Thin Sympathy: A Strategy to Thicken Transitional Justice 9780812299632

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Thin Sympathy

PENNSYLVANIA STUDIES IN HUMAN RIGHTS Bert B. Lockwood, Series Editor A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

Thin Sympathy A Strategy to Thicken Transitional Justice

Joanna R. Quinn

U N I V E R S I T Y O F P E N N S Y LVA N I A P R E S S PHIL ADELPHIA

Copyright © 2021 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-0-8122-5316-0

CONTENTS

Preface

vii

Acknowledgments

xi

List of Abbreviations Chapter 1. Paving the Way: Making Transitional Justice Work Better

xiii

1

Chapter 2. Background and History of Conflict in Uganda

11

Chapter 3. Slow Decay or Intentional Neglect? Long-Term Issues with Post-Conflict Justice in Situations of Ongoing Violence and Repression

22

Chapter 4. The Thin Sympathy Hypothesis and the Sympathetic Continuum

40

Chapter 5. Switching On the Thin Sympathetic Response: Engaging the Population After Atrocity

65

Chapter 6. Manufacturing Thin Sympathy

80

Chapter 7. Thickening the Transitional Justice Strategy

97

Chapter 8. Bridging the Divide: Applying Thin Sympathy in Other Divided Societies

116

Chapter 9. The Strength of Thin Sympathy and Transitional Justice

135

vi

Contents

Appendix 1. Ethnocultural Group Representation in Ugandan Population

141

Appendix 2. List of Political Conflicts in Uganda Since Independence

145

Notes

151

Bibliography

195

Index

221

PREFACE

Although this book focuses on Uganda, where conflict and division have smoldered for more than half a century, a recent election in Colombia is instructive. On 2 October 2016, Colombian voters went to the polls to legitimize the peace agreement in a plebiscite that would have ended the fifty-twoyear conflict between the government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC).1 The plebiscite posed a single question: “Do you support the final agreement to end the conflict and build a stable and lasting peace?” Throughout September and into early October, many prominent Colombians, including pop star Shakira, Hollywood actor John Leguizamo, and politicians including then-President Juan Manuel Santos Calderón, vocally supported a “yes” vote, and pollsters and media alike predicted a robust “yes” result.2 There was also strong international support for the peace agreement; the United Nations Security Council had already begun to put in place the necessary supports to implement the cease-fire agreement.3 But a growing “no” campaign led by former President Álvaro Uribe countered that what was needed was “harsher punishment for the FARC, even if in the eyes of the negotiators this was impossible because doing so would lead the FARC to reject the deal.”4 In a stunning upset, the “no” side prevailed. The plebiscite failed when 50.2 percent of voters voted against it and only 49.8 percent voted for it. In the end, fewer than 38 percent of Colombians even voted.5 The result revealed a sharp disconnect between those who had been affected by the conflict, wanted peace, and were willing to settle for less-thanperfect transitional justice programs to help with their own post-conflict transition, and those who were not—many of whom did not understand the extent to which certain regions of the country continued to suffer disproportionately from the FARC conflict. To a large degree, “municipalities with high levels of FARC presence, on average seemed to show greater support

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for the agreement.”6 In the department of Chocó, for example, 80 percent of voters voted “yes”; “in the town of Bojayá, where at least 119 people were killed when a church was hit by FARC mortar bombs, 96 percent of residents voted ‘yes.’”7 In that region, “more than two-thirds of the predominantly Afro-Colombian and indigenous inhabitants were . . . victims of the armed conflict. The chronic abandonment of the national government and corrupt local authorities have left the population at the mercy of illegal armed groups for whom the jungle coast is of major strategic importance.”8 The result belied any uniform experience of the long conflict across the country. It also revealed a basic lack of understanding of the experiences of the “other.” It was clear from the outcome that people living in one part of Colombia had vastly different concerns from people living in other areas of the country. Despite their relative proximity to Chocó, for example, the people in the neighboring department of Antioquia rejected the peace agreement outright. In writing about this kind of indifference between members of competing ethnocultural groups, Eisikovits notes: In the context of ethnic [and other] conflict there is good reason to assume [that people do not know what has happened]. Warring parties are typically pre-occupied with maintaining their sense of self-justification. This virtually ensures neither side will become immersed in the images of the other’s suffering. Both are much likelier to focus on pictures and images of their own misfortune. If there is indifference (as there surely is in each of these cases) to the suffering of an adversary, it is not due to over-exposure. It is, rather, a result of the close-minded, parochial determination so typical of societies at war not to see, not to hear, not to pay attention to the other side’s fate. Adversaries are indifferent, sometimes even immune, to each other’s anguish not because they have seen too much of it but, rather, because they have been conditioned not to see any of it in the first place.9 If there had been an appreciation of what people living in the different conflict zones had experienced, though, or what their needs were, would the plebiscite have succeeded? Perhaps. This book lays out a hypothesis that certain preconditions could be developed and put in place that would allow for the durable and robust development of acknowledgement in divided societies like Colombia. In particular, it targets the very beginning stages of the

Preface

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cognitive development of a basic understanding of the past—not just in perpetrators and victims, but in “everybody else,” who are ultimately outsiders to that past. Although scholars like Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela talk about the noble aim of empathy, or feeling deeply what the other feels, I am simply too pragmatic to imagine that empathy is a feasible or practicable goal.10 Instead, in places like Uganda, where ethnocultural divides have hardened and people show, at the very least, a lack of interest or concern, if not outright hatred, for each other, the very warm and fuzzy notion of empathy is just not possible. At least, not yet. Where understanding does not exist, communities cannot be expected to make the jump to empathy; first they need to understand. Although the example above centers around Colombia, this book considers the relative utility of thin sympathy through the lens of Uganda, where conflict and division have festered for more than half a century. This example is equally relevant to settler colonial states like Canada, where structural violence toward and the nonrecognition of Indigenous peoples have caused a deep rupture in society. The implications of this study could be widely applicable, and the final chapter of the book looks at the question of universalizability of the concept. The book therefore proposes a hypothesis that suggests that the development of even a very rudimentary understanding among individuals from each of the different factions and groups—of what has happened, of the basic facts of the other’s suffering—could be the necessary condition for promoting not just peaceful coexistence but a society’s ability to move forward together. And although many assume that this understanding already exists, my work and the work of others has clearly demonstrated that there is a significant gap in that kind of perception across different groups. In Uganda, for example, very few people know much of anything about what happened in Northern Uganda between the government of Uganda and the Lord’s Resistance Army, and they know still less about the difficult experiences of northerners during the conflict. In fact, there is little cross-group knowledge between the 65 different ethnocultural groups of each other’s experiences. Getting past that knowledge gap would allow them to at least understand why something like transitional justice might be necessary. Again, I want to reiterate that developing only a basic understanding is far from ideal. In fact, it is the “thinnest” possible response, a very weak form of sympathetic engagement. In this instance, “sympathy” does not mean “I feel sorry for you” but is used, instead, to refer to understanding, awareness, recognition, and appreciation. It is irrational to think that anything approximating

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empathy—feelings for, and an emotional resonance with, the other—could be built between every Ugandan, every Canadian, or every Colombian, at least not at this stage. So the best we can hope for is to develop a basic understanding of what others have gone through, or what I have called “thin sympathy.” That does not mean that we need to throw out transitional justice, as colleagues have asked me. Rather, we can make processes of transitional justice work better. Thin sympathy is a kind of “lubricant” that can make this happen, by giving the population as a whole a basic understanding of what has happened so they know why transitional justice processes are needed for affected populations. Although what follows is a theoretical examination of the development of thin sympathy in post-conflict reconstruction, theory divorced from realworld situations can be hollow. And so throughout the book I utilize a case study with which to “test” my normative theoretical claims: Uganda, the case I have in mind when I work through the theoretical claims I make. What drives this study is a deep knowledge of the many ways in which Ugandans have been let down by the government of Uganda. And although as an academic I would like to hope that my work can contribute theoretically, at the root of this work is an even deeper aspiration that my work can somehow benefit my friends and colleagues working to make a difference in Ugandan civil society. I hope this work will contribute to making that difference.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If it takes a village to raise a child, the same is almost certainly true for a book manuscript—only in this case, that “village” stretches across the globe. The idea at the heart of this book was born at a small workshop held in Cape Town, South Africa, hosted by Dan Philpott from the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies and Fanie Du Toit from the Institute for Justice and Reconciliation, in 2013. There, I heard Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela talk about her work on the “provocation of empathy.” I had the kind of moment every scholar dreams of having when I later woke up in the middle of the night and got out of bed to make long notes about what ultimately became this project. As the project has taken shape, I have been particularly grateful for the feedback of friends and colleagues including Harvey Weinstein, Chandra Lekha Sriram, Gearoid Millar, and Eric Wiebelhaus-Brahm (Eric, especially, for reading chunks of the work both serendipitously and on purpose!)—all of whom engaged with my ideas both early on and again in the later stages of the project. Other friends and colleagues have read the manuscript in whole and in part and offered helpful feedback along the way. Among these are Bill Danaher, Jim Freedman, and Andrés Pérez-Baltodano, as well as Rhoda Howard-Hassmann, who had no idea when she signed on as my doctoral supervisor all those years ago that she would still be “on call” today. The “Empathy” Working Group of the College of the Royal Society of Canada has been invaluable, and I am grateful in particular to Reem Bahdi and Cynthia Milton for their encouragement and to Tony Calcagno for his unflagging support of this work and of me. I will forever owe an enormous debt to Mark Kersten, whose work both whipped the manuscript into shape and gave me the boost I needed to cross the finish line. Thank you all. I have been assisted in this work by a number of wonderful undergraduate and graduate students. I owe thanks, in particular, to two. The first is Catherine Dunne, whose engagement with the concept of thin sympathy helped to give it form in its earliest incarnation. And the second is Tammy Lambert,

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whose valuable help in the field and afterward had an important impact on this project; her feedback and scholarly rigor have contributed to my own intellectual growth. I am grateful to you both. I continue to be humbled by my many Ugandan friends and colleagues who have quietly and not so quietly afforded me the opportunity to learn from them and to ask so many questions. I am inspired daily by these unsung heroes who carry out the difficult work of human rights and transitional justice in a place where these spaces have become increasingly small, and at an alarming risk to themselves. To each of you, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I am particularly grateful to the team at the University of Pennsylvania Press for their support. In particular, I would like to thank Bert Lockwood for working his magic, and both Damon Linker and Lily Simmons for their amazingly quick work and their professionalism. Funding for elements of this project came from a number of different sources. I wish to acknowledge the importance of funding received from the Royal Society College Member Projects Fund; from the University of Western Ontario through the FRDF Agnes Cole Dark Fund, Faculty of Social Science Small Grant Research Competition, the SSHRB Bridge Grant, and the Smallman Fund; and from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council in the form of both an Exchange Grant and an Insight Grant. My friends and family outside the university are perhaps the longestsuffering and most in need of thanks. To all of you for your forbearance when I was AWOL for whole chunks of time, when I rattled on at dinner parties, and when I stayed in to work instead of going out, thank you. To my parents and to the Hubbard Five, thank you for your unwavering support and encouragement. And to my husband, Joe, as always, thank you.

ABBREVIATIONS

CID CSO DDR DPP FBO GOU ICC IDP IGO JLOS LRA/M NGO NRA/M PSYOP RLP TCI UPDF

Criminal Investigations Division civil society organization disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration Directorate of Public Prosecutions faith-based organization government of Uganda International Criminal Court internally displaced person intergovernmental organization Justice, Law and Order Sector Lord’s Resistance Army/Movement nongovernmental organization National Resistance Army/Movement psychological operations Refugee Law Project traditional cultural institution Uganda People’s Defence Force

CHAPTER 1

Paving the Way Making Transitional Justice Work Better

This book proposes a novel approach to engaging the population in getting to know what has taken place during a past conflict. Unlike most of the work being done in transitional justice, especially retributive approaches, it is not an analysis of perpetrator response. And unlike still more of that work, and particularly restorative justice approaches, its focus is not on victims or survivors. Rather, the focus is on everybody else. In Uganda, where I have been working for a long time, “everybody else” is a relatively large group. There are sixty-five different ethnocultural groups, and at various times over the past sixty years almost all of these groups have been engaged in a series of conflicts, although not more than about six or seven at any one time in any given conflict, either as perpetrators or victims—leaving a large proportion of the population outside of the traditional perpetrator/victim dichotomy in each period. The same is also true in other cases, although Uganda is the focus of this book. This novel approach involves what I have called “thin sympathy.” Thin sympathy is necessary for acknowledgment, and acknowledgment is a necessary condition for broader healing and reconciliation. This book considers why that is and how it might work in multiethnic divided societies, where it is particularly needed. In particular, the book focuses on what thin sympathy is, where the lack of it is a problem, how to get it, how to amplify it, and who can do it. Thin sympathy is, simply put, a basic understanding or knowledge of what has happened in the past. It involves sensitizing a population to recognize the facts of history and how what happened then continues to shape the lived experiences of the people to whom those things happened. Although that might seem strange in an era where 24-hour news cycles report on

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everything all the time, experiences of conflict are often not well understood, if they are understood at all. The hypothesis presented in this book is that this lack of understanding is an impediment to any process of transitional justice, because it inhibits people’s engagement and prevents them from acknowledging the past. But the insidiousness of “not knowing” also blocks people from understanding why such a process is needed in the first place. This presents a kind of double bind for victims who are in need of help for the indignities and harms they have suffered, which are largely unknown outside of victim communities but which cannot be known unless there is a larger form of inquiry. Despite their lack of involvement in any given conflict, I am particularly interested in how these outsiders might be convinced to engage with the questions of what to do after violent conflict and how its consequences should be addressed. In my experience, their lack of involvement actually presents an impediment for processes of transitional justice, because either an absence of basic knowledge about that conflict leads to ambivalence about what is needed or else a fundamental misunderstanding of what has taken place instead leads them to block any efforts toward social rebuilding. This book presents a hypothesis about why those outsiders are important to the process and how getting them involved beforehand could ultimately make social transformation work better. Considerable scholarly work has been carried out on the question of empathy, and a number of scholars have called for the development of empathy as a solution to the ignorance that often exists in those outsider communities. A broader discussion of this work takes place in Chapter 4. Sympathy and empathy are related but different concepts: sympathy can be described as head knowledge, whereas empathy is heart knowledge; sympathy involves knowing, whereas empathy involves feeling. The argument laid out in this book is that a deeper empathic engagement may never be possible in multiethnic, divided societies. Instead, a thinner engagement—what I have called thin sympathy or awareness—is a starting point for the repair of societal relations after conflict. Although people may never agree to engage with the “other” or may seldom have opportunities to interact directly with them, particularly in divided societies, there may still be opportunities to cultivate cognitive familiarity with not only the story of what happened but also the consequences of it. Although this inquiry is related to individuals, the focus is really a collectivelevel problem. Yet the arguments presented do draw from the literature about individual responses to the past—in part driven by the somewhat inconsistent data coming out of studies on collective-level sentiment; much of what is known

Paving the Way

3

concretely still derives from individual-level research. The individual-collective nexus is a complication that is difficult to address, although the two are closely linked. It ties in to some of the literature on the difficulty of measuring both collective sentiments1 and the collective responsibility for mass atrocity;2 both are difficult to define and difficult to measure. The concept addressed in this book, thin sympathy, can to an extent be scaled up or down. At issue is political violence. In this respect, the book not only considers atrocity crimes such as genocide, crimes against humanity, and war crimes but also seeks to capture crimes of structural violence that are wrought upon a specific population over time, such as the Tibetan people, or Indigenous peoples in settler colonial contexts. Indeed, although the book focuses on Uganda, which has frequently experienced direct violence, the ideas are universalizable insofar as they relate to situations in which groups have been segregated and divided. The literature tells us that mechanisms and processes of transitional justice will produce something approximating thin sympathy.3 Although it is true that these processes can and often do produce such benefits, the focus of this book is the reverse: that thin sympathy could in fact strengthen transitional justice so that those effects will be even more pronounced. If thin sympathy is employed in the period between the conflict and when transitional justice processes are convoked, it could lead to stronger outcomes and more durable social reconstruction efforts. Thin sympathy, therefore, must be part of a longer-term peace-building strategy. It cannot do the heavy lifting of post-conflict rebuilding on its own, but it seems clear that thin sympathy needs to come before any kind of formal justice can be undertaken. As such, in many ways it is analogous to the now-classic “peace versus justice” debate4 that considered the sequencing of post-conflict reconstruction. But rather than peace or justice, I suggest that both are needed—and that thin sympathy is an intermediary variable that should to be considered. The trick, of course, is timing. In many ways, the hypothesis presented rests in an alternate version of the sequencing debate: normally, sequencing considers trials, truth commissions, reparations, and amnesties, and the literature is trying to work out whether and in what order each of these initiatives should be employed. Yet a preliminary step is missing between the conflict and its end and the implementation of transitional justice processes: the creation of thin sympathy in the population before any of these mechanisms is employed. One can imagine a government official saying to donors, “Please

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give us another six months before you put a truth commission in place so we can make the process stronger and more successful.” Of course, the question of whether or not and how long to wait for an opening for the implementation of such a process matters deeply, as do the implications of moving ahead and creating thin sympathy without that opening.5 This book addresses that, too. These are the questions that frame the discussion of thin sympathy throughout the book. They form a backdrop against which the hypothesis presented throughout is formulated as a response to the many weaknesses of the transitional literature that have so far been identified. And they are the challenges with which scholars of transitional justice routinely grapple. The next section defines the parameters of transitional justice.

Transitional Justice The United Nations Secretary-General defines transitional justice as “the full range of processes and mechanisms associated with a society’s attempts to come to terms with a legacy of large-scale past abuses, in order to ensure accountability, serve justice and achieve reconciliation,”6 and this definition is frequently cited in the literature. But there is a second part to that same definition that is often overlooked: “Assisting societies devastated by conflict or emerging from repressive rule to re-establish the rule of law and come to terms with large-scale human rights violations, especially within a context marked by broken institutions, exhausted resources, diminished security, and a distressed and divided population.”7 The former definition tends to focus only on the range of mechanisms that are most frequently employed: trials, truth commissions, reparations, and amnesties.8 Arthur has argued that the approach grew directly out of the democratic transitions in Latin America in the 1970s and 1980s: “‘a certain understanding’ [that] helped to shape the conceptual contents.”9 The argument made by scholars who favor the retributive approach is that the prosecution of punishment ensures accountability and heals the wounds created by the wrongs committed,10 or that by uncovering the truth about what has taken place through the work of truth commissions, espousing a restorative approach, the narrative that emerges can help to vanquish the past,11 or that by making people “pay” for their transgressions, justice will be done—as the reparative paradigm encourages.12 Sometimes the argument is made that

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setting aside the past is a better way to deal with the past.13 Or that perhaps we can simply forge an agreement to guarantee that such crimes never happen again.14 Scholars have questioned the ability of transitional justice mechanisms and processes to be able to do any of this. Some have argued that atrocity cannot be redressed by the standard mechanisms of transitional justice15 or that these mechanisms produce alienation instead of reconciliation.16 It is important to note that there are many who are skeptical of the effects of transitional justice approaches overall. Feminist scholars, for example, question the utility of approaches that focus only on what have traditionally been seen as “public” crimes but leave out women and the violations committed against them.17 Others have focused on the insufficiency of the reach of transitional justice, arguing for “transformation” through the inclusion of economic and social crimes and solutions to them.18 Another critique concerns the focus only on lower-order “surface” needs at a macro level through a one-dimensional mechanism. This belies the deeper needs of a population that has been affected by conflict and division. It fails to capture the “coming to terms” that the Secretary-General identified as critical. People have suffered, and that suffering continues even after the conflict is officially halted. Perpetrators often still occupy those same positions of power that afforded them the opportunity to do what they did. Physical needs are compounded by psychosocial needs. And the technocratic solutions aimed at addressing what Nagy calls a “slice” of the larger problems that need to be addressed are insufficient.19 That gap has been addressed by scholars who seek to understand the more ambiguous “soft tissue” that joins together those seemingly disparate yet deeply interlinked domains—what Leebaw has called the “irreconcilable goals of transitional justice.”20 The literature is replete with theoretical and practical explanations of reconciliation,21 as well as other interpersonal processes like forgiveness22 and acknowledgement.23 This book is part of the move to address the interpersonal journey that is likewise part of the process of transitional justice as it seeks to “come to terms” with the past. The mechanisms themselves fall short on the relational and communal dimension, as well as on the dimension of personal healing. Even processes of forgiveness, acknowledgement, and reconciliation often do not work as well as they might. The thin sympathetic hypothesis laid out in this book is intended as a solution. By taking the time to work on thin

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sympathy before formal processes of transitional justice are implemented, the results of those formal processes, in terms of both the mechanisms and the interpersonal processes, could be “thickened” in a way that will make them work better.

Methodology I have carried out fieldwork in Uganda across three longitudinal studies, over close to twenty years. I have spent a combined total of twenty-seven months in Uganda over a series of twelve fieldwork trips between 2001 and 2017, carrying out 440 qualitative interviews with policy-makers and participants and observers of transitional processes—including the Commission of Inquiry into Violations of Human Rights and traditional practices of justice—and tracing the contours of policy decisions, although I began to consider Uganda in significant detail as far back as 1998. In particular, the book relies on data I collected on field trips to Uganda in 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2017 to extend the thin sympathetic theoretical model. I conducted interviews in 2014 to uncover evidence of outsider-led initiatives between groups and in 2015 to understand the role of the government, donors, and civil society in supporting these processes. And this book builds on interviews I conducted in 2016 and 2017 to understand the activities that government, donors, and civil society have carried out to sensitize the population to the experience of the “other” and begin the process of building thin sympathy. In a few cases, it also reaches back to the interviews I conducted for those earlier studies, where relevant. I have used a methodological tool known as process tracing, the “systematic examination of diagnostic evidence selected and analyzed in light of research questions and hypotheses posed by the researcher.”24 The approach relies on targeted, non-probability sampling to identify key actors who have had the most involvement with the processes in question: interviews with mid- to high-level elites and policy-makers who have been involved in these processes are employed to obtain this information. Elite interviews “provide the researcher with a means to probe beyond official accounts and narratives and ask theoretically guided questions about issues that are highly specific to the research objectives. When interviewees have been significant players, when their memories are strong, and when they are willing to disclose their knowledge of events in an impartial manner, elite interviews are arguably the

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most important instrument in the process tracer’s data collection toolkit.”25 All of this has been buttressed by deep historical study and examination of archival documents and other sources to better understand what has taken place. I have also relied on a second and related methodological approach known as practice tracing, which goes beyond the explanatory accounts offered by the process tracing model to establish the causal power of practices. Pouliot notes that “practices have causal power in the sense that they make other things happen. Practices are the generative force thanks to which society and politics take shape; they produce concrete effects in and on the world.”26 Understanding the knock-on effects of the processes that were undertaken in Uganda, therefore, has been central to the work. This work makes further use of a secondary, modified respondent-driven sampling process through which to locate additional actors who may have important information to share, taking care to avoid coercion, pressure, and obligation, by asking interviewees to mention my study to others and to provide details of the study and my contact information to them, so those others could contact me if they were interested in taking part in the study. And I have made use of “fortuitous contacts” resulting from “an increasing sensitivity and attentiveness to information related to the study’s focus that develops as the researcher becomes steeped in the research area.”27 The interviewees therefore constitute “elites”—policy-makers and other prominent individuals who have been directly involved in the process, including government officials, opposition party members, academics, and religious and community leaders. In most cases I have explicitly identified the interviewees using both their name and their title, to give the reader a clear sense of who is commenting and why. But in other cases, either because the interviewee explicitly asked for anonymity or because the sensitive nature of their contributions in an increasingly precarious climate made it too dangerous to attribute direct quotations to them, a small number of quotations are attributed using a rather more vague descriptor. Given the nature of the animosity in Uganda toward civil society groups, it is my sincere hope that the reader will understand the need for such anonymity. What I learned in that process, therefore, generated the thin sympathetic hypothesis laid out in this book. George and Bennett note that “the intensive study of one case . . . may provide significant theoretical insights. Processtracing can perform a heuristic function as well, generating new variables or hypotheses on the basis of sequences of events observed inductively in case studies.”28

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The book outlines the thin sympathetic hypothesis and unpacks how the actual work of cultivating thin sympathy can be carried out, how it can be intentionally cultivated, and how thin sympathy can serve to thicken the transitional justice strategies that are ultimately employed. It parses the prospects for the resolution of harms caused both by conflict and by the irrational, extratransitional use of transitional justice. And throughout the book, the thin sympathetic hypothesis is considered against the background and context of failed attempts at transitional justice in Uganda. The balance of this chapter provides further explanation of what is in store for readers throughout the book. Chapter 2 lays out the background and history of the cyclical conflict in Uganda, which is the main case examined throughout the book. Although the history could extend much further back, it is limited to a general discussion of the context of conflict in the colonial period; the focus is really on the modern era, since independence in 1962. It includes an analysis of the divisions that exist within the country, and it concludes with some examination of the elements within Uganda that drive the conflict. In Chapter 3, the political circumstances of Uganda’s current situation are explored. The many “extratransitional” uses of transitional justice are unpacked, all of them official initiatives of the Ugandan government, as false starts at transitional justice. Such unsuccessful attempts have caused a number of harms to the population at large—above all else, there has been a demonstrated failure by the government and, ultimately, by many Ugandans to engage in the stuff of civic life. Such false starts have also blocked the fostering of thin sympathy and have deterred its development overall. That kind of insincerity, seeming to practice transitional justice without actually committing to it,29 or else failing to address suffering at all, has caused the population to become discouraged but has also further exacerbated the latent—and not so latent—proclivities toward violence, hatred, and hostility. Disingenuous attempts at transitional justice hinder any headway that is being made by failing to reinforce it by undergirding positive action. False starts are, in fact, more harmful to conflict-affected societies than if nothing was done at all. Chapter 4 lays out the thin sympathetic hypothesis. The transitional justice literature assumes that people not directly involved in violence but who reside in societies that are recovering from harm and atrocity are necessarily receptive to acknowledgement and reconciliation. That is not the case. The literature increasingly demonstrates that the mechanisms that are implemented under the banner of transitional justice are not trusted and have significantly less impact than we hope they would. There is a continuum between the least

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possible amount of engagement, a basic cognitive understanding, or what I have called “thin sympathy” at one end, and at the other end of the continuum, empathy. It is my conjecture that a population must have at least a basic understanding for acknowledgement to take place and that the thicker sentiment of empathy is needed for reconciliation to develop. But first things first: in the beginning, we must take the time to develop thin sympathy. Chapter 5 considers the intentional cultivation of a basic cognitive understanding (thin sympathy) and the requirement for positive action. It explores exactly how thin sympathy can be effected, by means of a three-step process that involves, first, gathering and disseminating information in sufficient detail to substantiate the basis of claims that are being made and to satisfy fundamental issues of doubt and denial. Second, it is critical to sensitize the population through an accumulation of information that can disrupt any previous understandings of the causes of harm, violence, and atrocity, making the narratives of affected communities more familiar and creating an audience that is more attuned to the other. And third, it considers the importance of drawing clear lines between those facts and the broader political picture, ultimately exposing deep-rooted structures and producing shared frames of social reference between groups who perceive themselves to be in competition. What is important is that community members be able to identify and accept shared narratives of what has taken place. Chapter 6 takes into consideration what it means to reinforce the thin sympathetic hypothesis in order to successfully develop thin sympathy. I explore what it might look like to utilize each of three different methods: First, the chapter focuses on the everyday as a way to engage the population in ordinary activities that will help them to build a knowledge of the other. Second, it looks at the principles and ideas of cultural diplomacy, which has been successfully used in international relations, in a domestic context that is, in reality, inter-national. An approach that seeks to win hearts and minds could have significant benefits in highlighting commonalities and inspiring understanding between ethnocultural groups. Third, it considers an approach called “entertainment-education” as a means of cultivating the basic knowledge of thin sympathy. In Chapter 7, I explore the utility of developing the thin sympathetic response as a means of thickening a strategy of transitional justice, making it more effective, and avoiding false starts in a way that resonates beyond the affected communities. Especially in multiethnic, divided societies, what Azar calls “protracted social conflict,”30 such an agenda could be taken up

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by civil society, even without government support. I assess the roles played by particular civil society actors, including nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), traditional cultural institutions, faith-based organizations, and the donor community. In the end, there is a need to develop a thin sympathetic strategy even in the absence of any formal transition because it can meet the needs of the population, build capacity for action within the population, and develop the momentum needed for agency. Chapter 8 considers the utility of the thin sympathetic hypothesis in cases other than Uganda, arguing that the hypothesis is applicable in a number of different circumstances, including what I have called “no-transition” states; these include failed states such as Somalia, forgotten conflicts such as Yemen, frozen conflicts such as Cyprus, contexts where the fighting continues, such as South Sudan, and settler colonial contexts such as Canada. It also considers “traditional” transitional contexts such as the former Yugoslavia. Chapter 9 is the concluding chapter. In it, thin sympathy is explained as one part in a two-step process. The chapter draws a number of conclusions about the process itself, as well as about the implications for transitional justice.

CHAPTER 2

Background and History of Conflict in Uganda

Uganda was ceded to the British in a series of protectorate agreements that spread across more than forty years, beginning in 1894. The country that is now Uganda was then a series of indigenous kingdoms and chieftaincies, each with its own ruler and independent leadership.1 Starting with Buganda in 1894,2 all of the existing kingdoms were colonized over the next twenty years. Britain colonized the kingdoms of Bunyoro, Tooro, Ankole, and Busoga in 1896—although some of the formal agreements between the kingdoms and the British were not signed until as late as 1933.3 In 1900 the Buganda Agreement, a treaty between the British protectorate and the kingdom of Buganda, was signed, an attempt to establish indirect British rule over the protectorate. The system of indirect rule suited the British because it was less costly to install Baganda chiefs as agents and to create local chiefs to do their bidding.4 By contrast, other regions of the country were not colonized for several years afterward. Karamoja,5 for example, was declared a closed district in 1911.6 The protectorate was extended to include the “north” in 1911 (Kigezi and Lango), and 1913 (Acholi and Karamoja). West Nile, previously “leased” to the Congo, became part of Uganda in 1914.7 The colonial arrangements that determined Uganda’s early history have had profound effects on the country. The British imposed a series of rules and ensured their own security through policies designed to divide and conquer the people living in the area so that they would not rise up against the colonial powers.8 There has never been any real nation-building campaign in Uganda, nor efforts to bring these disparate kingdoms and chieftaincies together in a systematic way. Instead, those lands that belonged to the kings and chiefs were simply redesignated as districts, and the administration of

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certain aspects of life was picked up by a different overlord. Even today, the people of Uganda do not identify as “Ugandans” but rather as Karamojong, or Acholi, or Baganda (people from Buganda are called Baganda). Sabiiti suggests that this results from “the failure to socialize the different ethnoracial groups into accepting each other as citizens of one country with a common destiny.”9 These arrangements also left an indelible mark on the attitudes people have toward governance. Governance is something done “out there” by others, but seemingly out of reach of everyday Ugandans. They have been taught that governance and governing are the purview of someone else—at one time the British, but now concentrated in the hands of national elites. Branch and Mampilly suggest that Ugandan elites’ “estrangement from the masses was another divisive consequence of colonial rule.”10 I do not mean to suggest that the current state of affairs is to be completely attributed to the country’s colonial foundations. As Mamdani points out, when “reduc[ing] the past to a one-dimensional reality . . . the result is a reconstruction of the past as though the only thing that happened was laying the foundations of a present crisis.”11 The seeds of Uganda’s current situation are multidimensional. Unrest fomented throughout the colonial period,12 such that Ugandan politics were deeply divided by race, tribalism, and class.13 Uganda suffered especially violent workers’ strikes in Buganda in 1945 and 1949. Legislative and Executive Councils were established in 1920, although Ugandans were not granted access to either of these bodies until 1944, and then again in the early 1950s.14 In 1961, the Uganda Relationships Commission, established by the British Colonial Office “to consider the future form of government best suited to Uganda and the question of the relationship between the Central government and other authorities in Uganda,” reported on significant problems with the constitution, land tenure, finance, boundary disputes, and relations between the central and local governments.15 Internal autonomy was granted to Uganda in March 1962, and sovereignty on 9 October 1962. Ugandans adopted a semi-federal constitution, and elected members to a National Assembly. The dissent that had played out during colonial rule only grew after independence. (See Appendix 2 for a list of conflicts in Uganda since Independence.) Shifting alliances played out in a series of coups, with power largely concentrated in the hands of the head of state: Milton Obote, an ethnocultural Lango. Obote’s first term in power (1962–1971), known in Uganda as Obote I, was characterized by significant numbers of riots and armed attacks.16 Many

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of the violent protests were carried out by the Baganda in protest against Obote’s consolidation of power. Other uprisings came from within the Ugandan military. One of those uprisings was led by General Idi Amin Dada, an ethnocultural Kakwa who had been the commander of military forces. In a coup d’état in January 1971, Amin overthrew Obote, suspended the constitution, and ruled under a provisional government structure until 1979. Amin came to be known as “the butcher.” He carried out a reign of terror, systematically murdering and torturing those he considered to stand in his way.17 His targets were those who were seen to have supported Obote, especially people of Acholi and Langi descent, many of whom held high positions in the military at that time. (See Appendix 1 for ethnocultural distribution in Uganda.) In 1972, Amin also expelled more than 70,000 people of Asian heritage who were living in Uganda.18 Throughout his term, the state’s military and paramilitary mechanisms carried out brutal campaigns of torture.19 It is difficult to know how many people were killed during that period; estimates range between 300,00020 and 500,000.21 In 1978, Amin’s forces attacked neighboring Tanzania, which had offered sanctuary to former prime minister Obote, and Tanzania retaliated by invading Uganda in November of the same year.22 Amin was defeated by April 1979, and he fled to exile in Libya.23 Interim governments were appointed in 1979 and 1980. Obote returned to power following rigged elections held in 1980, during a period known as Obote II. Using the state’s paramilitary forces, Obote attacked civilians24 by means of rape, torture, looting, and destruction of property.25 As described by Sabiiti, “The government forces exacted further reprisals against the population, mainly the Baganda, Banyarwanda and Ankole pastoralists by way of large large-scale murder, mass starvation, looting and dislocation of whole communities.”26 Conservative estimates are that 300,00027 to 320,00028 people were killed during that time, in what came to be known as the Luweero War. Obote was overthrown in July 1985 by Ugandan military forces. From July 1985, a military council governed for six months, until it, too, was overthrown. Yoweri Museveni and his National Resistance Army (NRA; eventually changed to National Resistance Movement, or NRM) seized power in January 1986.29 They had been fighting against the regimes of Amin and Obote as well as the transitional regimes since 1971.30 There was initially hope that Museveni would bring an end to more than a decade of conflict, and conditions did begin to improve in Uganda after Museveni took power.

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More than thirty years after Museveni acceded to power, Uganda has been wracked by numerous insurgencies and armed rebellions. Museveni has changed and/or flouted the constitution a number of times to remain in power. As did his predecessors, Museveni has faced considerable opposition from many of the sixty-five different ethnocultural groups that live in Uganda. From 1986 to the time of this writing, Museveni faced more than forty-four armed insurgencies.31 One of the longest-lasting and most devastating insurgencies was the conflict in northern Uganda, colloquially known as the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) conflict or the Acholiland war. “The conflict in Acholiland began soon after Uganda’s last regime change in January 1986. It was triggered [in part by Museveni’s] methods for consolidating control over the northern parts of the country.”32 Joseph Kony, leader of the LRA, and his troops perpetrated brutal abuses on the people of northern Uganda, picking up where Alice Lakwena, another rebel leader, and her Holy Spirit Movement had left off.33 Northern Uganda was decimated by this conflict, which “over the years spread across the entire northern region and parts of the east.”34 Between 30,000 and 45,000 children were abducted by the LRA.35 At the height of the conflict, there were an estimated 1.8 million internally displaced people (IDP) within the region and living in ostensibly protected camps, a figure that represented more than 80 percent of the region’s population.36 Following the peace talks held from 2006 through 2008 in Juba, South Sudan, and military operations led by Uganda and the United States in 2008 and 2009, including Operation Lightning Thunder, the LRA scattered to other states in the region. “Almost 1,000 people were killed in a series of bloody reprisals in northeastern Congo. Since December 2008, the LRA has killed approximately 3,000 people and displaced 400,000 more, according to estimates by the NGO Resolve Uganda, which monitors the group’s attacks.”37 At the time of this writing, LRA leader Joseph Kony remains at large. The LRA conflict is just one of 125 violent conflicts to have rocked Uganda since the turn of the twentieth century. The scope and scale of conflict throughout Uganda has been immense. Including the LRA conflict, it is estimated that three million people have been killed, tens of thousands gravely injured, and tens of thousands more abducted and forcibly conscripted. As a result, Uganda has been left devastated by more than five decades of intense struggle and brutality, vestiges of which continue to occur at the time of this writing. This is discussed further in Chapter 3.

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Division At the time of Independence in 1962, there were a total of thirty-nine districts in Uganda. Since that time, though, and mainly since Museveni came to power in 1986, those districts have been divided and subdivided until today there are 134 districts in the same geographic space where formerly there were one-third that many.38 “Uganda has proceeded quickly in an almost allat-once decentralization strategy.”39 Throughout Uganda, this is referred to as “districtization.” As a strategy, decentralization has been pursued throughout the developing world at the urging of the World Bank,40 which has for some time simultaneously recognized the serious problems it can cause.41 Decentralization has played out in places such as Uganda with increasingly dangerous consequences, yet it continues at a frenzied pace. Most of the new districts in Uganda contain just one ethnocultural group—where before larger districts were home to several different groups. “Because of settlement patterns in Uganda, almost every tribe can be confined to a district or two.”42 Many are critical of Museveni for atomizing the population in small districts: “He is carving constituencies along ethnic lines,”43 which has meant that people live and work in more and more isolation from people from other ethnocultural groups. When Museveni creates those districts, he seeks only one thing: absolute allegiance to him, something that is virtually guaranteed when ethnocultural groups are rewarded with a district of their own, because this is seen as legitimizing that group’s importance. Of course, if that recognition is elevated by the official recognition of the traditional cultural institution44 at the heart of that community, the rewards are greater.45 And this creates a blockage between ethnocultural groups. Increasingly, the government has also instrumentalized ethnicity and has used it as a “tool of division” to drive those ethno-socio-cultural groups further apart.”46 Magnarella argues that “in order for ethnicity to be politicized, people sharing ethnic traits must be mobilized and inspired to work for common goals,” which he describes as “plucking of the ethnic cords.”47 As one interviewee expressed to me, “everyone is aware of ethnicity all the time. It’s such a massive factor in how people interact in Uganda.”48 Branch and Mampilly argue that “this strategy, of course, can turn ethnic politics explosive when it is unleashed in dense, multi-ethnic urban environments. It can also backfire and fragment nationalist movements along ethnic lines.”49

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Ethnicity has also become an aggravating factor in conflict: “Now that almost every ethnic group has its own district, that serves to further divide the people. Now, because you divide the districts further, they don’t know what happens in the other districts. They don’t get to know about each other. People have not met anyone from the other side. So they just assume.”50 Another national NGO director expressed something similar: “If people have not travelled, if they have not moved, they might have wrong ideas about what is happening.”51 Social distance has been defined as a “subjective perception or experience of distance from another person or other persons.”52 This builds on the idea that “people are less inclined to experience empathetic concern for dissimilar than similar others,”53 and that they “tend to offer more help to individuals with whom they have closer relationships.”54 Indeed, “cultural difference produces social distance,”55 and “empathic accuracy depends . . . on the closeness of one’s relationship with the target.”56 Because people from different ethnocultural groups rarely come face to face with each other in the market or when doing things in their local community, as a result of districtization, the president is able to tell them things about each other that no one is able to challenge—and it becomes much more difficult for them to know what is true or untrue, or to know much about each other at all. Social distance between groups is great, and this results in an inability to understand what the other is experiencing, let alone feeling. Cohen describes the effect as an “uncan[ny ability] to shut out or ignore the injustice and suffering . . . not just because of coercion but out of cultural habit—turning a blind eye to . . . deprivation, poverty, and . . . decay. Knowledge about atrocities in distant places is more easily rendered invisible.”57 The country’s top youth leader put it this way: “The biggest problem we have in Uganda is a lack of exposure. If you grow up in [one district], you grow up thinking that all of Uganda is like you. The decentralized government system has really brought this on. You do all your schooling and get a job in your own region without ever stepping out. This makes you look at Uganda in a narrow way.”58 A Ugandan political scientist I interviewed echoed the same sentiment: “If you don’t move from your place you just have a stereotype of what is happening on the other side.”59 One longtime peace activist related to me that “People have not met anyone from the other side, so they just assume.”60 Even the country’s transitional justice specialists are worried: “We generalize about ethnicity. People have started looking at themselves in cocoons.”61

Background and History of Conflict in Uganda

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One national-level program officer for a consortium of international donors working on questions of democracy, himself from the southwest of Uganda and now living in Kampala, explained how shocked he was when he finally realized the extent of the conflict in Northern Uganda and how narrowly people in the central region had escaped becoming victims of the LRA conflict themselves: I had read a lot about what happened in the north, but in my mind it was so far from us, we felt like it was another country. When I finally went there, I realized that Kony had gone off to Karuma, and government forces had stopped them there so they didn’t advance to central [Uganda]. Karuma is only five hours from Kampala! Kony could have entered in here. We seem to have mental boundaries. The way a Mukiga views someone from the north is like they are from another country. You cannot find these two people sitting together. That is by design. They cannot sit together and discuss how to move things forward because they don’t interact. Many people [from the south and west] have not gone beyond Kampala [to the rest of the country].62 And though relations might be complicated for neighboring districts, there might still be a chance that those who are at least geographically proximate might meet. But many feel that a “divide and conquer” strategy has been implemented that instrumentalizes ethnicity—one that some attribute to the legacy of colonial “divide and rule” strategies.63 Adam Branch and Zachariah Mampilly argue that “these structural divides remained the foundation of colonial and then post-colonial rule.”64 “Although the strategy is presented as a means of providing people with better social services (which is not happening) the unstated reason is patronage: creating jobs, and maximum political rewards” for Museveni’s government.65 “The President says ‘vote for me and I will give you a district. I will give you what you want.’ All of these divisions are designed to keep us apart.”66 Moses Khisa, a political scientist and media commentator, believes “the over-practice of ethnicity and favouritism has been going on for a long time.”67 This plays out in ways that affect levels of social trust: “If you are indoctrinated for many years, when they come to ask you to fight for the state, you are really willing.”68 Kasande noted in an interview that this division gives the government the ability to foster distrust of other groups.69 A number of interviewees noted that “districtization is meant to localize the problems and fragment blocks of opposition against the President.”70

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Districtization is equated with social engineering. As Khisa notes, “Museveni has played around with ethnicity in a way that is dangerous.”71 This is compounded by Museveni’s “portrayal of the ‘other’ as barbaric, swines, and other dehumanizing words.”72 A national head of an international transitional justice NGO noted that “this division gives the government the ability to foster distrust between other groups.”73 Some of this is discussed further in Chapter 4. What compounds the effect is that decentralization or “districtization”— keeping people apart—is now played out across 134 districts, keeping the whole country divided into small compartments. The result is a whole population that knows nothing about the other; a population that, on the whole, appears to care little about the other, because they are so foreign to them. “When Museveni came to power, he decided to keep every group apart so that now it is difficult for any two groups to join hands.”74 As such, Ugandans are deeply divided. And they no longer have much basis upon which to care about the other. They lack even a basic cognitive understanding of the people in other districts. This seems benign until one begins to consider that the people in those districts have been imagined as the enemy, yet are themselves the victims or survivors of trauma and violence— and that is not understood at all. This brief section presents five hypotheses about the actions and attitudes that have blocked the development of thin sympathy. Ethnocultural division has been instrumentalized. People in Uganda have always been organized by ethnocultural group or “tribe.” This has served to keep them apart, particularly where they are already divided by language and culture. But these divisions are now being subdivided into ever-smaller pieces. There have been accusations of gerrymandering, which are no doubt based in some truth.75 Whatever the cause, the effect is that ethnocultural division gives many people an excuse to act in particular ways that are harmful to the other. In 2009, for example, during civil protest in Buganda, the largest of the kingdoms and the ethnocultural home of many who live in the capital, Kampala, “Violence was turned outwards against those racial groups seen as aligned with the government. For many Kampala residents, especially non-Baganda, it was this often vicious pro-Baganda chauvinism of the riots that stood out. Stories abound of Baganda activists stopping people on the street, pulling them out of vehicles, and beating them if they spoke [the language of the Baganda] with an accent.”76 Compartmentalization has played a major role.77 Ethnocultural groups in Uganda have always been kept apart, but the government seems determined

Background and History of Conflict in Uganda

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to force more division between these groups by deliberately keeping them from having any contact with each other. Rather than promote horizontal dialogue across and between districts, each district government deals directly, vertically, with the office of the president. This has served to increase social distance between groups. Museveni only picked up where the colonial powers left off. The seeds of division were sown by the British, who colonized Uganda and followed a policy of “divide and conquer” that persists today. One human rights policymaker put it this way: “Certain ethnic groups were made superior over the others by the British colonials, so they developed a superiority complex that has persisted over time and has manifested itself in different ways.”78 This mentality has been utilized by the Museveni government as well. There is an argument that this behavior was learned, and that Museveni simply figured out how to use it to his advantage.79 There is a different argument that says it was adapted from the colonial masters, and that Museveni has used it in a much more sinister way.80 Either way, Museveni’s actions closely mirror those of the British when they ruled the country. Indigenous concerns have been depoliticized. Particularly true of groups with which Museveni has no truck, the president has disenfranchised people with a voice who he perceives seek to dislodge him from power and has twisted their concerns such that they become disenfranchised. The Ik people of northeastern Uganda, for example, did not have a Member of Parliament (MP) until their first university-educated citizen was elected in 2016. But that Ik MP’s education was actually paid for by the wife of the president, and that Ik MP, not coincidentally, voted with Museveni’s party at every opportunity.81 Frantz Fanon noted that “these battles occurring amongst ourselves distract us from the bigger picture of decolonization and sap the crucial energy and solidarity that are essential to effective confrontation of imperial power in whatever form it presents itself.”82 This seems most apt in the current situation in Uganda, where, instead of fighting against colonial oppression, Ugandans’ allegiances have been twisted to the point that they are sent scurrying, fighting any number of fires intentionally set to distract from the overt agenda being pursued by Museveni: staying in power at all costs. All of these tactics of division have served to prevent Ugandans from connecting injustices to the broader context.83 Evidence suggests that people fail to unpack particular events and decisions, nor do they look at them critically. “People are not making links between their situation and the national situation.”84 This kind of broader thinking has been discouraged, if it was

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ever taught at all. As such, many Ugandans have no way to understand, for example, the causes of such events or the cross-cutting impacts that they have. For instance, people in the “greater south” do not understand that the factors that caused what is commonly called the Luweero War between Milton Obote and Idi Amin (1980–1985) are essentially the same as those that caused the LRA conflict that began in 1986 and escalated throughout the LRA conflict. This could be because of a lack of information or because they have learned not to ask such questions for fear of reprisal.

Drivers of Conflict Cohen asserts that “men may and do certainly joke about or ridicule the strange and bizarre customs of men from other ethnic groups, because these customs are different from their own. But they do not fight over such differences alone. When men do, on the other hand, fight across ethnic lines it is nearly always the case that they fight over some fundamental issues concerning the distribution and exercise of power, whether economic, political, or both.”85 This is borne out in the literature, which suggests that “economic and social [‘horizontal inequities’] provide the conditions that lead to dissatisfaction among the general population and, consequently, give rise to the possibilities of political mobilization, but political exclusion is likely to trigger conflict by giving group leaders a powerful motive to organize in order to gain support.”86 In Uganda this plays out in complicated ways. The seeds of division in Uganda were sown well before independence, through competition that was encouraged by the colonial powers. Post-independence, Ugandans have experienced a series of what can be seen as cyclical conflicts. The conditions I outlined above may be the cause of conflict, but there are three drivers, in particular, that sustain the tension and discord. These motivating drivers foment ill will that fuels the disagreement caused by the problems themselves. Eidelson and Eidelson identify underlying beliefs within a culture as critical to a group’s mindset in deciding whether or not to pursue “ethno-political conflict.”87 They call these “dangerous beliefs.” Such dangerous beliefs include seeing one’s group as vulnerable to persecution or oppression; a sense of injustice at what is perceived to be unjust discrimination; distrust of the other; feeling helpless to influence or control what happens; and believing one’s group to be superior and therefore entitled to a “special destiny.”88 These underlying beliefs can drive conflicts caused by economic or political disagreement.

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Another motivating factor is attitude. Attitude is a driving factor for an individual’s perception of information within his or her ethnocultural group, according to Brousmiche et al. Their study demonstrates that individuals’ attitudes and perceptions are critical, because once “people . . . adapt their attitudes [they] communicate their knowledge to spread information into their social network.”89 This communication of attitudes within groups bolsters and sustains feelings of animosity or bitterness toward the other. As one of my Ugandan interviewees put it, “There is an attitude, an inability for us to form a common position to come together to recognize our past and form a harmonious future.”90 Attitudes can further conflicts that are caused by economic or political disagreement. This echoes the work of Marche, who notes that “ethnic nationalism relies on a profound sense of victimhood, even among groups that are self-evidently established and prosperous.”91 Another motivating driver is the psychological wounds and trauma of people who have been victimized. These can interrupt the building of relationships and lead to renewed violence.92 Trauma often furthers existing disagreements. This is especially important in deeply divided, multiethnic societies such as Uganda, where cyclical violence has been ongoing over a period of years, and various groups have served as victims and/or perpetrators at different times. In such places, it is likely that outsiders to a particular conflict may have been either “direct/primary” or “indirect/secondary or tertiary” victims of violence in a previous conflict.93 Staub points to the need to “sufficiently alter the psychological realities of group members created by past history.”94 “Without healing, when there is new group conflict, it will be difficult for them to consider the needs of the other and to trust the other, and thereby resolve conflict peacefully. . . . Healing, or psychological recovery, can improve the quality of their lives, make unnecessary ‘defensive’ violence by them less likely, and help them to become open enough to the perpetrator group to engage with processes of reconciliation.”95 It is important to understand these drivers of conflict, because they may sustain it beyond its initial cause. They may also serve to widen the gulf between outsiders to conflict and the victims of that conflict. Beliefs, attitudes, and psychological trauma are rarely discussed in the transitional justice literature. But all three can be addressed by the development of thin sympathy.

CHAPTER 3

Slow Decay or Intentional Neglect? Long-Term Issues with Post-Conflict Justice in Situations of Ongoing Violence and Repression

Post-conflict justice proposes to deal with a legacy of large-scale abuses of human rights including violence and repression. In states where there has been a break with the past and a tangible transition, mechanisms of transitional justice are often used. But there are some contexts wherein no transition to peace or democratic governance is readily apparent, where a despotic leader may have been in place for a long time, where regimes continue to carry out campaigns of repression and violence, and where, instead of thriving, the state and its institutions are in a state of slow decay, rotting from the top down. In places where that kind of transition has never taken place, in “no-transition,” and “duringconflict” states, this is not the case, and transitional justice mechanisms are rarely effective. Often in these contexts, when mechanisms of transitional justice are appointed, it is in a contradictory and illegitimate manner—where they are appointed so the state can be seen to be doing something without actually doing anything at all; without buy-in from effective communities; and for aims that have little or nothing to do with the achievement of justice and accountability. The implementation of transitional justice mechanisms in such cases can actually serve to conceal the atrocities of government and security forces or rebel groups, and in some ways legitimates the repression and violence that is being carried out by the state. In these instances, transitional justice becomes a tool not to build thin sympathy but to maintain divisions between the state, affected communities, and civilian populations. I characterize those extratransitional uses of transitional justice mechanisms as false starts. Those attempts fail because the state is neither willing

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nor able to carry out transitional justice in the form of a real transition. Any application of transitional justice mechanisms without the other activities that would normally undergird such processes is, in fact, harmful. Merely going through the motions of appointing a truth commission or a trial without following through on the commitment can cause demoralization and exacerbate repression and violence. As the saying goes, justice must not just be done, it must be seen to be done. Down the road, these fraudulent attempts can also block calls for transitional justice processes to be established, because the government can claim to have already done so. Utilizing post-conflict justice strategies before the conflict ends prevents the development of thin sympathy—described in further detail in Chapter 4—and will ultimately fail to facilitate acknowledgement of any kind. This chapter is intended as a theoretical examination of the implications of the slow decay that results from inauthentic attempts at transitional justice. As such, it forms a part of my broader inquiry into the development of thin sympathy in post-conflict reconstruction.1 Of course, one could say that a state is always in transition. I do not mean to suggest that any state is ever really static. However, in the case of Uganda specifically, no genuine transition to democratic governance and the rule of law has ever really begun, despite the fact that many had once hoped that Yoweri Museveni’s rebellion-cum-government, which began in 1986, would be cemented into a proper, democratic state government with time. The Ugandan government has toyed with mechanisms of transitional justice, including the establishment of the International Criminal Division of the High Court to meet the complementarity requirements of the International Criminal Court (ICC), to which Museveni first referred the situation of Northern Uganda; a long-running Amnesty Act that granted immunity to thousands of rebel soldiers; a biased and under-resourced truth commission; and the widespread use of traditional justice or customary law. It is indeed remarkable that for so much transitional justice, Uganda remains without a transition.

No Real Transition One of the unsettling things about studying transitional justice and postconflict reconstruction in a place such as Uganda is trying to decide whether and how the country “fits” within the transitional justice paradigm. Uganda is a multiethnic, divided society wherein low-intensity conflict is ongoing and

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ever-present. As I have written elsewhere, transitional justice has traditionally considered cases in which there has been a break with a former regime and a clear-cut transition to something new.2 It “has typically appeared salient only after massive direct violence has been brought to a halt.”3 But in Uganda there has really been neither of these. In fact, none of the cases where I have done substantive fieldwork, in Fiji, Haiti, Solomon Islands, and Uganda, fits the generally accepted rubric of what it means to be transitional. It is hard to think of any of these cases as actually being in transition. Yet all of them have utilized transitional justice mechanisms. These interventions have been referred to as “pretransitional justice,” “no-transitional justice,”4 or even “during-conflict justice.”5 Evidence of the benefits of the use of transitional justice mechanisms in so-called transitional states is mounting.6 But the use of such mechanisms in pretransition, no-transition, and during-conflict states raises important questions about whether the mechanisms will act differently if used outside of their normal context, whether this use will produce different results, or whether the mechanisms are less legitimate in nontransitional states.7 The use of such mechanisms in these extratransitional circumstances could actually be doing more harm than good. In Uganda, for example, the transition never really began, despite the fact that when President Museveni came to power, the Ugandan government signaled to the international community that it would.8 In retrospect, expecting a self-professed freedom fighter who had been engaged in armed struggle to overthrow the previous governments of Uganda for more than fifteen years to make meaningful democratic change was at best optimistic. Since he seized power in 1986, Museveni has not substantively furthered any of the goals he laid out early on.9 Yet the Ugandan government has toyed with mechanisms of transitional justice since Museveni took office in 1986, with no real intention of giving up power, only “playing the odds” in a kind of justice shell game.10 This suggests that transitional justice in Uganda is not emancipation, justice, or democratic reform, but has rather been used as a tool to consolidate power, control political space, and reduce the legitimacy of opposition actors and adversaries. Museveni has convoked a number of mechanisms to deal with the many acts of violence that have been perpetrated since Independence in 1962 and then rescinded or questioned their authority in an unsystematic and chaotic way.11 These mechanisms have been implemented on an ad hoc basis, meant to deal in an isolated manner with only one situation or one set of grievances at a time, rather than dealing holistically with the problems that are so readily

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apparent across the country and across time. There has been little attention paid to any kind of cohesive plan or coordinated attempt to bring about a planned result. Projects approximating transitional justice mechanisms have been tried and used repeatedly in Uganda without any resolution. These have included a commission of inquiry into violations of human rights, an amnesty, the involvement of the ICC, and customary practices.

Commission of Inquiry into Violations of Human Rights

The Commission of Inquiry into Violations of Human Rights was appointed three months after Museveni and the NRM seized power in 1986. It was mandated to inquire into “the causes and circumstances” surrounding mass murders, arbitrary arrests, and the role of law enforcement agents and the state security agencies, as well as the discrimination that occurred between October 1962 and January 1986 when Museveni and the NRM assumed power. It was expected that the Commission would also determine the role that Ugandan state institutions had played in both perpetrating and occluding knowledge of gross human rights violations. The Commission was beset by a number of problems, including a lack of funding, of capacity, and of political will.12 Although its enabling legislation specified that it was meant to forward criminal matters uncovered to the “Criminal Investigations Division (CID) and Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP) [these offices] avoided completing nearly every task assigned to them by the Commission.”13 The Commission’s final report was eventually released in 1994, although it was never publicly disseminated.

Amnesty

An Amnesty Act was enacted in January 2000 by the government of Uganda (GOU). It extended the offer of amnesty, and therefore security from prosecution, to “any Ugandan who has at any time since the 26th day of January, 1986 engaged in or is engaging in war or armed rebellion against the government of the Republic of Uganda.”14 The amnesty was initially “conceived as a tool for ending conflict . . . a significant step towards ending the conflict in the north and working towards a process of national reconciliation.”15 In 2012, Parliament rescinded the Amnesty Act, but then subsequently approved it again after significant pressure from Northern Uganda civil society actors and organizations, who viewed it as an indispensable tool to encourage defections

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from the LRA. There have been questions surrounding the applicability of the Act for senior LRA officials. In 2011, the International Criminal Division of the High Court upheld the Amnesty Act in the case of Thomas Kwoyelo,16 a high-ranking LRA member, but the Supreme Court ruled in 2015 that Kwoyelo could be tried,17 and that, therefore, he could not enjoy amnesty under the 2000 Act. By June 2017, 27,130 people had been granted amnesty.18 Only two figures, Kwoyelo and Dominic Ongwen, who is facing trial at the ICC at the time of this writing, have been prosecuted.

International Criminal Court

In December 2003, President Museveni formally requested that the ICC investigate the actions of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in Northern Uganda. The chief prosecutor of the ICC eventually issued warrants for the arrest of Joseph Kony and four other senior members of the LRA. Although the request was lauded by many, including the Office of the Prosecutor of the ICC itself, the one-sided investigation was clearly a political decision in which Museveni calculated that his own side’s actions would go unnoticed or at least unpunished. The referral was later revised to consider all crimes in Northern Uganda, but the impression that the government was using it to target its opposition has remained intact and is supported by other factors. It has been commonly assumed that the Ugandan government approached the ICC first, but ICC’s chief prosecutor actually approached Museveni to ask him to refer the situation, politicizing the situation still further.19 The referral was thus the product of negotiation in which, one can be sure, Museveni sought to insulate his government and military, something he has been successful at doing so far. The referral also put the future of the amnesty process in doubt. At the time of this writing, only one of the five ICC indictees from the LRA, Dominic Ongwen, stands before the Court;20 Kony remains at large, and the other three have been killed.

Customary Law and Traditional Justice

Ugandans across the country also utilize a system of locally based customary law and traditional practices as a means of dealing with the past, and many, particularly in the north and east of the country, turned to these during the

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LRA conflict.21 Although these mechanisms broadly fit within very different approaches to justice, whether retributive or restorative, and fulfill different roles within their respective societies, from cleansing and welcoming estranged persons back home to prosecution and punishment, their commonality is that they draw upon traditional customs and ideas in the administration of justice in modern times. These institutions are still widely used throughout the country by many of the sixty-five different ethnocultural groups.22 People from nearly every one of these groups have reported to me that “everyone respects these traditions,”23 and that reconciliation continues to be an “essential and final part of peaceful settlement of conflict.”24 A common understanding of these symbols, ceremonies, institutions, and their meanings remains throughout Uganda, even in those areas where such practices are no longer carried out.25

Transitional Justice Without a Transition

Uganda is not so distinct in its appointing of transitional justice mechanisms in the absence of a transition. Other countries have had “false starts” too. One thinks of the countries that experienced the so-called Arab Spring in early 2011, including Libya, Egypt, and Tunisia—of those, only Tunisia and perhaps Libya may actually have had a solid try at transitional justice.26 Long before that, Haiti’s truth commission nearly met with total failure as the result of a negotiated settlement gone wrong, because chaos descended again as the report itself was being completed.27 Truth commissions in Ethiopia and Chad were either aborted or simply faded away, and the regimes there carried on as usual.28 Even Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which came about when the Canadian government grudgingly admitted culpability in the face of the largest-ever class-action lawsuit in Canadian history and realized that the billions of dollars that would be awarded to rightful claimants would bankrupt the country, produced at best a kind of willful ignorance of the conditions of structural inequality that Indigenous peoples living in Canada continue to experience.29 One could imagine a scenario wherein a transitional justice mechanism was established as part of a larger transition and then joined by the announcement of other initiatives that would help to effect and solidify that transition. For example, a truth and reconciliation commission could be convoked with a tandem program of broader democratic reform and perhaps the development

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of a new constitution or national anthem—as was the case in South Africa. These peripheral supports are largely seen to have provided wider support for the truth commission to operate. Individually and together, each of these initiatives signaled a real break, if not a perfect one, with the past. However, without a genuine confirmation of transition having taken place at any point, or if there is a false assumption of a transition having occurred, matters become complicated. This can happen when a temporary lull in fighting is assumed to be the cessation of hostilities, or a peace agreement does not hold, or the legitimacy of the regime that assumes power is not in fact what was originally assumed. And when it does, any programs or mechanisms that are put in place in societies where there has been no real transition will struggle enormously and will ultimately fail to bring justice. Those struggles happen and are intensified because the foundation on which such programs and mechanisms are meant to rest is not in place. To wit: the legitimacy of the new regime may be questioned because the population has not had any opportunity to cast a vote, or people may not feel free to express their frustration with (or to) a new and nonresponsive regime. There is a growing pressure to tackle questions of transitional justice with immediacy, and often in concert with other measures that are being pursued. The United Nations Secretary-General’s Guidance Note, United Nations Approach to Transitional Justice, for example, exhorts practitioners to “take human rights and transitional justice considerations into account during peace processes,” and to “[coordinate] disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration (DDR) initiatives with transitional justice processes and mechanisms, where appropriate, in a positively reinforcing manner.”30 Although the Secretary-General does not explicitly call for these events to be sequenced at the same time, it is worth pointing out that some of the scholarship on sequencing shows that activities such as DDR need to come much earlier in the process than, for example, a truth commission, and that the two are not explicitly related.31 What is even more troubling is that the Guidance Note seems to be pushing for transitional justice much too early in the transition process, and well before societies are able to deal effectively with transitional justice processes. This is problematic because the mechanisms themselves are likely to fail, doing further harm to the population. It is equally problematic because in many contexts—Chile and Argentina stand out as exceptions here—countries get only one “kick at the can,” one opportunity to deploy a process of transitional justice, for reasons as diverse as funding or political will, and a false start often forecloses any opportunity for a second try.

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The effectiveness and impact of transitional justice practices and mechanisms is significantly less when they are convoked and/or implemented where no transition has taken place and then intentionally neglected. As one person I interviewed in Uganda put it, “When you are talking about transitional justice in a situation where you have the same government that committed the abuses, it becomes difficult. Transitional justice is very political.”32 Without those elements that might normally undergird the instruments, mechanisms, and programs of transitional justice, including the kinds of civil and political rights that are achieved in societies that are free from persecution and abuse, such as freedom and security of the person, the effective purchase of transitional justice mechanisms is substantially weakened. These instruments simply cannot gain any traction and so cannot flourish. Nor can they make any kind of change. Instead, they serve to deepen divisions within society and entrench the separateness of groups. Loyle has even characterized the use of transitional justice measures in some of these kinds of states, such as Uganda, as what she calls “conflict behavior.” She argues that human rights trials, truth commissions, and amnesty agreements are often implemented “during armed conflict for motivations which differ from those ascribed to transitional justice, e.g. advancing the ruleof-law, reconciliation, and democracy. Governments may employ these same institutions without any regard for the normatively ‘good’ aims . . . ascribed to their post-conflict counterparts.”33 Instead, she argues, “the decision to implement transitional justice during conflict is a strategic decision on the part of the government to address rebel opportunity or grievances [emphasis added].”34 Loyle’s characterization is appropriate in some cases, but it tells only part of the story. In other cases, the government appears also to seek to twist the use of transitional justice mechanisms, to target “justice” as being specifically for those whom they perceive as their enemies as a way of silencing opposing views that might weaken the power of the current regime. And so I want to add the reasons of “self-interest” and “obfuscation” to Loyle’s list, noting that mechanisms of transitional justice are also often employed to distract from what the government itself is doing.

Camouflage At the same time as Uganda has appointed what now amount to myriad and contradictory mechanisms of transitional justice, Museveni and the NRM

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have been carrying out an increasing amount of violence and abuse. The justice measures seem to be merely a screen to obscure the ongoing abuses his government has perpetrated. This almost slap-happy approach of appointing mechanisms with inconsistent aims and goals demonstrates the insincerity with which the Ugandan government has undertaken justice in Uganda. For Museveni and the NRM, transitional justice is not about justice, but is part of a larger zero-sum game of retaining and consolidating power. As early as 2004, opposition politician Cecilia Ogwal argued that the Ugandan government was purposefully perpetuating the LRA war in Northern Uganda to keep the people of the north from rising up against Museveni. She alleged that Museveni wanted to “keep the situation in the north in turmoil. That way, Museveni can come with a master serving spoon and everyone has to come to him. To look for anything at all, they must come to him.”35 The LRA conflict began in 1986 and continued unabated until 2008 or so, when the NRM launched Operation Lightning Thunder with the assistance of U.S. forces under AFRICOM command, and the LRA moved from Uganda and into South Sudan and the Central African Republic.36 The argument is frequently made that Museveni and the NRM could have put an end to the conflict at any time—if they had had the appetite or interest to do so. Many “believe that Museveni could have done a lot more to stop the LRA at the height of the troubles. I remember on one occasion a colleague telling me how he witnessed an army patrol turning away from an LRA unit attacking a village.”37 Museveni and the NRM also stepped up their campaign of intimidation and repression of the population as a whole during this time. This played out in the form of “electoral violence and the persecution of the opposition leader, homosexuals and journalists in Uganda. This is clearly sanctioned, even driven by the country’s leadership.”38 Opposition leader Kizza Besigye, for example, has been arbitrarily beaten, hospitalized, arrested, and detained a number of times to keep him from fomenting opposition to Museveni.39 Other activists and civil society leaders have also been targeted, including singer-turned-Member of Parliament (MP) Bobi Wine.40 This same kind of behavior has been reported to me by interviewees working with human rights NGOs. They report increasing harassment and intimidation by government agents, culminating in things such as the theft of office computers, the infiltration of NGO meetings by people who report suspicious activities to the GOU,41 and extreme treatment, including rape, as an attempt to stop NGO workers from speaking out.42 “The general environment is draconian,” is the way an NGO staffer whom I interviewed described the

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situation.43 The government has also engaged in efforts to intimidate NGOs as a means to make them fall into line. For example, in mid-2012, thirty-eight Ugandan NGOs were banned when they were accused of “undermining the national culture by promoting homosexuality.”44 Even churches and faithbased organizations (FBOs) have been threatened. The government “talks to them about things that don’t mean anything so [the churches] won’t insist on important things.”45 This hostile climate has made human rights NGOs and FBOs much more cautious about speaking up and pushing for transitional justice or other programming.46 The president has also begun to try to push the international community around. For example, at his inauguration as in May 2016, he criticized the ICC as “useless,” as several African leaders who had been indicted by the ICC sat on the same dais without being arrested, even though Uganda is a signatory to the Rome Statute and therefore obligated to make those arrests. Exasperated ambassadorial delegations from Canada, the United States, and the European Union “walk[ed] out of the inauguration ceremony in protest.”47 Museveni seems somehow emboldened by the fact that no one has dared to charge him and that he keeps getting away with fraudulent elections and other violence.

The Harm Caused by the False Start False starts at transitional justice in the face of continuing or escalating repression and violence, such as those experienced in Uganda, are harmful. Bell and O’Rourke note that “violating basic notions of justice [is] perhaps worse, rather than better, than no justice at all.”48 False starts do not merely demonstrate the Ugandan government’s insincerity. The damage is far greater. Somasundaram refers to the “complex situation that follows war” as “chronic trauma”—with a widespread psychosocial impact that “can result in nonpathological distress, as well as a variety of psychiatric disorders.”49 He argues that such change manifests at the collective level, noting, “Communities tended to be more dependent, passive, silent, without leadership, mistrustful, and suspicious. Additional adverse effects included the breakdown in traditional structures, institutions and familiar ways of life, and deterioration in social norms and ethics.”50 Boss describes this damage as “ambiguous loss”—“a form of harm that is external and ongoing as uncertainty, social stigmas and an inability to mourn generate ‘frozen, interrupted, or complicated grief.’”51

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In fact, false starts constitute something similar to psychological abuse, wherein “one party systematically controls the other by . . . undermining his or her confidence, worthiness, growth, or trust; ‘gaslighting’—making him/her feel crazy or unstable; [and by] manipulating him/her with fear or shame.”52 Although this definition was originally developed to describe abuse perpetrated by one individual against another, there are strong parallels with the effect that the Ugandan government’s helter-skelter implementation of transitional justice mechanisms has had on the populations directly affected by conflict. Although this explicitly concerns the people of Northern and Eastern Uganda, who have been directly affected by the LRA conflict under Museveni’s government, it also refers to the people of Luweero, for example, who suffered under Obote’s government in the 1980s, and the many other Ugandan ethnocultural groups that have been victimized across time. Put simply, chronic and cyclical repression and violence are magnified across the experiences of the country’s sixty-five different ethnocultural groups and have been over the more than fifty-five years since Uganda obtained its independence from Britain. People simply do not know whether and how to trust the transitional justice initiatives that are employed. Nearly twenty years ago, Dicklitch characterized the situation in a way that remains relevant today: Suspicion and lack of trust still permeate the Ugandan polity and society. This does not provide fertile ground for the development of democratic values, trust, or compromise, or a rights-protective society. Furthermore, the existence of a society, economy, and polity driven by survival has helped to undermine voluntarism and the development of a democratic political culture and rights-protective society. The psychological impact of years of civil war and terror [has] weakened the basis for mutual trust, understanding and compromise: all fundamental components of a democratic civil society.53 The situation has not improved. Fear continues to play out in various and always detrimental ways.54 As described in Chapter 2, Ugandan society continues to be highly and increasingly fragmented. The government has determinedly pursued a policy of districtization, whereby formerly large administrative and electoral districts have been broken down into smaller and smaller districts, each one now home, often, to only one ethnocultural group. “As part of their divide-andrule strategy against the Baganda, the NRM encouraged smaller communities

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to identify as distinct ‘tribes’ and to assert independence.”55 The government has deliberately fragmented the ethnocultural groups. (See Appendix 1.) This has served to keep these groups separate from each other. In the context of conflict and repression, this has meant that they know little, if anything, about what has happened elsewhere, and their focus has been inward-facing. Communities, therefore, are isolated in ever-smaller ethnocultural groups, harboring unfounded suspicions against people they do not understand. This division is fodder for the government to deepen the wedges among the population, allowing for a cyclical escalation of tensions and violence while offering the heavy hand of government security as the only political respite. In Northern Uganda, for example, Harlacher et al. describe the condition of the Acholi people, one of the ethnocultural groups that was hardest hit by the LRA conflict at its height: Virtually the entire population . . . has experienced immense suffering during the many years of conflict. . . . The pervasive impact of this war on Acholi society and culture cannot be summarized in a few pages. Chris Dolan has recently challenged the generally accepted description of the population as primarily a war between the LRA and the Ugandan government. Instead, he argues, the situation is more adequately described as mass torture, which he terms ‘Social Torture’ . . . He has strong grounds for his argument. [The Acholi live in circumstances of] destitute poverty and miserable living conditions for the majority of the population.56 As a result of the impact of fear from years of repression and violence, the majority of people in Uganda have failed to engage in the official transitional justice processes that are put in place. The Commission of Inquiry into Violation of Human Rights, which dealt with the cyclical conflicts that wracked Uganda from 1962 to 1986, is a good example of this, because very many people either did not know about it or chose not to engage with it. Ugandans as a whole “failed to actively pursue the process of remembering and have, in fact, suppressed many of the horrors which took place.”57 Related to this is the lack of knowledge about and engagement by unaffected communities with the amnesty process. This corresponds to Allport’s argument about the effects of prejudiced beliefs and attitudes, wherein people who hold such beliefs either talk about affected communities only privately or avoid them altogether.58 The amnesty was initially imagined by civil society

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in Northern Uganda as a device to provide a means for formerly abducted excombatants in the LRA conflict to come out of the bush and to move forward once they did.59 The process was co-opted by Museveni, who magnanimously extended it to include ex-combatants from any conflict that had taken place since 1986, tempering the appetite for amnesty across the country.60 Yet even that sweeping eligibility has prompted only slightly more than 27,000 people to “report” for amnesty. This might seem like a large figure, but it is in fact a small number considering that at the height of the LRA conflict alone as many as 38,000 children are estimated to have been abducted, and that excombatants from no fewer than twenty-six other conflicts were also eligible to apply. Official, national-level, and state-led processes that are put in place but fail to find a way to engage the people and harness their involvement are a mere pretense to appear to be doing something. If the system is being gamed by a government that seemingly appoints a process in good faith but then undermines it by failing to provide the “necessaries,” including funding, personnel, and political will, this cannot be a genuine attempt at transitional justice.61 This quietly, and not so quietly, signals the government’s insincerity to the process, in a form of dog-whistle politics, and indicates its intention to do nothing to address the violence and abuse that the government itself has perpetrated.62 Hopes are cyclically elevated and then dashed. This only adds to the psychological trauma experienced by the population, who know not only that they have been traumatized, but that the violence is likely to be repeated.

The Impact of Slow Decay on Hopes and Aspirations This kind of slow decay has important impacts on the population. One is a kind of demoralization. De Figueiredo defines demoralization as “the state of mind of a person deprived of spirit and courage, disheartened, bewildered, thrown into disorder or confusion.”63 He asserts that the context for demoralization is a stressful situation in which the assumptions and expectations that constitute a demoralized person’s ambient world (“Umwelt”) are disconfirmed. This leads to a breakdown of the meaningful connections . . . between the person and the “Umwelt” and between the person’s past experiences and constructions for the future (assumptions and expectations). . . .

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Sociocultural disintegration involves a collapse of social supports as well as an increase in perceived stress and these two factors cause demoralization by promoting an overlap of distress and subjective incompetence.64 This correlates strongly with Lemkin’s description of the “destruction of the national pattern of the oppressed group.”65 Lemkin says that “such destruction offends our feelings of morality and justice.”66 This is especially true in situations of prolonged conflict and repression. The importance of demoralization in a conflict-affected population cannot be underestimated. Demoralization is especially apparent in continued conflict, wherein a kind of slow decay gradually eats away at the dignity of the affected population. This effect is magnified when mechanisms of transitional justice are continually convoked and then revoked. As de Figueiredo describes, the population becomes “disheartened, bewildered, thrown into disorder or confusion.”67 Another impact is the further exacerbation of violence. Without any transition, the government’s pattern of repression and violence may stay the same or even worsen. This constitutes an outward display of hypocrisy. Worsening is to be expected if the leadership senses—often with the evidence of past experience—that it can get away with what is taking place and views violence as an effective means of asserting political control over civilian populations. Officials with one international development partner in Kampala spoke openly as far back as 2004 about the international community’s strategy for getting rid of Museveni as president, for example.68 But when that failed to take place, the Ugandan government only intensified its war-making in the conflict in the north, at the same time putting in place mechanisms such as the Amnesty Act and making the referral of the situation in Northern Uganda, often called the LRA conflict or the Acholiland war, to the ICC. These two actions are, of course, contradictory, because a person cannot both be sanctioned criminally and granted amnesty. These conflicting policies served to create both confusion and anger in Northern Uganda at the same time as they caused bewilderment among people in the greater south of Uganda, who had not themselves been touched by the LRA conflict. The effect is only compounded further when there is a concomitant escalation of conflict. Allowing despotic leaders to continue to behave this way is ridiculous. Even arguments that there is protection in the sovereign authority of the state have been at least theoretically pushed aside by developments such as the

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doctrine of the Responsibility to Protect and the irrelevance of official state capacity as a principle in international law.69 But democratic states have seen Museveni as a useful partner and fostered his militancy. The United States, for example, “far from playing the part of a neutral actor . . . adopted an engagement strategy that achieved the opposite outcome. There is evidence of the US support to the [GOU] from as early as 2007, based on recent information released by Wikileaks [sic] . . . discussing military action.”70 This support has created the permissive context in which the Ugandan government has been able to carry on its campaign of violence and repression in Northern Uganda and beyond. In addition to letting Museveni continue in his erratic ways, support from the United States is construed as tacit approval of the tactics used by the Ugandan government. It may be immediately apparent that Uganda’s authoritarian government is itself ultimately to blame. After all, holding on to power for too long is not new for “personalistic dictators . . . [who rely] on blood and fear to sustain their rule.”71 In East Africa in particular, there is a too-long tradition of doing so. But regional and international leaders are equally to blame for not stepping in. These include other African leaders who routinely acknowledge the Museveni government as both legitimate and somehow “special.”72 It also includes both those who have traditionally engaged in Uganda, including Denmark, Sweden, and the European Union, as well as latecomers including Canada.73 As a corollary, the responsibility of the former colonizer, the United Kingdom, should not go unremarked. But other apologists also bear some responsibility for allowing this kind of slow decay to continue. The role of the United States, for example, needs to be unpacked and better understood—particularly because it has made Uganda a recipient of so much aid and assistance, even as the GOU continued to violate the human rights of so many. Likewise, the implications of the decision of the ICC to investigate and then lay charges against the LRA but not against the GOU need to be emphasized. And the World Bank is complicit when it continues to fund programming and work with the government. The outwardly permissive attitude of these international actors only fuels Museveni’s fire. Donnelly points out that states have at their disposal a good number of measures that can be taken to encourage another state to uphold human rights. That list includes confidential representations and diplomatic entreaties, joint representations with other governments, verbal sanctions including public statements and calls for investigation, the cancellation of ministerial visits, reductions in aid, the breaking of diplomatic relations,

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and trade sanctions. States may also choose to support civil society groups, including those in opposition to the regime.74 Donnelly argues that issues of consistency are of particular importance.75 Although diplomatic entreaties have been made, they are not sustained, and when the international community fails to speak with one voice it sends profoundly contradictory signals. It is clear that Museveni regards such international relations as inconsequential, to the extent that he continues his aberrant behavior.76 Consistency of approach could change the game completely. Instead of focusing on the deficits that cannot be controlled when repressive and abusive governments continue to perpetuate violence, concentrating on relationships and attitudes can have a significant impact. Building a relational approach that changes “perceptions, misperceptions and stereotypes”77 can overcome the difficulties caused by imitation transitional justice efforts. Chapter 4 considers how this might be accomplished and why it matters.

Implications of Slow Decay Slow decay, the rotting of a state from the top down, is often characterized by false starts and irregular stoppages in transitional justice efforts. This has a number of implications in deeply divided societies wherein a transition has not begun or shows no signs of beginning, or where a state is still mired in conflict. Having no real transition sets up a number of different problems. Each of these is then aggravated by continued or intensifying repression and violence. As Roht-Arriaza contends, “As long as these underlying ‘hidden powers’ are intact, [a wide range of transitional justice measures will not] be effective for long in avoiding either rights violations or corruption, as the deep structures remain intact [emphasis added].”78 An impression of something good is created, when in fact the opposite is true. For example, when Museveni appoints a truth commission or promulgates the Amnesty Act, people both inside Uganda and in the international community may legitimately and optimistically have felt that justice will finally be served. However, the optimism projected by the regime through such actions is merely a front, behind which lies foul and even criminal behavior. In many ways, this is akin to a wound that has healed over, concealing a raging infection. On the surface, the wound may appear to be healing nicely. If an antibiotic is applied, the bacteria are killed and prevented from multiplying. Without an antibiotic, though, the infection will increase and the bacteria

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will multiply, eventually killing the patient. Likewise, the experience of slow decay and the gradual erosion of human rights, coupled with only the pretense of justice rather than the real thing, will eventually result in massive problems.79 Although President Museveni outwardly upheld the rule of law, for example, when thousands of people launched a form of protest by walking to work instead of taking public transit or driving as a response to the high cost of fuel following the presidential election in 2011,80 Ugandan security forces responded by killing nine, injuring one hundred, and arresting six hundred protestors.81 More about the Walk to Work campaign is detailed in Chapter 7. The veneer of justice being enacted sets up a false sense of integrity. It effectively twists the justice that is applied into something quite unlike the kinds of justice that are applied in post-conflict, transitional regimes. As Arthur writes, in legitimately transitional circumstances, such initiatives have the capacity to “balance competing moral imperatives, reconcile legitimate claims for justice with equally legitimate claims for stability and social peace, and foster the relationship between justice for crimes of the past and a more just political order in the present.”82 None of those things is likely to happen while repression and violence are ongoing. And although suspending normal justice expectations in a period of exception and transition may be legitimate, suspending justice expectations without any kind of transition simply entrenches the state in its authoritarian and decidedly undemocratic patterns.83 Any headway that is made—even inadvertently—is not reinforced by those dynamics and developments that would underpin advances and make them more likely to meet with success. As I have written elsewhere, “Any kind of legitimate transition ought to be cemented by meaningful actions that support and undergird the claims and declarations that are being brought forward.”84 Roht-Arriaza further suggests the need for peripheral supports to accompany justice processes.85 These supports could include things such as building democracy and the growing respect for human rights—processes that, though hardly peripheral in their own right, are indeed peripheral to the justice enterprise as it is often imagined. Putting in place transitional justice mechanisms without any intention of also formulating some kind of transition is harmful. This kind of extratransitional use of transitional justice mechanisms can, in fact, be more harmful than if nothing was done at all. Implementing transitional justice–like measures in “pretransition,” “no-transition,” or “during-conflict” states camouflages the repression and violence that is often still taking place and sometimes even legitimizes it, to the detriment of the people who are affected. It

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prevents the development of an appreciation or basic understanding of what has taken place, which is the thin sympathetic response, as discussed further in the next chapter. Establishing and carrying out imitation transitional justice can demoralize the population and even make their experiences of repression and violence worse. This leads to the stark reality that it would be better if extratransitional states did not utilize mechanisms of transitional justice at all. It is especially important, then, in places where conflict, abuse, and repression have been ongoing and governance systems are slowly decaying, to avoid such false starts at officially sanctioned and run transitional justice. But this does not mean that the needs of the people should go unmet, or that processes should not be begun that could put in place the conditions to allow some kind of process to meet those needs. In particular, I refer here to the importance of societal acknowledgement of past events, which I have defined as a necessary but not sufficient condition for social healing. What follows is intended as an examination of exactly what that could look like and why it is important. Chapter 4, in particular, considers what it is that hinders a society from taking a step toward dealing with the past. It offers an option whereby slow decay, extratransitional states can begin to make an opening for the development of societal acknowledgement and, ultimately, thin sympathy.

CHAPTER 4

The Thin Sympathy Hypothesis and the Sympathetic Continuum

Chapter 3 discussed the problems with implementing mechanisms of transitional justice when the government itself has no intention of allowing such processes to proceed in a productive way. Just because imitation justice is harmful, conflict-affected states should not be written off, nor conflict and its aftermath left to fester until transition takes place. Even though they are in no position to convoke legitimate processes and mechanisms of transitional justice, extratransitional states in a state of slow decay are in fact ripe for the development of a series of conditioning steps that can help to solidify a communal understanding of the past. In this chapter, I lay out a series of ideas about what I consider to be the critical ingredient, the cultivation of a basic understanding of the experiences of the other: what I call the thin sympathy hypothesis. Conventional transitional justice theories have assumed that societies emerging from conflict will necessarily be receptive to programs of acknowledgement and reconciliation. Scholars and practitioners imagine that transitional justice mechanisms, once proposed and then established, will automatically be well received by the relevant affected community and the broader community beyond. Yet often they are not, and efforts to promote reconciliation fall on unreceptive audiences at the national level and below. To be fair, no transitional justice mechanism will ever get buy-in from everyone, because there is often a broad-based lack of interest in and receptiveness to the mechanisms that are established. This chapter traces the factors that hamper the development of reconciliation and the acknowledgement of past events through mechanisms of transitional justice. In doing so, it develops the following hypothesis: if thin

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sympathy is not developed, acknowledgement will not occur. Building a critical level of basic cognitive understanding, or what I have conceived as the thinnest possible amount of sympathy in the population through exposure to the other and education about the other’s experiences, is critically important. Reconciliation efforts fail when there is not even that basic level of thin sympathy or a simple comprehension of the experiences of the other within civil society. There could be a significant list of factors at play that obscure this kind of knowledge translation. Through the case of Uganda, three of these factors are explored here: lack of national identity, the role of spoilers (government and others), and the strategy of self-preservation single-mindedly pursued by government.

Receptivity to Transitional Justice Mass atrocity leaves individuals and families shattered. More broadly, it devastates whole societies. To rebuild the social infrastructure and to help people in the communities hit hard by violence begin to grapple with the consequences of their lived experiences, those societies increasingly turn to the pursuit of accountability and redress for victims and survivors.1 These might include truth commissions, amnesties, trials, reparations schemes, and lustration, for example. The transitional justice literature implicitly assumes that post-conflict societies will embrace these programs. Often, this is an assumption and not empirical fact. It is not uncommon for transitional justice processes such as truth commissions, trials, or reparations programs to be met with indifference or outright hostility. In some instances, one form of transitional justice is even pitted against another: truth versus prosecution, amnesty versus prosecution, and so on. Too often, survivors are left to pursue social reconstruction alone, while the perpetrators of the violence are able to disengage completely—ultimately let off the hook by the disinterest of others in pursuing justice, despite the fact that many of these people might themselves be survivors of a different conflict, making them simultaneously victims/survivors, perpetrators, and outsiders. Outsiders, then, can easily ignore the situation in which survivors find themselves, and they commonly do. This chapter develops the hypothesis that transitional justice efforts are ultimately much less successful when they are pursued without at least the very basic engagement of outsiders who may have been completely unaware

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of the harm. It is critically important for post-conflict societies to acknowledge the past, no matter how painful. But without a basic understanding of the needs of the other (that is, the victim or survivor)—what I refer to as thin sympathy—outsiders, let alone perpetrators, simply do not engage in the healing process. The utility and influence of transitional justice processes is greatly diminished without the way having been paved first for outsiders to cultivate this basic cognitive familiarity.

Acknowledgement Acknowledgement is the “spelling out [of] facts, publicly stating facts . . . a kind of avowal or marking out of what we know” in the aftermath of gross violations of human rights and repression.2 This kind of admission of fact about the past must culminate in a public admitting to and accepting a knowledge of events that have taken place. As I define it, acknowledgement itself is the accretion of a number of personal and interpersonal processes that begin with an emotional response to the recognition of what has taken place and subsequently coming to terms with the details, then a conscious remembering, followed by the commemoration of past events. It is my hypothesis that acknowledgement is the one stage through which any successful process of societal recovery must pass. As I argued in an earlier book, The Politics of Acknowledgement, acknowledgement is a necessary but not sufficient condition in the process of social rebuilding that must take place in communities that have suffered harms through gross violations of human rights, repression, and so on.3 “There is a strong and causal relationship between acknowledgement and forgiveness, social trust . . . and reconciliation.”4 It seems that societies, and the individuals who make up those societies, must engage in a process of acknowledgement before any of the other acts of social rebuilding, such as forgiveness and reconciliation, can take place.5 In many communities, however, the events of the past are simply never discussed. Rather, the history of the events themselves and the many consequences of those events is left to bubble beneath the surface—allowing perpetrators, outsiders, and others in the broader community to move forward, seemingly oblivious to what has taken place, while survivors and their descendants often remember in excruciating detail. In Uganda, for example, this can be seen in districts such as Luweero, where the conflict that was waged by Milton Obote and his supporters between 1980 and 1985 is no longer discussed,

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yet women living with the painful physical scars of gang rape are shunned from their communities. Northerners, particularly the Acholi, are scapegoated as agents of that conflict and are not welcomed into those same communities. Unless these atrocities are both privately and publicly acknowledged by individuals within a society, including survivors, perpetrators, and outsiders, the society cannot move forward on the continuum of social rebuilding.6 Individually, and therefore privately, acknowledgement is accomplished through deep introspection and confronting the past. The growing awareness of details of abuse and harm causes a person to begin to accept and deal with facts that can be difficult or unpleasant to admit. Putting this information into context often causes it to come sharply into contrast with what was previously assumed, and this can be difficult to face. But once the individual, through both personal development and interpersonal awareness—both alone and in relationship with others—has admitted the past, he or she is compelled to remember it. One famous example of this kind of admission is German Chancellor Willy Brandt, who, during a 1970 visit to Warsaw, spontaneously knelt after placing a wreath on a monument to Jews who had died in the Warsaw Ghetto under Nazi rule, visibly moved by the experience.7 Publicly, acknowledgement may be carried out through the establishment of mechanisms of transitional justice: the testimony offered at a truth commission hearing, for example, can assist in establishing a public narrative account of what has taken place once it is disseminated, which can lead to the official recognition of what happened. Likewise, a public apology offered by a head of government to a group that was wronged can constitute an admission of these events and the suffering that occurred as a result. The literature is replete with descriptions and evaluations of all sorts of modalities that can result in the public acknowledgement of past events.8

Sympathetic Response Conventional theories have assumed that societies emerging from abuse and harm are necessarily receptive to programs of acknowledgement and reconciliation almost as soon as they are offered. Pablo De Greiff, for example, presupposes that individuals have an implicit understanding of the value of truth-telling and support it.9 More than forty truth commissions have been established around the world since 1974, and millions of dollars have been spent on their operation. Yet the literature increasingly demonstrates that the

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mechanisms themselves are not always trusted by the population, and that they often have very little impact because the population as a whole fails to engage with them. This was the case, for example, in post-communist Hungary, where “elites . . . supported lustration, and the majority of the population . . . grew increasingly uninterested in and sometimes even hostile to the process.”10 In Haiti after the Cédras regime, only those who had supported Aristide were willing to participate in the truth commission; the commissioners and other staffers faced extreme hostility and even death threats from the rest of the population, many of whom were ardent supporters of Cédras.11 The same has been said for other kinds of social rebuilding and transitional justice processes the world over: transitional justice mechanisms are meant to establish broad-based narratives and truths, but when whole sections of a state or society fail to engage with them, even the best mechanisms will fail.

Fertile Soil This failure results when the foundational requirements for real success—a cognitive understanding of what has taken place—are not firmly in place when such processes are implemented. Take the analogy of gardening, for example. Horticulturalists might amend soil that is not suitable for growing particular kinds of plants in order to make it more hospitable to those plants and to increase their viability. In the same way, the conditions for success could be put in place in societies to allow strategies for repairing and rebuilding to thrive. Without any “amendment” to the “soil” of post-conflict or decolonizing societies, the effective purchase of these processes is substantially weakened. The mechanisms simply cannot gain any traction, and so they cannot flourish, nor can they make any change. The needed amendment is thin sympathy, the fertilizer from which meaningful justice can bloom.

From Sympathy to Empathy: The Sympathetic Continuum Sympathetic response could be the key intervening variable that stimulates the impulse to acknowledge. It is important to note that the use of the term “sympathy” here does not refer to the more popular, colloquial meaning, “to feel sorry for.” Rather, the technical definition of sympathy is something approximating understanding, awareness, recognition, and appreciation.

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First defined by Adam Smith,12 sympathy simply means “acquiring detailed knowledge about the way [the other] lives.”13 Sympathy is considered to be an “other-oriented” response resulting from the “comprehension of another’s emotional state or condition.”14 Decety and Jackson describe it as “a cognitive capacity to take the perspective of the other person.”15 At its most basic, sympathy is the awareness of the experiences of another. Bandura notes that “most external influences affect behavior through intermediary cognitive processes. Cognitive factors partly determine which external events will be observed, how they will be perceived, whether they will leave any lasting effects, what valence and efficacy they have, and how the information they convey will be organized for future use.”16 Before that can occur, however, the most basic step toward sympathy is a kind of thin sympathy, which involves only a simple understanding of what has happened to the other and reflects a rudimentary recognition of both their humanity and their needs.17 A person needs at least to become aware of the situation that has befallen the survivor and/or their family and/or the wider community. Govier allows that this awareness may be “implicit.”18 Awareness, you will recall, is the first step in any process of acknowledgement. Haldemann suggests the importance of the “human need for recognition, and the moral significance and nature of this notion.”19 And although it might seem obvious that this kind of awareness is a prerequisite to dealing with the problems that exist, it is surprising just how often this basic comprehension simply does not exist. Haldemann talks about the problem of failing to recognize those problems. He characterizes this as misrecognition or nonrecognition: “a specific attitude of treating others as inferior, minor, negligible, or simply invisible.”20 He argues that When collective evils occur and mass violence or totalitarian terror tears apart whole social fabrics, those wronged suffer an additional injustice of misrecognition—they are ignored, silenced, smothered, and suppressed from the public eye. By silencing the victims, their personal and social grievances have no reality. Thus, one’s suffering is reduced to a clandestine experience—overlooked and forgotten. This sort of treatment adds insult to injury, and one can describe its devastating effects as “the wounds of silence.”21 As an example of this, immediately after the national election results were published in Uganda in 2006, I had a conversation with the then-director of

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the peace and conflict studies program at a large Ugandan university, who was from a community in the south of the country; he was baffled by the results of the recent election, which showed a significant divide between the north and the south of the country—despite the then 20-year-old civil conflict that had been taking place in Northern Uganda and was then at its zenith, and the growing discussion in the national newspapers of how little the Ugandan government was doing to stop it. Although he was the head of a program that ought to have been addressing the needs of the people of Northern Uganda, or at least the conflict that was taking place there, he had virtually no knowledge of what had happened there. A clear embodiment of Haldemann’s nonrecognition, my colleague had failed to grasp the significance of the conflict in the north and had no understanding of what was then taking place in the lives of people who found themselves victims of the conflict. The development of even a rudimentary understanding is what I mean here as thin sympathy. Festinger posits, though, that such knowledge might produce discomfort, and that this would lead a person to “actively avoid situations and information that would likely increase” what Festinger calls “dissonance.”22 But Festinger hypothesizes that dissonance could be reduced by changing the opinions people hold,23 causing them to discard their original beliefs.24 The role of thin sympathy is to provide the knowledge that challenges such ideas, opinions, and beliefs. “Thick sympathy” develops the sympathetic response one step further and involves the development of compassion toward others.25 Had my colleague actually understood the intensity of the conflict between the GOU and the LRA, for example, or become familiar with the impact of that conflict on victims and survivors and their families, such as the plight of the then 1.8 million people living in precarious conditions in camps, he might have begun to feel an affinity for them. That feeling, what I call “thick sympathy” and what Hoggan and Conner refer to as “deep learning,”26 is “entering into or sharing the feelings or interests of another.”27 Simon postulates that this kind of learning happens “within the disturbances and disruptions inherent in comprehending these events.”28 Niezen speaks of something akin to thick sympathy when he talks about “indignation,” or being triggered to feel something, which he characterizes as “an unfolding awareness and capacity to act . . . a sense of injustice.”29 But giving context to that knowledge is equally important: “When you just give people a frightening message . . . people tune out. But if the scary message comes with something you can do to avert the disaster, then people are more likely to listen.”30

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The terms sympathy and empathy are often used interchangeably in the literature, although incorrectly. Empathy is a far denser concept than sympathy and is only rarely achieved among post-conflict or decolonizing populations in divided societies, except in a handful of instances. There are two levels of empathic engagement, what Bloom refers to as a “tale of two systems”:31 cognitive empathy and emotional empathy. Cognitive empathy is defined as “the capacity to understand what’s going on in other people’s heads, to know what makes them tick, what gives them joy and pain, what they see as humiliating or ennobling. We’re not talking here about me feeling your pain but rather about me understanding that you are in pain without necessarily experiencing any of it myself.”32 Cognitive empathy has been described by Eisenberg as the “retrieval of relevant information from memory that fosters an understanding of the other individual’s feelings or situation.”33 It is this level, cognitive empathy, that makes a real contribution to post-conflict reconstruction on the sympathetic continuum. This strong and robust knowledge of what others have experienced is the point on the continuum that I identify as “sympathy.” Emotional empathy, on the other hand, is “a state of emotional arousal . . . similar to, or congruent with, what the other person is feeling (or should be expected to feel).”34 Scholars including LaCapra35 and Gobodo-Madikizela36 argue that this kind of emotional empathy influences how a person comes to terms with another’s experience37 and is required to deal fully with past events.38 It is understood as a “full-blown curiosity and emotional openness towards another.”39 But empathy is a much more encompassing response than we can reasonably expect in still-divided societies. Brecht defines empathy as a “feeling for another based on the assimilation of the other’s experience to the self.”40 LaCapra argues that experiencing trauma can “upset expectations and unsettle one’s very understanding of existing contexts,” a shock to the system that can cause an individual to “explore in a telling and unsettling way the affective or emotional dimensions of experience and understanding.”41 For LaCapra, the experience of trauma may be primary, experienced by the individual himself or herself, or secondary, through hearing another person’s story, whether as testimony or even as a fictional account. The jarring experience of trauma—whether firsthand or secondhand—is enough to prompt what LaCapra calls “empathic unsettlement . . . [that is] affective involvement in, and response to, the other.”42 There has been a growing discussion in the scholarly community about what Breithaupt has called “the dark sides of empathy.”43 Gopin, for instance,

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notes that “continual empathy for those who suffer can shatter you” and discusses what he calls the “destructive aspects of empathy”: its “debilitating” nature that “prepares the mind more for despair and apathy; [he notes that] it can even breed rage and hatred . . . [and that] misdirected empathy can lead to rage and despair.”44 Bloom notes that it is “biased and parochial. . . . It focuses you on some people at the expense of others; and it is innumerate, so it distorts our moral and policy decisions in ways that cause suffering rather than relieving it.”45 But it is important to note that in all of these cases, the authors are speaking of the harm of overengaging in emotional empathy— not empathy as a whole, and not cognitive empathy. Indeed, Breithaupt, for example, even argues that proper empathic engagement—that is, cognitive empathy—can be taught.46 Thin sympathy, thick sympathy, and empathy can be imagined on a continuum from the least engaged, basic cognition (thin sympathy) at one end to the most engaged, emotional arousal (empathy) at the other. Unless there is at least basic cognitive understanding (thin sympathy) there can be no acknowledgement, and reconciliation cannot be achieved without the more robust empathy.47 As such, thin sympathy is a fundamental building block of acknowledgement and must be in place for both thick sympathy and empathy to occur. Huyse, for one, has argued that “moving toward empathy” constitutes one of the stages of reconciliation.48 More to the point, although it is perhaps too optimistic to hope that everyone in any society could feel empathy toward people affected by harm and abuse, even the basic thin sympathy makes individuals much more open to becoming involved in the healing process of the community. Marc et al. note that this kind of engagement “does not need to be strong. . . . It need only be sufficient for groups to coexist.”49 As such, although it is important to note these warnings about the dangers of emotional empathy, cognitive empathy remains a worthwhile stop on the sympathetic continuum. To be clear, thin sympathy is not by any stretch the most desirable outcome. It is simply a pragmatic recognition that it might never be possible to achieve more than this. The thinner things are, the more brittle they often are, which presents a problem. But if the fullest engagement, to paraphrase the now-famous idiom used by the American and South Vietnamese governments during the war in Vietnam to win the support of the Vietnamese people in defeating the Viet Cong, is about “hearts and minds,” then thin sympathy is the engagement of only the mind. Thick sympathy engages both the mind and the heart. However, Marc et al. note that even “the existence of

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thick sympathy

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empathy

Figure 1. The sympathetic continuum.

a convergence of interests is not enough by itself to ensure that society will move along the fragility continuum toward greater cohesiveness.”50 Empathic response goes still further and engages the mind and the heart and the hands. My concern here, thin sympathy, implicates only a superficial cognition of the past. Thick sympathy translates that basic awareness into a feeling of concern. Empathy is the capacity to recognize or even share the emotions being felt by another.

Empathic Champions Those individuals who become empathically involved in the stories of the other and begin to engage with them in the healing process often become champions for social reconstruction. They take up the cause and seek to better the situation for survivors and their families. In referring to what he calls “policy entrepreneurs,” Kingdon writes of “people who are willing to invest their resources in pushing their pet proposals or problems, are responsible not only for prompting important people to pay attention, but also for coupling solutions to problems and for coupling both problems and solutions to politics.”51 They “structure situations for others in ways that bring success.”52 Kingdon’s policy entrepreneurs are, in this case, sympathy entrepreneurs. They are empathic champions. One clear example of an empathic champion is Justice James Ogoola of the High Court in Uganda, who spearheaded the transitional justice process in that country—himself an outsider to Northern Uganda. Although it was often not the politically correct thing to do, nor popular with the government of Uganda, Justice Ogoola built a transitional justice coalition of national and

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international actors to push for justice in the wake of the atrocities committed in Northern Uganda. He had no political reason to take up the plight of the northerners, as someone who came from a different part of the country and lived far away from the conflict there. Yet he had a tremendous amount of empathy for the people of Northern Uganda. Justice Ogoola recounted to me that he experienced a similar trauma as a child, growing up in the eastern region of Uganda: I experienced the Busia riots around 1958. As a young man, I got to see how they burned down houses—the home is their livelihood— and I watched as they cut the legs off the cattle of the chiefs and set everything ablaze. As a young man, your world is a volcano, and everything is upside-down, and then you appear to have forgotten about them and you become numb. But you only need a little flare to reignite those memories. When I became a judge and the thing in the north came up, I found myself pulled by that magnet.53 In Uganda, at least, transitional justice initiatives are almost always pursued by exceptional advocates, empathic champions who push for things to happen. Particularly in the face of threats and adversity, including rape, assault, and theft, by individuals and organizations that do not want them to succeed, those champions pursue the change they believe in at a high cost to themselves and their families. Empathic champion and human rights lawyer Stephen Tumwesigye, for example, told me why he does the work that he does—echoing a sentiment that I heard throughout the interviews I have done with people who work to promote and carry out social healing: “For me, you realize that many people don’t have a voice, and no agency. I feel more satisfied to do my work if I help someone else. Very few other people can do that work, so you have to help.”54 Daisey Muculezi, who worked for a long time with Save the Children in Northern Uganda on issues including DDR and resettlement of child ex-combatants, put it slightly differently when talking about Save the Children’s work in Northern Uganda: “Individual people thought, ‘We can’t let this die.’ We can’t afford to sit back and do nothing. You just have to keep doing it because you think there will be a result at some point in the future.”55 Rebuilding initiatives are almost always impelled by these kinds of exceptional advocates, empathic champions who push for things to happen. Often, these people are survivors. But sometimes they are outsiders who have no

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particular or direct history with that past, except through a secondhand encounter. These outsiders are particularly able to push for change and to sway opinion and policy. Allport notes that this kind of “sound leadership” is required for change to take place,56 and that their role must be acknowledged.57

Explaining Engagement Thin Sympathetic Engagement

The literature provides some hypotheses about why these extraordinary people choose to act. Staub has written that in order “to reduce their own distress, passive members of the perpetrator group tend to distance themselves from victims. . . . This reduces empathy.”58 The same applies to outsiders. Eisikovits argues that as outsiders become geographically more removed from the perpetration of violence, their “context becomes thinner” and there is less impetus to acknowledge the survivors’ circumstances.59 As is sometimes argued, “We can care deeply, selflessly, about those we know, but that empathy rarely extends beyond our line of sight.”60 Others, however, argue that bringing people closer together produces a kind of thin sympathy that will open the door for acknowledgement.61 Nussio et al. contend that “countries in which there is greater social proximity between survivors and perpetrators as well as weak group membership may reduce mutual distrust, facilitate an understanding of the other’s perspective as well as greater willingness to engage in conciliatory activities, and produce shared frames of social reference.”62 Thin sympathy, then, is the basis for acknowledgement.63

Cognitive Neuroscience

This hypothesis seems to be validated by parallel work taking place in the cognitive neurosciences. In particular, the role of mirror neurons in the building of empathy has fostered significant debate. Ramachandran64 found that even imitating the behavior of others can precipitate an empathic response.65 This happens in the medial temporal cortex of the brain, when neurons called “mirror neurons” cause a person to mimic a particular behavior. Iacoboni et al. have argued that “understanding the intentions of others while watching

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their actions is a fundamental building block of social behavior.”66 Others contend that “a dysfunctional ‘mirror neuron [network]’ may underlie . . . social deficits.”67 The physiological response must not be discounted in understanding a person’s capacity for thin sympathy. Two lessons are important here: without people such as Ogoola, Tumwesigye, and Muculezi, people who are “empathic champions,” there would be no stimulus to intervene on behalf of survivors and their families.68 And then beyond those empathic champions, the development of thin sympathy among a critical mass of the population—the smallest number of people needed to make something happen—is essential for social rebuilding efforts to succeed. In its absence, empathic champions will find no uptake of their ideas, and processes of social healing will ultimately break down, if they begin at all.

Contact and Social Cohesion

Another set of explanatory models needs to be examined: several theories have been propounded that provide ideas for what can be done to reverse the effects of stereotyping and intergroup hatreds. They focus on how relations among groups that are experiencing conflict could be improved and suggest the development of specific tools to ameliorate the conditions in such contexts. For many of these scholars, there is a patent recognition that the circumstances that produce such extreme prejudice might be hard to treat. Two hypotheses for dealing with prejudice and division are discussed below: the contact hypothesis, also called “intergroup theory,” and social cohesion.

Contact Hypothesis, or Intergroup Theory

The contact hypothesis was developed by Allport in 1954. It has since also come to be known as “intergroup theory.” Allport’s research came out of a broader discussion about under what conditions prejudice and misunderstanding could be decreased.69 His premise is disarmingly simple: “more contact between individuals belonging to antagonistic social groups tends to undermine the negative stereotypes they have of each other and to reduce their natural antipathies, thus improving inter-group relations . . . in short more contact means less ethnic or cultural conflict.”70 The contact hypothesis was a direct attempt to answer questions of prejudice toward out-groups. Allport reasoned that “true acquaintance lessens prejudice.”71 His explanation

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was that contact experiences that “bring knowledge and acquaintance are likely to engender sounder beliefs concerning minority groups, and for this reason, contribute to the reduction of prejudice.”72 The argument, however, ran into difficulty as Allport and his colleagues attempted to refine the premise and to qualify under what conditions the hypothesis would succeed. The initial conditions were four, indicated in italics in the quotation that follows: “Prejudice (unless deeply rooted in the character structure of the individual) may be reduced by equal status contact between majority and minority groups in the pursuit of common goals. The effect is greatly enhanced if this contact is sanctioned by institutional supports (i.e. by law, custom, or social atmosphere), and if it is of a sort that leads to the perception of common interests and common humanity between members of the two groups [emphasis added].”73 For Allport and his colleagues, the trouble was that the hypothesis seemed to hold only at certain times and then only under certain conditions, but “these conditions can hardly ever be met,”74 and significant debate raged over the ensuing decades about its applicability. Other scholars either reported that the hypothesis worked differently in their own experiments or found the opposite effect—and many called instead for “reducing ethnic contact across ethno-cultural boundaries.”75 At least fifty other conditions have been developed subsequently to further refine the theory.76 Pettigrew, for example, proposes a reformulation that conceives of what for Allport were essential conditions as instead “facilitating situational factors,”77 and adds that “optimal intergroup contact requires time for cross-group friendships to develop.”78 The literature has pointed to other limitations as well. A number of authors have written about the problems the contact hypothesis encounters in situations of “asymmetric conflict.”79 Others note that “interaction with the outgroup can cause negative emotions, which increase the likelihood of selfcensorship, misattribution, and stereotype confirmation.”80 Yet contact hypothesis scholars continue to report “positive contact effects.”81 Forbes, for example, has speculated that “the theory might serve us well, even without the complicated qualifications added by recent theorists, but as a guide to improving the relations between groups.”82 He argues that “the political usefulness of conventional contact theory, rather than its strictly scientific merits, may provide the best explanation of its popularity and resilience. It provides a reassuring response. . . . It encourages the belief that more contact will mean, not more latent tensions, tighter restrictions, and less diversity, but fewer foolish prejudices, a more practical, less superstitious approach to life, and ultimately, a freer and more peaceful society.”83

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Sokolić argues that more casual contact, what he calls “acquaintance contact, combined with the acquisition of knowledge about the out-group . . . effectively overcomes structural and normative barriers between ethnic groups.”84 Trounstine, too, notes that “casual interactions may work to counteract dominant, negative stereotypes.”85

Social Cohesion

Social cohesion is another model that attempts to decrease prejudice. Stanley provides one of the best definitions of social cohesion: he defines it as “the willingness of members of a society to cooperate with each other in order to survive and prosper.”86 For Berkman and Kawachi, social cohesion is intertwined with the notion of social capital advanced by Putnam, Colletta, and others.87 “Social capital forms a subset of the notion of social cohesion. Social cohesion refers to two broader intertwined features of society: (1) the absence of latent conflict . . . and (2) the presence of strong social bonds—measured by levels of trust and norms of reciprocity, the abundance of associations that bridge social divisions (civic society), and the presence of institutions of conflict management, e.g., responsive democracy, an independent judiciary, and an independent media.”88 One subset of social cohesion has been developed to deal with “the escalation of sub-national conflicts that are driven by underlying troubled social relationships and grievances [that] manifest themselves along party lines.”89 Marc et al. argue that social cohesion is “crucial for reducing fragility.”90 It is understood as the “key intervening variable between social capital and violent conflict.”91 Specifically, it focuses on “individuals and groups [being] connected in such a way that they feel it is better to collaborate than compete, and that they trust in the overall social norms and networks that govern their behavior. . . . It does not need to be strong for a society to hold together. It need only be sufficient for groups to coexist.”92 In particular, there is a great deal of focus around the concept of “bridging” social cohesion, “the type that brings together people or groups who previously did not know each other,” as distinct from “bonding” social cohesion, “the type that brings together people who already know each other.”93 The ideas surrounding bridging and bonding stem, at least in part, from the ideas that Granovetter advances about weak and strong ties; he argues that “the stronger the tie connecting two individuals, the more similar they are.”94

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Marc et al. note that the kinds of societal breakdowns that characterize “civil society failures” are generally related to bonding and bridging.95 The social cohesion literature, however, at least so far, has tended to make three fairly big assumptions that color the manner in which its work is envisaged: all of the authors seem to assume that there has been a cessation of hostilities or that there has not yet been actual conflict. In many cases, however, violence and conflict continue, and waiting for its cessation might mean waiting for a very long time for something to be done. For example, in Luweero, Uganda, many people have told me that they are still waiting for someone to redress the harms they suffered, even though that conflict took place in the early 1980s. Further, the scholarship appears to assume that the state is engaged, or at least that it wants to do something in this regard.96 In places such as Uganda, however, or in Central African Republic, as discussed by Brown and Zahar, the state is very clearly determined not to get involved, whether for reasons of inability or unwillingness. And finally, the literature assumes that the disparate groups social cohesion seeks to bring together have at least limited contact with each other.97 In many places, there is limited or no contact between ethnocultural groups, which have voluntarily or instrumentally been forced to turn inward to interact with only others from their own group. In the contexts in which I work, none of these assumptions is the case; these models of social cohesion are meant to begin too far down the proverbial road to work in cases of intractable conflict and open hostility and violence. The thin sympathetic hypothesis is an explicit attempt to bring together the salient elements of the contact hypothesis and social cohesion theory to produce a model that addresses and overcomes the weaknesses of the two theories. The thin sympathetic hypothesis contains the necessary ingredients to address extreme state failure and violent conflict endemic to fragile states such as Uganda. Without any attempt at social engineering, communities have naturally gravitated toward initiatives that seek to build thin sympathy. They have begun to try to overcome division and distrust. The hypothesis shows promise in its ability to begin that process in earnest.

Social Reconstruction Blocked Efforts at this kind of social reconstruction tend to be obscured or even blocked by three distinct factors. These factors demonstrate a decided lack of even thin sympathy, and in fact prevent the building blocks of thin sympathy from

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forming. The factors that are of importance here are a lack of national identity, the failure of government to model thin sympathy, and self-preservation tactics by the government. Each of these is discussed, in turn, below.

Lack of National Identity

There is a deeply entrenched divide between many of the sixty-five different ethnocultural groups in Uganda.98 Marc et al. note that The postcolonial states were founded within frontiers drawn by the former colonial regimes, and they acquired sovereignty without imported forms of state organization having taken root in a national identity or collective consciousness that could transcend regional differences. . . . Under those conditions, a sense of citizenship and common identity failed to take root in many colonized countries. . . . The sense of citizenship and collective consciousness that can form the basis for a social contract with the state never really took hold. . . . In many states, if not most, various groups subscribe not to a single common identity but to multiple identities based on markers such as ethnicity and religion.99 In Uganda, people generally do not identify as “Ugandan” but, rather, with their ethnocultural group, as Munyankole or Lugbara, for example. In Uganda, there is significant ethnic dissimilarity . . . between those of Bantu descent and those of Nilotic descent. Those of Bantu origin tend to occupy the west, south, and east of the country, while the Nilotes tend to occupy the north and northeast. These groups continue to speak languages derived from either their Bantu or Nilotic roots; Bantu languages are structurally inter-related, as are the Nilotic Luo languages, which makes transmission of ideas and culture much easier within a particular ethnic/linguistic group. Again, those ethnic groups which have kingdoms and are stratified vertically tend to be Bantu in origin.100 As a result, people are often not concerned with anyone beyond their own ethnocultural group. Indeed, in interviews conducted in Uganda in 2015,

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people were clear about the high levels of prejudice that exist. “There is a lot of distance between the north and the central region,” said one pastor who works in Kampala.101 A national NGO staffer, herself from the “greater north” but working in Kampala, described a substantive division between the rest of the country and the west, specifically—referring to the central region.102 “The level of knowledge and exposure to other parts of the country is sometimes very limited,” observed a human rights NGO official.103 One Ugandan representative of an international donor agency told me that “Ugandans tend to be tribalistic.”104 They think, “You did this to me.”105 “It’s very historical that different ethnicities were at loggerheads. There is [an incorrect] perception, for example, that people from the north perpetrated the atrocity in the central region. So, the sentiment is ‘Let them suffer as we have also suffered,’”106—an excuse for not doing anything to alleviate the suffering of others. Others pointed to a lack of understanding of what happened to others: “People in Uganda don’t exactly understand what happened in other communities,”107 said a church worker who has been engaged in issues of peace and conflict throughout her career, echoed by an NGO Forum representative who said, “People don’t understand that their suffering is the same as what happened to others.”108 One human rights NGO staffer described a keen ignorance of the events that take place outside of one’s own ethnocultural group and explained that if there was more knowledge of the situation of others, she thought they would have significantly more sympathy for one another’s situations. As one faith-based NGO worker explained, “We don’t have a common history. So historical victimhood still affects us.”109 A representative of one donor country echoed this: “The feeling of victimhood is all over the place.”110 “There is no one issue that unites the country. Ugandans are more divided now than they were several years ago.”111

Spoilers

The term “spoiler” refers to those whose involvement undermines attempts to achieve acknowledgement and justice.112 Certain individuals and groups attempt to undermine the implementation of transitional justice and acknowledgement. They “spoil” the process. The failure of the 2016 referendum on the Colombian peace agreement between the Colombian government and the FARC guerillas provides a stark example: as discussed in the Preface to this book, the agreement was put to a national vote, and “outsiders”

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to the conflict, who had never had any real involvement with the conflict, scuttled the process because they did not understand it, despite the very real needs and wishes of the people whose lives had been turned upside-down by the conflict.113 The effect of spoilers is important in fragile societies, particularly in Uganda, where the perceived value of human rights and rights-based approaches such as those in the transitional justice toolbox is tenuous at best. Their very legitimacy is held in question. This matters because of the nature and number of crimes these mechanisms are being called upon to address; there is skepticism that transitional justice approaches can address such broad-based and widespread violence and harm, and there is fear that spoilers will hijack or have hijacked the process. Spoilers are important because of the impact of failed human rights–based processes on the broader society and what that means for the overall picture of upholding human rights in Uganda. Spoilers also have a bearing on the number of stakeholder groups that are completely left out of the process. In Uganda, spoilers are both endogenous and exogenous. The most important spoiler on the inside is the GOU. The GOU has obfuscated the transitional justice process, causing confusion and distrust among all of the actors in the constellation that has formed around transitional justice.114 The government’s failure to articulate any one position on transitional justice is problematic. This is, in part, due to the fact that the GOU is not speaking with one voice; even the Justice, Law and Order Sector (JLOS), the government’s justice-focused unit, fails to adequately articulate its goals to the NGO and international NGO (INGO) community or to take in any of the feedback it regularly gets from the NGOs and INGOs,115 instead talking about different priorities to different agencies and sending mixed signals. But the government’s blatant tactics of fear and intimidation toward the NGO community working on these issues, including threatening them with deregistration or worse, make the climate a particularly difficult one in which to work toward thin sympathy and justice. From the outside, surprisingly, spoilers are sometimes agents that would otherwise be seen as favorable. One of these is the ICC, which played fast and loose with its mandate, becoming deeply mired in the political when the chief prosecutor of the ICC actually approached Museveni to ask him to refer the situation in Northern Uganda to the Court for prosecution.116 The coming of the ICC made for radically disordered thinking and behavior on the part of the GOU and also the NGOs and international donor community around the

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idea of prosecution. In particular, the Court’s referral only of the actions of the LRA leadership—and not of the equally deadly actions of the government of Uganda—has led to undeserved impunity and seems to have emboldened the GOU in its actions. The other actor that has spoiled the process is the international donor community, which has sought to “correct” the actions of the government via “off-budget funding” through which donors and other development partners implement projects without the involvement of government, either directly or through NGOs and civil society organizations (CSOs).117 Yet those donors are themselves unclear about what the important issues are, and there is a decided lack of coordination among donors on what should be the focus.118

Self-Preservation

The GOU, in the embodiment of the NRM—until 2006, the only party in a “non-party” political system, and still the dominant party—has engaged in significant self-preservation to the detriment of any number of initiatives. NGOs report an “arrogance, a reluctance on the part of Government, which is increasingly tending not to bow to pressure from outside Uganda.”119 These same human rights NGOs report increasing harassment and intimidation from government agents, culminating in such actions as the theft of office computers, the infiltration of NGO meetings by people who report suspicious activities to the government,120 and extreme treatment including rape as an attempt to stop NGO workers from speaking out.121 “The general environment is draconian,” said one NGO staffer whom I interviewed.122 The GOU’s efforts at self-preservation have served to undermine the creation of thin sympathy: it has sought to close off any debate, to stop the translation of knowledge and the dissemination of ideas that it sees as threatening its tenure. NGOs are largely prohibited from sharing information; that task is left to government, which often fails in its duty. For example, NGOs in Uganda were blocked from talking about what was happening in Northern Uganda and from working there once the government decreed that all attention should be focused on Karamoja, the region for which the president’s wife was principally responsible in her role first as Minister of State for Karamoja Affairs (2009–2011) and then as Minister for Karamoja Affairs (2011–2016).123 Further, the government has sought to silence its critics. This has been done, in part, by efforts to intimidate NGOs to fall into line. For example, in

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mid-2012, thirty-eight Ugandan NGOs were banned when they were accused of “undermining the national culture by promoting homosexuality.”124 This chilly climate has made human rights NGOs much more cautious around speaking up and pushing for transitional justice (or other) programming. These blockages are important because they help to explain the lack of development of ideas surrounding transitional justice. More significantly, however, they are important because they have blocked the development of thin sympathy throughout the country. This helps to explain the extent to which transitional justice has failed to gain popularity or acceptance among the general population. The effectiveness and impact of transitional justice is significantly less without at least thin sympathy. It can even do harm.

Fostering Thin Sympathy If the hypothesis that thin sympathy is essential to acknowledgement is true, then it is essential that thin sympathy be developed in post-conflict societies. This is not a new concept. Organizations such as the ICC have opted to disseminate their own narratives, for example, and the ICC created an outreach unit to work in Northern Uganda with the justification that “in order for the Court to fulfil its mandate its role and judicial activities must be understood by a variety of audiences.”125 This has been done in Uganda as well as in other countries where the Court is investigating and is seen by the ICC as indispensable to the real and perceived success of the ICC’s activities, in line with the mantra that justice not only needs to be done, but must be seen to be done. Yet outside of Northern Uganda, where the population of victims and perpetrators is concentrated, little is known of these efforts. For many outside of the region, therefore, the need for thin sympathy remains. President Museveni has understood the importance of communication and information management well. The forerunner to his NRA/M was the Popular Resistance Army, which established a series of Resistance Councils throughout the country, “secret committees of volunteers who banded together as support groups . . . to mobilise food, recruits and intelligence information.”126 Museveni himself has written that “the least we could do was to ensure . . . that the people can at least discuss these problems.”127 Yet he has only paid lip service to this idea. Museveni himself has, in fact, blocked the spread of information between districts and has divided the population specifically to keep them from understanding what has taken place elsewhere.

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Actualizing Thin Sympathy

Efforts to bring about thin sympathy within a population may be systematized in a progressive, three-step trajectory that includes: the dissemination of information; sensitizing the population to the information; and educating the population about how the pieces of the bigger picture fit together. Each of these is explored below, and further discussed in Chapter 5. To begin, factual information must be disseminated—although it must be recognized that the simple imparting of information is not enough.128 Cohen argues that this may involve a conscious weeding out of fact from fiction, otherwise “we make a conscious decision to switch off the sources of such information” and “block” the facts themselves.129 He notes, further, the issue of “doing the right thing with this knowledge”130—that chalking something up to what has been popularly called “fake news” can result in what Cohen calls “implicatory denial,” which occurs when “what are denied or minimized are the psychological, political or moral implications” of the events.131 Still, as a first step, facts and details about what has happened need to be made publicly known. The Ugandan case stands as a stark example of this: today, the majority of Ugandans know little or nothing about the events of the series of conflicts that took place between 1962 and 1986. This is true even though the truth commission created by President Yoweri Museveni in 1986 produced a mammoth report 720 pages in length, which contains testimony, analysis, and recommendations along with lists of names of those who were subjected to torture and abuse; most Ugandans do not know about the abuse because they have never seen the document or heard about its existence in a discernible fashion through the media or other civil society campaigns. In an attempt to get the news contained in the truth commission report to the people, a small pamphlet was also produced that summarized the findings of the commission and was to be widely distributed. However, due to lack of funds and a waning interest in all things related to sorting out Uganda’s past, the pamphlet was never disseminated. In 2001, I discovered hundreds of pamphlets produced by the commission which had been intended to be given to Ugandans in explanation of the commission’s work and findings. They remained in their brown paper wrappers in a dusty closet also housing a water heater and the rest of the leftover documents from the truth commission.132 The dissemination of even this basic information would fill a gap in the knowledge of the people of Uganda about what has taken place there. This would advance a basic comprehension of what

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has happened to people from other ethnocultural backgrounds and in other parts of the country. It is also important that the population be sensitized to the factual information that is revealed. Sensitization causes a person to respond to certain stimuli and makes them sensitive to the information that they hear. Sensitizing Ugandans, for example, to the gross violations of human rights that have occurred in nearly every corner of the country would spur a simple recognition of the humanity and the vulnerability of people, irrespective of their background. The value of sensitization is discussed at length in the scholarly literature on genocide, with particular reference to the genocide in Rwanda, where President Kagame’s National Unity and Reconciliation policy133 has focused on sensitization as a social good.134 Properly utilized, a sensitization campaign could begin to change hearts and minds by making them more sensitive to the experiences of people from elsewhere in the country. The next step, then, is to provide education about how seemingly disparate pieces of information regarding the experiences of others fit together in a broader narrative that would form the basis of thin sympathy. Although people might be aware of factual details and even have developed a sensitivity to that information, they may not comprehend that the discrete events they understand are, in fact, part of a broader system or structure of abuse. This lack of a broader understanding of patterns of abuse and harm seems, at least on the surface, to be typical in post-conflict situations. In Haiti, for example, people traditionally lived and worked in semicommunal arrangements, with their houses in groupings of three or four around a shared compound, which allowed them to pool their goods and services, including food, childcare, and labor, in an arrangement called konbit.135 Within the konbit, Haitians knew intimately about the violence that each had suffered, but they were unaware of what had taken place in the wider community, and in Haitian society, more broadly. The Haitian truth commission report was one of the first truth commission reports to develop a quantitative database that allowed for detailed analyses of patterns of abuses that happened in specific geographic areas or to certain types of people.136 Understanding that the abuse was not merely confined to one small area but was part of a broader pattern of abuse can help to cement the development of thin sympathy and open the process of acknowledging what has taken place. Making information available to a population, whether through dissemination, sensitization, or drawing clear lines between abuses to establish patterns and systems, is important. People need to know what happened and to

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understand it clearly. This allows people to break with the insularity and isolation of harm and to locate their suffering among broader patterns, understanding that what they have experienced has been experienced, perhaps not in exactly the same way but similarly, by others. It promises to create nascent connections between otherwise disparate communities: the strands of thin sympathy. This holds true for victims and survivors, who might know only their own story. It is also true for perpetrators who might come to understand how the small role they played contributed to a bigger whole with more egregious consequences. But it is critically important that outsiders are engaged in the building of thin sympathy so as to “switch them on” and make them active participants in the justice process. Outsiders to any one conflict make up the bulk of the population and are often the deciding factor in whether a particular program or process will be implemented—particularly in democratic or nominally democratic systems. Their understanding is critical to furthering the processes of transitional justice.

Importance of Thin Sympathy This chapter has demonstrated the location of thin sympathy in the broader context of sympathetic engagement: developing thin sympathy is a way of resolving the problems in a society where slow decay and deliberate neglect have become the norm. Thin sympathy is a very basic step and requires only a straightforward understanding of the events of the past and the effect of suffering on the other. Further along on the continuum of sympathetic response is thick sympathy, defined by some as compassion. An even thicker engagement consists of “full-blown curiosity and emotional openness towards another.”137 Even a basic form of thin sympathy is enough to start a society on the path of coming to terms with its past. The hypothesis regarding thin sympathy is simple: thin sympathy must be developed, or acknowledgement will not occur. We already know that acknowledgement is a necessary but not sufficient condition for effectively dealing with the past. As such, the small act of learning what has happened to the other and recognizing his or her suffering—without any further emotional attachment or action—is extremely important. The effectiveness and impact of transitional justice and other social reconstruction efforts is significantly less without thin sympathy.

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Theoretically, at least, the hypothesis I have described here makes possible the opportunity for people within a society to become at least cognitively familiar with the experiences of the “other.” Yet real-world experience often demonstrates that this is not so easily done. Using the case of Uganda, a multiethnic, extratransitional state wherein violence and abuse have continued unabated, the next chapter explores how this thinnest response could be actuated.

CHAPTER 5

Switching On the Thin Sympathetic Response Engaging the Population After Atrocity

Cultivating a basic cognitive understanding of the past experiences of the other is the first step toward coming to terms with the past within society. Even in the absence of a formal transition—that is, democratic transition or regime change—the importance of providing opportunities for people to hear what has taken place must not be underestimated. The hypothesis presented in the previous chapter is fleshed out here as a way of understanding what the development of thin sympathy might look like if it were put into practice.1 After decades of conflict in multiethnic, divided societies, transitional justice mechanisms often meet with significantly less success than might be predicted. Often, such processes are met with indifference and ultimately fail. Survivors are left to pursue social reconstruction alone, while perpetrators disengage completely and outsiders ignore the situation in which survivors find themselves. In an attempt to “build a better mousetrap,” the overall hypothesis in which this chapter is situated considers whether preconditions could be put in place that would allow for the more durable and robust development of things such as acknowledgement and reconciliation. In particular, I am interested in the development of thin sympathy, or a kind of basic understanding of what has taken place, in preparation for the transitional justice processes that will ultimately be implemented. This chapter unpacks the three-step process that will facilitate the switching on of the thin sympathetic response.

Switching On the Thin Sympathetic Response As I alluded to briefly in Chapter 4, cultivating this kind of thin sympathetic response requires the deliberate implementation of a series of actions that not

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only informs outsiders about the experiences of the victimized other but also helps to prepare them to understand the broader implications of that experience. As I have conceived it, that process has three main steps: gathering and disseminating information; sensitizing the population; and educating the population about the bigger picture of what has taken place, making important links between the abuses that have been perpetrated to better establish patterns and systems. The purpose of this multistep process is to lay a foundation for the development, on the part of outsiders, of a basic awareness of what has happened—the process that follows on from the thin sympathetic hypothesis laid out in the previous chapter. The following section describes these three steps and explains the role that each plays in developing thin sympathy. The cultivation process must be intentional. It cannot simply be assumed, as the transitional justice literature has tended to do, that people will somehow find out what has happened or automatically acquire the knowledge needed to make them acknowledge the past and their role in it. This kind of knowledge is needed both to facilitate the political will to allow a formal process to move ahead and to facilitate people’s actual participation in an official transitional justice process, if one is ever actually initiated. Switching on the thin sympathetic response requires positive action. Before looking more closely at the pathway of building thin sympathy, it is important to understand two critical elements of it: the scope and the objective. Halpern and Weinstein are adamant that such a process must be carried out at the societal level, not only at the level of the individual.2 The provision of information to the population as a whole ensures that it is not just small pockets of society that get the facts that are needed. “Individual effort is insufficient to re-establish empathy in the aftermath of mass violence,” according to Halpern and Weinstein.3 As I understand it, this means individuals must gain cognitive understanding, and this must then be magnified and carried out at the societal level. Mencl and Ray go further, arguing that empathy is critical for the development of groups.4 Although both sets of authors are speaking here of the thicker empathy, as discussed in Chapter 4, the same arguments hold true for the development of a more basic, thin sympathetic response, as thin sympathy and empathy are different points on the same continuum. The process cannot simply be targeted at certain individuals. Instead, it must seek to engage the whole population, to get all members of the society “on the same page.” A distinction must also be made between the cognitive and affective dimensions of the thin sympathetic process. Cognition entails “the mental

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process of knowing, including aspects such as awareness, perception, reasoning, and judgment”5—thin sympathy. On the other hand, affect involves “feelings of compassion,”6 which go beyond the remit of thin sympathy and into the realm of thick sympathy, or even empathy. Following Mencl and Ray and their work on empathic response,7 we must be mindful that the goal of thin sympathy is purely cognitive, not affective. Though a thicker sympathy or even an empathic response might be more desirable, the thin sympathetic response is sufficient to provoke at least the beginnings of the acknowledgement of what has taken place, and popular acknowledgement will make a society more open to the implementation of transitional justice processes.

Step 1: Gathering and Disseminating Information

The first step in the process of building thin sympathy is to begin to assemble the relevant details surrounding the events of the past, so as to provide a starting point for mutual understanding between people from the different ethnocultural groups and communities that are involved. The idea is that facts must be compiled about what took place.8 Outside the victim or survivor’s community, often very little is known about what that group has gone through; outsiders are relatively unaware of the experiences of the other. What is thought to be known may, in fact, be incorrect. Faulty assumptions based on misinformation often guide the public discourse in any society, but this is particularly the case in multiethnic, divided societies where latent conflict has continued unabated across decades. The purpose of an informationgathering exercise is to gather facts about that past experience and present them to the population to bring about the thin sympathetic response. As Bickford, for example, argues, there is great importance in “knowing the truth and breaking a cycle of lies or half-truths.”9 This kind of fact-finding might readily be thought of as part of the role of transitional justice mechanisms such as truth commissions or other bodies. But some kind of effort at information collection must be carried out before a formal transitional justice process is established, both so that people can actually understand the need for any kind of transitional justice efforts and so that they will buy in once such a process is introduced. For that, however, they need information about past wrongs and the suffering of others, the very evidence for why transitional justice itself is ultimately

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required. Obtaining this information could be done in a number of different ways. Lambert, for example, discusses the value of what she calls “precursory investigative institutions”—preliminary commissions and other bodies that are established ahead of more robust mechanisms.10 Indeed, sometimes these preparatory mechanisms are intended as “explicitly a precursor to a formal truth commission, by design.”11 These can perform a number of functions, including evincing specific details that will ultimately begin to paint a picture of what has taken place. But they must gather the basic kinds of facts that are needed to evince the necessity of a formal transitional justice response and to convince people of the need to convoke such a process. This kind of information can be amassed under the auspices of the typology of mechanisms laid out below. Unlike the kind of data gathering undertaken by a formal transitional justice mechanism such as a truth commission, what is needed in this preliminary stage is enough detail to substantiate the basics of the claims that are being made, to satisfy the doubt and denial that may exist outside of the victim or survivor community and allow for the development of a basic awareness, which is the foundation of thin sympathy. Any more significant detail can be saved for future fact-finding mechanisms. This first step is about the basic facts. The work of information gathering must take place outside of a stateled criminal investigations framework. It cannot be part of a retributive scheme. Rather, the investigation needs to be perceived as being as neutral and independent of state structures as possible, in the sense that individuals and agencies will agree to provide information when asked, without fear of either persecution or prosecution. As Eisikovits notes, “trials eliminate the possibility of sympathy, and sympathy is a precondition for political reconciliation.”12 Gathering preliminary information is best accomplished by an organization or agency that is not seen to have any kind of grievance or political agenda. This can be very complicated in multiethnic societies where underlying conflict has simmered for a long period of time, because any mechanisms seen to be associated with a state apparatus that is itself associated with violence and abuse may well be viewed as compromised. Any number of mechanisms may be implemented in the service of information gathering of this type. They might include royal commissions or public inquiries, panels of experts, or unofficial activities—or any of a range of other activities as well.13 Although this chapter discusses three types of mechanisms

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that might be utilized, the list is not meant to be exhaustive. Rather, information gathering could foreseeably take a number of different formats. An information-gathering exercise may be carried out by any of a range of different actors. It is important to note that there are both benefits and disadvantages to each type of patron or backer. A mechanism may be convoked by the state itself, which has the advantage of both financial and technological resources but also, potentially, the stigma of association with the regime that has carried out the past abuses, or at least with the apparatus responsible for those abuses. The state may also be unwilling to act in this regard. One good example would be truth commissions run by a ministry of justice, the same body that may have been responsible for the wrongful convictions and subsequent incarcerations of political dissidents. Alternatively, a mechanism may be carried out by some agent of the international community, perhaps an intergovernmental organization (IGO) such as the United Nations. Although the international community may be perceived as unbiased, that impartiality may come at a cost to the community about which the mechanism is implemented. The international community may not know, particularly, the specifics about what took place and may respond inappropriately. A mechanism may instead be created by actors outside the state, including NGOs. As a result, a mechanism may have more or less access to funding and data and may or may not be taken seriously by those who receive its final report, which can affect both the perceived gravitas of the situation and the potential inertia that could develop if the work were to be conducted by a more formal and recognizable body such as the state. Whichever approach is ultimately adopted, the convenors must be aware of its shortcomings and work to overcome them. What is important in the context of thin sympathetic engagement in conflict-affected states that have not undergone a transition is that the state does not have to be the agent that carries out the information-gathering exercise. In fact, the state could well derail or halt any such exercise if it is worried about the information that such an exercise will uncover. But that does not mean that other agencies and groups cannot take on the work of information gathering. There are a number of examples in which nonstate entities have carried out such exercises. One thinks, for example, of the evidence that was gathered during the conflict in Syria under Bashar al-Assad for future use by a criminal tribunal.14

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The following section compares three different mechanisms through which information may be gathered: public inquiries, expert panels, and unofficial activities. Public Inquiry

One type of mechanism that could fulfill the information-gathering role needed to switch on the thin sympathetic response is a public inquiry.15 “The public inquiry is a face-to-face ceremonial occasion organized by the state for the purpose of investigating the causes and consequences of critical events.”16 Former Canadian Supreme Court justice Gerald Le Dain notes that public inquiries are established to “inform the public, to clarify the issues, and to promote understanding of a problem.”17 Stanton adds that “Public inquiries are useful for gathering wide ranging information through their broad investigative abilities in order to provide a comprehensive picture of the facts surrounding an issue or event. . . . They are an effective mechanism for tackling large and pressing concerns of institutional and policy reform. Their independence from government and other parties enables them to credibly assess the evidence and report upon their conclusions.”18 Stanton further notes that “through its hearings and investigative activities, the public inquiry process can precipitate attitudinal change. The public becomes aware of officially recognized problems and begins to seek answers.”19 Public inquiries are utilized by the state as a routine part of its activities in places such as Canada and the United Kingdom. In Canada, the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (1991), for example, ultimately prepared a thorough report more than 4,000 pages long and sought to provide background information about the policies and treatment of Indigenous people living in Canada for use in future policy and institutional decisions. Although such inquiries may appear similar to the kinds of activities that take place in parliament or in a court, “unlike a legislative or courtroom process, the public inquiry is not driven by interested parties.”20 Indeed, although it often reports to government, ultimately a public inquiry is accountable to the public.21 In extratransitional contexts, even when states are not inclined to initiate an official transitional justice process, they might still be willing to call a public inquiry. Although their expectation might be a whitewashing of past events, a public inquiry report can nevertheless gather important data that, once published, are difficult if not impossible to sweep under the carpet. The point is that this information can be made public, starting a conversation

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about the past. Such data could also subsequently be utilized by a formal transitional justice mechanism. Expert Panel

Another type of mechanism is an expert panel, which can also serve to gather information to aid in the development of thin sympathy. Expert panels bring together specialists to consider a particular set of facts or circumstances and consequently make a full report of their findings. Expert panels are often established with a single mandate: “to undertake a preliminary investigation into the situation and to revert . . . thereafter with its recommendations.”22 The scope of an expert panel may be tailored to a particular situation, but its general purpose is simply to investigate and report on a particular situation, bound by the terms of its establishment. Expert panels may be set up by NGOs. For example, the Royal Society of Canada (RSC) “has been bringing together scholars and researchers from diverse disciplines to conduct expert, multi-disciplinary investigations on matters of public importance. . . . These Expert Panels, struck as a public service to Canadians, have provided insight, advice and recommendations to Canadian governments, industry and NGOs on public policy matters ranging from the health effects of asbestos to early childhood education. The work of the RSC’s Expert Panels ensures that there is independent, comprehensive, and evidenced-based input.”23 Alternatively, expert panels may be established by IGOs. The UN Security Council often establishes expert panels to carry out investigations of pressing matters. For example, the UN Expert Panel on the Illegal Exploitation of Natural Resources and Other Forms of Wealth in the Democratic Republic of Congo was struck when the Security Council raised serious questions about what was taking place there in 2000.24 Unofficial Activities

One other mechanism to be considered is not really a mechanism at all but, rather, a loose collection of informal activities undertaken to ascertain a set of facts about a particular issue or series of events. If information gathering has not already begun through any formal initiatives, it may instead be carried out in a less formal and/or unofficial manner yet still accumulate the necessary facts. Such unofficial efforts may have a significant impact.25 One thinks,

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for example, of the clandestine and unsanctioned efforts of many within the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of São Paolo in Brazil to collect thousands of official state documents in an attempt to put together a picture of the human rights abuses, including torture and disappearances, that were carried out by the military dictatorship that governed Brazil between 1964 and 1979. Details of the abuses were ultimately published in a report called Brasil: Nunca Mais (Brazil: Never Again) in 1985.26 The secret information-gathering exercise functioned to substantiate the claims that had been made, and the documentation eventually served as the state’s basis for establishing the Comissão Nacional da Verdade (National Truth Commission) in 2011. Unofficial processes may also be carried out simultaneously with official processes. For example, an informal effort carried out by the NGO Documentation Center of Cambodia (DC-Cam) produced a film project that recounted what took place under the Khmer Rouge. That film—itself an unofficial activity— was shown widely throughout Cambodia, and Cambodians engaged in dialogue about what the film portrayed.27 The efforts of DC-Cam took place alongside those of the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia as an unofficial and informal response that actually informed and affected the official work of the court. Some unofficial bodies have gone out of their way to disseminate their findings to segments of the population that might not otherwise be able to access them, through cartoon versions of their findings aimed at those with low levels of literacy, video versions of their reports aimed at children,28 and, in one instance, even a monthly magazine with in-depth stories about what took place aimed at the general population.29 Others have called for the inclusion of such findings in official school curricula.30 The International Center for Transitional Justice notes that unofficial efforts may be led by a diverse range of organizations including “human rights organizations, religious communities, victim [sic] groups, universities and municipal governments.”31 Scholars such as Lundy contend that this varied participation may comprise “a shift away from the top down ‘one-sizefits-all’ approach to a bottom-up model that allows ‘voices from below’ to be heard and heeded.”32 What these mechanisms have in common is their investigation of the facts surrounding a particular situation. Of greatest relevance to the question of thin sympathy, this often includes allegations of the violation of human rights. The mechanisms compile the gathered information into usable form, and then those data are published, often in the form of a report or a book. It is worth noting that although these publications may seem, at least theoretically, to be of

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little value, often they become best sellers, as did, for example, the Brasil: Nunca Mais report. The same phenomenon has been reported in other cases as well.33

Step 2: Sensitizing the Population on What Is Uncovered

In addition to publishing the details of the information that is uncovered, it is especially important to begin a process of sensitizing the population. This is the second step in the process of switching on the thin sympathetic response. Sensitization is a word often used in the NGO community in places such as Uganda when talking about how to “sell” a particular idea to a given population. It is also invoked in the medical scholarship in conjunction with a course of treatment, but it is used considerably less often in the transitional justice literature. In neurobiology, “sensitization, also referred to as reverse tolerance, is a phenomenon in which following repeated exposure to the same dose of a particular drug of abuse, a specific behavioral, physiological, or cellular response increases, rather than decreases, over time.”34 The same principle can be usefully applied when thinking about the implementation of activities to induce a thin sympathetic response. The population must be repeatedly exposed over time to the information that is known about what happened in the past. Carrying out a campaign to sensitize the population is especially important. Discrete exposure to specific facts themselves does not sway opinions.35 But repeated exposure to the facts about what happened will make the population much more sensitive to what they hear, and progressively so.36 Remember that the thin sympathetic response, as discussed in Chapter 4, relies on the development of a basic understanding of what has happened. Ultimately, this “accumulation of information” is the first step in “really get[ting] to know the people and the context one operates in.”37 Simon et al. argue that the disruption in a person’s understanding caused by exposure to such facts and their subsequent comprehension prompts a sort of learning.38 This discovery also aids in building an appreciation of the contemporary situation in which victim or survivor communities find themselves. And so it is important that a population be exposed to the information on a repeated basis to provide ample opportunity for that information to be introduced, emphasized, reinforced, and eventually advanced—the stages necessary to the “developmental nature of learning.”39 It is important to note that a “learner’s performance grows in complexity” through a process of what Biggs calls “accrual,”40 and that learning cannot be just a one-time event.

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Sensitizing a population requires a number of different actions that may be carried out simultaneously. Brysk argues that the process must begin “with sending a recognizable message about bad things happening to good people . . . [because] we cannot support what we cannot see.”41 That message could take the form of press coverage or popular cultural activities such as theatrical productions. The basic purpose, according to Hoffman, is to make the story familiar, because empathy, or what Hoffman calls “empathetic bias,” is limited “toward familiar people.”42 Because my focus is on the more rudimentary thin sympathetic response, for our purposes the robustness of the empathy called for by Hoffman is not relevant. Instead, the focus on “making the story familiar” is an essential part of the sensitization process. Eisikovits argues that “it constitutes progress to get one adversary to notice what happens to the other in the first place.”43 Then an audience must be created for these sensitization efforts. Brysk contends that audiences are “made, not found. The public sphere is constructed and layered from an attentive core of kin outward to a true global constituency.”44 This means careful attention must be paid to creating an audience that is attuned to the experiences of the other. It requires “detailed, graphic, dramatic exposure”45 to what is often difficult knowledge that may come as a surprise or may directly or indirectly contradict a person’s prior understanding of events. It is notable that it appears to make no difference whether a person acquires this information firsthand or secondhand.46 The simple act of acquiring the knowledge (by whatever means) can be enough to prompt the development of the thin sympathetic response. Eisikovits cautions, however, that overexposure can be detrimental to any strategy of sensitization. He maintains that there is a danger posed by too much acquaintance with the facts. Eisikovits claims that sympathy may “be undermined by over-exposure.”47 Giving a population too much information, or imparting those details too frequently, prevents us from developing the basic understanding that is thin sympathy and “makes us gradually lose the propensity to be moved.”48 Sontag argues that “the quality of feeling, including moral outrage, that people can muster . . . also depends on the degree of their familiarity” with the material.49 She argues that the subject “becomes less real” as a result of that overexposure.50 She explains it this way: “A pseudo familiarity with the horrible reinforces alienation, making one less able to react in real life.”51 It is important, then, for the sensitization material to be presented in a strategic way and with planned precision in order to avoid straining any person’s capacity to take in the situation. Further study is needed to determine

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the particular rate of exposure and the specific details that should be disclosed. But what is clear is that the material cannot simply be presented in a steady “drip, drip, drip,” or the opportunity for the development of thin sympathy will be lost. Eisikovits lays out three important concerns in this regard. First, there is a concern that “repeated exposure . . . might have a numbing effect on our sensibilities,” and, in particular, Eisikovits emphasizes that repeated exposure “to people with whom we have no special connection might make us numb [emphasis in original].”52 The effect of this, of course, is to desensitize, which runs directly counter to the argument laid out here and serves to make a person “less susceptible or sensitive to . . . emotional stimuli” provided in the sensitization campaign.53 Thin sympathy can be developed only by increasing the level of sensitivity to the experiences of the other, not decreasing it. Thin sympathy works, in part, by making us feel a connection with people. As a result, a sensitization campaign must work toward fashioning some basis upon which people can connect with the other. A second closely associated risk is that overexposure can create indifference and unconcern, or even apathy. Putnam argues that “information overload in turn leads to systemic shutdown, the physiological counterpart of ‘hunkering down’ . . . [and may lead to] withdrawal.”54 Yet Eisikovits notes that there is a “difference between repeated propagation and repeated exposure. The risk of apathy arises only if the same people are subjected to the same [information] over and over. But there is no reason to assume that this is what actually happens.”55 It must be emphasized that this disinterested reaction (apathy) serves to compound preexisting tendencies toward apathy: If there is indifference (as there surely is in each of these cases) to the suffering of an adversary, it is not due to over-exposure. It is, rather, a result of the close-minded, parochial, determination so typical of societies at war not to see, not to hear, not to pay attention to the other side’s fate. Adversaries are indifferent, sometimes even immune, to each other’s anguish not because they have seen so much of it but, rather, because they have been conditioned not to see any of it in the first place.56 Overexposure, then, can also serve to reinforce previously held opinions and attitudes. That kind of circular reinforcement often prevents the thin sympathetic response—the development of a basic understanding—from forming, because those long-held ideas are even more firmly cemented into place.

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Finally, Eisikovits lists a third concern with overexposure: that too much exposure to the worst of the worst crimes will leave people feeling as if it is pointless to try to do anything at all. “Seeing detailed horrors might convince the observer that the conflict is simply too violent, too convoluted, too desperate for him to try to help, or otherwise become involved. Thus, so the claim goes, detailed images might promote a sense of impotence and helplessness among those who watch them.”57 Ignatieff echoes this in his observation that many people feel “the world has become too crazy to deserve serious attention.”58 In multiethnic, divided societies that are no stranger to civil conflict and war, much of the population is intimately familiar with violence, making them far less concerned with the violence experienced by others. When it is done properly, however, sensitizing the population can have many and significant benefits to individuals within a society that, in turn, benefit that society. A number of studies have shown that such a process can encourage the internalization of “prosocial values,”59 which result in the kinds of actions and behavior that benefit other people. This is done in part by deliberately conditioning people’s “expectations and senses of responsibility.”60 It may also provide “moral motivation” for people to begin to want to understand what happened to the other. At the societal level, there are other, larger benefits. Even the most basic understanding can contribute to the building of a public sphere that is concerned with equality and rights for all.61 And it may motivate “the development of political ideologies centred around alleviation of the plight of disadvantaged groups.”62

Step 3: Connecting the Dots

It is not enough to present people with information about what has taken place. Care must also be taken to draw clear connections between events and their consequences and to explicitly connect the dots surrounding the motivations that propelled the actions in the first place. As outlined in the previous chapter, outside of victim or survivor communities, knowledge is often scant about what the other has been through and its consequences. Or there exists a profound misunderstanding (deliberate or otherwise) about what transpired.63 In places such as Uganda, drawing those clear links could amount to unambiguously explaining that the abuses suffered by the people in one area of the country were essentially driven by the same dynamics

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and political decision-making that propelled a conflict in a different part of the country—something that a large number of people who have not experienced one or the other fail to comprehend. Even if they do nominally understand it, however, they lack sufficient ability to grasp that the implications for both groups are the same. If the links between what happened and why it happened are not established, even the most painstaking information-gathering and dissemination exercise will not successfully lead to the development of a thin sympathetic response, because the understanding of an event is rounded out only by explaining the implications of that event. People need to understand not only what happened but also why it matters. Information that is not linked cannot provide a recipient with any information about the context in which the action took place. This consequently allows the recipient’s prior conditioning to remain uncontested. But the provision of information through a deliberate sensitization campaign that fits information together as pieces of a broader puzzle will cause the recipient to question previously acquired narratives and understandings, as Festinger argues in his theory of cognitive dissonance; “the consequent pressure to reduce [competing understandings, which Festinger calls ‘dissonance,’] will lead to the seeking out of information which will introduce consonances.”64 This is important for two main reasons. For one, the “deep-rooted structures responsible for the conflict” need to be exposed.65 Going beyond the obvious reveals more profound and often hidden connections that need to be absorbed along with the information itself. Second, educating the population about how the bigger pieces of the puzzle fit together creates “a shared cultural and legal framework”66 and “produce[s] shared frames of social reference in relation to armed conflict.”67 Such shared frames form the basis of the “familiar” story that must be created to foster the thin sympathetic response. Shared understandings should facilitate what Nussio et al. call “conciliatory activities.”68 Drawing connections between particular situations of violence and conflict and the broader structural issues and causes that have shaped those situations can have a number of different effects. To begin, even though “solidarity between oppressed ethnic groups is difficult,”69 illuminating broader causes and making explicit connections between cause and effect will diminish some of the competition and distrust between groups by breaking down stereotypes and misinformation. As knowledge is acquired, groups will begin to recognize the “chronic distress” in which the other group has existed and

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continues to exist,70 and this growing information will allow for interdependence and reciprocity to be established between groups.71 Staub has argued, convincingly, that this can ultimately contribute to healing and reconciliation.72 All of this is critical, as it evinces the need for processes that will begin to rebuild what has been broken—and highlights the role that the development of a basic awareness or thin sympathy, can play.

Priming In keeping with the broader theme of the book, this chapter has explored how a society could set about developing the sorts of preconditions that are necessary for acknowledgement and other post-conflict “goods” as a part of the wider peacebuilding process. This is in line with Boutros Boutros-Ghali’s suggestion that post-conflict peacebuilding needs to encompass activities that “identify and support structures which would tend to strengthen and solidify peace in order to avoid a relapse into conflict.”73 The hypothesis developed here suggests that, although the best possible outcome following conflict in multiethnic, divided societies would be a strong and robust response filled with deep empathic treatment of the other, that is unlikely to happen. Instead, this basic understanding can be developed in a large segment of the population. Thin sympathetic development could pave the way for transitional justice ideas and mechanisms to be used to greater effect; rather than wondering why a population simply failed to engage in transitional justice, that population could instead be primed to facilitate its engagement long before transitional justice mechanisms are implemented. Priming communities to experience thin sympathy requires a three-step process outlined in this chapter. This process is necessary to switch on the thin sympathetic response—before a transitional justice response is even conceived, and well before it is ever established. Such a process must be implemented to provide the population with sufficient information to build a cognitive awareness of what took place in the past, so that when a transitional justice mechanism is proposed there will be at least basic support within the general population for it, even if that support is grudging. Thin sympathy is a necessary component of acknowledgement and is related to broader reconciliatory ambitions. The trajectory of the process explored in this chapter includes collecting data and other information that must be widely disseminated for purposes of

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social learning. The population needs to become sensitized to that information through repeated exposure, but without overexposure. And although I recognize that this presents a dilemma akin to the classic Goldilocks dilemma, like the heroine in the children’s tale, eventually a society will arrive at a sensitization formula that is “just right”—by involving a critical mass of people within that society. This is an area for future research. It is not enough to provide bare facts alone. Instead, it is critical to draw clear links between the events themselves and the broader structural and systemic issues that contribute to the problems. The process as a whole is aimed at building the basic understanding that is the stuff of thin sympathy. The thin sympathetic model developed in Chapter 4 can be activated by means of the three-step process outlined here. Although this chapter has considered how information could be gathered, disseminated, and contextualized, it has remained silent on precisely how basic cognitive understanding could be brought about. To reinforce the cognitive learning produced from such a process, communities must then subsequently pursue strategies to deepen this understanding. The next chapter considers how thin sympathy can be used in the making of acknowledgment and explores some of the ways that the knowledge that leads to that basic understanding could be spread.

CHAPTER 6

Manufacturing Thin Sympathy

Chapter 5 explored the ways in which information can be collected, shared, and put into context. It also discussed the pivotal role that the development of a cognitive understanding of past events could play in societies. This chapter considers three different types of activities that could be undertaken to bring an increased awareness of the other—what I have called thin sympathy.1 Rather than thinking of ethnocultural communities in deeply divided, conflict-affected societies as neighbors, which often inspires images of friendly and genial relations between two groups, thinking about these neighbors as estranged groups provides a useful starting point from which techniques tried elsewhere to bridge inter national divisions could be attempted. The core motivation for this book is to understand what makes people care about the plight of others after human rights violations and repression. I am particularly interested in multiethnic, divided societies where conflict is ongoing. In Chapter 4, I laid out a hypothesis about the role of thin sympathy, or basic, cognitive understanding, in making people care about the experience of the other. This chapter explores the specific function of thin sympathy and the manner in which deliberately promoting the use of the tools of cultural diplomacy can advance the development of thin sympathy. In particular, the chapter considers the ways in which thin sympathy could be operationalized.

The Specific Function and Importance of Thin Sympathy Without thin sympathy, it seems unlikely that acknowledgement of any kind can take place. Thin sympathy is the starting point. Before acknowledgement

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can happen, a kind of basic understanding (thin sympathy) needs to be developed so that thicker kinds of understanding and even deeper forms of compassion can begin. I have sometimes thought of thin sympathy as a kind of on-ramp to the sympathetic motorway—a person cannot enter any process of acknowledgement without first developing that basic understanding. Thin sympathy functions as an activation for the rest of the process. Without it, thick sympathy and empathy are out of reach. But how to make it happen? The success of acknowledging past events through conventional transitional justice mechanisms appears to be very much dependent on whether communities have even a basic understanding (thin sympathy) of the experiences and circumstances of survivors, and whether that understanding is made manifest at the community or national level. The truth commissions in Uganda and Haiti, for example, failed in large part because outsiders to those processes were unable to make the kinds of cognitive connections that were needed to comprehend the enormity of the suffering of victims in order to support such processes at even a very basic level.2 Understanding how and why these processes have failed is of great potential use to policy-makers as well as to the international legal community. If the thin sympathetic hypothesis is correct, it seems likely that resources, including funding and expertise, could be directed at fostering thin sympathy so as to encourage acknowledgement in communities dealing with past abuse. Because evidence shows that acknowledgement processes can play a strong role in the process of social reconstruction after conflict,3 these processes could be employed to substantially strengthen the social infrastructure of conflict-affected areas of Uganda and elsewhere.

Manufacturing Thin Sympathy Origins: Winning Hearts and Minds

Making people care is acknowledged by many organizations as critical their success. Nye theorizes about the importance of the “ability to influence the behavior of others to get the outcomes one wants” in his work on soft power.4 Nye’s argument is that co-opting people rather than coercing them is more successful, and these ideas have had wide influence in international relations.5 The idea of winning hearts and minds can be traced to a 1952 British military offensive in what was then called Malaya.6 But it gained significantly

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more attention with reference to the Vietnam War, when it was adopted as part of a “pacification” strategy deployed by the United States.7 The approach has since been adopted by other military and paramilitary organizations. The Irish Republican Army, for example, engaged in outreach to win the hearts and minds of the people of Northern Ireland: one of their training manuals explained, “Successful guerrilla operations involve the people. It is the quality of their resistance to the enemy and support for the guerrillas which in the end will be the decisive factor. . . . In fact, a guerrilla force will be unable to operate in an area where the people are hostile to its aims.”8 The majority of the work in this area has come out of the military world. “Information operations” are generally seen to include a number of elements: “The integrated employment of the core capabilities of electronic warfare, computer network operations, psychological operations (PSYOP), military deception, and operations security, in concert with specified supporting and related capabilities to influence, disrupt, corrupt or usurp adversarial human and automated decision-making, while protecting our own.”9 A spinoff of these techniques, known as “public diplomacy,” has been widely adopted in statecraft and international diplomacy. The U.S. State Department once defined public diplomacy as “government-sponsored programs intended to inform or influence public opinion in other countries; its chief instruments are publications, motion pictures, cultural exchanges, radio and television.”10 Civilian organizations, too, have adopted these strategies, in what has come to be known as “information operations.” The ICC, for example, created an outreach unit with the justification that “in order for the Court to fulfil its mandate, its role and judicial activities must be understood by a variety of audiences,”11 as has been done in Uganda and in other countries where the Court is at work on investigations and prosecutions. The military and civilian literature establishes that the segregation of different groups within the population “ultimately inhibits cooperation” and breeds division.12 Jacobs writes about public spaces as potential intermediate spaces of contact13—a concept echoed, albeit in a more abstract form, by Granovetter, who argues that “the more local bridges in a community and the greater their degree, the more cohesive the community and the more capable of acting in concert.”14 Focusing on what Saguy calls “commonality-focused contact”15 can “temporarily suspend the ethnic boundaries that are routinely enforced” in communities.16 A wide range of literature demonstrates that

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fostering cooperation between groups can produce tangible benefits.17 Sokolić, for example, notes that “the mechanisms of cooperation and shared aspirations . . . enable individuals to resist divisive normative frameworks and to overcome structural barriers between ethnicities.”18 Saguy argues that “cooperation is a central element constituting a positive, or optimal, intergroup interaction. . . . If people work together toward a common goal, they are likely to view themselves as sharing a common group membership, or a superordinate identity, with others who work toward the same goal.”19 Ultimately, Kostovicova imagines that “patterns of interaction” can promote the sharing of “knowledge in order to arrive at a mutual understanding . . . [and] robust interactions across ethnic lines.”20 Building thin sympathy could take place via multiple avenues simultaneously, using a multitrack approach. And as demonstrated in Chapter 5, the state does not have to be involved. Even in the absence of state action, community-based organizations and civil society could easily get to work, to quote the Eurythmics, “doin’ it for themselves.”21 Processes and practices could be instigated and organized by grassroots, local populations at the community level; by civil society; by national organizations; and even by international organizations. Although it is not necessarily ideal that the state is not engaged, this kind of “informality can be a way of coping with institutional incapacities and shortcomings,”22 particularly in places where the state is either completely absent or its engagement could be harmful. It can likewise counter the problems caused by the implementation of “empty institutions” created by the state either to save face or to serve as a decoy for otherwise unacceptable behavior.23 And it can provide a form of agency for participants24—something people living in protracted social conflicts often find to be in short supply. Most importantly, these kinds of activities can pave the way for eventual attempts at more formal approaches to justice, building thin sympathy as they go. This chapter explores three primary vehicles through which thin sympathy can be developed, absent the state: the everyday, cultural diplomacy, and entertainment-education—although there are many others that could be discussed. It is also important to note that each of these three approaches is in fact closely related to the others; it can be difficult to tease them apart, but for the sake of this discussion I have defined what are essentially ideal types to denote that the purpose and methodology of each is often different. These approaches may be carried out at three different levels: local, regional, and national. Each of these is explored further below.

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The Everyday

The term “everyday” borrows from the extensive peacebuilding literature that focuses on what Richmond has called “the really-existing ‘local-local’ and ‘everyday’,”25 which he defines as “the existence and diversity of communities and individuals that constitute . . . society . . . where the everyday is at its most powerful.”26 The everyday focuses on “mundane activities, lived experience, repetitive practices”27 and this milieu could be employed to foster the thin sympathetic response. That might include activities such as taking one’s car to an auto mechanic or shopping for food—things that one might be likely to do in the course of everyday life. Mac  Ginty notes the importance of “routinized practices used by individuals and collectives as they navigate their way through life in a deeply divided society that might suffer from ethnic or religious cleavages, and be prone to episodic direct violence in addition to chronic or structural violence.”28 Harnessing the everyday, therefore, in thin sympathetic activities involves “a knowing engagement with community, with daily experiences, and the maintenance of and attention to relationships within these spaces,”29 “bring[ing] together groups that are divided to find common ground.”30 Mac  Ginty observes that “interactions across ethnic lines can be common despite a meta-context of social division.”31 Even in situations of conflict, people are likely already doing this kind of engagement—although more should be encouraged. Everyday activities that engage people in thin sympathetic actions can be undertaken by anyone, regardless of their social standing or their place in the community. They occur in the informal sphere.32 Indeed, they can “encompass local communities and non-elite actors,”33 as opposed to state initiatives that are frequently elite-led and top-down. But often they are led by what Constantinou calls “everyday ambassadors”34—something very like the empathic champions described in Chapter 4—grassroots individuals who act upon an idea. These kinds of interactions do not have to be facilitated35 and can be spontaneous,36 relying on what Mac Ginty calls “intuitive response,”37 a kind of gut instinct borne out of the recognition of a common humanity. Yet there is some cause for concern in leaving the business of reconciliation to spontaneous, unstructured chance. One concern is the safety of those who undertake such efforts. Participants in some unstructured encounters have reported feeling unsafe.38 Indeed, without so much as a framework for these interactions, individuals may be thrust into the kinds of threatening

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situations in which they might also have lived during the actual conflict. Mac Ginty underscores “the absence of a ‘rulebook.’”39 As Mac Ginty notes, a second concern is that although “everyday peace can be conflict calming . . . [it can equally] be conflict provoking, especially if in-group members find cross-community contact threatening.”40 This kind of activity seems also to risk provoking members of the out-group to return to violence. Mac Ginty notes, further, that “such space can be dangerous and requires deft maneuvering by those who venture into it.”41 Finally, individual unstructured encounters might be possible only for those who have the opportunity for regular contact with the “other”. Appadurai writes about what he calls “decosmopolitanisation,”42 which he defines as “the complete disintegration of the social fabric . . . into mutually hostile groups.”43 Unstructured encounters would never naturally occur in places such as Uganda that have become almost totally compartmentalized and where the state has deliberately divided ethnic groups into enclaves. 44 This appears to be equally true in places such as Bosnia-Herzegovina, where ethnic groups have purposely decamped for the relative safety of ethnically homogeneous communities.45 Fridman reports that people “inside their segregated and isolated communities choose not to see” and experience what goes on outside of those communities.46 In such places, the necessary kinds of routine encounters may not be possible. Recent work, however, suggests that the benefits of everyday interactions may increase when these interactions are planned in advance.47 Thin sympathy can, in fact, be cultivated. In those instances, everyday activities might consist of semistructured, facilitated encounters led by agents other than the state, or at least of deliberate actions undertaken by people at the grassroots level. The advantages of this kind of planned day-to-day interaction are many in the building of thin sympathy. Boduszynski and Lamont note that exposure to the other can “help unfreeze frozen conflicts through the creation of bottom-up spaces for . . . interaction.”48 As Mac Ginty notes, this “challeng[es] the fixity of the conflict.”49 And it can empower individuals to seize opportunities when they see them without having to wait for someone else to decide when the time is “right” to act.50 At the local level, this might take the form of finding a relationship with someone that expands into something larger.51 A parish priest in Kampala told me the story of finding common ground with others from different ethnocultural groups: “I found myself adopting a young man from the north. He wanted to do some work in my garden to finish paying his school fees to get

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his O-level results. He has since come into our house and attended university. People there have thanked me for taking care of their son. And other people have become good friends of mine who aren’t even from my tribe. These are the ones who came and slept in my bedroom when my husband was dying. My husband said he was overwhelmed by the love they showed us.”52 At the wider regional level, the everyday can provide a viable option for building thin sympathy. One example involves of a group of Lugbara women in northwestern Uganda, an area that suffered in a conflict between the West Nile Bank Front, a rebel group from the northwestern part of Uganda formed in protest against Museveni, and the Ugandan military, the Uganda People’s Defence Force (UPDF), in the 1990s. Upon returning from the war in 2002, the decommissioned rebel soldiers received a sum of money yet gave their wives nothing; many ultimately rejected their wives completely and failed to provide for their families, not paying such things as school fees for their children, and so on. That form of rejection leaves women, particularly, in a vulnerable position, because they are then without either physical or social protection. The rejected women came to be known as “water widows,” a reference to a Biblical story in which a woman is left with nothing and is relegated to carrying water—the work of a servant.53 The women have since received training on “self-importance,” peace building, and reconciliation. And they have since become community peace activists and community support mechanisms.54 “They are important mediators on land conflicts and even do prison visits.”55 The women now travel across Uganda, talking about their own experiences, speaking with women from other ethnocultural groups who have been the victims of conflict, and doing interreligious, intertribal and cross-border mediation to help rebuild societies after conflict—ministering in everyday ways to women who are victims of conflict in other districts, with whom they might never otherwise come into contact, and building the common bonds of thin sympathy. Even at the national level, the everyday is visible. In 2014, an exhibition was mounted at the Makerere University Art Gallery called Travelling Testimonies. The exhibit showcased “archives and photographs, documented more than 30 hours of video testimonials, created artworks and scripted a national narrative on war and peace, based around the voices of those who experienced it directly” so that the “efforts to memorialize the LRA conflict can serve as a template to encourage underrepresented voices to emerge that relate to other conflicts experienced within the nation.”56 In this way, the everyday objects and experiences of the people, what one of the curators called “artefacts of

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memory,”57 were directly communicated with communities outside of the conflict zone. The exhibit was mounted in communities that were not directly affected by the LRA conflict, including Kasese, Arua, Luweero, and Kampala.

Cultural Diplomacy Another means of manufacturing thin sympathy is through a strand of public diplomacy known as cultural diplomacy: “the exchange of ideas, information, art, and other aspects of culture between nations and their peoples in order to foster mutual understanding.”58 Lord contends that public diplomacy “tailor[s] the information it provides to the needs and concerns of particular audiences, and . . . engag[es] in proactive and sustained efforts to shape foreign perceptions and attitudes.”59 It is somewhat akin to the contact hypothesis, which suggests that “more contact between individuals belonging to antagonistic social groups tends to undermine the negative stereotypes they have of each other and to reduce their mutual antipathies, thus improving inter-group relations.”60 Although public diplomacy is normally the purview of international strategists who think about the relationships between states at the international level,61 those same principles could be applied at the domestic level between ethnocultural groups. Public diplomacy targets three specific categories: culture, political values, and policies.62 These three categories could usefully be targeted within multiethnic societies to “engag[e] in proactive and sustained efforts to shape . . . perceptions and attitudes”—simply by conceiving of ethnocultural groups and the isolated geographic areas in which they live, such as those created in Uganda by Museveni’s districtization policies, discussed above in Chapter 2, as being foreign to each other and in need of diplomacy to build interconnections between them. In many cases, deep ethnocultural divides make particular groups within a multiethnic society strangers to one another. So the idea of applying the tactics of international relations between estranged ethnocultural groups within a particular state might have some relevance in such places, because they are separate in much the same way as the United States and the Soviet Union had become estranged during the Cold War. U.S. president Ronald Reagan’s 1987 speech in West Berlin at the site of the Brandenburg Gate and the Berlin Wall, emblems of Cold War estrangement and division, stands as an example; he called on the president of the Soviet Union to “tear down this wall.”

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Arndt argues that “cultural relations grow naturally and organically without government intervention . . . [through] millions of daily cross-cultural encounters.”63 But in deeply divided, multiethnic societies wherein people live in ethnocultural enclaves, or where divisions are profoundly entrenched, those interactions simply do not occur. Cohen argues, further, that in such circumstances it is easy for people to “deliberately and intentionally” deny any “unpalatable information” that emerges.64 As one of my Ugandan interviewees explained it to me, “so long as a problem seems distant to you, you will keep your peace and you will not intervene or say anything.”65 So opportunities for those interactions must be created. Thus, when circumstances prevent the mixing of ethnocultural groups— when they are kept apart either physically or socially—the thin sympathetic response cannot be developed. When people are separated, they have no idea what has happened to the “other” and they certainly do not understand the implications of those people’s experiences. And because they do not regularly see each other or interact with each other, let alone talk with each other and live with each other, the circumstances encountered by people on the other side become remote. It is easy, then, for them to be ignored because no one is confronted by them. If that kind of unfamiliarity, what Haldemann calls “non-recognition,” is left unchecked, it can result in the development of unsubstantiated yet deeply entrenched and powerful attitudes and beliefs that provide a boiling point for sustained stereotyping and suspicion, which lead to more ethnocultural tension in a cyclical and escalating manner.66 Cultural diplomacy is designed to promote “cross-cultural communication and mutual understanding,”67 and “help amplify and advertise [a] society and culture” to other groups.68 It can “highlight commonalities” and “inspire the first obvious understanding” of the other.69 Lenczowski argues that the effects of cultural diplomacy “breed such goodwill that it can, over time, translate into better relations on a political level.”70 He notes that this can produce two important effects: it can “mitigate the existence of any . . . lack of respect for [other] cultures and sensibilities,” and “cultural diplomacy can disabuse . . . perceptions or at least lessen their intensity.”71 Building respect for another person’s experiences and lessening the intensity of mischaracterized perceptions is the stuff of thin sympathy, which is detailed in Chapter 4. Developing a “greater appreciation of [the other’s] values”72 and of their situation is crucial in understanding what the other has experienced. Without deliberate intervention, and in cases where it is difficult to bring people together, carrying out a campaign of cultural diplomacy as a means

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of fostering the thin sympathetic response might be the solution. This can provide both a way to begin to break down stereotypes and an opening to bring people together. Lenczowski lists thirteen tools of cultural diplomacy, including the arts, exhibitions, exchanges, education programs, literature, language teaching, broadcasting, gifts, listening and according respect, promotion of ideas, promotion of social policy, history, and religious diplomacy.73 Each of these may be built into strategies and “thematic programming designed . . . for longterm effect.”74 These kinds of tools, such as education programs, for example, can be instrumentalized to promote at the very least a cross-cultural dialogue and understanding, which I call thin sympathy. At the local level, cultural diplomacy could be built by means of sporting events that draw players and teams from different districts. USAID-Supporting Access to Justice, Fostering Equity and Peace (SAFE) has organized sporting activities as part of their “Sports for Peace” programming in Western Uganda. “In the Rwenzori region, we have organized football and netball between boys and girls from different schools. Rather than say ‘the Bakonzo and the Bamba play against each other,’ which would entrench these [ethnocultural] divisions, we mix them up to ensure that both teams are balanced, so no team wins with only one tribe.”75 By bringing people from different ethnocultural groups together in this way, people are able to meet those from other groups in a nonthreatening, mixed situation and can begin to understand a bit about the other—the beginnings of thin sympathy. At the regional level, one particular example of cultural diplomacy took place within a small religious community called New Hope Uganda, located in Luweero District. In 2004, Pastor Jonnes Bakimi and his congregation were motivated to go to Teso—a region in northeastern Uganda from where the soldiers who had perpetrated significant violence in Luweero in the 1980s were thought to have come—upon learning of the violence that the LRA was perpetrating in Teso and the effect that the violence was having on the population. Their engagement did not come easily. Pastor Bakimi told the story: One man from our church stood up and said, ‘I don’t want to go there because those people killed my father.’ Many others felt the same way. Even me, I didn’t want to go to Teso. Then one of the staff members here who was from Teso shot up from his seat and said, ‘I believe that this is the time to repent for what happened here.’ Everyone joined in. The man from the east began to ask forgiveness for the

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rapes and murders and looting that had happened in Luweero. Those from Luweero began to ask forgiveness from those from the east. God moved powerfully.76 Within a couple of days, the congregation had made plans to go to Teso to minister to the needs of the people there who were suffering at the height of the LRA conflict in that region. They delivered supplies and food over a period of ninety days and served as go-betweens between the UPDF and the LRA. At the national level, cultural diplomacy is represented by the efforts of the Inter-Religious Council of Uganda (IRCU), made up of individuals representing five of the religious communities in Uganda: Church of Uganda, Roman Catholic Church, Uganda Orthodox Church, Uganda Muslim Supreme Council, and the Seventh Day Adventist Church, plus churches from within the evangelical community, which have joined as “honorary members.”77 In 2009, as members of the group were “meeting to talk about national reconciliation, and on how to move toward dialogue and set a new agenda, we were reflecting on the conflicts, on the second day, the Buganda riots78 broke out. Our delegates were really quite scared, because we could hear shouting and guns and see smoke. It really gave us a new way of looking at history. From then, we began to develop a specialized framework to build capacity among religious leaders in reconciliation, and to build dialogue between different faith communities.”79 The members of the IRCU formed the Inter-Religious Institute for Peace, launched in 2010, whose objectives are the following: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Build capacity of religious leaders, faith communities, and peace actors to effectively prevent and transform conflicts; Enhance interfaith and interreligious dialogue for promotion of peace and social transformation; Research and document conflicts and peace processes, and their effects on communities and countries; Enhance dialogue and consensus-building on political, economic, and social challenges affecting society.80

The Inter-Religious Institute for Peace has delivered residential training for Ugandan nationals and also for ecumenical trainees from other countries in the region, including and Eritrea, Kenya, Malawi, Somalia, Sudan, and Tanzania. In this way, the religious leaders are building thin sympathy.

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Entertainment-Education A third means of engaging the population in building thin sympathy is known as “entertainment-education,” defined as “the process of purposely designing and implementing a medial message to both entertain and educate, in order to increase audience members’ knowledge about an educational issue, shift social norms, and change covert behavior.”81 This evidence is “consistent with the positive impact of vicarious experiences of cross-group friendship that is predicted by the extended contact hypothesis.”82 Levy Paluck argues that “behaviors consistent with [one’s] beliefs can be subtly activated.”83 Although they have been used with success around the world,84 “such campaigns are especially popular in post-conflict countries where governmental agencies and civil society are often unreliable vehicles for promoting social or political change.”85 The process relies heavily on social learning theory, in which Bandura posited that people can learn through the modeling of ideas and behaviors. He argued that “social learning occurs on the basis of casual or directed observation of behavior as it is performed by others in everyday situations.”86 Because people’s own experience is likely to be narrow, “their perceptions of social reality are heavily influenced by vicarious experiences—what they see, hear, and read in the mass media.”87 He argued that “most external influences affect behavior through intermediary cognitive processes. Cognitive factors partly determine which external events will be observed, how they will be perceived, whether they will leave any lasting effects, what valence and efficacy they have, and how the information they convey will be organized for future use.”88 The argument, therefore, in favor of utilizing entertainment to educate is that it can bring information into the lives and communities of people who have been segregated. Granovetter notes that “leafletting, radio announcements, or other methods could insure that everyone [is made aware].”89 However, there is some consensus that this is not sufficient: “Facts and evidence don’t change minds, at least not in the way we think they do. . . . Without emotion, without an overlay of values to make sense of facts . . . simply put, frames trump facts. . . If facts are to make sense and be perceived as urgent, they must be framed in terms of deep, deep values.”90 Festinger notes that the direct impact on a person of a persuasive communication via the mass media is probably seldom strong enough to cause a direct about-face on an opinion which he holds. More often the direct

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impact is to create some doubts in the mind of the person. . . . The mass media may be expected to be most effective under circumstances where there is something to prevent the ready reduction of the dissonance which is created by the exposure to these media. Thus, for example, one would expect the mass media to be more effective about content about which people do not talk readily than with regard to content which is frequently the subject of discussion.91 Fisher, for example, found that carrying out a discussion after exposure to mass media “strengthened the positive attitudinal effects of an . . . intervention.”92 Levy Paluck argues that “it may be more fruitful to target social norms than personal beliefs.”93 Outside of those experiments carried out in classroom settings in North America, however, evidence is slim about the effect that media, and entertainment-education, could have. The one major study, carried out by Levy Paluck and Green in Rwanda in 2004, recorded reactions to an entertainment-education radio soap opera called Musekeweya or “New Dawn.” The radio play “enfolded educational messages in a dramatic fictional story.”94 Their findings are clear: the radio play “effected profound changes in behavior. . . . [Participants reported an] increased sense of collective responsibility and local initiative.”95 The possibilities for such programming are promising in Uganda, where the saturation of radio, “especially up-country,” is more than 80 percent; it seems that “everyone has access to FM radio.”96 “And we have many television stations. That is one advantage we have, to spread information.”97 As a result, public knowledge about what is happening in other parts of the country is up—and expected to increase. This was echoed by many to whom I spoke. One IGO program manager said, “Today when I go to the east, people know what is happening in the west. People are more connected and exposed.”98 There are also shifts in the availability and affordability of technology that could be used to advance this kind of thinking. Within their own ethnocultural groups, “People are more connected than they used to be. They are no longer disempowered because of a lack of information,” one interviewee told me.99 Indeed, this exposure has come about in part because of the increased use of the radio.100 “People are also increasingly adopting the use of the mobile phone as a way of communicating information.”101 That technology has brought increased use of social media—something the Museveni government fears so much that it banned all social media on election day in 2016.102

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Increased access to media, in general, has widened the scope of many Ugandans’ knowledge and is being recognized as an important tool for sharing alternative information.103 Each of these media, i.e., radio, phones, and social media, could be harnessed for the thin sympathetic project such that they could be used to transmit information about the experiences of the other. At the local level, this is taking place through information broadcasting and call-in talk shows. “By the end of 2015, there were 275 FM radio stations in operation [in Uganda]—fully broadcasting and active. Every district has at least two radio stations, and even herdsmen or people in the garden often place the radio between them all day. Because of availability and accessibility of all these radio stations, they don’t have a lot of content so they are putting on information. They have been giving free airtime to USAID-Supporting Access to Justice, Fostering Equity and Peace (SAFE) on the Rwenzururu conflict in Western Uganda.104 “Often, you can hear radio programs with people from all tribes speaking together.”105 This can work to build a basic cognition about the other, or thin sympathy. At the regional level, a bicultural, bilingual newspaper called Wamanya (roughly translated in English as “Have you heard?”) was created in Western Uganda in 2015 to carry out the same entertainment-education mandate for two ethnocultural communities between whom there has been growing friction. The newspaper was deliberately written half in the Runyoro language and half in the Rutooro language, and likewise was half and half about the activities within each of the two kingdoms, Bunyoro and Tooro. It was established “to educate the people in their own vernacular” about what was going on in their local areas and across the country.106 The goals of the newspaper fit squarely with Singhal and Roger’s idea that such an endeavor contributes to social change by its ability to “influence members’ awareness, attitudes, beliefs and behavior toward a socially desirable end.”107 This is the stuff of thin sympathy. Another regional endeavor was the wildly successful MEGA FM that broadcasted out of Gulu in Northern Uganda. Established with the help of a grant from the British Department for International Development, which continues to fund its programming, MEGA FM was deliberately created to play a key role in resolving the LRA conflict. One of its most effective programs, Dwog Paco (literally “come back home” in the Acholi language), was tailored to speak directly to the LRA fighters; on it, former LRA fighters, abductees, and their “wives” gave live testimonies about living in the bush and how they escaped from the LRA. One main feature in each broadcast

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was a call to those remaining in the bush to come home. Between December 2003 and November 2004, more than 1,200 children came out of the bush as a result of these broadcasts.108 The dissemination of basic information served to create increased knowledge and cognition among rebel soldiers in the bush, who had become estranged from their families and communities and feared hostility and retribution if they were to return home, given the crimes they had committed while in the service of the LRA, whether voluntarily or involuntarily. Thin sympathy made it acceptable for them to come home and rejoin those communities. At the national level, mass media also plays a very important role. The Uganda office of the International Center for Transitional Justice, for example, has “cultivated a very deliberate strategy of using television and newspapers to not use technical terms, but simple language to begin a national conversation”—the development of thin sympathy at the national level—about what has taken place in successive conflicts across the country since Independence.109 “We need to get all the grievances on the table before we can even decide on transitional justice practices. But you need to get people to understand why it is necessary. Conversations in communities have to start.”110 One could imagine the utility of efforts like the Rwandan soap opera being replicated at the national level in Uganda, where plays and dramas are regularly (and popularly!) broadcast on Ugandan television.

Future Possibilities: Harnessing Cultural Diplomacy for Thin Sympathetic Development Although efforts and initiatives to provide information about the experience of the other have, to date, been relatively small, they have demonstrated that this work can be done at any of the local, regional, or national levels, using any of the three modalities, whether through everyday activities, cultural diplomacy, or entertainment-education. In fact, two of my interviewees stressed the importance of culture as a means of building a basic level of understanding between the different ethnocultural groups in Uganda. In discussing ways to culturally entrench future transitional justice programming, one interviewee, for example, emphasized that “people go to see traditional dancers and see good things that come out of those cultures.”111 John De Coninck, who works with the Cross-Cultural Foundation of Uganda, was careful to point out that this can be difficult, too, because “it is difficult sometimes to have

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conversations about human rights and culture—practices that, in the view of some, have a negative impact on people. Or else they think culture is only music and dance.”112 For De Coninck, particularly, the use of culture to build a basic foundation for understanding has the potential for real and lasting value. The people to whom I spoke were equally clear that this kind of programming needs to be a “deliberate effort” that takes place in a manner that is distinct from politics. A senior government justice advisor put it this way: “If we are going to sensitize people, it can’t come through politics. Some people are hoping it will happen naturally, but you need to have a government policy. Some of those deliberate efforts are important.”113 This closely echoes the work of Arndt, who distinguishes between naturally occurring cultural relations and deliberate policies to bring about social interaction.114 Because such interaction does not seem to be occurring naturally in Uganda, undertaking calculated efforts to bring it about is necessary. This deliberateness, and any policies of building a foundation of understanding in the population of the other, has so far been ignored by the international and donor community. One senior officer with an influential international diplomatic delegation in Kampala explained to me that although her team was “aware of it, there has been nothing done on addressing this issue.”115 Others reported that the donor community has, to date, not supported such efforts.116 This is because, as one person reported, “there is scepticism” about its value.117 And donors very often have the last say about what NGOs will pursue, because they control the funding available for such activities.118 Yet I encountered broad agreement on the need to address the ethnocultural divide and tension by building a basic cognitive understanding (thin sympathy) as a cross-cutting issue, in the same way that gender, for example, is now automatically incorporated into programming in almost every different area. One official in the GOU’s JLOS unit told me, “It needs to cut across sectors.”119 Said another longtime peacebuilder, “The challenge we have is how to consistently do that.”120 Another said, “it needs to be combined with other things.”121 Thin sympathy has a very specific function in the development of acknowledgement: if properly and intentionally advanced and strengthened, thin sympathy can activate the rest of the process of acknowledgement. The development of a basic understanding could be brought about by the use of everyday encounters; the tools of cultural diplomacy—which are normally reserved for use in the international sphere but could be usefully applied domestically in Uganda, the site of deeply entrenched ethnocultural

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division that is deliberately being perpetuated—or by means of entertainmenteducation. If it can be properly nurtured and then harnessed appropriately, the development of a basic understanding of the situation of the other (thin sympathy) is a promising means to address the ethnocultural tension and ignorance that persists. There are a number of opportunities to develop similar initiatives, including things such as education, arts, and language teaching. It is likely to take more than one of these initiatives, each happening at a different time, to build thin sympathy. Although it is true that civil society is often seen as having failed to do so many things, it is important to note that there are any number of initiatives bubbling beneath the surface, many of which serve to put in place the preconditions needed for transitional justice success.122 This kind of bottom-up extra-state preparation is a form of peacebuilding that could lay the foundation for transitional justice success in a later stage. There are a number of examples of this, some of which I have detailed earlier in this chapter. All of these evince both the desire of individuals and communities to start this work and the important role they can play. The situation in Uganda is seemingly ripe for the development of more of the kinds of activities that will allow for both contact and observational learning. These kinds of activities would provide opportunities for interaction across ethnocultural lines and open possibilities for the people to begin to understand who the other is. All of them represent a deliberate attempt to counter the divisive districtization policies and bring Ugandans together. The following chapter considers the effect that a stunted civil society has on this kind of thin sympathetic development, because so much of the work in this area has been abdicated by the state—which might normally be expected to help in the promotion of cross-cultural respect. It also explores the benefits of thin sympathetic development before any transition.

CHAPTER 7

Thickening the Transitional Justice Strategy

Utilizing a framework that seeks to bring communities into closer proximity, the previous chapter looked at how to bring communities together and considered some examples of how this is already being done. The examples were all of activities being done on a small scale, but those kinds of activities could be scaled up. Regardless, they demonstrate two things: First, there is an appetite for this kind of response. Second, it is possible to undertake such a program. With that in mind, it is important to understand that the development of thin sympathy can have even broader effects, especially where other efforts are seemingly out of reach. Eventually, it can help to thicken the transitional justice strategy. This chapter considers the role and utility of the thin sympathetic response in countries that have not yet transitioned, places where conflict and abuse are still ongoing. Building on the questions explored in Chapter 3, this chapter begins by considering how thin sympathy might be further developed in a place such as Uganda, where civil society both is constrained by and has been destroyed by the constant instability and threats Uganda has experienced, in different places and in different ways, since Independence in 1962. The chapter then delves into three potential benefits to the pursuit of the development of thin sympathy in the absence of a formal transition: (i) meeting the needs of the people; (ii) building capacity within civil society to be ready for the appearance of a policy window; and (iii) empowerment and agency.

First Steps: Making Transitional Justice Work Better The previous chapter laid out a series of arrangements by which the thin sympathetic response could be triggered. These included state-led processes such

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as royal commissions or public inquiries—processes officially convened by the state, funded by the state, and run by the state. I also talked about unofficial processes, such as the use of panels of experts or other fact-finding activities carried out without the express approval or even the knowledge of the state. The intentional cultivation of thin sympathy can also happen even in the absence of official institutional action. In established democracies with a tradition of freedom of speech and popular participation, it is common to find NGOs, for example, moving forward with their work, using activism and lobbying strategies with social programs, pressuring government at different levels to pave the way to formalize the arrangements that have already been made, or pressuring it to harmonize policy with the actions and desires of its citizens. This became the case in late 2015 on the question of Syrian refugee settlement in Canada, at what was then called the height of the civil war taking place in Syria, when millions of Syrians had fled and were seeking asylum in safe countries. Canadian NGOs such as Lifeline Syria and Canada4Refugees began to lobby the federal government to expand the existing refugee program to allow significantly more Syrian refugees to come to Canada in response to the escalating humanitarian crisis in their home country. Citizens lobbied their municipal governments, who in turn lobbied the provincial and federal governments.1 The refugee emergency had been an election issue and a significant plank in the platform of then-future Liberal prime minister Justin Trudeau as early as 2013, when Trudeau promised to bring 25,000 refugees to Canada on government sponsorships and to expand the possibilities for private sponsorship programs as well.2 Trudeau’s government eventually resettled more than 25,000 Syrian refugees in the four short months between early November 2015 and the end of February 2016 in order to meet his election pledge, and 40,081 Syrian refugees were brought to Canada by the end of January 2017 using both public and private schemes.3 This example is meant to demonstrate that in some places civil society can and does take action without the prior knowledge, consent, or participation of the state. In established democracies, NGOs do not wait for permission to act. Instead, they forge ahead—often with the result, as in the Canadian refugee policy example given here, that the government has no choice but to conform. This is very different than in contexts such as Uganda, where the government dictates policies that serve its own purposes without worrying about what the population thinks.

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Contexts in Which No Formal Transition Has Taken Place

The thin sympathetic hypothesis could be applied in any post-conflict context. In Chapter 3 I talked about societies in which there has been no resolution to conflict, and where abuse, repression, and violence continue. I am most interested in exploring the utility of thin sympathy in these kinds of countries. The effects of the thin sympathetic response could be more profoundly magnified in these contexts and could, eventually, even be a driver for meaningful conflict resolution. Uganda is one such context. At the time of this writing, Museveni’s government has been in place in Uganda since 1986 and shows no signs of departing anytime soon.4 The cyclical patterns of violence continue much the same as they have in the past. There is widespread animosity between ethnocultural groups that feel they are in competition with one another. Ugandans are “locked in long-standing cycles of negative interaction. The conflicts are characterised by an animosity and deeply-rooted fear and stereotypes.”5 Whether these ethnocultural stereotypes and suspicions are grounded in fact or are merely the fuel that feeds petty rivalries, “ethnicity is widely used in mobilizing conflicts across the country.”6 As laid out in Chapter 3, the government’s strategies of failing to engage, using dog-whistle politics, and adding to the psychological trauma experienced by much of the population have only compounded the tendency toward division. As a result, people perceive that “it is difficult to interest people in something that does not affect them.”7 Developing a basic understanding of the experiences of the other could help them to see the similarity to their own situation. “It is almost as though people need to see and to believe they could somehow be personally affected [or have been similarly affected] to understand the need for action.”8 The development of a thin sympathetic response in a society such as Uganda, then, could have benefits that are unattainable without it. In a situation wherein the government itself perpetrates violence and abuse and also perpetuates division and animosity, civil society cannot rely on that same government to bring about positive social change and clear the scars left by societal rupture. However, in these contexts, civil society can take matters into its own hands by creating an environment wherein dealing with the needs of different ethnocultural groups on a national scale would be possible. The thin sympathetic response could be a way to do that and to overcome paralysis among civil society actors.

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The Paralysis of Ugandan Civil Society

The Canadian experience stands in stark contrast to the modus vivendi of how NGOs interact with government in countries such as Uganda. In many places, “domestic civil society is weak.”9 However, as Branch and Mampilly point out, civil society in Uganda has been decimated.10 Its emasculation has been solidified by the GOU’s swift and strident responses to political protest. This was especially evident during the Walk to Work11 campaign in 2011, when “the police reaction became increasingly brutal and the government’s public response more callous”12 as the protest wore on. Branch and Mampilly argue further that “militarized rule had been expanded to urban areas throughout the country.”13 The crackdown surrounding Walk to Work may well have been specific to that set of events. But civil society has been conditioned over time not to speak out against Museveni’s government for fear of brutal consequences. Human Rights Watch, for example, reports that the government routinely deploys security forces “called the Flying Squad, whose officers typically operate in civilian clothes, drive unmarked cars, and are most often deployed in response to alleged armed gangs . . . [and] that police has [sic] given them a shoot-to-kill mandate.”14 Museveni is not the first to employ such tactics; Milton Obote and, before him, Idi Amin used similar tactics to intimidate civil society to the extent that they now fear to act without the explicit approval of the government, for fear of reprisal. This demonstrates just how longstanding are the methods that aim to hollow out civil society through the threat and use of state violence. As a result, a large part of Ugandan civil society has been living in a state of suspended animation15 for much of the past sixty years. A series of transitional justice–related initiatives and actions that have been attempted by civil society have been stymied, precisely because Ugandans have become habituated to the idea that government should take the lead and must at the very least be on board before any initiative can proceed. Two examples illustrate how civil society has tried and failed to pursue a set of actions when government does not step in. One apt example concerns a group of NGOs that coalesced around the possibility of national reconciliation in late 2005. Under the name “Council on Reconciliation for Uganda” the group came together, trying to capitalize on Museveni’s unexpected call for the nation to “heal all wounds caused during the country’s turbulent times through principled reconciliation” at

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the time of Milton Obote’s death.16 The group held a national consultative conference called “Paving the Way for a Sustainable Reconciliation Process in Uganda” in early 2007, but when government buy-in failed to transpire, the group eventually disbanded because they felt they must not move forward without the government’s involvement and approval. Doing so risked provoking the ire of government and the consequences that would bring. As discussed in Chapter 3, the fears of civil society were well founded; reports of intimidation, subversive activities, and extreme treatment by the government against NGOs, for example, have continued to increase since that time.17 Another example is the multistakeholder Transitional Justice Working Group that was established in 200818 under the auspices of the JLOS.19 The group drafted a national transitional justice policy, and a transitional justice bill was readied for Parliament. That policy advocated for a victim-centered approach and included both prosecutions and compensation, potentially to be carried out using customary approaches, as well as truth-telling.20 Those documents and the sentiments behind them “stalled out”21 and it took nearly ten years before the document was ever brought to Parliament.22 Here, too, civil society remained paralyzed, waiting for the government to take the lead in the process of putting together a transitional justice strategy—something they felt they could not pursue without the government’s engagement. This endemic paralysis is reinforced by the increasingly restrictive regulation of the NGO community by the government.23 Due to progressively more expansive regulations, NGOs are openly fearful of censure by the National NGO Board. “The Government requires NGOs to register each year and checks carefully what they are working on. [Museveni] has been threatening churches and talks to them about things that don’t mean anything so they won’t insist on important things.”24 For example, the NGO Board closed thirty-eight Ugandan NGOs in mid-2012 and accused them of “undermining the national culture by promoting homosexuality.”25 In another example, NGOs and INGOs “got into trouble with Government for looking into and supporting opposition political parties.”26 These examples demonstrate the inflated role the state has played in interfering with the ability of civil society to speak or to act independently, as it would normally do in democratic states such as Canada. Ugandan civil society and NGOs in particular have been conditioned to fear the reach of the government. This fear has rendered many NGOs and other civil society groups virtually paralyzed. One faith-based peace and justice organization, for example, an agency that used to actively engage in activities to build

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national consciousness surrounding peace, acknowledgement, and reconciliation, has largely stopped that work because of the seemingly insurmountable obstacles presented by that fear and now focuses only on the most surface peace and justice–related tasks, such as peace education. As that organization’s senior executive told me, “It is too much. I have left that work. If I was working for peace in this country, I would get a stroke.”27 Such blatant government manipulation has given rise to a two-pronged phenomenon: First, it has resulted in the near absence of the state in many activities where its presence would be warranted and, indeed, expected. The government fails to step in as needed in supporting various initiatives that it initially backs, such as its pledge toward “principled reconciliation” in 2005. The state commits, then fails to produce what it has promised. As one think tank head put it, “the problem is not funding, as the government claims. Roads, hospitals, and these things have been funded.”28 Second, the censure of NGOs demonstrates a concurrent experience: the state puts roadblocks in place, such as withholding or withdrawing the necessary certification if the NGO Board does not approve of some activity being carried out by that NGO.29 If one or the other of these—state absence or state roadblocks—was present on its own, civil society would no doubt find a way to go around the government to get things done. These two impediments together, though, have proved toxic. To belabor the “suspended animation” metaphor, the function of civil society has slowed to the extent that civil society exists only in its most tenuous form. It is not able to exist in a vital and vibrant way, expressly because of the government’s refusal to let it thrive. As such, the idea of pursuing an unofficial process that could provoke the thin sympathetic response is often met with confusion in Uganda. The pursuit of this kind of independent initiative is, for the most part, just not done. One think tank head put it this way: “Only the state has the responsibility to create the space and organize the way relationship building is carried out. But the state is unresponsive.”30 And so Ugandans wait.

Signs of Life

There are, however, some encouraging examples of civil society efforts to circumvent state obstructionism and inaction, and NGO work has continued despite the threats and intimidation. This is a clear sign that people living in conflict-affected communities are already building thin sympathy in an effort

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to move forward. It indicates that there is a hunger within the population to overcome the past—and it is a clear reason for optimism, because generating this kind of understanding has the potential to lead people living in these contexts to begin to agitate for change, including regime change that could ultimately pave the way for democracy and transitional justice. One of the best examples is the work of the Refugee Law Project (RLP)— one of the NGOs that was most involved in the JLOS processes and in other activities. Having realized that the GOU was unlikely to engage in meaningful social reconstruction in the near future, the RLP has instead pursued a series of activities at the community, regional, and national levels as a way to help the people themselves come to terms with the country’s difficult past. This has been accomplished through local film festivals, community-level memory dialogues, curriculum development, regional and national lectures and roundtables, a national conflict-mapping exercise,31 and an annual Institute for African Transitional Justice. These activities were carried out not in a top-down manner but by working consultatively from the bottom up, from the district level to the national level, with the support of local government officials and the traditional cultural institutions (TCIs) and their leaders. As the RLP’s executive director explained to me, “You have to do the bottom-up work at the same time as the national work.”32 Another important example concerns the creation of a National Dialogue Framework. This nascent work was being led in mid-2017 by six prominent and broadly representative national groups: the Elders’ Forum, the IRCU, the Inter Party Organisation for Dialogue, Women’s Situation Room, the Citizens’ Coalition for Electoral Democracy in Uganda, and the National Consultative Forum. The mission was to “take an alternative pathway”33 that would “give citizens ownership [in bringing the country together]. They get to own the process by talking about the key issues, and by understanding their positions. It is necessary for the whole country to understand the grievances.”34 None of these initiatives relies on the GOU to exist. Despite the fact that Ugandans have been conditioned to inertia, there are possibilities for independent action. To be sure, in the examples discussed immediately above, the goodwill of the government needs to be extended such that the offices of the two NGOs detailed above are not shut down and their workers are not intimidated. Nevertheless, the government itself does not have to play a particularly active role, or even to play a role at all. This is important because it demonstrates that Ugandan civil society can pursue activities and programs that tackle the rebuilding of Ugandan society, independent of the state.

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These examples also make clear that the GOU does not have a total monopoly on influence within the country. Both examples rely in particular on the engagement of nongovernmental influencers and opinion leaders. Both TCIs and religious leaders are regularly cited as being the most important influencers in the Ugandan context.35 As one interviewee told me, “If cultural leaders and religious leaders work together, [anything] can go through,” because of the important role that both the TCIs and faith-based groups play in the lives of Ugandans.36 One human rights NGO staffer told me, “We need to work with the traditional cultural leaders. They are a good ally. And religious institutions are the greatest uniting factor these days. They bring everyone together and can play a big role in trying to address these things.”37 Other sectors have done this with some success; the Uganda AIDS Commission, for example, used the Kings’ Forum, an informal group made up of the heads of TCIs across the country, to help in advancing their anti-AIDS agenda.38 And so harnessing the TCIs and religious leaders in any kind of process, moving forward, will be critical to building thin sympathy between individuals and groups.39 The other source of support on which civil society may choose to rely is the international donor community. Many Ugandans feel that “the international community has a responsibility to enforce” a strategy of rebuilding.40 That sentiment goes both ways, because the international community, in the form of donor development partners, has continued to influence the social rebuilding strategy in Uganda in different ways.41 One ambassador told me that in Uganda, “the donor is included in the narrative, as an actor, a player on the ground.”42 For example, GOU reports suggest that 36 percent of the official GOU budget for peacebuilding in Northern Uganda was provided by donors.43 Additionally, “some donors provide support through on-budget ‘special projects’ which are managed by the Government.”44 It may also come through what is called “off-budget funding, where donors and other development partners implement projects without the involvement of Government, either directly or through NGOs and CSOs.”45 For example, the Delegation of the European Union to Uganda can fund off-budget projects through the European Instrument for Democracy and Human Rights.46 Some development partners now choose not to fund Ugandan projects through the GOU at all. The ambassador of Ireland, H. E. Dónal Cronin, told me in 2016 that the Irish “do not fund through the government financial system anymore” but instead channel their aid through “arm’s length funding.”47 One important value of funding projects directly and not running such funding through government coffers is that donors can work hand-in-hand with Ugandan civil

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society groups to fund and implement the kinds of programming they see as valuable, even when that differs from the values and agenda put forward by the GOU. Donor partners are not likely to be threatened by Museveni, because he depends on their funding. And because the government shows no signs of supporting social rebuilding in Uganda, there is ample opportunity for international donor partners to engage in the sector.48 The Danish embassy, for example, has supported the fledgling National Dialogue Framework— even though the GOU has not explicitly come on board.49 Although donor engagement does not always lead to positive outcomes, as explored in earlier chapters in this book and elsewhere, in these cases it certainly has. It is important to understand these different modalities, because social rebuilding in the form of thin sympathy can take place without official government engagement.

Developing a Thin Sympathetic Strategy in the Absence of Formal Transition The most important question surrounding the development of a thin sympathetic strategy is not what to do if no formal process of transitional justice, such as a truth commission, has been put in place. As discussed in Chapter 6, the thin sympathetic hypothesis suggests that thin sympathy must be developed before any official transitional justice process is convoked. Such a strategy must be employed so that people will understand the very need for transitional justice processes, and so that they will accept a formal process if and when it is ever introduced. It follows, then, that the thin sympathetic strategy needs to be employed before an official transitional justice process is enacted. However, what bears some consideration is what to do in contexts where no formal transition has taken place, as discussed in chapter three. As will be apparent from the analysis presented in the first part of this chapter, there is little incentive for civil society in Uganda to take any kind of action, because it has been beleaguered by the state since before Independence in 1962. That is certainly the case when the violence, persecution, and abuse have not yet ended. And it is as true in places such as Uganda as it is in places such as Canada, where the colonial project that foreclosed opportunities for Indigenous people and subjected them to violence and trauma not only came, but then stayed—and remains in place. Developing a strategy to cultivate thin sympathy even without a transition is an important stage of the social rebuilding

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process. This is an element of social rebuilding and transitional justice, in particular, that is often missed, to detrimental effect. It is a necessary component for successful coming to terms with the past. Specifically, it can have three significant benefits: (i) meeting the needs of the people; (ii) building capacity within the population; and (iii) empowering the population. Each of these is discussed below.

Meeting the Needs of the People

The work of transitional justice largely centers around “judicial and nonjudicial processes and mechanisms, including prosecution initiatives, facilitating initiatives in respect of the right to truth, delivering reparations, institutional reform and national consultations.”50 It often focuses on helping societies achieve “accountability and redressing victims.”51 But such a focus on institutions and procedural approaches, including trials, truth commissions, and reparations, means that academics and practitioners often lose sight of the reasons for tackling questions of impunity for violence and abuse in the first place, as well as the conditions that make transitional justice efforts more or less likely to be accepted by relevant populations as credible and meaningful. Efforts deployed in pretransition or extratransitional countries should seek to address the needs of the people within affected communities and relevant societies. Sarah Kihika Kasande, from the International Center for Transitional Justice’s Uganda office, has begun to think about transitional justice in this vein as well; she defines transitional justice as “confronting the legacies of past human rights abuses and atrocities to build [a] stable, peaceful, and democratic future.”52 What Kasande has in mind, as I understand it, is bigger than a myopic focus on institutions that is so common in the transitional justice literature. It has to do, instead, with other big-picture things people need, such as peace and stability. Some years ago, Lucy Hovil and I did some work in Northern Uganda, asking people what “justice” looked like to them. They told us that before they could even think of justice, they needed peace.53 I worry that the focus of transitional justice on formal institutions causes us to lose sight of these ancillary and contributory needs, as well as the necessary conditions that precede them. Uganda’s Amnesty Act provides a good example. The Act came about “after a great deal of activism from civil society groups, NGOs and concerned politicians.”54 In spite of that, even though the GOU promulgated the Act, the

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government has failed to live up to the promises it made, specifically around the payment of resettlement packages, which contain household items and garden tools as well as reintegration support;55 nearly one-quarter of all those who were awarded amnesty have not been given these resettlement packages.56 Gulu District chairperson Martin Ojara has called on the GOU to step up: in Northern Uganda, “some were abducted as children and are now adults who returned with children. They need both physical and psychological support since they missed out on many opportunities in early life.”57 These needs are not just physical, as Ojara points out; failing to meet the psychological needs of the community when the government has promised otherwise—advertising an apparent bargain to bring those rebelling against the president out of the bush—is characteristic of one of the “false starts” discussed in Chapter 3. After more than fifty years of violent and cyclical conflict, the needs of the Ugandan population are many. “Because individuals are faced, perhaps most directly, with the burden of recovering their lives, including their health and possessions or property during and after mass violence, survivors and their families need both rehabilitation and restitution—attention for physical and psychological trauma as well as the restoration of their livelihood.”58 More than fifty years of chronic and cyclical repression and violence in nearly every area of Uganda has resulted in a population that has had to sacrifice many things as it faced the actuality of insecurity and everyday uncertainty. In the words of Chris Dolan, executive director of the RLP, “Ugandans have been waiting to tell the truth for a long time. Each citizen has her or his own experience of the truth. Few get to tell the world their particular story.”59 The realities of people’s experiences are not widely known or understood beyond the local areas where the conflict has been directly experienced. And that knowledge has not been translated to other areas, where similar, parallel suffering has been felt. As a result, Ugandans in one geographic area know very little about the experiences of Ugandans in other geographic areas. “People don’t understand that what has happened there can happen to them.”60 And if they do know, they may not understand the implications and can easily turn away. In the words of an Ankole proverb, “if there is a noise in the next village, it does not stop you from sleeping.”61 Developing the thin sympathetic response can provide a way to connect the dots between what happened and what that means for the people who were involved. This kind of “head” knowledge is the first step on the sympathy– empathy continuum. But giving people an opportunity to know about the experiences of the other does not need to rely on an officially sanctioned

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process. Instead, this kind of knowledge can be cultivated through local-level civil society efforts as a way of counteracting the increasing division and districtization discussed in Chapter 5. These efforts could include bringing people together for cross-cultural prayer meetings or cultural celebrations, or reinstituting the kinds of national cultural exchanges that formerly existed, such as singing competitions between schools.62 Most importantly, they need to go beyond the high-level exchanges that exist today, between the leaders of the TCIs, for example. Many of the people I spoke with told me that cultural exchanges routinely take place between the different ethnocultural groups in Uganda; when prodded, they admitted that such exchanges take place only between the leaders of the TCIs. 63 As one human rights worker told me, “Today you only see ambassadors and ministers doing these exchanges— even the technocrats are excluded. People need to feel that they are a part of these forums. Let it be the ordinary people who are participating.”64 Two examples of current activities doing just that spring to mind: One was a program on cross-border conflict management concluded by a Ugandan organization, the Centre for Conflict Resolution, in mid-2017, in which former Karamojong cattle rustlers who had fled to South Sudan surrendered, confessed that they were “killers of humans,” apologized for their actions, and have subsequently worked to secure peace in their home communities; “they now call themselves peace ambassadors.”65 Another example was the memory dialogues being carried out by the RLP, in which communities appointed members to mediate the process of hearing people’s stories about their own experiences; those mediators were called “peace commissioners.”66 In both of these cases, the activities taking place allow for communities to memorialize their histories, albeit with some support from conflict resolution specialists in the form of Ugandan NGOs. Once these histories have been solidified at the local level, they are then available to be shared with the broader national community, “which begins to create a nexus, finding and amplifying the common thread.”67 This can be done in any number of ways, from newspaper articles to including those stories in the national curriculum. The approach, as laid out in Chapter 5, is similar to that of cultural diplomacy: “the exchange of ideas, information, art, and other aspects of culture between nations and their peoples in order to foster mutual understanding.”68 For example, in June 2017, the New Vision newspaper carried a threepart exposé about the Ombaci massacre that took place in Arua in northwest Uganda in 1981, and about the suffering of the people there.69 The series was accompanied by sidebars that put the Ombaci experience into context, giving

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some brief historical details. And on the final day of the series, the article was supplemented with ideas from Ugandan civil society groups that put the needs of the people of Ombaci into context with the suffering experienced in other conflicts across the country.70 For example, the “Rt. Rev Fredrick Drandua, the retired bishop of Arua Catholic Diocese—who was an influential leader in Arua at the time of the massacre says that for all the atrocities that took place then, ‘there is need for all of us to rise above the bad days and forge ahead by doing good, forgiving and forgetting.’”71 Some of the work on documenting abuses is being done by international NGOs including Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch. Both organizations produce factual and, importantly, credible reports of the crackdowns by the Museveni government. But there are important limitations to the work done by INGOs in this regard: these reports remain largely inaccessible to many Ugandans who do not have internet access or may not possess the English literacy skills needed to read the reports. Further, the analysis provided in these reports is overly broad and may be difficult to understand for Ugandans who are not involved in the world of policy and scholarship. Of primary importance, the reports do not include the first-person accounts that are so critical for fostering thin sympathetic engagement. There is real value in hearing personal narratives from a person who has lived through something. Opening up a space where people’s stories can be heard can also be beneficial for the person telling the story. “The ability to give testimony can help victims to overcome this disempowerment in the sense that they have the opportunity to tell their story in their own way, thus controlling what is said and how it is communicated.”72 It must be remembered, on the other hand, that “without concrete gains, [victims] may end up feeling that they were merely pawns in a . . . process over which they had little say.”73 Telling their truth may also “allow for the documentation of victims’ stories in a forum which can help to break the silence of the past.”74 There is a secondary benefit, too, in that those stories are also helpful for the person hearing them, particularly if they can be placed in some kind of context. In Chapter 4, I talked about the importance of building a simple cognitive understanding of the past, or thin sympathy. These stories are critical to that endeavour, because they can help to build that basic understanding of the experiences of the other. They can provide a “counter-narrative that pushes back on the story that is being told, especially the narrative of division.”75 As such, the development of thin sympathy must be initiated in order meet the needs of the people—no matter whether a transition has begun or

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not. Setting aside the institutional focus of many transitional justice academics and practitioners, the thin sympathetic process can foster a space where the many needs of the population can begin to be addressed. It can help people understand why they should care.

Building Capacity Within the Population

A corollary to meeting the needs of the people is another benefit to beginning to develop a thin sympathetic approach before any kind of transition has been effected, and that is building the capacity of the population to understand why it is necessary in the first place by helping them understand what has happened and what effects that has had. Put a different way, thin sympathy can increase the readiness of the population for an eventual opportunity to carry out a more formalized agenda that could deal more fully with the psychological need for healing and social rebuilding. Thin sympathy, here again, is conceived a necessary but not sufficient condition for the development of acknowledgement, which is itself a kind of gateway for processes such as transitional justice and reconciliation. Kingdon writes about “policy windows,” which he describes as “opportunities for action on given initiatives.”76 In the context of thin sympathy, of course, I refer here to initiatives of social healing and to different ways of rebuilding after conflict. The argument to be made here is that society must cultivate some preparedness for future openings that will allow for the development of social healing. Kingdon relates an anecdote on the importance of being prepared: “When you lobby for something, what you have to do is put together your coalition, you have to gear up, you have to get your political forces in line, and then you sit there and wait for the fortuitous event. . . . As I see it, people who are trying to advocate changes are like surfers waiting for the big wave. You get out there, you have to be ready to go, you have to be ready to paddle. If you’re not ready to paddle when the big wave comes along, you’re not going to ride it in.”77 The development of a thin sympathetic response does just that. It starts by “giv[ing] people the language to talk about this.”78 It provides them with an idea about what has taken place and about the scope and scale of the problem. It affords an opportunity for them to see beyond their own small community, to understand that their own suffering corresponds to the suffering of others.

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Certainly, these might be only “small, incremental, marginal adjustments in . . . behavior.”79 But taken together, they represent a significant step. Thin sympathy creates the conditions of preparedness for other goals, including those proffered by transitional justice mechanisms. In the absence of a strong state, one might imagine that civil society could take on these responsibilities and could, therefore, act as a kind of external moral authority. Yet, over the course of the past fifty years, Ugandan civil society as a whole has all but abandoned this kind of action. Civil society has taken up the mantle at times because success seemed doubtful, and because the Museveni government showed no signs of being replaced and likewise seemed unlikely to change its direction, and because of increasing threats to and violence against the well-being of the members of civil society. As Kingdon describes, “Without the prospect of an open window, participants slack off. They are unwilling to invest their time, political capital, energy, and other resources in an effort that is unlikely to bear fruit.”80 With some exceptions, outlined above, this has been the case in Uganda. The window seems firmly shut. As one interviewee explained to me, “no-one is going to keep head-butting with government for a very long time.”81 Eventually they succumb to apathy. Without any buy-in from government, the only way that thin sympathy can work in places where the government has clamped down to such an extent is if it is carried out at the extragovernmental level, whether at the grassroots level or through national networks. Cognitive knowledge must be spread from person to person, through films and seminars and church hall discussions. Civil society is called on to take the lead, disseminating information and encouraging others to take up the work precisely because the government will not do so. Civil society can utilize its extensive networks to transmit the information and understanding of the other across the population. And spreading this knowledge through organizations such as churches and mosques ensures that the information is transmitted even across ethnocultural lines. The impulse for thin sympathy may, in fact, come from empathic champions, as discussed in Chapter 4, who push for such knowledge to be spread— again, in the absence of policy windows. Rather than wait for the state, as Kingdon suggests, these policy entrepreneurs could take their policy ideas downward, to the people. The idea for thin sympathy could be taken up by civil society instead. This would have the effect of preparing the soil, which could eventually force government to take up these ideas as policy—or would prepare the population for such a time that that occurs.

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The effect of civil society transmission will necessarily be different than that of a top-down campaign or policy. There will not be a centralized rollout of policy through formal channels. But it can be equally or even more effective, because the information is coming from groups or other people that individuals on the receiving end know and trust. The information can actually get to the people without a middleman interrupting the process; there is no state funding to fight over, and no graft—just people doing their bit to pass along information. Moreover, such a process can change the minds and eventually also the hearts of the people. The small initiatives that have begun in Uganda demonstrate this to be true. The development of a thin sympathetic response can therefore be a way to begin to rebuild some of what has been lost. “There is a need to mobilize the citizenry so they can see the need for a better future. There is a need for that critical mass to be reawakened. But the system has deliberately weakened those who could come up. They have deliberately spoiled their hands so they cannot come up.”82 To borrow again from the medical literature, much of Ugandan civil society has atrophied over a period of years, and with significantly more speed since 1986. Lexico defines “atrophy” as to “waste away; gradually decline in effectiveness or vigour due to underuse or neglect.”83 In particular, Ugandan civil society seems to have suffered from a type of atrophy known as “disuse atrophy,” the “atrophy of a tissue or organ as a result of inactivity or diminished function.”84 The good news is that this type of atrophy can usually be reversed with exercise. Much like reengaging and flexing a muscle through exercise, beginning to think about a thin sympathetic response and then putting in place a strategy, followed by carrying it out, can reengage civil society after the period of inactivity. Engaging in the development of thin sympathy can be a way for civil society to stay motivated. Kingdon notes that the generation of ideas about and alternatives to the current policy landscape is frequently characterized by what he calls “incrementalism.”85 The regrowth of civil society through reengagement might be slow, but a slow and steady approach can actually be quite useful. Kingdon allows that gradual action and change is “a strategy that one might use to . . . push for one small part at a time in order to move in their preferred direction.”86 All of this combines to give people a reason to wait for an opening. Like Kingdon’s surfer analogy, Ugandan civil society needs to be ready to catch the next wave—whenever and however it appears. Helping the population

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develop a basic understanding of the abuses perpetrated in the ongoing political climate will help to reengage the muscles of civil society at the same time as it will ready the population, giving these developing ideas some traction when they do emerge. And putting that readiness together with an open window for change could provide a unique opportunity for meaningful justice and reconciliation built on thin sympathy.

The Impetus for Agency

Another benefit arising from the development of thin sympathy before any real transition has taken place is empowerment and agency. Rather than simply waiting for an opening for political change or a transition, the development of thin sympathy and the flexing of the thin sympathetic muscle could spark even more engagement. This increased engagement could, for example, take the form of advocacy—something that large parts of civil society in Uganda, in its currently numbed state, are unable even to contemplate, let alone carry out. Increased engagement is likely to come about if, during the process of learning about the other, a person’s scope of reference is widened considerably. Changing the way people think about a particular subject can be done by creating a basic understanding of the circumstances of the other. This can then “create a shift in the absence of any national policy.”87 The impact of this increased engagement is both enablement and enfranchisement of community actors and the people they represent. Armed with information, people will be able to think more broadly than if their thoughts are more narrowly constrained by a lack of information, or information coming from only one approved source: the government. This will increase their ability to act and, it is hoped, embolden them to do so. It also often leads to a challenge to the status quo, and particularly to the stranglehold of elites on society. “There are more spaces where local people can challenge the elites. There is a whole web of information confronting elites because by the time they go to the village, they will find a well-informed public.”88 In due course, this gives people a sense of agency. “Agency” has been defined as involving two parts: “a lower level non-conceptual feeling of being an agent; it is the background buzz of control we feel for our voluntary actions when not explicitly thinking about them. [And second,] a higher-level conceptual judgment of agency, [that] arises in situations where we make explicit attributions of agency to the self or other.”89 Although the lower-order,

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involuntary agency may be the most familiar in places where people, and civil society generally, have learned not to imperil themselves or others, with more information and understanding, both individuals and the broader civil society will be more likely to stick their proverbial necks out. Ultimately, the impact of capacity-building of this kind will be greater than the sum of its parts. Feinberg argues that claiming a right can “make things happen.”90 The implications of this are important, because the “rights” analogy is useful for this discussion in that the empowerment of people within a society such as Uganda, a multiethnic divided society still wracked by conflict and abuse, can be brought about by the exercise of the thin sympathetic response. The simple respect for people from other groups that is brought about by the basic understanding that is developed across the population will eventually result in a basic respect for each other that can be objectively enjoyed.91

Pursuing Thin Sympathy Even Without the State This chapter has discussed the different ways that any transitional justice strategy could be thickened by developing a thin sympathetic approach. In particular, though, it has examined the ways that it could be thickened in multiethnic, divided societies in which there has been no cessation of hostilities, and in which there has been no actual transition. Using the case of Uganda as a lens, the thin sympathetic response needs to be developed before the implementation of any transitional justice institutions and instruments. The impact of such a strategy will be even greater than in societies that are further along on their transitional journey. The effects of the ongoing conflict and abuse in Uganda have dealt a serious blow to civil society. Civil society and, in particular, NGOs have been reduced to a minimal existence, unable to move forward on issues of great importance for fear of reprisal. Ugandans themselves, and civil society in general, have grown accustomed to waiting for the approval of and participation by government, which has not come—and it is not likely to be forthcoming in the near future. Yet the activities required for the development of thin sympathy do not require the participation of the state. They are low-level activities that can be pursued at the community, regional, or national level, and that amount to not much more than improving the basic understanding of what has happened in different places across the country—something that has been prohibited

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by policies of division and districtization up to this point. But although the activities must be proactively pursued, they can be pursued without official input from the government. This is important, particularly in cases such as Uganda where government either fails to act when it says it will or obstructs civil society access when it wants to. There are at least three benefits to developing a thin sympathetic response in this kind of environment. Each of the benefits is related. And each of the benefits escalates in scope and scale, following on from the one before. These include, first, meeting the needs of the people, even outside of a formal transitional justice process. In the absence of a governmental response, civil society can begin to meet the psychological needs of the community. Second, developing thin sympathy can build capacity within the population such that it can begin to push for an opening whereby civil society can start to advocate for the issues and values it wants to advance. This kind of lobbying requires preparation and readiness, and taking up the thin sympathetic project can get civil society on that track by giving them a way to get past their suspended animation even though the source of their paralysis remains constant. Third, capacity building leads to empowerment and agency. Developing the thin sympathetic impulse can inspire understanding and respect. These are the building blocks of a rights-respecting society.

CHAPTER 8

Bridging the Divide Applying Thin Sympathy in Other Divided Societies

The Benefits of Thin Sympathetic Engagement There are many and significant benefits of thin sympathy. At its root, thin sympathy is about engaging people to make them at least cognitively familiar with the experience of the other. This involves acquiring basic knowledge and understanding of past events to help individuals and groups connect what has taken place to both the current circumstances in which they find themselves and the broader context. And unlike affective—beyond-cognitive—initiatives such as emotional empathy, thin sympathy can be developed in a large segment of the population, where it can rather straightforwardly be initiated. Thin sympathy can lay the foundation for a bridge to be built between estranged groups. In places such as Uganda, ethnocultural groups have been kept apart, and as a result they know very little about one another. Putnam, for example, explains that groups “pull in like a turtle” when confronted with interethnic difference they do not understand.1 The thin sympathetic hypothesis tackles this head-on; the broader effect is that divisions begin to be deconstructed. Thin sympathy can be the basis for breaking down the compartments into which each group has retreated. Breaking down the barriers between alienated groups is important because it can begin to meet the needs of the people. Often, especially in deeply divided societies, these kinds of social needs are not assumed to be important. Rather, a sort of informal accommodation between disputing parties has been made that allows them to live a peaceful coexistence, sometimes called a modus vivendi. Perhaps the best example is the city of Skopje,

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Macedonia, where the Vardar River divides the city along cultural, political, and religious lines: “The river is the border between two worlds—one inhabited mainly by Macedonia’s Slavic-speaking majority, and the other mainly by the ethnic Albanian minority. In bold terms, one side is Christian and Muslim; one ‘westernised’ and the other more oriental.”2 Thin sympathetic interventions can begin to open up the closed nature of these communities, allowing the other to learn more about what has taken place on the other side, and what the experiences of the people living on that other side have been. Thin sympathy can also begin to build the capacity of the community. The kind of understanding that is developed will give the population the most basic of tools with which to tackle the problem of indifference or outright hostility. A small amount of even rudimentary knowledge can go a long way toward beginning the work of building bridges between communities that have become estranged. And thin sympathy can serve as a tool of empowerment. As Hobbes said, “The register of knowledge of fact is called history . . . which is the voluntary actions of men.”3 The ability to know, along with the collected knowledge itself, imbues both individuals and communities with the impetus to act to improve their own situation and ultimately also the situation of the other, sometimes referred to as the “out-group”—or at least not to stand in the way when others so try. All of this is particularly important because the building of thin sympathy in a population can be done even in situations where no official transitional justice strategy has been attempted. Even absent formal means, communities themselves can embark on a process of thin sympathy. And in so doing they can begin the social rebuilding process. That ability to begin to act, without having to wait for formal, state-led efforts or for permission from the government, matters greatly in places such as Uganda, where NGOs are often censored; where the government is the author of many of the human rights abuses and division; and where the government seemingly has no interest in putting in place any kind of transitional justice process, preferring instead to maintain the status quo because it suits their purposes. But it also matters in other contexts. The model of a fully transitioned society is not the reality in many places where transitional justice is currently and has been the actual practice. In the recent past, this includes situations such as those in Libya, Egypt, and Tunisia. Further back in time, it included places such as Haiti, Ethiopia, or Chad.

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This book has been written with a specific context in mind: multiethnic, divided societies where conflict, harm, and abuse are ongoing. My default case, after so many years in the field, has been and continues to be Uganda, the example utilized throughout this book to explain the thin sympathetic hypothesis in context. But thin sympathy could apply equally to other situations in which deep divisions have spilled over into conflict and where that conflict continues unabated, such as South Sudan or even Syria. It is also relevant beyond those parameters. It equally applies in settler colonial states, where, unlike post-colonial Uganda, the settler communities continue to hold the reins of power. In such contexts, the abuse may not be all-out violence; to the naked eye, an observer might not immediately note the harm being suffered. But the existing undercurrent of repression and harm are in some ways eerily similar to the ongoing low-intensity violence of places such as Uganda: what Galtung describes as negative peace, or the absence of direct or organized violence between human groups.4 But the root causes of that conflict have never been eradicated, and problems such as intolerance and the failure to share resources still adversely affect the Indigenous population. Canada, for example, where I live, is an established, consolidated democracy, yet many Indigenous people continue to struggle with low levels of education, inadequate housing and crowded living conditions, lower income levels, higher levels of incarceration, and high rates of suicide. These issues can be traced directly to the harms brought about by colonialism, and many of them are still being visited upon Indigenous people living in Canada. Not every transitional justice context is as cut-and-dried as in situations such as South Africa, where democratic transition had been effected, a new constitution had been written, and the repression had legally ended, all before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was ever created. Still, it is important to note some of the post-TRC critiques being raised even in the “new” South Africa; for example, that the work and the scope of the TRC was insufficient and that it failed to go far enough to address the inequalities that still exist. Thin sympathy could also have made a difference in the so-called “typical” transitional justice contexts—such as South Africa—too. In all three kinds of scenarios, whether in multiethnic, divided societies where no transition has taken place, in settler colonial contexts, or in traditional post-conflict situations, the population continues to experience both basic, tangible civil, political, economic, social, and cultural inequalities and inequality of opportunity at the hands of the state. And at least in the first

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two categories, there is also the absence of an official government response and no clear regime change, which of course complicates any response. Thin sympathetic development is especially important because it can begin to knit together fragmented societies. The development of thin sympathy can precondition the population to engage in transitional justice processes even in extratransitional circumstances. Each of these contexts is explored below.

The Many Faces of Transitional Contexts, or Where Thin Sympathy Might Be Useful Within each of these three scenarios, thin sympathetic programming could be employed. These are explored below.

No Transition

Now that the applicability of the thin sympathetic hypothesis in Uganda has been examined, it is important to note that thin sympathy could play a role in the context of other, similar no-transition situations. By no means is it limited in scope to the environment in Uganda. Indeed, I believe that the relevance of the idea can be applied in other similar contexts. In earlier work, I somewhat optimistically referred to places such as Uganda as pre-transitional.5 I argued that in those places there has “not been a definite transition from one regime to the next, nor a clear move from conflict to peace. Fighting often continues, and the population continues to live in a state of ‘suspended animation,’ waiting for the security that they hope will come with a transition. In these countries, mechanisms of transitional justice may even have been tried on an ad hoc basis.”6 In that work, I sought to clearly differentiate those states from what I called “non-transitional” states, referring specifically to settler-colonial contexts where democracy has been consolidated and there is no impetus for a transition of any kind—even though the group that was colonized (in most cases, Indigenous peoples) remains in that same colonized state, subject to the vagaries and abuses of those in power, who are the descendants of the settlers who arrived all those years ago. Unlike strictly colonial contexts where, as Mamdani notes, the colonial ruler ultimately came and then left,7 in settler colonial contexts, the colonial powers never left. And the colonized

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communities never end up getting justice for ongoing structural violence because the perpetrators are still in charge.8 In point of fact, these two terms ought instead to be conflated under the “no-transition” banner, for, although transition remains a possibility in the pretransition phase, in places such as Uganda, that phase has stretched for more than thirty years and shows no signs of abating. Indeed, Uganda’s Supreme Court in April 2019 upheld the so-called “Age Limit Bill,” which removed age limits for presidential candidates, meaning that President Museveni could theoretically remain as president for the rest of his life, which he appears set to do.9 So there is no transition in the offing in Uganda even after all these years. The distinction between “no-transition” and “pre-transition” becomes fuzzy. It therefore seems more correct that both should be considered instances of “no-transition.” Within the category of no-transition, then, there are four subtypes of notransition states that deserve to be articulated: failed states, forgotten conflicts, frozen conflicts, and fighting continues, plus, of course,settler colonial contexts. Any of these could legitimately be said to be in a state of no-transition. Within the first four, at least, it is important to note that these categories are not necessarily mutually exclusive. There is significant overlap and slippage between them. But in an effort to stress the common elements within each of the subtypes, I have attempted to isolate them as separate analytical constructs for the purposes of this discussion. Likewise, the cases cited as examples could potentially be placed in other categories, depending on their characteristics— for example, the conflict in Yemen has been forgotten, yet the fighting continues. Each of the no-transition categories is explored briefly below. Failed States

States are said to fail “when they are consumed by internal violence and cease delivering positive political goods to their inhabitants. Their governments lose credibility; and the continuing nature of the particular nation-state becomes questionable and illegitimate in the hearts and minds of its citizens.”10 In such cases, there is no government authority and no transition. The state apparatus is paralyzed, and there is no opportunity for transitional justice to take place. The case of Somalia is apt: Human Rights Watch reported that “fighting, insecurity and lack of state protection, and recurring humanitarian crises had a devastating impact on Somali civilians in 2018. The number of internally displaced people, many living unassisted and at risk of serious abuse, reached

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an estimated 2.7 million.”11 This kind of violence and insecurity has been on the rise since 1991 when the Barre government was overthrown. Since 1993, the country has been ruled by a patchwork of warlords. However, the thin sympathetic hypothesis suggests that the work of putting the country back together again could, in fact, be begun within the population, well beneath the state level, to activate a process “below the gaze of formal institutions.”12 One example of an action that took place below the state level was a pilot project on sustainable solid-waste management that was begun in 2012 by the Somali Human Relief Foundation. It sought cooperation from the Benadir Regional Administration, but proceeded with financial support from UN-Habitat Somalia and the European Union. It also worked with local Somali NGO partners.13 The success of that project eventually led to broader solid-waste collection efforts. And although that project dealt with a different subject, its success demonstrates that non-state approaches can work. They could be employed to produce thin sympathy to similar effect. Lundy and McGovern, for example, note the need to “ensure real political engagement is not denied to a population that has been subject to years of violent conflict and authoritarianism.”14 Because the work of building understanding between groups of people is not incumbent upon the state, local individuals and agencies, or even international organizations,15 could begin to establish processes to help the people of Somalia to begin to consider the facts of what has taken place, and the importance of it. This is the basis for thin sympathetic development. Forgotten Conflicts

A 2018 report by the Italian arm of the Roman Catholic relief and development agency Caritas defined 378 “forgotten conflicts”—contexts in which communities are caught between warring factions or subject to daily insecurities that have gone on for so long they have largely been forgotten by the international community, and in particular by those who could use their resources to bring the conflict to an end:16 There is a growing number of conflicts . . . which are scarcely talked about; the number is high because we must take into account these strong interconnections: first of all, with the production and trade of arms, then with climate changes that make resources increasingly scarce; for example, the peaceful coexistence between farmers and

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shepherds throughout the Sahel becomes increasingly less peaceful and more violent. So financial speculation and, basically, poverty. . . . Most of these wars are fought in poor countries, precisely among the poor people who fight each other to contend for increasingly scarce resources.17 One such context is Yemen, where many thousands of Yemeni civilians have been killed or injured in the armed conflict that began in 2014, when Houthi rebels seized the capital and much of the rest of the country. The ensuing conflict has been a sort of proxy war between the Saudis and Russians on one side and the United States and its allies on the other. “Across the country, civilians suffer from a lack of basic services, a spiraling economic crisis, and broken governance, health, education, and judicial systems. Parties to the conflict have exacerbated what the United Nations has called the world’s largest humanitarian catastrophe, including by unlawfully impeding delivery of desperately needed humanitarian aid.”18 It should go without saying that work needs to be carried out, first to tend to the immediate needs of the population and to end the hostilities. But even while that process is ongoing, the groundwork could be laid to prepare the population—whether they have supported Houthi forces and forces loyal to former president Ali Abdullah Saleh, or the Yemeni government and allied forces—about what has taken place. The people could be told about the impact of the conflict for those on the other side, so they can understand the instrumental nature of international involvement. And though it is still far too soon to carry out formal processes of transitional justice, despite calls by international groups for “efforts toward accountability,”19 this kind of preliminary knowledge-building can begin to prepare the population for those next steps when eventually an opportunity arises to implement them. “Yemen has more than 16,000 registered civil society organizations engaged in a variety of social issues.”20 These organizations have taken over the work of the state in its absence. A 2018 report calls for providing women and youth, in particular, “with a platform to constructively engage with their communities.”21 Thin sympathy could be begun through these platforms. Frozen Conflicts

Boduszyński and Lamont characterize frozen conflicts22 as “conflicts [that] ended with ad hoc ceasefire agreements but without final settlements.”23 This

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is closely related to Bell and Pospisil’s concept of “formalized political unsettlement” produced when peace processes fail to produce a stable political settlement.24 In either case, there is no resolution to the conflict, and people simply exist within the uncertainty of the political situation. For the most part, there is no physical violence. This holds true in places such as Cyprus, which “remains de facto divided into Turkish-speaking and Greek-speaking (government-controlled) parts and . . . despite on-going diplomatic negotiations there is no official settlement.”25 The conflict on Cyprus has been described as “an intractable yet ‘comfortable’ conflict.”26 The people living on Cyprus have lived within these conditions since 1974, when the island was partitioned, the northern portion governed by the Turkish Cypriot government and the southern portion governed by the internationally recognized government led by Greek Cypriots. The dividing line is still patrolled by UN peacekeeping forces. There is some research that demonstrates that the kind of “everyday peace” advocated by scholars such as Mac Ginty27 is under way in Cyprus. Charalambous and Rampton, for example, consider language education in schools on Cyprus as a form of everyday peace building. They argue that it can “normalize inter-ethnic relations after conflict.”28 Marsden et al. note the importance of the everyday, “including mundane activities, lived experience, repetitive practices as well as, indeed, eventful ruptures” in such communities.29 This is the stuff of thin sympathy: “Interaction across sectarian, ethnic and nationalistic boundaries can be common despite a meta-context of social division.”30 Thin sympathetic engagement, therefore, could be begun even before there is a foreseeable end to frozen, intractable conflict. Fighting Continues

Fighting refers to contexts where there is ongoing conflict. This conflict may be of varying degrees of intensity. The Council on Foreign Relations’ Global Conflict Tracker, for example, refers to a range of eight different categories of conflict, including civil war, criminal violence, interstate conflict, political instability, sectarian conflict, territorial dispute, transnational terrorism, and unconventional conflict.31 South Sudan descended into civil war not long after it declared independence from Sudan in 2011. The current conflict is between factions loyal to warring leaders, each wanting to control the government. “Since the conflict started in December 2013, more than 4 million people have fled their homes,

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with 2.47 million taking refuge in neighboring countries. Close to 200,000 people are living in six UN ‘protection of civilians’ sites across the country. Seven million people need humanitarian assistance, most of whom faced acute food shortages.”32 Human Rights Watch notes that that “lack of accountability continued to fuel the violence, while progress on establishing the hybrid court envisioned in the 2015 peace agreement remains stalled.”33 As the International Center for Transitional Justice notes, the possibility for transitional justice depends on “whether an opportunity has emerged to address massive violations, even if it is a limited opportunity.”34 In the case of South Sudan, no such opportunity is as yet apparent. Even so, the population could still be engaged in thin sympathetic interventions, which would sensitize them to what has taken place and prepare them for the possibility of future transitional justice. “Countless stories of people from one tribe protecting those of another demonstrate that hope for unity in South Sudan is not lost.” As far back as 2014, civil society groups in South Sudan had begun readying for engagement. “Groups like [Citizens for Peace and Justice, a coalition of forty civil society groups] and the Coalition of Advocates for South Sudan (CASS), a diaspora group . . . are attempting to bring these disparate voices together and expand the conversations past the Nuer and Dinka tribes.”35 There is no need to wait for a formal transitional justice strategy to be implemented. No-Transition: Settler Colonial Contexts

The thin sympathetic hypothesis is equally useful in settler colonial contexts, and can add significant value to the reimagining of what relations between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples could look like. Canada provides an interesting and important settler colonial case for consideration in the context of what a thin sympathetic response could look like. The intricacies of the Canadian case are explored below. Canada’s founding myth holds that Canada was “discovered” in 1534 by French explorer Jacques Cartier, and that “two founding nations,” the British and the French, came together in 1867 to “found” what is now called Canada.36 This characterization, though, elides the presence of many nations of Indigenous37 peoples who had lived across the continent for thousands of years and continue to live there today. Importantly, the courts have ruled that terra nullius “has no application vis-à-vis the European assertion of sovereignty over lands now part of Canada”—as it did, for example, in Australia.38

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The European settlers colonized the people and the land, causing serious harms. Woolford notes three important patterns: First, the varied path of attempted Aboriginal destruction in Canada is misrepresented by attempts to reduce Canadian colonialism to a singular event and Aboriginal Canadians to a single “group.” To put it simply, Canadian Aboriginal peoples are culturally and regionally diverse and experienced colonialism in different ways. Second, while all Aboriginal groups experienced at least some degree of attempted assimilation, some also experienced high levels of physical destruction through settler violence, disease, and deadly residential-school conditions, as well as biological interference with reproductive processes. Finally, the separation between “cultural” and “physical” forms of destruction—a modernist contrivance that contends that such neat categories in fact exist—collapses under a more detailed investigation of Aboriginal experiences of destruction.39 These harms were carried out through institutions and structures that were created to “manage” Indigenous people. These included, for example, the Indian residential schools that were established in the mid-1880s, “conceived in partially benign terms to help Aboriginal people to adapt better to life in a white-dominated country.”40 “Until 1996, when the last school finally closed, about 150,000 First Nations, Inuit, and Métis children were forcibly removed from their families and placed into institutions fundamentally designed to destroy their indigenous identities.”41 Another “institution” was a piece of legislation called the Indian Act (1876), which is still in effect at the time of writing. The Indian Act has caused vast social inequalities for Indigenous peoples living in Canada, including unequal access to health care, justice, and education, inadequate housing, and increased rates of poverty, unemployment, incarceration, child deaths, and suicide—all of which continue to the present day. Such special legislation does not exist for any other group in Canada.42 There are a number of other examples. Balint et al. argue more broadly that liberal democracy is itself a colonial structure of harm.43 Fanon notes that “the colonial world is a world divided into compartments.”44 In citing Mamdani, Branch and Mampilly note that “this led those living in the different compartments to have fundamentally different political and economic concerns, expectations, identities, and forms of politics. These structural divides remained the foundation of colonial . . . rule.”45 In

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the settler colonial context, there was no “end” to colonization. The colonial structures remain in place and firmly under the control of settler communities. And the harms continue. Balint et al. note that “unique structural relations . . . obtain between colonizer and colonized in settler societies where the colonizer never leaves and where economic interest lies in securing permanent sovereignty in the land.”46 Rice and Snyder argue that Indigenous peoples continue to experience ongoing oppression, and that racist myths that justify the mistreatment of Indigenous people persist. The structural divides have also remained.

Bridging Understanding

There is a surprising lack of understanding among non-Indigenous Canadians about the experiences of Indigenous people living in Canada. Researchers have noted a “general lack of knowledge of Indigenous histories, [that] are equally indicative of how much more Canadians need to learn about Indigenous issues and Indigenous peoples’ historical and contemporary relationships with Canada and (other) Canadians.”47 There is a significant disconnect. Recent national polling data indicate that non-Indigenous Canadians fail to “look at the root causes.”48 The literature demonstrates that although this lack of understanding could result in apathy, in other cases it could form the basis of intense racism.49 In Canada, both are true. One 2016 Environics poll revealed that some Canadians believe “aboriginals get special treatment from governments, abuse their privileges, and take handouts rather than contribute to society.”50 Among many Canadians, there are strong feelings about the place of Indigenous peoples in Canada. For example, a Saskatchewan farmer accused of second-degree murder in 2018 in the shooting of an Indigenous man on his farm was found not guilty by a jury made up entirely of non-Indigenous Canadians; the verdict has been interpreted to mean that “in the eyes of Canada’s justice system it is okay to shoot and kill an unarmed Indigenous man.”51 This range in public sentiment evinces two arguments: First, nonIndigenous Canadians have been and remain unable to “connect the dots” between the conditions in which Indigenous people living in Canada find themselves and the structural violence that has continued to be perpetrated.52 Instead, they see each of the problems affecting Indigenous peoples living in Canada—high rates of violence, suicide, addictions, health problems, poverty,

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unemployment, illiteracy—as discrete problems unrelated to the rest, even if they recognize that the problems “are not of indigenous people’s own making.”53 One Indigenous activist, Roberta Jamieson, noted “a growing awareness. I have seen a desire amongst Canadians to learn more. . . . I think, though, that the depth of understanding is not as we would like it to be.”54 Even Canada’s prime minister has echoed these sentiments. In an address to the UN General Assembly, he said, “We can’t build strong relationships if we refuse to have conversations. We can’t chart a more peaceful path if the starting point is suspicion and mistrust.”55 Suspicion and mistrust persist. Basic information alone is not sufficient to produce a clear picture of the past and its consequences. Canada must also engage in a process that makes connections between, for example, the residential schools and the fact that the survivors of those schools turned to drugs and alcohol as a way of coping with the physical, emotional, and sexual abuse that they suffered in the schools. Non-Indigenous Canadians need to understand that every event or structure had extreme consequences, to riff on Newton’s third law that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Non-Indigenous Canadians need to be able to explicitly link one event to another so that it paints a full picture. Understanding the deep ramifications of policies and structures that have been in place for 150 years is important. The TRC and the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls both assumed the existence of a basic knowledge of the history of the treatment of Indigenous peoples by settler Canadians, but that did not exist. The work of those initiatives, therefore, fell on deaf ears, and their impact has been relatively small as a result. Non-Indigenous Canadians need to understand the correlation between what happened and why, or else they will never develop a thin sympathetic response, because the understanding of an event is complete only when the implications of that event are also considered in perspective. They need to understand not only what happened but also why it matters. Scholars such as Gobodo-Madikizela, LaCapra, and Regan insist that this provocation is necessary.56 And the deliberate three-part strategy for sensitizing the population spelled out in Chapter 5 is designed to help them fit pieces of the story together through (i) gathering and disseminating information, (ii) sensitizing the population, and (iii) making links between the abuses that have been carried out and the broader patterns and structures of abuse. It is particularly critical for the non-Indigenous population to understand what might be called the “thing behind the thing”57—the actions and events

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that precipitated the abuse that caused the suffering. Their cognitive awareness cannot just stop at the violence or abuse. This rather incomplete, basic knowledge, though, is what lies behind the mischaracterization of the significance of that abuse; it is the stimulus for the racist sentiment discussed above. Rather, these hidden connections, and the implications of those connections, must form the backbone of a more complete recognition and understanding of how and why those abuses took place, and the larger structural problems that also need to be addressed. Joining those dots will break down distrust. And it will allow for an opening for dialogue between the two groups to begin.58 Thin sympathy can play an important role in this development. In fact, efforts carried out in Canada have fed into the “discrete events” interpretation that perpetuates a lack of real understanding about the past and its legacy. Canadians may understand the bare facts about one or more experiences of structural violence for Indigenous people living in Canada, but they fail to see the big picture and they fail to grasp the implications of any of it. To take official apologies as an example, there has been a marked increase in the number of formal apologies being made by the federal government, many pertaining to what are portrayed as isolated incidents having to do with the Indigenous community in Canada. Since 1988, eleven formal apologies have been made, five of which have dealt specifically with particular events relating to Indigenous people living in Canada.59 Nagy argues that Canadians conceive of the events that each of the apologies addresses as “a slice across the spectrum of the Indigenous–settler relationship”60—as isolated, unconnected events. Yet there has been no attempt to elucidate the whole of that relationship, to trace its contours, and to connect the violence and abuse detailed in the respective apologies with a broader structural program of control. It is at least partly likely that this deliberate separateness comes as a result of trying to avoid decolonization: scholars and activists have argued that it should not be “about tweaking the existing colonial system to make it more Indigenous-friendly or a little less oppressive . . . [Rather, it should be about] the ultimate purpose of overturning the colonial structure and realizing Indigenous liberation.”61 Instead of being a good thing, though, making so many apologies at such a surface level is problematic. Overexposure of this kind risks damaging any process of thin sympathy. There are four dangers in particular:62 For one, repeated exposure at a minimal level “makes us gradually lose the propensity to be moved.”63 Another danger is that “repeated exposure . . . might have a numbing effect on our sensibilities,” and, in particular, repeated exposure “to

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people with whom we have no special connection [emphasis in original] might make us numb.”64 Without any kind of detailed explanation, overexposure can create indifference and apathy, and can also serve to reinforce previously held opinions and attitudes. As well, too much exposure “might convince the observer that the conflict is simply too violent, too convoluted, too desperate for him to try to help, or otherwise become involved. Thus, so the claim goes, detailed images might promote a sense of impotence and helplessness among those who watch them.”65 Finally, there is emerging evidence to suggest that repeated exposure over time to these kinds of situational reminders may cause “phasic reactivity” to the kinds of harm experienced.66 Whether intended to open the door to lawsuits for compensation or only as shallow admissions made for feel-good reasons, these government apologies have been made without any effort to educate the non-Indigenous Canadian public about the event itself or to explain the connections between the event and the lived experience of the people involved. With respect to one apology, made for the government’s decision to turn away an immigrant ship, the Komagata Maru,67 one commentator observed, for example, that the prime minister had “apologized for an event no living Canadian had anything to do with. Further, he directed the apology to people who were not alive at the time it happened (more than a century ago), most of whom, in all likelihood, never met the ancestors who received the shabby treatment for which Trudeau is now officially sorry.”68 This stands in sharp contrast to the many harms and violence that have been and are still being carried out against Indigenous peoples living in Canada. Very little understanding is ultimately produced from these apologies, because they come with little foregrounding and provide little context. The second argument follows directly from the first: Failing to understand the complexity of the situation as well as its long-lasting effects is exacerbated by the fact that non-Indigenous Canadians think they know what has taken place. Anecdotal evidence suggests that Canadians think they know about the issues facing the Indigenous community. But when pressed, many are unable to make the links between the Indian Act, for example, and more concrete or structural problems such as missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls, or the continued seizure of Indigenous children by the state for placement into foster care with non-Indigenous caregivers, or water crises on reserves across the country, and so on. There is an acute gap between the information they have and the absorption of that information. All of this combines to produce a profoundly regressive effect, a return to a former or less developed understanding about what has taken place. As the

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colloquial expression goes, “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” In fact, such knowledge not only needs be backed up by more facts, but must then be buttressed by real explanations of what has taken place, and a contextual reading of those facts.

Impact on Thin Sympathy

Information about what has taken place, therefore, must be parceled out in an intentional way. It must be deliberately distributed in such a way that the public—in this case, non-Indigenous Canadians—is able to make sense of it and put it into perspective, understanding both why and how the implications of what has taken place actually matter. The constant trickle of only partial information is damaging. If thin sympathy, defined as basic awareness, is to be developed as a way of sensitizing non-Indigenous Canadians as a first step toward meaningfully dealing with the past, a thoughtful strategy must be developed that will bridge the gap between knowing bits and pieces of the story and being able to see the full picture. Thin sympathy is simply that: a cognitive recognition of the facts. How people feel about those facts will differ considerably. How they act as a result may also vary. But the thin sympathetic hypothesis holds that a functional understanding of the past will facilitate the process of dealing with the past by providing an opening, and a path without resistance—at least, resistance due to faulty and incomplete understanding. The hypothesis suggests that transitional justice processes such as truth commissions are more likely to succeed if thin sympathy is built before they are established. One concrete example of this comes from Lambert’s seminal analysis of the very early stages of South Africa’s transition from apartheid. She recounts the importance of particular institutions such as the Goldstone Commission, and the social and institutional learning that occurred in those institutions, in changing attitudes and practices before the launch of the TRC. Her work documents the building of a basic factual understanding about past events that took place in advance of the TRC.69 Ultimately, this suggests that shoring up this kind of knowledge prior to tackling formal transitional justice processes and strategies can lead to stronger institutions and better outcomes. Certainly, the South African TRC is widely heralded as perhaps the most successful transitional justice process to date.70

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Classic Transitional Contexts Just as thin sympathy could make a difference in preparing the population for eventual transitional justice processes, it could also be applied in contexts where there has actually been a formal transition or transitional justice processes have begun. In fact, in such cases, it might even be more effective. That is because, in such cases, efforts at thin sympathy will necessarily be accompanied by other mechanisms and processes that will bolster the effectiveness of thin sympathetic interventions—and vice versa. Together, the combined result of transition plus thin sympathy will be greatly amplified. The case of the former Yugoslavia is instructive in this regard. The outcome of the conflict there is well known, but it is important to lay out a brief historical road map. In 1991, the republics of Slovenia and Croatia declared independence; they were followed in 1992 by Bosnia. Each of those secessions triggered conflict between the respective secessionists and the Serbcontrolled Yugoslav People’s Army. In Slovenia, fewer than fifty people were killed during the war that lasted just ten days. In Croatia, the war continued for eighteen months; approximately 20,000 people were killed, more than 300,000 people fled to other parts of Yugoslavia, and at least 200,000 fled the country altogether. In Bosnia and Herzegovina, the war began in April; by the time it finished in June 1992, “4.4 million people had been displaced . . . 1.3 million were internally displaced, another 500,000 had fled to neighbouring countries and some 700,000 had sought refuge in Western Europe.”71 Even before the conflicts were resolved, in 1993 the UN Security Council voted to establish an ad hoc international tribunal, the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY), patterned after the Nuremberg Trials carried out after the Second World War. The ICTY ran from 1993 to 2017 and investigated and convicted Croats, Bosnian Muslims, Kosovo Albanians, Serbs, and Bosnian Serbs. Other transitional justice efforts have included vetting of the army, police, and judiciary, as well as small reparations awarded by lower courts in Serbia—and others by a Dutch court.72 A case against the Serbian state was also argued before the International Court of Justice.73 And “there have been a series of very innovative truth-seeking efforts by civil society at the national level, including the Bosnian Book of the Dead and the Kosovo Memory Book. Both efforts focused on establishing lists of those who were killed during the war and contributed immensely to undermining attempts to manipulate these numbers for nationalist purposes.

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Currently, Dokumenta and the Humanitarian Law Centre (HLC) are composing a similar list of losses for Croatia.”74 Over the ensuing years, there have been observations that “the legacy of interethnic conflict remains pervasive and attempts at reconciliation are mistrusted if not wholly rejected.”75 Others have argued “that reconciliation has stalled and is being superseded by mounting ethnic divisions and polarisation in the region.”76 Unger, in particular, notes that the situation has deteriorated, is “sobering, and should be seen as a wake-up call.”77 In particular, Unger underlines that the “Western Balkan states have done very poorly when it comes to victim participation in TJ processes. Victims’ voices are marginalised and their rightful claims have been politicised by the different sides.”78 Sokolić observes that “it is a context defined by structural segregation and symbolic obstacles to reconciliation.”79 Several studies have emerged that demonstrate what Kostovicova has called “interactivity across ethnic lines.”80 As she defines it, “interactivity allows for the airing and consideration of a diversity of views . . . [which is] critical in the context of recovery because it allows exposure to the views of ethnic opponents. [It] opens up the space for ‘continuous negotiation’ and prevents singular interpretation of traumatic events.”81 These activities are analogous to Mac Ginty’s activities of “everyday peace,” which he defines as a “complex array of intergroup activities that can occur in many contexts . . . phenomena hidden in plain view; events that are apparently ordinary but, given the conflict-affected context, are extraordinary.”82 Two studies in particular are useful to note, because they demonstrate the ways that thin sympathetic activities are bubbling up within society in BosniaHerzegovina without any formal prompting or organized structure. The first is a study of Bosnian protest movements. Lai focuses on protests as a way to bring conflicting parties together, and notes the importance of such “informal activities for the sustainability of reconciliation.”83 Her argument is that by focusing on their commonalities, the differences felt by people from different ethnocultural groups recede. Fridman speaks of something similar in her use of the term “unstructured daily encounters,”84 which mirror the “everyday” efforts described in Chapter 6 that could be used to foster thin sympathy. Contrary to what might at first be assumed, Lai’s finding is that “contact through protesting, meetings, and volunteering did help forge civic solidarity [emphasis added]”85 in Bosnia. The thin sympathetic hypothesis is borne out in this finding in that the encounters that people from all sides have with one another help to build a basic understanding between each other. Thin sympathy is

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the stepping-stone to the kind of further understanding they would need to “strengthen civic solidarity,” as suggested by Lai86 but also in the work of Sisk and Alexandre et al. on the building blocks of social cohesion.87 The second scenario concerns interethnic contact through dating and marriage relationships in Bosnia. Here, too, there is a demonstrated spontaneous expression of thin sympathetic activity: as Sokolić notes, the most personal of interpersonal activities, dating and marriage, “result in acquaintance contact that is combined with the acquisition of knowledge about the out-group”88—what I have called thin sympathy. Sokolić observes that interethnic dating facilitates the “mechanisms of cooperation and shared aspirations, which enables individuals to resist divisive normative frameworks and to overcome structural barriers between ethnicities.”89 Another example is still being played out at the time of writing: in a further sign of a similar kind of unstructured coming together, more than 600,000 people had petitioned for the creation of a truth commission in the region.90 The thin sympathetic hypothesis suggests that this kind of call results from the building blocks of basic, cognitive knowledge that have been assembled and then subsequently prompt a desire for a deeper understanding of what has taken place, recognizing the needs of the community and individuals within it. Things have not exactly gone according to plan in the Western Balkans, at least not according to the conventional post-conflict playbook. One might have imagined and hoped for a dramatic upswing in attitudes, behaviors, and relations among and between formerly warring ethnocultural groups over the fifteen or more years since the conflict itself. But although the picture is somewhat bleak for improved relations between ethnocultural groups in Bosnia, the major difference between life in a transitional state and life in a no-transition state is that a transition has taken place and society is not stuck—neither with a broken regime nor with a regime that is unwilling to admit its culpability. There is opportunity for the building of relationships, but this needs to start with the acquiring of a basic understanding about the other.

Broader Applicability Thin sympathy can play an important role in building bridges after conflict between estranged ethnocultural groups in multiethnic divided societies, as is clear from the Ugandan case presented throughout the book. But its

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applicability stretches much further. I believe that it would also be of real value in other no-transition cases, including failed states, forgotten states, frozen states, and states in which the fighting is ongoing—as well as in settler colonial contexts. There is also utility in the model for classic transitional states that are also engaged in, or hope soon to be engaged in, transitional justice processes. That value lies in the ability for thin sympathy to set the stage for transitional justice processes by preparing the population for introspection by means of truth-telling and accountability, for example, through building a basic knowledge of what has taken place. Thin sympathy is an ameliorating factor that is the basis for processes that ultimately promote acknowledgement and reconciliation. Thin sympathy is one variable that can make the conditions ripe for the society as a whole to receive transitional justice.

CHAPTER 9

The Strength of Thin Sympathy and Transitional Justice

A Two-Step Transitional Justice Process Transitional justice is about far more than institutions. It is likewise much more than just a study of the rule of law and due process, or even of restoring international peace and security. At its heart, transitional justice is about helping societies transition from conflict and violence to peace, and about meeting the needs of the people throughout the transition and beyond. Because communities have additional needs outside of the formal transitional justice processes that are often implemented, needs that transitional justice cannot properly address if it cannot reach the people, transitional justice strategies need to be recalibrated to take them into consideration. I do not mean to suggest that there is anything inherently wrong with any particular mechanism per se. Truth commissions and trials can serve a valuable purpose and are much-needed antidotes to the troubles that plague societies where conflict and abuse are the norm. But in many instances the literature in general, and much of my own work in particular, has demonstrated that people in such societies fail to engage with the mechanisms themselves and that societies often fail to derive significant benefit from them. Instead, what I propose here is that we take a step back from the usual “add water and stir” institutional approaches to transitional justice. Transitional justice mechanisms would, in fact, work better if there was a little preparation ahead of time, and if the conditions into which those mechanisms were inserted were right. Foreshadowing any transitional justice experience with some increased exposure for the population will yield exponentially better results because the populations would understand the very

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necessity of transitional justice itself. Transitional justice needs to unfold in two stages: first the population must be readied for the experience, and then a transitional justice process needs to be carried out. Not first preparing the population is akin to attempting to write a test without first looking at the material; it goes much more smoothly—and much less confusingly—if one understands what the test is about. To reach that understanding, this book has presented a hypothesis that suggests the development of thin sympathy is necessary. Thin sympathy is the basic ingredient for acknowledgement of the past, a way in which people can learn about and recognize the suffering of the other. Thin sympathy is a means by which individuals can come to some level of cognitive understanding about what that other person or community has gone through, and of the situation in which they now find themselves. The thin sympathetic process does not require deep interpersonal interaction. It is strictly about the acquisition of “head” knowledge—a recognition of a particular set of events or a familiarity with basic facts. Many of us develop this kind of glancing acquaintance with what others have experienced all the time. It happens, for example, when we read a newspaper and familiarize ourselves with the simple details surrounding a family’s efforts to rebuild after a house fire, or when someone hears details on a radio talk show about a community’s impending water shortage. The knowledge created by learning those basic details is not enough to provoke an emotional outpouring, and it is not likely enough to prompt the average person to take any action to remediate the situation. It is simply the small accretion of detail that helps a person understand slightly more than he or she understood before. This is thin sympathy. As a very first step, individuals know of the injustice and suffering of the other, and that is a precondition to any action. When individuals and, by extension, the wider community fail to recognize and understand those particular details, they are unable to understand the plight of the other and are blocked from moving forward through the more or less sequential steps necessary for social rebuilding. That failure could result if they choose not to hear those details. They could also fail to acquire the information because those details are not made publicly available. This deficit could, further, result from the use of particularly coded language that an individual is not equipped to hear. Missing that first step ultimately means that the chances of success for the transitional justice processes are significantly less. Transitional justice must not be implemented in a society where the population is not ready for it. Doing so represents a wasted opportunity, and the

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effects of such a failure are similar to the effects of a false start at transitional justice, as I lay out in Chapter 3. Millions of dollars are spent every year on instruments and mechanisms of transitional justice, such as trials and truth commissions, many of which fail. Rather than carry out a proper postmortem, scholars and practitioners, along with donors and sponsors, simply move on to the next assignment and try again there. Some preparatory work is needed before a generic trial or truth commission is plunked down in the middle of a new context, if we expect those mechanisms to have significant and positive effect. And yet I do not mean to suggest that transitional justice efforts should be put off indefinitely. There will never be perfect agreement on the events of the past—either before or after transitional justice processes are carried out. But a concerted effort must be made to establish basic factual truths, and for the population as a whole to understand and appreciate those truths, before formal transitional justice processes are created. The thin sympathetic hypothesis suggests that these efforts will yield enormous dividends, clearing the path for transitional justice and subsequent social rebuilding. Acknowledgement is essential to those social rebuilding processes. And acknowledgement—the admission of what has taken place—is a necessary but not sufficient condition for coming to terms with the past. Before acknowledgement, however, must come thin sympathy, which is necessary to the process of acknowledgement. This book focuses on no more than a thin sliver of understanding as being specifically important to the overall process of developing thin sympathy. That kind of thin engagement with the experiences of the other may be all that is needed to allow a society to begin to move forward toward acknowledgement and, eventually, meaningful transitional justice. It is important to note that this thin response is in many ways a disappointing conclusion to reach, because thicker responses are arguably capable of producing so much more. But the thin sympathetic hypothesis is a matter-of-fact response to the sobering reality that it would be nearly impossible to expect that all members of a society, particularly one where hatreds and prejudices have been so deeply ingrained, would ever be able to develop more than just a superficial engagement with the experience of the other. I say this despite the knowledge that thicker sympathetic engagement could result in much more substantive and progressive responses, including reconciliation. Moreover, we must take things in order. Even thick sympathy is impossible without the initial development of thin sympathy.

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It is therefore important to intentionally foster even that thin kind of engagement as a goal in and of itself. The literature on transitional justice has not seen this as important, and practitioners have been more or less leaving this kind of participation to chance, without success. In fact, thin sympathy must be sequenced before any transitional justice processes are formally established. Some of the transitional justice literature even seems to suggest the inverse: that transitional justice can actually create thin sympathy. But this is not, in fact, true. Thin sympathy must be deliberately pursued or it will not occur. We must think about the very conditions that make transitional justice resonate among communities that are not directly affected by the violence and adversity in question. Transitional and almost-transitional societies can take up three purposeful strategies to flip the switch and engage the population. To begin, those societies can gather and disseminate information about what has taken place. Ideally, this would be undertaken by the state, but it may equally be carried out in an unofficial manner by civil society. This is explored further below. Next, that information can be utilized to sensitize the population at large. The population needs to be confronted with the information, such that they begin to understand the contours of past events and how those events have shaped the experiences of the other. Further, connections can be drawn between the events themselves and those same experiences. It is important for people to explicitly understand the relationship between those events and the broader societal context. None of that engages any emotional response, nor does it require the individual to do anything with that information. At the same time, individuals can also be exposed to people and experiences from other parts of the country in order to understand their ethnocultural backgrounds and recognize how those backgrounds have led people to be blamed and/or vilified for what it is imagined they have done—or not done, as the case may be. That kind of exposure matters deeply when people have been kept apart to the extent that they rely solely on imagined stereotypes and projected actions and reactions. It is instructive to think here, for example, about systems of reserved land where Indigenous peoples living in Canada were kept apart from the mainstream population for many years; this separation resulted in Indigenous peoples being characterized in pejorative and stereotypically racist ways simply because people had so few interactions to inform their thinking. The same could be said of Uganda, where people have become separated. This has resulted in misunderstandings and ethnic division, which have driven ethnically motivated conflict.

The Strength of Thin Sympathy

139

In the first instance, governments should ultimately take responsibility for the development of thin sympathy. The state represents a unique vehicle through which to accomplish the goal of providing clear and incontrovertible information to the population. It has systems and processes in place through which to carry out such programming. But many governments are either unwilling or unable to do this work, often because they are still carrying out abuse, harm, and repression and are therefore reluctant to implicate themselves in any such process. And often they are hesitant because it is more convenient for them to keep the population ignorant about, and divided from, the other as a means of safeguarding government power and privilege. When government fails to take up the mantle of developing thin sympathy in the population, civil society could take the lead in its development—even though in some cases civil society has apparently been unable to accomplish the kinds of things donors and others call for.1 Civil society, and particularly national CSOs, can utilize new or existing networks both to spread information and to communicate new social norms across the country; in many cases, this is not the work that they have been called on to do in the past. As I demonstrate in Chapter 6, in some cases in Uganda they are already doing it. Civil society’s efforts in Uganda are being carried out at some risk to the personnel who carry them out, and without much support—even from the international donor community, which has the resources to help, if it chooses to do so, even considering the limitations of their funding and diplomatic exigencies. It is important to point out that this kind of support is critical. Ultimately, civil society needs material support and solidarity in the form of funding and personnel, as well as intellectual support, for the enterprise. Particularly where the state has abdicated its role, civil society desperately needs the tools to do the job. But it needs to be the right kind of support. It is not sufficient for any organization to swoop in to “do” thin sympathy from the outside. Instead, the process requires significant nurturing across time and space, in a variety of ways and from a multiplicity of partners, as well as determined commitment to the process. In fact, leaving these kinds of efforts to nongovernmental agencies and organizations can be beneficial. Local-level civil society efforts can accomplish a number of things in this regard. For example, they can minimize the extent to which government actions are able to affect the population. Through such efforts, civil society can also continue ministering to the needs of the population as it has always done. Letting civil society do what civil

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society can and should be doing—influencing individual behaviors and institutions and playing a role that counterbalances the state—can be productive on many levels.

Implications for Transitional Justice

In situations where there has been extreme conflict, the population is rarely on the same page about what has taken place and what needs to come next to redress atrocity and abuse. In deeply divided, multiethnic societies, this difference of perspective and positionality is amplified. In Uganda, for example, it is viewed through no fewer than sixty-five ethnocultural lenses, resulting in an impracticable future. Thin sympathy is designed specifically to remedy that deficit. Its purpose is to show people what has taken place and prepare them to undertake a common path going forward. In the transitional context, ethnocultural groups are not the only players. Governments, IGOs such as the United Nations, civil society groups, and others all also have intensely held opinions, and all feel as though they have an important role to play in the process. The needs of the population are often overlooked, with the result that the processes and institutions that are ultimately put in place are perceived to revolve around the needs of these actors—and not the population itself. This kind of top-down process can have profound implications, particularly if the population either fails to grasp or misunderstands the reasons for putting in place such processes and institutions in the first place. Thin sympathy could be used to pave the way for transitional justice ideas and mechanisms down the road. By this I mean that such processes could be used to greater effect by priming the population, to make sure individuals are ready for transitional justice itself and that they understand the issues and their own relationship to them. Broader strategies of transitional justice can be enriched by preparing individuals within the population for its eventual advent by building thin sympathy.

APPENDIX 1

Ethnocultural Group Representation in Ugandan Population

Ethnocultural Group Population

Percentage of Total Ugandan Population

1,470,554

4.31

Aliba

18,296

0.05

Alur

878,453

2.57

Aringa

494,626

1.45

Baamba

42,559

0.12

Babukusu

37,117

0.11

Babwisi

101,112

0.30

Bafumbira

713231

2.09

Baganda

5,555,319

16.27

Bagisu

1,646,904

4.82

Bagungu

83,986

0.25

Bagwe

99,884

0.29

621,150

1.82

4,023

0.01

Bahororo

151,566

0.44

Bakenyi

99,913

0.29

Ethnocultural Group Acholi

Bagwere Bahehe

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Appendix 1

Ethnocultural Group Population

Percentage of Total Ugandan Population

2,390,446

7.00

850,646

2.49

Banyabindi

16,331

0.05

Banyabutumbi

10,113

0.03

Banyagururu

48,995

0.14

3,216,332

9.42

47,669

0.14

Banyarwanda

524,098

1.54

Banyole

530,120

1.55

Banyoro

966,976

2.83

Baruli

190,122

0.56

Barundi

92,570

0.27

Basamia

421,106

1.23

2,960,890

8.67

Basongora

15,897

0.05

Batagwenda

56,151

0.16

Batoro

810,708

2.37

Batuku

35,350

0.10

Batwa

6,200

0.02

Chope

34,327

0.10

Dodoth

129,102

0.38

Ethur

98,348

0.29

Gimara

11,182

0.03

Ik (Teusu)

13,939

0.04

2,364,569

6.93

Ethnocultural Group Bakiga Bakonzo

Banyankore Banyara

Basoga

Iteso

Ethnocultural Group Representation

Ethnocultural Group

Ethnocultural Group Population

143

Percentage of Total Ugandan Population

Jie

165,242

0.48

Jonam

106,447

0.31

Jopadhola

481,816

1.41

Kakwa

182,436

0.53

Karimojong

371,713

1.09

Kebu (Okebu)

54,109

0.16

Kuku

46,497

0.14

266,071

0.78

Langi

2,131,495

6.24

Lendu

18,919

0.06

1,099,733

3.22

292,983

0.86

Mening

2,655

0.01

Mvuba

2,879

0.01

Napore

25,417

0.07

Ngikutio

5,729

0.02

28,772

0.08

9,634

0.03

104,880

0.31

8,357

0.02

Sabiny

273,839

0.80

Shana

10,835

0.03

So (Tepeth)

23,422

0.07

2,613

0.01

60,818

0.18

Kumam

Lugbara Madi

Nubi Nyangia Pokot Reli

Vonoma Other Ugandans

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Ethnocultural Group Non-Ugandans TOTAL

Appendix 1

Ethnocultural Group Population 504,196

Percentage of Total Ugandan Population 1.48

34,142,417

Source: Data compiled from Republic of Uganda, National Population and Housing Census 2014 (Kampala: Uganda Bureau of Statistics, 2016), 71–72.

APPENDIX 2

List of Political Conflicts in Uganda Since Independence

International Conflicts Conflict between government of Uganda and Buganda

1962–present

Uganda-Congo conflict

1965–present

National Conflicts “Lost Counties” conflict

1962

Kabaka crisis

1966

Ethnic tensions within army leadership (Acholi, Langi, West Nilers)

1966–1971

Killing of Okoya

1970

Amin’s coup against President Milton Obote

1971

Amin’s reign of terror

1971–1979

Conflict between West Nilers and Langi/Acholi

1971–present

Amin reprisals against community in Lalogi for hiding Museveni

1971

Insurgency against Amin by K. Maalum and Front for National Salvation

1972

Liberation War to overthrow President Idi Amin

1979

Bush War (Luweero Triangle)

1981–1986

Overthrow of President Milton Obote by Tito Okello Lutwa

1985

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Appendix 2

National Resistance Army military takeover

1986

Disparity between north and south in development

1986–present

Museveni’s “cold war”

1986-present

Conflict related to decentralization

1995–present

Allied Democratic Front insurgency

1996–present

UPDF war fought in Democratic Republic of Congo

1998–2003

Buganda riots

2009

Mabira riots

2007–2010

Border conflict between Uganda and South Sudan

2009–2014

al-Shabaab bombings

2010

Conflicts between investors and local communities

ongoing

Conflict between government forces and unarmed civilians

2011–present

Resource based conflicts with neighboring countries

ongoing

Northern Region Conflicts Karimojong conflicts with the state

1926–present

Langi perspectives on conflict between the Acholi and Langi

1957–present

The dress code conflict (Amin vs. Karimojong)

1972

Oyoro boys

1979–1980

Post-Amin land conflicts in the West Nile Region

1980–present

Yerego War

1980

Amin Onzi War

1980

Uganda National Rescue Front I

1980–1985

NRA/UPDF vs. Karimojong

1986–present

Post-1986 northern conflict in Lango

1986–present

National Resistance Army/UPDF war against citizens in 1986–2006 the north

List of Political Conflicts

147

Uganda People’s Democratic Movement/Army

1986–1988

Civil splinter group insurgency

1986–1988

Cel-ibong splinter group insurgency

1986–1988

Agoyo Ayaro splinter group insurgency

1986–1988

Trinity Wars

1986–1988

Holy Spirit Mobile Forces

1986–1987

Jo Pa Won or Holy Spirit Movement II

1987–1989

Opio and Ocen insurgency

1987–1988

Lord’s Resistance Army (also Acholiland war)

1987–present

Pigi-Ligi War

1988–present

Boo Kec attacks on community

1988–mid-1990s

West Nile Bank Front

1995–1998

Uganda National Rescue Front II

1998–2002

Opon-Acak’s alleged rebellion

1999

Wildlife attacks on communities in Nwoya District

2006–present

Post-displacement domestic conflicts

2006–present

Post-conflict land conflicts in Acholiland

2006–present

Post-conflict robberies in Acholiland

2006–present

Post-conflict tensions in Lango

2006–present

“Big Man in the Forest” conflict (Salim Saleh’s occupation of Biafra Forest Reserve)

2009–present

Conflict between Congolese and West Nilers over arbitrary fees

ongoing

Eastern Region Conflicts Conflict between Karimojong and Iteso

1953–present

Conflict between Karimojong and Bagisu

ongoing

Conflict between Babuya and Khatikhana

1962–present

148

Appendix 2

Conflict between Shana and Bagisu

1986–present

National Resistance Army

1986 onward

Force Obote back again/9th October Movement

1985–1986

Uganda People’s Front/Army rebellion or “Teso War”

1987–1992

Incursion of the Lord’s Resistance Army into Teso

1998–2005

Post-Displacement land conflicts in eastern region

2005–present

Western Region Conflicts Ethnic conflicts over the Rwenzururu monarchy

precolonial–present

Marginalization of Batwa ethnic community

precolonial–present

Bahima vs. Bahiru ethnic communities in Ankole

1950s–present

Struggle by the Bakonzo and Baamba for their own district

1961–1974

The Rwenzururu Movement conflict

1962–1982

Mass killings of the Bakonzo and Baamba

1964

Land conflict between Bakiga and Banyoro in Kibale District

1966–present

Land conflicts in Kasese

1980s–present

National Army for the Liberation of Uganda insurgency

1988–1992

Conflict between “‘natives” (Banyoro) and “‘immigrants” (Alur and Bagungu)

1990–present

Conflict between refugees from Rwanda/Democratic Republic of Congo and locals over land

1994–present

Allied Democratic Front insurgency

1996–present

People’s Redemption Army insurgency

2001–present

Conflict in Hoima over land

ongoing

Conflict in Bunyoro over lack of information and transparency

ongoing

Conflict between communities, government officials, Balaalo pastoralists

ongoing

List of Political Conflicts

149

Conflict between the Batuku and the Balaalo

ongoing

Conflict between the Batuku and Baamba

ongoing

Central Region Conflicts Conflict between Bunyoro and Buganda

precolonial–present

Conflict over the “Lost Counties”

1962

Kabaka Yekka/Uganda People’s Congress Alliance

1961–1966

Kabaka crisis

1966

Uganda Freedom Movement

1980–1987

National Resistance Army/Movement Bush War (also Bush War or Luweero Triangle)

1981-1986

Federal Democratic Movement of Uganda

1981–1989

Conflict arising from the poverty caused by war in Luweero Triangle

1986–present

Calls for Federo in Uganda

1990s–present

Uganda National Democratic Alliance

1994–1995

Uganda Federal Democratic Alliance

1997–present

Source: Data compiled from Compendium of Conflicts in Uganda: Findings of the National Reconciliation and Transitional Justice Audit (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, 2014).

NOTES

Preface 1. Julia Symmes Cobb and Nicholas Casey, “Colombia Peace Deal Is Defeated, Leaving a Nation in Shock,” New York Times, 2 October 2016, available from https://www.nytimes.com /2016/10/03/world/colombia-peace-deal-defeat.html?auth=login-email&login=email, accessed 10 April 2020. 2. Rodrigo Almonacid, “Shakira Joins Colombian Stars Supporting FARC Peace Deal,” Business Insider, 1 October 2016, available from https://www.businessinsider.com/afp-shakira -joins-colombian-stars-supporting-farc-peace-deal-2016-10, accessed 10 April 2020. See also “Colombia Referendum: Voters Reject Farc Peace Deal,” BBC News, 3 October 2016, available from https://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-37537252, accessed 10 April 2020. 3. “Unanimously Adopting Resolution 2307 (2016), Security Council Welcomes Colombia Peace Agreement, Approves Mission Mandate, Deployment of Observers” [press release], Meetings Coverage, 7768th Meeting (AM), Security Council, SC/12514, 13 September 2016. 4. Annette Idler, “Colombia Just Voted No on Its Plebiscite for Peace. Here’s Why and What It Means,” Washington Post, 3 October 2016, available from https://www.washingtonpost.com /news /monkey -cage /wp /2016 /10 /03 /colombia -just -voted -no -on -its -referendum -for-peace -heres-why-and-what-it-means/, accessed 10 April 2020. 5. “Colombia Referendum.” 6. Dino Krause, “Who Wants Peace?—The Role of Exposure to Violence in Explaining Public Support for Negotiated Agreements: A Quantitative Analysis of the Colombian Peace Agreement Referendum in 2016” (master’s thesis, Uppsala University, Spring 2017), 21. 7. “Colombia Referendum.” 8. Adrian Alsema, “More than 36% of Colombia’s Choco Victimized by Armed Conflict So Far This Year: UN,” Colombia Reports, 23 October 2019, available from https://colombiareports .com/more-than-36-of-colombias-choco-victimized-by-armed-conflict-so-far-this-year-un/, accessed 10 April 2020. 9. Nir Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy: Reconciliation, Transitional Justice, Negotiation (Dordrecht, the Netherlands/St. Louis: Republic of Letters Publishing, 2010), 69. 10. Sokolić and others refer to the “other” as an “out-group.” See Ivor Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation: Dating and Inter-Ethnic Contact in Bosnia,” a paper presented at the meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019.

Chapter 1 1. See Art Markman, “Thinking About the Actions of People and Groups,” Psychology Today, 25 January 2013, available from https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/ulterior

152

Notes to Pages 3–4

-motives/201301/thinking-about-the-actions-people-and-groups, accessed 21 June 2019; David Backer and Anupama Kulkarni, “Humanizing Transitional Justice: Reflections on the Role of Survey Research in Studying Violent Conflict and Its Aftermath,” Transitional Justice Review 1.4 (2016): 185–231; Patrick Vinck and Phuong N. Pham, “Outreach Evaluation: The International Criminal Court in the Central African Republic,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 4.3 (2010): 421–442; and Patrick Vinck and Phuong N. Pham, “Peace-Building and Displacement in Northern Uganda: A Cross-Sectional Study of Intentions to Move and Attitudes Towards Former Combatants,” Refugee Survey Quarterly 28.1 (2009): 59–77. 2. See, for example, Larry May and Stacy Hoffmann, Collective Responsibility: Five Decades of Debate in Theoretical and Applied Ethics (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1992); S. Čehajić and R. Brown, “Silencing the Past: Effects of Intergroup Contact on Acknowledgment of In-Group  Responsibility,” Social Psychological and Personality Science 1.2 (2010): 190–196; Jeffrey K. Olick, The Politics of Regret: On Collective Memory and Historical Responsibility (New York: Routledge, 2007); R. Imhoff, M. Bilewica, and H. P. Erb, “Collective Regret Versus Collective Guilt: Different Emotional Reactions to Historical Atrocities,” European Journal of Social Psychology 42.6 (2012): 729–742; and Johanna Ray Vollhardt, Lucas B. Mazur, and Magali Lemahieu, “Acknowledgment After  Mass Violence: Effects on Psychological Well-Being and Intergroup Relations,” Group Processes & Intergroup Relations 17.3 (2014): 306–323. 3. See Franklin Oduro, What Do We Understand by “‘Reconciliation”? Emerging Definitions of Reconciliation in the Context of Transitional Justice (Ottawa: International Development Research Centre, 2007), 3; Nevin T. Aiken, “Learning to Live Together: Transitional Justice and Intergroup Reconciliation in Northern Ireland,” International Journal of Transitional Justice, 4.2 (2010): 166–188. 4. For a discussion of the term, see Kenneth A. Rodman, “Peace Versus Justice,” in Encyclopedia of Global Justice, ed. Deen K. Chatterjee (Salt Lake City, UT: Springer, 2011), available from https://link.springer.com/referenceworkentry/10.1007%2F978-1-4020-9160-5_716, accessed 22 April 2020. See also Gary Bass, “Jus Post Bellum,” Philosophy & Public Affairs 32.4 (2004): 384–412; M. Cherif Bassiouni, “Justice and Peace: The Importance of Choosing Accountability over Realpolitik,” Case Western Reserve Journal of Int Law 35.2 (2003):191–204; Darryl Robinson, “Truth Commissions, Amnesties, and the International Criminal Court,” European Journal of International Law 14.3 (2003): 481–505; Kathryn Sikkink, The Justice Cascade (New York: W. W. Norton, 2011); Jack Snyder and Leslie Vinjamuri, “Advocacy and Scholarship in the Study of International War Crime Tribunals and Transitional Justice,” Annual Review of Political Science 7.1 (2004): 345–362. 5. See Samar El-Masri, Tammy R. Lambert, and Joanna R. Quinn, “Creating the Right Conditions: The Role of Ameliorating Factors and Pre-Existing Conditions in Transitional Justice,” in Transitional Justice in Comparative Perspective: Preconditions for Success, ed. Samar El-Masri, Tammy R. Lambert, and Joanna R. Quinn (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020). It is worth noting that most of the other available strategies assume that the state wants to engage and is doing so. See, for example, Timothy D. Sisk, “Preventing Deadly Conflict in Ethnically Fractured Societies: International Development Assistance for ‘Bridging’ Social Cohesion,” Background Paper for the United Nations/World Bank Flagship Study, Preventing Violent Conflict (2017); and John Coakley, “Ethnic Conflict Resolution: Routes Towards Settlement,” Nationalism and Ethnic Politics 15 (2009): 462–483. 6. United Nations Secretary-General, Guidance Note of the Secretary-General: United Nations Approach to Transitional Justice (New York: United Nations, March 2010).

Notes to Pages 4–5

153

7. United Nations Secretary-General, Guidance Note of the Secretary-General. 8. See, for example, Neil J. Kritz, “The Dilemmas of Transitional Justice,” in Transitional Justice: How Emerging Democracies Reckon with Former Regimes (Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace, 1995); Tricia D. Olsen, Leigh A. Payne, and Andrew G. Reiter, Transitional Justice in Balance: Comparing Processes, Weighing Efficacy (Washington, DC: USIP Press, 2010). 9. Paige Arthur, “How ‘Transitions’ Re-Shaped Human Rights: A Conceptual History of Transitional Justice,” Human Rights Quarterly 31.2 (2009): 324. 10. Osiel makes a representative argument in this regard. See Mark Osiel, Mass Atrocity, Collective Memory, and the Law (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1997); see also Martha Minow, Between Vengeance and Forgiveness (Boston: Beacon Press, 1998); Larry May, “Prosecuting State Leaders for Crimes Against Humanity,” in Crimes Against Humanity: A Normative Account (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); and Jon Elster, “Conclusion,” in Retribution and Reparation in the Transition to Democracy, ed. Jon Elster (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 11. See, for example, Priscilla Hayner, Unspeakable Truths (New York: Routledge, 2001); see also Jennifer J. Lewellyn and Daniel Philpott, eds., Restorative Justice, Reconciliation, and Peacebuilding (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015). 12. See, for example, Pablo de Greiff, Handbook of Reparations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). 13. See Olsen, Payne, and Reiter, Transitional Justice in Balance; see also Mark Freeman, Necessary Evils: Amnesties and the Search for Justice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); and Louise Mallinder, Amnesties and Inclusive Political Settlements, PA-X Report: Transitional Justice Series (Edinburgh: Global Justice Academy, University of Edinburgh, 2018). 14. Naomi Roht-Arriaza, “Measures of Non-Repetition in Transitional Justice: The Missing Link?” SSRN Scholarly Paper (Rochester, NY: Social Science Research Network, 2016). 15. David Mendeloff, “Truth-Seeking, Truth-Telling and Post-Conflict Peacebuilding,” International Studies Review 6.3 (2004): 355–380; Oskar Thoms, James Ron, and Roland Paris, “State-Level Effects of Transitional Justice: What Do We Know?” International Journal of Transitional Justice 4.3 (2010): 329–354; Eric Wiebelhaus-Brahm, “Uncovering the Truth: Examining Truth Commission Success and Impact,” International Studies Perspective 8 (2007): 16–35. 16. Simon Robins, “Towards Victim-Centred Transitional Justice,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 5.1 (2011): 75–98; Jamie Rebecca Rowen, “‘We Don’t Believe in Transitional Justice,’” Law & Social Inquiry 42.3 (2017): 622–647. 17. Christine Bell and Catherine O’Rourke, “Does Feminism Need a Theory of Transitional Justice? An Introductory Essay.” International Journal of Transitional Justice 1.1 (2007): 23–44; see also Brandon Hamber, “Masculinity and Transitional Justice: An Exploratory Essay,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 1.3 (2007): 375–90; and Fionnuala Ní Aoláin, “Advancing Feminist Positioning in the Field of Transitional Justice,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 6.2 (2012): 205–228. 18. On economic and social rights, see Rama Mani, “Editorial: Dilemmas of Expanding Transitional Justice, or Forging the Nexus Between Transitional Justice and Development,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 2.3 (2008): 253; Lisa J. Laplante, “On the Indivisibility of Rights: Truth Commissions, Reparations, and the Right to Development,” Yale Human Rights and Development Law Journal 10 (2007): 141–177; Roger Duthie, “Toward a Development-Sensitive Approach to Transitional Justice,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 2.3 (2008): 294; Evelyne Schmid, “War Crimes Related to Violations of Economic,

154

Notes to Pages 5–9

Social and Cultural Rights,” Heidelberg Journal of International Law 71.3 (2011): 523–541. On transformational justice, see Wendy Lambourne, “Transformative Justice, Reconciliation and Peacebuilding,” in Transitional Justice Theories, ed. Susanne Buckley-Zistel, Teresa Koloma Beck, Christian Braun, and Friederike Mieth (New York: Routledge, 2013), 19–39; Paul Gready and Simon Robins, “From Transitional to Transformative Justice: A New Agenda for Practice,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 8.3 (2014): 339–361; and Dustin Sharp, Re-Thinking Transitional Justice for the 21st Century: Beyond the End of History (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2018). 19. Rosemary Nagy, “The Scope and Bounds of Transitional Justice and the Canadian Truth and Reconciliation Commission,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 7.1 (2013): 59. 20. Bronwyn Leebaw, “The Irreconcilable Goals of Transitional Justice,”  Human Rights Quarterly 30.1 (2008): 95–118. See also Neil J. Kritz, “The Dilemmas of Transitional Justice,” in Transitional Justice, Vol. III (Washington, DC: United States Institute for Peace Press, 1995), xxi–xxxii. 21. See J. P. Lederach, Sustainable Reconciliation in Divided Societies (Washington, DC: USIP, 1997); John W. de Gruchy, Reconciliation: Restoring Justice (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2002); Everett L. Worthington, Jr., Forgiveness and Reconciliation: Theory and Application (New York: Routledge, 2006); and Joanna R. Quinn, ed., Reconciliation(s): Transitional Justice in Postconflict Societies (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009). 22. Jean Hampton and Jeffrie Murphy, eds., Forgiveness and Mercy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Geiko Müller-Fahrenholz, The Art of Forgiveness: Theological Reflections on Healing and Reconciliation (Geneva: WCC Publications, 1997); Trudy Govier, Revenge, Forgiveness and the Unforgivable, typewritten manuscript, 2001, author’s collection, Calgary, AB; Michael Henderson, Forgiveness: Breaking the Chain of Hate (Wilsonville, OR: Book Partners, 1999). 23. Trudy Govier, “What Is Acknowledgement and Why Is It Important?” in Dilemmas of Reconciliation: Cases and Concepts, ed. Carol A.L. Prager and Trudy Govier, 65–89 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2003); Joanna R. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement: Truth Commissions in Uganda and Haiti (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010). 24. David Collier, “Understanding Process Tracing,” PS: Political Science and Politics 44.4 (2011): 823. 25. Oisín Tansey, “Process Tracing and Elite Interviewing,” PS: Political Science and Politics 40.4 (2007): 767. 26. Vincent Pouliot, “Practice Tracing,” in Process Tracing: From Metaphor to Analytic Tool, ed. Andrew Bennett and Jeffrey T. Checkel, 237–259 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 241. 27. Patrick Biernacki and Dan Waldorf, “Snowball Sampling; Problems and Techniques of Chain Referral Sampling,” Sociological Methods and Research 10.2 (1981): 147. 28. Alexander L. George and Andrew Bennett, Case Studies and Theory Development in the Social Sciences (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005), 7. 29. Lessons from other sectors can usefully be applied to the field of transitional justice. See, for example, Radoslav S. Dimitrov, “Empty Institutions in Global Environmental Politics,” International Studies Review 0 (2019): 1–25; doi: 10.1093/isr/viz029. 30. Edward E. Azar, The Management of Protracted Social Conflict: Theory and Cases (Brookfield, VT: Dartmouth Publishing Company and Gower Publishing Company, 1990).

Notes to Pages 11–13

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Chapter 2 1. Dirk Berg-Schlosser and Rainer Siegler, Political Stability and Development: A Comparative Analysis of Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1990), 97. 2. M. Louise Pirouet, “Uganda: History to 1971,” Encyclopedia of Africa South of the Sahara, ed. John Middleton (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1996), 303–306. 3. Philip Briggs, Uganda (Old Saybrook, CT: Globe Pequot Press, 1998), 15. 4. Spectrum Guide to Uganda (New York: Interlink Books, 1998), 47. 5. There is some disagreement about whether the proper spelling is Karamoja or Karimoja. I have opted here to follow the spelling used by the government of Uganda and the United Nations, but in quotations and citations it is sometimes spelled otherwise. 6. Augusto Pazzaglia, The Karimojong: Some Aspects (Bologna: E.M.I. della Coop. Servizio Missionaria, 1982), 59. 7. Briggs, Uganda, 17. 8. Mahmood Mamdani, Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism (Kampala: Fountain Publishers, 1996). See also Compendium of Conflicts in Uganda: Findings of the National Reconciliation and Transitional Justice Audit (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, 2014), 15. 9. Mutengesa Sabiiti, “From Pearl to Pariah: The Origin, Unfolding and Termination of State-Inspired Genocidal Persecution in Uganda, 1980–1985,” SSRN, 21 December 2006, n.p. 10. Adam Branch and Zachariah Mampilly, Africa Uprising (London: Zed Books, 2015), 36. 11. Mamdani, Citizen and Subject, 287. 12. Mahmood Mamdani, Politics and Class Formation in Uganda (Kampala: Fountain Publishers, 1976), 170–183. 13. Mamdani, Politics and Class Formation in Uganda, 228–229. 14. Samwiri Lwanga-Lunyiigo, “The Colonial Roots of Conflict,” in Conflict Resolution in Uganda, ed. Kumar Rupesinghe (Oslo: International Peace Research Institute, 1989), 37. 15. The British Colonial Office, “Terms of Reference,” Report of the Uganda Relationship Committee (1961), n.p. 16. Berg-Schlosser and Siegler, 196. 17. Nancy G. Wright, “Uganda: History from 1971,” Encyclopedia of Africa South of the Sahara, ed. John Middleton (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1996), 306. 18. Pirouet, 305. 19. Berg-Schlosser and Siegler, 199; Edward Khiddu-Makubuya, “Paramilitarism and Human Rights,” in Conflict Resolution in Uganda, ed. Kumar Rupesinghe (Oslo: International Peace Research Institute, 1989), 141–157. 20. Philip Briggs, Uganda (Old Saybrook, CT: Globe Pequot Press, 1998), 23. 21. Yoweri Kaguta Museveni, Sowing the Mustard Seed (London: Macmillan, 1997), 41. 22. Museveni, Sowing the Mustard Seed, 92. 23. Thomas P. Ofcansky, Uganda: Tarnished Pearl of Africa (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1996), 47. 24. “Uganda,” The World Almanac and Book of Facts 1999, ed. Robert Famighetti (Mahwah, NJ: Primedia Reference, 1998), 852. See also Ofcansky, Uganda: Tarnished Pearl of Africa, 54–55. 25. Berg-Schlosser and Siegler, 199; Khiddu-Makubuya, “Paramilitarism,” 153. 26. Mutengesa Sabiiti, “From Pearl to Pariah: The Origin, Unfolding and Termination of State-Inspired Genocidal Persecution in Uganda, 1980–1985,” SSRN, 21 December 2006.

156

Notes to Pages 13–15

27. Uganda (Brooklyn: Interlink Books, 1998), 53; Ofcansky, Uganda: Tarnished Pearl of Africa, 55. 28. Ofcansky, Uganda: Tarnished Pearl of Africa, 55. 29. For a much more complete account of Uganda’s history from 1971, see Berg-Schlosser and Siegler, 97–132. 30. Museveni, Sowing the Mustard Seed, 33, 46–173. 31. The Compendium of Conflicts in Uganda lists 125 conflicts, 44 of which have taken place since 1986. See Compendium of Conflicts in Uganda: Findings of the National Reconciliation and Transitional Justice Audit (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, 2014). See also Lucy Hovil and Zachary Lomo, Working Paper 11: Behind the Violence: Causes, Consequences and the Search for Solutions to the War in Northern Uganda (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, February 2004), 4; and Lucy Hovil and Zachary Lomo, Working Paper 15: Whose Justice? Perceptions of Uganda’s Amnesty Act 2000: The Potential for Conflict Resolution and Long-Term Reconciliation (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, Feb. 2005), 6. See Appendix 2 for a list of conflicts since 1962. 32. Catherine Barnes and Okello Lucima, “Introduction,” Accord: An International Review of Peace Initiatives, vol. 11 (London: Conciliation Resources, 2002), 1. 33. Lakwena and the HSM were defeated in October 1987 and the LRA was mobilized at that time. See Heike Behrend, Alice Lakwena and the Holy Spirits: War in Northern Uganda 1986–1997 (Kampala: Fountain Publishers, 1999). 34. UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, “Uganda: War-Ravaged North Rues Museveni Win,” IRINnews.org (1 March 2006), available from www.irinnews.org /print.asp?ReportID=51960, accessed 10 March 2006. 35. Tim Allen points out that “the scale of abduction is a matter of speculation” due to insufficient monitoring. See Tim Allen, War and Justice in Northern Uganda: An Assessment of the International Criminal Court’s Intervention [independent report] (February 2005), iii. The exact number of total abductees in the LRA conflict is unknown. Pham, Vinck, and Stover estimate that “the LRA abducted 54,000 to 75,000 people, including 25,000 to 38,000 children, into their ranks between 1986 and 2006.” Phong N. Pham, Patrick Vinck, and Eric Stover, “The Lord’s Resistance Army and Forced Conscription in Northern Uganda,” Human Rights Quarterly 30.2 (May 2008): 404. Forced conscription has been reported in many of the conflicts that have taken place since 1962, into both government of Uganda and rebel ranks. Dennis Pain, The Bending of Spears: Producing Consensus for Peace and Development in Northern Uganda (London: International Alert, 1997), 29. 36. Geresome Latim, Secretary to the Paramount Chief of Acholi, interview by author, 22 November 2004, Gulu town, Uganda; see also World Vision, Pawns of Politics: Children, Conflict and Peace in Northern Uganda (Kampala: World Vision, 2004), 4. 37. Richard Downie, “Critical Questions: The Lord’s Resistance Army,” Center for Strategic and International Studies [website], available from https://www.csis.org/analysis/lord%E2%80 %99s-resistance-army, accessed 14 August 2017. 38. It must be noted that Kampala is a different situation entirely. People are ethnically and culturally mixed in Kampala. “In Kampala, we are very conscious of each other’s cultures.” Rachel Odoi-Musoke, Senior Technical Advisor, Justice, Law and Order Sector, interview by author, 3 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 39. Ronald Buye and Immaculate K. Namukasa, “Decentralization and Education in Uganda,” Canadian and International Education 36.1 (June 2007): 93.

Notes to Pages 15–16

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40. “Political Decentralization,” Decentralization & Subnational Regional Economics, World Bank [website], available from http://www1.worldbank.org/publicsector/decentralization /political.htm, accessed 29 January 2017. Uganda complied with the World Bank’s insistence on service delivery at the district level with the passing of the Local Government Act in 1992. Many I spoke to traced the current problems of division to the World Bank policy directive on decentralization. See Chris Dolan, Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 10  August 2016, Kampala, Uganda; Lyandro Komakech, MP, Gulu District Municipality, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 41. Remy Prud’homme, On the Dangers of Decentralization, Policy, Research Working Paper WPS 1252 (Washington, DC: World Bank, 1994), available from http://documents .worldbank .org /curated /en /218141468739288067 /On -the -dangers -of -decentralization, accessed 11 August 2017. 42. Stephen Oola, Amani Institute Uganda, interview by author, 8 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 43. Joshua Kitakule, Secretary-General, Inter-Religious Council of Uganda, interview by author, 27 July 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 44. “Traditional cultural institutions” is the term used by the government of Uganda to describe the kingdoms and chiefdoms that exist throughout the country. At the time of this writing, only some of these have been officially recognized by the government of Uganda, yet a number of others exist. 45. The recognition of traditional cultural institutions is very political and contentious. Leaders are given a monthly stipend and other benefits. See Joanna R. Quinn, “Tradition?! Traditional Cultural Institutions on Customary Practices in Uganda,” Africa Spectrum 49.3 (2014): 29–54. 46. Joshua Kitakule, Secretary-General, Inter-Religious Council of Uganda, interview by author, 27 July 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 47. Paul J. Magnarella, “Ethnopolitics in the Present: Topics for Anthropological Study,” in Anthropological Diplomacy: Case Studies in the Applications of Anthropology to International Relations, Studies in Third World Societies, Publication No. 21 (Department of Anthropology, University of California, 1982), 60–61. 48. Chris Dolan, Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 49. Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 23. 50. Rose Othieno, Executive Director, CECORE, interview by author, 28 July 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 51. Richard Businge, Country Manager, Uganda, International Alert, interview by author, 1 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 52. Joe Magee and Pamela Smith, “The Social Distance Theory of Power,” Personality and Social Psychology Review 17.2 (2013): 159. 53. E. Stotland, “Exploratory Investigations of Empathy,” in Advances in Experimental Social Psychology, ed. Leonard Berkowitz, 271–314 (New York, NY: Academic Press, 1969). 54. R. B. Cialdini, S. L. Brown, B. P. Lewis, C. Luce, and S. L. Neuberg, “Reinterpreting the Empathy-Altruism Relationship: When One into One Equals Oneness,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 73 (1997): 481–494. 55. H. C. Triandis and L. M. Triandis, “Race, Social Class, Religion, and Nationality as Determinants of Social Distance,” Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 61 (1960): 110–118.

158

Notes to Pages 16–18

56. Magee and Smith, “The Social Distance Theory of Power,” 162. 57. Stanley Cohen, States of Denial: Knowing About Atrocities and Suffering (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), 5. 58. Shaft Nasser Mukwaya, Executive Secretary, National Youth Council, interview by author, 29 July 2016, Ntinda, Uganda. 59. Dr. Juma Okuku, Senior Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Makerere University, interview by author, 3 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. This was echoed by Rachel OdoiMusoke: “It’s not so much culture, but stereotypes and biases.” Rachel Odoi-Musoke, Senior Technical Advisor, Justice Law and Order Sector, interview by author, 3 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. Ashanut Okille and Juma Okuku also referred to stereotypes. Ashanut Okille, Akijul, interview by author, 2 August 2016. Juma Okuku, Senior Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Makerere University, interview by author, 3 August 2016. 60. Rose Othieno, Executive Director, CECORE, interview by author, 28 July 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 61. Sarah Kihika Kasande, International Center for Transitional Justice, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. Reference to “cocooning” was also made by Louis Okello, the Project Manager for Peace Architecture for Conflict Transformation Framework at the UNDP, interview by author, 12 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. (All comments are made in Mr. Okello’s personal capacity.) Reference to “cocoons” was also made by Samson Asiimwe, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 5 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. Another said, “Ethnicity has been institutionalized. They might spend all their time in their small nook, but they have no exposure elsewhere.” Justice James Ogoola, Chairman, Uganda Elders’ Forum, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 62. Samson Asiimwe, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 5 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 63. Stephen Oola, Amani Institute Uganda, interview by author, 8 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 64. Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 8. See also Mahmood Mamdani, Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996). 65. Anonymous person working with indigenous Ugandan organization, interview by author, 2 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. Patronage was also raised by Richard Businge, Country Manager, Uganda, International Alert, interview by author, 1 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 66. Samson Asiimwe, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 5 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 67. Moses Khisa, Lecturer, Northwestern University, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 68. Samson Asiimwe, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 5 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 69. Sarah Kihika Kasande, International Center for Transitional Justice, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 70. Stephen Oola, Amani Institute Uganda, interview by author, 8 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. The issue of fragmentation was also raised by Moses Khisa, Lecturer, Northwestern University, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 71. Moses Khisa, Lecturer, Northwestern University, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda.

Notes to Pages 18–21

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72. Stephen Oola, Amani Institute Uganda, interview by author, 8 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. This was noted by others including Sarah Kihika Kasande, International Center for Transitional Justice, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 73. Sarah Kihika Kasande, International Center for Transitional Justice, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 74. Samson Asiimwe, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 5 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 75. Stephen Oola, Amani Institute Uganda, interview by author, 8 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. The issue of gerrymandering was also raised by Moses Khisa, Lecturer, Northwestern University, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 76. Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 123. 77. Stephen Oola, Amani Institute Uganda, interview by author, 8 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 78. Ida Nakiganda, Director, Uganda Human Rights Commission, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. This was also reflected by Sarah Kihika Kasande, International Center for Transitional Justice, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 79. Mamdani, Politics and Class Formation in Uganda. 80. Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 115. 81. Anonymous person working with indigenous Ugandan organization, interview by author, 2 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. Shaft Nasser Mukwaya also told me the story of the new Ik MP. Shaft Nasser Mukwaya, Executive Secretary, National Youth Council, interview by author, 29 July 2016, Ntinda, Uganda. 82. Quotation cited in Taiaiake Alfred and Jeff Corntassel, “Being Indigenous,” Governance and Opposition (2005): 597–614. Likely taken from Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove Press, 1963), 2010. 83. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the lower ranks don’t see an instrumentalization of ethnic identity and don’t see through this thing.” Moses Khisa, Lecturer, Northwestern University, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 84. Stephen Oola, Amani Institute Uganda, interview by author, 8 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 85. Abner Cohen, Two-Dimensional Man: An Essay on the Anthropology of Power and Symbolism in Complex Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 94. 86. Graham K. Brown and Frances Stewart, “Economic and Political Causes of Conflict: An Overview and Some Policy Implications,” Centre for Research on Inequality, Human Security, and Ethnicity, Working Paper No. 81 (February 2015), 8. 87. Roy Eidelson and Judy Eidelson, “Dangerous Ideas: Five Beliefs That Propel Groups Toward Conflict,” American Psychologist 58.3 (2003): 182–192. 88. Eidelson and Eidelson, “Dangerous Ideas.” See also a discussion of Eidelson and Eidelson’s dangerous beliefs in Jeffrey A. McNeil, “A Cognitive Approach to COIN: Countering Dangerous Beliefs,” Defense & Security Analysis 26.3 (2010), 275. 89. Kei-Léo Brousmiche, Jean-Daniel Kant, Nicolas Sabouret, Stephane Fournier, and François Prenot-Guinard, “Modelling the Impact of Beliefs and Communication on Attitude Dynamics: A Cognitive Agent-Based Approach,” a paper presented at the STO System Analysis and Studies Panel (SAS) Symposium, Amersfoort, Netherlands, 5–7 November 2014. 90. Jane Frances Adongo, Senior Sociologist, Uganda Law Reform Commission, interview by author, 4 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda.

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Notes to Pages 21–24

91. Stephen Marche, “An Apology for Victimhood,” OpenCanada.org, 13 August 2018, available from www.opencanada.org/features/apology-multiculturalism/, accessed 17 August 2018. 92. C. De la Rey, “Reconciliation in Divided Societies,” in Peace, Conflict and Violence, ed. D. J. Christie, R. V. Wagner, and D. D. Winter (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 2001), 251–262. 93. Luc Huyse, “Victims,” in Reconciliation After Violent Conflict: A Handbook, ed. David Bloomfield, Teresa Barnes, and Luc Huyse (Stockholm: International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance, 2003), 53–54. See also Trudy Govier, Taking Wrongs Seriously: Acknowledgement, Reconciliation, and the Politics of Sustainable Peace (Amherst, NY: Humanity Books, 2006), 35. 94. Ervin Staub, “Reconciliation After Genocide, Mass Killing, or Intractable Conflict: Understanding the Roots of Violence, Psychological Recovery, and Steps Toward a General Theory,” Political Psychology 27.6 (2006): 868. 95. Staub, “Reconciliation After Genocide,” 871. See also Ervin Staub, “Breaking the Cycle of Genocidal Violence: Healing and Reconciliation,” in Perspectives on Loss, ed. J. Harvey (Washington, DC: Taylor and Francis, 1998), 231–241; and Ervin Staub and L.A. Pearlman, “Healing, Reconciliation and Forgiving After Genocide and Other Collective Violence,” in Handbook of Political Psychology, ed. D. Sears, L. Huddy, and R. Jarvis (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 710–755.

Chapter 3 1. An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the annual convention of the International Studies Association, Baltimore, MD, February 2017. 2. Joanna R. Quinn, “Whither the Transition of Transitional Justice,” Interdisciplinary Journal of Human Rights Law, 8 (2014–2015): 67. See also Paige Arthur, “How ‘Transitions’ Reshaped Human Rights: A Conceptual History of Transitional Justice,” Human Rights Quarterly 31.2 (2009): 321–367. Arthur notes that transition is the “crucial concept” (334). 3. Rosemary Nagy, “Transitional Justice as a Global Project,” Third World Quarterly 29.2 (2008): 280. 4. Nagy, “Transitional Justice as a Global Project,” 72–78. 5. Cyanne E. Loyle, “Gun Smoke and Mirrors: Transitional Justice as Conflict Behavior in Uganda,” a paper presented at the International Studies Association, Atlanta, GA, February 2016. 6. For example, see Pablo de Greiff, “Theorizing Transitional Justice,” in Transitional Justice: Nomos Li, ed. Melissa S. Williams, Rosemary Nagy, and Jon Elster (New York: NYU Press, 2012), 31–77. 7. Quinn, “Whither the Transition,” 79. 8. Museveni promulgated a “Ten-Point Programme” that included democracy, security, national unity, independence, restoring and rehabilitating social services, ending corruption and misuse of power, dealing with the plight of displaced people, pan-African cooperation, and pursuing a mixed economy as the basic tenets of his philosophy. See Yoweri Kaguta Museveni, Sowing the Mustard Seed (London: Macmillan, 1997), 217. 9. Museveni, Sowing the Mustard Seed, xii–xiii. 10. Joanna R. Quinn, “Chicken and Egg? Sequencing in Transitional Justice: The Case of Uganda,” International Journal of Peace Studies, 14.2 (2009): 43. 11. Quinn, “Chicken and Egg,” 35–53.

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12. Joanna R. Quinn, “Constraints: The Un-Doing of the Ugandan Truth Commission,” Human Rights Quarterly, 26.2 (2004): 401–427. 13. Joanna R. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement: Truth Commissions in Uganda and Haiti (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010). 14. The Republic of Uganda, Amnesty Act 2000, Part II, 3(1). There is a rich literature on the nature of amnesties. See, for example, Louise Mallinder, Amnesties and Inclusive Political Settlements, PA-X Report: Transitional Justice Series (Edinburgh: Global Justice Academy, University of Edinburgh, 2018); and Mark Freeman, Necessary Evils: Amnesties and the Search for Justice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 15. Lucy Hovil and Zachary Lomo, Working Paper 15: Whose Justice? Perceptions of Uganda’s Amnesty Act 2000: The Potential for Conflict Resolution and Long-Term Reconciliation (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, 2005), 6. 16. Kirsty McNamara, “Seeking Justice in Ugandan Courts: Amnesty and the Case of Thomas Kwoyelo,” Washington University Global Studies Law Review 12.3 (2013): 653–671. 17. At the time of this writing, the trial was ostensibly under way, although there had been many and significant postponements. See Lino Owor Ogora, “Kwoyelo Trial Postponed (Again) in Ugandan Court: Causes and Ramifications: Commentary from International Trials,” International Justice Monitor, 22 July 2016, available from https://www.ijmonitor.org/2016/07/kwoyelo -trial-postponed-again-in-ugandan-court-causes-and-ramifications/. 18. Moses Draku, Public Relations Officer, Amnesty Commission, interview by author, 29 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 19. See Nicholas Waddell and Phil Clark, eds., Courting Conflict? Justice, Peace and the ICC in Africa (London: Royal African Society, 2008), 43. 20. Ongwen surrendered himself to U.S. forces in January 2015, whereupon he was surrendered to the ICC. 21. Traditional practices are legally provided for under legislation including Article 129 of the 1995 Constitution, which provides for Local Council Courts to operate at the sub-county, parish and village levels; and the Children Statute 1996, which grants these courts the authority to mandate any number of things including reconciliation, compensation, restitution, and apology. The government of Uganda included these practices in the 2008 Agreement on Accountability and Reconciliation and the subsequent Annexure, which emerged out of the Juba Peace Talks. See Joanna R. Quinn, “Mad Science? Possibilities for and Examples of Synthetic (Neo) traditional Practices of Justice and Acknowledgement/ Science folle? Possibilités et exemples de pratiquest (néo-)traditionelles synthétiques de justice et de confession,” Air and Space Power Journal—Africa and Francophonie 5.3 (2014): 48–66. 22. For a more in-depth discussion of the use of traditional mechanisms in Uganda, see Joanna R. Quinn, “What of Reconciliation? Traditional Mechanisms of Acknowledgement in Uganda,” in Reconciliation(s), ed. Joanna R. Quinn (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009); and Joanna R. Quinn, “The Impact of Internal Conflict on Customary Institutions and Law: The Case of Uganda,” Journal of African Law, 58.1 (2015): 220–236. 23. Anonymous Sabiny man studying at Makerere University, interview by author, 7 November 2004, Kampala, Uganda. 24. John Mary Waliggo, “The Human Right to Peace for Every Person and Every Society,” a paper presented at Public Dialogue organized by Faculty of Arts, Makerere University, in conjunction with Uganda Human Rights Commission and NORAD, Kampala, Uganda, 4 December 2003, author’s collection, 9.

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Notes to Pages 27–30

25. Quinn, “The Impact of Internal Conflict on Customary Institutions and Law.” 26. See Christopher K. Lamont, Joanna R. Quinn, and Eric Wiebelhaus-Brahm, “The Emergence of Transitional Justice Ministries,” a paper presented at the International Studies Association, Atlanta, GA, March 2016. See also Mark Kersten, Justice in Conflict: The Effects of the International Criminal Court’s Interventions on Ending Wars and Building Peace (London: Oxford University Press, 2016). 27. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement. 28. Priscilla B. Hayner, “Fifteen Truth Commissions—1974 to 1994,” Human Rights Quarterly 16 (1994): 597–655. 29. Joanna R. Quinn, “Cultivating Sympathy and Reconciliation: The Importance of Sympathetic Response in the Uptake of Transitional Justice,” in The Limits of Settler Colonial Reconciliation: Non-Indigenous People and the Responsibility to Engage, eds. Tom Clark, Ravi de Costa, and Sarah Maddison (New York: Springer, 2016), 119–136. 30. United Nations Secretary-General, Guidance Note of the Secretary-General: United Nations Approach to Transitional Justice (March 2010), 10, 11. 31. Chandra Lekha Sriram and Johanna Herman, “DDR and Transitional Justice: Bridging the Divide?” Conflict, Security & Development 9.4 (2009): 455–474. This runs counter to earlier theorizing by Galtung, which argued that reconstruction, reconciliation, and resolution must be sought in “parallel” and not sequentially. See Johan Galtung, After Violence: 3R, Reconstruction, Reconciliation, Resolution: Coping with Visible and Invisible Effects of War and Violence (New York: Transcend, 1998). 32. Sam Kajoba, Embassy of Norway, interview by author, 27 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. The views expressed are those of Mr. Kajoba, not of the Kingdom of Norway. 33. Loyle, “Gun Smoke and Mirrors,” 5–6. 34. Loyle, “Gun Smoke and Mirrors,” 6. 35. Cecilia Ogwal, Member of Parliament, Lira Municipality, interview by author, 3 November 2004, Kampala, Uganda. 36. Office of the President, Uganda Media Centre, “Press Statement on the Joint Operation Against the LRA,” Kampala, 14 December 2008. 37. Chris Hobbs, cited in “Kony 2012: The Reaction” [news blog], Guardian, March 2012, available from https://www.theguardian.com/politics/reality-check-with-polly-curtis/2012/mar /13/reality-check-kony-2012-reaction. 38. Polly Curtis and Tom McCarthy, “Kony 2012: What’s the Real Story?” Guardian, 8  March 2012, available from https://www.theguardian.com/politics/reality-check-with-polly -curtis/2012/mar/08/kony-2012-what-s-the-story. 39. Elsa Buchanan, “Opposition Leader Kizza Besigye Arrested as He Returns to Uganda,” International Business Times, 3 October 2016, available from http://www.ibtimes.co.uk /opposition-leader-kizza-besigye-arrested-he-returns-uganda-1584515. 40. Catherine Soi, “Ugandan Opposition MP Bobi Wine Held in Custody,” Al-Jazeera, 2 May 2019, available from https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2019/05/ugandan-opposition-mp -bobi-wine-faces-court-charges-190502071219415.html, accessed 25 June 2019. 41. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 18 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 42. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 18 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda.

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43. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 18 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 44. David Smith, “Uganda Bans 38 Organisations Accused of ‘Promoting Homosexuality’: Country’s Ethics and Integrity Minister Claims Banned NGOs Exist to ‘Destroy the Traditions and Culture of this Country,’” Guardian, 20 June 2012. 45. Anonymous Muganda woman working in faith-based organization, interview by author, 8 May 2012, Kampala, Uganda. 46. Joanna R. Quinn, “Madly Off in All Directions: Civil Society and Transitional Justice in Uganda,” in Advocating Transitional Justice in Africa: The Role of Civil Society, ed. Jasmina Brankovic and Hugo van der Merwe (New York: Springer, 2018). 47. Conor Gaffey, “Uganda: Museveni Calls ICC ‘Useless,’ Prompts Western Leaders to Walk Out,” Newsweek, 13 May 2016, available from http://www.newsweek.com/uganda -museveni-prompts-western-leaders-walkout-icc-useless-459605. 48. Christine Bell and Catherine O’Rourke, “Does Feminism Need a Theory of Transitional Justice?” International Journal of Transitional Justice 1.2 (2007): 36. 49. Daya Somasundaram, “Collective Trauma in Northern Sri Lanka: A Qualitative Psychosocial-Ecological Study,” International Journal of Mental Health Systems 1.5 (2007): 1. 50. Somasundaram, “Collective Trauma,” 1. 51. Pauline Boss, Ambiguous Loss: Learning to Live with Unresolved Grief (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), cited in Rebekka Friedman, “‘Healingscapes’ of Northern Sri Lanka: Ritual Healing in the Context of Mass Disappearances and Victor’s Peace,” a paper presented at Letting the State Off the Hook: The Role of Non-State Actors in Peace and Justice Provision, Toronto, ON, 26 March 2019. 52. Steven Stosny, “Effects of Emotional Abuse: It Hurts When I Love,” Psychology Today, 26 August 2008. 53. Susan Dicklitch, “Action for Development in Uganda,” in NGOs and Human Rights: Promise and Performance, ed. Claude Welch Jr. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 185. 54. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement, 146. 55. Adam Branch and Zachariah Mampilly, Africa Uprising (London: Zed Books, 2015), 122. 56. Thomas Harlacher, Francis Xavier Okot, Caroline Aloyo Obonyo, Mychelle Balthazard, and Ronald Atkinson, Traditional Ways of Coping in Acholi: Cultural Provisions for Reconciliation and Healing from War (Kampala: Thomas Harlacher and Caritas Gulu Archdiocese, 2006), 5. See also Chris Dolan, Social Torture: The Case of Northern Uganda, 1986–2006 (New York: Berghahn Books. 2009). 57. Quinn, “Constraints,” 405. 58. Gordon W. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice (New York: Doubleday Anchor, 1958), 14–15. 59. Tim Allen, War and Justice in Northern Uganda: An Assessment of the International Criminal Court’s Intervention (London: Crisis States Research Centre, Development Studies Institute, London School of Economics, 2005), 31. 60. The Republic of Uganda, Amnesty Act 2000, Part II, 3(1). See n. 7 above for a comprehensive list of rebellions whose ex-combatants are eligible for amnesty under the Amnesty Act. 61. Quinn, “Constraints,” 401–427. 62. Dog-whistle politics is defined as “a type of political speech using code words that appear to mean one thing to the general population but have a different meaning for a targeted part

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of the audience.” From “dog-whistle politics,” Taegan Goddard’s Political Dictionary [definition online], available from http://politicaldictionary.com/words/dog-whistle-politics/, accessed 4 February 2017. 63. John de Figueiredo, “Adaptive Strategies for the Prevention of Demoralization in Prolonged Bicultural Conflict and Interaction,” International Journal of Culture and Mental Health 6.1 (2003): 30. 64. de Figueiredo, “Adaptive Strategies.” See also C. A. Cockram, G. Doros, and John de Figueiredo, “Diagnosis and Measurement of Subjective Incompetence, the Clinical Hallmark of Demoralization,” Psychotherapy and Psychosomatics 78 (2009): 312–345; and C. A. Cockram, G. Doros, and John de Figueiredo, “Subjective Incompetence as the Clinical Hallmark of Demoralization in Cancer Patients Without Mental Disorder,” Primary Psychiatry 17.7 (2010): 54–58. 65. Raphaël Lemkin, “Genocide,” in Genocide: An Anthropological Reader, ed. Alexander Laban Hinton (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2002), 27. 66. Lemkin, “Genocide,” 27. 67. de Figueiredo, “Adaptive Strategies for the Prevention of Demoralization,” 30. 68. Anonymous officials from international development agency, interview by author, 16 November 2004, Kampala, Uganda. 69. The Responsibility to Protect doctrine states that “sovereign states have a responsibility to protect their own citizens from avoidable catastrophe—from mass murder and rape, from starvation—but that when they are unwilling or unable to do so, that responsibility must be borne by the broader community of states.” In The Responsibility to Protect: Report of the International Commission on Intervention and State Sovereignty (Ottawa: International Centre for Development Research, 2001), viii. 70. Dylan Hendrickson with Kennedy Tumutegyereize, “Dealing with Complexity in Peace Negotiations: Reflections on the Lord’s Resistance Army and the Juba Talks,” Conciliation Resources, January 2012, 28. 71. Sergei Guriev and Daniel Treisman, “How Modern Dictators Survive: An Informational Theory of the New Authoritarianism,” London School of Economics Political Science and Political Economy Group, July 2015. 72. For example, President Museveni attended an African Union–sponsored high-level conference on mines and petroleum as a “Guest of Honour” in late 2016. See African Union Commission, “President Museveni Hails the African Union Commission for Engaging the Private Sector in Mineral Resource Development Policies” [press release], 11 October 2016, African Press Organization for the African Union Commission, available from http://www.african-union.africa -newsroom.com/press/president-museveni-hails-the-african-union-commission-for-engaging -the-private-sector-in-mineral-resource-development-policies, accessed 5 February 2017. 73. A new constellation of actors emerged, for example, around the negotiations with the Lord’s Resistance Army at Juba in 2007. This included traditional development partner countries such as Belgium, Germany, the Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, and the United Kingdom, and added Ireland and Canada. The government of Canada pledged $1.5 million to the process in December 2006 and an additional $2.5 million in February 2007. Government of Canada, “Canada Calls on Ugandan Parties to Maintain Commitment to Juba Peace Talks and Announces $2.5 Million Toward Peace Efforts,” available from http://www.reliefweb.int/rw /RWB.NSF/db900SID/RMOI-6Y22R5?OpenDocument, accessed 20 February 2007. 74. Jack Donnelly, Universal Human Rights in Theory and Practice, 2nd ed. (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003), 164–166.

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75. Donnelly, Universal Human Rights in Theory and Practice, 169. 76. H. E. Dónal Cronin, Ambassador of Ireland to Uganda, interview by author, 27 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 77. Harold H. Saunders with Teddy Nemeroff, Priya Narayan Parker, Randa M. Slim, and Philip D. Stewart, Sustained Dialogue in Conflicts: Transformation and Change (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 25. 78. Naomi Roht-Arriaza, “Measures of Non-Repetition in Transitional Justice: The Missing Link?” available from https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2746055, 33. 79. Livingstone Sewanyana, Executive Director of Foundation for Human Rights Initiative, quoted in Rodney Muhumuza, “Uganda Government Bans Press Coverage of Opposition Protests,” U.S. News and World Report, 5 May 2016. 80. Musaazi Namiti, “Uganda Walk-to-Work Protests Kick Up Dust,” Al Jazeera English, 28  April 2011; and Ioannis Gatsiounis, “Deadly Crackdown on Uganda’s Walk-to-Work Protests,” Time, 11 April 2014. 81. “Uganda: Launch Independent Inquiry into Killings: No Lethal Force Was Needed in at Least 9 Fatal Shootings,” Human Rights Watch [report online], 8 May 2011. More about Walk to Work is detailed in Chapter 6. 82. Arthur, “How ‘Transitions’ Reshaped Human Rights,” 323. 83. Juan J. Linz, Totalitarian and Authoritarian Regimes (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2000). 84. Quinn, “Whither the Transition,” 69. 85. Roht-Arriaza, “Measures of Non-Repetition in Transitional Justice.”

Chapter 4 1. In some instances, those who have suffered violence are reluctant to be labeled as victims and prefer instead to be known as survivors of that violence. “Victim” implies helplessness, whereas “survivor” implies that someone is coping with their distress. But the transitional justice literature often uses only the term “victim.” I have tried in this manuscript to acknowledge both, often referring to both victims and survivors. 2. Trudy Govier, “What Is Acknowledgement and Why Is it Important?” in Dilemmas of Reconciliation: Cases and Concepts, ed. Carol A. L. Prager and Trudy Govier (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2003), 70–71. 3. Joanna R. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement: Truth Commissions in Uganda and Haiti (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010), 15–33. 4. Joanna R. Quinn, “What of Reconciliation? Traditional Mechanisms of Acknowledgement in Uganda,” in Reconciliation(s), ed. Joanna R. Quinn (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009), 178. 5. Trudy Govier, “Acknowledgement and Forced Confession” [typewritten manuscript] (Calgary, AB: author’s collection, 1999). 6. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement. 7. The New York Times reported: “He bowed his head slightly and then rose heavily. When he turned, the edge of his mouth was trembling. He joined his official party and walked slowly back, past the widely separated thin line of spectators.” See “Brandt Moved by Visit to Warsaw Ghetto Site,” New York Times, 8 December 1970. 8. See, for example, Kader Asmal, Louise Asmal, and Ronald Suresh Roberts, Reconciliation Through Truth: A Reckoning of Apartheid’s Criminal Governance (New York: St. Martin’s

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Press, 1999); Tristan Anne Borer, Telling the Truths (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2006); Alexandra Barahona de Brito, Human Rights and Democratization in Latin America: Uruguay and Chile (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997); Priscilla B. Hayner, “Fifteen Truth Commissions—1974 to 1994,” Human Rights Quarterly 16 (1994): 597–655; Priscilla Hayner, Unspeakable Truths (New York: Routledge, 2003); Neil J. Kritz, ed., Transitional Justice: How Emerging Democracies Reckon with Former Regimes (Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace Press, 1995); Making Justice Work: The Report of the Century Foundation/Twentieth Century Fund Task Force on Apprehending Indicted War Criminals (New York: Century Foundation Press, 1998); Martha Minow, Breaking the Cycles of Hatred: Memory, Law and Repair, ed. Nancy L. Rosenblum (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002); Martha Minow, Between Vengeance and Forgiveness: Facing History After Genocide and Mass Violence (Boston: Beacon Press, 1998); Mark Osiel, Mass Atrocity, Collective Memory, and the Law (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2000); Bloomfield, David, Teresa Barnes, and Luc Huyse. Eds. International IDEA Handbook on Reconciliation After Violent Conflict, ed. Stef Vandeginste, David Bloomfeld, Teresa Barnes, and Desmond Tutu. Stockholm: International IDEA, 2003. Available from http://www.idea.int/publications/reconciliation/upload/reconciliation_full.pdf; Geoffrey Robertson, Crimes Against Humanity: The Struggle for Global Justice (New Press, 2000); Robert I. Rotberg and Dennis Thompson, eds., Truth v. Justice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000); Jeremy Sarkin, “The Tension Between Justice and Reconciliation in Rwanda: Politics, Human Rights, Due Process and the Role of the Gacaca Courts in Dealing with the Genocide,” Journal of African Law 45.2 (2001): 143–172; William Schabas and Shane D’Arcy, Truth Commissions and Courts: The Tension Between Criminal Justice and the Search for the Truth (New York: Springer, 2005); Elin Skar, Siri Gloppen, and Astri Suhrke, eds., Roads to Reconciliation (Baltimore: Lexington Books, 2005); Eric Stover and Harvey M. Weinstein, eds., My Neighbour, My Enemy: Justice and Community in the Aftermath of Mass Atrocity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Ruti G. Teitel, Transitional Justice (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000); Truth Commissions: A Comparative Assessment: An Interdisciplinary Discussion Held at Harvard Law School in May 1996 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Law School Human Rights Program, 1996); Eugenia Zorbas, “Reconciliation in Post-Genocide Rwanda,” African Journal of Legal Studies 1.1 (1993): 29–52. 9. Pablo de Greiff, “Truth Telling and the Rule of Law,” in Telling the Truths: Truth Telling and Peace Building in Post-Conflict Societies, ed. Tristan Anne Borer (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2006), 199. 10. Csilla Kiss, “The Misuses of Manipulation: The Failure of Transitional Justice in PostCommunist Hungary,” Europe-Asia Studies 58.6 (2006): 925–940. 11. Joanna R. Quinn, “Haiti’s Failed Truth Commission: Lessons in Transitional Justice,” Journal of Human Rights 8.3 (2009): 265–281. Other examples abound. See Audrey R. Chapman and Hugo van der Merwe, Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa: Did the TRC Deliver? (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008); and United Nations secretary-general, The Rule of Law and Transitional Justice in Conflict and Post-Conflict Societies: Report of the Secretary-General (New York: United Nations, 2011), 7. 12. Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (London: A. Millar, A. Kincaid, and J. Bell, 1759; reprint, New York: Digireads, 2010). 13. Nir Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy: Reconciliation, Transitional Justice, Negotiation (Dordrecht, the Netherlands/St. Louis: Republic of Letters Publishing, 2010), 60.

Notes to Pages 45–47

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14. Sandra H. Losoya and Nancy Eisenberg, “Affective Empathy,” in Interpersonal Sensitivity: The LEA Series in Personality and Clinical Psychology, ed. Judith A. Hall and Frank J. Bernieri (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates Publishers, 2001), 23, 22. 15. Jean Decety and Philip L. Jackson, “The Functional Architecture of Human Empathy,” Behavioral and Cognitive Neuroscience Reviews 3.2 (2004): 73. 16. Albert Bandura, Social Learning Theory (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1977), 160. 17. Joanna R. Quinn, “Failure to Launch: The Consequences of Prematurely Conceived Transitional Justice,” a paper presented at the European Consortium for Political Research, Montreal, 27 August 2015. 18. Govier, “What Is Acknowledgement,” n. 11. 19. Frank Haldemann, “Another Kind of Justice: Transitional Justice as Recognition,” Cornell International Law Journal 41 (2008): 691. 20. Haldemann, “Another Kind of Justice,” 693. 21. Haldemann, “Another Kind of Justice,” 693. 22. Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance, 3. 23. Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance, 225. 24. Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance, 243. 25. It is on this level that several recent works focus, calling on the concept of compassion. See, for example, Paul Bloom, Against Empathy: The Case for Rational Compassion (New York: HarperCollins, 2016). See also Mark Gopin, “Compassionate Reason: The Most Important Cultural and Religious Capacity for a Peaceful Future,” in Confronting Religious Violence: A Counternarrative, ed. Richard A. Burridge and Jonathan Sacks (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2018): 147–166. 26. James Hoggan with Roger Conner, “The Advocacy Trap,” in I’m Right and You’re an Idiot: The Toxic State of Public Discourse and How to Clean It Up, ed. James Hoggan with Grania Litwin (Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Publishers, 2016), 15. 27. “Sympathy,” Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary, available from http://www.merriam -webster.com/dictionary/sympathy, accessed 13 February 2016. 28. Roger I. Simon, Sharon Rosenberg, and Claudia Eppert, “Introduction: Between Hope and Despair: The Pedagogical Encounter of Historical Remembrance,” in Between Hope and Despair: Pedagogy and the Remembrance of Historical Trauma, ed. Roger I. Simon, Sharon Rosenberg, and Claudia Eppert (Baltimore: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 2000), 3. 29. Ron Niezen, “The Unfolding,” in Truth and Indignation: Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission on Indian Residential Schools (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013), 25. 30. James Hoggan with Carol Tavris, “Mistakes Were Made (but Not by Me),” in I’m Right and You’re an Idiot: The Toxic State of Public Discourse and How to Clean It Up, ed. James Hoggan with Grania Litwin (Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Publishers, 2016), 38. 31. Bloom, Against Empathy, 41. 32. Bloom, Against Empathy, 36. 33. N. Eisenberg, C. L. Shea, G. Carlo, and G. P. Knight, “Empathy-Related Responding and Cognition: A ‘Chicken and the Egg’ Dilemma,” in Handbook of Moral Behavior and Development, Vol. 2: Research, ed. William M. Kurtines, Jacob Gewirtz, and Jacob L. Lamb (Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum, 1991), 63–88. 34. Losoya and Eisenberg, “Affective Empathy,” 23, 22.

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35. See Dominick LaCapra, History in Transit: Experience, Identity, Critical Theory (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004); Dominick LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust: History, Theory, Trauma (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994); Dominick LaCapra, Writing History, Writing Trauma (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000). 36. Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, “Acting Out and Working Through Traumatic Memory: Confronting the Past in the South African Context,” in Hurting Memories and Beneficial Forgetting: Posttraumatic Stress Disorders, ed. Michael Linden and Krzysztof Rutkowski (London: Elsevier, 2013), 217–226; and Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, “Reconciliation and Mutual Recognition After Mass Trauma,” keynote address presented at “Peace from the Ground-Up: Post Conflict Socialization, Religion and Reconciliation in Africa,” Monkey Valley Conference Centre, Cape Town, South Africa, 6 June 2013. 37. Gobodo-Madikizela, “Reconciliation and Mutual Recognition,” and Herbert G. Fingarette, “Self-Deception Needs No Explaining,” Philosophical Quarterly 48.192 (1998), 289–301. 38. Russell Daye, Political Forgiveness (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2004); LaCapra, History in Transit; Paulette Regan, Unsettling the Settler Within: Indian Residential Schools, Truth Telling, and Reconciliation in Canada (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2010); Gobodo-Madikizela, “Acting Out and Working Through Traumatic Memory.” 39. Jodi Halpern and Harvey M. Weinstein, “Rehumanizing the Other: Empathy and Reconciliation,” Human Rights Quarterly 36.3 (2004): 570. 40. Bertolt Brecht quoted in Jill Bennet, Empathetic Vision: Affect, Trauma, and Contemporary Art (Redwood City, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005), 5. 41. LaCapra, History in Transit, 117–118, 132. 42. LaCapra, History in Transit, 135. 43. See Fritz Breithaupt, The Dark Sides of Empathy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2019). 44. Gopin, “Compassionate Reason,” 160–162. 45. Bloom, Against Empathy, 35. 46. Breithaupt, The Dark Sides of Empathy, 10–12. 47. Quinn, “Failure to Launch.” 48. See Luc Huyse, “The Process of Reconciliation,” in Reconciliation After Violent Conflict: A Handbook, ed. David Bloomfield, Teresa Barnes, and Luc Huyse (Stockholm: International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance, 2003), 21. 49. Alexandre Marc, Alys Willman, Ghazia Aslam, Michelle Rebosio, with Kanishka Balasuriya, Societal Dynamics and Fragility: Engaging Societies in Responding to Fragile Situations, New Frontiers of Social Policy (Washington, DC: World Bank, 2013), 40. 50. Marc et al., Societal Dynamics and Fragility, 42. 51. John W. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies (London: Longman, 1984), 21. 52. Albert Bandura, “Social Cognitive Theory for Personal and Social Change by Enabling Media,” in Entertainment-Education and Social Change: History, Research, and Practice, ed. Arvind Singhal, Michael J. Cody, Everett M. Rogers, and Miguel Sabido (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2004), 79. 53. Hon. Jus. James Ogoola, Chairperson, Judicial Services Commission, interview by author, 30 June 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 54. Stephen Tumwesigye, interview by author, 2 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda.

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55. Daisey Muculezi, Providence Counseling, interview by author, 8 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 56. Gordon W. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice (New York: Doubleday Anchor, 1958), 266. 57. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice, 468. 58. Ervin Staub, “Reconciliation After Genocide, Mass Killing, or Intractable Conflict: Understanding the Roots of Violence, Psychological Recovery, and Steps Toward a General Theory,” Political Psychology 27.6 (2006): 872. 59. Nir Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy: Reconciliation, Transitional Justice, Negotiation (Dordrecht, the Netherlands/St. Louis: Republic of Letters Publishing, 2010), 63; Jennifer Mencl and Douglas R. Ray, “The Effects of Proximity and Empathy on Ethical Decision-Making: An Exploratory Examination,” Journal of Business Ethics 85.2 (2009): 206. 60. Jonathan Nolan and Christopher Nolan, Interstellar, directed by Christopher Nolan (Los Angeles: Legendary Pictures, Syncopy, and Lynda Obst Productions/Paramount Studios and Warner Bros. Pictures, 2014), film. 61. Caitlin Donnelly and Joanne Hughes, “Contact and Culture: Mechanisms of Reconciliation in Schools in Northern Ireland and Israel,” in Reconciliation(s): Transitional Justice in Postconflict Societies, ed. Joanna R. Quinn (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009). 62. Enzo Nussio, Angelika Rettberg, and Juan E. Ugarriza, “Victims, Nonvictims and Their Opinions on Transitional Justice: Findings from the Colombian Case,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 9.2 (2015): 353. 63. Quinn, “Failure to Launch.” 64. Vilayanur S. Ramachandran, “Mirror Neurons and Imitation Learning as the Driving Force Behind ‘the Great Leap Forward’ in Human Evolution” (2000), available from http://www .edge.org/documents/archive/edge69.html, accessed 19 September 2015. 65. Lindsay M. Oberman, Jaime A. Pineda, and Vilayanur S. Ramachandran, “The Human Mirror Neuron System: A Link Between Action Observation and Social Skills,” Social Cognitive and Affective Neuroscience 2.1 (2007): 62–66. 66. M. Iacoboni, I. Molnar-Szakacs, V. Gallese, G. Buccino, J. C. Mazziotta, and G. Rizzolatti, “Grasping the Intentions of Others with One’s Own Mirror Neuron System,” PLOS Biology 3 (2005): 1. 67. M. Dapretto, M. S. Davies, and J. H. Pfeifer, “Understanding Emotions in Others,” Nature Neuroscience 9 (2006): 28–30. 68. Empathic champions can also come from the international community. American John Prendergast, for example, has worked for a long time on issues of peace and human rights through a variety of agencies including the International Crisis Group, founding the Enough Project and cofounding The Sentinel. Norwegian diplomat Jan Egeland is another; he has worked on issues of humanitarian relief through the United Nations, Amnesty International, the Norwegian Red Cross, and the Norwegian Refugee Council. 69. See, for example, Isidor Chein, “What Are the Psychological Effects of Segregation Under Conditions of Equal Facilities?” International Journal of Opinion & Attitude Research 3 (1949): 229–234; and Daniel M. Wilner, Rosabelle Price Walkley, and Stuart W. Cook, “Residential Proximity and Intergroup Relations in Public Housing Projects,” Journal of Social Issues 8.1 (1952): 45–69. 70. H. D. Forbes, “Ethnic Conflict and the Contact Hypothesis,” in Psychological Dimensions to War and Peace: The Psychology of Ethnic and Cultural Conflict, ed. Yueh Ting Lee, Clark McCauley, Fathali Moghaddam, and S. Worchel (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2004), 70.

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71. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice, 252. 72. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice, 255. 73. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice, 267. 74. Gavriel Salomon, “Does Peace Education Make a Difference in the Context of an Intractable Conflict,” Peace and Conflict: Journal of Peace Psychology 10.3 (2004): 261. 75. Forbes, “Ethnic Conflict and the Contact Hypothesis,” 85. 76. Forbes, “Ethnic Conflict and the Contact Hypothesis,” 74. See also Salomon, “Does Peace Education Make a Difference,” 261. 77. Thomas F. Pettigrew, “Intergroup Contact Theory,” Annual Review of Psychology 49 (1998): 80. 78. Pettigrew, “Intergroup Contact Theory,” 76. 79. Chuck Thiessen and Marwan Darweish, “Conflict Resolution and Asymmetric Conflict: The Contradictions of Planned Contact Interventions in Israel and Palestine,” International Journal of Intercultural Relations 66 (2018): 73–84; J. Dixon, M. Levine, S. Reicher, and K. Durrheim, “Beyond Prejudice: Relational Inequality, Collective Action, and Social Change Revisited,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 35 (2012): 451–466; and Tamar Saguy and John F. Dovidio, “Insecure Status Relations Shape Preferences for the Content of Intergoup Contact,” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 39 (2013): 1030–1042. 80. Stephen C. Wright, Arthur Aron, Tracy McLaughlin-Volpe, and Stacy A. Ropp, “The Extended Contact Effect: Knowledge of Cross-Group Friendships and Prejudice,” Journal of Personal and Social Psychology 73.1 (1997): 74. 81. Pettigrew, “Intergroup Contact Theory,” 68. 82. Forbes, “Ethnic Conflict and the Contact Hypothesis,” 82. 83. Forbes, “Ethnic Conflict and the Contact Hypothesis,” 85. 84. Ivor Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation: Dating and Inter-Ethnic Contact in Bosnia,” a paper presented at the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019. 85. Jessica Trounstine, Segregation by Design: Local Politics and Inequality in American Cities (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 144. 86. Dick Stanley, “What Do We Know About Social Cohesion: The Research Perspective of the Federal Government’s Social Cohesion Research Network,” Canadian Journal of Sociology / Cahiers canadiens de sociologie 28.1 (2003): 5. 87. Robert D. Putnam, “E Pluribus Unum: Diversity and Community in the Twenty-First Century: The 2006 Johan Skytte Prize Lecture,” Scandinavian Political Studies 30.2 (2007): 137–174; Robert Putnam, Making Democracy Work (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993); and Nat J. Colletta and Michelle L. Cullen, Violent Conflict and the Transformation of Social Capital (Washington, DC: World Bank, 2000). It is similar to Almond and Verba’s civic culture; see Gabriel Almond and Sidney Verba, The Civic Culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1963). 88. Lisa F. Berkman and Ichiro Kawachi, eds., Social Epidemiology (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 175. 89. Timothy D. Sisk, “Preventing Deadly Conflict in Ethnically Fractured Societies: International Development Assistance for ‘Bridging’ Social Cohesion,” Background Paper for the United Nations/World Bank Flagship Study, Preventing Violent Conflict (2017). 90. Marc et al., Societal Dynamics and Fragility, 3.

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91. Nat J. Colletta and Michelle L. Cullen, Violent Conflict and the Transformation of Social Capital (Washington, DC: World Bank, 2000), 13. See also Amartya Sen, Development as Freedom (New York: Knopf, 1999). 92. Marc et al., Societal Dynamics and Fragility, 40–41. 93. Ross J. Gittell and Avis Vidal, “Social Capital and Networks in Community Development: Framing the LISC Demonstration,” in Community Organizing: Building Social Capital as a Development Strategy (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 1998), 15. Putnam speaks about bridging and bonding social capital, a derivative of the work on social cohesion, more broadly, although the concept holds across both terms. Putnam, “E Pluribus Unum,” 143. 94. Mark S. Granovetter, “The Strength of Weak Ties,” American Journal of Sociology 78.6 (1973): 1362. 95. Marc et al., Societal Dynamics and Fragility, 49. 96. One notable exception is Michael J. Brown and Marie-Joëlle Zahar, “Social Cohesion as Peacebuilding in the Central African Republic and Beyond,” Journal of Peacebuilding and Development 10.1 (2015): 10–24. 97. Marc et al. use the term “convergence across groups.” Marc et al., Societal Dynamics and Fragility, 3. 98. Historically, not all of the 65 different ethnocultural groups were recognized by the government. In 1967, all kingdoms were banned by Obote; some were reinstated in 1993. Since 2010, Museveni has played politics with the recognition of new groups, choosing to recognize some and not others. Given that recognition comes with a monthly stipend and other coveted benefits, groups have jockeyed to be recognized. In some cases, this recognition has opened old wounds and caused renewed conflict. One example is the recognition of the Rwenzururu Kingdom in 2008; although the government of Uganda recognized the Rwenzururu, it failed to take into account the wishes of two smaller subgroups, the Bamba and the Bakonzo, that have been trying unsuccessfully to secede from Rwenzururu to seek their own recognition—and thereby also their own funds—from the government. In 2014 and 2016, a series of riots broke out over political infighting and government favoritism. See Eriasa Mukibi Sserunjogi and Morris Mumbere, “Who Is Behind Rwenzori Sub-Region Killings?” Monitor, 27 March 2016, available from https://www.monitor.co.ug/News/National/Who-is-behind-Rwenzori-sub-region-killings /688334-3134796-e09ypb/index.html, accessed 27 June 2019. 99. Marc et al., Societal Dynamics and Fragility, 25–26. 100. Joanna R. Quinn, “The Impact of Internal Conflict on Customary Institutions and Law: The Case of Uganda,” Journal of African Law 58.1 (2015), 18. 101. Rev. Diana Nkesiga, Vicar, All Saints’ Cathedral, interview by author, 15 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 102. Sarah Agwang, Uganda Women’s Network, interview by author, 21 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. The views expressed are those of Ms. Agwang, not of the Uganda Women’s Network. 103. Sheila Muwanga, Foundation for Human Rights Initiative, interview by author, 20 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 104. George Aporo Goldie, Program Manager, Rights and Justice, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 21 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 105. Sam Kajoba, Embassy of Norway, interview by author, 27 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. The views expressed are those of Mr. Kajoba, not of the Kingdom of Norway.

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106. Sheila Muwanga, Foundation for Human Rights Initiative, interview by author, 20 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 107. Sister Specioza Kabahoma, Superior General, Sisters of Theresa, interview by author, 28 May 2015, Namugongo, Uganda. 108. Festus Kahigwa, Program Officer, Capacity Development, Uganda National NGO Forum, interview by author, 29 May 2015, Kansanga, Uganda. 109. Godfrey Onentho Otwi, Caritas, interview by author, 26 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 110. Sam Kajoba, Embassy of Norway, interview by author, 27 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. The views expressed are those of Mr. Kajoba, not of the Kingdom of Norway. 111. George Aporo Goldie, Program Manager, Rights and Justice, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 21 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 112. This definition draws upon a definition put forward in Stephen John Stedman, “Spoiler Problems in Peace Processes,” International Security 22.2 (1997): 5. Stedman is interested in how spoilers ruin peace processes. The use of the term “spoiler” here is an adaptation of that term to the justice process. 113. See, for example, Allison Cordoba, “Symbolic and Material Justice: The Case of Displaced Persons in Chocó, Colombia” (PhD diss., Western University, 2018); and Jamie Rebecca Rowen, “‘We Don’t Believe in Transitional Justice’: Peace and the Politics of Legal Ideas in Colombia,” Law & Social Inquiry 42.3 (2017): 622–647. 114. For a much broader discussion, see Joanna R. Quinn, “Madly Off in All Directions: Civil Society and Transitional Justice in Uganda,” in Advocating Transitional Justice in Africa, ed. Jasmina Brankovic and Hugo van der Merwe (New York: Springer, 2017), 135–160. 115. Jane Frances Adongo, Senior Sociologist, Uganda Law Reform Commission, interview by author, 29 May 2012, Kampala, Uganda. 116. It is commonly assumed that Museveni approached the Court first. See Nicholas Waddell and Phil Clark, eds., Courting Conflict? Justice, Peace and the ICC in Africa (London: Royal African Society, 2008), 43. 117. Republic of Uganda, Peace, Recovery and Development Plan for Northern Uganda (PRDP) Phase 2 (July 2012–June 2015) (Kampala: Government of Uganda, 2011), 2. 118. Quinn, “Madly Off in All Directions,” 24–25. 119. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 2 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 120. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 2 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 121. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 18 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 122. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 18 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 123. The government of Uganda issued a directive in 2010 stating that the activities once carried out in Northern Uganda, including “initiatives [to] promote peaceful resolution of conflicts; undertake peace education and other peace activities in the communities,” were to focus on Karamoja. See Republic of Uganda, National Development Plan (2010/11–2014/15), April 2010, 366–367. Museveni’s wife, Janet Museveni, was appointed minister of state for Karamoja affairs in 2009, and in 2011 she was appointed minister for Karamoja affairs, a move many saw as “rais[ing] the prospect of the Karamoja region’s social problems getting attention that goes beyond political tokenism.” See M. Wakabi, “First Lady Must Tread Carefully on Karamoja Development Agency,”

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The East African (February 2009), available from http://www.theeastafrican.co.ke/news/-/2558 /533028/-/rka64cz/-/index.html, accessed 16 June 2019. 124. David Smith, “Uganda Bans 38 Organisations accused of ‘Promoting Homosexuality’: Country’s Ethics and Integrity Minister Claims Banned NGOs Exist to ‘Destroy the Traditions and Culture of This Country,’” Guardian, 20 June 2012. 125. International Criminal Court, “Outreach” [website], available from https://www .icc -cpi .int /en _menus /icc /structure %20of %20the %20court /outreach /Pages /outreach .aspx, accessed 14 February 2016. 126. Museveni, Sowing the Mustard Seed, 134, 189–190. 127. Museveni, Sowing the Mustard Seed, 189. 128. Allport, for example, notes that there are many ways to impart knowledge about people, including academic teaching in schools, direct experience through “social travel,” psychodrama, and role playing. See Allport, The Nature of Prejudice, 252–254. These are explored further below. 129. Stanley Cohen, States of Denial: Knowing About Atrocities and Suffering (Cambridge: Polity, 2001), 4. 130. Cohen, States of Denial, 9. 131. Cohen, States of Denial, 8. 132. See Joanna R. Quinn, “Constraints: The Un-Doing of the Ugandan Truth Commission,” Human Rights Quarterly 26.2 (2004): 401–427. 133. Kagame’s policy also includes Ingando solidarity camps that are little more than forced political reeducation camps. See Susan Thomson, “Reeducation for Reconciliation: Participant Observations on Ingando,” in Remaking Rwanda: State Building and Human Rights After Mass Violence, ed. Scott Straus and Lars Waldorf (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2011). 134. Filip Reyntjens, “Constructing the Truth, Dealing with Dissent, Domesticating the World: Governance in Post-Genocide Rwanda,” African Affairs 110.438 (2011): 1–34. 135. Charles Arthur, After the Dance, the Drum Is Heavy: Haiti One Year After the Invasion (London: Haiti Support Group, 1995), 5. See also Americas Watch and National Coalition for Haitian Refugees, Silencing a People: The Destruction of Civil Society in Haiti (New York: Human Rights Watch, 1993), 1–2. 136. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement, 82. 137. Halpern and Weinstein, “Rehumanizing the Other,” 570.

Chapter 5 1. An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the Annual Conference of the Canadian Political Science Association, Toronto, ON, 30 May 2017. 2. Jodi Halpern and Harvey M. Weinstein, “Rehumanizing the Other: Empathy and Reconciliation,” Human Rights Quarterly 36.3 (2004): 579. 3. Halpern and Weinstein, “Rehumanizing the Other,” 579. 4. Jennifer Mencl and Douglas R. Ray, “The Effects of Proximity and Empathy on Ethical Decision-Making: An Exploratory Examination,” Journal of Business Ethics 85.2 (2009): 208. 5. “Cognition,” The Free Dictionary [definition], available from http://www.thefreedic tionary.com/cognition, accessed 10 May 2017. 6. Mencl and Ray, “The Effects of Proximity and Empathy on Ethical Decision-Making,” 208. 7. Mencl and Ray, “The Effects of Proximity and Empathy on Ethical Decision-Making,” 208.

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8. This fits with Allport’s argument that there are many ways to impart knowledge about people, including academic teaching in schools and giving students a direct experience through things such as what he called “social travel” and role-playing. He argued that “the more sustained the acquaintance, the less the prejudice.” See Gordon W. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice (Doubleday Anchor, 1958), 254. 9. Louis Bickford, “Unofficial Truth Projects,” Human Rights Quarterly 29.4 (2007): 999. 10. T. R. Lambert, “Foundations or Pretence? Situating Precursory Investigative Institutions and Truth Commissions,” poster presented at the Canadian Political Science Association, Toronto, ON, 31 May 2017. 11. Bickford, “Unofficial Truth Projects,” 1018. 12. Nir Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy: Reconciliation, Transitional Justice, Negotiation (Dordrecht, the Netherlands/St. Louis: Republic of Letters Publishing, 2010), 101. 13. Bickford, “Unofficial Truth Projects,” 1002–1004. 14. Ben Taub, “Gathering Evidence of Syrian War Crimes in ‘The Assad Files,’” PBS Newshour, 20 April 2016, available from https://pulitzercenter.org/reporting/gathering-evidence -syria-war-crimes-assad-files, accessed 25 April 2020. 15. The terms “royal commission,” “commission of inquiry,” and “public inquiry” are commonly used to refer to the same thing. “Almost everyone agrees that the significance of terminology—inquiries versus Royal Commissions—is of little consequence.” Liora Salter, “The Complex Relationship Between Inquiries and Public Controversy,” in Allan Manson and David J. Mullan, eds., Commissions of Inquiry: Praise or Reappraise? (Toronto: Irwin Law, 2003), 185. 16. Robert P. Gephart, “Sensemaking, Communication Distortion and the Logic of Public Inquiry Legitimation,” Industrial Crisis Quarterly 6.2 (1992): 117. 17. Gerald Le Dain, “The Role of the Public Inquiry in our Constitutional System,” in Jacob S. Ziegel, ed., Law and Social Change (Toronto: Osgoode Hall Law School, York University, 1973), 79. 18. Kim Pamela Stanton, “Truth Commissions and Public Inquiries: Addressing Historical Injustices in Established Democracies,” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 2010), 11. 19. Stanton, “Truth Commissions and Public Inquiries,” 12. On the difference between a public inquiry and a truth commission, Stanton notes that “both mechanisms can perform the social function of acknowledging historical injustices and educating the public to prevent their recurrence. The difference is that a truth commission is explicitly expected to perform this function, while the public inquiry has the latent possibility to do so.” Stanton, “Truth Commissions and Public Inquiries,” 23. 20. Stanton, “Truth Commissions and Public Inquiries,” 21. 21. Le Dain, “The Role of the Public Inquiry,” 82. 22. United Nations Department of Political Affairs, “Subsidiary Organs of the Security Council,” in Repertoire of the Practice of the Security Council: Supplement 2000–2003, 11-21845/ ST/PSCA/1/Add.14 (New York: United Nations, 2011), 178. 23. Royal Society of Canada, “Information About Expert Panels” [website], available from http://www.rsc.ca/en/expert-panels/information-about-expert-panels, accessed 9 May 2017. 24. United Nations Security Council Resolution 1291 (2000), para. 17. 25. Bickford refers to these as “Unofficial Truth Projects.” See Bickford, “Unofficial Truth Projects,” 995. 26. See Lawrence Weschler, A Miracle, A Universe: Settling Accounts with Torturers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 5–14.

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27. Bickford, “Unofficial Truth Projects,” 1023. 28. Audrey R. Chapman, “Truth Finding in the Transitional Justice Process,” in Assessing the Impact of Transitional Justice: Challenges for Empirical Research, ed. Hugo Van der Merwe, Victoria Baxter, and Audrey R. Chapman (Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace Press, 2009), 111. 29. The publication itself is called Searching for Truth and is published regularly “in Khmer and English . . . and circulated to over 20,000 people in Cambodia. This magazine combines oral history, reportage, research, photographs, readers submissions (testimonials), and examination of physical documents and archives to tell the victim’s stories about what happened during the Khmer Rouge period.” Bickford, “Unofficial Truth Projects,” 1023. 30. See, for example, Sarah Maddison and Angélique Stastny, “Silence or Deafness? Education and the Non-Indigenous Responsibility to Engage,” in The Limits of Settler Colonial Reconciliation: Non-Indigenous People and the Responsibility to Engage, ed. Tom Clark, Ravi de Costa, and Sarah Maddison (New York: Springer, 2016), 231–247; and Elisabeth King, From Classrooms to Conflict in Rwanda (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013). In both instances, the authors caution against an unadulterated reliance on education, which can have unintended consequences, including reinforcing division and tension. Chapman further notes that incorporating findings into school curricula is not often done. See Chapman, “Truth Finding in the Transitional Justice Process,” 111. 31. International Center for Transitional Justice, “Unofficial or Local Truth-Seeking Initiatives (01/01/2009)” [fact sheet online], available from https://www.ictj.org/fact-sheet-unofficial -truth-seeking, accessed 9 May 2017. 32. Patricia Lundy cited in Bickford, “Unofficial Truth Projects,” 995. 33. A similar phenomenon was reported in Argentina. See Priscilla Hayner, “Fifteen Truth Commissions,” Human Rights Quarterly 16.4 (1994): 615. 34. Seven E. Tomek and M. Foster Olive, “Animal Models for Examining Social Influences on Drug Addiction,” International Review of Neurobiology 140 (2018): 93. 35. James Hoggan with George Lakoff, “Facts Are Not Enough,” in James Hoggan with Grania Litwin, I’m Right and You’re an Idiot: The Toxic State of Public Discourse and How to Clean It Up (Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Publishers, 2016), 51–52. 36. Leon Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1957), 31. 37. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 85. 38. Roger I. Simon, Sharon Rosenberg, Claudia Eppert, eds., Between Hope and Despair: Pedagogy and the Remembrance of Historical Trauma (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 2000), 3. 39. Stages of learning adapted from Natasha F. Veltri, Harold W. Webb, Alexei G. Matveev, and Enrique G. Zapatero, “Curriculum Mapping as a Tool for Continuous Improvement of IS Curriculum,” Journal of Information Systems Education 22.1 (2011): 31–42. 40. John B. Biggs, “Enhancing Teaching Through Constructive Alignment,” Higher Education, 32 (1996): 347–364. 41. Alison Brysk, Speaking Rights to Power (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 198. 42. Martin L. Hoffman, “Empathy and Justice Motivation,” Motivation and Emotion 14.2 (1990): 169. 43. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 70, in n. 102. 44. Brysk, Speaking Rights to Power, 200.

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45. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 72. 46. Hoffman, “Empathy and Justice Motivation,” 162. 47. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 67. 48. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 67. 49. Susan Sontag, On Photography (New York: Picador, 1973), 19. See also Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others (New York: Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2003), 82–92. 50. Sontag, On Photography, 20. 51. Sontag, On Photography, 41. 52. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 68. This corresponds to Hoffman’s claim, laid out above, that familiarity breeds sympathy. See Hoffman, “Empathy and Justice Motivation,” 169. 53. “Numbing,” The Free Dictionary [definition], available from http://www.thefree dictionary.com/numbing, accessed 10 May 2017. 54. Robert D. Putnam, “E Pluribus Unum: Diversity and Community in the Twenty-First Century: The 2006 Johan Skytte Lecture,” Scandinavian Political Studies 30.2 (2007): 169. 55. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 69. 56. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 69. 57. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 70, in n. 102. 58. Michael Ignatieff, The Warrior’s Honor (New York: Owl Books, 1997), 25. 59. C. Daniel Batson, “How Social an Animal? The Human Capacity for Caring,” American Psychologist 45.3 (1990): 344. See also Ervin Staub, Daniel Bar-Tal, Jerzy Karylowski, and Janusz Reykowski, eds., Development and Maintenance of Prosocial Behavior (New York: Plenum, 1984). 60. Margaret Urban Walker, Moral Repair: Reconstructing Moral Relations After Wrongdoing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 101. 61. Brysk, Speaking Rights to Power, 36, 200. 62. Hoffman, “Empathy and Justice Motivation,” 156. 63. This recalls Haldemann’s “misrecognition.” See Frank Haldemann, “Another Kind of Justice: Transitional Justice as Recognition,” Cornell International Law Journal 41 (2008): 675–737. 64. Leon Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1957), 127. 65. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 70. 66. John D. Brewer and Bernadette C. Hayes, “Victims as Moral Beacons: Victims and Perpetrators in Northern Ireland,” Contemporary Social Science 6.1 (2011): 75. 67. Enzo Nussio, Angelika Rettberg, and Juan E. Ugarriza, “Victims, Nonvictims, and Their Opinions on the Findings of the Colombian Case,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 9.2 (2015): 353. 68. Nussio, Rettberg, and Ugarriza, “Victims, Nonvictims, and Their Opinions,” 353. 69. Brysk, Speaking Rights to Power, 169. 70. Hoffman, “Empathy and Justice Motivation,” 156. 71. Brysk, Speaking Rights to Power, 22. 72. Staub, “Reconciliation After Genocide, Mass Killing, or Intractable Conflict,” 878. 73. United Nations secretary-general, An Agenda for Peace: Preventive Diplomacy, Peacemaking and Peacekeeping: Initial Proceedings, 05-51675 (New York: United Nations, 1992), 823.

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Chapter 6 1. An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the Annual Convention of the International Studies Association, Baltimore, MD, February 2017. 2. Joanna R. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement: Truth Commissions in Uganda and Haiti (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2010). 3. Quinn, The Politics of Acknowledgement. 4. Joseph S. Nye, Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power (New York: Basic Books, 1990); and Joseph S. Nye, Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics (New York: Public Affairs, 2004). 5. Nye, Soft Power, 2–5. 6. Sergio Miller, “Malaya: The Myth of Hearts and Minds,” Small Wars Journal (2012), available from http://smallwarsjournal.com/jrnl/art/malaya-the-myth-of-hearts-and-minds. 7. Richard A. Hunt, Pacification (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1995), 19–40. 8. Irish Republican Army, Handbook for Volunteers of the Irish Republican Army (Boulder, CO: Paladin Press, 1985), 17. 9. “Information Operations,” Joint Publication 3-13 (Washington, DC: Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, 2006), 1. 10. Dictionary of International Relations Terms (Washington, DC: U.S. Department of State, 1987), 5. 11. International Criminal Court, “Outreach” [website], available from https://www.icc-cpi .int/en_menus/icc/structure%20of%20the%20court/outreach/Pages/outreach.aspx, accessed 14 February 2016. 12. Jessica Trounstine, Segregation by Design: Local Politics and Inequality in American Cities (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 38, 144. 13. Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (New York: Vintage, 1992), 55–73. 14. Mark S. Granovetter, “The Strength of Weak Ties,” American Journal of Sociology 78.6 (1973): 1376. 15. Tamar Saguy, “Downsides of Intergroup Harmony? When Reconciliation Might Backfire and What to Do,” Policy Insights from the Behavioral and Brain Sciences 5.1 (2018): 77. 16. Daniella Lai, “Practicing Solidarity: ‘Reconciliation’ and Bosnian Protest Movements,” a paper presented at the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019, 6. 17. See Ivor Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation: Dating and Inter-Ethnic Contact in Bosnia,” a paper presented at the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019; Costas M. Constantinou, “Everyday Diplomacy: Mission, Spectacle and the Remaking of Diplomatic Culture,” in Diplomatic Cultures and International Politics: Translations, Spaces and Alternatives, ed. Jason Dittmer and Fiona McConnell (New York: Routledge, 2016), 23; and Saguy, “Downsides of Intergroup Harmony,” 76. 18. Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation,” 20. 19. Saguy, “Downsides of Intergroup Harmony,” 76. 20. Denisa Kostovicova, “Interactivity Across Ethnic Lines in Transitional Justice Deliberations,” a paper presented at the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019, 3. 21. Annie Lennox and David A. Stewart, “Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves,” Be Yourself Tonight (Los Angeles: RCA, 1985), track 1.

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22. Daniella Lai, “Practicing Solidarity: ‘Reconciliation’ and Bosnian Protest Movements,” a paper presented at the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019, 5. 23. Radoslav S. Dimitrov, “Empty Institutions in Global Environmental Politics,” International Studies Review 0 (2019): 1–25; doi: 10.1093/isr/viz029. 24. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace: Bottom-Up and Local Agency in Conflict-Affected Societies,” Security Dialogue 45.6 (2014): 550. 25. Oliver P. Richmond, “Becoming Liberal, Unbecoming Liberalism: Liberal-Local Hybridity via the Everyday as a Response to the Paradoxes of Liberal Peacebuilding,” Journal of Intervention and Statebuilding 3:3 (2009): 325. 26. Richmond, “Becoming Liberal,” n. 2. 27. Magnus Marsden, Diana Ibañez-Tirado, and David Henig, “Everyday Diplomacy,” Cambridge Journal of Anthropology 34.2 (2016): 6. 28. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 549. 29. Helen Berents and Siobhan McEvoy-Levy, “Theorizing Youth and Everyday Peace(building),” Peacebuilding 3.2 (2015): 116. 30. Pamina Firchow, Reclaiming Everyday Peace: Local Voices in Measurement and Evaluation After War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 34. 31. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 552. 32. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 551. 33. Marsden et al., “Everyday Diplomacy,” 4. 34. Constantinou, “Everyday Diplomacy,” 34. 35. Chuck Thiessen and Marwan Darweish, “Conflict Resolution and Asymmetric Conflict: The Contradictions of Planned Contact Interventions in Israel and Palestine,” International Journal of Intercultural Relations 66 (2018): 73–84. 36. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 554. 37. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 554. 38. Orli Fridman, “Unstructured Daily Encounters: Serbs in Kosovo after the 2008 Declaration of Independence,” Contemporary Southeastern Europe 2.1 (2015): 187. 39. Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 553. 40. Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 553. 41. Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 554. 42. Arjun Appadurai, “Spectral Housing and Urban Cleansing: Notes on Millennial Mumbai,” Public Culture 12.3 (2000): 649. 43. Caroline Humphrey and Vera Skvirskaja, “Introduction,” in Post-Cosmopolitan Cities: Explorations of Urban Co-Existence, ed. Caroline Humphrey and Vera Skvirskaja (New York: Berghahn, 2012), 6. This is very different, by contrast, from Humphrey and Skvirskaja’s “postcosmopolitanism,” which relies on a return to a cosmopolitan ideal that was never a reality in places such as rural Uganda. 44. “Political Decentralization,” Decentralization & Subnational Regional Economics, World Bank [website], available from http://www1.worldbank.org/publicsector/decentralization /political.htm, accessed 29 January 2017. Uganda complied with the World Bank’s insistence on service delivery at the district level with the passing of the Local Government Act in 1992. Many I spoke to traced the current problems of division to the World Bank policy directive on decentralization. See Chris Dolan, Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 10  August

Notes to Pages 85–88

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2016, Kampala, Uganda; Lyandro Komakech, MP, Gulu District Municipality, interview by author, 11 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. This is seen as problematic, even by the progenitor of decentralization, the World Bank. See, for example, Remy Prud’homme, On the Dangers of Decentralization, Policy, Research Working Paper WPS 1252 (Washington, DC: World Bank, 1994), available from http://documents.worldbank.org/curated/en/218141468739288067/On -the-dangers-of-decentralization, accessed 11 August 2017. 45. Fridman, “Unstructured Daily Encounters,” 173. 46. Fridman, “Unstructured Daily Encounters,” 187. 47. Thiessen and Darweish, “Conflict Resolution and Asymmetric Conflict,” 77–78. 48. Mieczysław P. Boduszyński and Christopher K. Lamont, “Frozen Conflicts, Formalized Unsettlement, and Transitional Justice: The Case of Moldova-Transistria,” a paper presented at the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 29 March 2019, 11. 49. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 549. 50. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 550. 51. Rev. Diana Nkesiga, Vicar, All Saints Cathedral, Kampala, interview by author, 15 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 52. Rev. Diana Nkesiga, Vicar, All Saints Cathedral, Kampala, interview by author, 15 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 53. 1 Kings 17:5–24. 54. Lina Zedriga, Regional Associates for Community Initiatives, interview by author, 7 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 55. Lina Zedriga, Regional Associates for Community Initiatives, interview by author, 7 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 56. “Travelling Testimonies—An Exhibition About War, Peace and Reconciliation,” 18 June 2014, Makerere Art Gallery/Makerere Institute of Heritage Conservation and Restoration, available from https://makerereartgallery.wordpress.com/2014/06/18/travelling-testimonies-an -exhibition-about-war-peace-and-reconciliation/, accessed 17 June 2019. 57. Theo Hollander, Kitgum War Documentation Centre/Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 30 June 2014. 58. Milton C. Cummings, Cultural Diplomacy and the United States Government (Washington, DC: Center for Arts and Culture, 2003), 1. 59. Carnes Lord, “What ‘Strategic’ Public Diplomacy Is,” in Strategic Influence: Public Diplomacy, Counterpropaganda, and Political Warfare, ed. J. Michael Waller (Washington, DC: Institute of World Politics, 2008), 44. 60. H. D. Forbes, “Ethnic Conflict and the Contact Hypothesis,” in The Psychology of Ethnic and Cultural Conflict, ed. Yueh Ting-Lee, Clark McCauley, Fathali Moghaddam, and Stephen Worchel (Westport, CT: Greenwood Publishing Group, 2004), 70. 61. Lord, “What ‘Strategic’ Public Diplomacy Is,” 53. 62. Carnes Lord, “Public Diplomacy and Soft Power,” in Strategic Influence: Public Diplomacy, Counterpropaganda, and Political Warfare, ed. J. Michael Waller (Washington, DC: Institute of World Politics, 2008), 63. 63. Richard T. Arndt, The First Resort of Kings: American Cultural Diplomacy in the Twentieth Century (Dulles, VA: Potomac Books, 2005). 64. Stanley Cohen, States of Denial: Knowing About Atrocities and Suffering (Cambridge: Polity, 2001), 4.

180

Notes to Pages 88–91

65. Steven Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 28 July 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 66. Frank Haldemann, “Another Kind of Justice: Transitional Justice as Recognition,” Cornell International Law Journal 41 (2008): 693. 67. Lenczowski, “Cultural Diplomacy,” 77. 68. Lord, “Public Diplomacy and Soft Power,” 61. 69. Lenczowski, “Cultural Diplomacy,” 88. 70. Lenczowski, “Cultural Diplomacy,” 89. 71. Lenczowski, “Cultural Diplomacy,” 89. 72. Cultural Diplomacy: Recommendations and Research (Washington, DC: Center for Arts and Culture, 2004), 7. 73. Lenczowski, “Cultural Diplomacy,” 82–87. 74. Lord, “What ‘Strategic’ Public Diplomacy Is,” 53. 75. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 76. Pastor Jonnes T. Bakimi, New Hope Uganda, interview by author, 1 July 2014, Kiwoko, Uganda. 77. Godfrey Onentho Otwi, Inter-Religious Council of Uganda, interview by author, 7 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 78. The Buganda Riots were a series of violent protests that began when Museveni’s government refused the King of Buganda permission to visit part of his kingdom. See “Uganda: Investigate 2009 Kampala Riot Killings,” Human Rights Watch, 10 September 2010, available from https://www.hrw.org/news/2010/09/10/uganda-investigate-2009-kampala-riot-killings, accessed 27 June 2019. 79. Godfrey Onentho Otwi, Inter-Religious Council of Uganda, interview by author, 7 July 2014, Kampala, Uganda. 80. Inter-Religious Council of Uganda, “Inter-Religious Institute for Peace (IRIP)” [pamphlet] (Kampala: IRCU, n.d.), 3. 81. Arvind Singhal and Everett M. Rogers, “The Status of Entertainment-Education Worldwide,” in Entertainment-Education and Social Change: History, Research, and Practice, ed. Arvind Singhal, Michael J. Cody, Everett M. Rogers, and Miguel Sabido (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2004), 5. 82. Elizabeth Levy Paluck and Donald P. Green, “Prejudice Reduction: What Works? A Review and Assessment of Research and Practice,” Annual Review of Psychology 60.3 (2009): 353. 83. Elizabeth Levy Paluck, “Reducing Intergroup Prejudice and Conflict Using the Media: A Field Experiment in Rwanda,” Journal of Personality and Psychology 96.3 (2009): 576. 84. Singhal and Rogers detail interventions in Australia, the United Kingdom, Peru, and India. See Singhal and Rogers, “The Status of Entertainment-Education Worldwide,” 12, 15. 85. Elizabeth Levy Paluck and Donald P. Green, “Deference, Dissent, and Dispute Resolution: An Experimental Intervention Using Mass Media to Change Norms and Behavior in Rwanda,” American Political Science Review 103.4 (2009): 624. 86. Albert Bandura, Social Learning Theory (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1977), 39. 87. Bandura, Social Learning Theory, 40. 88. Bandura, Social Learning Theory, 160. 89. Granovetter, “The Strength of Weak Ties,” 1373. 90. James Hoggan with George Lakoff, “Facts Are Not Enough,” in I’m Right and You’re an Idiot: The Toxic State of Public Discourse and How to Clean It Up, ed. James Hoggan with Grania

Notes to Pages 91–95

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Litwin (Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Publishers, 2016), 50–52. See also Granovetter, “The Strength of Weak Ties,” 1373. 91. Leon Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1957), 231–232. 92. F. L. Fisher, “Influences of Reading and Discussion on the Attitudes of Fifth Graders Toward American Indians,” Journal of Education Research 623 (1968):130–134. 93. Levy Paluck, “Reducing Intergroup Prejudice,” 582. 94. Levy Paluck and Green, “Deference, Dissent, and Dispute Resolution,” 624. 95. Levy Paluck and Green, “Deference, Dissent, and Dispute Resolution,” 623. 96. Chris Burke, interview by author, 5 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 97. Samson Asiimwe, Program Assistant, Rights, Justice and Peace, Donor Governance Facility, interview by author, 21 June 2017. 98. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 99. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 100. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 101. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 102. Briana Duggan, “Uganda Shuts Down Social Media; Candidates Arrested on Election Day,” CNN, 19 February 2016, available from http://www.cnn.com/2016/02/18/world/uganda -election-social-media-shutdown/index.html, accessed 29 July 2017. 103. This was related to me by Prof. Oswald Ndoleriire, Director of the Confucius Institute, Makerere University, interview by author, 26 June 2017; Moses Draku, Public Relations Officer, Amnesty Commission, interview by author, 29 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Stephen Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 30 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Sarah Kihika Kasande, Head of Office, Uganda Program, ICTJ, interview by author, 4 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 104. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 105. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 106. Prof. Oswald Ndoleriire, Director of the Confucius Institute, Makerere University, interview by author, 26 June 2017. 107. Singhal and Rogers, “The Status of Entertainment-Education Worldwide,” 5. 108. Confidential interview with MEGA FM producer by author, 20 November 2004, Gulu, Uganda. 109. Sarah Kihika Kasande, Head of Office, Uganda Program, ICTJ, interview by author, 4 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 110. Sarah Kihika Kasande, Head of Office, Uganda Program, ICTJ, interview by author, 4 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 111. Rachel Odoi-Musoke, Senior Technical Advisor, Justice, Law and Order Sector, interview by author, 3 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 112. John De Coninck, Cross-Cultural Foundation of Uganda, interview by author, 2 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda.

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Notes to Pages 95–100

113. Rachel Odoi-Musoke, Senior Technical Advisor, Justice, Law and Order Sector, interview by author, 3 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 114. Arndt, The First Resort of Kings, 75. 115. Officer with international diplomatic delegation, interview by author on condition of anonymity, 1 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 116. John De Coninck, Cross-Cultural Foundation of Uganda, interview by author, 2 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 117. Sarah Kihika Kasande, International Center for Transitional Justice, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 118. Richard Businge, Country Manager, Uganda, International Alert, interview by author, 1 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. See also Joanna R. Quinn, “Madly Off in All Directions: Civil Society and Transitional Justice in Uganda,” in Advocating Transitional Justice in Africa: The Role of Civil Society, ed. Jasmina Brankovic and Hugo van der Merwe (New York: Springer, 2018). 119. Rachel Odoi-Musoke, Senior Technical Advisor, Justice, Law and Order Sector, interview by author, 3 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 120. Jessica Nalwoga, Director of Programs, Church of Uganda, interview by author, 10 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 121. Ashanut Okille, Akijul, interview by author, 2 August 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 122. See Kieran McEvoy and Lorna McGregor, eds., Transitional Justice from Below: Grassroots Activism and the Struggle for Change (Portland, OR: Hart Publishing, 2008), 2. See also Samar El-Masri, Tammy Lambert, and Joanna R. Quinn, eds., Transitional Justice in Comparative Perspective: Preconditions for Success (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020).

Chapter 7 1. Jennifer Pagliaro, “Toronto Council Asked to Push Federal Government to Do More for Syrian Refugees,” Toronto Star, 30 January 2017. 2. Pagliaro, “Toronto Council Asked to Push Federal Government.” 3. “#WelcomeRefugees: Key Figures,” Government of Canada [website], available from http://www.cic.gc.ca/english/refugees/welcome/milestones.asp, accessed 25 July 2017. Later figures were not publicly available at the time of this writing. 4. In 2018, a constitutional court controversially upheld a constitutional amendment to remove an age limit restriction from the office of the president, meaning that Museveni will be allowed to run for election again as president in 2021. See Bukola Adebayo and Samson Ntale, “Uganda Court Upholds Law That Could Allow Yoweri Museveni [to] Be President for Life,” CNN (27 July 2018), available from https://www.cnn.com/2018/07/27/africa/uganda -presidential-age-limit/index.html, accessed 26 June 2019. 5. ACORD Handbook: Community Social Peace and Recovery Mode: Generating Leadership for Sustainable Peace and Recovery Among Divided Communities (London and Nairobi: ACORD, 2009), i. 6. Chris Burke, interview by author, 5 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 7. Samson Asiimwe, Programme Assistant, Rights, Justice and Peace, Democratic Governance Facility, interview by author, 21 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 8. Marianne Akumu, Transitional Justice Coordinator, Agency for Cooperation and Research in Development Uganda, interview by author, 27 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 9. Eric Brahm, “Truth Commissions,” Beyond Intractability, June 2004 [website], available from http://www.beyondintractability.org/essay/truth-commissions, accessed 28 July 2017.

Notes to Pages 100–101

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10. Adam Branch and Zachariah Mampilly, Africa Uprising: Popular Protest and Political Change (London: Zed Books, 2015), 121. 11. The Walk to Work campaign was a civil society protest that took place throughout April 2011 ostensibly to “show solidarity with the increasing number of people who have joined the ranks of hundreds of thousands of poor Ugandans that walk to work every day . . . [who] can no longer afford the soaring price of fuel for their cars or the rising taxi or bodaboda fares. An increasing number of Ugandans cannot afford even one meal every day.” Anne Mugisha, “Walk to Work–Day One,” Activists 4 Change [blog], 12 April 2011, available from http://activists4change.blogspot.com/2011/04/walk-to-work-day-one.html, accessed 25 June 2019. The broader complaint, however, was over long-standing grievances against the Museveni government. See Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 114–115. 12. Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 134. 13. Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 138. 14. “Uganda: Lethal Response to Killings: Sparse Investigations Fuel Conflict in Rwenzori Region,” Human Rights Watch [report online], available from https://www.hrw.org/news/2016 /07/15/uganda-lethal-response-killings, accessed 25 July 2017. 15. In medical terminology, “suspended animation” refers to the slowing of vital functions by external means without resulting in death. 16. “Museveni Pays Last Respects to Obote, Preaches National Reconciliation,” PanaPress, 20 October 2005, available from http://www.panapress.com/Museveni-pays-last-respects-to-Obote, -preaches-national-reconciliation--13-575077-18-lang1-index.html, accessed 25 July 2017. 17. Anonymous human rights NGO staffer, interview by author, 18 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 18. “Transitional Justice,” JLOS: Justice for All [website], available from http://www.jlos.go .ug/index.php/about-jlos/priority-focus-areas/transitional-justice, accessed 25 July 2017 19. “The sector comprises of: Ministry of Justice and Constitutional Affairs (MOJCA); Ministry of Internal Affairs (MIA); The Judiciary; Uganda Police Force (UPF); Uganda Prison Service (UPS); Directorate of Public Prosecutions (DPP); Judicial Service Commission (JSC); The Ministry of Local Government (Local Council Courts); The Ministry of Gender, Labor and Social Development (Probation and Juvenile Justice); The Uganda Law Reform Commission (ULRC); The Uganda Human Rights Commission (UHRC); The Law Development Centre (LDC); The Tax Appeals Tribunal (TAT); The Uganda Law Society (ULS); Centre for Arbitration and Dispute Resolution (CADER) and The Uganda Registration Services Bureau (URSB).” From “Our History,” JLOS: Justice for All [website], available from http://www.jlos.go.ug/index.php /about-jlos/our-history, accessed 25 July 2017. 20. Dismas Nkunda and Dr. Brian Kalenge, “Draft: Uganda’s Transitional Justice Policy Towards a Victim-Centred Approach: A Research Commissioned by Foundation for Human Rights Initiative (FHRI)” (Kampala: Foundation for Human Rights Initiative, 2014). 21. Justice, Law and Order Sector official, interview by author, 11 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 22. Lyandro Komakech, Member of Parliament for Gulu Municipality, interview by author, 26 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. Cabinet tentatively approved the transitional justice policy on 18 June 2019, but the bill awaited discussion and approval by Parliament and had not been passed into law at the time of this writing. See “Cabinet Approves National Transitional Policy,” New Vision, 18 June 2019, available from https://www.newvision.co.ug/new_vision/news /1502157/cabinet-approves-national-transitional-policy, accessed 27 June 2019.

184

Notes to Pages 101–104

23. See Joanna R. Quinn, “Madly Off in All Directions: Civil Society and Transitional Justice in Uganda,” in Advocating Transitional Justice in Africa: The Role of Civil Society, ed. Jasmina Brankovic and Hugo van der Merwe (New York: Springer, 2018). 24. Muganda woman working in faith-based organization, interview by author, 8 May 2012, Kampala, Uganda. 25. David Smith, “Uganda Bans 38 Organisations Accused of ‘Promoting Homosexuality’: Country’s Ethics and Integrity Minister Claims Banned NGOs Exist to ‘Destroy the Traditions and Culture of This Country,’” Guardian, 20 June 2012. 26. Ugandan consultant working for international donors, interview by author, 17 May 2012, Kampala, Uganda. 27. Executive director of a faith-based justice and peace agency, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 28. Dr. Ashad Sentongo, Centre for Governance, Peace, and Security, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 29. The NGO Board justifies their actions as being well within the mandate of the NGO Board: to register, coordinate, and monitor NGO activities. A senior official argued that his role was to protect security, look after the best interests of the public, and keep NGOs accountable, and that certification was a means of doing so. See Stephen Okello, Acting Secretary, National NGO Board, interview by author, 25 May 2015, Kampala, Uganda. 30. Dr. Ashad Sentongo, Centre for Governance, Peace, and Security, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 31. See Compendium of Conflicts in Uganda: Findings of the National Reconciliation and Transitional Justice Audit (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, 2014). 32. Chris Dolan, Executive Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 7 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 33. Godber Tumushabe, Associate Director, Great Lakes Institute for Strategic Studies, interview by author, 7 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 34. Hon. Justice James Ogoola, Chairman, Uganda Elders’ Forum, interview by author, 27 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 35. This was expressed to me by Lina Zedriga, interview by author, 22 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Tollea Franco, Principal Culture Officer, Ministry of Labour, Gender, and Social Development, interview by author 28 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Dr. Emmanuel Kizza-Aliba, Executive Director, Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Nsambya, Uganda; William Katatumba, Enganzi, Ankole Kingdom, interview by author, 29  June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Stephen Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 30 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Godber Tumushabe, Associate Director, Great Lakes Institute for Strategic Studies, interview by author, 7 July 2017. See also Joanna R. Quinn, “Tradition?! Traditional Cultural Institutions on Customary Practices in Uganda,” Africa Spectrum 49.3 (2014): 29–54; Joanna  R. Quinn, “Mad Science? Possibilities for and Examples of Synthetic (Neo)traditional Practices of Justice and Acknowledgement/Science folle? Possibilités et exemples de pratiquest (néo-)traditionelles synthétiques de justice et de confession,” Air and Space Power Journal— Africa and Francophonie 5.3 (2014): 48–66; and Joanna R. Quinn, “‘The Thing Behind the Thing’: The Role and Influence of Religious Leaders on the Use of Traditional Practices of Acknowledgement in Uganda,” Review of Faith and International Affairs 8.1 (2010): 3–12. 36. Dr. Emmanuel Kizza-Aliba, Executive Director, Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Nsambya, Uganda.

Notes to Pages 104–106

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37. Stephen Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 30 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 38. Dr. Emmanuel Kizza-Aliba, Executive Director, Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Nsambya, Uganda. 39. It is important to note that the 1967 Constitution officially outlawed the many kingdoms and TCIs across the country. The TCIs are now legally recognized by legislation, including Article 129 of the 1995 Constitution, and those TCIs that are officially recognized receive a monthly stipend from the government. This has led to some debate in Uganda about whether the TCIs have been co-opted by the GOU. See Quinn, “Tradition?!” 44–46. President Museveni has also “warned religious leaders against meddling in national politics.” See Allan Turyaguma, “Leave Politics, Museveni Advises Church Leaders,” New Vision, 26 August 2002, available from http://www.newvision.co.ug/new_vision/news/1074526/leave-politics-museveni-advises -church-leaders, accessed 28 July 2017. 40. Dr. Ashad Sentongo, Centre for Governance, Peace, and Security, interview by author, 3 July 2017. 41. Branch and Mampilly note that “while donors extended their sway over most of the national budget, they left military expenditure under Museveni’s discretionary control and thus available to the regime for its own ends.” See Branch and Mampilly, Africa Uprising, 119. 42. H. E. Dónal Cronin, Ambassador of Ireland to Uganda, interview by author, 27 May 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 43. Republic of Uganda, Peace, Recovery and Development Plan for Northern Uganda (PRDP) 2007–2010 (Kampala: Government of Uganda, September 2007), 2. 44. Republic of Uganda, Peace, Recovery and Development Plan for Northern Uganda, 2. 45. Republic of Uganda, Peace, Recovery and Development Plan for Northern Uganda, 2. 46. “European Instrument for Democracy & Human Rights,” International Cooperation and Development, European Union [website], available from https://ec.europa.eu/europeaid /how/finance/eidhr_en.htm_en, accessed 28 July 2017. See also Thomas Tiedemann, Head of Section, Governance and Human Rights, European Union Delegation to Uganda, interview by author, 6 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 47. H. E. Dónal Cronin, Ambassador of Ireland to Uganda, interview by author, 27 May 2016, Kampala, Uganda. 48. I acknowledge the possibility that Northern donors may skew the priorities of Ugandan NGOs. See Joanna R. Quinn, “Madly Off in All Directions: Civil Society and Transitional Justice in Uganda,” in Advocating Transitional Justice in Africa: The Role of Civil Society, ed. Jasmina Brankovic and Hugo van der Merwe (New York: Springer, 2017), 135–160. 49. National Dialogue Framework official, interview by author, 7 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 50. United Nations secretary-general, Guidance Note of the Secretary-General: United Nations Approach to Transitional Justice, March 2010. 51. “What Is Transitional Justice?” International Center for Transitional Justice [definition online], available from http://www.ictj.org/about/transitional-justice, accessed 30 April 2013. 52. Sarah Kihika, “A Broad Overview of Transitional Justice—Definition, Application and Methodology,” a presentation at the Regional Forum on International and Transitional Justice organized by Avocats Sans Frontières-Uganda and the Uganda Coalition of the International Criminal Court, Entebbe, Uganda, 30 July 2012. 53. Lucy Hovil and Joanna R. Quinn, “Peace First. Justice Later: Traditional Justice in Northern Uganda,” Refugee Law Project Working Paper 17 (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, 2005).

186

Notes to Pages 106–109

54. Tim Allen, War and Justice in Northern Uganda: An Assessment of the International Criminal Court’s Intervention (London: Crisis States Research Centre, Development Studies Institute, London School of Economics, 2005), 31. 55. Moses Draku, Public Relations Officer, Amnesty Commission, interview by author, 29 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 56. James Owich, “Amnesty Fails to Give 6,000 Ex-Rebels Resettlement Package,” Daily Monitor, 14 June 2017, available from http://www.monitor.co.ug/News/National/Amnesty-fails -to-give--6-000-ex-rebels-resettlement-package/688334-3968864-w8h59a/index.html, accessed 28 July 2017. By late June 2017, only 19,000 former rebel soldiers reporting for amnesty had received resettlement packages. Moses Draku, Public Relations Officer, Amnesty Commission, interview by author, 29 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 57. Owich, “Amnesty Fails.” 58. Holly L. Guthrey, Victim Healing and Truth Commissions (Geneva: Springer, 2015), 10. 59. Chris Dolan, “Foreword,” Compendium of Conflicts in Uganda: Findings of the National Reconciliation and Transitional Justice Audit (Kampala: Refugee Law Project, 2014), iv. 60. Stephen Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 30 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 61. Thomas Kamusiime, Operations Advisor, Gender, Conflicts and Human Rights, European Union Delegation to Uganda, interview by author, 6 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 62. Ashanut Okille, Akijul, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 63. See, for example, Tollea Franco, Principal Cultural Officer, Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Ashanut Okille, Akijul, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Dr. Emmanuel Kiiza-Aliba, Executive Director, Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace, interview by author, 28 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; William Katatumba, Enganzi, Ankole Kingdom, interview by author, 29 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda; Stephen Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 30 June 2017, Kampala Uganda. 64. Stephen Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 30 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 65. John Fischer Tumuwesigye, CECORE, interview by author, 4 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 66. Chris Dolan, Executive Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 7 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 67. Nicholas Opiyo, interview by author, 27 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 68. Milton C. Cummings, Cultural Diplomacy and the United States Government (Washington, DC: Center for Arts and Culture, 2003), 1. 69. “Massacre at Ombaci,” New Vision, 23–25 June 2017. Ombaci is a settlement in northwestern Uganda where a massacre took place following the ouster of Idi Amin, an ethnocultural Kakwa. In 1981, government forces under the control of President Obote killed more than 2,000 Kakwa “in a bid to rid the area of the remnants of Amin’s soldiers and tribal mate[s]” who had fled to Ombaci seeking safety at a Catholic mission there. “The 1981 Ombaci Massacre,” West Nile Web, 18 January 2018, available from https://www.westnileweb.com/special-features /features/the-1981-ombaci-massacre, accessed 27 June 2019. 70. “The Unending Wait for Justice: Massacre at Ombaci,” New Vision, 25 June 2017. 71. Stephen Ssenkaaba, “34 Years Later: More Questions on Ombaci,” New Vision, 29 July 2015, available from https://www.newvision.co.ug/new_vision/news/1331427/34-questions -ombaci, accessed 27 June 2019.

Notes to Pages 109–117

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72. Holly L. Guthrey, “How Does Truth-Telling Heal? An Exploration of Voice and Pathways Toward Victim Healing in Solomon Islands and Timor-Leste” (PhD diss., University of Otago, 2013), 52. 73. See Brandon Hamber, Dineo Nageng, and Gabriel O’Malley, “‘Telling It like It Is . . .’: Understanding the Truth and Reconciliation Commission from the Perspective of Survivors,” Psychology in Society 26 (2000): 37. 74. Guthrey, “How Does Truth-Telling Heal?” 53. 75. Nicholas Opiyo, interview by author, 27 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. Chris Dolan also spoke about the importance of “creating a counternarrative.” Chris Dolan, Executive Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 7 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 76. John W. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies (Toronto: Little, Brown, 1984), 174. 77. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies, 173. 78. Chris Dolan, Executive Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 7 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 79. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies, 83. 80. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies, 175. 81. Samson Asiimwe, Programme Assistant, Rights, Justice and Peace, Democratic Governance Facility, interview by author, 21 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 82. Stephen Odong, HURINET-U, interview by author, 30 June 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 83. “Atrophy,” Lexico, available from https://www.lexico.com/definition/atrophy, accessed 11 September 2020. 84. “Disuse Atrophy,” The Free Dictionary, available from http://medical-dictionary .thefreedictionary.com/disuse+atrophy, accessed 29 July 2017. 85. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies, 87. 86. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies, 84. 87. Chris Dolan, Executive Director, Refugee Law Project, interview by author, 7 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 88. Samson Barigye, SAFE Program, USAID, interview by author, 3 July 2017, Kampala, Uganda. 89. James W. Moore, “What Is the Sense of Agency and Why Does It Matter?” Front Psychology 7 (2016): 1272. 90. Joel Feinberg, Rights, Justice and the Bounds of Liberty: Essays in Social Philosophy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980), 150. 91. Adapted from Jack Donnelly, Universal Human Rights in Theory and Practice, 2nd ed. (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003), 9.

Chapter 8 1. Robert D. Putnam, “E Pluribus Unum: Diversity and Community in the Twenty-First Century: The 2006 Johan Skytte Prize Lecture,” Scandinavian Political Studies 30.2 (2007), 150–151. 2. Mohamed Kenawi, “Macedonia: A River Divides,” Al Jazeera, 31 October 2012, available from https://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/aljazeeraworld/2012/10/2012102510913860159 .html, accessed 30 April 2019. 3. Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, or the Matter, Form and Power of a Commonwealth Ecclesiastical and Civil (London: John Bohne, 1839), 71.

188

Notes to Pages 118–122

4. Johan Galtung, Theories of Peace: A Synthetic Approach to Peace Thinking (Oslo: International Peace Research Institute, 1967), 12. 5. Joanna R. Quinn, “The Supposed Accountability/Peacebuilding Dilemma: The Case of Uganda,” in Transitional Justice and Peacebuilding on the Ground: Victims and Ex-Combatants, ed. Chandra Lekha Sriram, Jemima García-Godos, Olga Martin-Ortega, and Johanna Herman (Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace Press, November 2012), 200–218; and Joanna R. Quinn, “Whither the Transition of Transitional Justice,” Interdisciplinary Journal of Human Rights Law 8 (2014–2015): 63–79. 6. Quinn, “Whither the Transition of Transitional Justice,” 72–73. 7. Mahmood Mamdani, “Beyond Settler and Native as Political Identities: Overcoming the Political Legacy of Colonialism,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 43 (2001): 651–664. 8. Ho-Won Jeong has defined structural violence as “uneven life chances, inequitable distribution of resources and unequal decision-making power. Given its indirect and insidious nature, structural violence most often works slowly in eroding human values and shortening life spans. It is typically built in to the very structure of society and cultural institutions.” Ho-Won Jeong, Peace and Conflict Studies (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2000), 20. The concept was first articulated by Johan Galtung in “Violence, Peace, and Peace Research,” Journal of Peace Research 6.3 (1969): 167–191. 9. Uganda Printing and Publishing Co-operation, Bill No. 15: The Constitution (Amendment) (No. 2) Bill, 2017. See also Associated Press, “Uganda’s Top Court Upholds Age Law Benefiting Longtime Ruler,” Washington Post, 18 April 2019, available from https://www .washingtonpost.com/world/africa/ugandas-top-court-upholds-age-law-benefiting-longtime -ruler/2019/04/18/a61830aa-61f1-11e9-bf24-db4b9fb62aa2_story.html?noredirect=on&utm _term=.a5cc47b9c2a0, accessed 1 May 2019. 10. Robert I. Rotberg, “The Failure and Collapse of Nation-States: Break-Down, Prevention, and Repair,” in When States Fail: Causes and Consequences, ed. Robert I. Rotberg (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004), 1. 11. Human Rights Watch, “Somalia: Events of 2018,” World Report 2019, available from https://www.hrw.org/world-report/2019/country-chapters/somalia, accessed 1 May 2019. 12. Kieran McEvoy and Lorna McGregor, eds., Transitional Justice from Below: Grassroots Activism and the Struggle for Change (Portland, OR: Hart Publishing, 2008), 2. 13. “Garbage Collection Service for Four Pilot Districts in Mogadishu,” ReliefWeb, 7 November 2012, available from https://reliefweb.int/report/somalia/garbage-collection-service-four-pilot -districts-mogadishu, accessed 25 June 2019. 14. Patricia Lundy and Mark McGovern, “Whose Justice? Rethinking Transitional Justice from the Bottom Up,” Journal of Law and Society 35.2 (2008): 271. 15. I note that the involvement of the international community could equally be harmful. See Joanna R. Quinn, “The Impact of State Abdication on Transitional Justice: When Non-State Actors Fill the Post-Transition Gap,” Peacebuilding, forthcoming, originally presented at the workshop “Letting the State Off the Hook: The Role of Non-State Actors in Peace and Justice Provision,” at the Annual Convention of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 26 March 2019. 16. Caritas Italiana with Avvenire, Famiglia Cristiana, e Ministero dell’Istruzione, dell’Università e della Ricerce, Rapporta di ricerca su conflitti dimenticati (Rome: Caritas Italiana, 18 December 2018). 17. Francesco Peloso, “Caritas: The World Is at War, 378 ‘Forgotten Conflicts’ Recorded Last Year,” Vatican Insider Documents, 11 December 2018, available from https://www.lastampa

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.it /2018 /12 /11 /vaticaninsider /caritas -the -world -is -at -war-forgotten -conflicts -recorded -last -year-9EtNV7LWTdVhDqDeIRAIZM/pagina.html, accessed 1 May 2019. 18. Human Rights Watch, “Yemen: Events of 2018,” World Report 2019, available from https://www.hrw.org/world-report/2019/country-chapters/yemen, accessed 1 May 2019. 19. Human Rights Watch, “Yemen.” 20. Governance and Peace-building Center, Centre for International Development Issues Nijmegen, and Radboud University Sana’a, Civil Society Organizations (CSOs) and Peacebuilding After Yemen’s Former President Ali Abdullah Saleh (Governance and Peace-building Center, Centre for International Development Issues Nijmegen, and Radboud University Sana’a, September 2018), 3. 21. Governance and Peace-building Center, Centre for International Development Issues Nijmegen, and Radboud University Sana’a, Civil Society Organizations (CSOs) and Peacebuilding, 4. 22. The literature sometimes refers to these as intractable conflicts. The term is traced to Louis Kriesberg, “Intractable Conflict,” in The Handbook of Interethnic Coexistence, ed. Eugene Weiner (New York: Continuum, 1998), and popularized by Peter T. Coleman in a series of books and articles over the following years. See, for example, Peter T. Coleman, Morton Deutsch, and E. C. Marcus, eds., The Handbook of Conflict Resolution: Theory and Practice, 2nd ed. (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley and Sons, 2011). 23. Mieczysław P. Boduszyński and Christopher K. Lamont, “Frozen Conflicts, Formalized Unsettlement, and Transitional Justice: The Case of Moldova-Transnistria,” a paper presented at the meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 29 March 2019, 9. 24. Christine Bell and Jan Pospisil, “Navigating Inclusion in Transitions from Conflict: The Formalized Political Unsettlement,” Journal of International Development 29.5 (2017): 577. 25. Constadina Charalambous and Ben Rampton, “Language Learning, Reconciliation and Political Socialization: A Case Study in Cyprus,” a paper presented at the meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 29 March 2019, 2. 26. Constantinos Adamides and Costas M. Constantinou, “Comfortable Conflict and (Il) liberal Peace in Cyprus,” in Hybrid Forms of Peace: From Everyday Agency to Post-Liberalism, ed. Oliver Richmond and Audra Mitchell (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 242–259. 27. Roger Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace: Bottom-Up and Local Agency in Conflict-Affected Societies,” Security Dialogue 45.6 (2014): 548–564. See, for example, Charalambous and Rampton, “Language Learning, Reconciliation and Political Socialization.” 28. Charalambous and Rampton, “Language Learning, Reconciliation and Political Socialization,” 1. 29. Magnus Marsden, Diana Ibanez-Tirado, and David Henig, “Everyday Diplomacy: Introduction to Special Issue,” Cambridge Journal of Anthropology 34.2 (2016): 6. 30. Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 552. 31. Council on Foreign Relations, Global Conflict Tracker, available from https://www.cfr .org/interactive/global-conflict-tracker/?category=us, accessed 1 May 2019. 32. Human Rights Watch, “South Sudan: Events of 2018,” World Report 2019, available from https://www.hrw.org/world-report/2019/country-chapters/south-sudan, accessed 1 May 2019. 33. Human Rights Watch, “South Sudan.” 34. International Center for Transitional Justice, “What Is Transitional Justice?,” available from https://www.ictj.org/about/transitional-justice, accessed 1 May 2019.

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Notes to Pages 124–126

35. United States Institute of Peace, “South Sudan Activists Call for Civil Society Role in Peace Process” [analysis and commentary], available from https://www.usip.org/publications /2014/05/south-sudan-activists-call-civil-society-role-peace-process, accessed 25 June 2019. 36. Kiera L. Ladner and Myra J. Tait, “Surviving Canada: Indigenous Peoples Celebrate 150 Years of Betrayal,” in Surviving Canada: Indigenous Peoples Celebrate 150 Years of Betrayal, ed. Kiera L. Ladner and Myra J. Tait (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2017), 9. See also Hugh MacLennan, Two Solitudes (Toronto: Wm. Collins and Sons & Co., 1945). 37. It is important to note the strong disagreement and multiplicity of preferences about what to call Indigenous peoples living in Canada. I have opted to use the term “Indigenous”— with a capital “I”—as it encompasses a great number of people who might be disenfranchised or otherwise offended by the use of other terms, and is the most inclusive of all terms. The term is capitalized here to convey respect. 38. Joanna Harrington, “Canada Was Never Terra Nullius,” in International Law: Doctrine, Practice, Theory, 2nd ed., ed. John H. Currie, Craig Forcese, Valerie Oosterveld, and Joanna Harrington (Toronto: Irwin Law, 2014), chapter 4, sec. B.2 and B.3. 39. Andrew Woolford, “Ontological Destruction: Genocide and Canadian Aboriginal Peoples,” Genocide Studies and Prevention 4.1 (April 2009): 81. 40. David B. MacDonald and Graham Hudson, “The Genocide Question and Indian Residential Schools in Canada,” Canadian Journal of Political Science 45.2 (June 2012): 431. 41. Andrew Woolford and Jeff Benvenuto, “Canada and Cultural Genocide,” Journal of Genocide Research 17.4 (2015): 374. Woolford and Benvenuto reference J. R. Miller, Shingwauk’s Vision: A History of Native Residential Schools (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996); John S. Milloy, A National Crime: The Canadian Government and the Residential School System, 1879 to 1986 (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1999); Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (Winnipeg: Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015); as well as Andrew Woolford, This Benevolent Experiment: Indigenous Boarding Schools, Genocide and Redress in Canada and the United States (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press and Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2015). 42. Brian Rice and Anna Snyder, “Reconciliation in the Context of a Settler Society: Healing the Legacy of Colonialism in Canada,” in From Truth to Reconciliation: Transforming the Legacy of Residential Schools, ed. Marlene Brant-Castellano, Linda Archibald, and Mike DeGagné (Ottawa: Aboriginal Healing Foundation, 2008), 50. 43. Jennifer Balint, Julie Evans, and Nesam McMillan, “Rethinking Transitional Justice, Redressing Indigenous Harm: A New Conceptual Approach,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 8 (2014): 2013. 44. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. C. Farrington (New York: Grove Press, 1963), 37. 45. Adam Branch and Zachariah Mampilly, Africa Uprising (London: Zed Books, 2015), 9. Branch and Mampilly refer to an argument advanced by Mahmood Mamdani in Citizen and Subject (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996). 46. Balint et al., “Rethinking Transitional Justice,” 203. Other settler colonial theorists concur. See, for example, Patrick Wolfe, “Nation and Miscege Nation: Discursive Continuity in the Post-Mabo Era,” Social Analysis 36 (1994): 93–152; and Lorenzo Veracini, Settler Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010).

Notes to Pages 126–128

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47. Tracy Bear and Chris Andersen, “Three Years Later, Is Canada Keeping Its Truth and Reconciliation Commission Promises?” Globe and Mail, 21 April 2017, available from https://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/three-years-later-is-canada-keeping-its-truth-and -reconciliation-commission-promises/article34790925/, accessed 24 May 2018. 48. Gloria Galloway, “Public Opinion of Indigenous People in Canada Improving: Survey,” Globe and Mail, 8 June 2016, available from https://www.theglobeandmail.com/news /politics/public-opinion-of-indigenous-people-in-canada-improving-survey/article30346252/, accessed 24 May 2018. 49. Gordon W. Allport, The Nature of Prejudice (New York: Doubleday Anchor, 1958), 14–15. 50. Galloway, “Public Opinion of Indigenous People in Canada Improving.” 51. Kyle Edwards, “The Gerald Stanley Verdict Is a Blow to Reconciliation—and a Terrifying One at That,” Maclean’s Magazine, 10 February 2018, available from https://www.macleans .ca/news/the-gerald-stanley-verdict-is-a-blow-to-reconciliation-and-a-terrifying-one-at-that/, accessed 24 May 2018. 52. Johan Galtung and Tord Höivik, “Structural and Direct Violence: A Note on Operationalization,” Journal of Peace Research 8.1 (1971): 73–76. 53. Galloway, “Public Opinion of Indigenous People in Canada Improving.” 54. Galloway, “Public Opinion of Indigenous People in Canada Improving.” 55. Justin Trudeau, UN General Assembly Keynote Address, 21 September 2017, available from https://gadebate.un.org/sites/default/files/gastatements/72/ca_en_fr.pdf, accessed 25 May 2018. 56. Gobodo-Madikizela, “Acting Out and Working Through Traumatic Memory”; Gobodo-Madikizela, “Reconciliation and Mutual Recognition After Mass Trauma”; LaCapra, History in Transit; LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust; LaCapra, Writing History; Regan, Unsettling the Settler Within. 57. Rev. Canon Job Bariira Mbukure cited in Joanna R. Quinn, “‘The Thing Behind the Thing’: The Role and Influence of Religious Leaders on the Use of Traditional Practices of Acknowledgement in Uganda,” Review of Faith and International Affairs 8.1 (Spring 2010): 3–12. 58. Alison Brysk, Speaking Rights to Power (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 22. See also Ervin Staub, “Reconciliation After Genocide, Mass Killing, or Intractable Conflict: Understanding the Roots of Violence, Psychological Recovery, and Steps Toward a General Theory,” Political Psychology 27.6 (2006): 872. Nir Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 878. 59. These included apologies for Japanese-Canadian internment after the Second World War (Mulroney, 1988); Chinese Head Tax (Harper, 2006); execution of Canadian soldiers in the First World War (Duhamel, on behalf of Harper, 2006); Indian residential schools (Harper, 2006); Inuit/Inukjuak relocations (Harper, 2010); Komagata Maru (Trudeau, 2016); harms to the LGBT community (Trudeau, 2017); Indian residential schools/Newfoundland and Labrador (Trudeau, 2017); the hanging of six Tsilhqot’in chiefs (Trudeau, 2018); turning away a boat filled with Jewish people seeking to escape Hitler’s death camps during the Second World War (Trudeau 2018); federal government’s management of tuberculosis in the Arctic from the 1940s to the 1960s (Trudeau 2019). The five apologies to Indigenous peoples living in Canada are italicized here. 60. Nagy, “The Scope and Bounds of Transitional Justice and the Canadian Truth and Reconciliation Commission,” International Journal of Transitional Justice 7.1 (2013): 59. 61. Waziyatawin Angela Wilson and Michael Yellow Bird cited in Wanda D. McCaslin and Denise C. Breton, “Justice as Healing: Going Outside the Colonizers’ Cage,” in Handbook of

192

Notes to Pages 128–132

Critical and Indigenous Methodologies, ed. Norman K. Denzin, Yvonna S. Lincoln, and Linda Tuhiwai Smith (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2008), 511. 62. For a fuller explanation of the dangers of repeated exposure, see Joanna R. Quinn, “Switching On the Thin Sympathetic Response: Choosing an Appropriate Transitional Justice Mechanism and Engaging the Population After Atrocity,” Canadian Political Science Association, Toronto, ON, 30 May 2017. 63. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 67. This is defined in the literature as habituation. See Catherine Rankin, Thomas Abrams, Robert J. Barry, Seema Bhatnagar, David F. Clayton, John Colombo, Gianluca Coppola, Mark A. Geyer, David L. Glanzman, Stephen Marsland, Frances K. McSweeney, Donald A. Wilson, Chun-Fang Wu, and Richard F. Thompson, “Habituation Revisited: An Updated and Revised Description of the Behavioral Characteristics of Habituation,” Neurobiology of Learning and Memory 92.2 (1999): 135–138. 64. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 68. This contradicts Hoffman’s claim, laid out above, that familiarity breeds sympathy. See Martin L. Hoffman, “Empathy and Justice Motivation,” Motivation and Emotion 14.2 (1990): 169. This is further suggested by some of the literature on hypo-arousal with relation to PTSD. See Paul A. Frewen and Ruth A. Lanius, “Toward a Psychobiology of Posttraumatic Self-Dysregulation Reexperiencing, Hyperarousal, Dissociation, and Emotional Numbing,” Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 1071.1 (2009): 110–124; and William F. Flack Jr., Brett T. Litz, Frank Y. Hsieh, Danny G. Kaloupek, and Terence M. Keane, “Predictors of Emotional Numbing, Revisited: A Replication and Extension,” Journal of Traumatic Stress 13.4 (2000): 611–618. 65. Eisikovits, Sympathizing with the Enemy, 70, in n. 102. 66. Robert S. Pynoos, Ronald F. Ritzmann, Alan M. Steinberg, Armen Goenjian, and Ioana Prisecaru, “A Behavioral Animal Model of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder Featuring Repeated Exposure to Situational Reminders,” Biological Psychiatry 39.2 (1996): 133. 67. The Komagata Maru was a steamship filled mostly with Sikhs who were seeking asylum in Canada in 1914. The ship was denied entry and forced to return to Calcutta, whereupon some of the passengers were killed. 68. Neil Macdonald, “With Our Apologies: Canada Makes ‘I’m Sorry’ a Recurring Policy,” CBC News, 19 May 2016, available from http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/komagata-maru -official-apologies/1.3587870, accessed 25 May 2018. 69. Tammy R. Lambert, “Influences of the Past: Tracing the Development of Truth-Seeking Elements in South Africa, 1990–1995,” (PhD diss., Western University, 2020). 70. See for example Tama Koss, “South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission: A Model for the Future,” Florida Journal of International Law 14 (2002): 517–526. 71. Martin Mennecke, “Genocidal Violence in the Former Yugoslavia: Bosnia Herzegovina,” in Centuries of Genocide: Essays and Eyewitness Accounts, ed. Samuel Totten and William S. Parsons (New York: Routledge, 2013), 478–479. 72. Mennecke, “Genocidal Violence in the Former Yugoslavia,” 491. 73. Mennecke, “Genocidal Violence in the Former Yugoslavia,” 493. 74. Thomas Unger, “Keeping the Promise: Addressing Impunity in the Western Balkans,” Impunity Watch, May 2018, available from https://static.wixstatic.com/ugd/f3f989 _cbaa5a5e659b435399a1916995e40b83.pdf, accessed 1 May 2019, 21. 75. Ivor Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation: Dating and Inter-Ethnic Contact in Bosnia,” a paper presented at the meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019, 2.

Notes to Pages 132–139

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76. Nils Muižnieks, “Reconciliation Stalled in the Western Balkans,” Human Rights Comment, Council of Europe, 21 November 2017, available from https://www.coe.int/en/web /commissioner/-/reconciliation-stalled-in-the-western-balkans, accessed 1 May 2019. 77. Unger, “Keeping the Promise,” 4. 78. Unger, “Keeping the Promise,” 4. 79. Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation,” 2. 80. Denisa Kostovicova, “Interactivity Across Ethnic Lines in Transitional Justice Deliberations,” a paper presented at the meeting of the International Studies Association, Toronto, ON, 30 March 2019, 17. 81. Kostovicova, “Interactivity Across Ethnic Lines,” 4–5. 82. Mac Ginty, “Everyday Peace,” 552. 83. Lai, “Practicing Solidarity,” 2. 84. Orli Fridman, “Unstructured Daily Encounters: Serbs in Kosovo After the 2008 Declaration of Independence,” Contemporary Southeastern Europe 2.1 (2008): 173–190. 85. Lai, “Practicing Solidarity,” 24. 86. Lai, “Practicing Solidarity,” 23. 87. See Sisk, “Preventing Deadly Conflict in Ethnically Fractured Societies: International Development Assistance for ‘Bridging’ Social Cohesion”; and Marc et al., Societal Dynamics and Fragility. 88. Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation,” 2. 89. Sokolić, “Activity as Reconciliation,” 20. 90. Sven Milekic, “Balkan States ‘Expected to Sign Truth Commission Agreement,’” Balkan Transitional Justice, 29 January 2018, available from https://balkaninsight.com/2018/01/29 /recom-announces-state-forming-agreement-soon-01-29-2018/, accessed 1 May 2019.

Chapter 9 1. Mark Schuller, “Seeing Like a Failed NGO: Globalization’s Impacts on State and Civil Society in Haiti,” PoLAR: The Political and Legal Anthropology Review 30.1 (2007): 67–89.

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INDE X

acknowledgment, viii, 5, 8, 9, 23, 39–43, 45, 48, 51, 57, 60, 63, 65, 67, 78, 80–81, 95, 102, 110, 134, 136, 137 amnesty 26, 29, 33–35, 41, 107. See also Uganda/Amnesty Act 23, 25–26, 37, 106 apology 43, 129 atrophy 112. See also paralysis Canada: Indian Act 125, 129; Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women’s Inquiry 125, 129; settler-colonial 124–128; Truth and Reconciliation Commission 27, 118 capacity 10, 25, 36, 38, 45–47, 49, 52, 74, 90, 97, 106, 110–115, 117 civil society 7, 10, 25, 30, 32, 33, 37, 41, 55, 59, 61, 83, 91, 96, 98, 99, 100–106, 108, 109, 111–115, 122, 124, 131, 138–140. See also Uganda/civil society cognition 2, 9, 18, 41, 42, 44, 45, 48, 49, 66, 93, 94 cognitive neuroscience 51–52 Colombia viii–ix, 57 contact hypothesis 52–55, 87, 91. See also inter-group theory Cyprus 10, 123 deep learning 46 denial 9, 61, 68 dissemination 9, 25, 43, 59–62, 66–73, 77–79, 94, 111, 127, 138 dissonance 46, 77, 92. See also Festinger, Leon empathy 2, 47–51, 66, 67, 74, 81, 107, 116; cognitive empathy 47, 48; emotional empathy 47; empathic champions 49–51; empathic unsettlement 47. See also provocation of empathy

engagement ix, xi, 2, 9, 33, 36, 41, 47, 48, 51–55, 63, 69, 78, 83, 84, 89, 101, 104, 105, 109, 112, 113, 116–119, 121, 123, 124, 137, 138 entertainment-education 83, 91–94, 96 everyday 9, 12, 83–87, 91, 94, 95, 107, 123, 132; unstructured daily encounters 84, 85, 132, 133 expert panel 172 false start 8, 9, 22, 27, 31–34, 37, 39, 107, 137 Festinger, Leon 46, 77, 92 Haldemann, Frank 88 hearts and minds 9, 48, 62, 81–83, 120 indignation 46 information operations 82. See also PSYOP intergroup theory 52–54 International Criminal Court (ICC) 23, 26, 31, 35, 36, 58, 60, 82 Macedonia 116–117 media vii, 54, 61, 91–94; newspaper 46, 93, 94, 108, 136; radio 82, 91–93, 136 narrative 4, 6, 9, 43, 44, 60, 62, 69, 77, 86, 104, 109; counter-narrative 109 negative peace 118 no-transition 10, 22, 24, 38, 119–120, 133, 134. See also pre-transition nonrecognition 88 overexposure vii, 74, 75 paralysis 99–101, 115. See also atrophy policy entrepreneur 49, 111

222

Index

policy window 97, 110, 111, 113 pre-transition 24, 38, 106, 119, 120 priming 114, 78–79, 140 provocation of empathy xi; empathic unsettlement 47 proximity viii, 51, 97 PSYOP 82 public diplomacy 82, 87; cultural diplomacy 9, 80, 83, 87–90, 94–96, 108 public inquiry 70–71

transitional justice 3–6, 22, 23, 27–29, 34, 35, 38–42, 57, 58, 60, 63, 65–68, 70–71, 78, 81, 94, 96–98, 100, 105, 106, 110–111, 114, 117–119, 122, 124, 130, 131, 134–138, 140 truth commission 3, 4, 23, 27, 28, 29, 37, 41, 43–44, 61, 67, 68, 69, 81, 105, 106, 130, 133, 135, 137. See also Uganda Commission of Inquiry into Violations of Human Rights

reconciliation 1, 4, 5, 8, 9, 21, 25, 27, 29, 40–43, 48, 65, 68, 78, 84, 86, 90, 100, 102, 110, 113, 132, 134, 137

Uganda; Amnesty Act 23, 25–26, 37, 106; civil society x, 25, 30, 33, 61, 97, 100–102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 109, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 139; Commission of Inquiry into Violations of Human Rights 25, 33; cultural leaders 104; districtization 15, 16, 17, 18, 32, 87, 96, 108, 115. See also decentralization; Inter-Religious Council of Uganda 90; Lord’s Resistance Army ix, 14, 26, 17, 20, 26, 27, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 46, 59, 86, 87, 89, 90, 93, 94, 147; MEGA FM 93; New Hope Uganda 89; Northern Uganda 14, 17, 23, 25, 26, 30, 33, 34–35, 36, 49, 49–50, 58, 59–60, 93, 104, 106, 107; Ogoola, Justice James 49; traditional cultural institutions 10, 15, 103; transitional justice 23–24, 32, 33, 50, 101, 103, 117; Wamanya 93; Walk to Work 38, 100; water widows 86; Yoweri Museveni 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, 23, 24, 25, 26, 29–30, 31, 32, 34, 36, 37, 38, 58, 60, 61, 86, 87, 92, 99, 100, 101, 105, 109, 111, 120 unofficial transitional justice 68, 70, 71–73, 98, 102, 138

sensitization 1, 6, 9, 61, 62, 66, 73–77, 79, 95, 124, 127, 130, 138 settler-colonial 118, 119, 120, 124–126, 134. See also Canada/settler-colonial social capital 54 social cohesion 52, 54–55, 133; bridging social cohesion 54–55; bonding social cohesion 54–55 social learning 79, 91 Somalia 10, 90, 120–121 South Sudan 10, 14, 30, 118, 123–124, 146 spoilers 41, 57 sympathetic continuum 44, 48–49 thick sympathy 46, 48–49, 63, 67, 81, 137 thin sympathy 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 23, 40–64, 80–83, 85, 86, 88, 89, 93, 94, 95, 97, 105–110, 111, 113–119, 130, 132–134, 136–140; definition x, 1, 45; hypothesis 40–64, 130; switching on 65–79

Yemen 121–122