharing. Existing evidence, however, suggests these concerns are not warranted. One of the most publicized NEPs has been going on in the Netherlands since 1984. By 1987, 700,000 needles had been distributed through existing social agencies and treatment facilities and needle exchange is now ongoing in 40 municipalities in the Netherlands. In a recently reported longitudinal study of the Amsterdam program, van den Hoek and co-workers (1989:1359) report that they found “no evidence that the non-intra-

venous drug users in [their] study started intravenous use in spite of the availability of clean needles and syringes.” This finding is supported by a parallel study in the southern part of the Netherlands (Buning et al. 1989; Buning 1990). Also of note is an NEP in Liverpool, England, run by the municipal drug dependency clinic. During the initial months of this program, addicts returned 2,949 needles in exchange for a sterile replacement, indicating

that IVDUs will bring in used needles if clean needles are made available. Users of the Liverpool needle exchange are also supplied condoms (Marks and Parry 1987). There are over half a dozen public or underground NEPs going on in the U.S. The Tacoma Syringe Exchange, with support from the Tacoma-Pierce County Board of Health, is distributing 1,400 needles per week. The AIDS Prevention Project needle exchange in Seattle is giving out about 4,000 syringes a month. The Prevention Point, an underground program in San Francisco, has recorded a rate of 450 exchanges each evening since it began in November, 1988. The ACEs program, an underground effort in

New Haven, CT, dis-

tributes 200 needles and bleach kits each week. The Project Exchange in Boulder, CO, run by the county health department, also has recently began distributing needles. Until it was discontinued by the mayor, there was, in addition, the Pilot Needle Exchange in New York

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City (AIDS Community Educators 1989; Buning et al. 1989; McGough 1989; New York City Department of Health 1989; Prevention Point 1989; Strickland 1989). Finally, in its

1990 legislative session, the Connecticut State Legislature became the first state government in the nation to approve an NEP pilot program (for New Haven), followed shortly thereafter by Hawaii. Organizers of many of these programs came together in 1989 at a public forum sponsored by the San Francisco AIDS Foundation, As Buning et al. (1989:11)

point out, the overriding conclusion of forum participants was that “such programs did not increase drug use . . .” In the view of Samuel Friedman of the Narcotic and Drug Research, Inc., who participated in the San Francisco forum (Des Jarlais et al. 1988:171): Barring a dramatic breakthrough with respect to increased use of proper sterilization techniques, IV drug users must have access to noncontaminated injection equipment if the spread of HIV among continuing IV drug users . . . is to be contained. . .. Based on current data from .. . face-to-face education programs, them appears to be no contradiction between teaching IV drug users how to sterilize drug injection equipment and reducing IV drug use. . . . [NJonjudgemental programs for AIDS risk reduction—programs that do not tell an IV drug user that he or she must stop injecting drugs—appear to be “discouraging” rather than “encouraging” IV drug use.

These conclusions were affirmed by participants at the first North American Syringe Exchange Convention held in Tacoma in October, 1990.

NEEDLE EXCHANGE AND NEEDLE SHARING But do needle exchange programs produce less needle sharing among active [VDUs? An examination of several of the existing programs suggests that they do. The Seattle program, for example, began in March 1989 as a project of the local branch of Act Up, a grassroots activist organization that has been highly critical of government foot dragging in response to the AIDS crisis. In April of 1989, at the urging of AIDS Prevention Project staff, the Seattle-—King County Board of Health approved needle exchange. The AIDS Prevention Project subsequently began to staff the exchange program, while Act Up members continued to provide volunteer support. Needles are exchanged in a section of town known for its high rate of drug trafficking as well as police surveillance. Nonetheless, 40 syringes are exchanged each hour, two to four hours a day, six days a week. New syringes are marked for identification and are counted upon return. Participants in the program can exchange up to ten needles at a time and they are not required to provide I.D. About 70% of the needles turned in to the program in exchange for new ones bear the project’s identifying mark. In other words, a yet to be determined number of [VDUs in Seattle are making regular and repeated use of the exchange program for the purpose of AIDS prevention. In addition to sterile needles, the project also provides participants with bleach, condoms, AIDS educational materials, and referral for drug treatment, health, and social needs. Plans are

underway for a well-designed evaluation of the project (McGough 1989). In September and October 1988 a pilot survey was conducted of the Tacoma needle exchange program begun by David Purchase (Hagan, Des Jarlais et al. 1989; Hagan, Reid et al. 1989). During the survey, every third individual who brought in a needle for exchange was approached about participating in an interview concerning needle use practices before

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and after first use of the exchange program. Sixty-six of the 75 individuals who were approached agreed to participate in the study. Of these, 57% were male, their mean age was 32.4 years, and the largest percentage (49%) were white, with 21% being African American and 15% being Latino. The majority (66%) of the respondents reported that they had been injecting drugs for more than 5 years, while 54% had not been in drug treatment during the last year. Most (67%) were “speedballers” combiners of heroin and cocaine). Participants averaged 150 IV injects per month, or about five per day, prior to and following their involvement with the NEP. In other words, the program is serving established [VDUs rather than users attracted IV drug use by the existence of the NEP. Seventy-one percent reported engaging in needle sharing prior to visiting the needle exchange program, while 37% shared needles after visiting the program. Bleach was used for needle cleaning by 51% of those who shared needles before visiting the program compared to 75% of those who engaged in needle sharing afterward (Hagan, Des Jarlais et al. 1989; Hagan, Reid et al. 1989). Ninety percent of the respondents reported that after visiting the program they either did not share needles or else shared them but almost always used bleach or boiling for sterilization, compared to 66% prior to exchanging needles. All of the respondents who had been to the needle exchange six or more times reported these safer needle practices. In the UK, changes in needle-sharing patterns have been measured through a repeat interview design over a 3-month period. Clients who continued to attend reported a gross improvement in behaviour, so that in 3 months of attendance, the basic rate of sharing is reduced from 34 to 27%. In other words, at Time 2, 73% were not sharing, to which can be added a further 6% who continued to share, but at a reduced level of risk behaviour. Overall, a total of 79% sustained low-risk

injecting behaviour, adopted low-risk injecting behaviour, or reduced their level of risk behaviour. This rate of sharing is the lowest recorded in UK literature (Stimson 1989:257).

Additionally, the UK data indicate that needle exchange in England has tended to reach lower-risk [VDUs. In comparison with the 34% of program users who report needle sharing in the 4-week period prior to their first exchange, needle-sharing rates of as high as 60% have been found in the UK among IVDUs not using the program (Donoghoe et al. 1989). Finally, van den Hoek et al. (1989) report that among participants in the Amsterdam study, the proportion of individuals who obtained their injection equipment exclusively through the exchange program rose from 31.2% at the first visit to 52.3% by the user’s third visit to the program. Associated with this drop was a reduction in the borrowing and lending of needles among program participants. While 55.6% of participants reported borrowing and 50.9% reported lending during the first phase of the program (the program was divided into 207 day intake periods), these figures had dropped to 46.9% and 34.4% by the fourth phase. These changes occurred in both women and men, among Dutch, German

and other participants, and regardless of awareness of serostatus. ‘The authors conclude:

“The results of this follow-up study clearly show that IV drug users are able to reduce their

sharing of needles/syringes” knowledge that results were syringes—at least once in the our study at the end in 1988

(van den Hoek et al. 1989:1356). However, the authors acnot uniformly encouraging: “Borrowing used needles and prior six months—was as often reported by those who entered as it was in 1986” (van den Hoek 1989:1357). In a recent re-

view of needle exchange programs throughout the UK and Europe, Stimson (1989:258)

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concludes, “The evidence so far is that syringe exchange reaches injectors who are not in touch with other services, does this at reasonable cost, is delivered in a way that is acceptable to most clients, helps some drug injectors maintain low-risk behaviours, and helps some others to adopt them.” Van den Hoek et al. (1989) assert that to achieve maximum results in needle exchange

programs, there must be concomitant intensive counseling for IV drug users. In other words, they reject an either/or approach to needle exchange vs. drug counseling, and instead view these as compatible components of comprehensive AIDS prevention efforts for IVDUs. Similar conclusions have been drawn in the Tacoma needle exchange program. In fact, in Tacoma, needle exchange has proven to be an effective outreach and trust building devise that can be the first step in moving participants into drug treatment (Strickland 1989). Charles Eaton, coordinator of the New York City NEP during its 10-month exis-

tence, a program that especially was effective both in advocating for the opening of new treatment slots and in moving program participants into those slots, has commented: I have been involved in drug treatment for 29 years and see no contradiction between what I am doing now and my drug treatment work. The one thing I never learned in 29 years in drug treatment is how to rehabilitate a dead drug addict (Eaton 1989).

Studies of needle exchange programs have been criticized on two grounds. Most of the studies have been based on the self-report of [VDUs and control groups generally have not been built into the study design. Needless to say, the special circumstance under which needle exchange takes place does not lend itself easily to sophisticated research designs. Further, designs that are too intrusive on program users may tend to discourage participation (Joseph and Des Jarlais 1989; Stimson et al. 1989). Nonetheless, in response to criticisms, exchange programs are attempting to improve their evaluation methodology.

The pilot needle exchange study in New York, for example, specifically was developed to address the control group problem. In the study, a sample of [VDUs received sterile syringes in exchange for used injection equipment, as well as drug counseling and intensive AIDS education. A control group, recruited from the IV drug using patients at a private medical practice in the South Bronx, received counseling and AIDS education but did not participate in the exchange component. Both groups were recruited for drug treatment. The purposes of the study were (1) to test whether needle exchange helps to keep IVDUs on often protracted waiting lists for drug treatment; and (2) to see if needle exchange programs create an environment that fosters effective AIDS risk reduction (New York City Department of Health 1988). The Portland NEP, run by the Outside Inn, an agency that provides health services for low-income populations, also is maintaining a control group of [VDUs who receive AIDS prevention education but not needle exchange. To avoid providing needles to individuals who are not currently [VDUs, participants in the Portland program are required to show visual evidence of “tracks” (scarification of veins due to in-

travenous drug injection). In addition to sterile needles, participants are provided a safety kit that includes AIDS prevention information, bleach, condoms, a clean “cooker” (bot-

tle cap for “cooking down” or dissolving drugs), and a fresh cotton ball (used to filter drugs

to avoid clogging the needle). These last two items are offered to participants because of the risk of HIV transmission through shared cookers and cotton, a type of infection risk that is not addressed through either bleach or syringe distribution. In the Boulder Ex-

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change, participants may receive five needles for the first needle they bring in, but must exchange on a one-for-one basis thereafter. In this program, needles are packaged with a label that indicates they are sterile needles for AIDS prevention. Labels are designed so that they come off when removed from the package, so that the needles cannot be used and repacked for sale with the sterile needle label. In Boulder, sterile needles can be obtained 24 hours a day through a drug detoxification program. As the foregoing discussion suggests, there is a movement toward more sophisticated NEP research that does not rely on participant self-report, including blood or saliva testing of program participants and analysis of returned needles for evidence of both sharing (e.g., residue of multiple blood types) and seroconversion among program participants. Three studies from outside of the U.S.—London, England, Lund, Sweden, and

Sydney, Australia—each using a different methodology, have explicitly tested for seroconversion. All three found comparatively low rates of conversion to HIV antibody positivity among program participants (Hart et al. 1989; Ljungberg, Tunving, and Andersson 1989; Wolk, Wodak, and Guinan 1988). In the New York NEP, over 150 needles were

tested for multiple blood types; “the vast majority showed no blood residue or were inconclusive, demonstrating that addicts can and will learn to clean their works” (Joseph and

Des Jarlais 1989:6). However, in a small number of the tested syringes, multiple blood types were found, indicating that not all exchange program users immediately change their needle-sharing patterns (New York City Department of Health 1989). Beyond critiques of the research efforts intended to evaluate their effectiveness, exchange programs face difficulty on a number of other fronts as well. The Tacoma program, for example, is threatened with closure because the city attorney decided in July 1989 that needle exchange is illegal. This decision is being tested in the courts by the county health department and may well lead to a ruling that could have ramifications on all exchange programs now in existence as well as those being considered by local health officials. Other projects, like the Portland NEP, have encountered difficulties with liability insurance, although in this instance, financial aid from the county health department helped to overcome the problem. In Glasgow, England, local residents picketed the local program for 6 months (Stimson et al. 1989). Lack of support outside the health department cost the New York NEP its community-based sites, making access to the program difficult for participants (Eaton 1989). Due to community opposition a mayoral mandate precluded any site for needle exchange located within 1,000 feet of a school. The only available site was a former X-ray clinic on the first floor of ... the central office of the Department of Health. This setting, surrounded by criminal justice facilities and personnel, and far from the residential neighborhoods where addicts live, was not the user-friendly site that had been planned. (New York City Department of Health 1989:7)

A problem reported for exchange programs in both the UK and in New York is a high turnover of clients. In his evaluation of British NEPs, Stimson (1989) found that only 33%

returned for as many as five exchanges. Similarly, in New York, the number of revisits during the first 10 months ranged between 1 and 15 with a mean of 2.2 (New York City Department of Health 1989). There are a number of reasons, positive and negative, for the high turnover rate, including entrance into drug treatment, cessation of IV drug use,

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a decision not to participate following counseling, imprisonment, and death. Finally, a number of programs have not been particularly successful in attracting younger IVD Us and women (Stimson 1989). However, in the New York program, one-third of the par-

ticipants were women. The mean age of participants in New York was 33.4 years, which compares with a mean age of 40.7 for IV drug users recruited for the comparison group (New York City Department of Health 1989). Despite the problems they encounter, new NEPs continue to appear. For example, approval has been granted recently for programs in Victoria and Vancouver, BC.

CONCLUSION Ten years before the first AIDS patient was diagnosed, Edward Brecher (1972:524) prophet-

ically warned that the criminalization of the sale or possession of hypodermic needles without a prescription “leads to the use of nonsterile needles, to the sharing of needles, and to epidemics of hepatitis and other crippling, sometimes fatal, needle-borne diseases.” Failure to heed this warning has contributed to the contemporary AIDS crisis. The dimension and toll of the AIDS epidemic demand a reconceptualization of societal response to intravenous drug users. Needle exchange is one of a number of controversial strategies that have appeared in recent years (widespread street distribution of condoms and bleach for needle cleaning are others) in an effort to halt the spread of AIDS to the drug-using sector of the population. The stance taken by individuals and institutions with regard to needle exchange often has been influenced by emotional, political, or other factors, in the absence of a serious con-

sideration of existing research. For example, Louis Sullivan, Secretary of Health and Human Services, stated in March 1989 that he would be very supportive of experimental needle exchange trials. However, following President Bush’s July 1989 statement that he opposed needle exchange “under any circumstance” (Ginzburg 1989:1351), Sullivan denounced clean needle programs as inconsistent with administration policy (Strickland 1989).

The existing research, however suggests that needle exchange should not be ruled out as an AIDS prevention strategy. There is no evidence to suggest that needle exchange leads to the production of new IV drug users or more IV drug use, while there is evidence indicating that at least some [VDUs do change their behaviors to avoid HIV infection, do make use of existing needle distribution programs, do decrease their needle-sharing behaviors when provided access to a ready supply of clean needles, and will use needle exchange as a gateway to drug treatment if it is available. Needle exchange programs also provide a mechanism for the safe disposal of potentially contaminated needles, reducing thereby the risk of accidental exposure through contact with a discarded needle. In other words, in a narrowly defined cost-benefit analysis, with increased drug use being the potential cost and prevention of AIDS transmission being the potential benefit, needle exchange, especially when combined with AIDS counseling/education and implemented as a gateway to drug treatment, appears to have merit Joseph and Des Jarlais 1989; Stimson 1989; Stimson et al. 1988). But human affairs, including health promotion and disease prevention efforts, are

never decided in such restricted terms. Issues of social relationship and power as well as community understandings and interpretation always influence the development of health

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policy, the implementation of health programs, and community response to both. In Partridge’s (1978:371) apt phrase, the “formation of policy is a political process . . .” Thus Partridge points to Willner’s (1973:550) caution that Politicians and the policy makers they appoint are not likely to be influenced by knowledge unless it is politically convenient or personally congenial. And politically convenient information can always be found to buttress political decisions.

A notable example of this pattern was the impact of the “culture of poverty” notion on public policy. In Valentine’s (1971:193) estimation, “Few ideas put forward by social scientists in recent years have been so widely accepted or so influential in practical affairs as the ‘culture of poverty’ concept propounded by Oscar Lewis.” The appeal of this concept is not hard to find. As Hicks and Handier (1978:322) note, The massive War on Poverty mounted by the federal government in the 1960s was based, according to Gladwin, “upon a definition of poverty as a way of life” (Gladwin 1967:26). The entire series of programs—VISTA, Job Corps, Head Start, and so on—aimed

at

changing attitudes, beliefs, and values, rather than on redistributing wealth and power.

Policies based on political convenience have produced cynicism and distrust in minority communities. These attitudes are magnified by community awareness of past abuses in the health field, including the use of Puerto Rico for clinical trials of oral contraceptives during the 1950s and 1960s (Vaughan 1972) and the withholding of medical

treatment from 600 African American syphilis patients for 40 years in the Tuskegee Study of the long-term biological effects of venereal disease (Heller 1972). As Benjamin Ward,

New York City’s Police Commissioner stated on a television call-in program, “As a black person [I] have a particular sensitivity to doctors conducting experiments, and they too frequently seem to be conducted against blacks” (quoted in Marriott 1988:8). At present there are very strong and very understandable concerns in minority communities about the ultimate purposes and effects of needle exchange programs. However, continued research findings like those reported in this paper might help to create a broad public consensus for federally or state funded needle exchange trials. As noted, our research in Hartford suggests the possibility that community resistance to needle exchange may lessen as AIDS knowledge increases. Community-based organizations working in AIDS prevention can play an important role in this regard. In San Francisco, for example, a number of minority organizations, including the Black Coalition on AIDS, the Latino AIDS Coalition, and the Third World AIDS Advisory ‘Task Force, have come out in support of needle exchange (Buning et al. 1989). In Connecticut in 1989, the

Hispanic Leadership Council passed a resolution that called for a legalization of needle sales and possession, initiation of a pilot needle exchange program, and increased avail-

ability of drug treatment in the state. The needle exchange concept was also endorsed by the board of directors of the Hispanic Health Council in Hartford. NEPs that are implemented by or in collaboration with community-based organizations and consortiums, especially programs that have the support of experienced community AIDS prevention workers, have the greatest chance of winning community support. Further, as most organizers of NEPs maintain, needle exchange must be accompanied by and connected to

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other interventions, including AIDS education and counseling; active referral for drug treatment and social services, and advocacy on behalf of the health, treatment, job train-

ing and related needs of IV drug users and their families. It is now estimated that between one and one and a half million individuals in the US are infected with the virus that causes AIDS. Approximately 50 individuals die of AIDS each day in the US. African American and Latino populations, groups that already suffer from disproportionate rates of poverty and related health and social problems, comprise about 40% of known AIDS cases although they constitute only about 18% of the total U.S. population. IV drug use has become a dominant source of new infection, especially in ethnic minority communities (Singer, Flores et al. 1990). While needle exchange will

continue to have vocal opponents in high places, especially among those who fear it represents a trial balloon for the decriminalization of drug use, already the AIDS crisis has produced several heretofore unexpected changes in government health policy (e.g., the early release of experimental AIDS drugs), clinical interest in previously unthinkable treatment options (e.g., the payment of IVDUs to enter and remain in treatment), and public acceptance of formerly unmentionable topics (e.g., condom use, sexual practices). Clearly existing approaches to both the drug problem and the spread of HIV infection among IVDUs have not led to significant improvements. For example, failure of the Reagan’s 1982 War on Drugs (primarily cocaine), did not lead to any notable innovations in Bush’s War on Drugs. Similarly, the last three governors of New York have launched aggressive though ineffective campaigns to stop drug use by catching and punishing suppliers (Peele 1985). Perhaps the time has come for radical alternatives.

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and Migdalia Rivera 1990 SIDA: The Economic, Social, and Cultural Context of AIDS among Latinos. Medical Anthropology Quarterly 4:73-117. Singer, Merrill, Peggy Owens, and Lydia Reyes 1989 Culturally Appropriate AIDS Prevention for IV Drug Users and their Sexual Partners. Paper Presented at the First Annual NADR National Meeting, Washington, DC. Sowder, Barbara

1989

A Preliminary Look at National AFA-Reported Behavior Change. Paper presented at the First Annual NADR National Meeting, Washington, DC. Stimson, Gerry 1989 Syringe-Exchange Programmes for Injecting Drug Users. AIDS 3:253-260. Stimson, Gerry, L. Alldritt, Kate Dolan, Martin Donoghoe, Rachel Lart

1988

Injecting Equipment Exchange Schemes: Final Report, Monitoring Research Group. London: Goldsmith’s College.

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Stimson, Gerry, Kate Dolan, Martin Donoghoe, Rachel Lart, Andrew Johns, David Nurco, Colin

Drummond, and Reginald Smart 1989 Syringe Exchange Schemes: A Report and Some Commentaries. British Journal of Addictions 84:1283-1290.

Stimson, Gerry, Kate Dolan, Martin Donoghoe, and Rachel Lart

Distributing Sterile Needles and Syringes to People Who Inject Drugs: The SyringeExchange Experiment. Jn AIDS and Drug Misuse. John Strang and Gerry Stimson, eds. Pp. 222-231. London: Routledge. Strickland, David 1989 Needle Swap Can Lead to Care. Medical World News, p. 58, August 28. 1990

Valentine, Charles

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The “Culture of Poverty”: Its Scientific Significance and Its Implications for Action. In The Culture of Poverty: A Critique. Eleanor Leacock, ed. Pp. 193-225. New York: Simon and Schuster.

van den Hoek, J., H. van Haastrecht, and R. Coutinho

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Risk Reduction among Intravenous Drug Users in Amsterdam under the Influence of AIDS.

American Journal of Public Health 79:1355-1358. van Willigen, John 1986 Applied Anthropology. South Hadley, MA: Bergin and Garvey. Vaughan, P.

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The Pill on Trial. New York: Penguin Books.

Walters, James 1985 “Taking Care of Business” Updated: A Fresh Look at the Daily Routine of Heroin Users. In Life with Heroin. Bill Hanson, George Beschner, James Walters, and Elliot Bovelle, eds. Pp. 31-48. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books.

Willner, Dorothy 1973. Anthropology: Vocation or Commodity. Current Anthropology 14:547-555. Wolk, J., A. Wodak, andJ.Guinan

1988

HIV Seroprevalence in Syringes of Intravenous Drug Users Using Syringe Exchanges in Sydney, Australia, 1987. Poster presentation, Fourth International Conference on AIDS, Stockholm, Sweden.

MREADING

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The Significance of Settlement Pattern for Community Participation in Health: Lessons from Africa Edward C. Green and Raymond B. Isely It is an article of conventional wisdom on the part of development planners and administrators in Africa that the nucleation of populations into permanent villages is a prerequisite to development programs, especially those that depend on active participation by the pop-

ulations concerned (Esman and Uphoff 1984:115; Monod 1975). The converse of this is

that dispersed residence is a constraint to development, or more specifically, that dispersed

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populations cannot participate effectively in rural development projects due to lack of social cohesiveness, common purpose, and cooperation. The foregoing is not often clearly stated in the published development literature, but those who have worked in international development, perhaps especially in eastern and southern Africa, have probably encountered such attitudes or beliefs. These become most explicit in the planning and justification of “resettlement” schemes such as Tanzania’s wamaa villagization, or Swaziland’s Rural Development Area (RDA) programs, in which people are persuaded or coerced to move to or create village-like settlements. For example, an unpublished USAID planning document from Tanzania during the early stages of wjamaa observes that “any development effort that goes beyond the capacity of the single household necessitates a geographical concentration of human resources.” Resettlement programs have not always been successful. In fact, there is typically much resistance to resettlement into villages, not just on the part of nomadic peoples, but also on the part of dispersed, sedentary populations. Dispersed sedentary populations are found in many widely scattered parts of Africa, especially in arid and semi-arid zones. Wherever they are found, one hears of the difficulties encountered in development work,

whether that work concerns public health, water supply and sanitation, agriculture, or other areas of rural development. Difficulties are often described in terms of lack of cooperation, mutual assistance, solidarity, or common purpose between physically dispersed peoples that in turn inhibits participation in development projects. Accordingly, this paper will focus specifically on participatory development to get to the root of the argument. A definition of this concept is provided below. The focus will also be on dispersed, sedentary populations rather than nomadic ones. Does dispersed settlement exert a significant constraint on development, or is its influence only negligible in that a different style of administering development programs is needed? This question will be examined and case studies from the authors’ field experiences in several African countries will be used to support the argument that dispersed settlement is not a significant constraint to development. Dispersion of populations will be discussed, as well as the underlying reasons for dispersion and the relationship between dispersion and participatory development. Participatory development itself will be examined, both in relationship to successful development projects and to settlement pattern. Examples used to support the central argument will be drawn from a type of development project known to depend for its success on the active involvement and participation of local participants, namely, water supply and sanitation projects. Our intention is to open the settlement— development issue to serious debate; we do not claim to have made an exhaustive test of

the position we take by the presentation of case-historical material from various countries in Africa, whether from our own experience or from the literature. Indeed, we are interested in learning of any case-historical, survey or other evidence to the contrary. The relationship between settlement pattern and participatory development can be fruitfully studied in Africa for several reasons. First, a broad range of economies and social organizations can be found here, including hunting-gathering bands, nomadic pastoralists, swidden horticulturalists, and mixed agriculturalists—each with its characteristic settlement pattern. Second, there is an extensive ethnographic literature describing important features of African societies, and there is a growing literature on participatory development. Donor organizations and local governments in Africa have been particularly interested in participatory approaches to development because of lack of resources—other than human

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resources—on the supply side, problems in the delivery of goods and services, and documented failures of centrally planned or “top-down” development projects. Third, the bestdocumented government programs of nucleated resettlement or “villagization” are found in Africa, and since these are invariably pursued in the name of development and even participatory development, such programs are important to our analysis. Although the participation of populations in development programs is generally acknowledged as essential to their success (Chambers 1974; Cohen and Uphoff 1977; United Nations 1975), there is still a great deal of confusion and misunderstanding surrounding both the concept and the implementation of participatory development. This confusion is not surprising, given the broad spectrum of concepts that must be taken into account in arriving at a working definition. Cohen and Uphoff (1980) have concluded that

a precise definition of community participation is probably not possible. Instead they have developed a framework in which community participation can be understood operationally. In this framework, the various concepts and field experiences of participatory development can be included. A consistent theme is that development projects should involve the intended beneficiaries in concrete decision-making concerning the project in order to ensure permanent results. Participation itself has several dimensions that can be summarily presented as questions. (1) In what does the population participate? A range from decision-making to simply receiving benefits is presented. (2) Who participates? Is it just an elite group or is there a broad range of people involved? (3) What is the context of participation? The answer to this question varies according to the agency administering the program, as well as the physical environment and the demographic, social, cultural, and economic characteristics

of the population. Alastair White (1981) throws further light on the question by suggesting a scale along which projects may be characterized by the origin of the initiative for participation, ranging from various governmental and private voluntary organizations to the communities themselves. Advantages and disadvantages of each type of participation initiative are examined and it is concluded that some kind of agency-community cooperation needs to be established. Technical assistance and help with organization problems are needed from the agency, and from the community there should be interest and decision-making, fi-

nancial, labor, and material contributions, and administration or long-term maintenance of the project in order to ensure success. Bugnicourt (1982), in a critical review of community participation in Africa, discusses the uses and abuses of participation by institutions and political leaders. He is particularly critical of the influence of “modern” education on promoting an “individualistic” attitude among young Africans that works against participation in development.

DISPERSED SETTLEMENT OF SEDENTARY POPULATIONS In this section, dispersion will be examined: the causes or conditions underlying this pattern of settlement, its relationship to participatory development, and the prevailing administrative response to dispersion. The first part of the section will borrow heavily from the recent analyses of Silberfein (1980, 1987).

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Dispersed settlement is positively adaptive to conditions found in much of Africa as well as other parts of the world, at least for societies whose technology and commerce remain relatively simple. Dispersed settlement minimizes the physical distance to basic resources such as cultivable land, water, fuel, and building materials. Nucleated settlement, on the other hand, leads to the depletion of these resources. Viewed historically, settlement pattern may change in response to conditions such as warfare and enforced political centralization. In case of warfare, people may form or move to villages or towns for

better defense but this may be temporary, with settlement becoming dispersed again once people feel secure. As Silberfein (1987) notes, “In the late 1800s many defense villages (in Africa) broke up with the establishment of colonial regimes and the cessation of interethnic group conflict.” However, because colonial governments found it easier to impose taxes, and to con-

script for armies and forced labor if people lived in nucleated settlements, policies of coercing people to live in villages were adopted. The basic aim was increased control over the subject population. In spite of policies of coerced nucleation in countries such as Tanzania, Malawi, and Zambia, soil erosion, loss of soil fertility, firewood depletion, and so-

cial disharmony all contributed to the persistence of dispersed settlement. Lewis (1970), Silberfein (1980), and others have pointed out that nucleated settlements may not be the idyllic places assumed by some, but the site of dissension, witchcraft, violence, and other forms of conflict. Witchcraft accusation, a common idiom for express-

ing conflict in Africa, seems to occur most often among people in close, face-to-face contact (Mair 1969:216), that is, in nucleated settlements. In fact, witchcraft accusation often

causes African villages to undergo a fission process whereby they divide into smaller units. Even in the postcolonial period, independent African governments have attempted to lure or force rural people into villages, justifying this publicly as: (1) making the provision of facilities such as schools, clinics, and protected water supplies more cost-effective; (2) facilitating the provision of services such as agricultural extension and literacy education; (3) fostering mutual assistance among neighbors living in close proximity, as well as stimulating community self-help schemes; and (4) making collective agricultural schemes possible, such as those attempted under Tanzania’s wjamaa program. Left unstated is the government’ interest in better control and administration of rural peoples and in the promotion of new, national ideologies (Silberfein 1987). To provide a current example, the

government of Ethiopia has recently been able to use foreign-donated humanitarian assistance to intensify its program to move some 23 million of its rural people into new villages, ostensibly in order to provide more and better government services. Much of this villagization has been coerced, involving serious human rights violations, and it has been motivated by the Ethiopian government's wish to control and subjugate large elements of

the population—such as the Oromo and the Somali—that the government deems dissident (Clay 1986). ‘To summarize our argument thus far, dispersed settlement can be seen as a natural adaptation on the part of technologically simple societies to environmental conditions that prevail in much of Africa, as well as in other parts of the world where such settlements are found. These conditions include drought and semi-aridness, denudation and deforestation. In spite of government assertions that nucleated residence promotes mutual assistance and self-help activities—or in our terms, participatory development—there is no hard evidence to support this. In fact the improved provision of government services made

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possible by nucleated settlement may actually undermine the independence and self-reliance of a community (Chambers 1974:101). In an analysis of Tanzania’s wjamaa program, Engas (1980) shows that villages that received the most government inputs—in order to make them model or demonstration villages—became “passive” and dependent upon government largess. An examination of wjamaa will carry our argument several steps further.

THE EXAMPLE OF UZAMAA The wjamaa program is important to our analysis not only because it involved the largest and most dramatic villagization program in recent African history (Ethiopia may have recently moved into first place but information about its resettlement program is still sketchy), but because this program was specifically justified as promoting participatory development. Indeed the cornerstones or “key ingredients” of ujamaa would doubtless be accepted as cornerstones of any participatory development program: cooperation and mutual assistance, participation in decision-making, self-reliance and independence, and decentralized administration and planning (Engas 1980:391-393). The literature on wjamaa is extensive and sufficiently well known that the basic ideas

need not be repeated here. However, it is generally agreed that wjamaa failed to meet its stated goals of creating successful agricultural and other cooperatives, or even establishing the intended matrices of African socialism, ujamaa villages. The failures of wjamaa have been attributed variously to the refusal of bureaucrats and rural elites to share power with peasants; to a “natural individualism” that resists collectivism; to corrupt leadership; to drought; to World Bank policies and macroeconomic forces; to ill-advised agricultural

policies; to failure to emancipate or sufficiently empower ‘Tanzanian women; and—of most relevance to our argument—to the coercion of formerly dispersed peasants into villages (Engas 1980; von Freyhold 1979; R. Green 1977; de Vries 1977; Briggs 1979). Critics and supporters of uwjamaa alike have shown that mutual assistance, selfreliance, and participation in decision-making and project implementation were rarely found in newly created villages, even in those classified as wamaa villages. Village inhabitants preferred to engage in private, individual rather than collective production; “village planning” often amounted to little more than devising strategies for attracting government largess (de Vries 1977:18-2 1); and villages tended to resist participation in development projects (Fortmann 1980; Engas 1980). In one voluntarily settled wamaa village, a majority of men interviewed said they joined the village in order to get government aid (von Freyhold 1979:171), suggesting if anything a preselection of non-self-reliant people to ujamaa villages. Case studies of individual zjamaa villages have also documented how

too much government aid can undermine whatever self-reliance people may have once had and instead promote unrealistic expectations, laziness, and dependency (von Freyhold 1979:1982-1984). In addition, de Vries (1977:18—21) has shown how wjamaa villagers pre-

ferred to leave development-related decision-making to government extension workers— even when extension advice conflicted with common sense and practical experience—in the belief that they are adept at prying funds from government coffers. Of course, attitudes and behavior of villagers cannot be the whole story. Government officials also imposed their will on a peasantry they regarded as ignorant, backward, and obstinate (Engas 1980). Our point is that more often than one would expect in villages founded

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on principles of participatory development, villagers reacted to outside manipulation with passiveness and dependency. One of the present authors (Green 1984:14) found in Swaziland that attitudes and behavior associated with participatory development seemed less common in more nucleated settlements such as peri-urban areas and government presettled Rural Development Areas, than in the more traditional areas of dispersed settlements. Although this impression was difficult to quantify, it was found in 18 nationally representative communities that women’s self-help organizations were considerably less likely to be found in resettled areas than in non-resettled areas. Findings come from two studies of rural communities and community participation in health in Swaziland, one by Green (1984) of ten communities, and one by Tshabalala (1983) of eight communities. In both studies, in-depth

interviews were conducted with a broad cross-section of community residents, local organizations were enumerated and their functions and effectiveness described, and factors were

identified that appear to account for organizational effectiveness. In short, self-reliance and other basic elements of participatory development seem not to be especially facilitated by nucleation of settlement. One could even build the case from the evidence examined that village residence—or at least the improved access of government assistance that usually accompanies this—actually promotes the antitheses of participatory development, i.e., dependency, passiveness, and individual-centeredness. It is possible to round off our argument by citing some recent survey data. In an analysis of participation in 35 primary health care projects in developing countries, bolstered by a substantial review of the literature on community participation, Martin et al. (1983:38) mention dispersed settlement as a factor relevant only insofar as travel to meetings or home visits may be difficult, costly, or time-consuming, and this may affect par-

ticipation. However, there is no suggestion that dispersed communities lack the will, motivation, esprit, or mobilization potential for community participation. Moving to harder data, Esman and Uphoff (1982) carried out an extensive study of

factors influencing the effectiveness of local organizations. Their operational definition of a local organization is broad, including all types of development organizations in a locality that are accountable to their members and which may be organized around ethnic, religious, professional, or other types of affiliation, but excluding political and purely commercial organizations. The analysis covered 150 organizations for which enough data were available in the literature. Cases were drawn from Latin America, Asia, and the Middle East, as well

as from Africa. Of the organizations analyzed, 20% were local development organizations, 35% were cooperatives, and 45% were interest associations. Each organization was scored using a I—S scale to indicate organizational performance. Several types of variables were analyzed to determine if they might be causal, that is, if they might account for variation in the performance of development organizations. Among these are variables that are relatively fixed, such as topography, and those referred to as structural characteristics of the local society, such as a legacy of partisanship. Settlement pattern was one of the structural variables. The results of the analysis of structural variables in relation to operational factors show only three factors had a significant correlation with organizational performance: social heterogeneity, social stratification, and community norms. The correlation between settlement

pattern and organizational performance is so weak that it can be discounted.

In the section to follow, social organization in two countries with dispersed settlement—Swaziland and Burundi—is outlined and examples are presented of participation in water and sanitation projects, a type of development project known to depend for success on the active involvement and participation of the local population.

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EXAMPLES OF PARTICIPATORY DEVELOPMENT IN DISPERSED-SETTLEMENT SOCIETIES: SWAZILAND The basic social, economic, and residential unit in Swaziland is the homestead (umuti).

Larger homesteads consist of several households (tind/u) or nuclear families that form basic production and consumption units within the homestead. Homesteads are linked to other groups to form wider units much as neighborhoods, wards, and finally chiefdoms, of which there are some 200 in Swaziland. Likewise, homestead members are linked to

more inclusive groups through marriage ties, descent group (clan) membership, and regiment or age-ground membership. Homesteads typically consist of a patrilineal extended family and are headed by a umnumzana, Who is usually the senior male of the family. The head may be absent due to wage laboring or to his shifting residence between two or more homesteads in a polygamous situation. There are about ten people per homestead: eight residents and two absentee workers. Since men are employed—or seeking employment—much of the time, and since women perform most agricultural tasks and have virtually all responsibility for child-rearing and domestic chores, life in the homestead is largely centered around women. Health, nutrition, cleanliness, and sanitation are among women’s responsibilities.

Some two-thirds of Swazi homesteads still rely on unprotected water sources such as rivers or exposed springs for their drinking water (Green 1987). Women or girls usually spend at least an hour a day fetching water from a source lying a half-kilometer or more away. Piped water for domestic use has come to be identified as a highest-priority need by homestead members, both because of the burden involved in collecting water and because of increased awareness of the role of contaminated water in spreading disease. About three-quarters of homesteads still lack a pit latrine (Green 1985). Human waste is left in the bush area surrounding homesteads, as are other types of refuse. Although the situation is improving, largely through formal and nonformal education, poor sanitation and

lack of safe drinking water combine to make water-borne and diarrheal diseases the primary cause of mortality and morbidity among children. Although Swaziland lacks villages in the usual sense of the term, there are clusters of dispersed, extended-family homesteads that have a clear sense of belonging together and coming under the authority of a recognized leader. The smallest significant unit of this sort may be called a ward, which is a group of homesteads that falls under the undisputed authority of a chief’s deputy. Wards are named, have a degree of internal organization, and have more or less definite boundaries, although disputes over boundaries and leadership are common. Unless a chief's area is quite small, several wards typically make up a chiefdom, that is, the total area and population that comes under the authority of a chief. A chiefdom also has rather well-defined boundaries, a relatively standard internal organization, and is recognized as a local administrative unit by the Swaziland government. At the ward level there are social and ritual occasions, such as weddings and funer-

als, when community ties are reinforced and neighborhood spirit is expressed beyond the level of extended family or lineage group. With economic and community development that began in the colonial period, a number of local organizations concerned with various aspects of development have emerged. In 1983-1984, a study was conducted to learn more about local development organizations in rural Swaziland (Green 1984). The purpose of the study was to assess community

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mobilization for development by looking at—and whenever possible measuring—actual participation in development-related activities on the part of rural Swazis. Respondents from 96 homesteads in ten geographically representative local communities (wards) were inter-

viewed. Respondents were chosen to represent all socioeconomic levels and all levels of involvement (including non-involvement) in development activities. All communities were found to have a traditional council (/ibandla), headed either by

a chief or a deputy depending on the location. The deputy’ council dealt with problems affecting the local community, including the settlement of disputes and the adjudication of most criminal offenses. The councils of both chiefs and deputies dealt with developmentrelated matters such as new agricultural techniques, planning the construction of a clinic, or discussing the need for a protected water system. Councils were typically involved in various types of preliminary planning. Once decisions are made, council members may decide on the formation of a specialized committee to carry out functions such as choosing a site for a clinic or raising money for the construction of a water system. In addition to the traditional council, all communities surveyed had organizations or committees that dealt with development-related activities. An average of 6.6 (with a range of 4-8) committees per community were found to be functioning within two years of the time of interviewing. The following development-related committees were found: 10 school committees, 10 women’s development or “self-help” committees, 8 farming or agricultural committees, 7 cattle dip tank committees, 6 health or clinic committees, 6 market committees, 3 communal garden committees, 3 resettlement committees, 3 water committees, 3 storage shed committees, 2 rural health motivator committees, 2 roads committees, | telephone committee, | electricity committee, and 1 Red Cross committee. Women’s self-help committees (sing. zenzele)

were found to be the most diverse and multipurpose of any local organizations. Activities included pit latrine construction, nutrition, gardening, home economics and incomegenerating activities such as sewing. Whereas members of other development committees might have been appointed by local leaders, members of women’s self-help committees were always popularly elected by other women. One of the most significant survey findings was that these self-help committees proved to be among the most widespread, enduring and effective of all development organizations. Among the factors that seemed to determine the effectiveness of these organizations were support of the chief or chief's deputy, contact with an extension agent, and having clearly defined goals that related directly to a locally recognized need or problem. The most significant finding for present purposes is that communities with dispersed residence seem to be at least as organized and mobilized for participatory development as those in village-based societies elsewhere in southern Africa. Popular participation in development activities may be inhibited by the traditional “top-down,” authoritarian, ascribed status sociopolitical structure of Swaziland, as well as by other factors, but not by dispersed residence.

BURUNDI Burundi is divided into three distinct ethnic groups: the Hutu, who form nearly 83% of the population; the Tusi, who form 16% of the population; and the Twa, a pygmoid group that constitutes less than 1%. Nevertheless a common language, Kurundi, unites these

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groups. The population of Burundi is over 95% rural and is dispersed in kinship-based

homesteads that dot the hillsides, especially in the central plateau where soil is relatively fertile. The basic unit of social organization is the patrilineal, extended family which ranges from 10-50 members, depending on the number of generations living together.

Some unrelated families may agree to live together in one place, forming larger settlements. Generally, a son builds a house on his father’s homestead for the first few years of his marriage, but then moves to a more distant site. Members of an extended family remain closely tied together. Activities or events—such as building a house, clearing fields, marriages, and funerals—periodically draw larger numbers of people together. Under the present government, a single political party has organized the country to the very grassroots. At the Jevel of each kinship group, there is a representative of the party, the Nyumbakumbhi, who is considered the spokesman for the government's development programs. Other representatives of the party can be found at other levels. The basic units of government administration are called communes (souscollines) and these correspond to areas occupied by kinship groups. Such areas contain one or more homesteads and from one to ten nuclear families. Larger units, called collines, are generally used for census taking. Since 1978 UNICEF has been implementing a water supply and sanitation project in rural Burundi. This project was at first to be mainly concerned with constructing gravityfed water systems for towns, hospitals, schools, missions, and administrative centers (Mas-

sar 1977). However, after a comparison of the potential cost-benefit ratios between these systems and capping springs in rural areas, it was decided to pursue the latter. Except for

a few gravity-fed systems, therefore, the project has concentrated on protecting springs. A standard design for protecting springs was developed and rural fontainiers were trained to help local people in construction and maintenance. These fontainiers work out of administrative posts, several for each commune. Local administrators first announce a spring protection project at the monthly meeting of the Nyumbakumbi. When people of the communes hear of the project they usually register their desire for a capped or rehabilitated spring with the administrator. A fontainier subsequently arrives to survey possible springs for capping. Local knowledge of spring flow is essential to the decision on which spring to cap. Once this decision is made, the fontainier arranges with local people to dig out the spring site, transport bags of cement and PVC pipe from the administrative post, and gather sand, gravel, and clay. The Nyumbakumbi plays a key role in organizing the local people who, with the help of the fontainier, have the responsibility for maintenance and repairs of the spring. Maintenance, consisting of regular cleaning out of the pipe and gutters and periodic repair of cracks in the ce-

ment, is minimal but necessary and unfortunately not always carried out. In the first five years of the project, nearly 1,000 springs were capped, and the vast majority were still functioning at the end of the period. The number of requests in each commune was in fact surpassing the capacity of fontainiers to respond. As kinship groups heard of successful spring cappings in other souscollines, they were stimulated to participate in the project. One observer described the UNICEF project as a “wave on the hillsides,” so great was the popular response. The project appeared to pass a critical threshold of replicability. In this instance, a simple technology in response to a genuine felt need for clean water captured the imagination of a dispersed, sedentary population to such a degree that participation in project implementation was greatly facilitated. The project’s approach,

which was to involve the basic social groups in the project from the earliest planning

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stages, also contributed to its success. Clearly, dispersed settlement was not a constraint

to project implementation or success. In light of the foregoing, let us turn again to the view that concentration or nucleation of populations is a prerequisite to participatory development in Africa. As noted, this view is often supported by observations that nucleation facilitates the delivery of government and other services, and that it is easier to organize people to participate in development projects if they live in villages than if they live in less-concentrated settlements. We concede that there is some merit to these observations when viewed from the supply side, that is, from the government or service-provider side. For example, health services tend not to be used by populations living at distances greater than 10 km (Gish and Walker 1977), so that grouping several hundred people in a central village with a health center, a school, a social center,

water supply and sanitation facilities, and other government services, should mean a higher utilization rate for those services as well as greater cost-effectiveness of service delivery. Furthermore, when a population is dispersed into family homesteads, the distance to centers may make it difficult for people to attend meetings, especially during the rainy season when roads are in poor condition. A lack of public transportation services may make the problem even more difficult. However, we regard these difficulties as financial, logistical, and “supply side” problems (or challenges) rather than as deficiencies or inherent weaknesses on the part of dispersed populations. We argue that there is no lack of social organization, no lack of ability to cooperate in joint ventures, no lack of esprit or sense of community or feeling of belonging together that characterizes dispersed African populations. Certainly lack of selfreliance cannot be said to characterize such populations since these groups typically receive fewer government services than village-based groups and therefore must rely on their own resources. As noted earlier, the expanded provision of government services which typically accompanies government-induced resettlement in villages may actually undermine selfreliance and foster dependency on governments and outside organizations. In sum, although there may be financial or logistical advantages to government service provision when populations are concentrated, dispersed populations can and do participate successfully in development projects.

FACTORS CONTRIBUTING TO SUCCESSFUL PARTICIPATORY DEVELOPMENT PROJECTS If nucleated settlement is not a significant factor contributing to participatory development, what is? Among the more important factors, in our experience, are leadership, positive previous experience in development, and the strength of local organization (United Nations 1975; Isely and Hafner 1983; Esman and Uphoff 1982; Green 1984). This is not

to present ourselves as the first to argue the significance of these factors, nor is it to deny the importance of other economic, political, physical, and sociocultural factors that affect development in general. It is rather to underscore the significance of those factors we have found to be immediately relevant to the potential of communities for participation in development efforts. Some discussion with examples is now provided.

Leadership. The quality of leadership in a community is an essential element in successful participatory development. Esman and Uphoff (1982:31) found that planning and goal setting, conflict management, resource mobilization, and resource management—all factors

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related to leadership—had high rates of correlation with the effective performance of local organizations. ‘The degree of authority available to a leader seems to be less important than his capacity to command respect and to work with the various groups and interests that make up a community. Leadership ability is complex, depending as it does on factors such as age, education and literacy, and attitude toward development, as well as on a variety of elusive personal qualities that are not well understood, especially in the context of traditional societies. Literacy and education—both relatively objective measures—tend to make a leader more understanding and supporting of development efforts. More difficult to assess are a leader’s administrative skill, level of motivation and industriousness, and the degree of respect and trust he has earned of his followers. However, informal discussions with a crosssection of people in a community can—if done properly—yield information of this sort. In his study of community organization in the context of water and sanitation projects in Swaziland, one of the present authors recorded the following comments about chiefs in dispersed communities in which there was considerable participatory development: “He supports any kind of development”; “Without the chief’s encouragement our community wouldn’t look like it does today”; “He congratulates us on our success”; “He approves projects after his people decide they want them” (Green 1984:24). Indeed, the strength of community organization, measured by objective indicators as well as by subjective judgments about committee effectiveness by local inhabitants, often related to leadership qualities of the chief. Development committees were described as effective in communities where the chief was strongly in favor of development and used his authority to compel people to follow certain measures or to donate money for a project. One community surveyed raised the equivalent of U.S. $39,000 to build a rural education center. This happened because the chief ordered each of the homesteads in his area to contribute $40. Before we jump to conclusions about “quick fixes” to development, previous fieldwork by the author suggests that before a chief will exercise authority in the manner just described, he must already be a strong and respected leader in the eyes of his people; he has to believe that his people will comply with a given order; he has to be convinced that the order will be in the best interests of his people and himself; and he must believe that any changes introduced to his community will enhance—or at least not diminish—his own status. The importance of leadership should not obscure the fact that participation in development should be broad (Martin et al. 1983). Yet participation may be difficult to mobilize and sustain in societies or communities where democratic procedures are not supported and where decision making is top-down. A related and persistent problem in development is that where power is concentrated in the hands of a few leaders or other

elites, these fortunates tend to use power to their own advantage. Another example from Swaziland illustrates how a development effort based on genuine participation can be undermined by self-serving local leaders. The Swaziland Red Cross, while operating a mobile clinic in a rural community consisting of dispersed homesteads, took time to conduct public health education sessions on water and sanitation as well as related topics. After several such sessions, local elders who genuinely represented community interests identified a protected water supply as a top-priority need for the community. There followed a number of planning meetings during which all local people had a chance to participate. The Swaziland Red Cross was successful in securing a cash grant from a Norwegian donor group to help pay for the proposed water system. The area was surveyed by a technician from the government Rural Water Supply Board, and

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plans to protect a hillside spring were drawn up, with the advice and concurrence of local family heads. The community expressed willingness to contribute labor and materials toward the construction of a water storage tank. Women performed most of the labor, which consisted largely of gathering gravel and sand from the river and carrying it to the site. The real problem came after the Red Cross hired a local contractor to lay the piping and install the five standposts (taps) that were to serve the drinking water needs of the entire community. The Red Cross withdrew at this point, no doubt in the spirit of promoting self-reliance in decision-making. The contractor arrived in the community and as might be expected, reported to the local headman for instructions as to where to install the standposts. As a result, three out of five standposts were built within the private compound walls of the headman, his son, and the assistant headman, respectively. Others in the community felt with justification that these standposts were inaccessible to them even though they had contributed labor and had been active in planning for the protected spring. In the end, many people were bitter and felt betrayed. The community as a whole did not feel as if the system belonged to them (Green and Hoadley 1982). It should be recognized that the problem resulted from self-serving leadership and not to any difficulty in mobilizing interest in participation of people living in dispersed homesteads. Previous Experience in Development. Another factor of importance to the success of participatory development projects is the quality of previous experience of the population in community participation. People who have had unpleasant experiences, especially those involving locally contributed funds that have been lost or misused, will be quite resistant to new efforts to induce their participation. However, those with successful previous experiences are usually more receptive to new efforts. The following cases illustrate the point, some drawn from village-based societies and others from dispersed societies. All examples relate to water supply and sanitation. In 1972 a University of Pittsburgh water and sanitation project began in a village in Cameroon with a population of 1,500 divided into five hamlets. The young village chief was an active catechist who since 1968 had worked with other local people on a successful development project with a nearby Catholic mission. The health committee organized under the University of Pittsburgh project was able to cap four springs, install latrines for nearly every household, construct enclosures for domestic animals, and accomplish many

other environmental improvements. Today, even after the end of the project, the health committee continues its work. Project personnel felt that the village’s previous positive experience with the Catholic mission and with the earlier development project greatly contributed to the success of the water and sanitation project (Isely et al. 1986). In an example from Swaziland of negative previous experience, ministry of health extension workers spawned a community-based health committee after a series of meetings with local leaders and interested people. Fund-raising became the first order of business for the new committee; accordingly, social pressure was brought to bear on each homestead to contribute money toward a latrine-building project planned by the health committee. Unfortunately, the local shopkeeper entrusted with banking the money reported that a funny thing happened on the way to the bank: the sack containing the committee funds disappeared from the back of his motorcycle. This dampened enthusiasm in the community and for many months thereafter people were very reluctant to contribute money for health or, for that matter, for any other development projects.

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In a survey of local development organizations in Swaziland, respondents told a surprising number of stories about locally collected funds disappearing. In some cases the money had in fact not been misappropriated; there were simply delays in making purchases because the money fell short of what was needed. However, once people’s suspicions were roused—and sometimes with good reason—they often refused to contribute further (Green 1984:21). In their review of factors that relate to successful participatory development, Cohen and Uphoff (1977:19) also discuss the importance of previous bad experience with locally raised funds or with projects generally.

Local Organization. A third factor essential to the success of participatory development projects relates to the strength and effectiveness of local organizations (Chambers 1974). In Malawi, the success of a gravity-flow water supply project, which has extended over more than 20 years, has been largely due to an effective working relationship between rural water supply technicians and the leaders of rural groups resulting in active participation by these groups in the construction and maintenance of the pipelines, reservoirs, and taps (Glennie 1983). The successful organization of rural Malawians under the project was thought to be due to the fact that Malawian villages and village-based associations were already characterized by strong organization. Other factors may have been the relative ethnic homogeneity and strong kinship ties in most villages, although the region as a whole is inhabited by multiple ethnic groups. In any case, the government has emphasized rural development in its agricultural and development planning and the ruling National Political Party finds its base in the loyalty of tightly organized rural communities. Each village has a party representative as well as representatives of the party’s women’s branch and the party’s youth organization, the Young Pioneers. In an informal survey of the members of “tap committees” taken in 1983, each village was found to have an average of 5.6 different organizations such as farmers’ clubs, religious organizations, and others. Out of this survey there emerged an impression of rural Malawi as highly organized—but no more organized than dispersed-settlement rural Swaziland where the average number of local organizations is virtually identical (Warner et al. 1983; Tshabalala 1983).

As this last case illustrates, the degree of organization exhibited by a population is a basic factor in the success of any participatory development project. Organizational cohesiveness is part of the “gestalt” of a village described by Murray (1974), and it is found in no-

madic or dispersed sedentary societies as well. It should be ascertained (by careful interviews of key individuals and observations of decision-making) at the community level in both nucleated and dispersed communities before committing significant resources to a project.

CONCLUSION We conclude that the importance of settlement pattern, and specifically dispersed, sedentary settlement pattern, in development seems negligible. Resettlement or villagization schemes in colonial and contemporary Africa have often been carried out in the name of promoting participatory development, therefore we focused on this type of development only to find that nucleated settlement is not prerequisite for mutual assistance, cooperation, self-reliance, or participation—the basic requirements for participatory development. These

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characteristics can be found in communities with dispersed residence; moreover participatory development can and does occur in such communities. Resettlement schemes have also been carried out in the name of delivering more and better government services. We concede that goods and services may be delivered more cost-effectively, and with greater logistical ease, to people living in concentrated settlements. However, these advantages may be outweighed by disadvantages that may result from villagization. For example, the incidence of diseases associated with poor sanitation and contaminated water supply have been found to increase with greater concentration of populations—in Africa this has often meant with the settlement or resettlement of dispersed populations into villages. We have also noted a loss of independence and self-reliance as well as a tendency toward dependency on the part of peoples induced to settle in villages. Historically, however, it has been the accelerated depletion of local resources such as cultivable land, water,

fuel, and building materials that has helped maintain a pattern of dispersed settlement in many parts of Africa. These “ecological underpinnings” of dispersed settlement are still relevant in contemporary Africa, in spite of the adoption of Western technologies. A number of factors do seem to affect the potential of a community for participatory development, including the strength of local leadership, previous positive experience with development, and the strength of local organization. Other factors that did not emerge from our health-related examples from dispersed societies in Africa, but which may well be determining, include the nature of development policies and programs, the degree of socioeconomic stratification within the community, trade and economic links with the wider society, local and national political organization, and the prevailing type of kinship system (cf. Charle 1970). Dispersed settlement, contrary to conventional wisdom, seems not to be a determining factor of any significance. It thus becomes more relevant to ask, “Does the proposed development project meet basic human needs as perceived by the intended beneficiaries?” or “Have the intended beneficiaries helped plan the project from the beginning” than, “Do the beneficiaries live in villages?”

References Cited Briggs,J.

1979

Villagization and the 1974-76 Economic Crisis in Tanzania. Journal of Modern African

Studies 17:695-702. Bugnicourt, J.

1982

La participation populaire au developement en Afrique. Les Carnets de l’Enfance. UNICEF

59/60:63-84. Chambers, R.

1974

Managing Rural Development: Experiences from East Africa. Uppsala: The Scandinavian Institute of African Studies.

Charle, E.

1970

Political Systems and Economic Performance in Some African Societies. Economic Development and Cultural Change 18(4):575-597.

Clay,J.

1986

Refugees Flee Ethiopian Collectivation and Editorial: Feeding the Hand That Bites You. Cultural Survival Quarterly 10(2):1, 80-85. Cohen,J.M., and N. T. Uphoff 1977 Rural Development and Participation Concepts and Measures for Project Design, Implementation, and Evaluation. Rural Development Committee. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

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Participation’s Place in Rural Development: Seeking Clarity through Specificity. World Development 8(3):213-235.

de Vries, J. 1977 Ujamaa Villages and Problems of Institutional Change with Emphasis on Agricultural Extension and Development. University of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, Department of Rural Economy. Engas, Z. 1980 Why Did the Ujamaa Policy Fail? Toward a Global Analysis. Journal of Modern African

Studies 18(3):387-410.

Esman, M.J., and N. T. Uphoff 1982 Local Organization and Rural Development: The State of the Art. Rural Development Committee. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. 1984 Local Organizations: Intermediaries in Rural Development. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Fortmann, L.

1980

Peasants, Officials, and Participation in Rural Tanzania: Experience with Villagization and Decentralization. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Gish, O., and G. Walker

1977

Mobile Health Services. London: Tri-Med.

Glennie, C.

1983

Village Water Supply in the Decade: Lessons from Field Experience. London: Wiley.

Green, E. C.

1984

1985 1987

‘Traditional Leadership, Community Participation and Development Education: Results and Implications of Two Surveys in Swaziland. Washington, DC: Academy for Educational Development. Factors Relating to the Presence and Use of Sanitary Facilities in Rural Swaziland. Tropical and Geographic Medicine 37(1):81-85. Beliefs and Practices Related to Water Usage in Swaziland. International Journal of Water Resources Development 2(4):29-42.

Green, E. C., and A. W. Hoadley

1982

An Evaluation of the Social and Health Impacts of aProtected Water System in Ntsintsa, Swaziland. Mbabane: Swaziland Ministry of Health.

Green, R.

‘Toward Socialism and Self-Reliance. Research Report. Dar es Salaam: University of Dar es Salaam. Isely, R. B., M. Davies, S. M’Barga, and G. Bahina 1986 A Village Takes Its Future in Hand: Ekali I (Cameroon) 1968-1982. In Perspectives on 1977.

Community Health Education in Africa. R. Carlaw and W. Ward, eds. San Francisco: Third

Party Publishers. Isely, R. B., and C. Hafner 1983 Facilitation of Community Organization. Water Supply and Management 6(5):43 1442. ;

Lewis, O.

‘Tepoztlan Restudied: A Critique of the Folk—Urban Conceptualization of Social Change. In Anthropological Essays. O. Lewis, ed. Pp. 35-52. New York: Random House. é Mair, Lucy 1969 Witchcraft. New York: McGraw-Hill. Martin, P., M. Favin, M. Parlato, and W. Stinson Community Participation in Primary Health Care. Washington, DC: American Public 1983 Health Association Primary Health Care Issues Series 1, no. 5. 1970

oY Massar, Claude iy Unrapport en deux parties de l’Eau pour Services Sanitaires et Communautaires en Milieu 1977 Rural du Burundi. New York: UNICEF.

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Monod, T. (ed). 1975 Pastoralism in Tropical Africa. Papers presented at the 13th International Seminar, 1972 in Niamey, Niger. London: Oxford University Press.

Murray, C. A. 1974 Investment and Tithing in Thai Villages: A Behavioral Study of Rural Modernization. (Ph.D. Dissertation, MIT). Silberfein, M.

1980

The Evaluation of Rural Settlement: A Tanzanian Case Study. Jn Rural Habitat Transformations in World Frontiers (24th IGC Tokyo pub.). R. L. Singh and P. B. Singh, eds. Varanas (India): National Geographic Society of India, Pub. 30,

1987

International Center for Rural Habitat Studies. Settlement Form and Rural Development: Scattered Homesteads versus Agglomerated Villages. Paper presented at the African Studies Association Annual Meeting, Denver, Nov. 20-22.

Tshabalala, R.

1983

Community Participation in Water and Sanitation and Clinic Construction in Swaziland. Master of Science Thesis, University of London. United Nations 1975 Popular Participation in Decision-Making for Development. New York: United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs. von Freyhold, M. 1979 Ujamaa Villages in Tanzania: Analysis of a Social Experiment. New York: Monthly Review Press. Warner, Dennis B., R. B. Isely, C. Hafner, andJ. Briscoe

1983

Malawi Self-Help Rural Water Supply Program: A Mid-Term Evaluation of the USAIDFinanced Project. Rosslyn, VA: WASH Field Report No. 105, Water and Sanitation for Health Project.

White, Alastair

1981

Community Participation in Water and Sanitation: Concepts, Strategies, and Methods. Report No. 17. Rijkswijk, The Netherlands: International Reference Center for Community Water Supply and Sanitation.

MREADING

19

Primary Health Care and Local Self-Determination: Policy Implications from Rural Papua New Guinea Robert L. Welsch In 1978 the Alma-Ata Conference on Primary Health Care (WHO 1978) inspired a minor revolution in international health policy with its endorsement of primary health care (PHC) as the official policy of the World Health Organization and UNICEF. Recognizing deplorable health conditions among the world’s poor, the Alma-Ata declaration stressed the urgent need for a reallocation of health-related expenditures to provide ade-

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quate, low-cost health services to all communities. The emphasis of PHC lies in health promotion, prevention, and the provision of basic health services (as opposed to costly, high-tech facilities). To inaugurate this new health policy, the conference called upon all governments to “formulate national policies, strategies and plans of action to launch and sustain primary health care” within their own local social, cultural and economic conditions (WHO

1978:5).

The response to Alma-Ata was both encouraging and swift as international health organizations and virtually all health ministries quickly adopted PHC as both “scientifically sound” policy and a morally and politically acceptable method of addressing rural health problems. But despite widespread enthusiasm for “the ‘new’ priority in health care” (Gish 1979:203), PHC is far from a reality in any developing country (WHO

1981c).

WHO has published guidelines, formulated strategies, and set international goals for achieving “Health for All by the Year 2000.” The Organization’s technical consultants have also offered advice and assistance to a number of member states. But despite these efforts one question remains: Why has it been so difficult to translate the broad (and intentionally flexible) principles of Alma-Ata into workable practice? It is this question I will address below, with particular reference to why concepts like self-determination and community participation have been difficult to implement in any meaningful way in developing PHC programs.! A number of studies (e.g., Bloom and Reid 1984a) have shown that PHC programs often fail because they lack knowledge of the local social and cultural context, precisely the kind of local knowledge that should arise from community participation. This gap between PHC ideology and practice represents more than local problems of implementation or other environmental constraints, such as

limited resources, poor communications and limited technical knowledge. To understand why PHC encounters these difficulties we need also to consider the principles and ideals that inform PHC efforts and the administrative organizations trying to implement them. To do this I will explore what I see as a contradiction inherent in the WHO model of primary health care: a simultaneous call for both self-determination and professional authority in directing health care programs.

THE GAP BETWEEN IDEOLOGY AND PRACTICE The premise upon which the PHC movement is based is disarmingly simple: Rural health can improve only if health-related facilities are made affordable and accessible to the rural people who need them most. This idea, of course, predates Alma-Ata and throughout the

1970s had increasingly become the focus of international discussions about health policy.’ Encouraged by the recognition that health auxiliaries offer a cost-effective solution to many rural health problems, this concern over resource allocation has been the driving force behind the PHC movement. Indeed, it is precisely in the area of reallocations of health-related expenditures that the PHC movement has seen its greatest advances (WHO 1981c). But while WHO can take some credit for encouraging a more equitable expenditure of health monies in developing countries,’ it has been far less successful in promoting the major reforms in health care Alma-Ata had called for. Among social scientists, the PHC movement has had its supporters (e.g., Bryant 1980), its thoughtful but sympathetic critics (€.g., Gish 1979; de Kadt 1982; MacPherson 1982),

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and its detractors (e.g., Navarro 1984), each identifying from his own vantage point some of the problems and the potential of the PHC approach. What supporters and critics alike agree upon, however, is that the grand language of Alma-Ata is difficult (if not impossible) to put into practice. In various ways, each distinguishes between “big talk and little action,

broad policies and narrow implementation, radical declarations and conservative intentions; in short, [they find a gap] between ideology and reality” (de Kadt 1982:741, cf. Mburu 1980). Following a venerable tradition of evaluating health programs in action, anthropologists have typically examined this tension between ideology and practice in much narrower terms than other social scientists. They have typically focused on specific community health programs and how these programs have fallen short of PHC ideals (e.g., the papers in Bloom and Reid 1984a). Partly because of their community-based frame of reference, anthropologists have generally accepted the PHC approach in principle and directed their research toward understanding problems of implementation. But in the process of explaining the inadequacies of specific programs as problems of poor implementation, they have often failed to examine the concepts and principles that underlie the Alma-Ata approach and how these premises may in fact generate the “problems of implementation” so often observed on the ground. The argument I offer below is that the frequent problems encountered in trying to implement PHC do not simply reflect the difficulty of translating sound theory into realistic practice. Rather, these problems of implementation are a recurrent manifestation of a contradiction in the PHC model itself. This tension between local autonomy and professional authority is an inherent flaw in the PHC approach that consistently undermines many of the strengths of the model. It creates and maintains an administrative culture in which “problems of implementation” can be expected to occur, irrespective of the intentions, actions, and concerns of health planners and providers. Moreover, attempts by social scientists to reduce this inherent contradiction to problems of implementation, the intransigence of conservative communities, or the self-interest of powerful elites ignore a fundamental problem threatening the success of the PHC movement.* To illustrate this contradiction and some of its implications for primary health care I will pursue two separate but related lines of inquiry. First, I examine the Alma-Ata declaration and subsequent WHO reports to illustrate how PHC policy guidelines implicitly grant WHO technical consultants, central planners and local health educators a special and superior role, one that effectively limits the community involvement and self-determination WHO

hopes to evoke. Second, I show how this contradiction between local autonomy

and professional authority makes itself felt in the structure of health care in a particular developing country, Papua New Guinea. My intention here is to illustrate how the administrative culture of the health care system supports a downward flow of policy and health information (from planners to rural health workers to villagers) making it impossible for an upward flow of information to occur, thus effectively limiting meaningful selfdetermination and community participation in setting health objectives. As in most Third World countries, Papua New Guinea’s health care system has emerged out of a colonial system of health care and was not directly inspired by Alma-Ata. The government has, however, adopted PHC as its national health policy. Although the Department of Public Health functions independently from direct WHO supervision, there can be no question that the health care system has been influenced by WHO and the PHC movement, most notably in the country’s efforts to expand health services and to re-

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allocate health funds. Health care in Papua New Guinea thus illustrates the sorts of tensions between local autonomy and professional/administrative authority that are likely to exist in many developing countries as they attempt to implement PHC as national policy.

THE CONTRADICTION WITHIN WHO’S MODEL OF PRIMARY HEALTH CARE The Alma-Ata declaration contains repeated references to two themes that are inherently contradictory because they express an intrinsic tension between local autonomy, on the one hand, and professional expertise leading to centralized authority, on the other: (1) a

deep concern with issues of self-determination, community participation, and flexibility to accommodate social, cultural, and political differences, and (2) an equally strong concern for using “scientifically sound” methods and technology to promote rural health. The declaration, for example, described primary health care as: ... essential health care based on practical, scientifically sound and socially acceptable methods and technology made universally accessible to individuals and families in the community through their full participation and at a cost that the community and country can afford at every stage of their development i the spirit ofself-reliance and self-determination. (WHO 1978:3, emphasis added)

The integration of scientific methods and local autonomy suggested by this statement parallels the conference’s interest in integrating the results of scientific research and variable local contexts: Primary Health Care . . . reflects and evolves from the economic conditions and sociocultural and political characteristics of the country and its communities and is based on the application of the relevant results of social, biomedical and health services research and public health experience. (WHO 1978:4)

That Alma-Ata was able to merge these divergent principles in the same declaration with apparent ease is a tribute to WHO’ ability to mediate a variety of differing and often opposed political and scientific interests.° But juxtaposition of these two themes does not resolve their inherent tension. Concern for local autonomy and flexibility clearly reflects contemporary liberal ideals, particularly in the Third World. But it also reflects several decades of rural health

experience and the findings of social science research which show that if health programs are to be successful, targeted communities must be involved in assessing health needs and in designing new programs. But while admitting a need for flexibility, community participation, and self-determination, health planners remain unambiguously committed to the essential rightness of their own scientific knowledge. The emphasis given to “scientifically sound methods” and the “relevant results ofsocial, biomedical and health services research” is a fundamental feature of the WHO model of primary health care. Indeed, it is an essential ingredient of the PHC approach that permits the active participation of the biomedical community. But it is this “scientific” bias implicit in the Alma-Ata declaration that ultimately grants professional legitimacy and

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promotes a privileged status for the technical advice and suggestions of WHO advisors and national health planners. This privileged status becomes more obvious in the text of the Alma-Ata reports: Central planning should aim at enabling communities to plan their own health care activities. It therefore has to provide them with a clear idea of the part they play in the national primary health care strategy and in the overall developmental process at the community level. It has to guide them on how to work out, evaluate and control their primary health care programmes; and it has to provide any essential information that is not available in the community. (WHO 1978:55, emphasis added)

Even in the earliest formulation of PHC there is an unresolved tension between the decisionmaking responsibilities of planners and those of the community, since the community’s role in PHC and their information (as well as methods of evaluating, establishing and controlling PHC) ultimately derive from the guidance and information offered by central planners. This tension has not disappeared in subsequent WHO studies. For example, the following year in a report entitled Formulating Strategies for Health for All by the Year 2000 WHO advised that: Governments, institutions, members of the health professions as well as all agencies involved in health and development, will therefore have to enlighten the public in health matters so as to ensure that people can participate individually and collectively, as part of their right and duty, in the planning, implementation and control of activities for their health

and related social development. (WHO 1979:17, emphasis added)

Undoubtedly, WHO officials had in mind “enlightening” the public about important health concerns such as hygiene, epidemic diseases, and so on. It is not clear from these reports, however, where the limits of this responsibility for enlightening the public lie. At what point, for example, is local self-determination about health (when it differs from the views of planners) “unenlightened”? By 1981 WHO had begun to grapple with the problem of specifying how PHC ought to be implemented in differing national contexts. Toward this end, the third volume in the “Health for All” series (WHO

1981b) made quite specific recommendations

for the role of central planning in the health ministries, and not insignificantly, for the role of WHO itself in coordinating and guiding the development of PHC in various countries. Despite many pages devoted to the specific responsibilities of national ministries and WHO, only one paragraph deals with how community participation is to be encouraged, and this offers no more specification than in previous documents. What emerges from these documents is an image of health administrators’ knowledge

contrasted with the community’s lack of and need for knowledge, an image quite different from the notion that communities have a “right and duty” to determine the course of their own health futures. Seeing themselves as having considerably more knowledge of medicine, epidemiology and social science, health planners must find mechanisms to facilitate the downward flow of policy and information in order to inform and enlighten the public. It is thus hard to imagine how such an administrative premise could easily allow for community

participation and an upward flow of relevant information from village to planner.

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For WHO% part in the global strategy, the organization takes on the “mutually sup-

portive functions of coordination and technical cooperation” (WHO 1981b:79). WHO will take on responsibilities for international promotion of PHC and “will act as the world focal point to help countries develop their managerial process for national health development and apply it to implement their strategies” (1981b:82). It is repeatedly clear that WHO sees itself as the knowledgeable partner in its relationship to member countries in the developing world, a pattern that replicates the relationship between central planners

and village communities. Officially, WHO grants considerable flexibility and self-determination to individual countries in developing their own PHC systems. WHO documents state that the organization offers assistance only when invited by member states.° But contrary to these declarations encouraging self-determination, a WHO study of how six countries had in fact implemented PHC in their varied national contexts criticized “the fact that, despite an internationally agreed definition, the term ‘primary health care’ is being applied around the world to a variety of realities and even concepts” (WHO 1981c:47). The Joint Com-

mittee on Health Policy concluded this study with eight recommendations, each suggesting that UNICEF and WHO take more steps to guide the development of primary health care worldwide (1981c:67-69).

One of the major criticisms made in this study was that “the scope and depth of community involvement are often doubtful” (1981c:48). Curiously, the Joint Committee’s rec-

ommendation on this point was that: ... UNICEF and WHO support countries to develop innovative approaches to upwards planning for health; and that relevant information about experiences of community participation in policy formulation, planning, implementation, and monitoring be disseminated with the support of international agencies, and that UNICEF and WHO assist countries to develop and disseminate suitable explanatory materials on PHC for use in public campaigns, by the mass media, by political and social organizations, and generally through the social channels of communication appropriate to national, intermediate, and community levels. (1981c:68)

While this study eschewed “blueprints” for how countries should encourage community involvement, it offered no tangible suggestions as to how this participation might be engendered, except to encourage dissemination of information, expertise and materials from the center. As in other WHO documents, this recommended solution to the problem of too little self-determination was a transfer of knowledge from Geneva or from national ministries. As an international advisory body, WHO clearly has legitimate concerns in monitoring the development of PHC in various countries. But despite words that respect national cultural differences and demand flexibility to create locally meaningful PHC systems, WHO has yet to resolve the contradiction between local autonomy and professional authority. In practice, WHO policy overrides the concerns of local autonomy by encouraging an asymmetrical relationship between itself and its member states. Its actions and specific policy directives arise from an administrative culture firmly rooted in the superiority of its own technical knowledge and expertise, a premise that is often in direct opposition to the core notions of national and community-level self-determination.

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PRIMARY HEALTH CARE IN PAPUA NEW GUINEA Since the end of the Second World War, Papua New Guinea (PNG) has had a network of village-based health auxiliaries, called aid post orderlies (APOs). Recruited from the

communities in which they work, aid post orderlies often entered the health service with little formal education. After two years of training (a year of course work and a year of practical training) they are expected to provide basic health care. This includes outpatient treatment, referral to health centers for more serious diseases, health education, and some

advice on environmental improvement and hygiene. In addition, APOs submit monthly reports and simple statistics to their supervising health centers. Simply dressed, provisioning themselves from their own gardens, and (until recently) modestly paid, APOs have long been seen as the “backbone of the health system.” And thus, for more than 35 years, health administrators in PNG have spoken with pride of their literally “barefoot doctors,” long before the notion of community-based “primary health workers” became fashionable among Third World health planners. APOS, of course, are not doctors, but literally “barefoot” health auxiliaries in charge

of small village dispensaries stocked with a modest supply of medications. They report to health extension officers (HEOs) at rural health centers, or a nurse in the absence of an HEO. Nurses and HEOs are not doctors either, but are better educated than APOs (usu-

ally three years training), have better clinical skills, better facilities, and receive substantially better wages. As officers-in-charge of rural health centers, HEOs are responsible for a sizable staff, often 10 to 20 nurses, nurses aides, hospital orderlies and APOs. Although

responsible for health care in their districts, HEOs report to their provincial health officers, who as doctors are their clinical and administrative superiors. In a number of respects, the rural health care system in PNG is a paradoxical one. Aid posts are in a very real sense community-based and have long been the cornerstone around which other rural health facilities have been built. But with independence in 1975, PNG inherited the legacy of a highly centralized colonial health administration, as many new nations had. The colonial health service was organized on a hierarchic model with policy, authority, supervision, funding and supplies emanating from its headquarters in Port Moresby, the capital. With a few modest changes, this organizational structure has

persisted so that aid posts make up the lowest level in the health care pyramid, receiving supervision from rural health centers in their districts, who are in turn supervised by their

provincial health offices, whose activities are coordinated by administrators and planners in Port Moresby. In clinical as well as administrative terms, APOs have the lowest status

of any health worker with autonomous responsibilities in the system.’ Despite their community base, APOs look to the center, not to the village, for direction in their work.

Given limited resources and an enormous area, much of it thinly populated, the Australian administration recognized that village dispensaries were the only way of providing health care to this largely rural population. But while the Australians had planned to gradually phase out village aid posts in favor of more sophisticated health centers and district hospitals, the newly independent government made aid posts a key component of the health system that “will continue indefinitely to play a vital role in the provision of health services to rural populations” (Department of Public Health 1974:95).

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The National Health Plan for 1974-1978 recognized the need for greater community self-reliance and self-determination and openly criticized colonial policy on this score. In the past, . . . participation by the recipients of health services in managing or even advising on the services has been minimal, and has not been encouraged. . . Communities have been passive . . . recipients of what has been “done to” them. . . or paternalistically “done for” them such as the provision of health centres or aid posts. Community participation in a partnership or “doing with” approach has, with isolated exceptions, been overlooked or ignored. (Department of Public Health 1974:367)

Arguing that previous efforts “engendered a dependency relationship,” the Plan set the “involvement of the community in planning, provision and organization of its own healthcare

and improvement services” as one of many national objectives (Department of Public Health 1974:367). Thus, four years before Alma-Ata, PNG had established its own plan for what

we now call PHC. But the National Health Plan contains the same tension between centralized authority (of planners and professionals) and local autonomy at the village level. This contradiction is not, of course, the result of WHO pressure upon Papua New Guinea, but instead emerges from the same premise that important knowledge comes from clinical training and status within the national health service, not from the community.

IMPEDIMENTS TO LOCAL SELFDETERMINATION IN PAPUA NEW GUINEA In assessing the role of self-determination and community participation in Papua New Guinea’s rural health care system, the WHO study mentioned above concluded that: Papua New Guinea has been pursuing essentially an improved basic health services approach, with mechanisms for intersectoral coordination of health related activities being relatively well developed; the idea of community involvement is only just entering the planning stage. (WHO

1981c:47)

With its roots firmly planted in the village, the pyramid structure of health care has led most health planners and administrators to see the aid post system as essentially fitting a PHC model. But as WHO suggests, mechanisms to promote community participation— beyond APOs themselves—are poorly developed. Moreover, recent efforts toward expansion rather than reorganization of the existing system have led health services further from the goal of self-determination. Like other developing countries, PNG has encountered many problems trying to

implement an effective rural health service. Many of these have been recognized for some time, particularly the irregularities of staffing, supplies and APO performance. In spite of (or perhaps because of) their key role in the system, APOs have often been seen as the focus or even, paradoxically, the cause of many problems that are routinely attributed to their low morale and dependability, limited training and inadequate supervision. But as some researchers have recently noted,* the structural position of APOs within both the health service and the community is far more important that has usually been

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acknowledged. Some problems of implementation may legitimately be attributed to local

factors, whether due to environmental constraints, the personal attributes of individual

APOS, or the characteristics of particular ethnic groups, but many problems emerge from the administrative structure itself and an organizational culture that grants superior status to the knowledge and authority of the center. Papua New Guinea’s health services are by no means a failure. They have unmistakably improved the quality of life, raised life expectancy, lowered mortality and morbidity rates, and countered many of the effects of what would formerly have been severe epidemics. But as a primary health care system (following either the Alma-Ata definition or the National Health Plan) the system fails in several ways, since it has been unable to

promote effective community involvement and local self-determination.’ The reasons for this lie in the general lack of communication from villager to health worker about how communities define and understand their health problems. This, in turn, is related to the structure of health administration in PNG, which all but ensures a

lack of communication from the periphery to the center, so that health planners never really understand how communities perceive their health needs. But equally important, planners never fully understand how rural health workers perceive their own working conditions and the health services they are expected to provide. At the heart of this problem is a clash between “scientifically” sound health knowledge, on the one hand and community perceptions of their own health problems and needs, on the other. What has emerged in Papua New Guinea is a situation that we may think of as the “health educator model” of improving rural health. Rural health workers are expected to educate villagers, who are assumed to be backward and to lack knowledge about health matters. Offering relevant and useful health information is a worthy task, but the situation in PNG has encouraged rural health workers to feel that they are in a privileged position vis-a-vis villagers because they possess superior health knowledge. There is little interest in the knowledge, beliefs and ideas that village people have about illness and its treatment, though it is clear that such ideas do influence local use of health facilities (see Welsch 1983).

This pattern is replicated at each level of the health service. At every level, higher ranking personnel act authoritatively, as if they have some private esoteric health knowledge, and deal with lower ranking staff as passive “acceptors” of this wisdom. Thus, health information and policy decisions flow from more sophisticated centers to what is assumed to be an unknowledgeable periphery. WHO advisors offer guidance to the national health ministry; the ministry sets guidelines and policy for the provinces; provincial health officers set policies and issue directives to sub-provincial health officers in the outstations; these officers, in turn issue directives to aid post orderlies working in the villages, who tell villagers what they should do about health. A centralized chain of command structure of this sort is not unique; it is typical of the authority structure in many bureaucracies. What is worth noting, however, is how it controls the flow of information within the system. Rarely are explanations of new policies, guidelines and directives effectively communicated from officers in the center to those in the periphery, and virtually no information—except in the form of inconsistently kept statistics—moves in the opposite direction. Nor can rural personnel easily explain their difficulties in implementing policies in the periphery to officers in more central post-

ings. At every level there is a blind spot as to what other levels perceive about health conditions and the effectiveness of specific health care efforts.

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THE STRUCTURE OF RURAL HEALTH CARE IN WESTERN PROVINCE Interactions between different levels of the health care system in Western Province clearly illustrate how the organizational culture I have outlined above both controls the flow of information within the system and shapes the relationship between center and periphery. Western Province is the largest and most thinly populated of PNG’s 19 provinces, with an area nearly the size of Virginia and a population of barely 100,000. Because much of the province is flat and swampy, population centers and outstations are widely scattered, often separated by vast uninhabited tracts. Daru, the provincial capital, lies on a small coastal island some three to four hours by light aircraft from Kiunga District, where the

recently opened Ok Tedi mine is located in the northernmost corner of the province. Outstations are dependent upon weekly air-charters for supplies and upon radios for communication with other stations. For many years the province was viewed as a hardship posting because of its isolation and lack of development. Until intensive mine development began about 1981, Western Province was undeniably the least developed province. The central government closely monitored Kiunga District during the late 1970s as plans to begin mining operations were underway. But despite national-level attention, public servants of all government departments who were posted at outstations anywhere in the province routinely complained of the lack of attention they received from their headquarters in Daru.!° As a result of decentralization and the devolution of certain powers to newly formed provincial governments, the central government in Port Moresby was only able to help coordinate administrative activities in the province. Staff in Port Moresby routinely blamed local problems on the inadequacies of provincial officers. But given the central government’s track record before provincial government, there is little reason to believe that Port Moresby would have been much more successful than Daru in handling rural administrative problems (see, e.g., Jackson 1977). Although the provincial health department was arguably the most efficient and effective department in the province during this period, it was in no way immune from these problems. Indeed, the provincial health services experienced all of the problems other departments had: problems of staffing, supervision, regularity of supplies, growing disparities between health workers’ incomes and the incomes of villagers, problems associated with increased professionalism among health workers drawing them away from the villages to urban centers, minimal levels of training in some cases, dependency in others, and what appeared to me as a minimum of communication about health issues between vil-

lagers and health workers.'! Health planners in Port Moresby and Daru were generally, if at times only vaguely, aware of these problems. For the most part they tended to define most problems in three ways: (1) insufficient health facilities, (2) shortages of staff, and (3) inadequate supervision

of lower-level staff (particularly APOs, but sometimes HEOs as well). Their solution to these problems was thus obvious: build more facilities, hire more health workers and en-

courage greater supervision.'* Outstation staff routinely complained that Daru and Port

Moresby were indifferent to their needs and often failed to act on requests and requisitions submitted through routine channels. Nevertheless, provincial and national planners

continued to see rural problems as locally generated. Officers in Port Moresby located the problem in Daru; Daru blamed it on outstation staff. Never were problems seen as emerg-

ing from inadequate two-way communication between center and periphery.

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Lack of communication between levels is also fostered by the geographical distribution of individuals at different levels, and the fact that officers at administrative centers rarely visit officers in more remote postings. Thus, national officers rarely visited the province; provincial health officers seldom visited the outstations; health extension offi-

cers in the outstations have few opportunities to visit aid posts in the villages; and aid post orderlies rarely make house calls. Moreover, meetings almost invariably pull remote staff to the centers rather than the reverse, all of which reinforces the notion of a knowledgeable center in contrast to a less knowledgeable periphery. But correlative with this underlying premise of administrative culture in PNG is the implicit notion that those further out in the periphery (and thus lower in the administrative hierarchy) have little, if any, information that is of interest to the center. This lack of communication from one level to another is not totally without its merits in practice—although the intention of the health care administration is quite the opposite. Because more peripheral staff are not fully informed about the rationale behind policy decisions and other directives, and rarely get assistance in dealing with local problems, they are forced to deal with local problems in their own terms. In a number of respects, local health officers, aid post orderlies, and even provincial health officers are left

to their own devices and develop their own modus operandi that suits their own personal styles and needs. For this reason each station, each aid post, and each province tends to develop its own procedures to accommodate the perceived needs of those in charge. These procedures change with new personnel. For example, one HEO in Western Province was able to arrange Local Government Council funds for repairs and construction of aid posts and orderlies’ houses in the villages. Technically, this runs counter to national guidelines about self-reliance, since villagers are

expected to provide labor for such construction as part of their commitment to health care. In this case the HEO was able to generate local support for his APOs and health center by responding to people’s concerns. Similarly, when supplies run low and Daru is unreasonably slow in responding to requests, effective HEOs find alternative sources of supply through mission health centers, even though this may require borrowing a government vehicle and making a personal visit to get the needed materials. Occasionally, HEOs have even hopped a government charter to Daru to bring supplies back personally. Very real geographical constraints exist in Western Province, but able officers are nearly always able to find innovative solutions to these problems. It is important to note that these problems are not the result of improperly trained staff. Some staff are poorly trained or generally unreliable as in any occupational setting, but it is in fact the better trained staff that are best able to function independently of superiors who offer little support and minimal explanation of new directives. Moreover, it is the best staff who are able to innovate on directives and policy decisions to accommodate local conditions. For example, the most effective HEOs listen to community wishes and the desires of their APOs when making decisions about which APO should be assigned to which aid post. These officers are also willing to change their minds when staff assignments do not work out. It is also innovative staff who feel it most necessary to visit more remote staff simply to understand what conditions are like in the aid posts or remote health centers. It is not the individuals but the administrative structure that is organized around a premise that knowledge is most concentrated at the center and trickles out to the periph-

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ery in an entropic fashion. This core notion of a sophisticated center and an unknowledgeable periphery was typified by a statement I repeatedly heard when discussing health problems with aid post orderlies in the villages. To explain each and every failing of the aid post, such as non-compliance, poor sanitary conditions, minimal village participation in the upkeep of the aid post, and so on, orderlies would say to me, “I already told the people to do XXX, but they never listen.” This kind of statement reflects expectations of villagers as conservative, uncooperative, and resistant to change. Such expectations of villagers are regularly voiced by public servants from all government departments in Papua New Guinea and are by no means limited to the health professions.!3 It was rather startling, however, to hear HEOs routinely use this same explanation about aid post orderlies. In explaining village health problems and difficulties at the aid posts, HEOs often told me, “I already told the orderlies to do XXX, but they never listen.” More striking still was that I heard essentially the same comments from provincial-level health officers about HEOs in the outstations, and at the national level I heard similar comments about provincial-level officers! (I might add that WHO reports often suggest the same attitude on their part toward national ministries.) This model of resistant villagers and rural health workers is not an uncommon one in the bureaucracies of developing countries. Empirically speaking, however, it is not an accurate model of either village attitudes toward change or the views of lower-level rural health workers. As I have suggested elsewhere (Welsch 1982, 1983), village people are extremely quick to evaluate the advantages and disadvantages of newly introduced health services, but they do so in their own terms, not in biomedical terms. The rural people with whom I worked had rapidly incorporated rural health facilities into their own strategies for combating illness. They had not adopted biomedical theories of disease, but instead interpreted new practices in terms of customary knowledge about illness.!* Moreover, village people were by no means resistant to change or development (see Jackson et al. 1980). Because health workers at all levels look to the center for knowledge and information, it is not surprising that APOs and HEOs are generally unaware of how villagers understand and use the services they provide.!> They know little about how villagers actually perceive health needs and rank health priorities. And by looking toward the center for guidance and ideas, they do not define the community’s views about health and illness as useful information. Thus, despite good intentions, rural health workers are typically unaware of how ineffectual they are as health educators because they understand so little about how villagers approach health problems. This is, of course, where community participation and self-determination must begin, with some basic sharing of ideas about what the important health problems are and how they might best be tackled. This pattern at the village level is replicated at the outstations, and again at the provincial level. It ensures that provincial and national planners have little direct knowledge of conditions in remote outstations and villages, but they have almost as little understanding of sub-provincial and provincial definitions of health needs. Moreover,

reliance upon quantitative health indicators of the kind favored by WHO (198 La) for assessing health needs further guarantees that central planners will continue to remain isolated from how villagers and rural health workers perceive health conditions. For planners the results of health surveys and monthly statistics represent concrete information about health needs and become the basis of planning, all but eliminating any possibility of communities having a say in their health futures.

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CONCLUSIONS Community involvement is an element of the PHC approach that makes it a truly innovative rural health policy. Local participation, however, can only come with some minimal level of autonomy, both for villagers and for the rural health workers who must be

able to act in concert with local concerns. There is a role for centralized planning and the technical advice of WHO consultants. But if WHO continues to “guide” health ministries in developing countries as it has, encouraging administrators to adopt a similar stance toward rural health workers, I doubt that community participation or self-determination

can ever emerge in any comprehensive way. Community self-determination must reflect local contexts and local concerns. By definition these will not be uniform throughout a country as diverse as Papua New Guinea. Self-determination implies that communities will disagree with the advice of central planners and health workers from time to time. And no matter how correct the advice of consultants, administrators, planners and even social researchers may seem on

technical or theoretical grounds, it is incorrect advice if it fails to respect local concerns. Moreover, attempts to formulate blueprints for new PHC systems can only discourage the community participation they are designed to evoke by encouraging a health care organization that looks to administrative centers for answers and scientific authority. Local health committees such as those proposed by Frankel (1984) may be part of the solution, but only if they embrace local inputs and are not dominated by the health service. This is not to say that WHO efforts have been without practical value or merit. If we accept WHO studies about the progress of PHC, many countries including Papua New Guinea have begun to allocate more funds and resources to rural health care. These are encouraging findings. But an international strategy that has successfully put pressure on member states to spend more money on rural health is not able to foster local selfdetermination and community participation because it is based on a premise that authoritative knowledge is centralized in Geneva or some national ministry. Despite these problems, community self-determination is progressing in a number of small ways in the Papua New Guinea villages where I worked, but it follows informal networks and functions 7m spite ofthe national and provincial health administration. Villagers in the Western Province are making decisions about how they will use their aid posts and rural health centers. They make decisions about the location of aid posts and who should be staffing them. But for the most part the health administration is unaware of these informal processes, which are dependent for their success upon the personality of local health workers who may or may not allow communities to follow through on these decisions. The idea of providing low-cost health care in rural areas where the majority of the world’s people live is an extremely appealing one. It is an approach to health care that an-

thropologists often find difficult to criticize. Moreover, Alma-Ata’s repeated references to self-determination, community participation, and the need for flexibility to accommodate cultural differences are extraordinarily appealing to anthropologists who, among all social scientists, take cultural differences most seriously, Precisely because we respect cultural pluralism, we are hesitant to critique policies that, for the first time, accept in principle a premise we have long regarded as a given. Reticence for an anthropological critique of Alma-Ata is quite understandable. PHC is, after all, an international policy that accepts (on paper) conclusions drawn from several

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decades of anthropological and other social research. But simply because Alma-Ata validates a role for social researchers in the development of PHC systems,!° we should not ignore how key concepts like self-determination and community participation are incorporated into the (theoretical) model of primary health care. Anthropologists have repeatedly demonstrated that many health programs fail because ofa lack of social research (e.g., Paul 1955; Pillsbury 1982; Buzzard 1984; Heggen-

hougen 1984). It is equally clear, however, that the involvement of social scientists does not in itself ensure a program’s success (e.g., Nichter 1984; Paul and Demarest 1984;

Stone 1984). The use of social researchers as consultants certainly may have its advantages, but in many instances social scientists tend to encourage the professional authority of their own expertise at the expense of local self-determination. It is a mistake to think that anthropologists are in any better position than the biomedical community unless we facilitate genuine local decision-making and problem-settling. As anthropologists we must seriously evaluate the role of PHC in the countries where we conduct research. To do so we must broaden our frame of reference to include the lines of communication and the health administration as it exists outside the rural communities we study. We should investigate how communication into and out of the villages can be encouraged. At present we need data about how information and authority flow within health care systems, in addition to data on communication between patients

and health workers. It is clear that planners in national ministries and Geneva have little knowledge of village conditions, yet this kind of information is essential if administrators and planners are ever going to respond to local concerns. But this information must be generated from within the health care system; it cannot be dependent upon anthropological consultants and advisors since this tends to promote reliance on the authority and expertise of social researchers. Some balance between local concerns (expressed as self-determination or community participation) and professional authority must be achieved if the PHC movement is to have any meaning. But before we can suggest ways to achieve this balance we should examine more closely what we (and WHO) mean by community involvement in order to find ways to circumvent contradictions in the primary health care model.

Notes 1. See, for example, Werner (1980); de Kadi (1982); Bloom and Reid (1984a). Some countries may lack

the political will or even an interest in promoting health services in rural areas (Gish 1979; de Kadt 1982). Insofar as this is true, the explanation for why PHC is not able to evoke “community participation” and “health by the people” is undoubtedly best sought in the social, economic and political structures of the countries in question much as Gish and de Kadt have long argued (see also MacPherson 1982; Navarro 1984). My arguments here are directed at rural health programs in which services are expanding but which have failed to achieve much in the way of local self-determination or community par. ticipation (Werner 1980). 2. See, for example, King (1966, 1970); Radford (1972); Djukanovic and Mach (1975); Newell (1975); WHO (1975); Benyoussef and Christian (1977); Gish (1977); Hetzel (1978). . i. «t) 3. See however, Gish (1979); de Kadt (1982), 4. Many PHC programs do face difficulties in transportation, communication, training staff, allocating

health adequately, and, at times, corruption. Such constraints are very real and should not be underestimated. But they should not be emphasized so much that they exclude consideration of administrative ideologies.

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3. In calling for substantial reforms in social, economic, and health care infrastructures, participants were

obliged to adopt vague provisions that stress flexibility and some degree of autonomy for member states (and by extrapolation, local communities). Some critics (e.g., Navarra 1984) have argued that neither Alma-

Ata nor the international health community ever intended to promote autonomous decision-making at either the national or local levels. But whatever the original intention, the tension between autonomy and professional authority continues to be an unresolved issue (see, e.g., Gish 1979; de Kadt 1982). 6. One must remember, however, that little international health aid would be available to a country that refused to open a WHO office. 7. For more on the work and working conditions of APOs and HEOS, see Radford (1972); Newland

(1973); Watson (1973); MacPherson (1980, 1982); Frankel (1979, 1984); and Welsch (1979, 1982, 1983). As MacPherson and Frankel have observed, the low status of APOs has been seen as the cause of much

of their job dissatisfaction and thus poor performance. See Marshall (in press); Marshall and Lakin (1984); and Reid (1984) concerning other health facilities in Papua New Guinea.

8. See, for example, MacPherson (1980) and Frankel (1984). Both point to center—periphery relations to explain health service problems, although Frankel gives more emphasis to the character of ethnic groups and individual APOs. 9. Frankel (1979) also sees the community’s lack of involvement as a major weakness in the existing system. 10. See Jackson (1977) andJackson et al. (1980) for a more extended discussion of administration and ad-

ministrative difficulties in the province before Ok Tedi. My comments in this section primarily refer to this period before mine construction began. 11. The lack of communication between health worker and villager in Papua New Guinea is clearly one “problem of implementation” that is influenced by the structure of the health administration and communication within it (see Welsch 1979, 1983). 12. See, for example, the Kiunga District Health Plan 1980-1984 (Wainetti 1980). 13. Tobserved similar attitudes in the fields of agriculture, education, business development, and general administration. 14. For example, Ningerum people seek in Western medicines the same goals as in traditional preparations; these differ from the goals of APOs. Similarly, Ningerum do not expect a diagnosis from their APOs but rely on traditional methods of family-based diagnosis. 15. This varies with individuals but was typical of both expatriate and local staff in Western Province. The situation may be somewhat better in other provinces. 16. The main critique of PHC raised by anthropologists is the criticism that social research (and researchers) are consulted too rarely. For example, the major concern voiced by Foster (1983:183) and recently reiterated by Bloom and Reid (1984b:183) is that biomedical perspectives have so dominated PHC research and planning that there is little opportunity for input from the social sciences.

References Cited Benyoussef, A., and B. Christian

1977 Health Care in Developing Countries. Social Science and Medicine 11(6/7):399-408. Bloom, Abby L., and Janice Reid (eds.) 1984a Anthropology and Primary Health Care in Developing Countries. Social Science and Medicine 19(3):183-301. 1984b Introduction [to] Anthropology and Primary Health Care in Developing Countries. Social Science and Medicine 19(3): 183-301. Bryant, John H.

1980

WHO’ Program of Health for All by the Year 2000: A Macrosystem for Health Policy Making—A Challenge to Social Science Research. Social Science and Medicine 14A:381-391. Buzzard, Shirley 1984 Appropriate Research for Primary Health Care: An Anthropologist’s View. Social Science and Medicine 19(3):273-277.

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de Kadt, Emanuel 1982 Ideology, Social Policy, Health and Health Services: A Field of Complex Interactions. Social Science and Medicine 16:741-752. Department of Public Health 1974 National Health Plan 1974-1978. Konedobu: PNG Department of Public Health. Djukanovic, V., and E. P. Mach

1975

Alternative Approaches to Meeting Basic Health Needs in Developing Countries. Geneva: World Health Organization. Foster, George M. 1983 Community Development and Primary Health Care: Their Conceptual Similarities. Medical Anthropology 6:183-195. Frankel, Stephen 1979 Rural Health Services in the Tari Area: A Preliminary Report for the Research Committee, Southern Highlands Province (mimeo). 1984 Peripheral Health Workers Are Central to Primary Health Care: Lessons from Papua New Guinea’s Aid Posts. Social Science and Medicine 19(3):279-290. Gish, Oscar

1977 1979

Guidelines for Health Planners. London: Tri-Med. The Political Economy of Primary Care and “Health by the People”: An Historical Exploration. Social Science and Medicine 13C:203-211. Heggenhougen, H. K. 1984 Will Primary Health Care Efforts Be Allowed to Succeed? Social Science and Medicine 19(3):217-224. Hetzel, Basil S. (ed.) 1978 Basic Health Care in Developing Countries: An Epidemiological Perspective. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jackson, R. T.

1977

Kiunga Development Study. Report for the Department of Minerals and Energy. Konedobu: PNG Department of Minerals and Energy.

Jackson, R. T., C. A. Emerson, and R. L Welsch

1980

The Impact of the Ok Tedi Project. A Report to the Department of Minérals and Energy. Konedobu: PNO Department of Minerals and Energy. King, Maurice 1966 Medical Care in Developing Countries. Nairobi: Oxford University Press. 1970 Medical Manpower for Occupational Health in the Tropics: I, The Auxiliary—His Role and Training. Journal of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene 73(12):336-346. MacPherson, Stewart

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The Development of Basic Health Services in Papua New Guinea. Ph.D. Thesis. University of Nottingham. Social Policy in the Third World: Social Dilemmas of Underdevelopment. Brighton: Wheatsheaf Books.

Marshall, Leslie B.

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Antenatal Clinic Use: Influences on the Antenatal Clinic Attendence of Central Province Women in Port Moresby, PNG. Social Science and Medicine. Marshall, Leslie B., and Jean Lakin 1984 Antenatal Health Care Policy, Services and Clients in Urban Papua New Guinea. International Journal of Nursing Studies 21(1):19-34. .

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A Critique of John Bryant’s Paper. Social Science and Medicine 14A:387—389.

Navarro, Vicente

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A Critique of the Ideological and Political Positions of the Willy Brandt Report and the WHO Alma-Ata Declaration. Social Science and Medicine 18(6):467—474.

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Newell, K.

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Project Community Diagnosis: Participatory Research as a First Step toward Community Involvement in Primary Health Care. Social Science and Medicine

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Health, Culture and Community. New York: Russell Sage.

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Citizen Participation Overplanned: The Case of a Health Project in the Guatemalan Community of San Pedro la Laguna. Social Science and Medicine 19(3):185-192. Pillsbury, Barbara L. K. 1982 Policy and Evaluation Perspectives on Traditional Health Practitioners in National Health Care Systems. Social Science and Medicine 16:1825-1834. Radford, AnthonyJ. 1972. The Future of Rural Health Services in Melanesia, with Particular Reference to Papua New Guinea. In Change and Development in Rural Melanesia: The Fifth Waigani Seminar. M. Ward, ed. Pp. 250-279. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Reid, Janice

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The Role of Maternal and Child Health Clinics in Education and Prevention: A Case Study from Papua New Guinea. Social Science and Medicine 19(3):291-301.

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1980 Kiunga District Health Plan 1980-1984 (Draft) (mimeo). Watson, J. 1973 Health Extension Officer and Health Inspector. In The Diseases and Health Services of Papua New Guinea. C. Bell, ed. Pp. 321-325. Port Moresby: Department of Public Health. Welsch, Robert L. 1979 Barriers to the Aid Post: Problems of the Very Isolated Community. In Decentralisation: The 1978 Waigani Seminar. R. Premdas and S. Pokwin, eds. Pp. 157-159. Waigani: University of Papua New Guinea. 1982 The Experience of Illness among the Ningerum of Papua New Guinea. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Washington. 1983 Traditional Medicine and Traditional Medical Options among the Ningerum of Papua New Guinea. In The Anthropology of Medicine: From Culture toward Method. L. RomanucciRoss et al., eds. Pp. 32-53. New York: Praeger. Werner, D.

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Health Care and Human Dignity. In Health, the Human Factor: Readings in Health Development and Community Participation. S. Rifkin, ed. CONTACT Special Series No. 3. Geneva: WCC. WHO (World Health Organization) 1975 Promotion and National Health Services. Geneva: World Health Organization. 1978 Alma-Ata 1978. Report of the International Conference on Primary Health Care, Alma-Ata, USSR, 6-12 September. Health for All Series, 1. Geneva: World

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6

Development Anthropology

Economic development is anchored to a long history concerning the role of science in ever-expanding Western progress that comes out of the Enlightenment period. The concept took on particular vitality during the Industrial Revolution during which science, technology, and progress were seen as intimately intertwined. The core idea of development was that industrialization created wealth. Development is also founded on another basic idea; namely, that the world is divided into halves—developed versus underdeveloped; First versus Third Worlds; North versus South; and so on. Regardless of the ter-

minology used, what is being represented is a nineteenth-century evolutionary model of the world in which we envision the modern as scientific, developed, and rational versus the primitive, which is prescientific, undeveloped, and irrational. Development anthropology has both employed this standard evolutionary model to orient it, as well as provided a resounding critique of it. Much like applied medical anthropology, the anthropological interest in development stems from the Cold War aftermath of Word War II, along with mounting concerns about global political and economic stability embodied in such multinational institutions as the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank, and the U.S.

Agency for International Development (USAID). While a good bit of development effort in the 1950s through the 1970s followed a modernization approach, focusing on top-down strategies to moderize primitive peoples (with mostly little success or worse), there have also been critical and countervailing approaches adopted by development anthropologists. Here I highlight a few examples of these early heterodox approaches in which a standard Western development approach is in one way or another challenged. The article by Sol Tax represents an early attempt at what has come to be known as participatory development. The piece by Daniel Gross critically challenged the standard development approach of its day—modernization theory—pointing to a more critical assessment of development from a dependency perspective (i.e., that poor nations of the Global South, or regions within them, are linked to centers of capitalist economic activ-

ity by a relationship founded on unequal exchange, leaving the poor region increasingly marginal and impoverished). Old entrenched ideas, however, often do not die, they just

get relabeled. It is important to realize that the modernization approach has transformed into neoliberalism, perhaps the most successful and pervasive development ideology ever unleashed (cf. Rapley 1996). Neoliberalism, however, differs from its modernization counterpart in so far as it replaces a top-down development approach with something

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that relies much more heavily on bottom-up grassroots activity that has led development agencies to champion local entrepreneurship through such things as microcredit and microenterprises. The economic inclusion that neoliberal policies embrace, however, in no

way guarantees economic equality. Indeed, it can be argued that it merely diffuses potential resistance to increasing poverty and marginalization (Fernando 2001). In addition to framing and critiquing Western development approaches in this chapter, I have also attempted to highlight other areas of concern among development anthropologists including sustainability (Hansen); the role of women in development (Schuler and Hashemi); and microenterprise (Schuler and Hashemi).

There has been much internal debate among development anthropologists concerning their role and respective approaches. Clearly they are faced with a number of ethical and practical dilemmas. Sometimes development entails major cultural changes with which we feel uncomfortable. It is not uncommon for development money to be diverted away from where it is most needed. The planners with whom we work may not embrace our values or the values of the local people with whom we work. Nevertheless, I would argue that anthropology has the potential to contribute greatly to development initiatives because we, more than professionals of any other discipline, are going to work

at keeping local issues and concerns highlighted and taken seriously in a way that contradicts the ninteenth-century evolutionary model still embraced by many in the development business. Perhaps one of the most gripping critiques comes from Gudrun Dahl and Anders Hjort (1984), who argue for a careful examination of development ideology

to better understand how they may be at odds with local culture and practice. With that said, it is also important to note that there has also been a serious challenge to development anthropology from outside the field by anthropologists who adopt a postmodern approach. Arturo Escobar (1995) takes a position that is highly critical of development and anthropology’s role in such efforts, which he sees as little more than an extension of

colonial activity in a new guise. Development creates a kind of discourse and set of practices that are designed to control Third World peoples or transform them into more familiar, Western-like subjects.

References Cited Dahl, Gudrun, and Anders Hjort 1984 Development as Message and Meaning. Ethnos 49(III-IV):165-185. Escobar, Arturo

Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. HA Fernando, Jude L. 2001 The Perils and Prospects of Micro-Credit: Non-Governmental Organizations, NeoLiberalism, and the Cultural Politics of Empowerment. Paper presented at the conference on Livelihood, Savings, and Debt in a Changing World, May 14-16, Wageningen, The Netherlands. re Rapley, John Understanding Development: Theory and Practice in the Third World. Boulder, CO: 1996 Lynne Rienner. 1995

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BREADING

20

The Fox Project Sol ‘Tax I Picture a piece of land on the Iowa River in central Iowa. Some of it is bottomland that floods over. Some of it is wooded hillside. Some is useful for farming. For the past 100 years this has been the home of a growing community of American Indians who call themselves Mesquakies. They are commonly known as Fox Indians. After the Blackhawk War they were removed from Illinois and Iowa to Kansas. They defied the government, however, and in 1857 a few of them sought and received permission from the state of Iowa to buy 80 acres of land on which to settle. The 80 acres have grown to 3,300. The population has grown to some 600 persons who think of this settlement as home even though many work and live in the towns and the cities of the white world—which in the meantime has surrounded their land and their lives. There have been a hundred years of peace—of peaceful coexistence. Time enough for the Indians and their neighbors to take one another quite for granted—time enough for Indians and whites in daily contact to become unaware each of the other. With some help from government and with a great deal of official interference, the Indians have maintained their own community, their language, their religion, their peculiar family interrelations, their Mesquakie values. Successful hunters turned unsuccessful farmers; an independent tribal state with its proud chiefs and law became the dependent pawn of a confused government bureaucracy—everything was changed; the Indians would not be unfaithful to the only “right” they could accept. Thus when I first visited the settlement in 1932 and 1934,

to study the social organization, I suppose that they had achieved a kind of adjustment to the surrounding white world. I cane away then with the impression that they were remarkably well organized in terms of Indian forms, even taking account of an old factional split. Needless to say, they were poor; but in the depth of the depression of ’32 and ’34 so was everybody. They seemed to be a going concern in terms of their ancient culture. This was surprising, to me, since I would have expected that a small community of the only Indians in a large and populated state would after 75 years have become pretty much like others in Iowa. But they had maintained not only their identity and pride in their own his-

tory, but also a large core of their traditional culture. Few of the Indians spoke English; fewer still were Christians in spite of two missions that seemed well established. In the summer of 1948, mainly to provide opportunity for field training, the University of Chicago sent six students to this settlement to study various problems according to their interest. The depression had turned into the New Deal and WPA and CCC and other projects in which the Indians participated. The Mesquakie had organized under the Indian Reorganization Act of the Collier regime. Then in the great war many Indians

had fought, and returned veterans were having difficulty readjusting to life in the Indian settlement. We therefore expected many changes from 1934 to 1948.

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It turned out that the community had increased in size from about 400 to 600; more people were graduating from high school; more people were working successfully in a greater variety of occupations in more communities in Iowa. But the community was as distinctive as before, and perhaps as proud. If there was a great difference it was that the Indians felt a greater sense of problem; they wanted their local security, but they also wanted things from the world. Or perhaps anthropology had changed with the Depression and the war and we noticed the problems more than I had earlier. In any event, this field party in 1948, became concerned less with the traditional aspects of the culture than with the ways in which the community and the people were dealing—or not dealing—with their internal factionalism and with their relations to whites. The field workers began to try to understand in this local setting the processes of acculturation, adjustment, community organization. The problems of the Indians were accepted as problems for study. And instead of observing from the outside we began to do what every physician does—learn while helping. Just for the historical record, let me emphasize that when the six students came to the Indians in 1948 nobody had in mind a role for them other than that of anthropologist. On my first visit to them they asked me if they could not try to help the Indians solve their problems. I have never decided why I said yes; surely I had not thought through the consequences; but with the word the project was launched. Back in Chicago I wrote them a letter rationalizing what I called “participant interference.” All of our justification has come after the fact. Indeed, the theory and practice have grown up together. The phrase action anthropology dates from a session at the last annual meeting of the AAA held in Chicago just six years ago. We knew no precedent for what we were trying to do in combining research and action; it did not seem to us we were exactly applying science. So, as Allan Holmberg and James Spillius (working in Tikopia in 1952-53) did independently, we coined a new term. After we were fairly underway in understanding the problems of the Mesquakie community, we began of course to look at other Indians and have ranged widely and, in at least one other case, also deeply. We have reason now to believe that our diagnosis of the problems of the Mesquakies applies to many other Indians, and our answers to the problems may also be generally useful. With respect to the Fox themselves, we see a configuration of interrelations too complicated for this short presentation. This is a hypothesis we test. In a general way we now understand the ways in which the Indians will and will not change.

ot The two irreducible conditions of community-wide change are that the new behavior does not require either (1) a loss of Fox identity, or (2) a violation of Fox moral beliefs. One takes

for granted also that the change is practicably possible—that the new behavior required is understandable and feasible, and that there is some reason, from the point of view of the

Indians, to make it. Given these two general limitations, we suppose any change 1s possible. It is the object of our action to free the Indians to make the changes that they wish

and which would appear from our hypothesis to be in their interest. We want to break into

the circle at any point, and actually we have been attacking at several. Most simply, we

have been telling everyone we can just what I am saying here: that neither assimilation nor

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its opposite are inevitable; that Indians can maintain their identity as Indians while making such changes as will not violate their own values but are still sufficient at making them self-sustaining. We say further, that one necessary condition is a continuation for as long as needed of the small amount of money provided by the federal government for Indian education and health. But preaching is also accompanied by other activities. We attempt to interest politicians in the idea of some financial arrangement that will guarantee the maintenance of the school and clinic, but on a basis where the Indians will make their own

decisions concerning their education and health so that the whites see that they are capable of running their own affairs. We have also embarked on two specific programs both closely tied to our general diagnosis: One is a scholarship program to bring the young Indians into the professions, so that they can enter the white economy at levels other than as laborers and artisans. The second is to help the Indians develop a cooperative industry to produce and sell Indian crafts. Perhaps the greatest end served by these is removing obstacles that keep Indians from relating to functional white organizations and interest groups. Such new relations are desired by the Indians and need not require that they change either their identification as Indians or their moral values. Needless to say, we look forward to an occasion when we can describe these programs in detail, perhaps with a report of the results achieved. Suffice it to say now that the scholarship program was received enthusiastically by the Indian community to the remarkable end that all or nearly all Indians in high school now take it for granted that they will seek higher education. We think this is partly because we succeeded in separating the question of remaining or not remaining an Indian from the question of how a person makes his living. The results that we hope for from the crafts programs are much more far-reaching. If we are successful, we will have helped the Fox Indians to adopt patterns for relating to the larger society that will at once break down the functional isolation that exists and also establish patterns for constructive internal community organizations. Again, if we are successful, we believe it will be because the new institutions neither imply social death nor violate basic Fox values, at the same time they do permit new identification with prestigeful white occupation groups and new service relations among Indians.

Il If you ask me what are the values that are involved in our interference, I must say—look-

ing back now—that they are three in number. First, there is the value of truth. We are anthropologists in the tradition of science and scholarship. Nothing would embarrass us more than to see that we have been blinded to verifiable fact by any other values or emotions. We believe that truth and knowledge are more constructive in the long run than falsehood and superstition. We want to remain anthropologists and not become propagandists; we would rather be right according to canons of evidence than win a practical point. But also we feel impelled to trumpet our truth against whatever falsehoods we find, whether they are deliberate or psychological or mythological. This would be a duty to science and truth, even if the fate of communities of men were not involved. But as some myths are part of the problem of American Indians it is also a duty to humanity and to outraged justice. Our action anthropology thus gets a moral and even missionary tinge that is perhaps more important for some of us than for others.

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Second, we feel most strongly the value of freedom, as it is classically expressed and limited. Freedom in our context usually means freedom for individuals to choose the group with which to identify and freedom for a community to choose its way of life. We would also be embarrassed if it were shown that we are, for example, encouraging Indians to remain Indians, rather than to become something else, or trying to preserve Indian cultures, when the Indians involved would choose otherwise. All we want in our action

programs is to provide, if we can, genuine alternatives from which the people involved can freely choose—and to be ourselves as little restrictive as is humanly possible. It follows, however, that we must try to remove restrictions imposed by others on the alternatives

open to Indians and on their freedom to choose among them. We avoid imposing our values upon the Indians, but we do not mean to leave a vacuum for other outsiders to fill. Our program is positive, not negative; it is a program of action, not inaction; but it is also

a program of probing, listening, learning, giving in. Such a program requires that we remove ourselves as much as possible from a position of power, or undue influence. We know that knowledge is power, and we try hard to reject the power that knowledge gives us. Perhaps this seems contrary to the functioning of applied science? We realize that we have knowledge that our Indian friends do not have, and we hope to use it for their good. But to impose their choices on the assumption that “we know better than they do what is good for them” not only restricts their freedom, but is likely to turn out to be empirically wrong. The point is that what is best for them involves what they want to be. Operationally this is knowable only by observing which alternatives they actually choose, and we defeat ourselves to the degree that we choose for them. Hence we find ourselves always discovering and not applying knowledge. So our value of freedom is partly an ethic and partly a way of learning the truth. At least we see no contradiction between our first two values. A third value—or is it a principle of operation?—is a kind of Law of Parsimony which tells us not to settle questions of values unless they concern us. This in a way is a value to end for us the problem of values. In the beginning of our Fox programs, having decided to interfere for some good purpose, we were beset with value problems. Some of us were for and some of us were against the assimilation of the Indians; what a marvelously happy moment it was when we realized that this was not a judgment or decision we needed to make. It was a decision for the people concerned, not for us. Bluntly, it was none of our business. This not only freed us, but the particular instance was the beginning of the phi-

losophy of our action program. As I look back now I see that this has been our general solution to value problems. When it became necessary to decide which conflicting values to choose, we eventually found ourselves not deciding at all, and finding some way around it. Perhaps it is time now to set this down systematically as an operating value. People are always asking us whether we think cannibals have a right to self-determination. With respect to cannibalism, would we not have to impose some value of our own? Now, I neither eat human flesh, nor like the thought of being eaten; I am as revolted as others in our culture by the whole idea. I have no notion what I would do if I found myself involved in an action program on a cannibal isle; I can only think of jokes to say. If I attempt to answer seriously I am beset with all the value contradictions involved in socalled cultural relativism. But whatever my personal position on this, it bas no significant bearing on what we should do tomorrow to help the Fox Indians develop more constructive relationships within their community, or with other lowans.

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IV I do not want to be interpreted now as anti-philosophical; problems of values are intellectually and personally important to all of us, and to anthropology. We need to discuss them. The only question at issue is the degree to which they need to be resolved before action can be taken. Clearly the answer depends on the actor, the problem, and the alternatives open. It must be different for every case. The general rule that we have found useful is therefore only a limiting principle. It is that which, I understand, underlies the operations of the Supreme Court of the United States. The Court will not decide constitutional questions in the abstract, but insists that a case be at issue; and even then it tries to decide the

case on technicalities if possible, and avoid as long as possible deciding the general issues. I take it this is wise and necessary because in human life issues arise only when there are no good easy answers, and the decision becomes a choice of evils. By definition, it is good to postpone doing something bad. In the same way, and generally for the same reason, we, too, avoid making decisions when (1) (as in the instance of Indian assimilation) they are not clearly ours to make, and when

(2) (as in the instance of cannibalism) they can be postponed. This is a general rule of action for us, to be followed—like all our rules—as well as humanly possible. But I mention it here only in the context of the problem of values itself, to the point that this rule of parsimony puts a limitation on our liability for value judgments as they relate to our programs of action. An issue that has lately arisen among us, for example, is whether we put freedom or self-determination as a higher value. What, we ask, if a community wants to remain dependent? The book by O. Mannoni recently translated into English as Prospero and Caliban' argues that Melagasy communities resist being given independence, and the question arises: Does self-determination include the right to determine not to be self-determining; and if so, are we still for it? Or do we rather force freedom on a community? These questions seem critical only because some people think that American Indians have become dependent in this sense, and that an umbilical cord tying them to the government must be cut. Our procedure in the face of this is first of all to forget about Madagascar—we don’t know if what Mannoni says is or is not true; we have no way of finding out, by methods which satisfy us, except by going there and working with a community in an experiment with freedom, and second to reexamine the factual situation of American Indians to

be sure of our conclusion that American Indian communities can operate independently under given conditions that they help choose. The result is that we analyze the conditions of independence. This is our answer to the question for purposes of action; we find we do not need to settle the hypothetical problem of the general issue, and need no longer be diverted from our task. Thus new data, new alternatives, new value issues give rise to new

problems for analysis and study—but the problems are settled in the concrete instances where we operate even though left unsettled forever in the abstract. I would say the same thing about the problem repeatedly suggested here—whether science sets values, or whether we can scientifically justify our interference. I would simply postpose the general question and worry about the alternatives open to us for action tomorrow, and the consequences of each for ourselves, for the Indians and the general society and for science or for the profession of anthropology. I only hope that we are able to behave responsibly at each point of decision. Maybe that is why we call this Action Anthropology.

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Note 1. O. Mannoni, Prospero and Caliban (translated from the French). Methuen & Co., Ltd., London, 1956.

MREADING

21

The Great Sisal Scheme Daniel R. Gross In northeastern Brazil, the lush green coastal vegetation almost hides the endemic human misery of the region. Unless you look closely, the busy streets of Salvador and Recife and the waving palm trees mask the desperation of city slums, the poverty of plantation workers. When you leave the well-traveled coastal highways and go—usually on a dusty, rutted road—toward the interior, the signs of suffering become more and more apparent. The transition is quick and brutal. Within 50 miles the vegetation changes from palm, tropical fruit, and dark-green broad-leafed trees to scrawny brush only slightly greener than the dusty earth. Nearly every plant is armed with spines or thorns. The hills are jagged, with hard faces of rock exposed. This is the sertao, the interior of northeastern Brazil. If the sertao were honest desert, it would probably contain only a few inhabitants and a fair share of human misery. But the sertao is deceitful and fickle. It will smile for several years in a row, with sufficient rains arriving for the growing seasons. Gardens and crops will flourish. Cattle fatten. Then, without warning, another growing season comes, but

the rains don’t. The drought may go on, year after dusty year. Crops fail. Cattle grow thin and die. Humans begin to do the same. In bad droughts, the people of the sertao migrate to other regions by the thousands. The bandits, the mystics, the droughts and migrants, the dreams and schemes of the sertao hold a special place in Brazilian folklore, literature, and song. Even at its worst, the sertao has been a fertile ground for the human imagination. For two years, I studied the impact of sisal crops—a recent dream and scheme on the people of the sertéo. Taking an ecological approach, I found that sisal, which some poetic dreamers call “green gold,” has greatly changed northeastern Brazil. But the changes have not been what the economic planners anticipated. And misery has not left the sertao. I lived in Vila Nova, a small village with a population of less than 500 about an hour’s drive from the town of Victoria in Bahia State. Vila Nova is striking only for its drabness. Weeds grow in the middle of unpaved streets. Facing the plaza is an incomplete series of nondescript row houses. Some have faded pastel fagades, others are mud brown because their owners never managed to plaster over the rough adobe walls. The village looks deca-

dent, yet the oldest building is less than 20 years old and most were built after 1963. Cattle raisers settled the sert#o 400 years ago when the expanding sugar plantations of the coast demanded large supplies of beef and traction animals. A “civilization of leather” developed, with generations of colorful and intrepid cowboys (vaqueiros) clad entirely in

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rawhide to protect themselves against the thorny scrub vegetation. As the population of the sertéo grew, many sertanejos settled down to subsistence farming. Gradually the entire region became a cul-de-sac, with many small and medium-sized estates occupied by descendants of the vaqueiros and others who had drifted into the region. Life was never easy in this thorny land, for the work was hard and the environment

cruel. Yet cooperation and mutual assistance provided assurance of survival even to the poorest. The chief crops were manioc, beans, and corn, and most of what was grown was

consumed by the cultivator’s family. Most families received some share of meat and milk, and consumed highly nutritious foods like beans and squash, and in addition to starchy foods like manioc flour. When droughts menaced the region all but the wealthiest ranchers migrated temporarily to the coast to work on the sugar plantations. When the rains came again to the sertao, they nearly always returned, for the work in the cane fields was brutal and labor re-

lations had not changed greatly from the time when slaves worked the plantations. Originally from Mexico, sisal was introduced to Brazil early in this century and reached the sertao in the 1930s. Farmers found sisal useful for hedgerows because its tough, pointed leaves effectively kept out cattle. The cellulose core of the long sisal leaf contains hard fibers, which can be twisted together into twine and rope. When World War II cut off the supply of Manila hemp to the United States, buyers turned to Brazil for fiber. At first only hedgerow sisal was exploited, but the state of Bahia offered incentives for planting sisal as a cash crop. Since sisal plants require about four years to mature, Brazil did not begin to export the fiber in significant quantities until 1945. The demand persisted, and by 1951, Brazil was selling actively in the world market as prices rose. In Vila Nova, a young entrepreneur who owned a mule team, David Castro, heard

about the prices being paid for sisal fiber and planted the first acres of sisal in 1951. By 1968, in the county of Victoria where Vile Nova is located, so many people had caught “sisal fever” that half of the total land area was planted in the crop. Sisal is easily transplanted and cultivated, requires little care, and is highly resistant to drought. It has some drawbacks as a cultivated plant, however. At least one annual weeding is necessary or else the field may become choked with thorn bushes, weeds, and suckers (unwanted small sisal

plants growing from the base of parent plants). A field abandoned for two years becomes unusable, practically unreclaimable. Despite these difficulties, many landowners planted sisal, especially in 1951 and 1962, years of high prices on the world market. From the outset, sisal produced differential rewards for those who planted it. Owners of small plots (ten acres or less) planted proportionately more of their land in sisal than did large landowners. Many who owned just a few acres simply planted all their land in sisal in expectation of large profits. This deprived them of whatever subsistence they had managed to scratch out of the ground in the past. But work was easy to find because the need for labor in the sisal fields grew rapidly. When, after four years, the crops were ready to harvest, many small landholders discovered to their dismay that prices had dropped sharply, and that harvest teams did not want to work small crops. They had planted sisal with dreams of new clothes, new homes, even motor vehicles purchased with sisal profits, but found their fields choked with unusable sisal and became permanent field laborers harvesting sisal on large landholdings. In this way, sisal created its own labor force. The separation of sisal fiber from the leaf is known as decortication, In Brazil, this

process requires enormous amounts of manual labor. The decorticating machine is basically a spinning rasp powered by a gasoline or diesel motor. Sisal leaves are fed into it by

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hand, and the spinning rasp beats out the pulp or residue leaving only the fibers, which the worker pulls out of the whirling blades. Mounted on a trailer, the machine is well adapted to the scattered small-scale plantations of northeastern Brazil. The decortication process requires constant labor for harvesting the year round. Sisal leaves, once cut, must be defibered quickly before the hot sun renders them useless.

Each decorticating machine requires a crew of about seven working in close coordination. The first step is harvesting. Two cutters move from plant to plant, first lopping off the needle-sharp thorns from the leaves, then stooping to sever each leaf at the base. A transporter, working with each cutter, gathers the leaves and loads them on a burro. The leaves

are taken to the machine and placed on a low stage for the defiberer to strip, one by one. A residue man removes the pulpy mass stripped from the leaves from under the motor, supplies the defiberer with leaves, and bundles and ties the freshly stripped fiber. Each bundle is weighed and counted in the day’s production. Finally, the dryer spreads the wet, greenish fiber in the sun, where it dries and acquires its characteristic blond color. For the planters and sisal buyers, this method of decortication operates profitably, but for the workers it exacts a terrible cost. The decorticating machine requires a man to stand in front of the whirling rasp for four or five hours at a shift, introducing first the foot and then the point of each leaf. The worker pulls against the powerful motor, which draws the leaf into the mouth of the machine. After half of each leaf is defibered, the defiberer grasps the raw fiber to insert the remaining half of the leaf. There is a constant danger that the fiber will entangle his hand and pull it into the machine. Several defiberers have lost arms this way. [he strain and danger would seem to encourage slow and deliberate work; but in fact, defiberers decorticate about 25 leaves per minute. This is because the crew is paid according to the day’s production of fiber. Although the defiberer is the highest-paid crew member, many of them must work both morning and afternoon shifts to make ends meet. A residue man’s work is also strenuous. According to measurements I made, this job requires that a man lift and carry about 2,700 pounds of material per hour. The residue man, moreover, does not work in shifts. He works as long as the machinery is running. The remaining jobs on the crew are less demanding and may be held by women or adolescents, but even these jobs are hard, requiring frequent lifting and stooping in the broiling semidesert sun. With their own fields in sisal, to earn money the villagers had to work at harvesting sisal for large landowners. And because wages were low, more and more people had to work for families to survive. In 1960 two-thirds of all men and women employed in Vila Nova worked full time in the sisal decorticating process. Many of these were youths. Of 33 village boys between the ages of 10 and 11, 24 worked on sisal crews. Most people had completely abandoned subsistence agriculture. Sisal brought other significant changes in the life of Vila Nova. Because most villagers no longer grew their food, it now had to be imported. Numerous shops, stocking beans, salt pork, and manioc flour, grew up in the village. A few villagers with capital or good contacts among wholesalers in the town of Victoria built small businesses based on this need. Other villagers secured credit from sisal buyers in Victoria to purchase sisal

decorticating machinery. The shopkeepers and sisal machine owners in the village formed a new economic class

on whom the other villagers were economically dependent. The wealthier group enjoyed many advantages. Rather than going to work on the sisal machines, most of the children of these entrepreneurs went to school. All of the upper group married in a socially prescribed

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TABLE 1

Calorie Budget of a Sisal Worker’s Household

Household Worker Wife Son (age 8)

Daughter (6) Son (5) Son (3)

Average Daily Caloric Intake

Minimum Daily Caloric Requirements

9,392 3,642

12,592 3,642

2,150

2,150

Pale 900 900 688

2,100 1,700 1,700 1,300

Percent of Need Met 75% 100 100 53

53 53 53

Percent of Standard Weight of Children

62% 70 85 90

way: usually a church wedding with civil ceremonies as well. But among the workers, common-law marriages were frequent, reflecting their lack of resources for celebrating this important event. The only villagers who became truly affluent David Castro and his cousin. These men each owned extensive sisal plantations and several decorticating units. Most importantly, each became middlemen, collecting sisal in warehouses in the village and trucking the fiber into Victoria. David, moreover, owned the largest store in the village. Since the

village was located on David’s land, he sold house plots along the streets. He also acted as the representative of the dominant political party in Victoria, serving as a ward boss during elections and as an unofficial but effective police power. There was a difference between David and the large ranch owners of the past. While wealthy men were formerly on close terms with their dependents, helping them out during tough times, David’s rela-

tions with the villagers were cold, business-like, and exploitative. Most of the villagers disliked him, both for his alleged stinginess and because he never had time to talk to anyone. During my stay in Vila Nova I gradually became aware of these changes in the social and economic structure. But I hoped to establish that the introduction of sisal had also resulted in a quantitative, ecological change in the village. At the suggestion of Dr. Barbara A. Underwood of the Institute of Human Nutrition at Columbia University, I un-

dertook an intensive study to determine what influence sisal had on diet and other factors of a few representative households. When I looked at household budgets, I quickly discovered that those households that depended entirely on wages from sisal work spent nearly all their money on food. Families with few or no children or with several able-bodied workers seemed to be holding their own. But families with few workers or several dependents were less fortunate. ‘Io understand the condition of these families, I collected

information not only on cash budgets but also on household energy budgets. Each household expends not only money, but also energy in the form of calories in performing work,

“Income” in the latter case is the caloric value of the foods consumed by these households. By carefully measuring the amount and kind of food consumed, I was able to determine the total inflow and outflow of energy in individual households. For example, Miguel Costa is a residue man who works steadily on a sisal unit belonging to a nearby planter. He likes in Vila Nova in a two-room adobe hut with his wife and four small children, ranging in age from three to eight. During the seven-day test pe-

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riod, Miguel worked at the sisal motor four and a half days, while his wife stayed home with the children. I was able to estimate Miguel’s caloric expenditures during the test pe-

riod. During the same period, I visited his home after every meal where his wife graciously permitted me to weigh the family’s meager food supplies to determine food consumption. Each day the supply of beans diminished by less than one-half pound and the weight of the coarse manioc flour eaten with beans dropped by two or three pounds, Manioc flour is almost pure starch, high in calories but low in essential nutrients. At the beginning of the week about half a pound of fatty beef and pork were consumed each day, but this was exhausted by midweek. The remainder of the family’s calories were consumed in the form of sugar, bread, and boiled sweet manioc, all high in calories but low in other nutrients.

Estimating the caloric requirements of the two adults from their activities and the children’s by Food and Agriculture Organization minimum requirements, the household had a minimum need of 88-142 calories for the week. The household received only 65,744 calories, or 75 percent of need [see Table 1]. Since the two adults did not lose weight while maintaining their regular levels of activity, they were apparently meeting their total calorie requirements. Miguel, for example, had been working steadily at his job for weeks before the test and continued to do so for weeks afterward. Had he not been maintaining himself calorically, he could not have sustained his performance at his demanding job. Despite his small stature (5 feet, 4 inches) Miguel required some 3,642 calories per day to keep going at the job. And Miguel’s wife evidently also maintained herself calorically— pregnant at the time of my visit, she later gave birth to a normal child. The caloric deficit in Miguel’s household, then, was almost certainly being made up by systematically depriving the dependent children of sufficient calories. This was not intentional, nor were the parents aware of it. Nor could Miguel have done anything about it even if he had understood this process. If he were to work harder or longer to earn more money, he would incur greater caloric costs and would have to consume more. If he were to reduce his food intake to leave more food for his children, he would be obliged by his own physiology to work less, thereby earning less. If he were to provide his household with foods higher in caloric content (for example, more manioc), he would almost cer-

tainly push his children over the brink into a severe nutritional crisis that they might not survive for lack of protein and essential vitamins. Thus, Miguel, a victim of ecological cir-

cumstances, is maintaining his family against terrible odds. Miguel’s children respond to this deprivation in a predictable manner. Nature has provided a mechanism to compensate for caloric deficiencies during critical growth periods: the rate of growth simply slows down. As a result, Miguel’s children, and many other children of sisal workers, are much smaller than properly nourished children of the same age. The longer the deprivation goes on the more pronounced the tendency: thus Miguel’s youngest boy, who is three, is 90 percent of standard weight for his age. The five-year-old boy is 85 percent; the six-year-old girl, 70 percent; and the oldest boy, at eight, is only 62

percent of standard weight. Caloric deprivation takes its toll in other ways than stunting. Caloric and other nutritional deficiencies are prime causes of such problems as reduced

mental capacity and lower resistance to infection. In Vila Nova one-third of all children die by the age of 10. When I surveyed the nutritional status of the people of Vila Nova, I found a distinct difference between the average body weights of the two economic groups formed since the introduction of sisal (shopkeepers and motor-owners on the one hand, and workers

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on the other). Since the introduction of sisal the upper economic group exhibited a marked improvement in nutritional status (as measured by body weight) while the lower group showed a decline in nutritional status. The statistics showed that while one group was better off than before, a majority of the population was actually worse off nutritionally. This conclusion was unexpected in view of the widespread claim that sisal had brought lasting benefits to the people of the sertdo, that sisal had narrowed the gap between the rich, and the poor. Clearly, changes had come about. Towns like Victoria had grown far beyond their presisal size. But outside the towns, in the villages and rural farmsteads, the picture is different.

Having abandoned subsistence agriculture, many workers moved to villages to find work on sisal units. In settlements such as Vila Nova wages and profits depend on the world price for sisal. When I arrived in 1967, the price was at the bottom of a trough that had paralyzed all growth and construction. Wages were so low that outmigration was showing signs of resuming as in the drought years. In spite of local symbols of wealth and “development,” my observations revealed a continuation of endemic poverty throughout most of the countryside and even an intensification of the social and economic divisions that have always characterized the sertao. Sisal is not the only example of an economic change that has brought unforeseen, deleterious consequences. The underdeveloped world is replete with examples of development schemes that brought progress only to a privileged few. The example of sisal in northeastern Brazil shows that an ecological approach is needed in all economic planning. Even more important, we must recognize that not all economic growth brings social and economic development in its true sense. As the sisal example shows, a system may be formed (often as part of a worldwide system) that only increases the store of human misery.

MREADING

22

The Illusion of Local Sustainability and Self-Sufficiency: Famine in a Border Area of Northwestern Zambia Art Hansen The concept of sustainability refers to the long-term maintenance of a relationship among a human population, its needs, its technology, and its resources. This longitudinal case study examines the variable maintenance of a supply of staple food and a standard of living (including clothing and other consumer goods) for villagers in the Chavuma area of Zambia’s northwestern province. Nonlocal economic and political factors, such as ruralurban terms of trade, prices, inflation, and marketing, obviously influence a standard of

living today, but the maintenance of staple food production for villagers is often concep-

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tualized as a matter of local self-sufficiency. This case demonstrates how that conceptual-

ization is an illusion. Villagers in Chavuma had evolved a farming system based on the intensive cultivation of cassava in permanent fields. African border regions such as Chavuma can experience rapid population increase due to immigration and refugees, but the cassava-based system allowed the locality to absorb a massive influx of Angolan immigrants and refugees during this century and still maintain local self-sufficiency in producing its own staple food supply. People had always varied in terms of wealth, but traditional social institutions, augmented by market exchange, functioned to allow newcomers access to food, land to farm, and other natural resources. Moreover, the local society was not transformed by the creation of a landless underclass. Obvious environmental degradation, such as deforestation and the loss of some soil nutrients and most wildlife, occurred over the decades. In fact,

deforestation was a major reason why the previously shifting cultivation had stabilized, while changes in soil nutrients almost eliminated groundnut production. Environmental degradation did not, however, seem to have undercut the long-term sustainable relation-

ship among cassava production, (increased) population, and natural resources. In 1985-1989, an invasion of the cassava mealybug, a pest originating in South America, destroyed most of the cassava and triggered a famine for many Chavuma villagers. Local resources were insufficient to protect the system from this imported pest, which caused many farmers to stop growing and relying on cassava for food. A major dietary and technological change occurred. Maize became (perhaps only as a temporary coping strategy) a major staple food, whereas it had been a snack food and minor crop. People began to try to grow maize as their staple food, and to use their income and savings to buy maize imported from other regions of Zambia. Local soils, however, were not fertile enough to grow maize well, and fertilizer (an expensive input) was needed. Zambian political and economic policies and conditions, acting through the national marketing board (NAMBOARD), prevented adequate supplies of fertilizer from arriving, even for those villagers who were willing to pay. As a result of the interplay of these ecological, economic, and political factors, Chavuma became a food-deficit and food-importing area, and many villagers began to experience famine. By the time of my research in 1989, the mealybug had apparently been controlled by an international biological control effort that coordinated agricultural research institutions on three continents. The international effort, which expressed as much political coordination as technical, illustrated the importance of maintaining global biodiversity. Nevertheless, many people still suffered from famine. Cassava production remained severely restricted. Many farmers were reluctant to replant because they feared a reappearance of the mealybug, and planting material was scarce. A lot of maize continued to be imported. The price of maize began to inflate rapidly during 1989 because of other national and international factors. Provincial and national authorities were aware of, and responded to, the mealybug invasion, but they seemingly remained unaware that any villagers were suffering from famine. A number of lessons can be learned from this case. Resourceful villagers are a dynamic factor in evolving food-production systems, in striving for sustainability, and in coping with population increase, environmental degradation, and even famine. Sustainability and famine

are complex conditions, created and influenced by political, economic, and ecological factors. Apparent sustainability can be fragile, and locally self-sufficient sustainability is a

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fragile illusion. Localities are not isolated and self-sufficient, they are incorporated and vulnerable. Finally, maintaining biodiversity is essential in a world of not-yet-recognized pests (and diseases). The rest of this article is organized as follows. First, the conceptualization and definition of sustainability and famine are discussed, as well as the approach taken in this study. Second, the case study is presented. The evolution during this century of regional ecological, socioeconomic, and agricultural factors is traced, and the onset of an agricultural crisis and famine conditions. Then, four issues abstracted from the case are discussed,

followed by a summary and conclusions.

SUSTAINABILITY AND FAMINE To sustain is to nourish, maintain, or prolong (Webster’s New International Dictionary

1976:2304). The scientific literature agrees that the essence of the concept of sustainability is to nourish through time, and that the concept refers to the long-term maintenance of a relationship among a human population, its needs, technology, and resources. There is, however, widespread disagreement about what is to be maintained and the priorities to be assigned. Three main approaches and sets of scientific actors have been distinguished (Douglass 1984; Goldman 1992). One focuses on production of enough food for people, another on preservation and stewardship of natural resources, and the third on preservation of social units and cultural values. The first approach is primarily concerned with feeding the world, with human self-sufficiency and food security. These scientists address sustainability of the human population and of food production. They emphasize reaching and maintaining adequate levels of crop and livestock production. Their concern about natural resources is that the resources remain adequate for the job of production. The second approach is primarily concerned with preserving soil fertility and nonhuman plant and animal species. These scientists address sustainability of the nonhuman factors that the first approach treats as resources. This second group, emphasizing the finiteness and fragility of factors, commonly recommends limiting human populations (or growth rates) to fit within their environments’ natural constraints. The third approach is primarily concerned with preserving the quality of human life. These scientists address sustainability of rural social units (such as communities) and cultural values, and emphasize how technological and economic changes affect society and can enrich some sectors at the expense of others. One way to deal with these multiple approaches is to expand the definition of sustainability to include them all. For instance, sustainability may be defined as the “ability of an agroecosystem to maintain production through time, in the face of long-term ecological constraints and socioeconomic pressures” (Altieri and Anderson 1986:3 1-32); or as “agricultural systems that are environmentally sound, profitable, and productive and that maintain the social fabric of the rural community” (Keeney 1989:102). Another way, to deal with the multiplicity of approaches is to incorporate them into a hierarchy of units and levels. ‘Thus, sustainability can be (1) agronomic, at the level of the field; (2) microeconomic, at the level of the farm; (3) ecological, at the level of the region; and (4) macroeconomic, at the level of the state (Lowrence, Hendrix, and Odum 1986). Using this hierarchy,

different approaches and emphases are appropriate for the analysis of different units at

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different levels. None of these comprehensive definitions, however, seems to recognize the inherent conflicts, contradictions, and tradeoffs that may exist among these components or subsystems in the world (Goldman 1992),

This paper addresses the concept and analysis of sustainability from another perspective, that of trying to explain a specific famine in a rural African region. In 1989 I wit-

nessed widespread human suffering and famine among people in Chavuma whom I have known, lived with, and studied since the early 1970s. During revisits over the years, I had observed their deteriorating economic situation and standard of living, caused by statelevel policies and failures, but thought that they have evolved in Chavuma a sustainable agroeconomic system. The famine made me question my underlying assumptions about sustainability and the life-threatening situations that these people confronted. In this article, famine refers to a “sudden collapse of the level of food consumption” (Sen 1981:41). This definition distinguishes the more rapidly unfolding, abnormal famine

from the ongoing, chronic (essentially normal) conditions of mal- and undernutrition that characterize the lives of millions of people in the world today. Famine is universally recognized as a dramatic demonstration of the failure of a population to sustain itself with its current resources and technology (Field 1991). All of us have a humanitarian concern with famine and those who suffer from famine in Africa. We express that concern in various

ways. Anthropologists became institutionally involved in 1984 when the American Anthropological Association established a ‘Task Force on African Hunger, Famine, and Food

Security. Our original mandate was to work out better ways to utilize anthropologists and anthropological knowledge to help Africa and Africans during that major famine. Our concern at that time was that the planners and staff of assistance programs often had little appreciation or knowledge of how Africans helped themselves. That ignorance could result in assistance being less effective or, at worse, becoming itself a secondary disaster.

When members of the task force examined the anthropological body of knowledge, however, we discovered that few anthropologists had focused their research on faminerelated behavior, and much of what little we knew was buried in articles or books devoted

to other topics. Because of our concerns about being able to offer better advice on policies and programs, we became professionally active in sponsoring more research and encouraging the publication of more research findings about the causes of famine and the strategies that Africans utilize to sustain themselves through periods of famine and to achieve food security (Downs, Kerner, and Reyna 1992; Hansen 1988; Huss-Ashmore and Katz 1989, 1991; Shipton 1990).

This article is part of that famine-oriented and policy-oriented effort. I am primarily concerned with the sustainability of the human population in Chavuma. What was their food production system? Was it sustainable? What caused a dramatic drop in food consumption, i.e., famine? How did people cope with that situation and acquire food? What factors allowed some people to maintain or regain food self-sufficiency while other

people were constrained and unsuccessful? Was the food production system changed or transformed as a consequence of the crisis? If so, was the revised system sustainable?

Answers to the above questions are complex because empirical sustainability and famine are themselves complex and variable conditions. Most discussions of sustainability focus on regular, incremental, and more predictable changes, but this case shows the importance of extreme and unexpected events (Goldman 1992). Chavuma, like many African border areas, has intermittently experienced revolutionary “shock” population

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increases from international migration, including refugees. Shock changes in population— resource ratios due to (involuntary) resettlement are common consequences of warfare, many large-scale development projects, and the opening of new lands. These changes can radically affect sustainability, yet they are little studied. Famine was not, however,

triggered in Chavuma by its shock population growth or by environmental degradation, but by an exotic pest, another extreme and unexpected (by local people) event. My primary focus was on feeding people, not preserving nonhuman resources, but biological control of an invasive pest that was otherwise not practically controllable emphasized vividly the need to preserve the world’s biodiversity, as well as the illusion oflocally controllable sustainability. The agronomic characteristics of cassava, maize, and millet, as well as local soil fer-

tility and rainfall patterns were critical factors, but much more than local food production was involved in creating sustainability, in maintaining it through shocks, and in causing famine in Chavuma. Ecological, agronomic, social (including migration), micro- and

macroeconomic, and political factors were all important. The agricultural history of Chavuma shows a system that evolved as villagers creatively adapted over the decades to immigration, environmental degradation, agronomic and economic possibilities, and po-

litically imposed marketing constraints. Traditional social organization and cultural values permitted the acquisition of food and rights to agricultural land by immigrants and refugees, and prevented the historic creation of a landless proletariat underclass. When the seemingly self-sufficient and sustainable food-production system failed because of a new factor (the mealybug) that caused most villagers to lose their cassava fields, some for-

tunate villagers were not affected by the mealybug—some managed to continue eating well, and one became a millionaire. People responded to the crisis in innovative ways that revealed latent resources and modes of acquiring food. Nevertheless, many people’s efforts were limited and sometimes frustrated by economic and political factors (over which villagers had no control) that had also contributed to the historic decline in the standard of living. This interaction demonstrated the importance of the incorporation of the locality in larger socioeconomic arenas and of the illusion of locally controllable sustain-

ability. All of this complexity becomes clearer as the case is described.

THE CASE: A BORDER AREA OF NORTHWESTERN ZAMBIA I have conducted intermittent research in the rural Chavuma area of northwestern Zambia since the early 1970s, when I lived for two years in a rural settlement studying the longterm evolution of local agricultural and economic systems, as well as specific ways in which refugees from the Angolan war of liberation were incorporating themselves into village life (Hansen 1977, 1979, 1981, 1982; Hansen and Oliver-Smith 1982). Most people in the area

speak the Luvale language, which was the language in which research was conducted. Data collection methods included participant observation, key informants, collection of censuses, measurement of agricultural fields, and documentary and archival research. Revisits of several months occurred in 1977 and 1979, and then I conducted a seven-month com-

parative study in 1989 of two areas in northwestern Zambia. One was the Chavuma area, and the other was an official refugee settlement project in another district (Hansen 1990).

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Both are cassava-growing areas, and in both I encountered widespread famine. This article analyzes only the Chavuma area where I have more historical data. Chavuma is on the western side of the province and is north of the Zambezi District capital. The area is almost triangular in shape and approximately 200 square miles in size. Its boundaries are the Angolan border to the north, the Zambezi River to the west,

and a small stream (the Chivombo) to the east and south. Both Chavuma and the district to which Chavuma belongs are densely populated for northwestern Zambia. This popu-

lation density reflects continuing population growth during this century because of immigration from neighboring Angola. Refugees from the recent war are only the latest in a historic drift of Angolan immigrants who have settled locally (Hansen 1977, 1993).

An Evolving Cassava-Based System in the

1930s.

The first description of various

local agricultural systems in the district was by an ecologist and an agriculturalist in the early 1930s (Irapnell and Clothier 1957). Local systems varied in terms of soil type, population density, the primary staple, the length of fallowing, and husbandry methods. (The

following descriptions only cover the major bush gardens, or fields, but all systems also included secondary gardens immediately surrounding the households, and sometimes in seepage zones, and domestic livestock.) West of the Zambezi River the land was “extraordinarily flat” with extensive floodplains and loose Kalahari Sands. Population density was low. Bulrush millet was the primary staple, and cassava the secondary. They were grown in forest-fallow shifting cultivation, i.e., after being cultivated for a few years, the fields were left fallow until the woodland had completely regenerated. East of the Zambezi River the land was higher, and the soils were more clayey, harder, and more fertile. Cassava was the main crop, with some maize. There was a con-

tinuum of cropping patterns, as the length of fallowing correlated with population density. Forest fallow was still customary where the population was sparse, and in these areas cassava was planted on the flat. The fallowing period was shortened in areas with denser human populations, and fields in the most densely settled areas were fallowed for only two or three years. In these areas the cassava was planted on mounds. Cassava was harvested after one to three years in all of these systems on both sides of the river. Another report, also from the early 1930s, by the colonial district officer noted ecological degradation because of overcrowding (Hudson 1935). There was varying defor-

estation and soil erosion along the rivers and streams where new immigrants were settling. The report particularly noted the loss of the large trees that had been carved into dugout canoes and sold downriver. This same official also remarked on the fertility of the soils in Chavuma, where there was always a surplus of cassava meal. There was even a major market for cassava in Barotseland to the south, where Livingstone had seen a “land of milk and honey” in the 1850s (Livingstone 1857). The complex Barotse (or Balozi) ecological adaptation had collapsed by the 1930s, and the region

was importing a lot of cassava by canoe and barge down the Zambezi River. This export

market for cassava continued until the newly independent Zambian state so favored and subsidized maize that it became cheaper for the Barotse to import maize trucked in on the new highway than cassava carried down the river Jansen 1990; Wood 1990).

Early reports did not mention the impact of any pests, but my informants in the early 1970s noted that 1927 and 1932 were mwaka wa vambimba (year of the locusts). These

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pest invasions helped convince people to turn away from bulrush millet to concentrate on cassava, which was not eaten by the locusts. In conversations with me, people would never link population growth and cropping changes. The link was always with the locusts. Immigration into the district from Angola, then Portuguese West Africa, was noted as early as 1913. These were the early years of direct colonial rule in these frontier areas of both Angola and Zambia. The imposition of direct Portuguese rule was marked by warfare, and some of the Angolans coming into Zambia were what we would now call refugees. At the same time, colonial administrators were introducing both money and taxes, and

African men began to migrate away to labor for money to pay their taxes. Some of the incoming Angolans were seeking better labor conditions. Early census data may be wildly inaccurate, but the records show a 442% increase in the district’s population in the 13 years between 1913 and 1927. Similar major increases in population were recorded in other areas of western Zambia adjoining Angola. Immigration into the district slowed and perhaps stopped during the early 1930s, probably as a result of the worldwide recession that caused widespread unemployment and eliminated the economic motive for migration. Immigration into Chavuma increased again during the 1950s and 1960s, especially when the war began in eastern Angola in 1966 (Hansen 1977). A census that I conducted in a Chavuma settlement in 1972 showed that more than half (55-70%) of the local population were first generation immigrants, almost equally divided between immigrants and refugees, and many others were second generation immigrants.

Chavuma Agriculture and Economy in the 1970s. During field research in the early 1970s, I noted a spatial distribution of farming systems and land tenure in Chavuma. The fields nearest the older major settlements were permanently farmed. These were favored lands because people did not have to walk far to their fields. If there was any fallowing of these fields, it was only for one or two years, and some of these fields had been in continuous cassava cultivation for more than 40 years without fallowing. All the cassava in these fields was planted in mounds, which incorporated crop residue as green manure. One informant noted that he had purchased rights to farmland near a settlement as early as 1942, and the sale and purchase of rights to nearby farmland were common during my stay. Other aspects of a more traditional land tenure were still in effect, but people were alienating land for money. People were very clear in their explanation of this phenomenon that they could not sell the land because no one owned the land. The land belonged to the chief, to God, or to the government. What people sold were the rights they had acquired because of the labor they had invested in clearing and improving the land. At that same time, woodland was still available to clear new fields farther away from

the older settlements. This land was freely available. Rights to land that had never been cleared could not be sold because no labor had been invested. Some people, including most of the recent immigrants and refugees, were still clearing new fields in these woodlands. Cassava in newly cleared fields was planted on the flat. Later, as the field remained in cultivation longer, all of the roots were dug out, and the cassava was planted in mounds. Rainfall was adequate for either cassava or maize, as the 30-year mean annual rainfall was more than 41 inches. None of the people complained about poor yields of cassava on continuously cultivated fields, but cassava has the agronomic characteristic of

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being able to live during the dry season, and then commence growing again during the next rains. ‘This trait allowed cultivators to compensate for the poor soils by leaving the crop in the ground longer. The agronomic literature refers to cassava as a crop that matures in 11 to 18 months, but the Luvale in northwestern Zambia typically do not harvest their cassava until it is three years old. Even then, people do not harvest the entire field or plant at once. Instead, they harvest the tubers they need immediately, and leave the rest to keep growing. The Luvale language has specific terms that are in common usage to denote the age of cassava. Soka is cassava that was planted during the last rains, i.e., is one year old. Tumba soka was planted the year before last and is two years old, while ngilile is three years old. Households with enough land typically had three cassava fields (per wife, in the case of polygynous households) growing at all times. People would only harvest cassava from the ngilile (three-year-old) field, while the other two fields kept maturing. During the rainy season, people would be harvesting from the ngilile field, while also planting in the sections of the field that had been already harvested. Most households that I knew during the 1970s practiced this three-field system and were self-sufficient in producing their own staple food supply. This pattern reflected Luvale values as well. Self-sufficiency was highly and positively valued. People who owned stores or were wealthy by local standards would also have their own fields and grow their own staple food. Not growing your own food was a sure sign of laziness, which the Luvale still consider to be a major character flaw. In fact, the basket that was the most common unit of measure when buying the staple food was nicknamed a wayilehi, which was an abbreviation for the question, And where were you when your friends were out working? Of course, people and families varied in their resources: not all were self-sufficient

for various reasons. Even well-established for a new bride or visiting relatives. Some fields. This was particularly true for more from Angola. I have described elsewhere

households had an occasional need to households did not own enough land recent arrivals, including many of the the strategies that these refugees used

buy food for three refugees to estab-

lish themselves socially and economically (Hansen 1979, 1981).

Although important, agriculture was only part of the local economic picture. Fishing was the major money-earning activity, and most of the wealthiest men were engaged in buying locally caught fish and reselling them in the cities. Most fishing took place on the floodplains west of the river during the flood season. Many households were divided at that time, with wives staying home to cultivate the fields, while the husbands spent weeks or months in fishing camps. It is difficult to estimate, but there is some evidence that the fishing populations were smaller because of continual overharvesting. Non-domesticated species other than fish were important in many ways, and the increased pressure on these resources was evident. Large game had disappeared from Chavuma, but small animals were eaten, and swarming termites and certain caterpillars provided significant protein sources at specific times during the year. Almost all construction utilized only local materials, including homemade twine that was used to tie

everything together, and firewood was essential. People now had to travel longer distances

to find these materials. It had been the custom for every household to supply its own con-

struction materials and firewood, but some refugees came to specialize in cutting and gathering these materials.

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[also noted a decline in soil fertility for another crop in the early 1970s. Groundnuts, or peanuts, used to be an important local cash crop, especially for women. By the 1970s the crop was no longer widely cultivated because of a condition called kapoki kapokt, which is the sound made when a person crushes an empty groundnut hull. The shells would form, but the nut would not, apparently because of a calcium deficiency. Nonetheless, even noting the degradation of local natural resources, people in Chavuma seemed to have a sustainable production system in the 1970s. There was enough farmland for all to find fields, even if the new lands were farther away. Cassava yields were not recognizably declining and may well have been stable. Fishing continued to be profitable, and the area was even able to incorporate thousands of refugees, who found employment and began to establish their fields and households. Another demonstration of sustainability was the absence of the hunger months that affected other people. The phenomenon of the “hunger months” was first noted in the social science literature by Audrey Richards in her classic Land, Labour and Diet in NorthWestern Rhodesia. The Kaonde people in northwestern Zambia utilize sorghum as their staple food. Cereals such as sorghum (and maize) are annual crops that must be harvested at the end of the growing (rainy) season. This situation presents households that rely on that single annual harvest with the need to store for a year and to budget their consumption of the stored staple food. Often families can run low, or run out, of the stored food

during the last few months before the next harvest. ‘The Luvale people who grow cassava do not usually experience these hunger months. National Political and Economic Problems in the 1970s and 1980s. During my return visits later in the 1970s, the major problems that people in Chavuma seemed to face were caused by national economic policies and performance. The local standard of living continued to decline. On each visit the people were dressed poorer and were able to buy less. Local stores closed. People could not buy clothes, baskets, batteries for their radios,

or tires for their bicycles. Local resources and production seemed to be unchanged, but local impoverishment was caused by the worsening terms of trade that rural people confronted, and by the worsening condition of the national economy (Mwanza 1992). Zam-

bia’s economic woes during the 1970s and 1980s are well known: 1972 was probably the high point, and the country has slipped economically downhill ever since (Gould 1989; ILO 1981; Malambo 1988; Sipula 1988; Turok 1989; Wood et al. 1990). The problems of

the national economy affected Chavuma’s local economy directly. In addition to this overall relationship, there was another immediate and depressing link between national economic policies and the local economy. Soon after independence, in keeping with its strategy of African Humanism and state planning, the government made it illegal for private traders to buy the major agricultural crops or to sell the major inputs. ‘Ihe national marketing board (NAMBOARD) thus enjoyed both a monopsony and a monopoly position (Shawa and Johnson 1990; Good 1988; Hesp and van der Laan 1985). Whatever its errors elsewhere in Zambia, NAMBOARD was certainly a disaster for Chavuma. Local leaders tried to encourage agricultural diversification by promoting the growing of rice on the extensive floodplains west of the river, but these efforts were thwarted by NAMBOARDS failures to come out and buy the crop (Hansen 1977). The people were

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not then disposed to eat rice, so the failure to establish a market stopped the production of a promising new crop that later could have been eaten during the famine years. Having no competitors, NAMBOARD consistently failed to distribute the inputs that it forbade others to sell, so fertilizer was practically unavailable in Chavuma for many years. This input is not important for cassava, but is critical for maize. NAMBOARD finally turned over its monopsony and monopoly position local cooperatives in the mid1980s, but they were also unable to provide the needed services, especially in an area as remote as Chavuma. The Famine in 1989.

On my return to northwestern Zambia in 1989, I found wide-

spread famine in cassava-growing areas. What triggered famine was the large-scale invasion of the cassava mealybug (Phenacoccus manihoti). The pest attacks the growing points of the cassava leaves, and a severe attack weakens the plant enough so that it dies. This South American pest had been sweeping across Africa since its appearance in Zaire was first noted in 1973. In 1985-86 the pest reached northwestern Zambia and destroyed many of the cassava plants (Jericho 1988; Pelletier 1990). At first the mealybug attack resulted, paradoxically, in a large surplus of food being locally available, as people uprooted all of their affected fields before the tubers rotted. Afterwards, many households remained without

any cassava in the ground. Most people refused to replant cassava immediately because they thought that the pest remained in the area, and that replanting was futile as long as the pest remained. Many of these people switched to trying to grow maize as their staple food. Maize is promoted by many governments and nutritionists as a better crop and food than cassava, so the change might appear to have been for the better. Maize, however, requires more fertile soils than does cassava and, unlike cassava, cannot simply be left in the fields

longer to grow. The soils in the northwest were generally too poor for maize to grow well, unless people practiced forest-fallow shifting cultivation, or applied fertilizer. In a way, maize is a political crop in this Zambian case. Maize is political because it required nutrients that were withheld because of political factors. Forest-fallow cultivation could have provided maize with sufficient nutrients through the ash, but population growth had eliminated that possibility (Gleissman 1984; Omas and Salih 1989). Fertilizer could have provided the nutrients, but government policies and parastatal ineptitude had eliminated that option as well. Without fertilizer, no one in Chavuma could grow enough maize to be self-sufficient from their own food production. Lacking their cassava and unable to grow enough maize, many people complained during my 1989 research of suffering za/a, the Luvale term for hunger or famine. This word came up consistently in interviews. When I questioned people about the number of times they had eaten the previous day and the day of the interview, many mentioned eating only once a day, and some had not eaten for at least two days. The

usual reason given was the lack of staple food. Almost all of these people stated that they had been self-sufficient from their own production before the mealybug appeared. Those people who wanted to replant their cassava discovered that another agronomic characteristic of cassava created a problem. People do not plant cassava from seed. Instead, they utilize stem cuttings from existing plants. Doing so was advantageous in good

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years, since people did not have to purchase seed. The ngilile that they were harvesting also gave them a plentiful supply of planting material. The destruction and subsequent uprooting of all the existing fields in 1986-87, succeeded by the delay of one or more years in replanting, meant a severe local shortage of existing cassava plants from which to harvest planting material. A partial analogy could be drawn from the well-known three-generational model of cultural assimilation after immigration (Child 1943). That model was based on Irish immi-

grants to Boston; it suggested that the grandparents knew the old culture, but the parental generation forgot and suppressed it. When the third generation wanted to rediscover its “roots,” the parents did not possess the necessary information, and the grandparents had died. Similarly in Zambia, when people wanted to replant, there were no parental stems to cut and use. Although the Zambian government has had programs for many years to produce and upgrade maize, there was no major program to produce cassava for replanting. The widespread famine camouflaged another level of reality. Many households were still eating normally. Some had not suffered from the mealybug because all fields and ecological niches were not affected equally. These households continued the three-field system of cassava production. Other households had lost some or all of their cassava, but the local rural economy was diversified, and people were able to earn enough income from other enterprises to purchase the food (mostly maize) they needed. Many women brewed and sold beer to earn money. Many men earned money from fishing, buying fish and reselling them in the cities, and various crafts. A few men were hawkers (traders), and one

local man became wealthy, earning more than one million Kwacha a year (equivalent to about $25,000 at that time) by importing maize and grinding local and imported maize in his grinding mill for local resale. Whereas the grinding mill had not been needed for cassava, most local people thought it was necessary to grind maize. Thus, the impact of the mealybug was uneven. Many people began to suffer from famine. Many other people lost resources (their planted cassava), but were still able to satisfy their food needs from income earned from other sources. And one man earned more than a million Kwacha a year.

DISCUSSION: SOME ASPECTS OF SUSTAINABILITY IN AFRICA The case study raises many issues, only four of which will be addressed. These four are (1) the illusion of local sustainability; (2) the importance of maintaining biodiversity; (3) the recognition of local-level dynamic actions; and (4) the relationship of border re-

gions and population shocks.

The Illusion of Local Sustainability. The Chavuma area and its people are not separate or independent. They have been incorporated during this century into wider national and international arenas. Chavuma’s population reflects waves of refugees fleeing wars and waves of immigrants seeking economic opportunities. Chavuma’s economy and standard of living reflect the success and failure of the national and international economy. Chavuma’s agriculture reflects the state’s political philosophy, NAMBOARD’s failure to provide fertilizer, and the policy of promoting maize and ignoring cassava.

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The advantages and dangers of this incorporation, over a much longer time span,

are demonstrated by cassava, maize, and the cassava mealybug. Cassava and maize arrived in Africa several centuries ago and have now become part of African agriculture. The dif-

fusion of these two crops has aided Africans in their attempts to earn a living in agriculture. Cassava’s agronomic properties allowed Chavuma’s people to evolve a food production system that sustained a rapidly growing population. The arrival in Africa much later of the mealybug shows the dangers of our diminished barriers and boundaries between previously separated ecosystems. Buddenhagen (1977) calls this situation a re-encounter, which occurs when a pest or plague catches up to a crop that had temporarily escaped its influence. There were no effective African or local treatments or cures for the mealybug. It was an invasion that African farmers by themselves could not combat. Chavuma’s farmers stopped replanting cassava in recognition of that fact. Local self-sufficiency and sustainability was shown to be an illusion. None of my informants had seen the pest during the 1988-1989 rainy season, however, and to the best of my knowledge the mealybug attack had been controlled by then. This success was accomplished by the Africa-wide Biological Control Project of Cassava Mealybug and Green Spider Mites (ABCP). This international collaborative effort was organized by the International Institute of Tropical Agriculture (IITA), an international agricultural research center with its headquarters in Nigeria, in collaboration with the Scientific, Technical and Research Commission of the Organization of African Unity

(OAU/STRC). After the mealybug was identified as a major pest in Africa in 1973, this collaborative project began searching for natural predators of the mealybug in South America, its original home. A parasitic wasp (Epidinocarsis lopezi) was discovered in Paraguay in 1981 by a scientist working for the Centro Internacional para la Agricultura Tropical (CIAT), another international research center with its headquarters in Colombia (IITA n.d.). The

wasp was imported from Paraguay, checked in England, bred in quantities in Nigeria, and finally dispersed by the billions throughout Africa. Airborne dispersal of the wasp in northwestern Zambia began in 1986 and was still ongoing in 1989 (Sakala 1988). Discussions of sustainability are sometimes couched in ecosystem terms. This practice can be misleading because the ecosystem concept assumes local boundedness, i.e., that populations rely upon, and are nourished and constrained by, their local resources alone. Ecosystem assumptions were more appropriate, although still misleading, when we discussed what Colson (1979) called self-reliant, or more isolated, societies. Today all com-

munities, localities, and societies are incorporated to varying degrees into overarching political and economic units that tax, regulate, redistribute, and, at least in theory, pro-

tect. Famine and sustainability cannot be locally bounded because, to varying degrees, powerful nonlocal resources and constraints will always be influential and intrusive. The state, or the electronic village, is involved and has become responsible because it has the power to protect or interfere.

The Importance of Maintaining Biodiversity. ‘The mealybug invasion of Africa also points out the importance for sustainability of maintaining our planet’s biodiversity and germ-plasm. Until its appearance in Zaire was recognized in 1973, the mealybug was not considered to be a significant pest. In its complex native ecosystem, it was biologically

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controlled below the level ofour consciousness. We did not know that the parasitic wasp was a solution because we did not know that the mealybug was a problem. Even now, few if any of the African farmers whose livelihoods have been saved by the wasp even know of its existence. It is fortunate that the wasp was not eradicated accidentally before we learned of its utility. How many other mealybuglike pests now exist in their native ecosystems, biologically controlled below the level of our consciousness? How many wasplike controls could become extinct before we know we need them?

The Recognition of Local-Level Dynamic Social Actions.

This discussion began by

emphasizing the importance of nonlocal ecological, political, and economic influences and processes in understanding the causes of sustainability and famine. Africans are experiencing a series of short-term and long-term food crises. Short-term crises are more evident to foreign observers and the news media than long-term ones, but the two types of crises are fundamentally linked. . . . The long-term, or chronic, crises are less dramatic, less immediate, and less obvious to the casual observer. They are characterized by gradual . . . changes and trends in economic or ecological factors or relationships. ... These chronic crises starve national and local food systems by depleting the reserves that would otherwise be available to . . . serve as buffers from the effects of acute crises . . . Acute crises often seem to be independent of these long-term trends; identifiable and immediate events are seen as sufficient to cause the acute crises . . . Yet the severity of the popular responses, the deaths and dislocations, and the inadequacy of national food systems to cope with acute food crises are directly linked with the more deeply rooted long-term crises. (McMillan and Hansen 1986:1-2)

Awareness of the importance of these external (nonlocal) and institutional factors

should not, however, obscure the equal importance of internal (local-level) dynamic social action. People work, conserve, and innovate to provision themselves and their households with food and other necessities through times of change and crisis. Governments and the electronic village operate to assist people, but their aid often comes too little, too late, and too misdirected to save many people. Development and assistance specialists need to recognize the importance of the continual efforts that local people are always making to save themselves. Many such efforts are socially, culturally, and economically institutionalized, as people have often prepared themselves in good years for the bad years (Colson 1979). One of the best known of these institutions is the “normal surplus” that is characteristic of African (and other) “subsistence” farmers (Allan 1965).

This case demonstrates the many innovations in fallowing, crop choice and husbandry, land tenure, and settlement patterns that people in Chavuma have made over the years in their attempts to sustain themselves and to welcome and incorporate more immigrants and refugees. People’s horizons do not usually extend to the systems or population level. They have not attempted to sustain a particular production system or even a total population. In fact, they have modified and innovated in order to sustain themselves and their families. During the short field research in 1989, I was only able to identify two particular innovative strategies that people had devised to cope with the rapidly collapsing cassava-based agricultural system. One was the wholesale attempt to plant large fields in maize as a major staple. ‘The other was the shifting of business and consumption attention to importing and

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buying maize and maize meal from other regions of Zambia. This trend resulted in major changes in trade patterns, food processing patterns, and the rise in importance of the egrinding mill.

The Relationship of Border Regions and Population Shocks.

Discussions of sustain-

ability often focus on fragile lands or ecological areas that are especially vulnerable to degradation. This case draws attention, instead, to the importance of extreme and unexpected events and to a location (border areas, lying on the frontiers of states) that is par-

ticularly vulnerable to shock population increases. When population growth is mentioned in studies of agriculture or sustainability, the growth is always assumed to be due to natural increase, and 3.0 to 3.5% annual growth rates are thought to be significant or alarming. These discussions ignore the importance of shock population increases from immigration, whether voluntary or involuntary. There are three components that determine population size: birth, death, and migration. Migration can be voluntary, as people move to be closer to better economic or social opportunities. Rural-urban migration is commonly voluntary, and many Third World cities are increasing at approximately 7% a year, which means they double in size every ten years. But migration can also be involuntary or forced, when people flee wars, famines, and other disasters, or when people are displaced by development projects. Migration, especially involuntary, can cause massive and sudden increases or decreases in population size that can shock the ecological, economic, social, and political systems. These shocks are disproportionately concentrated in border, and other peripheral, regions. In this case study, Chavuma’s population apparently increased by 442% in 13 years in the early part of this century. Again, in the five years between 1963 and 1969, Chavuma’s population increased by 50% (Hansen 1977). Africa now contains 14 to 20 million involuntarily displaced people. Many have been displaced across international borders, and most of these refugees tend to cluster along the border (Hansen 1993). Refugees, one category of involuntary migrants, are thought to be a short-term crisis, but many Africans have been refugees for decades. What has happened in the other border areas of Zambia and in the border regions of Somalia, Sudan, Malawi, etc.?

SUMMARY I am concerned that we do not understand the complexity of rural African economic and food systems. We are too specialized; our knowledge is too limited; and our assistance programs are too often misdirected or themselves a disaster. Our theories are too often simplistic (elegant, in scientific terms) and synchronic, focused on too few factors and too

short a term to appreciate the complex interweaving of factors that cause sustainability and famine. Factors that are always going to be important include local peoples indigenous knowledge and innovativeness, dietary preferences, population movements, government policies, physical (soil), agronomic (crop), and livestock properties, rainfall and weather, pests and plagues, and nondomesticated sources. This study has described the long-term evolution of a cassava-based agricultural system in northwestern Zambia and a famine affecting many people in that area in the late

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1980s. For decades, local people managed to satisfy their own staple food needs through intensifying their cassava production. People utilized non-domesticated species also, and extensive fishing provided an important local source of both protein and cash incomes. Local people, using local resources and combining agriculture, fishing, and trade, were able to sustain both their staple food supply and a standard of living well above subsistence requirements. The local society and economy were also able to incorporate various waves of immigration (including many refugees) that could have shocked the socioeconomic and ecological systems. Instead of the population increases causing the systems to falter, people responded by modifying and intensifying their production, and the resulting relationship of production technologies, populations, and resources seemed to be sustainable. During the 1970s and 1980s, the local standard of living declined significantly. The decline was caused by the failure of the national economy, not because of local production factors. Then a famine was triggered in the area in 1985-86 by the appearance in large numbers of the cassava mealybug. Famine is recognized as an indicator of non-sustainability. Even the famine, to an extent, was caused by national political and economic factors. The mealybug wiped out most of the cassava, but people responded by buying food and by attempting to grow maize as a substitute staple. The attempts to grow maize usually failed because governmental policies and correlated institutional NAMBOARD and cooperative unions’) ineptitude had combined to make fertilizer unavailable. In a similar way, loss of purchasing power during the 1970s and 1980s had robbed local people of financial reserves that they could otherwise have utilized in the late 1980s to buffer the shortage of locally produced foodstuffs. Both the decline in living standards and the famine demonstrated the importance of nonlocal factors that were uncontrollable by local people. In this case, the most critical nonlocal factors included two biological agents (the pest and the biological control), government policies and performance, the costs of importing and buying maize, and the availability of fertilizer. Pest-induced shock to the agricultural system revealed clearly how the supposed local self-sufficiency was illusory. The efficacy of the biological control reencountering the pest underscored the importance of maintaining a global biodiversity for the survival of supposedly self-sufficient systems. Both internal and external factors were critical. The importance of nonlocal factors should not obscure the complementary importance of local social dynamics. Local people were not waiting for the Zambian state, the United Nations, or an international charity to rescue them. They were attempting to sustain themselves and their families through various strategies. Some of the strategies were to continue customary activities such as fishing or brewing beer. Other activities were innovative, such as planting large expenses of maize, modifying for preparation, and reorienting economic actions to earn money to buy maize and pay for milling. Finally, this case highlights a combination of place and demographic change (migration) that receives too little attention. When population growth is noted in discussions of sustainability, the reference is usually to natural increase. This tendency ignores the po-

tentially dramatic effects of shock population inflows of involuntary migrants such as refugees, who tend to congregate in Africa in border regions. Border regions are especially vulnerable to shocks because they are spatially and politically so far from the cen-

ter. Over the long term, they are allocated few resources and receive inadequate service.

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When there are short-term crises, their needs are often slow to be identified and re-

sponded to. Yet where are the studies of the economic and ecological consequences of population shocks in border regions?

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1965 The African Husbandman. Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd. Altieri, Miguel A. and M. K. Anderson 1986 An Ecological Basis for the Development of Alternative Agricultural Systems for Small Farmers in the Third World. American Journal of Alternative Agriculture 1:30-38. Buddenhagen, Ivan 1977 Resistance and Vulnerability of Tropical Crops in Relation to Their Evolution and Breeding. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 287:309-326. Chambers, Robert

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Weak State and Backward Agriculture in Zambia: A Case Study and Its Implications. In Coping with Africa’s Food Crisis. Naomi Chazan and T. M. Shaw, eds. Pp. 185-209. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers. Gould, Jeremy ue 1989 Luapula: Dependence or Development? Zambia Geographical Association Regional Handbook 6. Vammala, Finland: Vammalan Kirjapaino Oy. Hansen, Art

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Food in Sub-Saharan Africa. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers.

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McMillan, eds. Pp. 1-10. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers. Mwanza, Kamina wa Chimika na

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Understanding Zambia’s Agricultural Crisis: The Role of the Economic Structure and Class Interests. Jn Transforming Southern African Agriculture. Ann Seidman, K. w. C. n. Mwanza, N. Simelane, and D. Weiner, eds. Pp. 119-135. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press.

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BREADING

23

Credit Programs, Women’s Empowerment, and Contraceptive Use in Rural Bangladesh Sidney Ruth Schuler and Syed M. Hashemi This article addresses the question of how women’s status affects their fertility. It examines the effects of women’s participation in rural credit programs on contraceptive use and on variables related to women’s status or “empowerment.” In Bangladesh, where women’s mobility is limited by custom, the predominant strategy of the population program has been to bring family planning services to women’s doorsteps. Although this strategy has been effective, clearly it has practical limits. A logical complement to the “doorstep” strategy would be interventions that increase women’s ability to take an active role in getting access to services. In this context, programs that empower women and increase their mobility are of interest. This research examines the effects of two programs in rural Bangladesh that are widely believed to be contributing to women’s empowerment. The programs of Grameen Bank and BRAC (Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee) are the largest of a growing number of programs in Bangladesh that seek to address the problem of rural poverty by providing small loans for women’s self-employment activities. In this article, data from a study designed to investigate the effects of these programs on empowerment and on contraceptive use are analyzed. The study began with the hypothesis that women who participate in the Grameen Bank and BRAC programs in Bangladesh are more empowered and have higher levels of contraceptive use than nonmembers. Survey data are used here to examine the effects of credit programs on women’s level of empowerment and their practice of contraception, and both survey and ethnographic data are used to explain how these effects come about.!

BACKGROUND Among the poor in rural Bangladesh, women are isolated and deprived. Cultural norms are based on asymmetrical assumptions regarding what is appropriate to each sex, what males as distinct from females need, and what they are entitled to. Girls learn to accept dependence and deprivation, relative to male family members. Often, education for girls is considered irrelevant. Systems of patrilineal descent, patrilocal residence, and purdah (a system based on an ideology concerned with secluding and protecting women in order to uphold social standards of modesty and morality) interact to isolate and subordinate women. Girls are forced to marry early. As new brides, they are expected (even more than at other ages) to behave in a shy, subservient manner, and they are under pressure to

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prove their fertility by producing children. At this stage in their lives, they are particularly unlikely to make independent decisions related to fertility control or, for that matter, anything related to their own welfare. Social and economic dependence on men is the normal situation for poor women in rural Bangladesh. Because of purdah, they are confined to the homestead and the area immediately surrounding it, and their contacts with the world outside of the family are extremely limited.” Their isolation constrains their potential to generate income, and makes it difficult for them to take advantage of family planning, health, and other services that may be available, unless these services are brought to their doorsteps. Grameen Bank and BRAC, with about 1.3 million and .5 million female members re-

spectively, are the two largest and best-known nongovernmental organizations involved in lending to the poor in Bangladesh.* Grameen Bank now works in almost half of all villages in rural Bangladesh. Both organizations started on a small scale in the early to mid-1970s. In the early years of their existence, a distinct contrast emerged in their programmatic philosophies and strategies, with Grameen Bank being, first and foremost, a bank for poor rural people, and BRAC taking a more multifaceted approach to alleviating rural poverty, with a strong focus on consciousness raising and nonformal literacy training. In recent years, the programs have come to resemble each other to a greater extent. BRAC has begun to put more emphasis on credit and less on consciousness raising and adult literacy, although it maintains separate programs in education for children and communitybased, preventive health care. Whereas Grameen Bank’s current program strategy focuses almost exclusively on women, BRAC has continued to try to involve both men and women by establishing separate men’s groups. In general, however, both Grameen Bank and BRAC have focused their programs increasingly on women and have attempted to draw them out of their isolation, mainly by providing them with economic opportunities. While some women are not permitted by their families to join the programs, staff of both Grameen Bank and BRAC note that it is now much easier to recruit members than it was in the past. In recent years, desperate economic circumstances have induced many families to modify the standards by which they adhere to purdah. In drawing women out of their homes and strengthening their economic roles, both programs are believed to be contributing to social change and to the empowerment of women. At the community level, BRAC

and Grameen Bank have similar programmatic

strategies. Both organizations employ large numbers of field staff who reside in the areas where they work. In order to participate, and to be eligible to receive credit, women are asked to organize themselves into small groups. The groups meet regularly and make regular deposits into a group savings account. Loans are made to individuals, at commercial interest rates. There is no collateral, but the group as a whole is responsible for ensuring that each member makes the weekly repayments. The participants themselves decide how to use the loans. In most cases the loans are used for self-employment activities such as paddy processing, poultry and livestock purchase, traditional crafts, and small trade. The

average loan is $65-$75 and many loans are as small as $20-$25.7 In general, BRAC tries

to work with entire villages and encourages all of those eligible (landless and poor, but able to work) to join. Grameen Bank tends to recruit fewer women within a village, and may recruit a slightly better-off section of the very poor. However, both programs serve

landless rural poor who have few assets of any kind.

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Before receiving credit, new members must attend training sessions so that they understand the program’s objectives and modes of operation. The training is also intended to help women establish an independent identity outside of their families, and to create a sense of unity among the members and of connection and loyalty to the proeram. One feature of Grameen Bank that distinguishes it from BRAC is its more regimented style. Awoman can become a member only after she has memorized the Grameen Bank Sixteen Decisions? and learned to sign her name. Potential members are tested by a bank worker, who calls out the numbers of the various decisions and makes the woman

recite them. A Grameen Bank member also has to salute, chant Grameen Bank slogans, and do physical drills. During meetings, the women have to sit in straight rows of five to mark their group affiliation. Neither BRAC nor Grameen Bank provides family planning services. If the proerams have an effect on contraceptive use, they probably do so by strengthening demand for contraception and/or by increasing women’s ability to overcome obstacles to the use of contraceptives. These obstacles would include women’s lack of mobility, lack of cash,

lack of information about contraceptive methods and services, and opposition or lack of cooperation from their husbands and other family members. “Empowerment,” in the sense that the implementers of the two programs use it, has both economic and social dimensions. The combination of credit, women’s solidarity

groups, and awareness raising is believed to empower women by enabling them to earn a cash income through various types of self-employment activities. Their enhanced contribution to their families’ incomes is believed to strengthen women’s bargaining position within the household, so that they are better able to make independent decisions as well as to play a more decisive role in joint decisions. Women’s mobility and access to information are strengthened both by the requirement that they attend regular meetings and, in many cases, by their interactions in the public sphere that come about as a result of their economic activities. In these ways, empowerment resulting from participation in the BRAC and Grameen Bank programs could strengthen demand for contraceptives and make women more successful in overcoming obstacles to family planning. For the statistical analysis (as described below), a woman’s level of empowerment was defined as a function of her relative physical mobility, economic security, ability to make purchases on her own, freedom from domination and violence within her family, political and legal aware-

ness, and participation in public protests and political campaigning. (For a more detailed description of how “empowerment of women” was defined through the ethnographic study, see Hashemi and Schuler, 1993.) In recruiting members, the programs may tend to seek out or attract women who are more empowered to begin with, or they may tend to recruit women who are already using contraceptives and/or are more likely to start using them. Because selection bias of this sort can produce spurious findings, this study attempts to take the possibility of such bias into account. The possibility that credit programs affect contraceptive use and fertility has been explored in at least three other recent surveys in Bangladesh (Mahmud et al., 1990; Barkat-eKhuda et al., 1990a and 1990b; and Kamal et al., 1992),° but none of these analyses deals

convincingly with the possibility of selection bias. The related literature on women’s status and fertility is much more extensive (for an excellent summary and bibliography, see

Mason, 1984 and 1986).

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METHODOLOGY Data Sources

In mid-1991, the authors conducted an initial survey to measure the impact of participation in credit programs on contraceptive use. It included three separately selected samples. The first two were random samples of Grameen Bank and BRAC members selected using a two-stage cluster design.’ The third sample was a comparison group consisting of women who would be eligible to join BRAC or Grameen Bank (that is, poor and functionally landless), living in villages not served by either program.® One adult female was

selected from each household. A follow-up survey with the same respondents was carried out about 18 months later.” Based on ethnographic findings from six villages, a series of questions related to women’s status and empowerment was added. A second comparison group, consisting of nonmembers from Grameen Bank villages, was also added in order to explore the possibility that the program affects nonparticipants as well as participants in program villages. Including the new comparison group (315 married women younger than 50), the total sample included 1,305 married women younger than 50. At the time of the second survey, the average age of the 1,305 respondents was approximately 29 years. They had an average of three surviving children. Most of the women in all four groups had never attended school, although the proportion who attended school is somewhat higher in the Grameen Bank group (30 percent, versus 29 percent for BRAC, 18 percent for the comparison group, and 18 percent for nonmembers in Grameen Bank villages). The mean duration of participation in the programs was somewhat greater than three and a half years for BRAC members and somewhat greater than four years for Grameen Bank members. The data from concurrent ethnographic research in six villages describes the credit programs in operation, from the perspectives of the field research team as well as of par-

ticipants in the programs. The team conducted in-depth interviews to document change processes, both in women’s roles and status and in norms related to reproduction and use of contraceptives. Women who had departed from prevailing norms and conventions were interviewed to identify the circumstances and the forces behind these behaviors. Interviews were also designed to explore how new behaviors (such as contraceptive use and nontraditional work for women) spread and gradually become accepted.

Hypotheses From the ethnographic study it appeared that if credit programs were affecting contraceptive use, they were doing so partly by strengthening women’s economic roles and contributing to their empowerment, and partly by promoting family planning directly and, in so doing, influencing community norms. The principal hypotheses to be tested through the survey were:

1. Rural credit programs empower women by strengthening their economic roles. 2. Empowerment is positively associated with the practice of contraception.

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Section Il © Domains

3. Participation in credit programs or residence in communities where such programs exist increases the likelihood that a woman will use contraceptives.

Variables

Dependent Variables. One dependent variable indicates whether or not the respondent or her partner is currently using any method of contraception. This includes both modern (the pill, condoms, injectables, tubectomy, vasectomy) and traditional methods (periodic abstinence, withdrawal, abstinence, and other such methods, including herbs). Another variable indicates the respondent’s level of empowerment. The latter, defined

below, is also used as an independent variable in some analyses.

Indicators of Level of Empowerment.

Six “domains of empowerment” with a number

of indicators in each domain were defined through the ethnographic research, and a subset of these was included in the survey. One of the six domains—sense of self and vision of future—was dropped later because the questions in it applied to subsets of respondents, and, as a result, a large number of values was missing. One empowerment indicator was developed for each of four of the remaining five domains, and four were developed for the largest of the domains—status and decision making in the household. This was done by combining groups of variables within each domain according to a scoring system. The resulting eight variables (followed by the name of the domain in parentheses) were mobility (mobility and visibility), economic security (economic security), small purchases, larger purchases, major decisions, and subjection to domination and violence (status and decisionmaking power within the household), political/legal awareness (ability to interact effectively in the public sphere), and protest/campaign (participation in nonfamily groups). These were then combined into a single score.!

Indicator of Contribution to Family Support. A dummy variable was created in which women who said that their contribution to family support represented “all of it,” “most of it,” “half of it,” or “some of it” were given a score of 1. Those who said they contributed

“a very small portion” or “none of it” were given a score of zero.!! In the analysis, “contribution to family support” is used as an intermediate variable.

Indicators of Contact with Credit Programs.

One variable indicates whether the re-

spondent was a member of BRAC or Grameen Bank at the time of the interview, a nonmember residing in a Grameen Bank village, or a resident in one of the comparison villages.!? From this, a dummy variable was created indicating whether the respondent was residing in a Grameen Bank village or a comparison village (the BRAC group was excluded).

Control Variables. In order to distinguish between the effects of credit program participation by itself and the effects of other variables that are believed to affect contraceptive use in Bangladesh, five control variables were included. These were respondent's age, whether the respondent ever attended school, a dummy variable indicating whether the respondent’s house had a roof made of tin or tiles as opposed to thatch (an indicator of relative wealth among the poor),!? and an indicator of access to family planning services. This variable indicates whether the respondent was ever visited by a family plan-

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ning worker. Because of the strong emphasis on community-based services in the Bangladesh family planning program, contact with family planning fieldworkers generally is thought to be the best indicator of access to family planning services in rural Bangladesh. Finally, an indicator of the respondent’s contraceptive behavior prior to joining the program was constructed. This is a dummy variable that equals one when the respondent had used any method of family planning (including traditional methods) before joining the program, and zero otherwise. This variable is important because it allows us to control for the possibility of selection bias. Three other control variables were used initially but later discarded, because they were not significant in any of the analyses. These were religion, number of surviving children, and presence of a health/family planning facility in the village. Tables 1 and 2 show frequency distributions for the independent variables and other selected background variables, first for respondents in Grameen Bank villages versus comparison villages, and then for each of the four groups included in the analysis. TABLE 1 Characteristics of Credit Program Study Samples, Grameen Bank and Comparison Villages, Bangladesh, 1992

Characteristics Mean age (years) Mean number of surviving children Attended school (%) Muslim (%) Relative wealth of household Have tin or tile roof (%) Own radio or TV (%) Own any agricultural land* (%) Own cow or buffalo (%) Respondent’s property/economic status Own homestead, land, house (%) Have own savings (%) Keep cash for purchases (%) Earned independent income last year (%) Make substantial contribution to family support (%) Empowerment Mean empowerment score

Grameen Bank Villages

Comparison Villages

29 31 23 87

29 3.3 18 88

48 iy

33 6

38

43

35

31

Di 24 83 7, 49

7 11 7 50 20

3.6

2.5

Empowered (%)

31

8

Ever beaten by husband (%) Beaten in past year (%)

41 15

59 oe.

30> i)

20 78

3h

35

Access to family planning services Health/FP facility in village (%) Ever visited by FP fieldworker (%) Visited in past three months by FP fieldworker (%)

4 Most of these are small plots: only 7 percent own more than one-half acre of land. b See Note 14 in text.

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Section Il © Domains

TABLE 2 Characteristics of Study Samples (All Groups), Credit Program Study, Bangladesh, 1992 Characteristics Mean age (years) Mean number of surviving children

Grameen Members

BRAC Members

Comparison Group

GB Village/ Nonmembers

31 3H 29 86

31 Soil 22 89

JE) 39) 18 88

26 2.6 18 87

5)9) 13 62 51

58 16 53 36

3 6 43 31

41 10 13 19

Own homestead, land, house (%) Own homestead before joining

35

5)

7

8

GB/BRAC (%) Have own savings (%) Keep cash for purchases (%) Earned independent income

14 36 94

12 34 86

y| 11 75

8 11 73

91

69

50

51

71

BY)

20

27

5.0 64 34 Y

4.9 56 43 15

3.5 23 59 27

Se 28 48 Dal

Attended school (%) Muslim (%)

Relative wealth of household Have tin or tile roof (%) Own radio or TV (%)

Own any agricultural land? (%) Own cow or buffalo (%) Respondent's property/economic status

last year (%)

Make substantial contribution to family support (%) Empowerment Mean empowerment score Empowered (%) Ever beaten by husband (%) Beaten in past year (%) Access to family planning services

Health/FP facility in village (%)

30

8

20

30>

Ever visited by FP fieldworker (%)

83

74

78

67

36

35

35

38

Visited in past three months by FP fieldworker (%)36

* Most of these are small plots; only 7 percent own more than one-half acre of land. 5 See Note 14 in text.

ANALYSIS ‘To compare respondents living in Grameen Bank villages with those living in comparison villages, in the first regression analysis, the effects of exposure to the Grameen Bank program on the respondents’ level of empowerment are estimated. Then the variable “contribution to family support” is added to examine the possibility that the effect on women’s level of empowerment can be attributed to the program’s effectiveness-in strengthening women’s economic roles. Next the effect of exposure to Grameen Bank on contraceptive

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use is estimated and the empowerment indicator is added to explore whether the effects on contraceptive use can be attributed to this variable. The analysis is then repeated, this time including all four groups in order to explore whether the effects of participation in BRAC’s program are similar to those of participation in Grameen Bank’s program in terms of empowerment and contraceptive use, and whether the apparent effects of the Grameen Bank program are significant for nonmembers when this group is examined separately. Finally, contraceptive use is analyzed for credit program members only, controlling for contraceptive use before joining the program. The point is often made that programs such as those of Grameen Bank and BRAC may attract or intentionally recruit contraceptive users, or women who are more empowered or who are more likely than those in the comparison group to adopt contraception. In this study, the possibility of selection bias is addressed in several ways. The areal design that combines participants and nonparticipants in Grameen Bank villages and compares them with women residing in comparison villages is one strategy for minimizing the possible effects of bias in selecting individual members. Logit regression models are used to control for differences in the background characteristics of the women in each of the groups. In the regression analysis that uses only program participants, the control variable “used contraceptives before joining the program” is also included. Each of the comparison villages was in the same general vicinity as a randomly selected program village, which fact provides some assurance against the possibility that there are important, systematic, village-level differences. However, given the difficulties in any real-life situation of choosing a comparison group that is truly comparable, the possibility of village-level selection bias cannot be ruled out entirely. Our impression is that a general tendency exists for Grameen Bank, BRAC, and other development programs to avoid the least accessible areas of the country when setting up branch offices, but we have not noticed a tendency to exclude certain types of villages, once a branch has been established. At this point, proximity to the Grameen Bank branch or BRAC office appears to be the most important factor determining whether program activities are initiated in a village. Within a geographical area that might be covered by a Grameen Bank branch or a BRAC office, villages to which access is particularly difficult (for example, because of flooding) may be left out of credit schemes and other development programs, but they also tend to be avoided by survey teams. They are not likely, therefore, to be overrepresented in the comparison group. The variable “presence of a health/family planning facility in the village” might have been expected to affect the likelihood of using contraceptives but, as mentioned above, it was not significant and was dropped from the analysis.'* This finding may be explained in part by the villagers’ heavy reliance on community-based family planning workers for contraceptive supplies. Also, women who go to health facilities may prefer to use facilities outside of their villages, possibly because the range or quality of services offered is perceived to be better. Another strategy used to address the possibility of community-level selection bias is to compare program members and nonmembers within Grameen Bank villages with respect to levels of empowerment and contraceptive use. Data from our ethnographic research in six villages was used to refine the hypotheses for the survey component of the study, to develop specific questions for inclusion in the structured survey, and to interpret the survey findings.

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Section Il ¢ Domains

RESULTS Areal Effects of the Grameen Bank Program on Women’s Level of Empowerment The first section of the analysis compares women living in Grameen Bank villages with women living in the comparison villages, controlling for background characteristics (age, schooling, and economic level). The first regression (Model 1, Table 3), using the aggre-

gate empowerment indicator as the dependent variable, suggests that the Grameen Bank program has a positive effect on women’s status or level of empowerment in the villages where it operates. The control variables of age, schooling, and relative wealth also have significant positive effects. A regression with “contribution to family support” as the dependent variable (see Table 4) indicates that the presence of Grameen Bank in a village has a significant effect on women’s economic roles within their families. When the same regression in Table 3 is repeated, adding the “contribution to family support” variable (Model 2, Table 3), residence in Grameen Bank villages remains significant at a level better than .01, and “contribution to family support” is also significant at a level better than .01. The positive effect of Grameen Bank’s program on women’s level of empowerment seems attributable, in part, to its effectiveness in strengthening women’s economic roles through credit, and in other ways as well.

Areal Effects of the Grameen Bank Program on Contraceptive Use Table 5 shows that the rate of contraceptive use is 11 percentage points higher in Grameen Bank villages than in the comparison villages. Tables 6 (using the aggregate score

TABLE 3 Logit Regression Coefficients of the Effect of Exposure to the Grameen Bank Program on Women’s Empowerment, Controlling for Background Variables and Contribution to Family Support, Bangladesh, 1992 Empowered

Variables Lives in Grameen Bank village Lives in comparison village (7) Contributes substantially to family support Attended school Relative wealth Age Constant

(N) *™ Significant at p < .01. Note: (7) = reference category.

na = not applicable.

Model 1

Model 2

73 ee

125 — 2.01** teh Oe .06** —5.47

na 33, 43" dint —4.98

(1,051)

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287

TABLE 4 Logit Regression Coefficients of the Effect of Exposure to the Grameen Bank Program on Women’s Contribution to Their Families’ Support, Controlling for Background Variables, Bangladesh, 1992

Variables Lives in Grameen Bank village Lives in comparison village (7) Attended school Relative wealth Age Constant

(N)

Contributes Substantially to Family’s Support

LA4et — .05 —.03 04** —2.77

(1,051)

** Significant at p < .01. Note: (7) = reference category.

TABLE 5_ Percentage of Married Women Younger Than 50 Practicing Contraception, by Exposure to Grameen Bank Program, Bangladesh, 1992

Women

Percent

Living in Grameen Bank villages Living in comparison villages

54 43 (1,051)

TABLE 6 Percentage of Married Women Younger Than 50 Practicing Contraception, by Empowerment Category, Bangladesh, 1992 Category Empowered Not empowered

(N)

Percent 65 45

(1,051)

for empowerment) and 7 show that within the Grameen Bank and comparison villages, women who are empowered and women who contribute substantially to their family’s support are more likely than others to use contraceptives. The results of the regression analysis in Table 8 (Model 1), controlling for background variables (age, schooling, and economic level, and ever visited by family planning fieldworkers), suggest that the Grameen Bank program has a significant positive effect on the level of contraceptive use in the communities where it operates. Among the control variables, age and fieldworkers’ visits also have significant effects. When the aggregate empowerment indicator is added (Model 2), the effect of residing in a Grameen Bank

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Section Il © Domains

TABLE 7 Percentage of Married Women Younger Than 50 Practicing Contraception, by Their Contribution to Family Support, Bangladesh, 1992 Respondent

Percent

Contributes substantially Contributes little or nothing

60 44

(1,051)

(N)

TABLE 8 Logit Regression Coefficients of the Effect of Exposure to the Grameen Bank Program on Contraceptive Use, Controlling for Background Variables, Empowerment, and Respondents’ Contribution to Family Support, Bangladesh, 1992

Currently Uses a Contraceptive Method Variables

Model 1

Model 2

Lives in Grameen Bank village Lives in comparison village (7) Level of empowerment Attended school Relative wealth Age Ever visited by family planning worker Constant (N)

45" — na 4) os) 10325 SOs" —2.10

26 — al OR “15 .20 02 olde —2.20

(1,051)

** Significant at p